The Girls at 17 Swann Street

by Yara Zgheib

  Summary:

  Patient is still significantly underweight. Residential treatment and further meal plan increases remain necessary. Close monitoring of mood and meal plan compliance is strongly recommended.

  Target caloric value: 2,700 calories daily

  57

  You should not be here on a Friday night,

  I say when I open the door.

  Not the warm welcome Matthias is used to. Still, he tries, with a smile:

  Well, I was in the neighborhood. I just thought I’d drop by.

  But I am not in the mood to smile back. I turn around and head upstairs. Perplexed, but in his usual reserved way, he closes the front door and follows me.

  Alone together in the Van Gogh room, he tries to kiss me, but I tense:

  I met with the therapist and nutritionist today.

  He steps back cautiously.

  And?

  Well, the first had tried to explore grief in my past, in light of Valerie’s attempted suicide:

  Do you think of your mother and brother a lot?

  I had promptly shut that door in her face.

  The second had increased my meal plan and said:

  No, you cannot have your dressing on the side,

  and that fruit and peanuts do not count as healthier substitutes for peanut butter and jelly.

  I had then sat through a particularly painful group session, also on grief. The therapist with the loud smile had been desperate to know how we were processing the incident of the week.

  Fine thank you,

  had said Emm.

  She is lucky not to be here,

  had said Sarah.

  At least she can ask for seconds at the hospital,

  had said Julia, still, always hungry.

  I was not hungry. I was miserably full. My stomach hurt after every meal. I was developing an ulcer, I think, because of all this refeeding. I had just had dinner, and dinner had been cheese tortellini. Nightmare. I had once upon a time loved cheese tortellini. And there had been chocolate cake for dessert.

  Exposure therapy. Repeated confrontation with a feared situation, object, or memory, used to treat post-traumatic stress disorder, anxiety disorder, or phobias.

  Like food.

  The purpose of exposure is to achieve habituation. I am not feeling habituated. I have been here for almost two weeks and the meals have only gotten worse.

  But I am too tired to tell Matthias that. So I answer:

  It went well.

  I am lying to Matthias, being horrible to Matthias, whose only crime is that he loves me. Who could be anywhere, with anyone, tonight, and instead is here with me.

  I wish you would not come here every single night. I would rather you do something fun.

  Like what?

  I do not know! Go to the movies, watch a comedy.

  But whose popcorn would I finish if you were not with me?

  And the walls come crumbling down.

  I cannot stop crying. Matthias just holds me. I no longer have the strength to be cold. I tell him about Valerie, choking on the details, choking on her name.

  I tell him everything, sobbing into his shirt. Her father’s letter, her arm, her soiled pants, the ambulance last night. When I look up, he is not smiling anymore. He kisses me and this time I kiss back.

  We pull away. It is hard to tell if the tears are his or mine. Holding hands still, needing the physical contact, we lie down together on the bed.

  He finally speaks:

  I am so sorry, Anna. Was Valerie the girl who wrote you that note on your first night?

  Yes, and yesterday I had watched her wheeled out of here and away. And today the rest of the world had wheeled on, uninterrupted and undisturbed. Now I am watching Matthias spend another night here because of me.

  I am so sorry. I am so sorry,

  I cry. I cannot say it enough.

  What are you sorry for?

  For anorexia. For you here. For interrupting our life.

  I am sorry for anorexia, and you here too. But Anna, this is our life.

  You did not choose this!

  This cannot be the life he signed up for on our wedding day.

  Hey, hey.

  His arm reaches over me. I missed that weight. I miss that weight.

  I chose to be here. I chose this and you and us. I still do. The question is: do you?

  Of course I do. I nod forcefully and turn in to the crevice of his torso.

  This is so hard.

  I know.

  It is so hard on you too. One day you will leave me because you can no longer take it, and I will not blame you.

  Matthias pulls away and looks straight at me, face dark:

  Don’t say that. It will not happen.

  It hurts too much to know it will. When one day he gets tired of putting his coat around me, asking the waiter to just steam the vegetables, please. Spending Friday nights here.

  I am not tired. I am exhausted, we both are, of carrying this disease. One day Matthias will leave because he cannot, should not keep carrying me.

  You should not be here every night. Please go somewhere fun tomorrow.

  You cannot tell me what to do. Besides, where would I go, what would I do without you on a Saturday night?

  Matthias, this is not healthy.

  Direct Care appears. Nine o’clock.

  Two more minutes,

  he tells her.

  Please.

  Direct Care is human. She looks at both our faces, and to our surprise, says,

  You know what? We’ll start the evening snack without you. Just come down whenever you’re ready, Anna. You won’t be bothered.

  Door closed.

  I cannot believe it, and neither can Matthias. Suddenly, we are both very shy. He speaks first:

  You know what is unhealthy, Anna? Not being with you.

  We have never played games with one another; our emotions have always been raw. He grazes my collarbone, barely.

  I love you. I want you. Do you?

  I do.

  We make love in the Van Gogh room, and in the small space of that time and that bed, we are Matthias and Anna again and nothing else exists.

  Matthias gets dressed and one last time kisses me. A long time since he has like this. He promises to come back tomorrow and opens the bedroom door. I hear him head down the stairs and make my own promises to him silently. Then the ghosts that were hiding just outside, in the corridor, flood the Van Gogh room.

  Later, much later, I think of grief and suicide. I understand Valerie. I know why she walked away from the father she loves too much to let down. I lack her courage, though; I cannot push Matthias away. I love him too much, but enough, I hope, that if and when he ever decides to leave me, I will let him go.

  And if and when he ever does, I hope it is with someone good. Someone who will make him happy and like roller coasters and ice cream.

  58

  Saturday morning, and Direct Care announces that whoever wants to go on the outing will have to be at the door and ready to leave promptly after midmorning snack.

  This will be the first of the bimonthly excursions I go on. Participation being optional for those, some girls opt not to join. Like Julia, who rolls her eyes:

  Manicures? A therapeutic outing? You’ve got to be kidding me.

  Sarah is, naturally, in. As are two of the other girls, and Emm, who answers Julia:

  Any excuse to get out of here.

  I agree. Today especially; the mood around the house has been tense and apprehensive ever since Valerie left.

  I am in no mood for a manicure, but the very triviality of the outing feels like a gulp of air after being held under water. Besides, the sun is out, so at 10:30 precisely, Direct Care and five of us head out.

  The road trip only lasts ten minutes in the service van, the same one that drove me to church. It has almost been a week since last Sunday, I reflect, in the backseat between Sarah and another girl.

  Parking lot. Engine off
. We disembark and enter the nail salon. An overly friendly lady loudly invites each of us to pick her nail polish. I head to the shelves and shelves of rainbow colors on the wall. They remind me of the lights from the ambulance dancing on my ceiling and walls.

  Let’s do something fun!

  Direct Care suggests to lighten the macabre mood.

  We’ll pick a color for every girl based on the name that matches her!

  That actually does sound like fun.

  Miss Emm, you’re up first!

  After much deliberation, the group assigns Emm: Turquoise and Caicos.

  For our fearless cruise director!

  Plus, it matches the color of her sweatshirt, I observe.

  Sarah gets, obviously, Leading Lady. And I get A French Affair. A girl called Chloe is next. She gets a shade called Berry Naughty. Direct Care picks The Girls Are Out for herself and Forever Yummy for the last girl. She laughs; she suffers from binge-eating disorder, but her sense of humor is fine.

  Polish chosen, the manicures commence. Our hands are massaged and lotioned. Our nails are filed, painted, and dried like those of every other lady here.

  The salon is full. Typical for a weekend, I think as I look around. Most of the other clients are in their twenties and thirties. Like us. In fact, we almost blend in. Well, perhaps some of us are a bit thin. But otherwise we could be a group of girlfriends getting their nails done on a Saturday morning.

  But Direct Care and her glances at her watch are a clear reminder we are not; she is wondering whether we will be back in time for lunch. Suddenly I am jealous of the other women who, after their polish has dried, will have their own lunches in cafés nearby, not portioned, labeled, wrapped in plastic.

  This is just an interlude of normalcy, a hiccup in a schedule that hangs on a board in a treatment center’s community space. We all know that when our own polish dries, none of us will be going home. The effervescence will simmer down and we will pile into the service van. No keys, no wallets, no phones, no choice, we will be driven back to Swann Street.

  The windows are closed in the van and the air is stuffy with breath, polish, and dread. I do not want to go back. To Valerie’s empty seat, to lunch, to three courses and a ticking clock, and after the meal, to group therapy.

  The van parks in spite of me. We are back, in spite of us. I ask Direct Care if I may sit outside, just for a while, as I had with Sarah last week. She allows it but warns:

  Do not wander off the lawn, and come in when you hear me call. Lunch will be ready soon.

  She and the girls go inside the house, leaving me alone.

  My exhale comes out a sob, breaths jagged. My hands come to my mouth, trying to muffle any sound I might make. I catch a glimpse of my painted nails. I look the part, don’t I, of a manicure-on-a-Saturday lady. One with a life in which she can eat and go anywhere, be anywhere but here.

  I sit on the bench, exhausted. The back door opens behind me. I do not bother to turn around. Julia sits beside me.

  Bubble gum pops.

  So what color did you get?

  I show her my nails. They look ridiculous in my eyes now, in the context of this place.

  Julia gives me an appreciative whistle that we both know is sarcastic:

  Very fancy. Very ladylike.

  Both of which I am not, with my hair in a bun and thick layers on. There was no way, I realize, that I had blended in with the other women at the salon earlier.

  Julia chews on silently. We stare at the cars in the parking lot.

  Wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like that. Still, it must’ve been good to get out.

  It was,

  I reply,

  It just makes coming back here very hard.

  Yeah. It’s cruel. That’s why I don’t go. Well, that and I don’t do nail things. But seriously, if I ever do leave this place, believe me, Anna, I’m not coming back.

  She is serious.

  But where would you go?

  I ask—more to myself than to her, we both know.

  I have no idea.

  She shrugs.

  Wherever, doesn't matter. Can’t be worse than where I am now. Don’t even know who I am now.

  Me neither. My name is Anna and I am twenty-six and anorexic. I have not always been; I used to want things and do things. Now I am not sure how much of me still exists.

  Julia interrupts my thoughts:

  Where would you go if you weren’t here?

  I look at my nails, and before I even realize it, answer:

  To the coffee shop by the nail salon.

  She laughs. I do too, surprised at my answer.

  You wild woman you,

  she quips.

  And what would you do at that coffee shop, may I ask?

  I do not know.

  Have a coffee, and read,

  I suppose, and watch the people around me.

  There would be children on the swings and parents on the benches. Retirees reading newspapers. Dogs and their owners rehydrating, in the shade. And, of course, the ladies with painted nails, gossiping over lemonade.

  Julia swallows her gum and reaches into the pockets of her baggy jeans. She pulls out two square pieces of bright pink candy and offers one to me.

  Me?

  I shake my head politely. No candy for the girl with anorexia, thank you.

  She raises an eyebrow, pops hers into her mouth. I am a long way from that coffee shop.

  She leaves the other piece on the bench between us, in case I change my mind. I look at it; once upon a time I would have eaten it without a thought. I would have enjoyed it, swallowed it, then easily forgotten it. But that was once upon a time ago.

  Then I think of the ladies at the nail salon, probably having their lemonade now. They would have taken the candy, said thank you. I take a deep breath. Experiment:

  I reach for the piece of candy and unwrap the colored paper,

  Thank you, Julia,

  and pop it in my mouth before I have time to think.

  It tastes heavenly. And sticky and chewy and the sugar is melting on my tongue. I have candy all over my teeth. I chew mindfully, breathe. My anxiety is building up to a heart attack, and there is screaming in my ears,

  and it is over. And I am still here, and Julia next to me is smiling.

  She nudges me playfully:

  Look at you, wild woman!

  I do and cannot believe it.

  It takes me a moment to catch my breath and finally return her smile.

  Are you even allowed to have candy here, Julia?

  She winks. We both smile. How wild we are.

  Cue Direct Care’s voice:

  Ladies! Lunch!

  Julia jumps up:

  Thank God! I’m starving!

  I follow her in, but slower, still processing the candy and guilt. And some degree of surprise, I admit: I ate a piece of candy. I did it.

  The wrapper is still in my hand. I fold and put it in my pocket. Then I ask Direct Care for permission to wash my hands before eating.

  59

  Monday was off to a brutal start. Seven fifteen A.M., every muscle in her body already protesting as she stretched on the floor, warming up in the corner by the resin box. She loved that conifer smell.

  And the talcum; both spoke home to her. She had known them since she was six. She had been dancing since she was six. Anna was a dancer. “I am a dancer,” she reminded herself.

  Except today she did not feel like one. Her stomach was bloated, in knots, and not even the smell of sticky pine or baby powder could loosen it up. She was regretting the bread, the glass of red wine she had had with her salad last night. And the chocolate truffle; Philippe had frowned but she had not been able to resist it.

  She had not slept well or enough either, but that is never an excuse. Barre would begin in fifteen minutes, and rehearsal promptly at eight. She wanted a solo part. Philippe had said she had a chance. She believed him.

  Just put your mind to it, and lose a little weight.


  Just put her mind to it. She had.

  Bonjour tout le monde! Everyone gather round please.

  The list was in Monsieur’s hands. Anna’s were cold and clammy. Her stomach-ache had turned to cramps.

  Before we begin at the barre, I will bring the suspense to an end. I know that otherwise that is all any of you will be thinking about.

  Alors, les solistes: Gaëlle, Daphné, and Gabrielle for the pas de trois. Angela and Michelle, the pas de deux and a solo each. As for the rest of you, I expect nothing less than an impeccable corps de ballet and wish you better luck next year. Et maintenant, pliés!

  The music began, the piano keys echoing the music she knew by heart. Plié, plié. She was nauseated, but her body had to keep time. It did, because she willed it to. As she had for the past months, practicing, practicing, pushing it further. No complaints. Eat less, stretch more, eyes on the prize: the list.

  She would be on it next year. She would just have to practice a little more.

  Cambré en avant, cambré en arrière. Relevé, passé, demi-tour. And again, plié, plié. She wanted to cry but did not.

  Passé, demi-tour. Plié.

  Her arms were tired. Already? The day had not even started! Eight more hours, and the girls would be cruel in the dressing rooms later.

  Philippe would be cruel tonight too. She already knew what he would say. He would mention the truffle and the bread. That is, if she saw him tonight. If he had time; he was so busy lately.

  Her stomach hurt.

  No more bread and chocolate, she told herself sternly. And no breakfast; she could not stomach it. She would save her banana for later, lunch maybe, and thought of the future, her aching arms, Philippe.