The Option

She had the option to be sick.

Snug in her bed, cocooned safely within her blankets, Laura’s mind travelled across and through each part her body looking, searching, seeking an ache, a pain, a fever, a problem, a reason, a . . . justification to stay in bed. Justification. It was a new word.

You don’t have to go, her dad had said, you would be justified, if you didn’t want to.

But if you skip today, her mother’s voice came into her head, will you try to avoid all the other days like this? So, she got out of bed, not because she was certain she wanted to go, but because she knew her mother would nag her until she did.

Some days, she welcomed the nagging. On other days, she did not. Today, she was restlessly unsure.

In the bathroom, Laura scrubbed her teeth and examined them in the mirror. They were growing at odd, peculiar angles. Lately, when she went to the dentist, she heard the word “braces.” As her toothbrush worked away, she felt a twinge in her mouth and a tooth wiggled loose. She knew soon that tooth would fall away, leaving a gaping hole. A new tooth would grow there, but probably in some horribly crooked way, she thought. She frowned at her face at the very moment her dad passed by the bathroom door. He paused.

“Another tooth is loose,” she explained.

“Ah,” he said, nodding.

“When are my teeth going to stop falling out? They leave all these holes. Why do they have to fall out anyway? When will something stay the same?” She plunked her toothbrush back into its cup and grabbed her hairbrush. As she pulled the bristles through her hair, she met a knot at the back of her head that would not budge. Her dad watched for a moment before he took the brush from her hand and began to gently work through the tangle.

As her dad lifted her hair free, the strands caught the twinkle of the bathroom lights. Once, Laura had remarked she had hair the color of a field mouse who could blend so well into the dirt that it could become invisible. Her mother had laughed at her description.

But you have summer hair, she had said, it has been kissed by the sun.

Suddenly, the uncertainty was there, and the worry, the hesitation, made her pause. Her dad saw the worry in her face and said, “You don’t have to go.”

“I know. But I am going to,” she turned around to face him, “and because, I am about to do the unacceptable,” she said this last word with such emphasis that he smiled, “I have to appear as acceptable as possible, so I have to find the right clothes to wear.”

She sighed as she fumbled through her closet. The right clothes meant the uniform of her girlfriends: flared jeans, tennis shoes, and a T-shirt . . . something sparkly . . . even though sparkly was the last thing she felt right now. She examined herself in the mirror. Today, it would just be her and her dad. She needed something more. She searched through her dresser and found the ring with a glittering gold gem that her mother had given her on her last birthday. Topaz, her mother had called the gem. Like your eyes.

Breakfast was a quiet rush of toast and juice. She purposely chewed only on the side of her mouth where there were no loose teeth. Her dad asked, “Are you sure you want to go to school today?”

She replied with a steady, long stare, “I don’t know that I want to. I know that I will.”

Together they walked the two short blocks to school. Other kids were walking, but she did not look up. She kept her eyes fixated on the sidewalk in front of her noticing each crack, looking up only to find the right place to cross the street. They walked into the school, marched along the hallways, and she caught a curious glance or two. It was obvious that she and her father were different, but she kept her eyes averted, focused on finding the classroom, not meeting anyone’s eyes, not facing the question that was silently being asked – the question she did not want to answer just yet.

In her classroom, the stares became blatant and obvious. Eyes flickered back and forth between her and her dad. Children’s eyes. Large adult feminine eyes with raised eyebrows. Her fear tumbled through her with a thousand reproaches.

You made a mistake

You idiot

This was a stupid idea

They are going to laugh at you

What were you thinking?

She looked up at her dad, opening her mouth to ask him if they could leave, to tell him that she changed her mind, but Mrs. Elliott, her teacher, interrupted her.

“Children! Everyone! Take your seats! Thank you!”

The whispers rustling in the room like dry dead leaves ceased as everyone scrambled to find their chairs. Somehow, she found her desk.

“Good morning. I see we have some very special moms in our classroom today.” The glance in her direction was quick, but solid and knowing. There was a hint of a smile, a nod of approval. Laura sat up a little straighter. The tears threatening behind her eyes retreated.

“Welcome to our day of celebration . . . it is our ‘Muffins for Moms’ day – our way of celebrating Mother’s Day. Each of you can come up and tell us why your guest is special. Laura, would you be first?”

Her father’s fingers brushed the fine tips of her hair. Her legs trembled to the point that she thought she might fall as she led her dad to the front of the class. She felt the lift of her mother’s breath fill her lungs and tasted the words on her tongue -- different than she would have said for her mom if she hadn’t died last month: “This is my Dad. He’s my mom, too, now, and he’s as good a mom as she ever was.”