I suppose, and watch the people around me.
There would be children on the swings and parents on the benches. Retirees reading newspapers. Dogs and their owners rehydrating, in the shade. And, of course, the ladies with painted nails, gossiping over lemonade.
Julia swallows her gum and reaches into the pockets of her baggy jeans. She pulls out two square pieces of bright pink candy and offers one to me.
Me?
I shake my head politely. No candy for the girl with anorexia, thank you.
She raises an eyebrow, pops hers into her mouth. I am a long way from that coffee shop.
She leaves the other piece on the bench between us, in case I change my mind. I look at it; once upon a time I would have eaten it without a thought. I would have enjoyed it, swallowed it, then easily forgotten it. But that was once upon a time ago.
Then I think of the ladies at the nail salon, probably having their lemonade now. They would have taken the candy, said thank you. I take a deep breath. Experiment: I reach for the piece of candy and unwrap the colored paper,
Thank you, Julia,
and pop it in my mouth before I have time to think.
It tastes heavenly. And sticky and chewy and the sugar is melting on my tongue. I have candy all over my teeth. I chew mindfully, breathe. My anxiety is building up to a heart attack, and there is screaming in my ears, and it is over. And I am still here, and Julia next to me is smiling.
She nudges me playfully:
Look at you, wild woman!
I do and cannot believe it.
It takes me a moment to catch my breath and finally return her smile.
Are you even allowed to have candy here, Julia?
She winks. We both smile. How wild we are.
Cue Direct Care’s voice:
Ladies! Lunch!
Julia jumps up:
Thank God! I’m starving!
I follow her in, but slower, still processing the candy and guilt. And some degree of surprise, I admit: I ate a piece of candy. I did it.
The wrapper is still in my hand. I fold and put it in my pocket. Then I ask Direct Care for permission to wash my hands before eating.
59
Monday was off to a brutal start. Seven fifteen A.M., every muscle in her body already protesting as she stretched on the floor, warming up in the corner by the resin box. She loved that conifer smell.
And the talcum; both spoke home to her. She had known them since she was six. She had been dancing since she was six. Anna was a dancer. “I am a dancer,” she reminded herself.
Except today she did not feel like one. Her stomach was bloated, in knots, and not even the smell of sticky pine or baby powder could loosen it up. She was regretting the bread, the glass of red wine she had had with her salad last night. And the chocolate truffle; Philippe had frowned but she had not been able to resist it.
She had not slept well or enough either, but that is never an excuse. Barre would begin in fifteen minutes, and rehearsal promptly at eight. She wanted a solo part. Philippe had said she had a chance. She believed him.
Just put your mind to it, and lose a little weight.
Just put her mind to it. She had.
Bonjour tout le monde! Everyone gather round please.
The list was in Monsieur’s hands. Anna’s were cold and clammy. Her stomach-ache had turned to cramps.
Before we begin at the barre, I will bring the suspense to an end. I know that otherwise that is all any of you will be thinking about.
Alors, les solistes: Ga?lle, Daphné, and Gabrielle for the pas de trois. Angela and Michelle, the pas de deux and a solo each. As for the rest of you, I expect nothing less than an impeccable corps de ballet and wish you better luck next year. Et maintenant, pliés!
The music began, the piano keys echoing the music she knew by heart. Plié, plié. She was nauseated, but her body had to keep time. It did, because she willed it to. As she had for the past months, practicing, practicing, pushing it further. No complaints. Eat less, stretch more, eyes on the prize: the list.
She would be on it next year. She would just have to practice a little more.
Cambré en avant, cambré en arrière. Relevé, passé, demi-tour. And again, plié, plié. She wanted to cry but did not.
Passé, demi-tour. Plié.
Her arms were tired. Already? The day had not even started! Eight more hours, and the girls would be cruel in the dressing rooms later.
Philippe would be cruel tonight too. She already knew what he would say. He would mention the truffle and the bread. That is, if she saw him tonight. If he had time; he was so busy lately.
Her stomach hurt.
No more bread and chocolate, she told herself sternly. And no breakfast; she could not stomach it. She would save her banana for later, lunch maybe, and thought of the future, her aching arms, Philippe.
No time for that now, she had to dance.
Allez, on enchaine! Deuxième exercice.
60
Have you heard from Valerie?
I ask from the couch.
The therapist does not answer me. We both know that she cannot.
I do not need details, I want to tell her, just a sign that she is alive. And I would like to send her a letter, and the copy of Rilke I finished.
Valerie and I had not had the chance to talk about the poem I had given her. It began with:
Flare up like flame.
And make big shadows I can move in. I knew it by heart:
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Our friendship had been cut short too soon after it had started. An almost friendship. I almost knew her. Julia’s words come to my mind:
It sucks, I know, but there are too many of us for me to cry over every one.
Every patient here is a tragedy, but Valerie had been my friend. Almost.
Your concern for Valerie is very thoughtful, Anna,
Katherine begins cautiously. I already disapprove of the word “thoughtful.”
but your priority during your stay here should be your own recovery. I’d like you to concentrate on that, can you?
This session and this Monday are not off to an excellent start. The latter is my third here, I reflect. I do not feel closer to recovery. Heavier, yes. Fatter, my brain would say. No groundbreaking change at that level.
Two weeks and the novelty of meals and therapy, disconcerting as it was, has worn off. The weekly schedule has become routine. Not the anxiety or sadness, though.
Katherine is waiting for a sign that I have heard and acknowledged her. But I do not appreciate being told what to do, nor do I, consequently, answer.
She tries again:
Why don’t you tell me how your weekend went?
No thank you. Instead:
Has anyone told her father yet? He was supposed to visit her.
And I continue Rilke’s poem in my head:
Don’t let yourself lose me.
Anna,
the therapist warns,
we’re here to talk about you.
But I have nothing to say.
That can’t be possible.
Rather, nothing to say to her.
I do not want to tell her that I slept with Matthias, for the first time in months, on Friday. That it had hurt but that, for the first time in a long time, I had wanted to. I do not want to tell her about getting my nails done and envying every woman in the salon for the sheer normalcy of her life, having a purpose when I have none.
Are you tired of talking?
Exhausted, I want to say, and sick of being here. And losing what little momentum I had when I first arrived.
I have been talking and eating for two weeks,
I answer.
And if I give up now, I could just disappear like Valerie, in the middle of the night in an ambulance.
What’s the point?
I ask her. She responds:
Of getting better? You tell me, Anna.
Isn’t there anything you want to do, to be outside of here?