Relearning Laura

I wake up on Friday morning and take a deep breath. I am in my room on my bed and I am so glad.

"Laura!" Meg calls through my door. "Are you awake yet?" I sit up and rub the sleep from my eyes.

"Yeah," I call back. My little sister pushes the door open and flops her skinnyskinny no that's a bad thought her preadolescent body onto my bed.

"How are you?" she asks, her eyes big under her auburn hair, which she got cut very short - almost as short as mine - while I was in the hospital.

"Good!" I say, and I mean it. "My bed is so soft." I wiggle around in my feather-stuffed duvet to demonstrate and let out a moan of happiness. Meg giggles and throws a stuffed animal at me.

"Mom says I can take the day off of school to hang out with you now that you're home," she tells me.

"Oh, really?" I ask. Meg nods. I wrinkle my nose.

"Gross," I say. Meg sticks her tongue out and throws another stuffed animal at me. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding!"

"Good," Meg murmurs. She snuggles up to me, her head resting on my shoulder. "I missed you, Laurie. It was weird being the only one home. And Mom cried a lot." I feel a rush of guilt, but also love for my family, especially my little sister.

"I missed you too," I tell her. She grins, then kisses me on the cheek.

"Mom also says that it's time for breakfast. She got bagels from Bruegger's!" she crows, then jumps up and races out of my room. I stand up too, then scan my room for a decent outfit. I have spent the last week in sweatpants, leggings, and Rick's hoodie. I want to take a hot shower and shave - I get to shave now and I couldn't be more excited - and put on jeans and maybe even some makeup. I want to straighten my hair and use perfume. I want to look pretty. But before I do any of that, I know that I am expected to go downstairs and eat a balanced breakfast and take my medicine.

So I pull on Rick's hoodie over my t-shirt and pajama shorts. I push my hair back, tug a pair of socks over my feet, and walk down the steps of my attic bedroom.

My house feels so huge compared to the hospital. In the hospital, my room was twelve steps long and seven steps wide. Here, my room is twice that size. It is luxury at its finest.

The bathroom at home is marvelous too. I step inside and look around. The black and white tiles have never looked prettier. The shower is gigantic. The water is warm. I can't wait to take a shower.

"Laura, do you want a sesame bagel or a plain?" Mom calls up the stairs. I glance at my reflection in the large mirror over the sink. My face is skinnyfatskinny and my eyes are shadows and my lips are dry and cracked. But I do not look so hopeless anymore. I look like I have found something to live for. I look animated and alive and real.

Plain bagel has fewer calories it doesn't fucking matter.

"Sesame please!" I call back, then leave the bathroom.

Dad is sitting in his favorite chair and reading the New York Times. Meg is curled up on the couch with Sadie, the older of our two cats, snuggled up beside her. Mom is spreading strawberry cream cheese on her pumpernickel bagel and listening to the local classical music station. It is just like any other morning in my house, but somehow I appreciate it so much more.

"Morning, Laurie," Dad says. Then he glances over at Meg. "Margaret, what are you doing? You have school in half an hour." Meg doesn't move from her spot on the couch. Instead she curls up tighter and lets out a gigantic false yawn.

"Mom said I could stay home," Meg says smoothly. From the kitchen Mom calls, "I said no such thing! Get yourself upstairs and dressed!"

"Mooooooom," Meg whines.

"Go," Dad orders. "I'll drive you up to the middle school since it's on my way to work. But we're leaving in ten minutes!" Meg sighs dramatically and drags herself off the couch, then bounces up the stairs. Dad shakes his head at her retreating back and returns to his newspaper. I rub Sadie behind the ears, savoring the softness of her dark brown fur. She purrs at me and I purr back. In the kitchen, the toaster dings.

"Laurie, breakfast," Mom says. I join her in the kitchen and spread some I Can't Believe It's Not Butter! onto my perfectly toasted sesame bagel. Mom hands me a sliced orange, a glass of ice water, and the medicine cup that holds my antidepressants, then sits down with me at the kitchen table. The smells of toasted bread and melting I Can't Believe It's Not Butter! fill my nostrils and make my stomach growl. I take a bite of bagel and chewchewchew and swallow and it doesn't even bother me too much.

It should no it shouldn't. Leave me alone health and happiness health and happiness HEALTH AND HAPPINESS.

I eat every bite of bagel and every slice of orange and I take the little blue pills that will help stop the tears.

I pretend not to notice when Mom writes down my intake.

And then I go upstairs (half an hour later - no purging in the shower, Laura!) and take the longest, most wonderful shower of my whole entire life.