The Girls at 17 Swann Street Read online

  No time for that now, she had to dance.

  Allez, on enchaine! Deuxième exercice.

  60

  Have you heard from Valerie?

  I ask from the couch.

  The therapist does not answer me. We both know that she cannot.

  I do not need details, I want to tell her, just a sign that she is alive. And I would like to send her a letter, and the copy of Rilke I finished.

  Valerie and I had not had the chance to talk about the poem I had given her. It began with:

  Flare up like flame.

  And make big shadows I can move in. I knew it by heart:

  Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.

  Just keep going. No feeling is final.

  Our friendship had been cut short too soon after it had started. An almost friendship. I almost knew her. Julia’s words come to my mind:

  It sucks, I know, but there are too many of us for me to cry over every one.

  Every patient here is a tragedy, but Valerie had been my friend. Almost.

  Your concern for Valerie is very thoughtful, Anna,

  Katherine begins cautiously. I already disapprove of the word “thoughtful.”

  but your priority during your stay here should be your own recovery. I’d like you to concentrate on that, can you?

  This session and this Monday are not off to an excellent start. The latter is my third here, I reflect. I do not feel closer to recovery. Heavier, yes. Fatter, my brain would say. No groundbreaking change at that level.

  Two weeks and the novelty of meals and therapy, disconcerting as it was, has worn off. The weekly schedule has become routine. Not the anxiety or sadness, though.

  Katherine is waiting for a sign that I have heard and acknowledged her. But I do not appreciate being told what to do, nor do I, consequently, answer.

  She tries again:

  Why don’t you tell me how your weekend went?

  No thank you. Instead:

  Has anyone told her father yet? He was supposed to visit her.

  And I continue Rilke’s poem in my head:

  Don’t let yourself lose me.

  Anna,

  the therapist warns,

  we’re here to talk about you.

  But I have nothing to say.

  That can’t be possible.

  Rather, nothing to say to her.

  I do not want to tell her that I slept with Matthias, for the first time in months, on Friday. That it had hurt but that, for the first time in a long time, I had wanted to. I do not want to tell her about getting my nails done and envying every woman in the salon for the sheer normalcy of her life, having a purpose when I have none.

  Are you tired of talking?

  Exhausted, I want to say, and sick of being here. And losing what little momentum I had when I first arrived.

  I have been talking and eating for two weeks,

  I answer.

  And if I give up now, I could just disappear like Valerie, in the middle of the night in an ambulance.

  What’s the point?

  I ask her. She responds:

  Of getting better? You tell me, Anna.

  Isn’t there anything you want to do, to be outside of here?

  Not really. I cannot dance. I cannot return to Paris. There is nothing there for me. My father and sister have lives that can go on perfectly well without me. Here, my job at the supermarket is almost certainly gone, but good riddance, except for the money, and the hours it filled. So no career prospects.

  Matthias does not need me either, not in the immediate, physical sense. He loves me, I know that, and I love him but that alone is not purpose enough.

  Isn’t there anything you want?

  the therapist asks again.

  She will not let this go, so I say the first thing that comes to mind:

  On Saturday Julia asked me where I would go if I could leave this place.

  Visibly relieved that I had said something, anything, Katherine asks:

  And what did you say?

  I said I would go to a coffee shop, have something to drink, and read.

  I reflect after a few seconds:

  How sad. I have no goals.

  So set some.

  I am too tired to answer her. She pushes nonetheless:

  Can you at least imagine what you would be doing in a world without anorexia?

  In a world without anorexia … I do not dare dream. But what if I did, in my head?

  In a world without anorexia, I would take ballet classes again.

  I would find a job I actually enjoy, maybe teach little children to dance.

  I would read. Poetry. I would read more poetry. What if I studied poetry?

  I would call my father, my sister, the friends I lost in my silence.

  I would go home and have sex with Matthias. Over and over again.

  Love Matthias. Have a family with Matthias.

  But that all remains in my head.

  Fortunately, the door knocks just then. Our time is up for today. Direct Care is here with Katherine’s next appointment. I vacate the gray couch.

  61

  Seven forty-six. Matthias is late. Matthias is never late. More irritated than worried, I crane my neck to the right at the window to see farther up Swann Street.

  Finally, the blue car appears, signals, and pulls into the driveway. In the seconds that follow, Matthias parks, locks the car, and walks over to the porch, as I debate running to the door before he rings or staying put. I stay put.

  Doorbell, and chorus:

  Anna! It’s Matthias!

  I know, and walk over slowly. My petty, hurt way of punishing him; I can be late too.

  I open the front door and kiss him mechanically. He looks exhausted. Still he smiles at me.

  I do not smile back.

  Traffic on the highway?

  I ask.

  No, actually, long day at work. I’m sorry, Anna. I couldn’t leave sooner.

  It’s fine,

  I say. We both know it is not, but the other girls are listening, so we go upstairs to the Van Gogh room and he collapses on the bed.

  I close the door and stay where I am.

  Your shoes are on my bed, Matthias.

  He kicks them off distractedly.

  I’m sorry, Anna. Come lie down next to me.

  But I do not feel like it.

  You could have called,

  I say, though what I really mean is: We only have ninety minutes together! How could you be late?

  I said I was sorry!

  he retorts, his voice irritated now.

  But Lesley called me into her office for a meeting at the last minute. I couldn’t say no.

  Lesley. Her name pours over me like a cold shower.

  And who is Lesley?

  My supervisor, Anna! You know who Lesley is. Why are we still talking about this?

  I do not know. He said he was sorry; his meeting just ran a little late. So why do I want to cry? Why am I wasting more of my precious minutes fighting him?

  Because I am jealous of Lesley with Matthias. That she gets the whole day with him while I only get ninety minutes in a sterile, confined space. Because I am terrified that one day he will be more than fifteen minutes late.

  My throat tightens. My eyes water, but then—

  What an idiot I am! He is here, isn’t he? He did come! He comes here every night. I rush to the bed and lie down next to him, my arm on his chest.

  He exhales, tired, and pulls me closer to him.

  I’m sorry. I got jealous of Lesley.

  Silly girl. How could you possibly think … I don’t even know what you thought. I love you, don’t you know that?

  I hide my face in the nook of his shoulder. I do.

  I am just tired.

  He sighs:

  I’m tired too.

  He does not say: of this. Neither do I.

  62

  A Tuesday, again. Still no word from Valerie, and to make matters worse, I
can hear Direct Care rummaging in the kitchen:

  Girls! Breakfast is served!

  On Mondays, Thursdays, and Sundays we have cereal at 17 Swann Street. Those are easy breakfasts. I have Frosties or Cheerios, the first when I win against my anorexia, the second when it wins against me. Fridays are palatable: yogurt and granola. I always have the vanilla. Wednesdays and Saturdays are more challenging; oatmeal and nuts are quite filling. I can get get through them though, plain with almonds, with help from some cinnamon and salt. But Tuesdays, Tuesdays, I dread 8:00 A.M. Not even the coffee helps. On Tuesdays at 17 Swann Street we have bagels and cream cheese for breakfast.

  I had declared I disliked bagels and cream cheese on my very first day. I had then stood firmly by that claim in the weeks that had followed. To nutritionist, therapist, Matthias, and Direct Care, I had said I could eat toast instead. With a slather of cottage cheese, if I had to, but not that dense, unhealthy food. I did not like the texture, I did not like the taste. I had said it so vehemently, so loudly, that I almost believed myself.

  Almost. In reality, deep in my brain where I knew no one could hear me, I thought it was heavenly. The combination, in one bite, of a creamy, cheesy layer lathered with a butter knife on a warm, toasted bagel, inside still soft, in neat, parallel strokes. A sprinkle of salt, then a sip of bitter coffee with the taste still on my tongue.

  It was so decadent it scared me. It could not be right. That first Tuesday, that innocent bagel had nearly made me cry. But it had only been half a bagel, and it had only been my second day. My brain had not caught up with the program, the pleaser in me wanted to please. So I had let the pleaser eat, and when I had finished I remember patting myself on the back and thinking: It is done.

  But Tuesday came again, and now it is back, and my portions have doubled with my meal plan. Also, as I enter my third week here, my willingness to please is waning. In fact, it is next to gone, worn out by six meals a day. And this morning, mirror or not, the certainty, pulling up my jeans, struggling with the zipper, stomach sucked in, that I am gaining weight.

  Breakfast is served. I sit down reluctantly and look miserably at my plate. I see fat and carbohydrates: a full bagel and nearly half a whole pack of cream cheese!

  No one can eat this much cream cheese, I think. No one should eat this much cream cheese! How will I even fit it all on the bagel? How will I swallow this?

  May I have some salt please?

  No, Anna.

  May I reheat my bagel then?

  And have the cream cheese melt onto the plate so you don’t have to eat it? Nice try.

  I just need something, anything that would make this easier to swallow. But Direct Care has six other sick girls’ plates she needs to monitor.

  Not a minute over time, Anna.

  I cannot eat this. I cannot eat this! My panicky brain screams. I have fought too hard, gone hungry for too long, run too far on sheer will to get here. I choose what to put, or not, in my body, it protests, knowing it is not true.

  Knowing I have two options at this point: breakfast or the liquid supplement.

  A few deep breaths. A nervous look at the clock. I try to calm my racing thoughts.

  I must remain composed. Around me, almost insultingly, life is still going on. Julia and Sarah have both finished eating and are on their second cups of coffee. Emm is working diligently on her bagel and the word jumbles. The other girls are quiet; one of them is crying, but all of them are chewing. I must start chewing. I am frozen in place. How do I start chewing?

  May I cut my bagel in half, at least?

  Sure, Anna.

  So I do, and slather some cream on one end and dare myself to take the first bite. Slow, mindful breaths. This is so painful that I almost laugh at the situation. Here I am, about to have a breakdown over a bagel and cream cheese.

  I want to recite Maman’s poem in my head, but the fear is overwhelming to the point that I cannot remember the first line, or her face. Or ever being this scared. It takes my full concentration just to take a second bite, to swallow it, to take a third. I make it through the first half of the bagel not daring to stop, think, or look up.

  Two more bites of the second half remain. About a third of the cream cheese. My heart is about to stop. The screaming in my brain is almost turning me deaf. No more, I think. I cannot. I did my part. Not another bite. The guilt feels like being dunked into freezing water; I cannot breathe, my stomach is clenched.

  Two more minutes to the end of the meal.

  Anna, you must finish your plate.

  I could force down the last two bites of bagel, but the cream cheese … I cannot.

  A furtive glance at Direct Care, who is looking the other way. I do not recognize myself doing it: I stuff the cheese inside my napkin.

  I wait for the apocalypse. It does not come. No one seems to have noticed. The conversation continues. The clock above my head ticks the last two minutes on. Breakfast is over. We clear our plates. I throw the napkin deep in the bin. Evidence discarded, I ask to use the bathroom. Minutes later, I lock myself in.

  I dare to smile at myself in the mirror: Breakfast is done. I survived.

  Too soon. Someone knocks gently on the door. I go under freezing water again.

  Anna, when you are done in there, I would like to talk to you please.

  I take my time brushing my teeth and braiding my hair. I even look out at the magnolia tree. Then I wipe my hands, take one last look outside, noting the sky is bright blue. Perfect weather today for the walk, I think. That I will probably not be on.

  I open the door. Direct Care is outside, avoiding eye contact with me.

  Why don’t we talk in your room?

  she asks, wanting to spare me a scene.

  We go upstairs. Once in my room, she shows me my cream-cheese-filled napkin. I cannot remember being more mortified or ashamed. I admit it is mine.

  We have a policy about stolen or discarded food,

  she explains uncomfortably. She looks as distraught as I am. No, not as distraught, not exactly.

  I know that policy. I know the house rules; my punishment is a full liquid meal. A nauseatingly thick shake containing the caloric equivalent of breakfast. And another black mark on my record. And of course no morning walk.

  The calories. The calories.

  I could die right here just thinking of the calories in that liquid supplement. I have never felt anything more overwhelming than this fear flooding my stomach, the room … and then the shame.

  When did I become a liar and a cheat? What will Matthias think of me? What will he say when he learns that his wife hides cheese in napkins like a thief?

  What would my mother say? My father? My siblings, who looked up to me once? What will Papa think when I do not call him as usual on the morning walk?

  I can feel something unraveling inside, but Direct Care is still here. I will not cry, or argue with her. I will take responsibility for what I did.

  She returns with a large glass of thick, beige cream. Thoughtful, she included a straw. I take the supplement without a word and drink it methodically, all of it.

  When the glass is empty I hand it back. She is decent enough not to preach. She stands up and leaves the room, saying,

  You can come down whenever you’re ready.

  I want to die. Instead, I sit still. Time does too, in the bedroom. I stay there forever, but it is still Tuesday morning when I come down. The girls are waiting by the door for their walk, sunglasses, phones, and trainers on. They all know what happened but do not say anything. I am grateful. They leave.

  There is no one in community space, but I need a place to hide. Those are intentionally rare at the house on 17 Swann Street. The bedrooms are off limits by day, the bathrooms permanently locked. There is the laundry room, the coldest room in the house. I go there, curl into a ball, and cry.

  I cry more than I ever have. More than when Camil died, and Maman. More than over Philippe. How sad, the power of a piece of cream cheese.


  Free fall from a tightrope, and it just keeps going, me lying on the floor behind the dryers. I look up and see the first diet I ever went on and Philippe’s beautiful wife. I see that night the wooden stage rose up to meet me and crashed against my knee. I see my brother’s empty bed. My mother locking the bathroom door. I see transatlantic flights and two dinner plates set, in a lonely apartment, getting cold.

  I see the life I wanted with Matthias, the baby I wanted with him. Every plan and dream that went wrong. Every decision snatched out of my hands.

  I see the alarm set for five thirty each morning, after long nights, too cold to sleep. I see fourteen-hour work shifts and thirty-minute runs that got longer and longer gradually. The numbers dropping on the scale. Food groups disappearing with them, along with my friends, ambition, and personality. I see what remained: my apples and popcorn, and my eighty-eight pounds.

  I see myself on my first day here, physically as trapped as I felt. I see myself asking for permission to use the bathroom, to step outside on the porch. I see food set in front of me that I did not choose, did not like, did not want. And the yellow feeding tube that will go through my nostrils if I do not comply.

  I see every one of those six meals a day and every group and individual session. Then I see the cream cheese and nutritional supplement. But I do not see the point.

  My fall ends in a silent crash on that floor. It knocks breath and emotion out of me. The tiny blood vessels in my eyes pop. I am done crying, done trying. I am so tired. I cannot get up.

  Not that I have anything to get up for, anywhere or anyone to be. So I stay behind the dryers, on the floor, till the girls return from their walk.