When I was little, I adored feeling her body against mine, the smell of the vanilla bean lotion she applied religiously after she got out of the shower. The mornings I woke on my own, I would feign sleep until she arrived, craving her warmth—the absolute sense of security I felt in her arms. It wasn’t until middle school that I began setting an alarm so I would be sure to already be out of bed before she came to get me. I wanted to be responsible for myself, to take control of the choices I made, even something as insignificant as when and how I started my day.
So now, at twenty-four, a small part of me squirmed in rebellion when I felt her climb into my bed the morning after I’d come home. “Good morning, sunshine,” she murmured. “Time to wake up, sweet girl.”
“Mom . . . it’s too early,” I moaned, pulling my comforter up tight beneath my chin. Despite how tired I’d been the night before, I was also wired from the surprise of finding Tyler waiting for me, so it had taken me longer than I thought it would to fall asleep. The last thing I felt like doing this morning was get out of bed in order to trek through the woods.
“It’s almost ten, honey,” my mom said. She threw her right leg over mine and pinned me to her. “I let you sleep in a little when Tyler told us how late you got home. He and Liz are already downstairs having coffee.” She paused. “I made cinnamon rolls.”
I stifled a sigh, unable to ignore what her deliberate mention of the baked goods meant. There was no doubt I’d have to eat my mother’s cooking while I was here, or else risk her hovering over me, policing every bite I did or didn’t put in my mouth. Normally, I precooked all of my meals for the week on Sunday nights—four-ounce portions of baked chicken breast or salmon, brown rice, and two-cup containers of kale salad, snack bags of toasted almonds and one-inch cubes of low-fat cheese—but I couldn’t do that here. I’d simply have to eat controlled amounts of whatever she prepared, and get in as much exercise as I could to counteract the onslaught of excess calories.
I rolled over onto my back and peered at my mother, blinking to bring her into focus. She was already dressed in black boots, jeans, and a thick, blue wool sweater. Her auburn hair was pulled into a messy bun atop her head and I noticed a few streaks of silver running through it that hadn’t been there when I last was home. “Don’t we usually go in the afternoon?”
“We’ve always gone in the morning, but nice try. You still have to get up.” She threw her arms around me and squeezed, hard.
I grunted, but also hugged her back with just as much strength, letting myself give in to the old sense of safety I felt in her embrace. Whatever my problems with my parents over the years, how much we loved each other had never been an issue. She kissed my forehead and stood up, then yanked back my comforter, exposing my body.
“Gah!” I exclaimed. Still resting on my side, I brought my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them in order to protect my skin from the cool air in the room. I only had on a tank top and underwear, and part of me couldn’t help but wonder if she’d pulled back the covers just so she could check to see—as she used to almost every day after I was released from the hospital—if the xylophone of my rib cage showed through my skin or if the valley between my jutting hip bones had deepened.
She must have been satisfied with what she saw, because she didn’t say a word about my appearance. “No more stalling. We want to be out of the house by eleven, at the latest. Tyler has to be at work by four, so we have to be back before then.”
It was pointless to argue with her, I knew, so after she left, I got up and staggered to the bathroom across the hall. “Be sure to dress warmly!” my mom called out as she made her way down the stairs. “It’s only supposed to get up to thirty-four today!”
Great, I thought as I closed the bathroom door. I jogged in place and did two quick sets of jumping jacks and squats, hoping the exertion would perk me up. If I was lucky, I could fit in a run later this afternoon, and maybe a trip to the gym.
It only took me ten minutes to dress and head downstairs—having such a tight schedule between my classes and work had trained me to whittle my routine down to the barest of necessities: dark hair brushed and put into a ponytail, a swipe of mascara and lip gloss to help brighten my face. I heard voices as I walked through the living room into the kitchen, and before I’d even had a chance to say hello, my dad, who stood at the end of the counter, turned around and swooped me into his arms.
“Hey, Pops,” I said, and the threat of tears stung my eyes. I never realized how much I missed my parents until I came home.
“Hey, yourself.” He pulled back and held me at arm’s length, gripping my shoulders with thick fingers. He searched my face with his dark blue eyes, while I surreptitiously took in the fact that his beer belly had expanded several inches over the last few months. My father wasn’t a tall man—at five-foot-ten, he was only four inches taller than me—but he was burly and strong, and his presence made me feel like all was right with the world. With his black hair and wide smile he was still handsome, but part of me worried about the dangers of this extra weight settling near his heart. Maybe I could get him to head to the gym with me later, and skip the spritz cookies. I often had to hold myself back from scolding my mother for the kinds of meals she typically cooked—things like meat loaf and buttery mashed potatoes, chicken pot pies, and always some kind of rich dessert—but I reminded myself that just as I hated it when she lectured me about what I did or didn’t eat, she didn’t need me to lecture her.
“Beautiful as ever, I see,” my dad said.
“She sure is,” Liz said from across the room, where she sat at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee in hand. “So grown up!” She smiled, revealing ultrawhite teeth that set off what I knew had to be a spray tan. Her stick-straight, highly processed blond hair grazed her shoulders, and her blue eyes were expertly lined in wing-tipped black. Since divorcing Jason, Liz had gone through a succession of boyfriends, most of whom ended up having just as many issues as her ex. My mom tried setting her up a few times with men who would likely have been good to her, but Liz seemed to only be attracted to big personalities and short fuses.
I chuckled internally at her statement about my being “grown up,” since technically, I was an adult, but I also knew that, in Liz’s mind, a part of me would always be the chubby eighth grader she was introduced to, just as Tyler would be the younger version of himself to me.
“How are you, honey?” Liz asked.
“She’s anxious to graduate,” my mom said, answering for me as she pushed a plate with a giant glazed cinnamon roll upon it toward me on the counter. We made brief eye contact, and I grabbed a fork from the silverware drawer and used it to break off a good-size hunk. She watched as I put it in my mouth and chewed, trying not to cringe from the cloying cream cheese frosting that attacked my taste buds. When I swallowed and the bite hit the back of my throat, I almost gagged. Outside of fruit, I rarely ate any kind of sugar, and when I did, it was usually just a few squares of dark chocolate, and then only for the antioxidants.