Home.
My bedroom’s the same. Same purple-and-yellow flowered comforter. Same collection of photos thumbtacked to my bulletin board. Same Lumpy McLumpykins propped against my pillow. I hugged him right away. I really should have brought him to treatment. I thought the other girls would laugh at a stuffed koala bear, but Ali has her stuffed monkey, Mr. Goober, and Meredith has a platypus.
Mom’s making breakfast downstairs. I smelled it the second my alarm went off. Willow told me to set it for seven, so I wouldn’t sleep through breakfast. I have to eat three meals at home today. Two snacks, too. (I’ll be back at the hospital for evening snack.)
I smell pancakes and bacon. I haven’t had either in ages. My chest feels tight every time I think about eating breakfast with my family. What if they stare at me the whole time? What if I eat too much? What if Mom does that thing she used to do where she smears butter all over my food and hopes I don’t notice?
She’s not supposed to do that now. I’m supposed to be responsible for myself.
I proved I can do that last night. I even got frozen yogurt after the art show—I ordered a small cup and ate it all, even though the portion size was massive. It was yummy and I wanted more. So I ate more. I listened to my body. It was pretty cool. (Skinnylicious is still a ridiculous word, though.)
I proved I could ignore my eating disorder. Because that’s who I realized was talking to me in that bathroom. Ed (or whatever that voice is) had disguised his voice to sound like me. I let down my guard. I forgot for a second that I’m an awesome person and a good artist. That I have friends.
I didn’t 100 percent believe all that stuff, but I told myself it was true. Like Brenna tells (told?) herself that she’s happy. Then I marched out of the bathroom and joined my friends. People smiled at me. Other kids talked to me and I learned tons of new stuff, stuff that I might want to keep learning about.
Last night I didn’t worry. Last night I ate. This morning is different, though. This morning I’m afraid of eating with my family. I’m afraid of what they’ll do. Of what they won’t do.
There’s a big breakfast waiting for me downstairs, like a present I didn’t ask for. Like a package of underwear or a stocking full of coal. I keep telling myself things will be okay, but I don’t believe a word of it. I have a meal plan to follow, but I don’t want to follow it.
Mom just yelled up. Time to go downstairs.
Help.
“I thought this was your favorite breakfast.” Mom’s fork hovered over her plate. Julia and Dad had taken three pancakes each, slathered butter on them, and dumped a bucketful of syrup on top. Mom had taken two and left them naked, then decorated her plate with strawberries and blueberries. I did the same.
It was apparently the wrong move.
“It is my favorite breakfast.” I pointed to my plate. “I’m eating it.” I’d even asked for a yogurt for extra protein. I followed my meal plan exactly, but that wasn’t enough for Mom.
“You don’t want more than two pancakes? I made extra to make today special.” Mom bit her lip. Julia looked up with that “oh boy, here we go again” expression on her face. Dad kept stuffing food into his face.
“It is special.” I started cutting up my pancakes. “You’re eating two, too. I’m fine.”
“Let me see your meal plan again.” Mom put her hand out.
I shook my head. “I already showed you.” Mom looked at it so long last night I thought she was cramming for a test. And I knew Caroline had e-mailed it to her. My mother didn’t need to see it again. Not here. Not while I was eating.
“Don’t you need butter? Are you skipping your fats group?” Mom’s voice rose, like I was a teenager who’d stayed out past curfew.
“Mom! I was just about to ask for it.”
I think I was. Yeah, I totally was going to ask for the butter on my own. I would have. Really. I only needed a certain amount, though, so I asked Mom for the measuring spoons. That’s what was on my meal plan. No more and no less. I asked her for the measuring cups, too, for the syrup.
Dad finally looked up. “This again, Riley?” He sighed. “Just dump on some syrup. It’s not going to kill you.”
It is going to kill me.
No, it’s not. It’s just butter. Just syrup.
It’s sugar and fat and calories and you’re going to get sooooooo fat.
No, I’m not. Being fat isn’t a bad thing anyway.
Plus, Caroline said this breakfast is fine.
She said so. But she could be lying.
The voices in my head roared to life, sending me onto the highway of self-doubt. Pinpricks of fear danced across my skin. I wanted to run away, but I tried deep breathing instead. In, out. In, out.
“I can’t ‘dump on syrup,’ Dad. I have a meal plan.”
“I don’t think they’ll care if you eat more.” Dad laughed, like everything was a big joke. Like he hadn’t been in the family meeting when Willow said how hard recovery was.
Maybe recovery is a big joke to them. Because Mom and Dad aren’t changing. At least Julia is acting normally. She even skipped gymnastics this morning to spend time with me.
“Recovery isn’t something I can improvise, Dad. I need structure first. I need to get my food confidence back.” That’s what Willow told me. That’s why after discharge I’ll have therapist and nutritionist and doctor’s appointments all the time. Why I have to make a daily schedule for myself. It’s like in musicals: actors need weeks and weeks of rehearsals with the script before they can do the show on their own. They need practice before opening night.
I definitely don’t know my lines yet.
“We’ll help you, right, Julia? Food is good!” Mom took a bite of a strawberry. A really small bite. Then a sip of her water. Her noncaloric water.
Julia’s eyes darted between us. “Sure.” Her face sent me a silent apology.
“I need the measuring cups and spoons,” I repeated.
“But I thought you were better now.” Mom’s voice was a whisper.
I didn’t meet Mom’s eyes. I looked out the window instead. At the garden bed in the side yard. At the black squirrel running across our yard, the one who comes back every year. At the fence Julia and I had painted when we were little. Dad didn’t trust us with real paint, so he’d given us paintbrushes and cans full of milk, so our mistakes wouldn’t matter.
They didn’t trust me with paint back then. They don’t trust me with food now.
Maybe they never will.
The thought made me want to cry. It made me want to throw the jug of syrup against the wall and watch the sticky syrup drip onto the floor. That’s when I realized the truth: My parents may never see me as recovered. They might always see me through disease-shaded glasses.
“Maybe I’m not better.” I shoved my plate away and ran up the stairs.
“Riley! Come back here now. You have to eat! Riley!” Mom’s words trailed me like a puppy dog yapping at my heels, but I didn’t go back down.
I’m not going back down.
I don’t know what to say to Mom anymore. She thinks that recovery is the only thing we should talk about. Doesn’t she understand that I’m still Riley? I’m more Riley now than I was before. I want to talk about drawing and what I’ll be doing at school for the rest of the year. I want to talk about what movies I want to see and how old Mr. Tanner down the street dyed his white hair green. I saw him walking his dog and did a double take. Julia and I laughed for about ten minutes straight. She snort-laughed twice in a row.
Julia’s talking to me normally, at least. We watched a bunch of movies this morning and shared popcorn and juice for a snack. She didn’t mention my body once. She asked about my friends at the hospital. (Mom winced when Julia called them that.) She told me her best friend, Grace, got a pet pig and showed me pictures. It’s a way cute pig.
But every time Julia distracts me, Mom jumps in and accuses me of doing or saying or feeling something wrong. She makes me feel wrong. Until I came back home, I thought I was doing better. But if I am, why couldn’t I eat breakfast? The second they let me out of the hospital, I screwed up.
I looked down on Brenna for not trying hard enough, but here I am, too. Proving that I’m still sick, too.
My room is the way it was before. The creak of the floor and the cars driving by outside sound the way they did before. I guess I’m the way I was before, too.
I want to go back to the hospital. Where they make the decisions for me. Where people understand how my brain works. Where my sick self belongs.