She says it so casually.
It took up all my time. I dropped out of the team and out of college; I was too busy having double, triple breakfasts and raiding the supermarket. I was also exhausted and out of breath all the time. I lost my voice, got calluses, an ulcer. The palpitations sucked too, but money was my biggest problem.
Wry smile. Sad smile as she jokes:
Bulimia is an expensive habit. I stole from my mother and got the cleaning lady fired. I went through the dumpsters behind bakeries. I opened boxes of cereal and packs of cookies and ate them right in the store.
She stops to scrutinize me for signs of judgment. She finds none on my face—how could I—and continues:
Then I got a job at the pizzeria and couldn’t believe my luck: Free food! Free pizza! Endless amounts of it that people left on their plates! Yeah baby.
She grins.
And there was Megan. We became really good friends. She would write orders down wrong on purpose so I could eat the pizzas that were sent back, and I would pick up her cleanup shifts so I could eat the leftovers.
She pauses. The thought crossing her mind at the moment does not seem very funny.
Then Megan had a seizure at work. I missed it—I was busy bingeing in the back room.
A week later, I got fired; apparently there’s a fine line between digging into inventory and depleting it.
She chuckles at her own joke, then looks down at her fingernails. She seems quite engrossed by them.
Anyway she was at 17 Swann for a while, and I did not visit her. Now I’m the one who’s here and she’s out.
What made you finally come here?
Hypokalemia, actually. Bitch of a feeling, like a heart attack.
To my confused face, she explains:
It’s when your potassium levels drop. It sucks. I collapsed a few months ago.
The levity in Julia’s voice only makes her story more painful. I want to comfort this not-so-tough girl who is so kind and so brave, but she undercuts my good intentions in her signature light-humored way:
It’s fine, I’m fine. I wound up here, sharing a wall with you, lucky one! Aren’t you glad you live in Bedroom Five?
We both laugh. Very glad.
I stand up, bones crack. I walk toward the door.
She asks casually:
How are you feeling, really?
I answer with the same tone:
Horrible. Fat. Guilty.
Two wry smiles.
But it is all right,
I say.
I am going to sleep.
Sleep helps,
Julia says,
and if you find you can’t, just remind yourself that there’s coffee in the morning. Focus on that.
That’s what Emm said.
79
Treatment Plan Update—June 13, 2016
Weight: 90 lbs.
BMI: 15.4
Summary:
Patient went on a successful meal outing with her spouse and has been completing her meal plan without recourse to nasogastric feeding tube. The treatment team interprets these developments as indicators of a shift in the patient’s predisposition and motivation toward recovery. Consequently, team confirms patient’s Stage Two level of treatment.
Conditional upon continued efforts toward recovery and compliance with the treatment plan, the team is not opposed to increased exposure to autonomous eating through more meal outings with spouse.
Residential treatment remains indicated, but nasogastric tube feeding is no longer necessary.
Treatment Objectives:
Resume normal nutrition, restore weight.
Remove nasogastric feeding tube.
Increase exposure to different foods. Encourage meal outings.
Monitor vitals. Monitor labs. Follow hormone levels. Monitor mood.
Target caloric value: 3,000 calories daily
80
Monday, and I have lost track of how many of those there have been. Time is a surreal concept that seems to have little place in this house. Dinner is done and visiting hours with Matthias are back. Matthias is back. I breathe out with relief as I reach for his outstretched hand.
We walk in the garden, in a circle around the house, my invisible leash acting as radius. One day I will grow up and step off the property where no one will tell me what to eat. Or how far to go, or what I may and may not do with my husband. My husband, hand in mine, walking beside me. I missed this, and us.
We do not talk about the week that passed. We talk about last night instead.
I had a lovely time, thank you.
I did too,
he replies.
A few steps later, he observes:
I hadn’t seen you eat in a long time.
His voice is deliberately calm but a tremor sneaks in with the last word. I glance sideways at him, troubled:
Come on, Matthias— I meant eat something that was not lettuce or an apple, or fucking popcorn.
He shuffles through his memories, then nods his head:
A long time.
His hand tenses in mine. We have stopped walking. He asks me abruptly:
You won’t stop, will you? You won’t give up again?
I cannot give him the answer he wants. Last week was too recent for that, and my throat is still sore from the tube that was only removed today.
I want to tell him: I will not stop, Matthias. That we will go on many more dates. Maybe even next Friday night. That I will have pizza again, or pasta next time. That next week I will be home, and that I will make crêpes for us both for dinner, but time is as treacherous as it is surreal. So is an anorexic brain.
I tell him the truth instead:
I promise you that I will never stop trying.
It is not what he wants or deserves, but it is everything I have. He takes it:
All right, Anna.
One last lap around the house, then it is 9:00 P.M.
Evening snack, then exhale: the day is really over. I climb the stairs to the Van Gogh room.
And stop: there is a suitcase in the hallway, and new sheets and towels in Bedroom 3.
A new admission, but where is she? There had been no new face at evening snack. Perhaps she arrived in the afternoon, I reason, and is still at orientation with Direct Care.
I brush my teeth as fast as I can and disappear into Bedroom 5, closing the door and postponing introductions till tomorrow morning. I put on my pajamas and climb into Van Gogh’s bed. A few minutes later I hear the floorboards creak and the door of Bedroom 3 close.
Well, I am already in bed. Besides, she must be tired. Surely the new girl does not want to be disturbed on her first night.
But I look up at the cracks in the ceiling I remember noticing on my own first night here. How lonely and scary, how long ago that first night had been. I had read Valerie’s note to exhaustion. It is still on my bedside table. I look at my name in her cursive handwriting, and:
I’m so glad you are here.…
I pull the covers back and turn the night-light on. I need a paper and pen.
Dear neighbor in Bedroom 3,
Welcome to 17 Swann Street. I am glad you are here.
Do not let this place scare you. It is not as impossible as it seems.
I think of what else I can tell this girl, what else could help. Oh yes: They serve good coffee in the morning that is well worth getting out of bed for. You get two cups, which is lovely. As is the morning walk. Once you are cleared to go on that you will meet Gerald, the dog.
And staff. She needs to know about staff:
The staff here is very nice. The nurse on shift tonight is particularly lovely. She has blue eyes. You will meet her in the morning when she takes your vitals and weight. The rest of the girls, you will meet over breakfast. They are all incredible. They will help.
Which reminds me:
We have a few house rules besides those you heard at orientation.
I open Valerie’s note for guidance, and in my finest, most cursive handwriting begin: All girls are to be patient with one another.
No girl left at the table alone.
Composure is to be maintained in front of any guests to the house.
Horoscopes are to be read and taken seriously every morning over breakfast.