Three days left.
Mom and I visited a nutritionist today: Stephanie. She had tubs of plastic food, too. And a scale. Two scales, actually: one for food and one for me. The scale for me was one of those old-fashioned ones they have at the doctor’s office, where you have to slide the tab back and forth until the scale balances. I wonder if she’ll make me get on it all the time. I wonder if she’ll tell me my weight.
I don’t want her to.
I do want her to.
I wonder how much I’ve gained.
Mom and I went out for lunch before she took me back to the hospital. When we got to the restaurant, Dad and Julia were there. Dad had skipped work and dismissed Julia from school so we could have a family lunch.
Mom didn’t order a salad, either. And she got a regular soda. I gaped at her.
“Don’t just stare, Riley. Put some food in that mouth.” Mom was smiling, though. She was making a joke!
Before I would have started crying. I would have acted all offended and stormed off.
Today I laughed. I ate my sandwich. I listened to Dad talk about the five deer he’d seen on his bike ride to work this morning. (Huh. Maybe he is into biking now.) I listened to Julia talk about how annoying it is that she can’t go on the team trip to Six Flags. Because Mom and Dad are spending money on me instead? I don’t know. All I know is that Mom changed the subject. She asked me a question instead of talking about gymnastics. Then Dad asked me another one.
“I’m okay.” I whispered it to myself at the end of the meal, when I finished my last sip of milk and wiped my mouth. “I’m going to be okay.”
Mom overheard me. “Of course you are, honey.” She squeezed my hand. “Smooth sailing from here on out, right?”
Mom still doesn’t get how hard this is going to be. She might never get it. But maybe she doesn’t have to.
She’s not me. I’m not her.
I’m not Talia or Julia or Josie or Emerson.
I’m Riley.
Riley’s pretty awesome.