The Girls at 17 Swann Street

She went to sleep and was happy for an entire night. But the next morning she woke up at five with a nauseating stomachache.

The boy she had married was still sleeping next to her. On her finger, the delicate ring. What if he woke up and realized his mistake? That he deserved better? That she was not what he had signed up for? The ring was glistening rainbows.

His sweatshirt on a chair, her pink trainers by the door. She slipped both on and snuck out. She began walking briskly in some, any direction, across the park, beyond the park.

Matthias’s wife could be nothing less than perfect: smart, beautiful, thin. Anna wore trainers, no makeup, big book lover’s glasses, and her hair in a messy bun. He loved that about her, now, but would he still in a year? In a year, in his eyes, would she still be “Anna, the love of my life”?

The stomachache worsened. She thought of Philippe. Who had found her pretty, just not enough. Smart and elegant, but not enough. Philippe, who had told her “I love you” and “Do you really want that slice of cake?”

She had cut her lettuce into smaller and smaller bites, let her hair down, lowered her voice, straightened her back. But she had never met his mother or licked ice cream with him, fit in his mold.

Philippe had not loved her. Matthias did, and she him. He made her blissfully happy. He deserved to be happy. He deserved smart, beautiful, thin. She would be smart, beautiful, thin for him. She would be the wife he deserved. Matthias would be proud of her. She was out of breath.

The wind had picked up and the sky was overcast. Anna stopped and looked around. She did not know this neighborhood, had no key, money, or phone. She had not realized that her walk had turned into a run.





52


Thursday, fresh start. To prove it, the sky rains, washing away yesterday’s angst and heat. I can hear the droplets tipping and tapping at the window of my Van Gogh room. I have just returned from weights and vitals, discarded my flower-print robe, and now, back in bed and in my pajamas, close my eyes. This reminds me of Paris.

Today will be a good day, I decide. I shower. Peach blush and perfume. I come down the stairs early for the occasion: coffee, breakfast, and the jumbles. And art class this afternoon.

None of the girls must be in the living room yet; no sound except for the rain. I walk in and jump: Valerie! Valerie, standing in the middle of the room.

Valerie, not moving, feet apart, in a daze. At first I do not understand. Then I smell it, see it, feel nauseated: Valerie has soiled her pants.

Valerie, sweet Valerie, who was so kind to me on my first day. Valerie, whose handwriting is elegant and cursive, standing in a brown mess. I am ashamed for her and look away. Whom should I call? Direct Care? What should I say? I wish Emm were here. Or Maman.

I run out for help then return as quickly as I can, scared to leave her alone too long. An unnecessary precaution; she is still in the same spot, gazing blankly at the wall.

She does not seem to notice I am here, or the smell, or Direct Care trying to clean her up. The look on her face turns my insides cold: nothing. Valerie is not there. Direct Care’s sympathy itself is half-hearted. She is slightly overwhelmed this morning; she has breakfast to orchestrate, medication to distribute, and an important announcement to make.

Today is CPR training day, ladies,



she tells us half an hour later. We are all seated, Valerie’s pants are clean, and breakfast has finally been served.

In between your sessions, you may notice staff practicing resuscitation techniques. This is just procedural, don’t worry. We do this once a year.



The girls seem disconcerted, except for Emm, and Valerie. Valerie does not seem to hear or care. She is chewing and swallowing mechanically. She does not look up. No one knows about her little accident except Direct Care and me.

And Direct Care has other things to think about. I, however, am a mess. My breakfast is too; I spill my Cheerios on the floor. Valerie and the CPR training dolls. The latter are displayed flagrantly, unsightly, on the living room floor for us to see. I notice that the inflatable mannequins are fatter than most of us.

The safety measure is disturbing. Why is such training even needed? Naively, hopefully, I reason:

No one could die here.

Nonetheless, my earlier confidence in today being a good day wavers. And I can still hear the rain outside. My heart sinks: No morning walk.

But, just as breakfast is being cleared, the pitter-patter stops. I look out the window, incredulous. So does Direct Care. The rain has stopped!

Well how about that? You lucky, lucky girls. Looks like you’ll get your morning walk after all.



We dash for our walking shoes and to the front door before she and the weather change their minds.





53


We return from the morning walk, stepping on the lawn, just as the sky begins to cloud again. The first few droplets fall. Direct Care and Emm hurriedly lead the way back in. The rest of us follow close behind, Papa and I chatting along, in French, about trivial, mundane, pleasant things across the ocean and the phone.

I am just about to hang up and step onto the porch, when the tiniest splash of red catches my eye underneath the damp grass. I stop, curious, then drop to my knees and lift the thin green blades carefully.

Strawberries! Two little strawberries, smaller than the size of my thumb!

Papa!



I call excitedly into the phone through which he had been walking with me.

Papa! Papa! The first strawberries of the year!



Julia, who had been strolling behind me, nearly trips over my outstretched feet. The other girls have already gone inside.

Emm! Come back out here! Quick!



They all do, and Direct Care. Even Sarah, but not Valerie. She had not come on the walk.

Sarah gushes over the little gems with me, much to my surprise; I would have thought her too glamorous to get excited over something as trivial. Julia makes fun of me but kneels to look at the strawberries anyway. Emm rolls her eyes and goes back in, but I know she is secretly impressed.

Direct Care goes inside as well; she has a midmorning snack to prepare. As soon as she does Julia plucks a strawberry and eats it, winking at Sarah and me.

The other girls humor me to varying degrees, but my father truly makes my day: thousands of miles away, he cheers and applauds the beginning of summer on the phone.

My name is Anna, and I have just remembered that I love summer and strawberries. Their presence reassures me; that they can grow, even here, at 17 Swann Street.

Midmorning snacks are already set on the table when I walk back in. I hand my phone to Direct Care and take my place next to Valerie.

Yogurt and granola. Again. Vanilla. Again. Valerie’s bowl is light pink. She asked for strawberry. She always does, I realize just now. Valerie, the only girl who asks for strawberry yogurt in this house.

She is quiet. She always is, but she is also very pale. My hand touches her shoulder. She jumps. I should not have.

Sorry, Valerie!



I pull back. Then in a lower voice:

Is everything all right?



No, it is not. It is most obviously not. She does not reply or look at me, her eyes on the bowl of pink yogurt.

I feel sick,



she whispers low enough that Direct Care cannot hear.

I believe her. I know that feeling. I watch her hold back her tears. Direct Care must not notice, and Valerie must not refuse this snack.

Desperate, I look around the table. Emm. What would Emm do? What had Emm done for me when I had panicked at my first meal?

Did I ever tell you about the time Matthias and I rented a car and drove across Costa Rica?



I have no idea why I chose that memory, or how I had dared voice it out loud, but everyone looks up from their bowls and at me, including Valerie.

No turning back.

We wanted to see the Arenal Volcano, a three-hour drive from the coast. We knew we had to get to the crater before eleven, because after that the fumes would cloud the peak and there would be nothing to see, so we left around seven o’clock in the morning and drove across a postcard-perfect countryside.

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