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!