9.5

The ride to the airport is filled with silence. So is the plane ride, where I stare out the window and wish I could be out among the clouds. In the cab home I try not to fidget with my hands in my lap. It's hard to focus on anything but my facing thoughts in the quiet. Even the driver's radio is too low to hear clearly.

I wonder whether my mother can't seem to figure out why I'm upset, or if she's decided that it's not worth her time. When we pull up to the house she's indifferent. I, on the other hand, try to hold back tears. It's weird seeing something so familiar and not knowing what's awaiting me inside.

"I'll get your bag," mother says, opening the cab door. "You go on inside. Your father's waiting."

Butterflies flutter in my stomach as I walk to the door. The house looks as pristine as it did when I left. Big, clear windows greet me but behind them the curtains are mostly drawn. I wonder if the neighbours have noticed I'm gone.

My hand hesitates on the door handle but I force myself to open the door anyway. Inside the house is quiet and smells of clean laundry. I stare at a bouquet of flowers on the foyer window. They're almost dead.

"Piper?" My dad's familiar voice drifts in from the living room and I freeze.

I take a breath. "It's me."

The floor creaks and then he appears before me, coming in from the living room. He's tall and stern, looking a little older than I remember in parts of his face. We stare at each other for a moment and I try to smile.

He sighs and steps forward, pulling me into a hug. "I've missed you, Piper. How are you doing?" I don't remember the last time he hugged me.

"I'm doing good," I reply perfectly. I've rehearsed those three words so many times in the past few days that when I say them now, they almost sound real. Almost. "How are you?"

"I'm good aswell," he says as he lets me go, and I wonder if he's lying, too. "Are you hungry? I was just about to make something to eat."

I nod and he leads me into the kitchen. As he starts to make dinner I excuse myself and lock myself in the upstairs bathroom next to my bedroom. I don't even bother looking at my sunken face as I pass the mirror and sit in my old spot on the bathroom rug. This one is new and a shade of lilac my mother probably went to three different stores to find.

The bathtub is hard against my spine, but the discomfort is so familiar that it's almost comfort, in a way. I lean my head back and stare at the beige ceiling. Faintly I remember laying on this floor around a year ago, maybe longer, staring up at this same ceiling. My hands were heavy, resting on my chest as I waited to lose consciousness. It felt like the pills were still sitting in my throat when my body started to shake and I turned over, throwing up everything I had swallowed onto the tiled floor.

Briefly, my eyes glance up towards the mirror above the sink. I wonder if my parents have gone back to putting their pills in there, or if like me, the habit never quite went away.