THAT’S WEIRD
LAURA
One month.
That’s how long it had been since I came home – well, Texas, anyway. Since I stepped foot into a house I didn’t recognize, in a state I never imagined living in.
And now, here I was.
Standing in front of the mirror, steam curling around me as dragged a towel over my damp skin. I reached out, wiping the condensation off the glass, revealing my reflection–really looking at myself.
My hair was still a little dull, the ends thinner than I
remembered. My cheeks weren’t as hollow anymore, but they still weren’t as full as they used to be. My ribs no longer jutted out as sharply, and the muscles in my arms and legs had started filling back in, thanks to the endless amounts of protein Josh had been feeding me.
I was getting stronger.
Every day, I felt more alive.
I dropped the towel to my shoulders, running my fingers through my hair before my gaze drifted lower. My fingertips brushed over the scar on my hairline, then over the faint, healing wound on my throat. Lower still, my ribs, still slightly too pronounced. Then the most prominent scar–the one on my stomach where
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the feeding tube had been.
So many scars.
So many reminders of what I’d been through.
I let out a breath, shaking my head.
I needed sun.
I needed fresh air.
I needed to live.
And today, for the first time, I was taking a step toward that.
Josh had arranged a driver to take me to Asha’s school.
I was picking up my daughter alone.
Something so small, so normal–and yet my stomach was twisted in knots.
Nerves. Excitement. Fear.
I dressed quickly, pulling on jeans and a loose sweater, slipping my feet into sneakers. My body felt steady beneath me. I no longer needed the wheelchair. I could manage stairs. The nurse only checked in on me now, and most of my wounds had healed.
I was capable.
And yet, as I climbed into the car, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was a test.
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A test to see if I was really back.
If I could do this.
If I could be her mother.
When the car pulled up in front of the school, my fingers tightened around my bag. Parents gathered outside, chatting amongst themselves, waiting for their kids to be let out.
This was normal.
This was life.
I stepped out of the car, inhaling deeply. The sun was warm against my skin–another reminder that I’d spent too much time inside. A mental note formed in my head. I needed more days like this.
A few women turned to look at me as I adjusted the strap of my bag over my shoulder.
Then they walked over.
“You must be Asha’s mom,” one of them said, smiling brightly.
I returned the smile. “I am.”
Another woman sighed, shaking her head. “It’s just incredible, really. Everything you’ve been through… You’re such an inspiration.”
I’d heard this a lot over the past month.
I knew people meant well.
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I knew they weren’t trying to make me feel like a spectacle.
Still, the word sat strangely in my chest.
I smiled politely. “Thank you.”
They continued talking–about their kids, about school events, about how strong I was. I nodded in all the right places, made small talk, but my eyes kept drifting toward the school doors, waiting for them to open.
And then-
Asha.
She came running toward me, her little blonde ponytail bouncing, her backpack bouncing against her back. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes–Josh’s bright blue eyes–lit up with excitement.
She clutched something in her hands–an art project of some kind, paint smudged on her fingers.
I barely had time to brace myself before she launched into my
arms.
I laughed, stumbling back a little as I hugged her tightly, inhaling the scent of crayons and childhood,
“Mommy! Look what I made!”
I pulled back slightly, taking the paper from her hands. It was a painting–a house, a stick figure family, a bright yellow sun.
I swallowed past the lump in my throat.
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“It’s beautiful, sweetheart,” I whispered.
Asha beamed up at me, pride radiating off her.
Behind her, the crowd of parents began to disperse, but one woman remained.
She stood near the door, watching me.
Raven hair. Glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. Arms crossed.
Something about her expression told me she didn’t think I was an inspiration.
Something about her made my stomach twist.
I smiled anyway, waving in her direction.
She didn’t wave back.
