The Girls at 17 Swann Street

Dear V.,

I do not know where to send this letter, or if you even want to hear from me, but you need to know that I was watching when the ambulance came.

You do not have to come back, or reply. I will understand if you do not. I will save your spot on the couch anyway.

A.

Three copies in three envelopes; there are three hospitals in this area. I address each letter to one of them; I do not know where she is.

To the Attention of Ms. Valerie …

It hits me like a punch. I also do not know Valerie’s last name.

I feel the bile rise up to my throat as I look around the living room. I need a sign that she was here, that she really existed. Nothing but her notebook and letter in her cubby, and that little space on the couch. She had been so frail that the ungrateful seat had not even kept a mark.

The white blanket had gone with her. Had it been there before she came? Who and where was the girl who had first brought it to 17 Swann Street? How many girls had sat in Valerie’s spot, wrapped themselves in it, and then disappeared? Does it matter?

Yes. It matters. Valerie’s last name matters. I find it on Direct Care’s list. Her full name is Valerie Parker. She has a father and a birthday. We exist because we matter to someone, to anyone. She matters to her father and to me. There once lived a girl at 17 Swann Street whose name was Valerie.

Someone will have to notify her father. That task falls onto Direct Care. Along with cleaning up patients who soil themselves and practicing resuscitation techniques.

I write my next letter to my sister Sophie. I have not spoken to her in months. Almost since Christmas, since Christmas actually. She had given up on phone calls and texts.

I had been ashamed, too ashamed to pick up; her older sister was a failure. Who could not eat, who would not, even when she begged her. Who made promises she did not keep.

I thought I was protecting her. Now all I can think of is Valerie’s dad. His face, the phone call he is going to receive today from Direct Care.

I stare at the page. I have so much to say. I do not know where to begin. I want to start with I am so sorry and I love you and I miss you at the same time. I want to ask her how she is, where she is. I want the past few months, years of our lives back. I want hours of conversation with her, but I just have a sheet of paper.

Chère Sophie,

I miss you. I love you. I am sorry I missed all your calls.

Can you try calling me again? I promise to answer this time.

Bisous,

Anna

The mailman takes Valerie’s three letters from me and, I hope, to Valerie. My fourth letter will have to wait till Matthias gets me the right stamp.

Emm distributes the day’s mail to everyone. No envelope for me from Valerie. The rest of the girls read theirs while Direct Care sets the table for snack.





56


Treatment Plan Update—June 3, 2016

Weight: 91 lbs.

BMI: 15.6

Physiological Observations:

Slow weight gain observed. Treatment team assumes metabolism remains hyperactive. No symptoms of refeeding. Patient appears physically capable of absorbing caloric increase.

Psychological/Psychiatric Observations:

Patient has been exhibiting increasing levels of anxiety and low mood. Disruptions in the center over the past week, including the abrupt departure of a fellow patient, could be contributing factors.

Patient continues to complete her assigned meal plan but has been observed struggling during meals. This is consistent with the recent increase in her target caloric intake. She continues to struggle with strong eating-disorder urges, distorted body image, and low mood. We expect these symptoms to be further aggravated by the progression in treatment course.

Summary:

Patient is still significantly underweight. Residential treatment and further meal plan increases remain necessary. Close monitoring of mood and meal plan compliance is strongly recommended.

Target caloric value: 2,700 calories daily





57


You should not be here on a Friday night,



I say when I open the door.

Not the warm welcome Matthias is used to. Still, he tries, with a smile:

Well, I was in the neighborhood. I just thought I’d drop by.



But I am not in the mood to smile back. I turn around and head upstairs. Perplexed, but in his usual reserved way, he closes the front door and follows me.

Alone together in the Van Gogh room, he tries to kiss me, but I tense:

I met with the therapist and nutritionist today.



He steps back cautiously.

And?



Well, the first had tried to explore grief in my past, in light of Valerie’s attempted suicide:

Do you think of your mother and brother a lot?



I had promptly shut that door in her face.

The second had increased my meal plan and said:

No, you cannot have your dressing on the side,



and that fruit and peanuts do not count as healthier substitutes for peanut butter and jelly.

I had then sat through a particularly painful group session, also on grief. The therapist with the loud smile had been desperate to know how we were processing the incident of the week.

Fine thank you,



had said Emm.

She is lucky not to be here,



had said Sarah.

At least she can ask for seconds at the hospital,



had said Julia, still, always hungry.

I was not hungry. I was miserably full. My stomach hurt after every meal. I was developing an ulcer, I think, because of all this refeeding. I had just had dinner, and dinner had been cheese tortellini. Nightmare. I had once upon a time loved cheese tortellini. And there had been chocolate cake for dessert.

Exposure therapy. Repeated confrontation with a feared situation, object, or memory, used to treat post-traumatic stress disorder, anxiety disorder, or phobias.

Like food.

The purpose of exposure is to achieve habituation. I am not feeling habituated. I have been here for almost two weeks and the meals have only gotten worse.

But I am too tired to tell Matthias that. So I answer:

It went well.



I am lying to Matthias, being horrible to Matthias, whose only crime is that he loves me. Who could be anywhere, with anyone, tonight, and instead is here with me.

I wish you would not come here every single night. I would rather you do something fun.

Like what?

I do not know! Go to the movies, watch a comedy.

But whose popcorn would I finish if you were not with me?



And the walls come crumbling down.

I cannot stop crying. Matthias just holds me. I no longer have the strength to be cold. I tell him about Valerie, choking on the details, choking on her name.

I tell him everything, sobbing into his shirt. Her father’s letter, her arm, her soiled pants, the ambulance last night. When I look up, he is not smiling anymore. He kisses me and this time I kiss back.

We pull away. It is hard to tell if the tears are his or mine. Holding hands still, needing the physical contact, we lie down together on the bed.

He finally speaks:

I am so sorry, Anna. Was Valerie the girl who wrote you that note on your first night?



Yes, and yesterday I had watched her wheeled out of here and away. And today the rest of the world had wheeled on, uninterrupted and undisturbed. Now I am watching Matthias spend another night here because of me.

I am so sorry. I am so sorry,



I cry. I cannot say it enough.

What are you sorry for?

For anorexia. For you here. For interrupting our life.

I am sorry for anorexia, and you here too. But Anna, this is our life.

You did not choose this!



This cannot be the life he signed up for on our wedding day.

Hey, hey.



His arm reaches over me. I missed that weight. I miss that weight.

I chose to be here. I chose this and you and us. I still do. The question is: do you?



Of course I do. I nod forcefully and turn in to the crevice of his torso.

This is so hard.

I know.

It is so hard on you too. One day you will leave me because you can no longer take it, and I will not blame you.



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