The Girls at 17 Swann Street

by Yara Zgheib

  Valerie, not moving, feet apart, in a daze. At first I do not understand. Then I smell it, see it, feel nauseated: Valerie has soiled her pants.

  Valerie, sweet Valerie, who was so kind to me on my first day. Valerie, whose handwriting is elegant and cursive, standing in a brown mess. I am ashamed for her and look away. Whom should I call? Direct Care? What should I say? I wish Emm were here. Or Maman.

  I run out for help then return as quickly as I can, scared to leave her alone too long. An unnecessary precaution; she is still in the same spot, gazing blankly at the wall.

  She does not seem to notice I am here, or the smell, or Direct Care trying to clean her up. The look on her face turns my insides cold: nothing. Valerie is not there. Direct Care’s sympathy itself is half-hearted. She is slightly overwhelmed this morning; she has breakfast to orchestrate, medication to distribute, and an important announcement to make.

  Today is CPR training day, ladies,

  she tells us half an hour later. We are all seated, Valerie’s pants are clean, and breakfast has finally been served.

  In between your sessions, you may notice staff practicing resuscitation techniques. This is just procedural, don’t worry. We do this once a year.

  The girls seem disconcerted, except for Emm, and Valerie. Valerie does not seem to hear or care. She is chewing and swallowing mechanically. She does not look up. No one knows about her little accident except Direct Care and me.

  And Direct Care has other things to think about. I, however, am a mess. My breakfast is too; I spill my Cheerios on the floor. Valerie and the CPR training dolls. The latter are displayed flagrantly, unsightly, on the living room floor for us to see. I notice that the inflatable mannequins are fatter than most of us.

  The safety measure is disturbing. Why is such training even needed? Naively, hopefully, I reason:

  No one could die here.

  Nonetheless, my earlier confidence in today being a good day wavers. And I can still hear the rain outside. My heart sinks: No morning walk.

  But, just as breakfast is being cleared, the pitter-patter stops. I look out the window, incredulous. So does Direct Care. The rain has stopped!

  Well how about that? You lucky, lucky girls. Looks like you’ll get your morning walk after all.

  We dash for our walking shoes and to the front door before she and the weather change their minds.

  53

  We return from the morning walk, stepping on the lawn, just as the sky begins to cloud again. The first few droplets fall. Direct Care and Emm hurriedly lead the way back in. The rest of us follow close behind, Papa and I chatting along, in French, about trivial, mundane, pleasant things across the ocean and the phone.

  I am just about to hang up and step onto the porch, when the tiniest splash of red catches my eye underneath the damp grass. I stop, curious, then drop to my knees and lift the thin green blades carefully.

  Strawberries! Two little strawberries, smaller than the size of my thumb!

  Papa!

  I call excitedly into the phone through which he had been walking with me.

  Papa! Papa! The first strawberries of the year!

  Julia, who had been strolling behind me, nearly trips over my outstretched feet. The other girls have already gone inside.

  Emm! Come back out here! Quick!

  They all do, and Direct Care. Even Sarah, but not Valerie. She had not come on the walk.

  Sarah gushes over the little gems with me, much to my surprise; I would have thought her too glamorous to get excited over something as trivial. Julia makes fun of me but kneels to look at the strawberries anyway. Emm rolls her eyes and goes back in, but I know she is secretly impressed.

  Direct Care goes inside as well; she has a midmorning snack to prepare. As soon as she does Julia plucks a strawberry and eats it, winking at Sarah and me.

  The other girls humor me to varying degrees, but my father truly makes my day: thousands of miles away, he cheers and applauds the beginning of summer on the phone.

  My name is Anna, and I have just remembered that I love summer and strawberries. Their presence reassures me; that they can grow, even here, at 17 Swann Street.

  Midmorning snacks are already set on the table when I walk back in. I hand my phone to Direct Care and take my place next to Valerie.

  Yogurt and granola. Again. Vanilla. Again. Valerie’s bowl is light pink. She asked for strawberry. She always does, I realize just now. Valerie, the only girl who asks for strawberry yogurt in this house.

  She is quiet. She always is, but she is also very pale. My hand touches her shoulder. She jumps. I should not have.

  Sorry, Valerie!

  I pull back. Then in a lower voice:

  Is everything all right?

  No, it is not. It is most obviously not. She does not reply or look at me, her eyes on the bowl of pink yogurt.

  I feel sick,

  she whispers low enough that Direct Care cannot hear.

  I believe her. I know that feeling. I watch her hold back her tears. Direct Care must not notice, and Valerie must not refuse this snack.

  Desperate, I look around the table. Emm. What would Emm do? What had Emm done for me when I had panicked at my first meal?

  Did I ever tell you about the time Matthias and I rented a car and drove across Costa Rica?

  I have no idea why I chose that memory, or how I had dared voice it out loud, but everyone looks up from their bowls and at me, including Valerie.

  No turning back.

  We wanted to see the Arenal Volcano, a three-hour drive from the coast. We knew we had to get to the crater before eleven, because after that the fumes would cloud the peak and there would be nothing to see, so we left around seven o’clock in the morning and drove across a postcard-perfect countryside.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Valerie’s hand move. It lifts from her lap and rests hesitantly on the spoon to her right. I pick up my own spoon and with the other hand, slowly peel the plastic wrap off my bowl.

  Village after village, plot after plot of banana trees. Costa Rica is known for its bananas, you know. We stopped for some and two shots of coffee from a small cart by the side of the road.

  She reaches for the plastic wrap.

  It was a quarter past ten when we began driving up the narrow road to the volcano. The whole mountain looked like it was on fire in the morning sun. I had my sunglasses on and my hand up to shield my eyes. It took me a while to realize there were no more banana trees.

  I make it a point to address the group, not Valerie specifically.

  Instead, a carpet of red across the entire mountainside! I could not believe it! The volcano was completely covered with strawberries!

  She pours the granola in a single shot onto her yogurt and stirs. I take a bite from my own bowl and continue my story:

  Someone later told us that volcanic soil was so fertile that the strawberries that grew there were the ripest and most delicious you could find. We drove past dozens of farmers selling giant crates of them from the trunks of their 1960s cars. Matthias wanted to stop and buy some for me, but we had to reach the crater first.

  We did and it was incredible, but the best part was the way down. He bought me an entire crate of strawberries! Oh, strawberries are my favorite fruit.

  Valerie takes one bite, then another. I keep telling the story. Whenever she pauses, I remember a detail I had forgotten.

  They were so brightly red that we parked the car on the side of the road, sat right there on the grass, and gorged ourselves. They were the juiciest strawberries I have ever had in my life.

  I notice Emm watching me, her face expressionless. She knows what I am doing, but I cannot tell if she approves. She looks back at her own bowl and sprinkles more cinnamon on her yogurt.

  Every bit of the story I tell is real. The volcano, the crater, the strawberries. Our sticky hands, forearms, and chins. Our grass-and-berry-stained clothes. The fact that for a day, in those strawberry fields in Costa Rica, I was n
ot a girl with anorexia. I was a girl blissfully happy and in love and eating strawberries.

  I contemplate my finished midmorning snack and that distant memory. I find it difficult to reconcile the two, and the two versions of me. Valerie and her pink yogurt. Matthias and his crate. Is there really a volcano in Costa Rica completely covered with strawberries?

  Valerie takes one final bite and puts her spoon down. I am happy. Emm smiles, or I imagine she does. The minute hand hits ten thirty.

  Midmorning snack is over. We all head to community space.

  Dear V.,

  You did it. Please don’t stop.

  A.

  54

  The rain does not stop until just after dinner, in that melancholy half hour of dusk. Matthias takes me outside on the wet porch. We watch the sky change colors. The smell of clean, wet earth is everywhere, and the magnolia tree. It is too lovely an evening to mention CPR training or Valerie.

  Rita, the cook, waves goodbye as she walks toward the parking lot.

  Ciao, Anna! I’ll see you and the girls all tomorrow, at lunch.

  Matthias and I wave back. A demain, Rita, ciao! Then just the two of us again.

  Do you remember Costa Rica?

  I ask Matthias out of the blue.

  Of course I remember Costa Rica. It was only a few months ago.

  It could not have been. Was it really?

  It feels like a long time ago.

  Matthias says nothing, but I reminisce:

  The whole trip was magical. I was telling the girls today about the strawberries in Arenal. You bought me an entire crate, remember? They were so delicious and red—

  I remember.

  Flat response.

  I am missing something.

  Is something wrong, Matthias?

  No, everything’s fine.

  Please tell me.

  He sits up and looks at me:

  It was a beautiful trip, Anna, but it was also very difficult. Do you remember why I bought a whole crate?

  Because I love strawberries.

  No, because they were all you would eat. Do you remember your legs giving out while we were hiking up to the crater?

  I had forgotten that part.

  Do you remember the crater?

  Not very well.

  Anna, you had fainted.

  His voice is edgy.

  Do you remember the pool?

  I do not.

  You never went there. It was right by our room and the most pristine beach was less than a minute away, but you were too cold to wear a bathing suit, Anna. The sea breeze made you cry.

  I had not even walked on the beach.

  Do you remember the all-you-can-eat buffet at the resort? You only ate the fruits, for four days, Anna. You did not even look at the other foods. Do you remember the beach bar?

  I do not.

  Do you remember the gym?

  I do.

  He looks very sad.

  I remember Costa Rica. I remember seeing an old lady walk toward me and realizing it was you. I remember the day you finally wore a dress and the little boy who saw you and cried. I remember stopping at every fruit and vegetable stand I could find. I remember not being able to sleep at night, listening to your heart, praying it wouldn’t stop. I remember Costa Rica, Anna. Do you?

  55

  Matthias is long gone, and the evening snack. I feel terribly nauseated; both it and my conversation with him are not sitting well in my stomach. I carry the feeling and my thoughts to bed. It takes me hours to fall asleep.

  I wake up too soon. The nausea is still there, but that is not what woke me; a rainbow of colorful lights is streaming into the Van Gogh room. I look out the window for their source, onto the narrow parking lot, and my heart sinks as I see the whirling lights of an ambulance creeping in.

  A stretcher is wheeled out of the house. I recognize the sweatshirt. Valerie.

  I cannot tell if her eyes are open, much less if she is conscious. She is deathly still, but then shakes her head softly to a question she is asked. I breathe a sigh of relief.

  I want her to look up at the window, see me looking down. I want to wave. I want to shout out:

  Valerie! It’s all right!

  A promise I have no right to make. Instead, I keep quiet, unable to break the heavy silence of 3:00 A.M.

  I watch the team of professionals buckle her in, cowardly behind the window. I am so scared. She must be terrified, and feeling so alone. The ritual unfolds and I hope Valerie can guess that I am attending. The ambulance floods the side of the house, the parking lot, the tree with rainbow light.

  Valerie tried to kill herself on CPR training day. The thought gnaws at me like heartburn. A few minutes later the ambulance creeps out of the parking lot and turns the curb.

  In the hours that follow 3:17 A.M., I get angry at myself. For having been too scared to let Valerie know I was there. For not having told her it was all right to have soiled her pants and to have cried. For not having comforted her better after dinner. But what would I have said?

  That she was not weak for not being perfect? That her father loved her anyway? That she needed him more than she needed to protect him? That she deserved cake on her birthday?

  I should have let her know I was there at 3:17, watching from the Van Gogh window. I did not and it is now quarter to five. Almost time for vitals and weights.

  Valerie’s notebook and her father’s letter are on her spot on the couch. I pick them up and put them in her cubby for safekeeping till she comes back.

  A few hours later, breakfast again. Served with anxious gossip this time. Someone says Valerie got hold of scissors. Someone else says it was a knife. I do not want to know; it feels wrong to speculate about the logistics of suicide. I do not mention her father, her accident, or that I saw the ambulance overnight.

  After breakfast and the walk I write two hurried letters. The first I copy out three times:

  Dear V.,

  I do not know where to send this letter, or if you even want to hear from me, but you need to know that I was watching when the ambulance came.

  You do not have to come back, or reply. I will understand if you do not. I will save your spot on the couch anyway.

  A.

  Three copies in three envelopes; there are three hospitals in this area. I address each letter to one of them; I do not know where she is.

  To the Attention of Ms. Valerie …

  It hits me like a punch. I also do not know Valerie’s last name.

  I feel the bile rise up to my throat as I look around the living room. I need a sign that she was here, that she really existed. Nothing but her notebook and letter in her cubby, and that little space on the couch. She had been so frail that the ungrateful seat had not even kept a mark.

  The white blanket had gone with her. Had it been there before she came? Who and where was the girl who had first brought it to 17 Swann Street? How many girls had sat in Valerie’s spot, wrapped themselves in it, and then disappeared? Does it matter?

  Yes. It matters. Valerie’s last name matters. I find it on Direct Care’s list. Her full name is Valerie Parker. She has a father and a birthday. We exist because we matter to someone, to anyone. She matters to her father and to me. There once lived a girl at 17 Swann Street whose name was Valerie.

  Someone will have to notify her father. That task falls onto Direct Care. Along with cleaning up patients who soil themselves and practicing resuscitation techniques.

  I write my next letter to my sister Sophie. I have not spoken to her in months. Almost since Christmas, since Christmas actually. She had given up on phone calls and texts.

  I had been ashamed, too ashamed to pick up; her older sister was a failure. Who could not eat, who would not, even when she begged her. Who made promises she did not keep.

  I thought I was protecting her. Now all I can think of is Valerie’s dad. His face, the phone call he is going to receive today from Direct Care.

  I stare at the page. I have
so much to say. I do not know where to begin. I want to start with I am so sorry and I love you and I miss you at the same time. I want to ask her how she is, where she is. I want the past few months, years of our lives back. I want hours of conversation with her, but I just have a sheet of paper.

  Chère Sophie,

  I miss you. I love you. I am sorry I missed all your calls.

  Can you try calling me again? I promise to answer this time.

  Bisous,

  Anna

  The mailman takes Valerie’s three letters from me and, I hope, to Valerie. My fourth letter will have to wait till Matthias gets me the right stamp.

  Emm distributes the day’s mail to everyone. No envelope for me from Valerie. The rest of the girls read theirs while Direct Care sets the table for snack.

  56

  Treatment Plan Update—June 3, 2016

  Weight: 91 lbs.

  BMI: 15.6

  Physiological Observations:

  Slow weight gain observed. Treatment team assumes metabolism remains hyperactive. No symptoms of refeeding. Patient appears physically capable of absorbing caloric increase.

  Psychological/Psychiatric Observations:

  Patient has been exhibiting increasing levels of anxiety and low mood. Disruptions in the center over the past week, including the abrupt departure of a fellow patient, could be contributing factors.

  Patient continues to complete her assigned meal plan but has been observed struggling during meals. This is consistent with the recent increase in her target caloric intake. She continues to struggle with strong eating-disorder urges, distorted body image, and low mood. We expect these symptoms to be further aggravated by the progression in treatment course.