The Girls at 17 Swann Street Read online

  My claws were out, a cat trapped in a corner.

  I know things have been difficult since Christmas, but I have this under control! I’ve been eating normally—

  You’ve lost so much weight—

  How would you know, Matthias? You’re never here!

  I had gone on the offensive, he had left me no choice. My back was to the wall and I needed air. But the shriller I got, the calmer he did.

  You’re right. I am not. I’m sorry.

  I do not need you to be sorry, or worry about me! I can take care of myself! I told you: I am fine—

  And I believed you, because I wanted to.

  I cannot anymore, Anna.

  I do not remember much of the three years that led up to that moment. Just that they felt long and cold, and I felt underwater in them. The two days that followed, however, flashed by to Matthias and me getting in the car and driving up an empty Highway 44 to an address on Swann Street. It took us just under forty-five minutes. Really, it took us much longer; three years and twenty-two pounds to reach that Intake and Assessment appointment.

  7

  It was Thursday night and freezing, but the Christmas displays were worth it, Anna decided as she wrapped her plush white scarf tighter around her neck. Digging her gloved hands deeper into her coat, she walked down the Grands Boulevards, window to window, drummer boys and nutcrackers, twinkling lights and whimsical trains.

  She bumped into him, or he into her. Either way,

  Oh, je suis désolée!

  But he smiled. She smiled. What a coincidence, he was also walking that way. They walked together, to the end of the display. Then they kept walking and talking.

  They walked through ample sidewalk and conversation. Then it was cold, so they went inside. They had two glasses of Bordeaux, each. They shared a basket of fries.

  His name was Matthias and he said she was beautiful. They kissed. Then,

  Shall we get some ice cream?

  Ice cream? It was freezing! Was he mad?

  It cannot make us any colder.

  Good point.

  On one condition, though:

  I want it in a cone.

  Un cornet pour mademoiselle!

  She giggled and they bundled up and linked arms and walked out into the cold again.

  They walked across the bridge, past the colorful cafés where tourists were gladly being swindled. Left onto a side street, all the way down, to a well-hidden little kiosk.

  The queue outside it was a good sign, and that there were no tourists in it. He had two scoops: chocolate and something pink. She had her vanilla and her cone. They ate as they walked and shivered and stopped to kiss stickily.

  Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night?

  It was the easiest yes in history.

  No, actually, it was not. That came later, one year later in the same place.

  Lips and fingers sticky, he asked:

  Would you like to marry me?

  They were married in the first week of January, the coldest wedding in history.

  They had croissants from the boulangerie downstairs for breakfast. She made coffee on the little stove. They froze in the snow, he in his only suit, she in the creamy white dress she had bought. They stepped out of the mairie at noon holding hands, kissing, laughing at the words “husband” and “wife,” and just before ducking into the Métro, they had gooey crêpes for their wedding lunch.

  8

  There must have been signs that we were taking a detour from the happily-ever-after road.

  I got an offer today,

  Matthias said one afternoon.

  An offer? For what?

  I sipped my tea. Matthias’s serious face had Nutella on it. I smiled.

  A job offer. In the States!

  More tea. His excited face. His I want this face. The States. Well …

  Why not? Perhaps the timing was perfect. I would be removing my cast in a few weeks and needed a fresh start. My spot in the Opéra’s corps de ballet—left stage, second swan from the wings—had been promptly and easily filled after the accident. The show had had to go on. No hard feelings.

  I could dance in the States, had never been to the States.

  Where is the offer?

  Saint Louis,

  like the name of the picturesque island where we had kissed on our first date. I imagined quaint little cafés and shops lining quaint little streets. Saint Louis. Perhaps it was a sign. Would they have good ice cream?

  Well, I will not be eating ice cream, I said sternly to myself. I had not danced or run in months. I had to get back in shape. Till I was, I would diet, and follow Matthias, apparently, why not, to the States. I watched him lick Nutella off his fingers. I kissed what remained on his chin.

  He left Paris first with the first of our suitcases. I packed the rest of our lives in the second. We had one-way tickets and a plan and each other. There was no way we could get lost.

  There must have been signs, but we were distracted by the roller coaster of the adventure. Paperwork, looking for a couch for the apartment, ties and shirts for Matthias.

  Looking for a ballet company I could join. It was small but we eventually found it.

  And were told that their corps de ballet was full, but thank you for applying.

  It’s all right,

  said Matthias.

  We will keep looking.

  It’s all right,

  I echoed. We did. There must have been signs, but we missed them, too busy, him working, me trying to.

  I spent months getting myself back in shape and searching for other opportunities. The pickings were slim, or my bar was too high, or Saint Louis was not a ballet kind of town. I could not find another dance company, or the quaint cafés on quaint little streets.

  I found other jobs and went to job interviews, but I was not qualified for those. I was a dancer applying to be a store manager, a bank teller. What experience do you have?

  There were signs: foods I slowly stopped eating, dresses I slowly stopped putting on. They got too loose, and I have nowhere to wear them anyway.

  Waiting for Matthias to come home from work so I would not have to eat alone. When he did:

  Any luck today, Anna?

  He eventually stopped asking.

  Eventually, I also stopped searching. And dairy, and answering my phone. And wearing makeup, but at least I was not fat anymore.

  Other signs: long days I made shorter with longer runs, longer showers, longer naps. Photos of us that looked less and less like me. But somehow, we did not see.

  There was nothing mysterious about the road we took to 17 Swann Street. Hundreds of girls have taken it before me to this suburban house painted peach pink. With some variation: some drive or fly in, from out of town, out of country, out of state. The lucky ones are driven by family or friends. The unlucky, ambulances. Some come by way of restriction, pills, laxatives, and exercise. Some from the other direction by bingeing, purging comfort food. Some run in, chasing love and acceptance, some fleeing depression, anxiety. Puddles of murky emotions in potholes of boredom, loneliness, guilt.

  There were signs. There are always signs for those who know to look for them. They just never flash in red neon, warning, DANGER: RISK OF DEATH.

  They begin a few miles from the Swann Street exit:

  No thank you, I am not hungry.

  I do not like chocolate, or cheese. I am allergic to gluten, nuts, and dairy. And I do not eat meat.

  I already had dinner. I am going for a run. No, do not wait up for me.

  Then bones stick out. Hair and nails fall out. Everything hurts and it is cold. Past the hundred-pound mark. Ninety-five pounds. Ninety-three. Ninety-one, eighty-nine.

  Eighty-eight.

  9

  It happened so fast. On Friday I was shivering in a flower-print robe while from every angle sterile blue gloves poked and prodded at me. My heart was listened to. Ears, eyes, throat observed. My reflexes and pulse were recorded. Bone density
scan, blood and urine analyses, ECG, height and weight.

  Diagnosis: Anorexia nervosa.

  Recommended level of care: Residential treatment, effective Monday morning. 9:00 A.M.

  Monday morning, the twenty-third of May. We were there right on time, Matthias and I and the silence and my blue suitcase with the red bow. We sat in the driveway for a minute, or ten.

  Please say something, Anna.

  Beat.

  There is nothing to say.

  Come on, Anna! We can’t just stay here like this, in the car.

  Would you like me to get out?

  That is not what I meant!

  Silence again. His hand idle on the gearbox. Mine stubbornly clenching my thigh. I did not know if he was looking at me; I was staring firmly ahead. I could not see, but I did not dare blink the blur away. If I did I knew the tears would come streaming down and I could not, would not, let them.

  Nothing to say. What a petty, passive aggressive lie. But I was so angry I could not speak, and all of my anger was directed at Matthias; there was no one else around. I felt like a box of worn and frayed winter clothes that he was donating away.

  His hand on the gearbox. He had not held mine, or held me at all, in fact, in a long time. It was only partly his fault; his hands make mine cold and his touch, even gentle, often hurts. Last night, in bed, I had shuddered when he had lifted the covers to slide under them. His weight had shifted the mattress, which had dug painfully into my hip. I had snapped at him and hugged myself against the cold air that had rushed in.

  I had not spoken to him since then. Now, goodbyes in the car.

  You do not need to come inside with me. I can wheel the suitcase in on my own.

  I knew I was hurting him but could not help the spite coming out of my mouth. I could not bear the thought that he was leaving, that he was leaving me here.

  Do you really think I’m going to drop you off and just leave?

  Why not?

  I answered spitefully.

  Isn’t that why we are here?

  For him to hand me and this pesky problem over to someone else?

  Matthias got testy:

  And you think this is easy for me? Bringing you here?

  But there was no space for empathy in my dangerously swollen chest. Suddenly, it exploded.

  I would not know! You do not talk to me either! Or kiss me, or make love to me! You have not told me you loved me in weeks. You do not even look at me!

  He looked at me then, stunned, and I already regretted what I had begun, but it was too late. I fired the rest of my anger and fear at him:

  You got tired of dealing with me, feeding me! That’s fine! Someone else will now and with me gone you can finally have your life back. You can open the window, have the whole bed to yourself, go to restaurants every night—

  I don’t want the bed to myself! I don’t want the restaurants! I want you, Anna!

  Then don’t leave me here …

  My voice and I broke down. No longer angry, I was begging. Crying and scared. Please.

  Please, Matthias, let’s go home,

  I said in a whisper. Please,

  even as he and I both knew we could not.

  His voice was tired when he spoke:

  We can’t go home, Anna.

  Low and heavy:

  I didn’t drive you here to get rid of you. I did because I can’t lose you. I can’t live without you. Do you understand, Anna? I can’t lose you—

  He stopped. His voice was shaky too.

  My left hand moved involuntarily, imperceptibly toward the gearbox. His hand waited. I hesitated, then finally reached for it. He looked at me and I burst into tears and a flurry of words spilled out.

  What if you cannot manage on your own? You do not know how to cook! What if you need to do laundry and forget how to set the machine?

  And the real fears:

  What if I stay in this place so long that you forget the way I smell? What if you forget me?

  Then:

  What if you meet someone else?

  Impossible,

  and he kissed me for a long time, for the first time in weeks.

  We sat in the car, my hand on his. Now there really was nothing left to say. After a while, he helped me with my suitcase and we went inside together.

  10

  There is a knock at the door of the Van Gogh room. A head does not wait to pop in.

  Good, I see you have unpacked. Time for orientation now.

  Admission begins, sickeningly cold and impersonal. I am swept into a current of intake forms, vitals, inventory, insurance. Down to business as soon as finances are cleared. The white coats unfold: the primary care physician, the psychiatrist, a nurse. Then follow the suits: the psychologist, the nutritionist, and the first of a stream of look-alike staff members I would come to know only as Direct Care.

  Meal plan, treatment plan, rules of the house. Session plan, towels and sheets, rules of the game.

  I sign a form that states that I am here voluntarily. Then about twenty more: no drugs, no alcohol, no smoking on the premises, even when out on the porch. My legal rights, my patient rights, the conditions for any release of medical information to family.

  Then a few more morbid ones I choose not to take seriously: That I will not burn myself, cut or harm myself or others. That I will hand all sharp objects to staff. That I will not kill myself.

  I sign, deliberately offhandedly, one form after the next, trying not to understand what they mean: that this nightmare is real. But at the very last form, I freeze:

  The document states that I will lose all my rights—to object, to refuse, to leave—if the institution or Matthias believe I am not of sound mind, or at risk.

  Lose all my rights. Not of sound mind. Not burn, cut, or kill myself. No time: Direct Care snatches the last form out of my hands.

  Now the schedule:

  My days will begin at 5:30 A.M., in a blue flower-print robe she gives me.

  You can wear it however you want,

  the lady explains.

  Flap at the back or front.

  Flap at the back says hospital, I think. Flap at the front then, like a spa.

  Once vitals and weights are taken,

  she says,

  you can change back into your clothes. You can also go back to sleep.

  Like I could do that in a place like this, I snort. Like I could do that at all.

  Breakfast is at eight, downstairs in community space, where I will have to stay all day. Within the premises, and well within view of the nurse’s station and Direct Care. Midmorning and late-evening snacks are served there too; I should sign up for those each day. All other meals will be served in the house next door. Menus for those are planned on Thursday.

  No outside food, no food outside those times. The cook plates and wraps every meal. I am to eat every dish set in front of me within a specific time: thirty minutes for breakfast and snacks, forty-five for lunch and dinner. Failure to complete the meal means drinking a nutritional supplement. Failing that is a refusal. Three refusals means a feeding tube, and she assures me I do not want one of those.

  Forty-eight hours in and pending good behavior, you can go on the morning walk.

  It will be led by a member of staff to ensure a leisurely pace. If it is raining, the walk will be postponed to the following day. No other exercise or time outdoors. I pray for a month of sunny days.

  All the bathrooms are locked, and outside those, there are no mirrors on the walls. We must all ask for permission every time we have to go. Direct Care will then pull out her keys, their humiliating jingle announcing loud and clear to everyone else that I need to empty my bladder.

  Some of the girls’ bathroom use itself has to be monitored; they cannot go or flush alone. A precautionary rule against purging, cutting, or attempts at suicide. But I am not bulimic, and at least so far, have not expressed interest in self-harm. I am therefore graciously informed that I may use the bathroom alone. I will, however
, have to report how much fluid I drink throughout the day. But that is only temporary and, if my kidneys behave, she says, that rule will be revoked in a week.

  Whenever I am not eating I will be in session, individual or group. The therapist will see me three times a week, the nutritionist twice, the psychiatrist once. No phones or other electronics during programming hours; no distractions from eating and fixing the mess I have made in my body and brain.

  Oh, and one more thing,

  she says.

  A note on terminology.

  Certain words and phrases are inappropriate here. She calls them triggering. No talk of food or exercise, no mention of weight or calories. My disease is not to be mentioned by name; a vague eating disorder is fine. If I am sad and want to die, I should say I am struggling. If I want to run away, throw myself under a bus, then I am having an urge. If I feel fat or worthless or ugly, I have body image issues. These verbal gymnastics are to be applied at all times and to every subject.

  I should, she insists, always communicate my thoughts and feelings freely. Staff is here to validate those and redirect my behaviors,

  and by the end of treatment, you will be cured of ano—your eating disorder.

  Direct Care wraps up orientation with a sympathetic, condescending smile. The professionally appropriate, if slightly distracted, smile of a time-clock employee. She has given this speech hundreds of times to hundreds of girls just like me. Her mind is already on other things. Mine remains frozen in place.

  11

  As soon as orientation ends, another staff member comes to me.