Out of the corner of my eye, I see Valerie’s hand move. It lifts from her lap and rests hesitantly on the spoon to her right. I pick up my own spoon and with the other hand, slowly peel the plastic wrap off my bowl.
Village after village, plot after plot of banana trees. Costa Rica is known for its bananas, you know. We stopped for some and two shots of coffee from a small cart by the side of the road.
She reaches for the plastic wrap.
It was a quarter past ten when we began driving up the narrow road to the volcano. The whole mountain looked like it was on fire in the morning sun. I had my sunglasses on and my hand up to shield my eyes. It took me a while to realize there were no more banana trees.
I make it a point to address the group, not Valerie specifically.
Instead, a carpet of red across the entire mountainside! I could not believe it! The volcano was completely covered with strawberries!
She pours the granola in a single shot onto her yogurt and stirs. I take a bite from my own bowl and continue my story:
Someone later told us that volcanic soil was so fertile that the strawberries that grew there were the ripest and most delicious you could find. We drove past dozens of farmers selling giant crates of them from the trunks of their 1960s cars. Matthias wanted to stop and buy some for me, but we had to reach the crater first.
We did and it was incredible, but the best part was the way down. He bought me an entire crate of strawberries! Oh, strawberries are my favorite fruit.
Valerie takes one bite, then another. I keep telling the story. Whenever she pauses, I remember a detail I had forgotten.
They were so brightly red that we parked the car on the side of the road, sat right there on the grass, and gorged ourselves. They were the juiciest strawberries I have ever had in my life.
I notice Emm watching me, her face expressionless. She knows what I am doing, but I cannot tell if she approves. She looks back at her own bowl and sprinkles more cinnamon on her yogurt.
Every bit of the story I tell is real. The volcano, the crater, the strawberries. Our sticky hands, forearms, and chins. Our grass-and-berry-stained clothes. The fact that for a day, in those strawberry fields in Costa Rica, I was not a girl with anorexia. I was a girl blissfully happy and in love and eating strawberries.
I contemplate my finished midmorning snack and that distant memory. I find it difficult to reconcile the two, and the two versions of me. Valerie and her pink yogurt. Matthias and his crate. Is there really a volcano in Costa Rica completely covered with strawberries?
Valerie takes one final bite and puts her spoon down. I am happy. Emm smiles, or I imagine she does. The minute hand hits ten thirty.
Midmorning snack is over. We all head to community space.
Dear V.,
You did it. Please don’t stop.
A.
54
The rain does not stop until just after dinner, in that melancholy half hour of dusk. Matthias takes me outside on the wet porch. We watch the sky change colors. The smell of clean, wet earth is everywhere, and the magnolia tree. It is too lovely an evening to mention CPR training or Valerie.
Rita, the cook, waves goodbye as she walks toward the parking lot.
Ciao, Anna! I’ll see you and the girls all tomorrow, at lunch.
Matthias and I wave back. A demain, Rita, ciao! Then just the two of us again.
Do you remember Costa Rica?
I ask Matthias out of the blue.
Of course I remember Costa Rica. It was only a few months ago.
It could not have been. Was it really?
It feels like a long time ago.
Matthias says nothing, but I reminisce:
The whole trip was magical. I was telling the girls today about the strawberries in Arenal. You bought me an entire crate, remember? They were so delicious and red— I remember.
Flat response.
I am missing something.
Is something wrong, Matthias?
No, everything’s fine.
Please tell me.
He sits up and looks at me:
It was a beautiful trip, Anna, but it was also very difficult. Do you remember why I bought a whole crate?
Because I love strawberries.
No, because they were all you would eat. Do you remember your legs giving out while we were hiking up to the crater?
I had forgotten that part.
Do you remember the crater?
Not very well.
Anna, you had fainted.
His voice is edgy.
Do you remember the pool?
I do not.
You never went there. It was right by our room and the most pristine beach was less than a minute away, but you were too cold to wear a bathing suit, Anna. The sea breeze made you cry.
I had not even walked on the beach.
Do you remember the all-you-can-eat buffet at the resort? You only ate the fruits, for four days, Anna. You did not even look at the other foods. Do you remember the beach bar?
I do not.
Do you remember the gym?
I do.
He looks very sad.
I remember Costa Rica. I remember seeing an old lady walk toward me and realizing it was you. I remember the day you finally wore a dress and the little boy who saw you and cried. I remember stopping at every fruit and vegetable stand I could find. I remember not being able to sleep at night, listening to your heart, praying it wouldn’t stop. I remember Costa Rica, Anna. Do you?
55
Matthias is long gone, and the evening snack. I feel terribly nauseated; both it and my conversation with him are not sitting well in my stomach. I carry the feeling and my thoughts to bed. It takes me hours to fall asleep.
I wake up too soon. The nausea is still there, but that is not what woke me; a rainbow of colorful lights is streaming into the Van Gogh room. I look out the window for their source, onto the narrow parking lot, and my heart sinks as I see the whirling lights of an ambulance creeping in.
A stretcher is wheeled out of the house. I recognize the sweatshirt. Valerie.
I cannot tell if her eyes are open, much less if she is conscious. She is deathly still, but then shakes her head softly to a question she is asked. I breathe a sigh of relief.
I want her to look up at the window, see me looking down. I want to wave. I want to shout out:
Valerie! It’s all right!
A promise I have no right to make. Instead, I keep quiet, unable to break the heavy silence of 3:00 A.M.
I watch the team of professionals buckle her in, cowardly behind the window. I am so scared. She must be terrified, and feeling so alone. The ritual unfolds and I hope Valerie can guess that I am attending. The ambulance floods the side of the house, the parking lot, the tree with rainbow light.
Valerie tried to kill herself on CPR training day. The thought gnaws at me like heartburn. A few minutes later the ambulance creeps out of the parking lot and turns the curb.
In the hours that follow 3:17 A.M., I get angry at myself. For having been too scared to let Valerie know I was there. For not having told her it was all right to have soiled her pants and to have cried. For not having comforted her better after dinner. But what would I have said?
That she was not weak for not being perfect? That her father loved her anyway? That she needed him more than she needed to protect him? That she deserved cake on her birthday?
I should have let her know I was there at 3:17, watching from the Van Gogh window. I did not and it is now quarter to five. Almost time for vitals and weights.
Valerie’s notebook and her father’s letter are on her spot on the couch. I pick them up and put them in her cubby for safekeeping till she comes back.
A few hours later, breakfast again. Served with anxious gossip this time. Someone says Valerie got hold of scissors. Someone else says it was a knife. I do not want to know; it feels wrong to speculate about the logistics of suicide. I do not mention her father, her accident, or that I saw the ambulance overnight.
After breakfast and the walk I write two hurried letters. The first I copy out three times: