She tries again:
Has Matthias been visiting every evening?
Yes.
You two seem very close.
We are.
We are Matthias and Anna. Anna and Matthias. He eats the olives I do not like. I always take his pizza crust.
You followed him here from France, correct?
Yes.
He would have done the same for me.
A big change.
He was worth it.
He still is. No one has ever loved me like him. Or made me feel so happy and safe. Mentally, I reaffirm my hatred for one-person beds.
Matthias is the best thing that ever happened to me. I am the luckiest girl in the world.
He is lucky too.
No. He is a man who must drive for forty-five minutes every day to see his wife, who lives in a treatment center for anorexia while he lives in an empty apartment. Who comes home to an empty fridge, an empty bed, eats cereal for dinner, from the box. Who does not have children, nor is likely to, because his wife cannot conceive.
No, he is not lucky, but I do not want to argue with the therapist. Monday morning and my second week are not starting off to a good start.
I look out the window. The magnolia tree is there. So am I, I think bitterly, still. It is still raining; it has been since this morning. That had meant no morning walk. Perhaps that is why I am so irritable with the sweet therapist today.
I’m sorry about the rain,
Katherine says. I turn to her, surprised.
You must have been looking forward to the walk.
Very much.
I do not have much else,
I say, surprised at my own response.
Nothing to look forward to?
she presses,
but I have closed up again. Not today, Katherine.
She gets the message. We both turn back to the rain.
My father and I used to walk our dog every morning,
I surprise myself again.
Have you spoken to him lately?
Not since I came here.
Perhaps you should give him a call.
Perhaps, but I will not give her the satisfaction of a response. Besides, it is too late today; staff already has our phones. Perhaps I will call Papa tomorrow on the morning walk.
I calculate the time difference; it will be midafternoon in Paris. Yes, I just might. I breathe out a little easier. And chess with Matthias tonight.
43
At 9:10 A.M. on my second Tuesday here, Direct Care walks into community space:
Who’s ready for the morning walk?
I am, phone in hand. Emm is already at the door. Most of the other girls are too; Sarah with her sunglasses on, Julia twirling a basketball.
Not Valerie; she remains on the couch, a blanket draped on her thin legs. She is writing, again. I observe she rarely joins us on the walks.
But I have no time to reflect any further:
Come on, ladies, let’s roll!
Thirty minutes of freedom, not one to waste. Emm and Direct Care lead the way.
As soon as we are off the property, I call my father, seven time zones away. I silently wish the phone to ring faster. Allez Papa, allez.
He picks up by the third ring:
Allo?
Papa?
Anna!
And a bark in the background. I smile: Leopold.
How are you, Papa?
I thought they took your phone away!
They do, most of the day, but I can have it in the mornings and evenings.
He does not mention the dozens and dozens of his phone calls that I missed, saw later and never returned since I was admitted into treatment. Instead, he asks:
How are you feeling? Are you all right? How is the center? Are the doctors any good? Are there any patients your age?
He stops. Then in a strangled voice:
I am so happy you called.
My heart tightens.
Me too, Papa.
I miss you more than I realized. I am so sorry I did not call. I was stupid and angry and ashamed of being here, and I know all these excuses do not count.
Papa, how are you, really?
So much better now that you called. Tell me everything, Anna. Where are you right now?
I smile. He will like this one:
On a walk. We get one every morning.
Ho ho! Lucky girl. Leopold and I are on a short walk too. I just came home from work.
What color is your sky?
That purple gray you like. And yours?
Bright blue after yesterday’s rain.
I walk him past the little houses of the neighborhood with their pastel doors. I point out blooming flowers, changing leaves, progress in the vegetable patch. I greet the dogs and rabbits and mothers pushing strollers we cross on our way. I pretend I am elsewhere, on the sidewalk he is walking on with Leopold.
Then I begin to walk him through my first week at 17 Swann Street, but I have barely started when I see the house reappear.
Je dois raccrocher. I am sorry, Papa. My thirty minutes are up.
It’s all right, Anna.
Pause. Then,
Anna?
Oui, Papa?
Silence on the other end.
Me too, Papa.
He says:
Have a good day. Take care of yourself, d’accord? And call me tomorrow at same time?
Of course, Papa.
We hang up.
44
He never woke her, but she would hear him shuffle around the next room clumsily, inevitably stubbing his toe against the bed at the same angle every day. He would curse under his breath, trying not to wake her mother, search for his walking shoes and tie his laces in the dark. Then he would peek into her room. Anna would already be up.
As would Leopold, waiting for them both anxiously by the door. Shoes, and often coats, scarves, and mittens on, they would tiptoe out of the house.
The city and time were theirs when they went on their morning walks. Those often began in a silence they had never had to agree on. Quiet breaths and footsteps, his pace matched to hers. Neither would speak before they had turned the corner onto Vaugirard. He did most of the talking then, usually, leading the conversation and walk. Most of the time he spoke of mundane, weekday things and told her random stories.
Today, at the market, make sure you get two artichokes and a few lemons. Do not buy the strawberries. I know you will want to, but wait a week longer. They will taste much better then.
Did you reach the part where Phileas Fogg reaches Bombay? Non? You have been reading too slowly. I traveled to Bombay—they call it Mumbai now—and Calcutta, once.…
On their walks, he taught her to smell the rain in the air, to walk slower, to look up. She learned to recognize the different types of clouds, the trees, elegant fa?ades that lined the streets of this city she loved, and all the shortcuts.
At six fifteen they would circle back and stop by the boulangerie, now open, that he liked. The baguette for breakfast, merci. Quick quick, they would hurry. The others at home would be up and waiting for them hungrily.
He would stop nonetheless to greet the gardienne as she swept the entrance of the building, pull yesterday’s crumbs out of his pocket to leave in the feed for her birds. Then they would take the stairs, a race of dog, girl, and man. The first to reach the top won the prize: the crusty end of the baguette.
Somehow, Anna and Leopold always won.
45
My heart feels heavy as I hang up. The walk is over, Papa is gone. The girls linger in the living room while midmorning snack is being set. Some sleep, some read, some color, some knit, some have already begun to wilt. Direct Care collects all the phones for the day and now I am really alone.
I hear a soft scratch outside on the porch. I look at the clock: ten to ten. I jump to my feet. How could I have forgotten?
Girls! The mailman is here!
Emm has already opened the door and taken the letters from his hands. She brings them in and starts distributing them to fidgety, impatient girls. She gives me one too, to my surprise. Who could be writing me? The plain envelope has no stamp or sender’s address but right in the middle, my name!
I am ridiculously giddy. Someone has written me! I unseal the envelope carefully.
Dear A.,