Not really. I cannot dance. I cannot return to Paris. There is nothing there for me. My father and sister have lives that can go on perfectly well without me. Here, my job at the supermarket is almost certainly gone, but good riddance, except for the money, and the hours it filled. So no career prospects.
Matthias does not need me either, not in the immediate, physical sense. He loves me, I know that, and I love him but that alone is not purpose enough.
Isn’t there anything you want?
the therapist asks again.
She will not let this go, so I say the first thing that comes to mind:
On Saturday Julia asked me where I would go if I could leave this place.
Visibly relieved that I had said something, anything, Katherine asks:
And what did you say?
I said I would go to a coffee shop, have something to drink, and read.
I reflect after a few seconds:
How sad. I have no goals.
So set some.
I am too tired to answer her. She pushes nonetheless:
Can you at least imagine what you would be doing in a world without anorexia?
In a world without anorexia … I do not dare dream. But what if I did, in my head?
In a world without anorexia, I would take ballet classes again.
I would find a job I actually enjoy, maybe teach little children to dance.
I would read. Poetry. I would read more poetry. What if I studied poetry?
I would call my father, my sister, the friends I lost in my silence.
I would go home and have sex with Matthias. Over and over again.
Love Matthias. Have a family with Matthias.
But that all remains in my head.
Fortunately, the door knocks just then. Our time is up for today. Direct Care is here with Katherine’s next appointment. I vacate the gray couch.
61
Seven forty-six. Matthias is late. Matthias is never late. More irritated than worried, I crane my neck to the right at the window to see farther up Swann Street.
Finally, the blue car appears, signals, and pulls into the driveway. In the seconds that follow, Matthias parks, locks the car, and walks over to the porch, as I debate running to the door before he rings or staying put. I stay put.
Doorbell, and chorus:
Anna! It’s Matthias!
I know, and walk over slowly. My petty, hurt way of punishing him; I can be late too.
I open the front door and kiss him mechanically. He looks exhausted. Still he smiles at me.
I do not smile back.
Traffic on the highway?
I ask.
No, actually, long day at work. I’m sorry, Anna. I couldn’t leave sooner.
It’s fine,
I say. We both know it is not, but the other girls are listening, so we go upstairs to the Van Gogh room and he collapses on the bed.
I close the door and stay where I am.
Your shoes are on my bed, Matthias.
He kicks them off distractedly.
I’m sorry, Anna. Come lie down next to me.
But I do not feel like it.
You could have called,
I say, though what I really mean is: We only have ninety minutes together! How could you be late?
I said I was sorry!
he retorts, his voice irritated now.
But Lesley called me into her office for a meeting at the last minute. I couldn’t say no.
Lesley. Her name pours over me like a cold shower.
And who is Lesley?
My supervisor, Anna! You know who Lesley is. Why are we still talking about this?
I do not know. He said he was sorry; his meeting just ran a little late. So why do I want to cry? Why am I wasting more of my precious minutes fighting him?
Because I am jealous of Lesley with Matthias. That she gets the whole day with him while I only get ninety minutes in a sterile, confined space. Because I am terrified that one day he will be more than fifteen minutes late.
My throat tightens. My eyes water, but then— What an idiot I am! He is here, isn’t he? He did come! He comes here every night. I rush to the bed and lie down next to him, my arm on his chest.
He exhales, tired, and pulls me closer to him.
I’m sorry. I got jealous of Lesley.
Silly girl. How could you possibly think … I don’t even know what you thought. I love you, don’t you know that?
I hide my face in the nook of his shoulder. I do.
I am just tired.
He sighs:
I’m tired too.
He does not say: of this. Neither do I.
62
A Tuesday, again. Still no word from Valerie, and to make matters worse, I can hear Direct Care rummaging in the kitchen:
Girls! Breakfast is served!
On Mondays, Thursdays, and Sundays we have cereal at 17 Swann Street. Those are easy breakfasts. I have Frosties or Cheerios, the first when I win against my anorexia, the second when it wins against me. Fridays are palatable: yogurt and granola. I always have the vanilla. Wednesdays and Saturdays are more challenging; oatmeal and nuts are quite filling. I can get get through them though, plain with almonds, with help from some cinnamon and salt. But Tuesdays, Tuesdays, I dread 8:00 A.M. Not even the coffee helps. On Tuesdays at 17 Swann Street we have bagels and cream cheese for breakfast.
I had declared I disliked bagels and cream cheese on my very first day. I had then stood firmly by that claim in the weeks that had followed. To nutritionist, therapist, Matthias, and Direct Care, I had said I could eat toast instead. With a slather of cottage cheese, if I had to, but not that dense, unhealthy food. I did not like the texture, I did not like the taste. I had said it so vehemently, so loudly, that I almost believed myself.
Almost. In reality, deep in my brain where I knew no one could hear me, I thought it was heavenly. The combination, in one bite, of a creamy, cheesy layer lathered with a butter knife on a warm, toasted bagel, inside still soft, in neat, parallel strokes. A sprinkle of salt, then a sip of bitter coffee with the taste still on my tongue.
It was so decadent it scared me. It could not be right. That first Tuesday, that innocent bagel had nearly made me cry. But it had only been half a bagel, and it had only been my second day. My brain had not caught up with the program, the pleaser in me wanted to please. So I had let the pleaser eat, and when I had finished I remember patting myself on the back and thinking: It is done.
But Tuesday came again, and now it is back, and my portions have doubled with my meal plan. Also, as I enter my third week here, my willingness to please is waning. In fact, it is next to gone, worn out by six meals a day. And this morning, mirror or not, the certainty, pulling up my jeans, struggling with the zipper, stomach sucked in, that I am gaining weight.
Breakfast is served. I sit down reluctantly and look miserably at my plate. I see fat and carbohydrates: a full bagel and nearly half a whole pack of cream cheese!
No one can eat this much cream cheese, I think. No one should eat this much cream cheese! How will I even fit it all on the bagel? How will I swallow this?
May I have some salt please?
No, Anna.
May I reheat my bagel then?
And have the cream cheese melt onto the plate so you don’t have to eat it? Nice try.
I just need something, anything that would make this easier to swallow. But Direct Care has six other sick girls’ plates she needs to monitor.
Not a minute over time, Anna.
I cannot eat this. I cannot eat this! My panicky brain screams. I have fought too hard, gone hungry for too long, run too far on sheer will to get here. I choose what to put, or not, in my body, it protests, knowing it is not true.
Knowing I have two options at this point: breakfast or the liquid supplement.
A few deep breaths. A nervous look at the clock. I try to calm my racing thoughts.
I must remain composed. Around me, almost insultingly, life is still going on. Julia and Sarah have both finished eating and are on their second cups of coffee. Emm is working diligently on her bagel and the word jumbles. The other girls are quiet; one of them is crying, but all of them are chewing. I must start chewing. I am frozen in place. How do I start chewing?
May I cut my bagel in half, at least?
Sure, Anna.