Matthias pulls away and looks straight at me, face dark:
Don’t say that. It will not happen.
It hurts too much to know it will. When one day he gets tired of putting his coat around me, asking the waiter to just steam the vegetables, please. Spending Friday nights here.
I am not tired. I am exhausted, we both are, of carrying this disease. One day Matthias will leave because he cannot, should not keep carrying me.
You should not be here every night. Please go somewhere fun tomorrow.
You cannot tell me what to do. Besides, where would I go, what would I do without you on a Saturday night?
Matthias, this is not healthy.
Direct Care appears. Nine o’clock.
Two more minutes,
he tells her.
Please.
Direct Care is human. She looks at both our faces, and to our surprise, says,
You know what? We’ll start the evening snack without you. Just come down whenever you’re ready, Anna. You won’t be bothered.
Door closed.
I cannot believe it, and neither can Matthias. Suddenly, we are both very shy. He speaks first:
You know what is unhealthy, Anna? Not being with you.
We have never played games with one another; our emotions have always been raw. He grazes my collarbone, barely.
I love you. I want you. Do you?
I do.
We make love in the Van Gogh room, and in the small space of that time and that bed, we are Matthias and Anna again and nothing else exists.
Matthias gets dressed and one last time kisses me. A long time since he has like this. He promises to come back tomorrow and opens the bedroom door. I hear him head down the stairs and make my own promises to him silently. Then the ghosts that were hiding just outside, in the corridor, flood the Van Gogh room.
Later, much later, I think of grief and suicide. I understand Valerie. I know why she walked away from the father she loves too much to let down. I lack her courage, though; I cannot push Matthias away. I love him too much, but enough, I hope, that if and when he ever decides to leave me, I will let him go.
And if and when he ever does, I hope it is with someone good. Someone who will make him happy and like roller coasters and ice cream.
58
Saturday morning, and Direct Care announces that whoever wants to go on the outing will have to be at the door and ready to leave promptly after midmorning snack.
This will be the first of the bimonthly excursions I go on. Participation being optional for those, some girls opt not to join. Like Julia, who rolls her eyes:
Manicures? A therapeutic outing? You’ve got to be kidding me.
Sarah is, naturally, in. As are two of the other girls, and Emm, who answers Julia:
Any excuse to get out of here.
I agree. Today especially; the mood around the house has been tense and apprehensive ever since Valerie left.
I am in no mood for a manicure, but the very triviality of the outing feels like a gulp of air after being held under water. Besides, the sun is out, so at 10:30 precisely, Direct Care and five of us head out.
The road trip only lasts ten minutes in the service van, the same one that drove me to church. It has almost been a week since last Sunday, I reflect, in the backseat between Sarah and another girl.
Parking lot. Engine off. We disembark and enter the nail salon. An overly friendly lady loudly invites each of us to pick her nail polish. I head to the shelves and shelves of rainbow colors on the wall. They remind me of the lights from the ambulance dancing on my ceiling and walls.
Let’s do something fun!
Direct Care suggests to lighten the macabre mood.
We’ll pick a color for every girl based on the name that matches her!
That actually does sound like fun.
Miss Emm, you’re up first!
After much deliberation, the group assigns Emm: Turquoise and Caicos.
For our fearless cruise director!
Plus, it matches the color of her sweatshirt, I observe.
Sarah gets, obviously, Leading Lady. And I get A French Affair. A girl called Chloe is next. She gets a shade called Berry Naughty. Direct Care picks The Girls Are Out for herself and Forever Yummy for the last girl. She laughs; she suffers from binge-eating disorder, but her sense of humor is fine.
Polish chosen, the manicures commence. Our hands are massaged and lotioned. Our nails are filed, painted, and dried like those of every other lady here.
The salon is full. Typical for a weekend, I think as I look around. Most of the other clients are in their twenties and thirties. Like us. In fact, we almost blend in. Well, perhaps some of us are a bit thin. But otherwise we could be a group of girlfriends getting their nails done on a Saturday morning.
But Direct Care and her glances at her watch are a clear reminder we are not; she is wondering whether we will be back in time for lunch. Suddenly I am jealous of the other women who, after their polish has dried, will have their own lunches in cafés nearby, not portioned, labeled, wrapped in plastic.
This is just an interlude of normalcy, a hiccup in a schedule that hangs on a board in a treatment center’s community space. We all know that when our own polish dries, none of us will be going home. The effervescence will simmer down and we will pile into the service van. No keys, no wallets, no phones, no choice, we will be driven back to Swann Street.
The windows are closed in the van and the air is stuffy with breath, polish, and dread. I do not want to go back. To Valerie’s empty seat, to lunch, to three courses and a ticking clock, and after the meal, to group therapy.
The van parks in spite of me. We are back, in spite of us. I ask Direct Care if I may sit outside, just for a while, as I had with Sarah last week. She allows it but warns:
Do not wander off the lawn, and come in when you hear me call. Lunch will be ready soon.
She and the girls go inside the house, leaving me alone.
My exhale comes out a sob, breaths jagged. My hands come to my mouth, trying to muffle any sound I might make. I catch a glimpse of my painted nails. I look the part, don’t I, of a manicure-on-a-Saturday lady. One with a life in which she can eat and go anywhere, be anywhere but here.
I sit on the bench, exhausted. The back door opens behind me. I do not bother to turn around. Julia sits beside me.
Bubble gum pops.
So what color did you get?
I show her my nails. They look ridiculous in my eyes now, in the context of this place.
Julia gives me an appreciative whistle that we both know is sarcastic:
Very fancy. Very ladylike.
Both of which I am not, with my hair in a bun and thick layers on. There was no way, I realize, that I had blended in with the other women at the salon earlier.
Julia chews on silently. We stare at the cars in the parking lot.
Wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like that. Still, it must’ve been good to get out.
It was,
I reply,
It just makes coming back here very hard.
Yeah. It’s cruel. That’s why I don’t go. Well, that and I don’t do nail things. But seriously, if I ever do leave this place, believe me, Anna, I’m not coming back.
She is serious.
But where would you go?
I ask—more to myself than to her, we both know.
I have no idea.
She shrugs.
Wherever, doesn't matter. Can’t be worse than where I am now. Don’t even know who I am now.
Me neither. My name is Anna and I am twenty-six and anorexic. I have not always been; I used to want things and do things. Now I am not sure how much of me still exists.
Julia interrupts my thoughts:
Where would you go if you weren’t here?
I look at my nails, and before I even realize it, answer:
To the coffee shop by the nail salon.
She laughs. I do too, surprised at my answer.
You wild woman you,
she quips.
And what would you do at that coffee shop, may I ask?
I do not know.
Have a coffee, and read,