Monday morning, the twenty-third of May. We were there right on time, Matthias and I and the silence and my blue suitcase with the red bow. We sat in the driveway for a minute, or ten.
Please say something, Anna.
Beat.
There is nothing to say.
Come on, Anna! We can’t just stay here like this, in the car.
Would you like me to get out?
That is not what I meant!
Silence again. His hand idle on the gearbox. Mine stubbornly clenching my thigh. I did not know if he was looking at me; I was staring firmly ahead. I could not see, but I did not dare blink the blur away. If I did I knew the tears would come streaming down and I could not, would not, let them.
Nothing to say. What a petty, passive aggressive lie. But I was so angry I could not speak, and all of my anger was directed at Matthias; there was no one else around. I felt like a box of worn and frayed winter clothes that he was donating away.
His hand on the gearbox. He had not held mine, or held me at all, in fact, in a long time. It was only partly his fault; his hands make mine cold and his touch, even gentle, often hurts. Last night, in bed, I had shuddered when he had lifted the covers to slide under them. His weight had shifted the mattress, which had dug painfully into my hip. I had snapped at him and hugged myself against the cold air that had rushed in.
I had not spoken to him since then. Now, goodbyes in the car.
You do not need to come inside with me. I can wheel the suitcase in on my own.
I knew I was hurting him but could not help the spite coming out of my mouth. I could not bear the thought that he was leaving, that he was leaving me here.
Do you really think I’m going to drop you off and just leave?
Why not?
I answered spitefully.
Isn’t that why we are here?
For him to hand me and this pesky problem over to someone else?
Matthias got testy:
And you think this is easy for me? Bringing you here?
But there was no space for empathy in my dangerously swollen chest. Suddenly, it exploded.
I would not know! You do not talk to me either! Or kiss me, or make love to me! You have not told me you loved me in weeks. You do not even look at me!
He looked at me then, stunned, and I already regretted what I had begun, but it was too late. I fired the rest of my anger and fear at him:
You got tired of dealing with me, feeding me! That’s fine! Someone else will now and with me gone you can finally have your life back. You can open the window, have the whole bed to yourself, go to restaurants every night— I don’t want the bed to myself! I don’t want the restaurants! I want you, Anna!
Then don’t leave me here …
My voice and I broke down. No longer angry, I was begging. Crying and scared. Please.
Please, Matthias, let’s go home,
I said in a whisper. Please,
even as he and I both knew we could not.
His voice was tired when he spoke:
We can’t go home, Anna.
Low and heavy:
I didn’t drive you here to get rid of you. I did because I can’t lose you. I can’t live without you. Do you understand, Anna? I can’t lose you—
He stopped. His voice was shaky too.
My left hand moved involuntarily, imperceptibly toward the gearbox. His hand waited. I hesitated, then finally reached for it. He looked at me and I burst into tears and a flurry of words spilled out.
What if you cannot manage on your own? You do not know how to cook! What if you need to do laundry and forget how to set the machine?
And the real fears:
What if I stay in this place so long that you forget the way I smell? What if you forget me?
Then:
What if you meet someone else?
Impossible,
and he kissed me for a long time, for the first time in weeks.
We sat in the car, my hand on his. Now there really was nothing left to say. After a while, he helped me with my suitcase and we went inside together.
10
There is a knock at the door of the Van Gogh room. A head does not wait to pop in.
Good, I see you have unpacked. Time for orientation now.
Admission begins, sickeningly cold and impersonal. I am swept into a current of intake forms, vitals, inventory, insurance. Down to business as soon as finances are cleared. The white coats unfold: the primary care physician, the psychiatrist, a nurse. Then follow the suits: the psychologist, the nutritionist, and the first of a stream of look-alike staff members I would come to know only as Direct Care.
Meal plan, treatment plan, rules of the house. Session plan, towels and sheets, rules of the game.
I sign a form that states that I am here voluntarily. Then about twenty more: no drugs, no alcohol, no smoking on the premises, even when out on the porch. My legal rights, my patient rights, the conditions for any release of medical information to family.
Then a few more morbid ones I choose not to take seriously: That I will not burn myself, cut or harm myself or others. That I will hand all sharp objects to staff. That I will not kill myself.
I sign, deliberately offhandedly, one form after the next, trying not to understand what they mean: that this nightmare is real. But at the very last form, I freeze:
The document states that I will lose all my rights—to object, to refuse, to leave—if the institution or Matthias believe I am not of sound mind, or at risk.
Lose all my rights. Not of sound mind. Not burn, cut, or kill myself. No time: Direct Care snatches the last form out of my hands.
Now the schedule:
My days will begin at 5:30 A.M., in a blue flower-print robe she gives me.
You can wear it however you want,
the lady explains.
Flap at the back or front.
Flap at the back says hospital, I think. Flap at the front then, like a spa.
Once vitals and weights are taken,
she says,
you can change back into your clothes. You can also go back to sleep.
Like I could do that in a place like this, I snort. Like I could do that at all.
Breakfast is at eight, downstairs in community space, where I will have to stay all day. Within the premises, and well within view of the nurse’s station and Direct Care. Midmorning and late-evening snacks are served there too; I should sign up for those each day. All other meals will be served in the house next door. Menus for those are planned on Thursday.
No outside food, no food outside those times. The cook plates and wraps every meal. I am to eat every dish set in front of me within a specific time: thirty minutes for breakfast and snacks, forty-five for lunch and dinner. Failure to complete the meal means drinking a nutritional supplement. Failing that is a refusal. Three refusals means a feeding tube, and she assures me I do not want one of those.
Forty-eight hours in and pending good behavior, you can go on the morning walk.
It will be led by a member of staff to ensure a leisurely pace. If it is raining, the walk will be postponed to the following day. No other exercise or time outdoors. I pray for a month of sunny days.
All the bathrooms are locked, and outside those, there are no mirrors on the walls. We must all ask for permission every time we have to go. Direct Care will then pull out her keys, their humiliating jingle announcing loud and clear to everyone else that I need to empty my bladder.
Some of the girls’ bathroom use itself has to be monitored; they cannot go or flush alone. A precautionary rule against purging, cutting, or attempts at suicide. But I am not bulimic, and at least so far, have not expressed interest in self-harm. I am therefore graciously informed that I may use the bathroom alone. I will, however, have to report how much fluid I drink throughout the day. But that is only temporary and, if my kidneys behave, she says, that rule will be revoked in a week.
Whenever I am not eating I will be in session, individual or group. The therapist will see me three times a week, the nutritionist twice, the psychiatrist once. No phones or other electronics during programming hours; no distractions from eating and fixing the mess I have made in my body and brain.
Oh, and one more thing,
she says.
A note on terminology.