The Girls at 17 Swann Street Page 5

  Our restraint lasts until he closes the door of the Van Gogh room … then we kick our shoes off and race toward the bed. We kiss till we are both out of breath.

  You bought me a rose,

  I finally say.

  I missed you,

  he replies.

  I missed you,

  I say and realize that I no longer have a stomachache.

  He touches my fingers. They are cold. He rubs them, my hands, my feet. I massage his shoulders and neck, pressing at the points I know are always tense. Both acts feel delicately, painfully familiar. We used to do this all the time; spend hours kissing, touching one another, tracing maps on each other’s skin.

  I am not sure exactly when we stopped. Perhaps before Christmas last year. It had come gradually. Less, then less time spent kissing, touching. Matthias had blamed his exhaustion after work, the weather, perhaps a flu. I had believed him because it had suited me. I had no interest in, energy for sex.

  How did your first day go?

  he asks.

  Tell me everything.

  I scrunch my nose. I say,

  You go first.

  He counters,

  We’ll take turns. You start.

  So I do, with dinner, the only concrete achievement to report. I tell him I ate hummus, a bagel, some carrots, and yogurt. He stares at me in disbelief:

  You ate all of that, Anna?

  He kisses me and I decide, perhaps prematurely, that eating dinner was worth it.

  Now your turn.

  He tells me he searched everywhere for the coffee this afternoon. To which I reply:

  Left cupboard. Second shelf. The tin with a red lid.

  I tell him about orientation, the other girls, my first meeting with the therapist. He tells me about the drive to work after leaving me here. The hollow apartment at six in the evening made worse by the missing coffee. Television and cereal for dinner, from the box. I ask him what he watched. He cannot remember. It does not matter. Then we just hold hands.

  He breaks the silence first:

  How do I determine where my side of the bed ends and yours begins?

  I hear the question he is not asking. The answer is: I do not know. I do not know if we will be okay. I want to tell him we will. I want to reassure and comfort this man, this boy sitting on my bed. I answer in the same code:

  I left you a container of spaghetti with mushrooms in the fridge.

  The trouble with visiting hours, the trouble with happiness, is that time ticks and both end. Our treacherous ninety minutes fly over us as we just sit on the bed. A glance at his watch and Matthias begins lacing up his first shoe. He pauses to look at me:

  This reminds me of when we first started dating.

  I remember us then. The little cupboard room we lived in, the student stipend we lived on. The novelty of his smell. The first time he put his arm on my chest and fell asleep; the reassuring weight of him.

  He turns to his second shoe and I to the photograph of that first morning on the whiteboard.

  You look like you did in that photograph. Do you remember that morning?

  He looks at it and me and us and neither of us says, out loud, that life has changed, we have both changed since that photograph.

  He is brave and quiet and I know that he is returning to an empty home. To whatever cereal is still in the box and a container of spaghetti. Because of me tonight, for the first time in years, we will both go to bed alone.

  I stop his shoelace tying and kiss him on the lips, nose, cheeks, collarbones, eyelids and lashes, chest. I kiss him enough to last him, I hope, until visiting hours tomorrow.

  For a second, we are not in Bedroom 5 of the house at 17 Swann Street. For a second we are in that photograph. Then Matthias pulls away and we are back.

  Date tomorrow night?

  I will be here.

  And the night after that, and after that?

  I will still be here.

  Matthias leaves at 9:00 P.M.

  I had been instructed during orientation not to open my bedroom window. Flight and suicide prevention, Direct Care had explained. Well, I am not going anywhere, not if Matthias is coming tomorrow. I open the window rebelliously and watch our blue car drive away.

  I think of Matthias in our studio apartment, on pause in our bed and our life. I think of Van Gogh in my Van Gogh room. Open windows at the Saint-Paul asylum. Starry, starry nights and flower shops. Then Direct Care comes by:

  Time for the evening snack. The other girls have started. And close that window, Anna.

  20

  You can always tell when Matthias and Anna are nearby.

  General chuckle.

  Ah bon?

  Oui, just listen closely and follow the little kissing sounds.

  Anna turned tomato red, but both she and Matthias laughed. They had to admit Frédéric had a point. They were always making kissing sounds.

  Are we one of those couples?

  she asked.

  We are,

  Matthias replied solemnly.

  Anna, we are one of those annoying couples that make everyone around them cringe.

  They were Matthias and Anna, Anna and Matthias, who were so often busy kissing that they forgot their keys at home and their bags at the supermarket. They consistently missed their stop while riding the Métro and elicited disapproving clicks from proper old ladies on the sidewalk.

  Their friends found it amusing, fortunately. They were having apéritifs, warming up for one last party before Matthias left tomorrow for “l’Amérique!”

  You never kiss me like he kisses her,

  Marianne pouted to Frédéric, to which he immediately responded with a loud caricatured smack on the lips. She pushed him back, scowling; it did not count. But Frédéric, ever good-humored, said,

  Chérie, no one kisses like that forever. They are still newlyweds. You and I have been together for ten years! Wait and see, the honeymoon will end. They will grow up and out of all that kissing.

  And to Matthias and Anna:

  You should learn from Marianne and me. We do not kiss anymore. We fight! It keeps things interesting, as you can see. You should try it.

  The group laughed. Frédéric poured himself some more wine. He then slid by Marianne on the couch and tried to cajole her into forgiveness. It took a second glass, and some deeper, longer kissing, but he eventually won.

  Matthias filled his own glass again and touched it lightly against Anna’s. Then his lips touched hers. They both tasted of alcohol and its sweet woody texture.

  I don’t think I will grow out of kissing you.

  I do not think I will either.

  Let’s not become like Frédéric and Marianne.

  No. Let’s go home and make love.

  Matthias looked at Anna, surprised. She was not normally the brazen one. She misread his expression and, flustered, recovered:

  I mean … we do not have to—

  He laughed.

  No we don’t. We want to. I want to. I don’t know why we are still here. Get your coat.

  They lingered for a few minutes, all they could manage, then slipped out as more wine was being poured. They would not be missed.

  And if we are,

  Matthias said,

  Frédéric will just joke about it next time.

  21

  At 8:00 A.M. sharp, we take our seats in the breakfast area downstairs. A long wooden table, my first breakfast, my second day here. I have been up since 5:00 A.M.

  Trying to keep calm, I pray for coffee. There is coffee. I can do this. Too soon; I see breakfast, half a bagel and cream cheese, wrapped in plastic, land in front of me.

  This has to be someone’s idea of a joke. I see no humor in it. I had not wanted to be difficult last night, when yogurt had been served at dinner, but my file clearly states that I am a vegan. Something must be said.

  There must be a mistake. I do not eat dairy,

  I inform Direct Care as politely as I can. Perhaps I naively expect a
waiter to swoop into the room, apologize elegantly for the misunderstanding, and remove my plate.

  Valerie puts her spoon down and her hand on the edge of the table.

  You will eat whatever the nutritionist has set,

  Direct Care replies. Period.

  Tuesday’s breakfast is a bagel and cream cheese. No exceptions to the menu.

  She turns her attention to the other girls. My name stares at my horrified face, printed neatly in thick black felt right on the plastic wrap. There is no mistake, and this is not a joke. No one is laughing, least of all me.

  Quite the opposite. I am angry now. I had tried to cooperate. I had eaten dinner last night like all the other girls and had not caused a scene. I had played along with my treatment team’s game, but they had taken it too far. I push the plate away with as much cold disdain as I can muster.

  No cream cheese and bagel for me, thank you. I would like a word with the manager.

  I would like a word with the nutritionist please.

  Direct Care looks unfazed.

  Now, you will complete or refuse your breakfast. As for speaking with the nutritionist, you may do that on the day and time at which your session with her has been assigned.

  Officially, I am outraged. Secretly, terrified. My façade remains cool, I hope, but beneath it disaster bubbles dangerously. I try to remain calm, but I have crossed the twenty-four-hour good-behavior threshold. I can feel everyone around the table tensing but do not care at this point.

  I would like to speak to the nutritionist now.

  Keep calm. Inhale. Exhale.

  Are you refusing to complete your breakfast?

  Yes, that is exactly what I am doing. I am an adult. Here by choice. Free to leave as I please. To prove it, I stand up as calmly as my shaking knees will allow and walk away from the table.

  Much happens simultaneously.

  Julia tries to steal a few sweeteners from the table. She is apprehended by the nurse. All the girls jump, one of them spills her coffee. Quiet Valerie bursts into sobs.

  And I, the reason behind all this chaos, do not make it very far. In fact, not even out of the breakfast area before Direct Care grabs me by the arm. I contemplate further escalation of the conflict. She appears to do the same. She makes the decision for us both after a few seconds of tug-of-war:

  You have two refusals left, after which you’ll get a feeding tube. If you want to see the nutritionist, return to your seat and I’ll see if she’s in her office.

  The thought of the yellow feeding tube running through my nostrils and down my throat, pumping dense and beige liquid food into my stomach, chills me in place. Not the feeding tube. Please, not the feeding tube. I have seen those in hospitals before, yellow lines that get taped to the cheek and go straight into the patient’s stomach. I fight the image in my head and a powerful gagging reflex.

  Yes, please do,

  I say calmly, lowering my telltale trembling chin.

  I am escorted back to my seat, where I have full view of the damage I have caused. I disrupted breakfast, got Julia in trouble, and at the very least made everyone uncomfortable. Valerie is given her frozen orange to clutch. Only Emm is still reading the word jumbles.

  I feel horrible. I want to apologize to the girls, but I have done enough for one breakfast. Eight thirty A.M. comes and goes. The plates are cleared. The girls stand up and leave the room.

  I and my untouched half bagel and cream cheese are instructed to remain. An apprehensive, waiting-room sort of dread. Direct Care informs me she spoke to my nutritionist. She will see me at 9:00 A.M.

  At nine I am led to her office and told to wait on the couch. This one is plush and red. Too comfortable. I do not relax.

  The portly lady who enters the room next I dislike instantly. Too much makeup, jewelry, perfume. Too much skin. Every bit of her is too much.

  She goes straight to the point:

  I’m Allison, your nutritionist. What did you want to see me about?

  She has not even bothered to smile. We are not going to get along.

  So this disagreeable lady and her pout were responsible for my meals so far. Her job is to make me gain weight. Well, our goals are already opposed. I assess this Allison who in the future will dictate every calorie pumped into my stomach. I try not to look terrified.

  Keep it polite, elegant, professional, I tell myself in my head.

  I would like to discuss the menu with you, please. I cannot eat the food you are serving me.

  She finally smiles, just not a smile that bodes very well for me. My stomach is churning, but I try to hold my ground.

  I am vegan; I do not eat cream cheese. Nor do I think a bagel is a nutritious breakfast choice. I am open to eating muesli as a healthier breakfast alternative, if you would like to discuss that. Fruits are fine, and as for lunch—

  Let me interrupt you right there,

  she says. My bravado dissipates.

  I’m not interested in your views on nutrition. I went to college for those. I’m here to make you gain weight, and fast. You will eat what you’re served.

  I stare at her in disbelief. No one has ever addressed me like that. But I do not have time to react because she carries on:

  You will follow a weight-gain meal plan. The goal is two to four pounds a week. Your portions and caloric intake will be increased gradually. You will meet with me on a biweekly basis so I can determine those, and in between you will be closely monitored for symptoms of refeeding syndrome.

  Refeeding syndrome. Potentially fatal shifts in fluids and electrolyte levels, like sudden drops of phosphate in the blood, when a malnourished patient is refed. Starving bodies that have starved for too long can quite literally be shocked by food. Muscle weakness, coma, possibly death.

  She knows she now has my attention.

  The nutritionist continues:

  You will be given the chance to choose all your meals once a week. We usually offer our patients two options, but since you’re vegetarian—

  Vegan,

  I try again.

  We do not accommodate vegans. Now, as I was saying … Since you’re vegetarian, you will only have one nonmeat option to choose from.

  What if I do not like that nonmeat option?

  Then you will have a substitute meal like the one you had for dinner yesterday.

  What if I do not like the substitute?

  I am irritating her, but this is too horrifyingly important for me to let up. She sighs and closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, speaks in a sickly sweet voice I immediately recognize as dangerous:

  You don’t know what you like or don’t like, not that it matters at this point.

  I beg her pardon?

  That smile again. In the same sickly voice, but with an eyebrow lifted, she asks:

  How do you take your coffee?

  Black. No sugar.

  How do you take your tea?

  Hot. Green or ginger.

  Sugar?

  Of course not.

  How do you take your eggs?

  I do not like eggs.

  How do you butter your toast?

  I do not butter my toast.

  I do not eat butter or toast. No fats or simple carbohydrates.

  Milk or dark chocolate?

  Neither, thank you.

  What do you like to eat?

  What do you eat? would have been a simpler question to answer. I eat fruits, apples mostly. Sometimes with a squeeze of lemon. When I want something salty I eat lettuce or cabbage. For a treat: microwave popcorn.

  What do you like to eat?

  I have not answered her. Apples and popcorn, I suppose. Once upon a time my answer to that question would have been very different. Once upon a time I also would have told her that I ate my eggs scrambled, chocolate dark, toast warm and just barely crisp and golden. No butter but sprinkled with salt.

  But now I do not like to eat anything. I eat out of necessity, to silence my hunger and function a while longer.


  Apples and popcorn

  do the trick. I do not need or want anything else, her horrible bagels and cream cheese.

  I would like to order off the menu please. Something healthy and natural, something like—

  Popcorn?

  she interrupts. Her patience and even her fake, thread-thin smile have run out.

  You would need to eat thirty-five bags a day, or forty-six point sixty-six medium apples to meet your caloric needs.

  She has succeeded, again, in shocking me into silence. I do not understand what she means. Rather, I do not want to understand what she means by “caloric needs.”

  Let me explain the refeeding process to you, who seem to know so much about nutrition:

  A normal body, at rest, needs a thousand calories to survive. Just the basics: heartbeat, breath, blood flow, body temperature.

  I already wince at a thousand.

  A normal woman of your height and age needs a thousand to fifteen hundred more to carry out the basic active functions of her day: like getting out of bed, going to work. Driving her car, talking on the phone, picking up groceries, walking the dog, hanging her coat up, even watching TV … but you need even more than that.

  More? More? Than two thousand calories? More than two thousand five hundred?

  Because you’ve been starving and overexercising, you’ve been feeding on your own organs. You have no fat reserves, no period, no calcium in your bones. No estradiol in your bloodstream. In fact, you are less woman now than a two-year-old girl.