The Girls at 17 Swann Street Read online

Ready to meet with your therapist?

  The tone of the question gives me the impression that I am not really being asked.

  Minutes later, I am sitting on a gray suede couch in a nice office, on the edge closest to the window. There is a magnolia tree outside.

  The therapist walks in. First impressions: bright blond hair, the warm kind, fine gold earrings, a turquoise dress. An impeccable pedicure and soft peony perfume. Her face looks fresh, but a slight crease around her eyes belies children at home under five.

  Hello. I’m Katherine. You must be Anna.

  I nod and proceed immediately to tell her that I do not need this session. She seems like a lovely lady, and I do not want to waste her time. I suffer from no psychiatric illnesses, except anorexia, of course. I come from a loving family and have a husband I adore by whom I sleep every night.

  No depression or trauma, at least none that I need or am inclined to share. No unhealed wounds from my past or skeletons in my closet I need to address. I am just particular about what I eat, just a little underweight.

  Thank you for your time. I’m fine.

  She waits a few seconds, then repeats my speech to be sure she has understood.

  So you’re happy.

  Yes.

  You feel fine.

  Yes.

  You don’t need therapy because you have no mental issues that need to be addressed.

  Correct.

  So when was the last time you ate?

  I decide I hate therapy and proceed to draw butterflies with my finger on the couch.

  All right,

  she says,

  what if we set anorexia aside for now? What if you tell me a bit about your childhood?

  I glance at the clock on the wall.

  You’re stuck with me for a full hour,

  she adds. I decide I might as well.

  I had a happy childhood.

  Full, as childhoods should be, of picnics in parks, make-believe tea parties, bedtime stories, poetry.

  My parents were good, hardworking people who married out of love. I had two younger siblings: a sister and a brother. He …

  Had?

  No, I will not answer that. Nor do I finish my sentence out loud: He used to like jelly beans.

  Instead, I change tracks:

  I was raised to work hard and always do my best. At school, that meant being first in class. I also played the piano and danced ballet.

  Back straight, shoulders back, ankles crossed. I pause to correct my posture on the gray suede couch.

  My daughter takes ballet lessons,

  she says.

  She really likes them. Did you?

  I loved them. I became a dancer.

  A ballerina? How interesting.

  Exhausting and demanding, actually. But it was what and who I wanted to be. I joined the corps de ballet when I was seventeen.…

  I let the thought linger, midsentence, midair. I am disinclined to tell this stranger that I have not danced in years. I tell her instead about performances and plane rides to Toronto, Moscow, London, Vienna. Beirut, Geneva, Rome. Beijing, Istanbul, Santo Domingo, The Hague, San José, Tokyo. Catalonian beaches and Tuscan countrysides, the rickety old trams in Prague.

  You have traveled a lot.

  Yes.

  So where is home?

  Paris, always Paris.

  Of course.

  But you have been in the United States for …

  Three years. Paris is still home.

  I am perhaps a bit blunt.

  I understand. What brought you here?

  The man I married. Well, his work. Well, both.

  And while he is at work, you dance here?

  she asks. And the pretense is up.

  Actually,

  I work at a supermarket by our house,

  just north of Furstenberg Street. I do not offer more explanation. She, thankfully, does not ask.

  You must miss it.

  What, ballet or Paris? Both more than she can imagine, but

  I’d like to talk about something else now, please.

  Such as?

  Anything.

  Anorexia.

  All right.

  She moves on.

  Let’s start with your eating habits. Your file says you are a vegetarian.

  Vegan,

  I rectify.

  When did you make that transition?

  I stopped eating meat at nineteen.

  Why?

  I am suddenly defensive:

  Vegetarianism is not anorexia.

  No it is not, you’re right. I was just curious. When did you become vegan?

  When I came to America.

  And why was that?

  Because dairy tastes bad here.

  Because dairy tastes different here.

  What do you mean, bad?

  I mean yogurt that contains fifteen ingredients, thirteen of which I cannot pronounce,

  I snap.

  I also avoid processed foods, refined sugars, high fructose corn syrup, and trans fats.

  You don’t find that extreme?

  No. I find that healthy.

  She makes no comment, but the irony of that sentence is not lost on either of us.

  I stare out the window for a while. She breaks the silence first:

  Was food an issue before you moved to the States?

  No.

  Really?

  Well …

  What about your weight?

  All dancers are careful not to gain too much weight.

  Were you?

  Of course. The environment is very competitive.

  Back straighter, ankles crossed the other way.

  She looks back at my chart:

  But you were never overweight.

  That is a relative term.

  I mean to say your weight was average.

  Silence.

  Yes,

  So was I.

  12

  She had opened the faucet so that the water would muffle any sound she made.

  She was crying so hard she thought she would go blind, leaning into the bathroom wall. Her hands were pressed painfully against her face. She could not breathe or see, but she could not pull them away. She could not move. She could not stop shaking.

  A sharp knock on the door.

  She froze. She had thought no one had seen her leave the room.

  Anna?

  Not now, Philippe. She could not face him.

  Un instant, Philippe.

  She had not even told him about this evening; he had said he would be busy all week. He had said the black dress fit a bit too tight when she had tried it on for him. Now it did feel too tight and she felt fat and misshapen wearing it.

  Anna!

  Irritated rapping at the door. Hair, mascara back in place. Deep, concentrated breaths. She closed the faucet, pinched her cheeks so they were pink again. One last breath. She looked ahead, not seeing the creamy white marble, the fine gold frame around the mirror, the crystal chandelier above her head that matched those out in the hall.

  She unlocked the door. He had not waited for her. Of course not. It would have appeared odd. She should not have come tonight. She would never have found out. She went back out into the crowded room.

  Insipid, instrumental jazz was playing over the chatter. Waiters in bow ties were balancing trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne. Ten minutes ago she had been part of this world of blinis and sparkling toasts. Then he had walked in, and not with her. The room had run out of air.

  Now every blini in her stomach hurt. The acidity of the champagne. Her glass was where she had abandoned it in panic, on the window ledge by her purse. She looked straight at them, across the room. She needed her purse. And to leave.

  She would say she was tired after the performance. She was.

  Anna! You disappeared.

  Their host, and Philippe. And the woman with whom he had walked in, her slender arm nestled in his.

  Natasha, this is the girl I
was telling you about. Anna, have you met Philippe’s wife?

  No she had not, but she had lost her voice, and her center of gravity. She stood, entranced by Natasha, her black dress. It fit her perfectly.

  Anna exchanged a kiss on each cheek with the woman with long, sinewy legs. Her attention was held by the smell of her perfume—orchids—and Philippe’s arm around her waist.

  Mademoiselle,

  said the waiter,

  blinis au caviar?

  But Anna’s dress felt too tight. Anna’s dress felt too tight. His tray made her want to throw up.

  Non, merci.

  And to Natasha, finally:

  Enchantée.

  Her fine chocolate hair, gold wedding band.

  Excuse me, I was just leaving. I need to get my purse.

  And air.

  13

  Treatment Plan—May 23, 2016

  Weight: 88 lbs.

  BMI: 15.1

  Diagnosis: Anorexia Nervosa. Restricting type.

  Physiological Observations:

  Malnutrition—severe. Potential for fluid and electrolyte imbalance. Hyponatremia. Amenorrhea. Osteopenia. Potential for cardiovascular instability. Bradycardia. Poor peripheral circulation—acrocyanosis. Abdominal bloating. Constipation.

  Psychological/Psychiatric Observations:

  Behavior consistent with manifestation of eating disorder. Symptoms of mild anxiety. Possible depression. Further assessment pending full examination by treatment team.

  Summary:

  Patient admitted to residential treatment on May 23, 2016. Team will work on improving nutritional intake and nutritional variety, improving patient’s body image and increasing her insight into the severity of her condition. Team will monitor for refeeding syndrome and work to achieve and maintain medical stability.

  Given the severity of malnourishment and multiple medical concerns, residential treatment is indicated.

  Treatment Objectives:

  Resume normal nutrition, restore weight. Gradually increase caloric density and portion quantities.

  Monitor vitals.

  Monitor labs for refeeding syndrome and replenish electrolytes as indicated.

  Prevent worsening of existing medical conditions.

  Follow hormone levels.

  Caloric Intake Target: To be determined by nutritionist.

  14

  At 6:00 precisely, Direct Care knocks, signaling the end of the session. She escorts me from the therapist’s office back to community space.

  I observe her. She is by no standards thin. Her pants sit too snugly on her waist, a bit of skin protruding over the seams. Nothing too dramatic though, a normal woman’s body. Just not one I would be caught dead in; the gap between standards and normalcy, and between this woman’s body and the others in community space.

  All the patients are there. There are seven of us, of whom five, including me, are anorexic. Not difficult to spot; they look pubescent and gaunt. Sunken eyes in sunken faces, scarecrow-thin arms and legs. Pale skin and hair, no lips. One is wearing a bright turquoise sweater. The color stands out.

  Their ages are difficult to determine. As is mine, I suppose. They must be older than eighteen, at least; this is the women’s center. But women rings false in my head. These patients are not women. They are missing breasts, curves, probably periods. Most are wearing children’s clothes.

  They look androgynous, their skin hanging in loose pockets around fragile frames. Not women; women have bodies, sex, lives, dinner, families. The patients in this room are girls with eyes that are too big.

  I look at the other two girls, who seem less pale and emaciated than the rest. The skin around their mouths is dry and chapped, their knuckles are cracked and bruised. Bulimia, I guess. Less evident but just as lethal as anorexia. One of them is bobbing her head to music playing in her headphones.

  They do not look like women either, though. I wonder why that is. Then I see the mismatch between their well-developed bodies and the adolescent anguish in their eyes.

  Direct Care and the day team sign off; it is past 6:00 P.M. They take their purses, their silk scarves and car keys, and leave without saying goodbye. Those of us who remain do so in silence, with the night staff, trapped in this surreal, contrived environment and the diseases in our brains.

  I had been warned that I would be overwhelmed by my first day in treatment; the information to be processed, the forms to be signed, the rules in the patient manual. Watching my tweezers, scissors, keys, and phone sealed away in storage bags. Being assigned a cubby, a bedroom, a seat at the table, a number.

  But the warning had been inaccurate; the day had unfolded smoothly. Until it ended and I sat down. Now for the first time today, I am still.

  No one speaks to me, no one speaks. I realize that this is not a game. I am not going home tonight. I am having dinner, sleeping here.

  Dusk and the panic settle and with those, my despair rises dangerously. I need to break the silence; I turn to the girl—one of the anorexics—next to me.

  She is writing a letter on fine ivory paper. Left-handed, beautiful penmanship. I need her to be my friend.

  Hello. My name is Anna.

  She does not look up, but:

  Valerie.

  It helps. The heat in my chest begins to cool. Her name is Valerie.

  I pause in that instant in which both our identities are still safely hazy. We do not have to be two girls with anorexia. We can just be Anna and Valerie. We can be two ladies chatting in a waiting room, any waiting room.

  She continues writing. I watch her, discreetly. Her moving pen soothes me. She does not wear a wedding ring. A locket hangs around her neck. Her eyes are big and acorn brown. A nervous tick in the right one. We must be roughly the same age. She must have been beautiful, once.

  I ransack my brain for a question, any question to move the conversation along. Most in this setting seem inappropriate or irrelevant:

  What brings you here? What do you do? How do you enjoy your free time?

  Is there someone, something outside these walls waiting for you to come out?

  I could, of course, fall back on logistics:

  Is the staff agreeable?

  Do you know if we are allowed to have coffee or chewing gum?

  I could ask her for pointers or about pitfalls to avoid, but what I really want is reassurance.

  Am I going to be okay?

  But she seems engrossed in her writing and my courage is faltering.

  I fall back into the seat and the silence. She signs her letter and folds it. Then, the receiver’s name:

  To Anna.

  She hands it to me. I am stunned.

  Inside:

  I’m so glad you are here. You seem nice. I hope we become good friends. You’ll soon see I’m nuttier than squirrel poop, but don’t let me scare you away.

  Don’t let any of us, or this place. It’s not as impossible as it seems. It will be all right, don’t worry. We will all help.

  Valerie

  She does not look nuttier than squirrel poop. She just looks very sad. And like most anorexics she looks like she is trying to starve the feeling out. Odd that she would mention a squirrel; she reminds me of one. Petite and fragile, her soft light brown hair in a bun, the way I put up mine.

  P.S. Here are a few of the house rules.

  My brain springs to attention. This set of rules is different from the one I received at orientation.

  Emm will surely go over them with you. She is the leader of our group.

  I do not know who Emm is, yet, but I assume I will soon.

  I read on, curious. The manifesto begins with:

  All girls are to be patient with one another.

  No girl left at the table alone,

  because we are all in this together.

  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 dai
ly word jumbles are to be distributed at that time. The group has all day to solve them. Answers disclosed at evening snack.

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

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

  An odd rule follows:

  The availability of cottage cheese is to be celebrated every Tuesday,

  because, I suppose, in a place like this, all occasions to celebrate must be seized.

  as are animal crackers, the morning walks, and any excursions on Saturday.

  She ends on a more serious tone:

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

  And I hope you don’t mind, this last one is personal: I like the corner spot on the couch.

  I smile. All right, Valerie. The corner spot is yours.

  There are more rules but I forgot them. For more information, ask Emm.

  The panic has subsided, for now. I want to thank Valerie but one glance her way reveals it is not a good time; her eye is twitching, her hands are clenched. A few minutes later, I understand why. Direct Care walks in and announces:

  Almost six thirty, ladies. Everybody stand up.

  It is dinnertime.

  15

  Matthias and Anna were the only adults in the queue whose presence was not legitimized by children. They did not mind. They giggled, like children. How else was one to spend such a gorgeous Sunday in April?

  This had been one of their first dates: a theme park. Merry-go-round, ice cream of course, and roller-coaster rides. Also a valuable lesson they had learned: never to be done in that order.

  They were older and wiser this time, and married for a full year too. Tickets scanned, admission was granted into the magical kingdom. They took one cheeky look at one another and ran toward their first ride. A fork in the yellow brick road: Batman or Superman first?