Matthias’s face darkens at my snap. He waits for me to finish my tirade, knowing there is more to come.
I said I have a problem! And I am fixing it! I am going to fix it. I just …
but my voice quivers, and my throat feels tight. I just … struggle with the rest of that sentence.
I end lamely:
It’s just hard.
No, it is exhausting. Today was exhausting. The meals, sessions with the girls and my team. How had things gotten to this? How had everything gotten so difficult?
How does one forget how to eat? How does one forget how to breathe? Worse: how does one remember? And how does happiness feel?
I sink back into the wicker chair. Matthias puts his hand on mine. No, I do not need the pity. I sit back up before the tears come.
Don’t worry, I will fix this,
I tell Matthias.
I will figure it out. I can do this on my own, I do not need—
But Matthias interrupts:
No.
Silence. What side is he on?
No you cannot do this on your own. You tried, remember, Anna? You promised me you would eat, and your father and family,
The confrontation, the hours of begging, defending, arguing in the living room on Christmas Day. The promises I had made to make them stop crying, stop worrying about me.
and it did not work.
I tried!
I protest.
I am still trying, all right? I am doing my best!
But I am the only one shouting. Matthias takes my hand again.
Softly:
Anna, you weigh eighty-eight pounds.
My throat is tight again. I do not trust my voice to reply, am too tired to withdraw my hand. The tears are flowing, treacherous and unauthorized, freely down my face.
I finally let him put his arms around me, crying quietly into his shirt.
I know you tried, Anna. I know you really did, but if you could have fixed this you would have. If this were “just” a problem you and I would not be sitting here.
29
Finally back at the—gloriously, miraculously—empty flat. The Métro had stopped, twice, to their immense frustration. Interruptions sur la ligne quatre. The run up the six flights of stairs had also been interrupted by steamy, breathless kissing stops, Anna’s back against the cold wall, Matthias’s fingers tangled in her hair.
Now they were alone. No friends, no flatmates, very little furniture left in the bedroom. Matthias’s suitcase was already closed and set outside by its door. They slammed against it. Neither of them noticed. The floorboards cracked under their hurried feet. A trail of discarded black heels, fine black tights, and brown leather Oxfords. Bare feet.
Her cold fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, numb and in a hurry and clumsy. His hands were icy on her back. She shivered but pulled him closer.
Black dress to the floor, then the black satin lingerie. They tumbled onto the old mattress. It barely squeaked under their weight; by now it had memorized their shape.
She claimed the ridge over his collarbone and the freckle she knew was at its end. He drew the line down her spine and circled to the tip of her hip bone. No clothes, no curtains, but abundant moonlight flooding the chambre de bonne. No covers, no need. Time in suspension, they fell into waves of silence and heat.
Later, much later, his arms around her. Her face in his chest, breathing quietly at his heart. They fell asleep naked. They always had, leg over leg, skin on skin.
The next morning, the windows were foggy. Cold water splashed on cold faces. A nearly forgotten toothbrush and sweater stuffed hurriedly into the suitcase. Maneuvering around the treacherous floorboards, they tried to tiptoe out quietly; their flatmates were back and still asleep behind their closed bedroom doors.
The suitcase down the six winding flights of the narrow stairwell was an adventure. They dragged it together to the station and onto the RER.
Finally on their way to the airport they finally kissed.
Bonjour.
Bonjour,
she smiled.
30
Day three in the peach-pink house shaded by a magnolia tree. White wicker furniture on the front porch, hydrangeas growing at the back. Emm stands in the sun, at the beginning of the tiny well-trodden path that takes the girls at 17 Swann Street on the same morning walk every day.
Except today I am joining her, and Julia, and Direct Care. And Chloe, who has kids, I learned this morning, and Katerina, Matthias’s fan. Valerie does not join us, nor does the seventh girl, whose name I still do not know. She does not speak much and does not seem to like walks. I wonder how long she has been here.
At this point I have mastered the routine that begins with vitals and weights and develops into shower, coffee, and the daily word jumbles with breakfast. I find my footing and comfort, somewhat, in this constant repetition. All other aspects of life here are volatile; at least the routine is safe.
We begin walking. Emm informs me that the itinerary does not change. Right after the second red door. Left, left, right. Turn back at the roundabout with white and blue hydrangeas. Left, right, right, left.
We go on the walk in two straight lines. What an odd group we must seem. Vapory girls in loose T-shirts floating behind Direct Care and Emm in turquoise. We cross a number of people on their own safe morning routines: the retired, full-time front-porch newspaper reader, the stroller-pushing yoga mom, the dog walker listening to music, the old couple holding hands, walking slow. All greet us, none stare; they must know about the girls at 17 Swann Street.
There are children at the house on the second corner playing outside on the lawn. They say good morning, so well-behaved, as we pass them by. The birds and squirrels are out and about too, and a humming gardener. Toward the end we pass a Saint Bernard. Emm tells me his name is Gerald.
All too soon we are back from fresh air and blue sky to a whole day we will spend indoors, but another dependable constant emerges: at ten to ten, the mailman.
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.