My claws were out, a cat trapped in a corner.
I know things have been difficult since Christmas, but I have this under control! I’ve been eating normally— You’ve lost so much weight—
How would you know, Matthias? You’re never here!
I had gone on the offensive, he had left me no choice. My back was to the wall and I needed air. But the shriller I got, the calmer he did.
You’re right. I am not. I’m sorry.
I do not need you to be sorry, or worry about me! I can take care of myself! I told you: I am fine— And I believed you, because I wanted to.
I cannot anymore, Anna.
I do not remember much of the three years that led up to that moment. Just that they felt long and cold, and I felt underwater in them. The two days that followed, however, flashed by to Matthias and me getting in the car and driving up an empty Highway 44 to an address on Swann Street. It took us just under forty-five minutes. Really, it took us much longer; three years and twenty-two pounds to reach that Intake and Assessment appointment.
7
It was Thursday night and freezing, but the Christmas displays were worth it, Anna decided as she wrapped her plush white scarf tighter around her neck. Digging her gloved hands deeper into her coat, she walked down the Grands Boulevards, window to window, drummer boys and nutcrackers, twinkling lights and whimsical trains.
She bumped into him, or he into her. Either way,
Oh, je suis désolée!
But he smiled. She smiled. What a coincidence, he was also walking that way. They walked together, to the end of the display. Then they kept walking and talking.
They walked through ample sidewalk and conversation. Then it was cold, so they went inside. They had two glasses of Bordeaux, each. They shared a basket of fries.
His name was Matthias and he said she was beautiful. They kissed. Then,
Shall we get some ice cream?
Ice cream? It was freezing! Was he mad?
It cannot make us any colder.
Good point.
On one condition, though:
I want it in a cone.
Un cornet pour mademoiselle!
She giggled and they bundled up and linked arms and walked out into the cold again.
They walked across the bridge, past the colorful cafés where tourists were gladly being swindled. Left onto a side street, all the way down, to a well-hidden little kiosk.
The queue outside it was a good sign, and that there were no tourists in it. He had two scoops: chocolate and something pink. She had her vanilla and her cone. They ate as they walked and shivered and stopped to kiss stickily.
Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night?
It was the easiest yes in history.
No, actually, it was not. That came later, one year later in the same place.
Lips and fingers sticky, he asked:
Would you like to marry me?
They were married in the first week of January, the coldest wedding in history.
They had croissants from the boulangerie downstairs for breakfast. She made coffee on the little stove. They froze in the snow, he in his only suit, she in the creamy white dress she had bought. They stepped out of the mairie at noon holding hands, kissing, laughing at the words “husband” and “wife,” and just before ducking into the Métro, they had gooey crêpes for their wedding lunch.
8
There must have been signs that we were taking a detour from the happily-ever-after road.
I got an offer today,
Matthias said one afternoon.
An offer? For what?
I sipped my tea. Matthias’s serious face had Nutella on it. I smiled.
A job offer. In the States!
More tea. His excited face. His I want this face. The States. Well …
Why not? Perhaps the timing was perfect. I would be removing my cast in a few weeks and needed a fresh start. My spot in the Opéra’s corps de ballet—left stage, second swan from the wings—had been promptly and easily filled after the accident. The show had had to go on. No hard feelings.
I could dance in the States, had never been to the States.
Where is the offer?
Saint Louis,
like the name of the picturesque island where we had kissed on our first date. I imagined quaint little cafés and shops lining quaint little streets. Saint Louis. Perhaps it was a sign. Would they have good ice cream?
Well, I will not be eating ice cream, I said sternly to myself. I had not danced or run in months. I had to get back in shape. Till I was, I would diet, and follow Matthias, apparently, why not, to the States. I watched him lick Nutella off his fingers. I kissed what remained on his chin.
He left Paris first with the first of our suitcases. I packed the rest of our lives in the second. We had one-way tickets and a plan and each other. There was no way we could get lost.
There must have been signs, but we were distracted by the roller coaster of the adventure. Paperwork, looking for a couch for the apartment, ties and shirts for Matthias.
Looking for a ballet company I could join. It was small but we eventually found it.
And were told that their corps de ballet was full, but thank you for applying.
It’s all right,
said Matthias.
We will keep looking.
It’s all right,
I echoed. We did. There must have been signs, but we missed them, too busy, him working, me trying to.
I spent months getting myself back in shape and searching for other opportunities. The pickings were slim, or my bar was too high, or Saint Louis was not a ballet kind of town. I could not find another dance company, or the quaint cafés on quaint little streets.
I found other jobs and went to job interviews, but I was not qualified for those. I was a dancer applying to be a store manager, a bank teller. What experience do you have?
There were signs: foods I slowly stopped eating, dresses I slowly stopped putting on. They got too loose, and I have nowhere to wear them anyway.
Waiting for Matthias to come home from work so I would not have to eat alone. When he did:
Any luck today, Anna?
He eventually stopped asking.
Eventually, I also stopped searching. And dairy, and answering my phone. And wearing makeup, but at least I was not fat anymore.
Other signs: long days I made shorter with longer runs, longer showers, longer naps. Photos of us that looked less and less like me. But somehow, we did not see.
There was nothing mysterious about the road we took to 17 Swann Street. Hundreds of girls have taken it before me to this suburban house painted peach pink. With some variation: some drive or fly in, from out of town, out of country, out of state. The lucky ones are driven by family or friends. The unlucky, ambulances. Some come by way of restriction, pills, laxatives, and exercise. Some from the other direction by bingeing, purging comfort food. Some run in, chasing love and acceptance, some fleeing depression, anxiety. Puddles of murky emotions in potholes of boredom, loneliness, guilt.
There were signs. There are always signs for those who know to look for them. They just never flash in red neon, warning, DANGER: RISK OF DEATH.
They begin a few miles from the Swann Street exit:
No thank you, I am not hungry.
I do not like chocolate, or cheese. I am allergic to gluten, nuts, and dairy. And I do not eat meat.
I already had dinner. I am going for a run. No, do not wait up for me.
Then bones stick out. Hair and nails fall out. Everything hurts and it is cold. Past the hundred-pound mark. Ninety-five pounds. Ninety-three. Ninety-one, eighty-nine.
Eighty-eight.
9
It happened so fast. On Friday I was shivering in a flower-print robe while from every angle sterile blue gloves poked and prodded at me. My heart was listened to. Ears, eyes, throat observed. My reflexes and pulse were recorded. Bone density scan, blood and urine analyses, ECG, height and weight.
Diagnosis: Anorexia nervosa.
Recommended level of care: Residential treatment, effective Monday morning. 9:00 A.M.