The Girls at 17 Swann Street Page 19

  Interesting. For me, it’s an addiction. That complete absence of energy and feeling, lying on the bathroom floor. I could stay there all day—and I did. All day every day for days.

  She says it so casually.

  It took up all my time. I dropped out of the team and out of college; I was too busy having double, triple breakfasts and raiding the supermarket. I was also exhausted and out of breath all the time. I lost my voice, got calluses, an ulcer. The palpitations sucked too, but money was my biggest problem.

  Wry smile. Sad smile as she jokes:

  Bulimia is an expensive habit. I stole from my mother and got the cleaning lady fired. I went through the dumpsters behind bakeries. I opened boxes of cereal and packs of cookies and ate them right in the store.

  She stops to scrutinize me for signs of judgment. She finds none on my face—how could I—and continues:

  Then I got a job at the pizzeria and couldn’t believe my luck: Free food! Free pizza! Endless amounts of it that people left on their plates! Yeah baby.

  She grins.

  And there was Megan. We became really good friends. She would write orders down wrong on purpose so I could eat the pizzas that were sent back, and I would pick up her cleanup shifts so I could eat the leftovers.

  She pauses. The thought crossing her mind at the moment does not seem very funny.

  Then Megan had a seizure at work. I missed it—I was busy bingeing in the back room.

  A week later, I got fired; apparently there’s a fine line between digging into inventory and depleting it.

  She chuckles at her own joke, then looks down at her fingernails. She seems quite engrossed by them.

  Anyway she was at 17 Swann for a while, and I did not visit her. Now I’m the one who’s here and she’s out.

  What made you finally come here?

  Hypokalemia, actually. Bitch of a feeling, like a heart attack.

  To my confused face, she explains:

  It’s when your potassium levels drop. It sucks. I collapsed a few months ago.

  The levity in Julia’s voice only makes her story more painful. I want to comfort this not-so-tough girl who is so kind and so brave, but she undercuts my good intentions in her signature light-humored way:

  It’s fine, I’m fine. I wound up here, sharing a wall with you, lucky one! Aren’t you glad you live in Bedroom Five?

  We both laugh. Very glad.

  I stand up, bones crack. I walk toward the door.

  She asks casually:

  How are you feeling, really?

  I answer with the same tone:

  Horrible. Fat. Guilty.

  Two wry smiles.

  But it is all right,

  I say.

  I am going to sleep.

  Sleep helps,

  Julia says,

  and if you find you can’t, just remind yourself that there’s coffee in the morning. Focus on that.

  That’s what Emm said.

  79

  Treatment Plan Update—June 13, 2016

  Weight: 90 lbs.

  BMI: 15.4

  Summary:

  Patient went on a successful meal outing with her spouse and has been completing her meal plan without recourse to nasogastric feeding tube. The treatment team interprets these developments as indicators of a shift in the patient’s predisposition and motivation toward recovery. Consequently, team confirms patient’s Stage Two level of treatment.

  Conditional upon continued efforts toward recovery and compliance with the treatment plan, the team is not opposed to increased exposure to autonomous eating through more meal outings with spouse.

  Residential treatment remains indicated, but nasogastric tube feeding is no longer necessary.

  Treatment Objectives:

  Resume normal nutrition, restore weight.

  Remove nasogastric feeding tube.

  Increase exposure to different foods. Encourage meal outings.

  Monitor vitals. Monitor labs. Follow hormone levels. Monitor mood.

  Target caloric value: 3,000 calories daily

  80

  Monday, and I have lost track of how many of those there have been. Time is a surreal concept that seems to have little place in this house. Dinner is done and visiting hours with Matthias are back. Matthias is back. I breathe out with relief as I reach for his outstretched hand.

  We walk in the garden, in a circle around the house, my invisible leash acting as radius. One day I will grow up and step off the property where no one will tell me what to eat. Or how far to go, or what I may and may not do with my husband. My husband, hand in mine, walking beside me. I missed this, and us.

  We do not talk about the week that passed. We talk about last night instead.

  I had a lovely time, thank you.

  I did too,

  he replies.

  A few steps later, he observes:

  I hadn’t seen you eat in a long time.

  His voice is deliberately calm but a tremor sneaks in with the last word. I glance sideways at him, troubled:

  Come on, Matthias—

  I meant eat something that was not lettuce or an apple, or fucking popcorn.

  He shuffles through his memories, then nods his head:

  A long time.

  His hand tenses in mine. We have stopped walking. He asks me abruptly:

  You won’t stop, will you? You won’t give up again?

  I cannot give him the answer he wants. Last week was too recent for that, and my throat is still sore from the tube that was only removed today.

  I want to tell him: I will not stop, Matthias. That we will go on many more dates. Maybe even next Friday night. That I will have pizza again, or pasta next time. That next week I will be home, and that I will make crêpes for us both for dinner,

  but time is as treacherous as it is surreal. So is an anorexic brain.

  I tell him the truth instead:

  I promise you that I will never stop trying.

  It is not what he wants or deserves, but it is everything I have. He takes it:

  All right, Anna.

  One last lap around the house, then it is 9:00 P.M.

  Evening snack, then exhale: the day is really over. I climb the stairs to the Van Gogh room.

  And stop: there is a suitcase in the hallway, and new sheets and towels in Bedroom 3.

  A new admission, but where is she? There had been no new face at evening snack. Perhaps she arrived in the afternoon, I reason, and is still at orientation with Direct Care.

  I brush my teeth as fast as I can and disappear into Bedroom 5, closing the door and postponing introductions till tomorrow morning. I put on my pajamas and climb into Van Gogh’s bed. A few minutes later I hear the floorboards creak and the door of Bedroom 3 close.

  Well, I am already in bed. Besides, she must be tired. Surely the new girl does not want to be disturbed on her first night.

  But I look up at the cracks in the ceiling I remember noticing on my own first night here. How lonely and scary, how long ago that first night had been. I had read Valerie’s note to exhaustion. It is still on my bedside table. I look at my name in her cursive handwriting, and:

  I’m so glad you are here.…

  I pull the covers back and turn the night-light on. I need a paper and pen.

  Dear neighbor in Bedroom 3,

  Welcome to 17 Swann Street. I am glad you are here.

  Do not let this place scare you. It is not as impossible as it seems.

  I think of what else I can tell this girl, what else could help. Oh yes:

  They serve good coffee in the morning that is well worth getting out of bed for. You get two cups, which is lovely. As is the morning walk. Once you are cleared to go on that you will meet Gerald, the dog.

  And staff. She needs to know about staff:

  The staff here is very nice. The nurse on shift tonight is particularly lovely. She has blue eyes. You will meet her in the morning when she takes your vitals and weight. The rest of the girls, you will
meet over breakfast. They are all incredible. They will help.

  Which reminds me:

  We have a few house rules besides those you heard at orientation.

  I open Valerie’s note for guidance, and in my finest, most cursive handwriting begin:

  All girls are to be patient with one another.

  No girl left at the table alone.

  Composure is to be maintained in front of any guests to the house.

  Horoscopes are to be read and taken seriously every morning over breakfast.

  Copies of the daily word jumbles are to be distributed then too. Responsibility for that falls upon the group leader, who will disclose the answers no sooner than evening snack later that day.

  Note writing and passing is encouraged. No note must fall in Direct Care’s hands.

  Books, music, letter paper, postage stamps, and flowers received are to be shared.

  The availability of cottage cheese in the house is to be celebrated every Tuesday, as are animal crackers, the morning walks, and any excursions on Saturday.

  No girl will ever judge, tell on, or cause any suffering to the rest.

  I end, rather lamely:

  I really hope this helps.

  By the way, my name is Anna. I hope we become good friends.

  Letter folded, slippers on, I tiptoe to Bedroom 3 and slip it under the closed door.

  A few hours later, I see the new girl sitting at the breakfast table. She has survived her first night, and has a cup of steaming hot coffee in front of her. I introduce myself and do not mention the letter. She smiles and does the same.

  The coffee is good and strong this morning. Everyone has two cups.

  81

  Treatment Plan Update—June 17, 2016

  Weight: 93 lbs.

  BMI: 16

  Summary:

  Patient has been cooperating with the treatment team and been fully compliant with her meal plan since removal of nasogastric feeding tube on June 13. She continues to struggle with food types and quantities, but has been working on containing eating-disorder urges and negative thoughts regarding body image. Her weight continues to restore slowly, but the team is pleased with her progress and absence of associated complications.

  The team will continue to work on weight restoration and increased exposure to food. Because patient’s weight remains below 85% of team target, residential treatment remains indicated. Further caloric increases are also recommended.

  Treatment Objectives:

  Resume normal nutrition, restore weight. Increase exposure to different foods and work to decrease anxiety.

  Monitor vitals. Monitor labs. Follow hormone levels. Monitor mood.

  Target caloric value: 3,500 calories daily

  82

  Sunday again, but this is no ordinary Sunday on Swann Street. At the breakfast table, everyone is fidgety. Even, especially, Direct Care.

  It is Family Day, an event the center organizes every few months. As Emm explained, loved ones are invited to come and spend the day, take part in meals, sessions, and activities with the patients and learn about eating disorders. Staff is available to provide information and answer questions about different therapies and treatment plans, as well as general guidance on how to deal with, well, us.

  I thought it a very good idea, this Introduction to Eating Disorders course. Not that there is anyone I could have invited today; my family is an ocean away, and Matthias has already spent way too many visiting hours here.

  Enthusiastic nonetheless about this out-of-the-ordinary day, I look around the table and wonder whose family members might be attending. Direct Care asks the question for me:

  So, ladies, who’s coming?

  One of the girls, Chloe, says her daughters are. Julia is excited too: after three months here, she announces, her parents are finally going to visit!

  Another patient’s husband will also attend, and

  What about you, Sarah?

  No, darling.

  Her red locks shake loosely.

  I tried to get that no-good husband of mine to bring my son, but he won’t.

  I am sorry,

  I tell her. She shrugs proudly and smiles.

  It’s all right. Probably best if little Charlie doesn’t see me in a place like this anyway.

  Direct Care turns to Emm and asks:

  Did you invite her this time?

  I do not know who she is but Emm says:

  No,

  with her plastic cruise director smile.

  The minute hand on the clock passes the eight-thirty mark. The breakfast dishes are cleared. We are sent off to community space and informed that we are to behave. There will be no morning walk or church pass on this exceptional day. I frown, beginning to have reservations about Family Day.

  At nine o’clock the doorbell rings and Julia rushes past us to the door. In the doorway stands a tall, lanky man in a suit.

  Paul!

  calls the new patient. Husband and wife hug each other awkwardly under our curious gazes. She then walks him to a corner in community space and we all turn back to the front door.

  The doorbell rings again. This time behind it stand a bespectacled man, flustered, and three girls. The eldest, I guess, is around thirteen. The youngest cannot be older than three. I recognize their faces from the photographs Chloe passed around this morning.

  Chloe! Your family is here!

  The girls hug their mother and are bashful … for a minute. Then they launch, with Chloe, into a rowdy game of hide-and-seek.

  There are children in the house. There are children in the house! Screams and squeals and laughter too! Never have I been more grateful for chaos at 17 Swann Street.

  The door again. Julia’s parents, perhaps? I volunteer to find out.

  At first I see nothing, then I look down: a giant bouquet of flowers! Bright violets streaked with lemon yellows, fiery orange shoots that look like flames, rare orchids and lilies in shades of deep mauve, blue, and red … all held by two little hands. Those belong to a little boy well concealed behind flowers and leaves. I know who he is instantly; he has Sarah’s eyes. Her nose and freckles and heart-shaped face too, but his hair is a deep chocolate brown.

  The toddler is far too intimidated and little for me to remain towering over him, so I step out onto the porch and bend down to his level, peeking at him through the leaves.

  Hello, my friend, what is your name?

  Charlie,

  comes the reply.

  What beautiful flowers you have, Charlie! Which lucky lady are they for?

  Charlie has no time to answer; he has been swept off his feet, flowers and all, by a tsunami of fiery red hair and lipstick in a flowery print dress. It had taken Sarah a minute to register her son’s presence at the front door, then every motherly instinct she had been holding back since she arrived here had erupted.

  She is larger than life. An artist in every sense, I think as I watch her hug her son. She cries and smiles and kisses him on the eyes, the forehead, the cheeks. She kisses every freckle on his nose. When he is finally released long enough to breathe the little boy says:

  I got you flowers, Mommy.

  What gorgeous flowers!

  she exclaims as she takes them from his tired hands. The bouquet is nearly as tall and, I suspect, as heavy as he is.

  All my favorite colors are here! Did you choose them yourself?

  He nods timidly and replies:

  I told Daddy you liked rainbow.

  Where is Daddy? I wonder as I look beyond the porch. Magical as they are, surely the two-year-old and his rainbow bouquet did not arrive here on their own. Still, there is no Daddy in sight. When questioned, little Charlie replies:

  He says he has to work and that he will come back to pick me up.

  Sarah does not seem too distraught.

  Our Family Day begins, and what a splendid, sunny day it is. For one day, 17 Swann Street is just a regular house. We still attend therapy groups, but in them we play games an
d draw pictures of our families and homes. We have our meals in the house next door, on the same clear plates wrapped in plastic, but I cannot possibly fear my cake with one of Chloe’s daughters going Mmm mmm, making a frosting mess, licking her fingers and smacking her lips.

  After lunch, we have music therapy outdoors, on pillows and rugs spread on the grass. Sarah brings crayons and paper from the sunroom so that she and Charlie can color. I watch her sketch two, three, four versions of a violet, orange, blue, and red bouquet. Charlie contributes, scribbling here and there with the crayons he holds clumsily in a fist.

  It is a beautiful Sunday. Like all beautiful days, it goes by too fast. Five o’clock comes and we take the pillows and rugs back inside.

  The grown-up goodbyes are civilized. Those to the children are teary. All too quickly the house at 17 Swann Street turns quiet again.

  The girls are back in community space, but many of them are missing. Julia, and Sarah.

  Has anyone seen—

  I see Sarah in the next room, at the table.

  She is looking at Charlie’s bouquet and the three drawings of it that she made. I pull a chair close to her and sit down. I do not have anything useful to say.

  She breaks the silence first:

  Aren’t the flowers gorgeous? Isn’t my son gorgeous?

  They are, and so is he.

  You have a beautiful boy. He looks like you.

  She beams at the compliment.

  He’s grown so big!

  No sunglasses to shield her eyes, I see Sarah cry.

  I do not know how to comfort a mother who is missing her son. I do my best: I put my hand on hers.

  You have a reason to fight this disease. Charlie needs you. You have somewhere to be outside of here.