We can all hear the nurse’s voice.
You may need stitches. Let me see. Pull up your sleeve.
Suddenly, her voice is silent. For a full minute, then,
Emm, thank you for your help, now please leave. Go back to community space.
I am surprised not to hear her object to this. Emm returns with a look on her face I have never seen before.
Are you okay?
I ask.
She nods.
Is she?
She hesitates. Then, as if she were dropping something very heavy, she whispers:
She cuts.
Dermatitis artefacta. Skin lesions, ulcers, bruises, scars. Valerie, placid Valerie, cuts herself. How could any of us have guessed?
Her possessions are still on the floor, but my hands are still stained with her blood. Emm picks them up before I ask her and sets them in Valerie’s spot.
The letter she was reading sits, face up, staring me in the face. My curiosity wins over my well-bred discretion. I do not touch it, but from where I sit: Dear Valerie,
Happy birthday, sweetheart. I’ll be in town this weekend to celebrate.
I look away. I should not be reading this. She had not mentioned her birthday.
Soon, Valerie, good as new, returns. I am allowed to wash my hands. Back in community space, I hesitate: what had I been doing before this?
My letter to Valerie. My blank sheet of paper. Suddenly I have nothing to say; Valerie’s hands put yesterday’s Olympics and this morning’s breakfast into perspective. Whatever I write now will be insignificant. But I had promised I would. I think of how happy her letter had made me only a short while ago.
I could write this girl a thousand superficial letters, except I know her now. I know it is her birthday and I know she cuts. Pen to paper: Dear V.,
That paper cut must really sting. I hope it heals quickly.
May I ask whose sweater you are wearing? Does it mean something to you?
You do not have to answer my questions. I know they are personal. I would just like to get to know you a bit better. If you are willing. I like having a pen pal too.
A.
49
She cut herself, again. Stupid apple, stupid fingers always in the way. Anna reached for a paper towel to blot the blood. It seemed to be gushing out a little too profusely for such a tiny cut. Lately those had been taking longer than usual to heal.
She looked, frustrated, at the half-diced apple on her plate. It was covered in blood and now inedible. She would have to start all over again.
She prided herself in how finely she could cut an apple into little pieces. The smaller they were, the more bites she got per apple, the longer an apple lasted.
She reached for another paper towel and wondered if they had any Band-Aids left.
50
No response from Valerie all day and it is now time for dinner. I think I pushed too hard. We form two lines at Direct Care’s instructions to walk to the house next door.
I make it a point not to stand next to her. Space. My way of saying that she has the right to be left alone within her boundaries.
She comes to me instead and slips a note in my hand just as we reach the dining room. I lag behind the others and open it; I simply cannot wait till after dinner.
Dear A.,
I’m sorry I didn’t write back. I’ve been in my head all day.
The sweatshirt belongs to my father. He’s coming to Saint Louis this weekend.
She does trust me. I stare thankfully at those two brief lines.
Anna! Everyone’s waiting for you!
I hurry in and take my seat. Everyone else has already taken theirs.
Finally, Anna! Dinner is getting cold, and it is absolutely delizioso today!
“Delizioso,” of course, is a debatable term, but Rita is in such a good mood that I do not challenge her. I even dare hope she is right.
Of course, that hope promptly dissipates as soon as dinner is revealed: a heaping plate of spaghetti marinara, with basil and mozzarella cheese. On the side, a garden salad concealed under a hill of cheese and doused in olive oil. Of course. I rue my overconfidence at meal planning last Thursday, and do not even try to recall what I had circled for dessert in my folly.
Valerie’s plate is set on the other table. I am disappointed. Not that we would have been able to talk even if we had been seated together. Every girl for herself tonight, and the pasta. Even Emm does not pull out the charades. I focus on surviving the salad and its dressing first. Then the spaghetti, the cheese, the sauce. One bite at a time. I keep my mind firmly elsewhere. Done.
And then, spumoni.
One of the girls is crying and Valerie needs her frozen orange. Julia and Sarah fare a little better; non-anorexics: different demons. They try to lighten the mood with a few jokes. The rest of us listen gratefully. We all wait until the last girl makes it to the apple cinnamon tea.
No one dies, and somehow, the hands on the clock hit seven fifteen. We lie to Rita about dinner being wonderful and walk back in the sweltering heat.
On the way back, I find myself next to Emm.
I’m proud of you,
she says.
Just that and just out of the blue. I turn to her:
Thank you. I did not think I could do it.
You can. Just don’t stop.
I want to tell her, You too. But we reach the house and I have infringed on enough privacy for one day.
Back in community space, my hand in my pocket feeling Valerie’s letter, I wonder whether I should write back or just talk to her. A glance in her direction: she is staring out the window, her big squirrel eyes vague. I walk up to her; I can always write if she turns me away.
Are you okay?
She does not look it, nor does she look at me. Her chin quivers; response enough. But she remains quiet, and I hesitate. Perhaps she just wants to be alone.
I turn around, but she blurts out,
He doesn’t know I am in treatment.
I sit down. Exhale. Of course he does not know; anorexics are selfless lovers and masters at painting rosy lies.
He thinks I came here for a job.
She shows me his letter, now with little bloodstains across on the top corner. He signed it: Always proud of you, Valerie.
I love you.
Dad I hand the letter back to her, unsure of what to say. Rather, unsure she wants to hear it. I finally do:
He deserves to know, and I think you need him now.
I look at her. Emaciated and so terribly pale. She has not had a visitor or left the house since I came here.
Valerie is quiet. I wish she would talk to me.
Please tell him where you are. He will understand.
Faux pas. I can see I crossed a line.
Not every father does,
she says.
No, not every father does.
Valerie does not look angry at me for my transgression. She just looks tired and sad.
I was always an A student. I am an Ivy League grad. I am my father’s perfect, only daughter. Tell me, what do you think he’ll say when he finds out about this?
“This” is anorexia, and 17 Swann Street, but she also pulls her sleeve up, just enough for me to see the start of a thick and engorged red scar. The skin along her entire arm is mangled. She covers it and whispers jaggedly:
His perfect girl lies, cuts, and cannot eat. Why on earth would he be proud of me?
I understand. I think of the men I tried so hard to be perfect for. Philippe, pretending not to know me in public as he stood by his beautiful wife. Matthias, taking my hand and introducing me, proudly:
Have you met Anna, the love of my life?
Valerie is not looking at me anymore, away in her mind, out the window.
51
They were married. They were married! What a cold and happy day. They cut through the frozen park and raced the six flights of stairs up to the flat. They spent the evening talking, playing music, making love. Making plans for the coffee they would have the next morning. They would have it in bed. Then they would have breakfast: eggs, sunny-side up for him, scrambled for her, basil, tomato, oregano. She would make those while he went downstairs to get the baguette.