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 fa?ade 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.