It’s April, and she sits on the coffee-colored couch in the living room. Her elbows drive into her knees and her hands support her head, which tempts to fall below. A window spans the grey wall behind her and rain droplets distort the view of the black lake in the background. Refracted lig­­ht from the window illuminates the back of her unkempt chocolate hair. A shadow is cast on the heavy Tiffany blue rug that covers the dark wood floor. She sees the shadow larger than it is.

I watch her from the adjacent room and wonder what she is thinking. Is it the tomato pasta dish she reluctantly ate (though she mostly left the pasta and opted for the strawberry vinaigrette salad anyway)? Is it her thighs that appear increasingly large to her hazed eyes? Is it guilt from having quietly purged her dinner while Mom was downstairs? Is it guilt from having cut her right hip with the small blade of her razor, as punishment for purging? Or was it me, who she wished to tell of her bulimia but was far too embarrassed to?

But I knew, and I had known since the car ride with my mother. Pulled onto the side of the road, tears hit the black leather seat as she told me of my sister. Failure was her biggest fear. Had she failed as a parent? Was she too strict, too insistent? What had she done wrong? How could something so awful ever plague her sweet, talented daughter? I pondered the same questions. With an arm around her shoulder, I held her the length of the ride to church. At the end of mass, she made a prayer and I felt it radiate.

My sister and I were never close, she apparently tells therapists. She: timid, internal, overlooked. Myself (she believes): competent, outgoing, respected. We’re more similar than she thinks. I try to show her this by suggesting books and music, but an opaque bubble traps her and her world. She feels alone. She is not.

My parents cry when she is not around. They search WebMD for death rates, suicide rates—any rates they can find. I tell them it’s not their fault; in class I learned it’s common and can happen to anyone. They continue to cry, but I tell them there’s no sense in reflecting on cause; focus on recovery.

We miss seeing her smile. We look through box upon box of images made from processed Kodak negative—images of Christmases, birthdays, vacations to the Virgin Islands, California, and Mexico; images of my hockey games and her soccer tournaments; images of the wood play-structure in our old backyard, manned by children-turned-pirates-and-princesses; images of a baby girl wearing a miniature yellow raincoat and rain hat, cocked up on one side by a small hand revealing squinted brown eyes, missing teeth, and an eternal smile that warms our family. The smile remains, but buried beneath her disorder.

It’s hard to eat together. White porcelain plates sit heavy on the frosted-glass dinner table. Food fills the plate before me and I don’t know whether to eat it or stare it at it, like my sister does. I watch her hand, anchored by a heavy silver fork—motionless. My parents’ disappointed faces gaze into their own plates. I look away. I want to eat but I feel guilty. She gets up to go to the bathroom. We listen to the sound of footsteps, a closing door, and muted gagging. My mom cries. My dad clears the table. I sit quietly.

At night, none of us sleep.

*  *  *  *  *

It’s August now, and things are better. My sister has returned from a three-week trip to Italy, organized by an art school in Maryland. She crafted many paintings and found beauty in the landscape and in the sky. She says there’s nothing beautiful at home in Michigan. I try to convince her otherwise, though I’m not so sure myself.

She excitedly tells my mother and my mother excitedly tells me that she hasn’t purged in several weeks. This makes us all happy considering she was purging four to five times a day before the trip. But the start of her senior year of high school worries her, and, eventually, the purging returns. After a few months, it’s worse than ever.

Her chocolate hair is disheveled and shines from grease, her hazed eyes doused in black, her worn cheeks covered with matte powder, her depressed lips coated in a red that saves whatever life is left in them. She stares at her feet when I talk to her and can barely conjure enough words to converse. Her mind is in a million places, as it’s been recently. My mother scolds her for ignoring me. I wish she wouldn’t; I can’t imagine it helping. But I don’t blame my mom. It’s hard to watch my sister like this.

*  *  *  *  *

Tomorrow she leaves for an extended in-patient stay at an eating disorders clinic in Denver. The stay is indefinite but will likely last into the New Year.

It’s a Wednesday night in mid-November and I’m home to say good-bye.

The sky is black and the house is black, but the windows shine a familiar warm orange. My parents have been expecting me, but my sister is unaware. My dad is cooking his family-famous pizzas and I tell her I just had to come home for the occasion. She looks up and I catch a glimpse of the eternal smile before we hug hello.

The kitchen is U-shaped with a center island, featuring black-stained wood cabinetry and smoky, marble countertops. The countertops compliment the surrounding grey walls and a large window reveals nothing but blackness at night. Two small, circular glass lights hang above the island, reflecting light off the stainless steel appliances to color the room its familiar orange hue. I sit with my laptop at the island after dinner, pretending to study. I only pretend because the conversation in the room down the hall is too distracting. My mother, who sits cross-legged at the foot of the white bed where my sister lies, is convincing her to tell me about her eating disorder and about Colorado. The voices echo under the heavy door and along the wood floor of the hallway. He’ll be so disappointed, I hear her say. I could never be, I want to say back.

The conversation lasts long enough for my father to fall asleep in his bedroom. I can hear his snoring. In my sister’s room, I hear nothing.

Then: footsteps. I stare into the whiteness of my computer, shaking. I notice I’m sweating. How will she tell me? How will I respond? I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to comfort her. I stare closer into my computer, grabbing its sides with both of my hands. Will we hug? Will she cry? Will I cry—

I jolt when she grabs my shoulder.

Her hazed eyes look clean tonight. She looks happier, and I smile. She’s ready to recover. I reach for her and she falls into my arms. I can feel her body, the body she hates most. I can feel her back and her shoulders, and I think of how beautiful she is—the girl in the little yellow raincoat with the everlasting smile.

She lets go. Goodnight, she says. I’ll see you soon. And that’s it. No mention of Colorado.

I want to cry. I feel abandoned: Left to sit in the orange room, alone, dissecting what could have been.  But I remind myself not to feel guilty. My problems are insignificant. I think of the hug, and understand that it was enough. Everything will be okay.

*  *  *  *  *

My sister has been in the clinic for four weeks and has just moved to an outpatient program run by the same organization. As a requirement for the program, my mom must stay in Denver until my sister is released. My parents love her medical team. The physician is modest and refuses to be called anything more empowering than Dr. Mike. He gives lectures on brain behavior to the patients’ families and my father is fascinated. Maggie, the therapist, is soft and speaks on the same level as her patients. She asks questions only when necessary and my sister has come to trust her.

My parents are happy. They’ve adapted to her disorder and can only see a future. They’re committed to learning everything they can about it to ensure a successful recovery when she returns home. They would bring her favorite board games with them on past visits to the in-patient center and brought her boyfriend once. Her smile widens.

She knows that I know now. She asked my parents to tell me last week. They say she wants to be with me on Christmas. We’ve arranged a stay in a hotel at the base of the Rockies, where snow falls and we can all be together.

*  *  *  *  *

It’s Christmas Eve and I’ve just landed in Denver with my father. The airport is infested with confused people, running to the find the next plane that will either take them home for the holidays or away from it. We make our way through the technicolor crowd towards the Enterprise station outside. In a rented silver Jetta, we move along the wet roadway towards the clinic. I watch mountains grow out of the horizon ahead as we drive away from Denver. I’ll be with my sister in an hour.

My mom calls us from the clinic. She says my sister has been having a bad morning. She’s really nervous to see you. Maggie is trying to talk to her. My dad tells me to stay positive with my sister. Be encouraging. Tell her how proud of her you are. His dark eyes redden and swell as he says this. Water builds and runs down his face, collecting at the stubble that outlines his cheekbones. I turn my head to the mountains. I feel burdened. I imagine seeing her. I imagine crying. I imagine her tears and her hug. I imagine her talking to me, telling me her story. I imagine how nice it must feel, to have her talk to me. I tell her how proud I am of her, and I tell her I love her. We smile.

I look back to my father. His tears stop as we approach the clinic. In the small, suburban town nearby he points out every building and restaurant we see, as if he’s showing a visitor around his hometown. We stop for lattes at his favorite coffee shop before arriving at the clinic.

The clinic is located within a small, square complex. Its sharp, rusted steel outline is the product of a redesigned military building. My father tells me the town is an old Air Force base—a fact evident from the repurposed hangars and barracks-turned-apartment-buildings nearby.

Past the glass doorway, I’m introduced to Maggie, a plump, blonde woman whose young age takes me by surprise. I follow her up a wood stairway to another glass door labeled “Eating Recovery Center.” She flashes ID to a black scanner on the door panel and it opens. Two secretaries sit at a desk behind a cut-away wall and greet me with warm smiles. Art hangs above the leather waiting-room couches to the left, which sit adjacent to a rack of pamphlets, intended to educate parents and visitors. Maggie continues down a short hallway and enters a room on the left bearing her name. The room is small, containing only a desk, bookcase, and a few chairs. She takes a seat at her desk and points to a chair across from her. I sit, crossing my legs to avoid nervousness—I’ve never met a therapist before. She wears a mustard yellow sweater, jeans, and tan suede boots—a conservative look, but stylish nonetheless. From beneath her blonde hair, controlled lips form a convincing smile. At no more than twenty-five, she looks as though she’s defeated any life-problems she has or ever will face.

We talk casually for several minutes, easing our way into serious matter. She directs the conversation. Do you have any questions, she eventually asks, which elicits a blank stare and nervousness from my side of the room. I signal no. Do you want me to get your sister? Staring blankly into her eyes, I work to understand the question. Yes.

I’m left alone in the room for an indefinite amount of time—it could have been two minutes or twenty, I can’t say. I scan the bookshelf: Didion, Kundera, Nabokov; she’s familiar with emotion. My eyes dart from motivational quote to quote, tacked on picture frames and cardstock, and I imagine my sister’s name inserted with each one: Be who you are and say what you feel, Maia, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind, and You may not control all the events that happen to you, Maia, but you can decide not to be reduced by them. I imagine her reading them as I just have. I wonder if she depends on these quotes. Do they motivate her? I hope so. The room is quiet. My thoughts are the only noise.