The Girls at 17 Swann Street Read online

  Seek treatment for my eating disorder, like a case in a medical textbook. The question is as cold and indifferent as everything behind that façade.

  I think of every possible answer I can give the overzealous therapist. I open my mouth, ready to fire sarcasm, but to my surprise the truth comes out:

  I am here because Matthias and I went home to Paris last Christmas. I had not seen my family in three years. My father was waiting at the airport. He did not recognize me at first, and when he did he cried.

  He did not hug me either, too scared that if he did something in me would break.

  It was supposed to be a happy occasion. My father, my sister, we were all there. But I could not eat, was too cold to go outside. They were so frightened, they confronted me. They begged me to get help. We fought and I left angry.

  It was extremely sad.

  Back then I decided it was none of their business, and I made that very clear. If I wanted to die it was my choice. They were not around, and neither was Matthias. No right to interfere.

  I wince, remembering the harsh words I said, the phone calls I stopped answering.

  We returned to Saint Louis and Matthias returned to work. Then everything unraveled. So quickly.

  I realize I am speaking too much and too intimately again. I falter, but cannot retreat now; they are all waiting, even the therapist, plastic smile folded away.

  I try to bring the story to a clean close:

  Nothing dramatic happened. I just fainted in the bathroom one night. And a few other times. Matthias found me.

  And when I woke up he was crying.

  I did not have a choice. I knew I was hurting him—

  but I had never made him cry before.

  So I came here.

  I turn to the therapist.

  And that’s it. May I use the bathroom now please?

  25

  It was the end of the world.

  It was not, she told herself again. It only felt like it. Just the end of a world. Just a job as a cashier, to help pay the bills.

  She was still Anna. She was still a dancer. She still loved poetry and sparkling wine, but Matthias worked long hours that felt even longer in this city where she was alone. Her supermarket shifts would fill the time perfectly, she reasoned in her uniform.

  She was where she needed to be. Missing home was a tangent. She would go back for Christmas, or in the spring. Her shifts would help them save for the trip too, and buy presents for her family.

  So she helped elderly men count quarters, pennies, dimes to pay for their two slices of ham and bread. She helped ladies with polished nails and Chanel handbags navigate coupons and food stamps, ashamed.

  She avoided eye contact with the smug smiles and fake IDs that bought too much alcohol on Friday nights. She made small talk with the weekly Sunday evening purchase of seven frozen chicken pennes with mushroom sauce, for one.

  She saw downcast eyes and furtive wads of cash pay for the morning-after pill. Bags of perishable pastries, cheese, and meat get thrown out every night. Gloved hands that dropped nickels at her feet and did not bother to pick them up, blue and chapped ones that begged for them outside. That would not have minded stale pastries.

  And at the bus stop one night she saw a homeless man under the bench, frozen or starved to death. She could not eat or sleep that night.

  Not the end of the world, just the end of a world, she tried to think as she cried. That night did end. Spring came and went, and they did not go to Paris.

  She tried to remember the Sorbonne, the cafés, the hidden nooks in libraries where they had spent hours kissing, reading Verlaine, Camus, Stendhal, Sagan, Pushkin. Instead, she saw the dead man at the bus stop and the overflowing shopping carts. The gluttony, the starvation, the disparity in between. It was just the end of a world.

  26

  How is your mood this morning?

  I roll my eyes.

  After group therapy, Direct Care had rushed me from my bathroom break to the psychiatrist’s office.

  Why I need a psychiatrist is beyond me. My mood is as fine as it could be, under the present circumstances.

  Fine, thank you. How is yours?

  The short portly man perched high on his chair peers at me from above his glasses. He does not appreciate my humor, I gather.

  How would you describe your mood in general?

  Happy.

  Ecstatic, elated, thrilled.

  The nurse says you woke up quite early this morning.

  At five actually.

  Yes.

  Do you always?

  Yes.

  Why?

  Because anxiety rises early.

  Because it is calm in the mornings.

  Do you have a history of insomnia?

  No.

  Mental illness?

  No.

  Besides not being able to eat.

  Depression, anxiety, hopelessness?

  No need to be dramatic.

  Do you drink?

  Moderately.

  Do you smoke?

  No.

  Other forms of substance abuse?

  No.

  Compulsive exercise?

  I choose not to answer. He writes compulsive exercise down.

  Do you have any trauma in your past?

  My first response is:

  No.

  No, my family played board games and went on picnics on Sundays. Hikes when it was sunny, the museum when it rained. We loved to travel when we could, and when we could not, we had piles and piles of books to read and other adventures to go on.

  No history of trauma at all?

  A box in my bedroom upstairs. Camil’s drawings, his little white bear. I was the shoelace-tier, crêpe-flipper, finder of his missing gloves. Self-proclaimed protector who failed to protect him from that speeding car.

  My history is one of summer figs in Toulouse and presents on Christmas mornings. Until we lost Camil somewhere in there and everything fell apart. Sophie would not speak of him. Neither would Papa. And one afternoon, locked in the bathroom, Maman chose to join her son.

  But that is all in a box I placed under my bed in the Van Gogh room. I look straight at the psychiatrist and answer his question:

  No.

  Do you have any thoughts of harming others or yourself?

  Trick question; I remember the form. I know I could lose all my rights if the institution or Matthias believe I am not of sound mind.

  So I smile placidly at the psychiatrist, as I will as long as I am here, and give him the right answer:

  No, I am fine. Thank you very much for your time.

  27

  Sacher torte! Sacher torte!

  The audience’s demands were clear. Sacher torte it would be for dessert. Of course: it was Anna’s specialty.

  Why have I never heard about this famous dessert of yours?

  Matthias asked, lover of chocolate himself.

  Anna turned deep red.

  I forgot.

  She honestly had.

  The recipe for Sacher torte and memory of her making it had been misplaced, along with many other things, somewhere in her anorexic mind sometime over the hazy past few years. Like names, addresses, faces she used to know. Entire hours, days, months of her life. Like mornings that began without an alarm clock, uninterrupted nights. A closet once full of summer dresses that she could actually wear. Winters that were not so painfully cold, summer days that were truly warm. Like the taste of dark chocolate, rich espresso, and brandy infused in the Sacher torte.

  It was all for the best, she would think whenever she noticed she was forgetting. What she could not remember, she would not miss.

  But now she needed the recipe. It had to be here somewhere. She found it on the back of a black-and-white postcard in one of Maman’s cookbooks.

  Had it really contained so many eggs? She cut the number in half. The butter and dark chocolate too … Actually, she would skip the butter and swap the sugar with sweetener.


  She used to make whipped cream to top the Sacher torte, but it was so uselessly unhealthy.…

  And Anna! Don’t forget the whipped cream!

  Fine, she would make whipped cream. On the side.

  While she bustled about the little cubicle that was a Parisian version of a kitchen, her father, husband, and sister were whispering in the other room:

  We cannot go to the Christmas market! She’ll freeze! Have you seen how many layers she already has on in here?

  But we always go, and to midnight mass.

  Well, this year we will not,

  Sophie snapped.

  I also think we should limit our outings in general in the evenings. Forget the restaurants, we can eat at home. She will be more comfortable here.

  That reminds me, I need to slip out before the last superette closes to buy more apples, otherwise there will be nothing she can eat.

  What about a baguette?

  Have you seen her eat bread yet?

  Matthias, has she been eating bread?

  Matthias had no idea. He had not seen her eating anything lately.

  Someone’s stomach grumbled. All their stomachs grumbled.

  I am hungry. Aren’t you?

  I am starving,

  said Sophie,

  but it is so hard to eat around her! She makes me feel like a pig! She had broth and lettuce for lunch—

  I thought she had some of your lentil stew,

  Matthias countered, a little defensively,

  and the fruit salad with coulis for dessert.

  Pay attention, Matthias. She only took some soup too, because she was trying to please me. She dumped it in the sink while we were talking, and when she saw the coulis, she said she didn’t feel like fruit salad and had an apple instead.

  Sophie was still whispering, but pointedly.

  Papa, you should get the apples before the superette closes.

  She looked at Matthias hopefully:

  And maybe a few pears and bananas?

  He shook his head.

  Just apples then. Oh, and Papa, make sure you get coffee too.

  How can we have run out already?

  No one answered. Anna’s voice called out from the kitchen:

  Could someone come and take a look at this please? Something went wrong with the recipe.

  28

  I hate doctors.

  All doctors?

  Yes, all. And nutritionists too.

  Matthias and I are out on the porch. The weather is pleasant this evening. I am not; day two had been painful and heavy. And dinner had been worse.

  I deduce that you had your first meetings with your team.

  Wry smile, barely concealed. I resent his lighthearted response, but

  Yes, and my first session of group therapy.

  How did they go?

  Not well.

  Not that I really know how they should; I had never met with a therapist, psychiatrist, or nutritionist before.

  They treat me like a child, Matthias! Like a patient at a mental institution.

  The words not of sound mind replay in my head.

  You are a patient, Anna.

  Yes, but I am not stupid or crazy. I chose to come here. You should have heard the condescension in their voices, telling me what to eat and what to think!

  It’s their job. They are just trying to help. You are sick—

  I am not sick! I have a problem.

  You have a disease that is killing you.

  I want to keep my voice low but feel it rising with my irritation. My spine tenses. I fire:

  Don’t be dramatic!

  Matthias’s face darkens at my snap. He waits for me to finish my tirade, knowing there is more to come.

  I said I have a problem! And I am fixing it! I am going to fix it. I just …

  but my voice quivers, and my throat feels tight. I just … struggle with the rest of that sentence.

  I end lamely:

  It’s just hard.

  No, it is exhausting. Today was exhausting. The meals, sessions with the girls and my team. How had things gotten to this? How had everything gotten so difficult?

  How does one forget how to eat? How does one forget how to breathe? Worse: how does one remember? And how does happiness feel?

  I sink back into the wicker chair. Matthias puts his hand on mine. No, I do not need the pity. I sit back up before the tears come.

  Don’t worry, I will fix this,

  I tell Matthias.

  I will figure it out. I can do this on my own, I do not need—

  But Matthias interrupts:

  No.

  Silence. What side is he on?

  No you cannot do this on your own. You tried, remember, Anna? You promised me you would eat, and your father and family,

  The confrontation, the hours of begging, defending, arguing in the living room on Christmas Day. The promises I had made to make them stop crying, stop worrying about me.

  and it did not work.

  I tried!

  I protest.

  I am still trying, all right? I am doing my best!

  But I am the only one shouting. Matthias takes my hand again.

  Softly:

  Anna, you weigh eighty-eight pounds.

  My throat is tight again. I do not trust my voice to reply, am too tired to withdraw my hand. The tears are flowing, treacherous and unauthorized, freely down my face.

  I finally let him put his arms around me, crying quietly into his shirt.

  I know you tried, Anna. I know you really did, but if you could have fixed this you would have. If this were “just” a problem you and I would not be sitting here.

  29

  Finally back at the—gloriously, miraculously—empty flat. The Métro had stopped, twice, to their immense frustration. Interruptions sur la ligne quatre. The run up the six flights of stairs had also been interrupted by steamy, breathless kissing stops, Anna’s back against the cold wall, Matthias’s fingers tangled in her hair.

  Now they were alone. No friends, no flatmates, very little furniture left in the bedroom. Matthias’s suitcase was already closed and set outside by its door. They slammed against it. Neither of them noticed. The floorboards cracked under their hurried feet. A trail of discarded black heels, fine black tights, and brown leather Oxfords. Bare feet.

  Her cold fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, numb and in a hurry and clumsy. His hands were icy on her back. She shivered but pulled him closer.

  Black dress to the floor, then the black satin lingerie. They tumbled onto the old mattress. It barely squeaked under their weight; by now it had memorized their shape.

  She claimed the ridge over his collarbone and the freckle she knew was at its end. He drew the line down her spine and circled to the tip of her hip bone. No clothes, no curtains, but abundant moonlight flooding the chambre de bonne. No covers, no need. Time in suspension, they fell into waves of silence and heat.

  Later, much later, his arms around her. Her face in his chest, breathing quietly at his heart. They fell asleep naked. They always had, leg over leg, skin on skin.

  The next morning, the windows were foggy. Cold water splashed on cold faces. A nearly forgotten toothbrush and sweater stuffed hurriedly into the suitcase. Maneuvering around the treacherous floorboards, they tried to tiptoe out quietly; their flatmates were back and still asleep behind their closed bedroom doors.

  The suitcase down the six winding flights of the narrow stairwell was an adventure. They dragged it together to the station and onto the RER.

  Finally on their way to the airport they finally kissed.

  Bonjour.

  Bonjour,

  she smiled.

  30

  Day three in the peach-pink house shaded by a magnolia tree. White wicker furniture on the front porch, hydrangeas growing at the back. Emm stands in the sun, at the beginning of the tiny well-trodden path that takes the girls at 17 Swann Street on the same morning walk every day.

  Except t
oday I am joining her, and Julia, and Direct Care. And Chloe, who has kids, I learned this morning, and Katerina, Matthias’s fan. Valerie does not join us, nor does the seventh girl, whose name I still do not know. She does not speak much and does not seem to like walks. I wonder how long she has been here.

  At this point I have mastered the routine that begins with vitals and weights and develops into shower, coffee, and the daily word jumbles with breakfast. I find my footing and comfort, somewhat, in this constant repetition. All other aspects of life here are volatile; at least the routine is safe.

  We begin walking. Emm informs me that the itinerary does not change. Right after the second red door. Left, left, right. Turn back at the roundabout with white and blue hydrangeas. Left, right, right, left.

  We go on the walk in two straight lines. What an odd group we must seem. Vapory girls in loose T-shirts floating behind Direct Care and Emm in turquoise. We cross a number of people on their own safe morning routines: the retired, full-time front-porch newspaper reader, the stroller-pushing yoga mom, the dog walker listening to music, the old couple holding hands, walking slow. All greet us, none stare; they must know about the girls at 17 Swann Street.

  There are children at the house on the second corner playing outside on the lawn. They say good morning, so well-behaved, as we pass them by. The birds and squirrels are out and about too, and a humming gardener. Toward the end we pass a Saint Bernard. Emm tells me his name is Gerald.

  All too soon we are back from fresh air and blue sky to a whole day we will spend indoors, but another dependable constant emerges: at ten to ten, the mailman.