The Girls at 17 Swann Street Read online

  As he did yesterday, he takes our outgoing mail and hands us letters, postcards, and parcels, bits of the world that the world has sent to us.

  Every day but Sunday,

  he says.

  At ten o’clock, we have midmorning snack, but the mail makes it palatable. Every day but Sunday, we share whatever good news and goodies we receive.

  Then two hours in session, not always group therapy. Sometimes nutrition, psychology, coping skills. At different times, each of us will be called away to meet with the members of our team.

  At twelve thirty we will receive the signal to stand up and form two straight lines. In those we will walk to the yellow house next door for a game of Russian roulette: Lunch.

  Someone, at some point, will get hurt and cry, but at least Rita will be there: the Italian-American cook who serves all her love and gossip with the food. And no matter what or how difficult lunch is, we will tell Rita it was good. She will beam, and for better or worse, it will end at one fifteen.

  On Monday and Friday afternoons, we have yoga to look forward to. On Tuesdays, as Valerie’s letter said, we all have the cottage cheese. On Wednesdays, we have art class with Lucy. Dance again with her on Saturdays. Dance! On Sundays, music lessons after lunch. And apple cinnamon tea after meals. And I, the luckiest girl in this house, have a date with Matthias every evening.

  Each patient gets a room, a journal, a cubby, and a water bottle to her name. And in community space, her own seat. I choose an old battered armchair.

  Back from my first walk, I sink into it, calm. Valerie is writing in her spot. Emm, in hers, is knitting. Is she really knitting? The quiet girl is asleep.

  Julia, next to me, is deeply engrossed in the last word jumble of the day. I am stuck on that one too. I stare at it with her.

  Just then Direct Care walks in with a patient we have not seen before. She seems cold and exhausted, leaning almost entirely on Direct Care for support.

  We make room for her on the couch. She lies down, wrapped in a thick woolen blanket I immediately associate with the inside of an ambulance. Curled into a ball, she closes her eyes. Without a word, Direct Care walks out.

  The other girls, unfazed, return to their knitting, writing, napping, jumbles. I make to leave my armchair to welcome the new patient, but Julia touches my arm:

  Not this one.

  Not this one. Why not?

  We call patients like that weekenders.

  What patients like that?

  What are weekenders?

  Wry, sad smile. Jumbles aside. Julia leans in toward me. I do the same. She whispers:

  Weekenders are patients who usually leave before you even realize they’re here. Involuntary admissions, most of them, and they tend to make that very clear. They’re either sad, angry, or sleeping on the couch. Behold Exhibit A.

  Her dispassionate description suits the unnamed, shivering girl.

  I try to stay away from them. Not a very lively bunch. Very, very sick girls.

  Why do they leave so quickly then?

  Because they are too sick to be here. They need to be hospitalized. Too thin, too sad, too many medical complications. Too far away in their heads.

  How horrible.

  You’ll see what I mean when this one wakes up. She’ll stare out the window for hours.

  I do not like the term “this one.” I wish I knew the girl’s name.

  Why are such patients brought here at all then?

  Julia shrugs.

  Wishful thinking mostly. I guess their families don’t realize how serious the situation is. Or want to.

  She reflects further:

  Sometimes they come here because insurance has not approved higher care. Sometimes it has, but there are no beds available in hospital psych wards. But if that’s the case, one should free up by tomorrow and the new girl will be transferred.

  How do you know a bed will free up?

  Someone is bound to die or be discharged,

  comes the simple, callous reply.

  How smoothly she had said it! I withdraw, appalled. Julia notices but does not take offense. She smiles sadly at my indignation and speaks again, this time softer:

  Look, Anna, and look around you. Every patient is a tragedy here. It sucks, I know, but there are too many of us for me to cry over every one.

  I understand. Julia is not jaded, just trying to protect herself. Choosing wisely where to invest her heart. She forces a smile and jokes:

  Heck, if I should cry over someone, I would probably start with myself!

  I do not laugh, but I lean back toward her. We are both quiet for a moment. When she speaks again she is not joking:

  Actually, I would start with Emm.

  Emm?

  How come?

  Because Emm is at the other end of the spectrum.

  Across from us, we watch her knit.

  Emm and 17 Swann Street go way back,

  Julia says in a lower voice.

  Yes, I remember: four years back. Julia continues:

  She’s a regular. Knows this place by heart: the schedule, the rules, the rooms with the best view, the weekly menus, all the staff—they’re her friends.

  Is that bad?

  You tell me, hon. Is it bad that she knows that the smoothies are actually made from a powdered mix? Or which nurse will slip you antacids or, if you ask really nicely, sleeping pills?

  I see where Julia is going with this.

  Emm has been at 17 Swann so long it’s become part of her. Patients like her, the regulars, they … They get comfortable here.

  That makes terrifying sense.

  Four years at 17 Swann Street, in any place, and that place becomes home. Staff becomes family. Treatment becomes familiar. The schedule, even the menus become safe.

  Most regulars never get discharged, and those who do know they will be back.

  I nod. The real world is fraught with unrewarding jobs and hurtful relationships. Bills to be paid every month, food to be consumed every day. At least here in treatment the cook makes the meals and staff takes care of the dishes. Insurance pays rent and somebody else changes the lightbulbs and mows the lawn. The real world is lonely but here doctors have pills and therapists always have time to listen. I cannot believe I do, but in a way, I understand Emm.

  Emm is still knitting. The movement is predictable, the pattern repeats itself. This is not real life, but perhaps she has no interest in pursuing one. Perhaps all-inclusive survival on this side of the walls is enough.

  As for you,

  Julia interrupts my thoughts,

  you’re a different kind of patient. I think you’re one of the lucky ones.

  Which ones?

  The ones here for someone else.

  Someone else, outside here, waiting for me at 45 Furstenberg Street.

  You have a reason to survive,

  Julia says casually as she reaches for her pouch and begins rummaging through it for gum.

  See, Emm’s life is here, not outside these walls. And the girl on the couch doesn’t want one. You, with a little help and a little food in your belly … Dammit, I’m out of gum.

  A reason to survive.

  Never mind! False alarm!

  She pops two pieces in her mouth at the same time and offers me one.

  I shake my head slowly.

  No, but thank you, Julia.

  Silence for a moment, then I dare:

  What about you?

  What about me?

  Pop.

  What kind of patient are you?

  She does not answer. I do not ask again.

  31

  The day is over, as is dinner, whatever dinner was. It is 7:20. I rush to my room, brush my teeth and my hair, dab a little bit of blush on my cheeks, one, two spritzes of perfume, then scramble down the stairs just as Matthias’s blue car pulls into the driveway.

  He steps out of the car at 7:28, rings the doorbell at 7:30. It marks the beginning of the countdown: we have ninety precious minutes left
.

  He is well dressed and smells nice. I know that scent: tobacco musk. He knows mine: apple and jasmine. He kisses me at the door. Toothpaste.

  I ask Direct Care for permission to sit outside with my husband. Permission laughingly granted,

  So long as he has you back inside by evening snack!

  I ask about his day. He says work was fine, and that our little orchid back home is as well. He declares being quite concerned, however, that it has not bloomed since last year. I try not to smile, but

  I can see your mouth twitching, Anna, but you cannot imagine how worried I’ve been! I blame you for this, you know, buying us an orchid and then running off to treatment. Do you know what kind of matinenance orchids need?

  Would you have preferred a cactus?

  A cactus! Yes, a cactus! You have to be purposeful about letting a cactus die. When all this is over, I’ll buy you a cactus.

  Haha! You have a deal.

  He asks me about my day. I keep my account just as light. I tell him about a book I have been reading. I found it in community space.

  Rilke. His poetry is magical. It transports me away from here.

  Do you have time to read?

  I do in the morning, after vitals and weights and before breakfast at eight. I love it. It is quiet and the sun rises and the Van Gogh room just lights up.

  You always did like mornings best.

  I did. I do.

  Oh! Did I tell you? I went on the walk this morning.

  How was it?

  Too short, but freeing.

  Are you making friends?

  I laugh.

  I am trying. Most keep to themselves, and we are all quite busy anyway.

  Busy? What, with all the meals?

  Once again, it strikes me how little Matthias, or any normal person, can understand. How little of an eating disorder the naked eye can actually see. Busy?

  Yes busy,

  to the point of exhaustion. Every bite and every thought is. But to anyone else, perhaps we just look like girls with bad eating habits.

  Six times a day, Matthias.

  And you’re doing it! I am proud of you, Anna. Don’t stop.

  He beams, and I am suddenly gripped by fear: What if I do stop?

  What if I let you down, Matthias?

  I do not voice that thought. Instead:

  This afternoon, I chose my cereal for tomorrow’s breakfast.

  I try to keep my voice casual and fail. He hears it and takes my hand. No longer lighthearted, Matthias says:

  You are the bravest girl in the world.

  He does understand. He does hear the constant screaming in my head. But he will not give me pity, so he asks:

  Did you pick the Frosted Flakes?

  Taken aback, I answer shortly:

  No, Matthias. Plain Cheerios.

  How could you possibly pick the Cheerios? We both know they taste like cardboard! The Frosties, on the other hand, are grrreat!

  And his favorite. And, incidentally, covered with glistening, frightening sugar crystals.

  I happen to like Cheerios,

  I object, my feathers ruffled the wrong way.

  But Matthias calls my bluff:

  No you don’t. You like Frosties. Or at least you used to, and Lucky Charms.

  Not at all!

  I protest, my claws out in defense of my anorexic lie. I ready myself to counter with arguments of food coloring and high sugar content … but Matthias speaks before me:

  The bottom line is that Frosties are endorsed by Tony the Tiger.

  I cannot believe my ears.

  So?

  So tiger trumps bee, obviously. When in doubt, pick the cereal endorsed by the tiger. That’s Frosties. I rest my case.

  I laugh, genuinely, at my husband’s unconventional approach to therapy: Pick the Frosties. Do not be afraid. Tiger trumps bee and anorexia. Simple.

  If only it were, if only it could be. If only I could believe it.

  Tonight, though, I want to. It is such a beautiful evening out here. Matthias looks handsome. He smells nice. He loves me. He is smiling mischievously.

  So I let myself play along, if only for an evening. All right, Matthias,

  Next time I will pick the Frosties,

  because a talking tiger said so.

  32

  She was going to die.

  What do you mean: “The machine is out of order”?

  It was 7:00 P.M. on Wednesday. They were at the movies. Matthias and Anna went to the movies on Wednesday nights. Anna began fasting on Wednesday mornings—Tuesday nights she ate an apple, perhaps—so that by 7:00 P.M. on Wednesday her brain would allow her to have the popcorn. Small.

  Anna had movie theater popcorn once a week, on Wednesdays. She compensated for the oil by skipping breakfast and running for ten extra minutes on Thursdays. But that particular Wednesday it was 7:00 P.M. and they had bought their tickets, but the popcorn machine was out of order and she was going to die.

  May I offer you any other concessions? Anything else at all?

  She had long passed hunger and was nauseated with starvation. Her eyes blurred as she looked at the display.

  A pretzel? Impossible.

  Candy? Had the world gone mad?

  Nachos? She could not accurately estimate their calorie content.

  No, he could not offer her anything else, because there was nothing else that she could eat.

  It is all right,

  said Matthias,

  we can eat when we get home,

  steering her away from the concession stand.

  No they could not, she almost screamed. Home was a two-hour movie and drive away from here. She would be dead by then.

  33

  Evening snack is interrupted by the sound of a siren and the flashing lights of an ambulance streaming in through the windows.

  Direct Care does not look surprised; she glances at her watch and nods. She stands up and says:

  Ladies, I’m going to leave you for a few minutes. I trust—

  But she actually does not, she realizes. She calls to the nurse’s station:

  Mary?

  Mary watches us sternly while Direct Care goes to the front door.

  Men in gray jumpsuits wheel a stretcher in. I notice the doors are wide enough. It takes less than a minute: the weekender and her blanket are lifted from the couch. Onto the stretcher and rolled away. The sirens and lights fade out. Julia had been right: she had not left the couch. And we had not learned her name.

  I feel sick. I turn to Julia for help. She just shrugs. She told me so. The rest of the girls, even Valerie, keep eating, looking straight down at their bowls.

  Later, much later, I cannot sleep, thinking of the bed that freed up in the psych ward of a hospital somewhere today. Julia cannot sleep either; I can hear her music through our wall. And her footsteps, pacing, pounding in rhythm.

  Julia only acts nonchalant.

  She had gone through two full packs of gum, then upstairs after her snack. I had followed shortly after to escape the macabre mood in community space.

  Now, hours later, the house is quiet, except for Julia’s music. And she is crying. Perhaps she feels lonely, scared, trapped, sad, in pain. Perhaps she feels sorry for the weekender, perhaps she feels sorry for herself. I knock on our wall:

  Hey.

  Silence. Then:

  Hey.

  No need to say any more.

  I hate the night. The dark, ironically, makes many things far too clear. I hate empty beds, in treatment centers, psych wards. Matthias in ours alone.

  I cannot sleep as I wonder how long Matthias will keep coming back. How many visiting hours it will take before he grows tired and stops. If he does, will I blame him? Will I be able to let him go? Do I love him enough? I love him more than anything.

  Then what will happen to me?

  Julia had called girls like me lucky, because they have a reason to survive. On the other side of the wall, she plays Billie Holiday, in my
honor.

  34

  Thursday morning. Eleven A.M. Something different is happening. Instead of a therapist, the nutritionist walks in the sunroom, announcing:

  Weekly meal planning,

  to which the room responds with a general groan.

  Indifferent, she sets three stacks of forms on the floor. The patients seem to know what to do; they stand in line, each girl takes one set from each pile and returns to her seat.

  I go last and then, forms in hand, look awkwardly around for help. The nutritionist ignores me studiously, examining the polish on her nails.

  On Thursdays we get to choose all our meals for the coming week, Monday to Sunday.

  Emm. She pulls her seat closer to mine. I could hug her. I do not dare.

  Professional as ever, she hands me a pen before I even ask for one. She has two, just in case. Of course she does.

  All right, you should have three sets of seven: breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Good. We have twenty minutes to fill them out. Let’s start with the easy ones: breakfast.

  I look at the first page: Breakfast 1—Monday. Two options:

  Circle A or B.

  The choices are straightforward enough:

  Frosties or Cheerios on Monday?

  Plain oatmeal or cinnamon on Wednesday?

  Vanilla yogurt or strawberry?

  Not circling either is also a choice,

  says Emm.

  Liquid nutritional substitute.