Mama does two things when she wakes up and the world stinks of worry: scrambles eggs or toasts bagels, depending on her mood. Every morning, now, there is bacon. This morning, it's an egg mood. So Mama wakes the children and one eats, the other pushes the food around on her plate and her skeletal elbows stab at the odors in the air.
"What's the protein, baby?"
"Bacon and eggs, Mama."
"That's right, baby."
That's all Mama's allowed to say according to all the professionals, no matter how much the frail little girl with the big eyes and bright smile does not eat. Instinct vs. Anorexia.
So Mama packs one regular lunch of PB&J, apple slices and chips, and one she fills with the regular stuff and all kinds of extras: peanut butter crackers, granola and blueberry cereal bars, butterscotch pudding and two different kinds of cheese sticks. Mama's to provide the food; the child gets to choose...or not.
"I'll have breakfast at school, Mama."
"I know, baby."
"I love you, Mama."
So Mama puts vitamins on their paper plates and hands the older, but way skinnier child 2.5cc of liquid anti-depressant and a Boost, liquid nutrition. The pretty child drinks the medicine now no problem. The medicine is a non-negotiable. So Mama braids hair and walks the girls down the lane, across the bridge to stand beside the mailbox waiting on the flashing lights to round the corner of their country road.
As the six year old with her stocky legs climbs aboard, Mama waves and blows kisses. The eight-year-old's knees are the biggest part of her legs, Mama notices, standing in the bus's metallic exhaust. The small child with the big A stitched to the cells in her brain, turns and waves from the top step. Mama sends an "I love you" through the early morning air. And it sounds like a prayer.