The Girls at 17 Swann Street Read online

  Now it is 6:22, Friday night, and we are getting ready for dinner, after which Matthias will not be visiting, for the third night in a row. Still no word from my treatment team, and an hour till I get my phone back.

  The usual air of quiet pre-meal dread sits with us in community space, our stomachs and minds in knots. I think of Matthias and wonder what he is doing right now. Is he home? Does he have plans for dinner? With a friend? A girl? A date?

  Matthias on a date with someone else. The thought hurts too much. I suppress it. Bring Matthias back, Emm had said this morning. Was it only this morning?

  I think back to our Friday-night dates. I remember that pizza night; I was wearing a black lace dress and little pearls in my ears. I had also, uncharacteristically, let my hair down; Matthias preferred it that way. He was in slim-fitting blue jeans that suited him perfectly, and to this day my favorite striped shirt. He had worn it just for me.

  I remember feeling giddy; the wine had been good, as had the pizza I had ordered. I remember the thin crust, fresh tomato and basil leaves, the creamy dollops of mozzarella. They had dribbled on my fingers and down my chin. Matthias had not minded.

  I do not remember the taste of the pizza, though. Anorexia wiped that bit of memory out. Another thing I will have to bring back, but one step at a time.

  Anna, may I have a word with you? This will only take a minute.

  And to the other patients, Direct Care says:

  Start lining up for dinner, please.

  She takes me to the side; never a good sign. I am in trouble, or …

  Your treatment team has reached a decision about your meal outing.

  And?

  And?

  She smiles:

  And I must call your husband to inform him of his date with you on Sunday night.

  I could jump. I could hug her. Of course, I do neither. She continues seriously:

  Remember this is all probationary. Do you understand that, Anna? If the meal outing goes well then the team will consider making your Stage Two status permanent.

  It has to go well. It has to go well. I have to make this date work.

  The nutritionist will come in tomorrow morning to plan the meal with you.

  76

  So what will it be?

  the nutritionist asks, cutting right to the chase. It is Saturday morning. We are both in her office, I on the edge of the plump red chair.

  She looks less than thrilled to be in my company. I understand; it is her day off. I try to set aside the antipathy I have been cultivating for her for weeks.

  I will be civil.

  An Italian restaurant,

  I say and, as an afterthought,

  Please.

  And what will you order there?

  she asks.

  A pizza margherita,

  says the girl I once was, before I have time to stop her.

  Two full slices, at least,

  comes her verdict,

  and the house salad with dressing as well.

  Her eyes are on the clock. I keep mine on the prize. This painful meeting is adjourned.

  77

  Matthias pulls up at 17 Swann Street at precisely 6:00 P.M. on Sunday. I have not seen him since that horrible Tuesday. My heart is pounding madly.

  I am wearing my navy-blue dress and white ballet shoes, my hair down. My outfit clashes with the yellow of my feeding tube, but I am too nervous to care. Matthias turns the engine off but keeps the radio on. He steps out of the car, sharp in a white shirt, beige pants, his sunglasses on.

  I cannot make out the expression on his face. The sun is in my eyes. I wait nervously at the door. He reaches the house.

  For all of two seconds we face each other. His face is solemn and foreign. He is still angry at me. My heart sinks. He has every right to be.

  Hello,

  I say.

  Hello.

  Polite.

  My eyes beg his silently.

  Then, he smiles! A shy and sheepish grin. I fly off the porch into his arms.

  He kisses me. We stop. I kiss him back, again and again, crying.

  I am so sorry,

  as I try to compensate for the days of kisses lost.

  His smell, his hair. I missed him.

  I missed you,

  he says, then kisses me again.

  Then, abruptly:

  Let’s get out of here.

  Let’s.

  Doors slammed, windows down, music turned back up, we drive off immediately in our blue getaway car, my hand on his switching gears.

  The two of us, just the two of us again, we are both quiet. There will be time, later, to talk. Now the sun is warming my cheeks and nose and the music is soft, and besides we already summed the last five days up:

  I missed you.

  This time I say it.

  We arrive, Matthias and Anna. The Anna he married, I hope. The girl he took on a date to a pizzeria, a Friday night years ago.

  I am scared. Anorexia has tagged along, and the tube on my face will not let me forget it. No turning back; we walk into the restaurant. It is lovely; Julia had recommended it, and the table by the window.

  We are seated. Sir, madam, the menus, and with them a side of fear. I glance at the table to my right: an older couple, two giant, cheesy pizzas. Two glasses of wine.

  I focus on my breath. Matthias is looking at the options on the menu. He always does, I realize, though he orders the same thing every time.

  The familiarity of that act, the Matthias I knew, sitting in front of me. I exhale. The Anna he married; I must keep her on hand. Our waitress arrives.

  What would you like to order?

  Two glasses of house wine, red of course. Then Matthias and she look at me:

  Ladies first.

  I know what I should order, what Anna always orders, and how this date should go. But I did not leave 17 Swann Street fast enough:

  If I have the pizza marinara …

  I begin. A little voice in my head continues: then I could eat more bread. I do love bread, and do not care much for mozzarella anyway.

  That was not the plan,

  Matthias begins uneasily.

  The nutritionist said …

  I look sharply at him, outraged that he and the nutritionist had spoken behind my back.

  I know what I am doing. Please do not police me. I get enough of that back there.

  No sooner have the words left my mouth than I regret saying them.

  Matthias looks away from me and at his menu again. I can hear the silent thoughts in his head, even louder than the screams in mine:

  Nothing has changed.

  He is right.

  The waitress looks down at her notepad. I want to defend myself, to explain, to her and him, the tube, the cheese, my heart beating so loud I am certain everyone around me can hear it.

  A pizza marinara is not anorexia! pleads the voice in my head. I am not sick; I am a girl on a date who simply does not like mozzarella.

  Then I hear it: my own lie. Two voices in my head: anorexia’s and mine. Deep down I know which is ordering the pizza marinara.

  I see the past four weeks go up in pale, translucent smoke, Valerie and the other pale translucent girls in their robes. My own robe in the Van Gogh room. My husband across from me. I see the years of Friday nights with him that I lost because I could not eat.

  Never mind,

  I tell the waitress. And my anorexia to be quiet.

  I would like to start with a house salad please. Then a pizza margherita.

  She writes the order down, unaware of its implications.

  And what would you like, sir?

  I eat the salad. And the dressing, and cheese. Then I eat my pizza. One slice of it, two. Calmly cutting the pieces with my fork and knife, chewing, fighting my brain for every bite. I pause at times to sip at my wine, look at Matthias, look at us.

  I finish, lay my silverware down, and my courage, and begin to cry.

  Still not looking at me,
Matthias finishes his last slice. He has eaten all of his pizza, extra mushrooms and truffle oil, and left the crusts on the side, because

  Matthias ate the olives Anna did not like, and Anna always took his crust.

  Matthias and Anna held hands across the dinner table, talked with their lips, their eyes, their feet. Anna and Matthias emptied bottles of wine together, shared ice cream cones and French fries. Anna peeled oranges for Matthias because he had never learned how. He ate the olives she did not like and always gave her his pizza crusts.

  I reach across the table and touch his hand.

  May I have a piece of pizza crust?

  For a second he does not look up. His hand does not move. I am too late.

  Then he gives me a piece and looks at me. He is crying too.

  He talks.

  About guilt. Toward me, toward Papa and Sophie, even Maman and Camil.

  I promised your father when we got married that I would take care of you. We came here and I promised you that you would not be lonely.

  I am sorry I worked late. I am sorry you had to eat so many meals alone. I am sorry I did not say anything sooner, sorry I did not push harder.

  That moment at the airport last Christmas, Anna. The look on your father’s face. I had loved you too close to see what was happening. No, I chose what I wanted to see.

  I look at this boy, this man who loved me, had married me not knowing what anorexia was. This boy who, in spite of it all, still loves me, is still sitting across from me.

  I cannot love you and let you order your pizza without the cheese. I cannot love you and let you kill yourself.

  I talk about guilt too, toward him.

  For not being the wife he had married, not being what he had signed up for. For the empty bed in our apartment, this date and the others I ruined. Most of all, worst of all,

  For not being pregnant. You deserve to be a father.

  I choke.

  We stop talking.

  Matthias and Anna. Where had Matthias and Anna gone? We hold hands until we find them. Then we hold hands while we kiss with cheesy, salty lips and ask for the check.

  While Matthias is away washing his hands, the friendly waitress returns. She looks at me nervously.

  I hope this is not too forward of me, but I understand what you are going through.

  I am sure I have misheard. I look at her carefully. I have never seen her before. She looks like a girl who enjoys pizza, and life. Calm and comfortable in her skin. We could not be more unalike. How, what could she possibly understand?

  17 Swann Street? I was there last year.

  I am too stunned to speak. She shuffles her feet uncomfortably and continues:

  I am much heavier now, and I probably look like your worst nightmare, but I am happy and I am alive. I would not give that, or the pounds, up for anything.

  She clears a few crumbs off our table, I suppose to give her hands something to do.

  I just wanted to tell you that I know it looks hopeless, and I know you want to die. But it gets better, I promise.

  Then hurriedly,

  Sorry to have bothered you. Good luck.

  She walks away.

  Matthias returns, pays the bill, and tips well. The service really was excellent. We drive back in the twilight, my hand on his switching gears. In the driveway, he kisses my hands and lips. I kiss him all over his face. I tell him we should have pizza again soon. And again, and again.

  And I tell myself that perhaps I will enjoy it one day too.

  Seven thirty, tomorrow night?

  I ask.

  Seven thirty. I’ll be back.

  And I will bring Anna back too, I promise Matthias in my head.

  I wave the car goodbye, on the porch, thinking of all the girls who have lived here. The girls who really understand hunger, cold, and fleeting heartbeats. The Valeries and Danielles, but also those who are now waitresses, accountants, astronauts. Who go to movie theaters and theme parks, have babies and scones and lemonades on Sunday afternoons.

  These strangers who no longer live here, these now not so invisible girls, looking after those who are still pale, still at risk of fading away.

  78

  The light is on in Julia’s room. I pass it on my way to mine.

  I wear my pajamas, the gray ones, and go back downstairs for bathroom access. Permission granted, I wash my face and scrub the taste of pizza out of my mouth. I wish I could do the same to the guilt in my head and stomach. Back upstairs, I sit on my bed, waiting for it to subside.

  Julia’s music is playing through our wall. I wonder if she is okay. I get off the bed. I want to thank her for recommending the restaurant anyway.

  It takes a few knocks on the door of Bedroom 4 for the music to stop and Julia to come out. Her eyes are bloodshot from tears or something else. She is not okay.

  She seems happy to see me, though:

  Hey! You’re back. How was the pizza?

  Delicious. Thank you for the recommendation.

  Anytime. They make the best pizza in town. I used to work shifts there; I should know.

  She winks.

  Did you get the window table?

  Yes, we did.

  Her face lights up.

  Awesome! You were in Megan’s zone. Was she on shift today?

  So the waitress was called Megan. The sweet ex-anorexic who had understood.

  She was wonderful,

  I tell Julia.

  She told me she had been a patient here.

  Julia knows I have more to say and waits. I search for the appropriate words:

  Dinner was … not easy.

  No. Second try.

  Dinner was extremely difficult. I am still not over it. But I did it.

  Yeah you did!

  She high-fives me then, still beaming, motions me inside. Amid piles of dirty laundry, books, records, and empty wrappers, we sit down on her floor.

  Megan understands. That’s why I wanted you to sit in her zone. I figured pizza would be hard tonight.

  She was very patient with me. She really helped. Thank you so much, Julia.

  She shrugs and smiles.

  It’s what we do.

  Emm had said something similar.

  It is my turn:

  Are you okay?

  Julia thinks for a moment.

  No. No, I’m not. I haven’t been for a while.

  I give her space and time to talk, or not, if she wants.

  Megan is the reason I came here, actually.

  Really? How so?

  She chuckles.

  Well, working the same shift at a pizzeria, she and I discovered early on that we lived on opposite sides of the same problem.

  Food?

  We both wish it were as easy to sum up as that.

  When you’re fifteen and you love pizza, you eat pizza five dinners a week. When you move out of your parents’ house and into a crowded dorm, you have it for breakfast the next day too. Pizza, my friend, is a remarkable cure for everything from hangover to heartbreak. Pizza replaces that 2:00 A.M. cramp in your stomach and mind nicely, with warm, salty, gooey lethargy.…

  She pauses, presumably, to picture the pizza.

  And then it’s time for something sweet.

  I can relate to the angst and the appeal of comfort food. I have spent my own share of time torturing myself in front of rows of crisps, crackers, and ice cream in supermarket aisles. The difference between Julia and me is that I cannot bring myself to eat them. The temporary comfort does not, in my mind, validate the guilty, nauseating knot in my stomach that follows. I ask her:

  What were you anxious about?

  Oh, nothing in particular at first, then everything, then nothing again. Uncertainty, I guess. Unfairness. Boredom, maybe? Pizza, ice cream, milkshakes, fries—they’re reliable friends.

  In a way, like hunger. At the other end, as Julia said, of this sad spectrum we are on. You cannot control your life, love, future, past, but you can choose what you put, or not,
in your mouth.

  College is hard,

  she says. I agree. Like moving to a new city.

  It wasn’t at first, though,

  she reflects,

  I was on the coed basketball team. My teammates and coach were the family I sweated, showered, and pigged out with. I wore workout clothes all the time and actually worked out. I never worried about what I ate. I was always relaxed, with myself and the boys.

  Nonchalantly, she adds:

  Until one of them raped me and, that same night, I discovered I could binge and purge.

  There is nothing to say. I put my hand on her knee. She gives me her Julia smile.

  Don’t worry about me. It’s fine. I’m fine.

  It is not, nor is she. We both know that, but I do not want to interrupt.

  Anyway, comfort food was comforting, but purging was a revelation. It solved so many problems, Anna. It drove the feelings out—like constantly hitting restart. Have you ever done it?

  I have. Most anorexics do, at that breaking, starving point when the body turns on its brain and sets loose on carbohydrates, sugar, fat. Bread, berries, chips, lettuce, a raw onion or pickles in the fridge. Chocolate, cookies, cake, leftover food in the trash.

  Then the tsunami of guilt, paralyzing. The rush to the toilet bowl. Fingers in, food out. Fingers in again. Speed is key, before the body can absorb any more nutrients and calories.

  Yes, but rarely. Only when I lose control. The purging is punishment.