I am not good at talking to people face-to-face. I communicate much better with a pen. I don’t know why. I guess I just feel distant from everyone else in real life.
I have been meaning to write you again since the day you arrived. I can’t believe it’s been a week already. I wanted to give you time to settle in, then I chickened out.
I’d still like to be friends, if you would. If not, that’s okay.
Anyway, today is Tuesday …
The letter is a short and neat page long. Valerie’s handwriting is beautiful. She asks about the morning walk. How I am settling in. If I like to read and what. If I want, she can lend me some books.
Just the right degree of personal, just the right degree of formal. Valerie signs her letter “V.” I like it. I will sign my response to her “A.”
I do not know why she chose to write to me, of all the other girls in this place. Valerie who lives in her books and notebooks and does not go on the walks. Who speaks so rarely and quietly that when she does, it is always an event. Whatever her reasons, yes I do want to be friends. I take a sheet of paper from the communal pile and write: Dear V.,
Today is still Tuesday, and thank you very much for your letter. I know what you mean about feeling distant from people. I feel the same way.
I cannot believe it has been a week either! You were right about the girls. And thank you for sharing the rules of the house with me.
I am reading Rilke now. I found a book of his in the library. Do you know Rilke? Do you like poetry?
I sign:
Sincerely,
A.
I place my letter in the mailbox on the porch. It seems the most appropriate place. This will be how we conduct our secret letter exchange. After lunch, I sneak a look in the box, wondering if the letter is there.
It is not! In its place, to my joy: Dear A.,
I do not usually care for poetry, but I think maybe I don’t understand it. Perhaps if you explained one or two of Rilke’s poems to me?
I haven’t been reading much lately. The medication I’m on makes it difficult. I’ve been having trouble concentrating in general, but I’ve been writing a lot, so it’s not that bad.
V.
Dear V.,
It must be an anorexia thing, this difficulty concentrating. I have the same problem, but poetry helps. Rilke’s are short and simple enough that I can get through them easily.
Would you like me to give you one of his poems, before dinner perhaps?
A.
After dinner:
Dear A.,
You were right. It’s magical.
Dinner was particularly difficult. The poem helped a lot.
V.
I am glad.
We are in community space again, sitting in post-dinner lull. Waiting for Matthias, I chat with the other girls. Valerie is in her usual spot. She does not take part in the conversation, but she is not isolated. Somehow, she is part of the group. Every girl here has her place.
She looks up from her writing and meets my gaze. I smile. She looks down again.
Doorbell. And chorus:
Anna! Matthias is here!
46
Ninety minutes later, we come down the stairs to much hustle and bustle about the house. It is almost time for the late-evening snack, but on the table, there is nothing set.
Where is everybody? In community space, on couches, cushions, and the floor. Even the nurses and Direct Care. The television is on.
Where have you two been?
Emm squeaks.
You’re missing the opening ceremony!
What?
The Olympics!
But that is not until August,
a perplexed Matthias says.
Dude, we know!
Julia exclaims. I almost laugh out loud; by the look on his face, I gather Matthias has never been called a dude.
These are the old ones: the 2012 Olympics! We’re watching them again.
What an odd thing to do.
Why?
I ask.
To prepare ourselves for August!
Why else.
It was Emm’s idea,
Sarah says,
and Direct Care said we could.
There is something deeply sad about that sentence, spoken by the mother of a two-year-old. But she is leaning forward excitedly, center seat on the big couch beside Emm. Emm, I have not seen this excited about anything since I moved in here; she is staring at the big television screen in the living room intensely, remote control in hand. She turns the volume up over our voices to hear the commentator’s remarks. On the other side of her, even Valerie is looking up at the screen from her notebook.
Sit down, you two!
Julia commands, bouncing her basketball from hand to hand.
We’ll tell you what you missed.
I’m afraid my time here is up,
says Matthias, glancing at the clock above us.
I’ll just leave you ladies to your Olympics and bow out gracefully.
I walk my husband to the door and see-you-tomorrow kiss him.
You’ll tell me how it ends?
he jokes.
Of course. Can you handle the suspense?
I return to our bizarre little movie night and sit cross-legged on the floor. The girls are on the edges of their seats, talking, pointing at the screen. The living room, uncharacteristically, is actually bubbling with excitement. I can feel it creeping up on me too; I have not felt such a buzz in a while.
Here’s the plan, ladies,
Direct Care says, her serious Direct Care face on.
I will set the evening snacks on the table, we’ll pause the ceremony to eat, be as quick about it as we can, then meet back here. How does that sound?
Hilarious, and fine. We inhale our evening snacks. Yes, even I, even Valerie. No one as fast as Emm, though; she is the first back in community space. Within ten minutes we all are too, watching the parade on the screen, gushing and gossiping like a bunch of adolescents. It feels nice. But odd.
Why are we acting like a bunch of adolescents at a sleepover on a Friday night? Why are we watching a rerun of a four-year-old ceremony? I look at the women around me; sick women in a treatment center. And myself. Surely none of them, or I, would be doing this in real life.
Then I get it: real life. For the moment, this is it. Our lives are nutrition, therapy, sleep. Our freedom is confined to our choice of the kind of cereal we eat. The perimeter of our world lines that of the house in which we are living. In this place the weekly schedule is on the communal board, unchanging. Its highlights include cottage cheese on Tuesdays and the occasional outing on Saturday, apple cinnamon tea, the morning walk, and yoga on Mondays and Fridays.
I look at Emm and see the past four years. My other passion is the Olympics. No wonder she is excited. No wonder we all are, by a rerun of a parade.
Gymnasts and runners and triathletes wave flags and circle the stadium. They blow kisses at the camera, at us, on the other side of the screen.
I remember every bit of this parade!
exclaims Emm, all fidgety.
Pay attention, everyone! The Americans are up next.
And the Americans parade next.
That’s Michael Phelps! Anna, see him? Michael Phelps!
He is gorgeous. I say so.
I met him that year,
Emm throws in casually,
at the trials. He was nice.
The whole room turns sharply toward her. Punctuation marks pop through the air. Questions are catapulted.
You met Michael Phelps?
You tried out for the Olympics? Did you get in? What sport?
What did you say to him? Was he as dreamy as he looks?
And cruise director Emm blushes profoundly red.
It was so embarrassing: I stuttered, but he was really friendly. I have a picture of us together if you want to see.
Of course we want, we beg to see it! And for more details.
I was trying out as a gymnast,
she explains.
Actually, it was my third time.
She pauses as she and everyone sigh in unison at a close-up of Phelps. Then we turn back to her.
So what happened? Did you make the cut?
Emm’s face changes. Silly, hasty question.
No. I came here instead.