Next, the main course:
Be clear about your priorities, Anna: if you circle the fish, you must eat it. How committed are you to being a vegetarian? If you are, tough luck: mac and cheese.
But the cream! The cheese …
My voice gets caught in my throat. I am panicky, but Emm is firm:
Priorities.
Swallowing my tears, I circle the mac and cheese.
Now dessert:
Yogurt and granola OR
Chocolate milkshake What the hell, I have come this far. Chocolate milkshake it is.
Rule number three: don’t be a hero,
says Emm. I look at her, confused. She raises an eyebrow at me:
If you could really eat fries, mac and cheese, and a chocolate milkshake in one meal, you would not be in a treatment center, would you? Don’t bite off more than you can chew.
Literally.
One challenge at a time. Start with the fries. Next week, conquer the shake. Be kind to yourself; you have six meals a day and seven days of those to complete.
Six meals a day for seven days. I am exhausted after just the first lunch. But Emm nudges me forward and we make our way through them.
One circled option at a time. Other insight:
Be realistic. There is no “lighter” option in a place like this. The meals are planned and portioned so that all options are calorically equivalent. Everything will be scary and large. Everything will make you gain weight. So green beans or ice cream, choose what you are most likely to swallow, and maybe enjoy?
Which brings us to rule number five:
Use the resources you have, like the schedule. No high-volume lunch on oatmeal breakfast day. No saucy dishes before yoga; you do not want to have acid reflux in your downward-facing dog.
She then shares the biggest secret of all:
And if you really hit a wall, you can always strike the whole lunch or dinner out and opt for a sub meal.
A sub meal! That’s right! We have, at all times, three substitute meal options to choose from: SUBSTITUTE MEAL A: A ham and cheese sandwich, with pretzels, and yogurt and fruit.
SUBSTITUTE MEAL B: A peanut butter and jelly sandwich, with pretzels, and yogurt and fruit.
And Sub Meal C, I discover, is what I was served for my first meal here: A whole-wheat bagel with hummus, carrots, and yogurt and fruit.
You only get seven sub meals a week, though, so use them wisely,
Emm warns. But I am not listening, holding on to Sub Meal C with my sanity.
It had been a paralyzing first meal. A terrifying, cataclysmic experience. It had seemed impossible. It had not been. Now it seems like a dream.
The vegetarian option for lunch on Tuesday is a black bean burger. Sub Meal C.
For dinner: a cheesy baked potato, topped with sour cream. Sub Meal C. On to Wednesday, where the nonmeat option is a tomato basil flatbread. I could swallow that. Dinner, however, is spaghetti marinara. Cue my third Sub Meal C.
By the time I reach lunch on Friday, however, I have run out of sub meals.
Reevaluate your choices. This is not sustainable,
says Emm.
Why not? I protest.
The voice in my head argues desperately: Sub Meal C is a well-balanced meal! It contains fat, carbohydrates, vegetables, and protein. Reliably familiar and bland. If the purpose of food is nutrition for survival then I can just survive on that!
There! I have cured my anorexia on my fourth day at 17 Swann Street. But even I know it cannot be this simple. I turn to Emm for help. Emm?
But Emm is circling her own menu options, deliberately leaving me on my own. The rules are clear: Only seven sub meals. I try not to panic.
Most of the other girls have already finished and submitted their forms. The rest are nearly done. I look at the clock: I have four minutes left.
Animal crackers and cocoa to drink. If they can do this I can. I flip back to Tuesday’s menu and circle the black bean burger for lunch. I skip the baked potato that evening but select Wednesday night’s spaghetti. I race against the mounting anxiety. I reach Sunday. It reaches its peak.
Suddenly, it dissipates as I almost laugh out loud at my last dessert. My options are: Apple crumble OR
Animal crackers and chocolate pudding I can take a hint. I make my selection and submit my menus immediately. Quick, before my brain catches on and I chicken out.
The nutritionist leaves with the forms and I realize what I have done. This week, I will be eating food. Not just any food: mac and cheese. And fries, a burger, spaghetti, chocolate pudding. This may be catastrophic.
Too late now; the forms are gone with the nutritionist. The girls move back to community space. I want to thank Emm for her help, but her spot is empty.
35
They had arrived early. Matthias checked in. They watched his suitcase roll away on the carpet; he would pick it up in the States.
He turned to Anna:
Breakfast?
Yes, breakfast. Always breakfast, her favorite meal of the day. Their last meal together until she followed him to America in a few weeks.
There had to be a Paul, somewhere. There was always a Paul somewhere. They found a Paul, she found a table while he pulled out his last coins. He did not have to ask her what she wanted: a pain au chocolat, and one for him. Deux cafés: allongé for her, crème with two sugars for him.
They had their last breakfast Chez Paul together in Charles de Gaulle Airport, Terminal 2E. Cream on his lip and his hand on her knee. She kissed both and finished the crumbs.
36
I remember that breakfast,
Matthias says, his hand on my knee.
Thursday evening, visiting hours. This time we are in my room.
I remember that breakfast too, just not how it tasted. I watch myself eating, licking, loving the pain au chocolat like watching myself on film.
Anorexia is not present in that memory; I could still eat and enjoy food. I could still recognize the texture of light, flaky pastry on my tongue. I could still savor good chocolate spread. Now that memory tastes bittersweet. Actually, it does not taste like anything. I have no taste buds anymore.
After years of restriction, my brain, with effort, can identify three flavors: salt, sweet, and cotton. All three disagreeable, but cotton is the one I fear least. So I choose it every time, by default, to give my anxious mind some respite. Broth-based soups, green salads, popcorn, and apples. No pleasure but no pain at least.
I am told that some taste may be recovered after years of healthy, varied eating. The caveat being that that would require years of healthy, varied eating.
Well, I have my first week of that set. I tell Matthias about meal planning. He looks at me, incredulous:
You’ve got to be joking.
I feel the same way.
But tonight I also feel, perhaps prematurely, confident. I announce to Matthias:
When all this is over we’ll have breakfast, Chez Paul. Pains au chocolat and coffee.
But he does not take part in my reverie. He looks out at the magnolia tree.
Matthias, is something wrong?
Still looking out, he says:
No, Anna, nothing’s wrong. I am happy you listened to Emm.
But …
His hand leaves my knee and he speaks again, suddenly angry:
But I bought black bean burger patties for you, remember? Months ago! They’re in the freezer, right next to the frozen meals that do not contain dairy or meat.
I used to beg you to eat them! I even used to set them on the counter before work. All you had to do was put one in the microwave and press the button, Anna.
I did—
Don’t lie to me! I know you did not. I take the trash out every night, remember? You used to throw them away.
He had never confronted me. I cannot think of what to say.
And every time we went out I would order a basket of fries just in case, just in case you would eat one. One fry, Anna! Or one of my pizza crusts!
His voice is turning hoarse.
Our fridge is full of yogurt! We have cereal and oatmeal and toast! I used to beg you to eat! I used to fight you to eat!
We stopped fighting!
Yes! Because I gave up.