Then what happened?
Nothing. She left.
Her voice is misleadingly nonchalant.
She left, and I stayed. Then I was discharged. Then I relapsed and returned here. She came to the second Family Day, but not the third.
Then I stopped answering her calls. I had nothing interesting to say. She was calling less and less anyway. I don’t blame her,
Emm says.
Her life was moving on. Mine was not.
I think of Sophie and everything I do not know about her life now. I wonder if she has a boyfriend. If she still likes her work, and cake.
Emm’s features, in front of me, have hardened, but I know it is just for show. She is a lot like Sophie; Sophie’s jaw clenches like that when she is trying not to cry.
I want Emm to continue but am scared to push her too far. I decide to wait. A few minutes later she regains composure and speaks:
We cut off all contact after our birthday three years ago. I had just been discharged, again. Just in time for the party actually.
What happened?
I couldn’t eat the cake. The icing was pure sugar and food coloring. I couldn’t—or wouldn’t, my twin said—eat most of the food that was there. She said I made her feel guilty when she did, and that I wasn’t trying hard enough.
She pauses.
I guess she just got tired of anorexia and waiting for me to fix it.
But you cannot “fix” anorexia.
I know,
she answers tiredly.
Four years in and I’m still trying to.
We sit together in silence.
I break it this time:
What is your sister’s name?
Amy,
she replies. Then repeats it, lower:
Amy.
Her cruise director voice returns:
Perhaps it is better this way.
What is?
That she and I don’t talk. At least I know she won’t develop anorexia one day because of me.
Even I know it does not work that way.
You cannot pass anorexia to your sister.
No, but she could copy me.
Emm, it’s a disease.
But Emm is not listening:
I couldn’t bear it if she ended up here.
I could not bear it either, the thought of Sophie at 17 Swann Street.
Your sister is a grown-up,
I tell Emm.
You are not responsible for her.
She disagrees:
You are responsible for those you choose to love.
86
We hear a loud crack, a plate crash, an injured scream in the kitchen. Both Emm and I freeze. Running footsteps, a struggle, one, two voices screaming. The first we recognize as Julia’s:
I was just getting a snack! I was hungry! What kind of sick place locks food away?
More footsteps. The night nurse has come in and is trying to pin her down.
Fucking let go of me! I want to leave! You can’t tell me what to eat and do! I’m sick of these rules! Let me go!
Her screams are shrill and desperate, ricocheting off the house’s walls. Julia is suffocating. I put my face in my hands and whisper, Please, just let Julia go.
I can leave when I want! Let go of me, dammit! I want to go home!
The screams turn to sobs, to pleas. I am crying too. I do not want to picture Julia, happy carefree Julia, pinned down.
For a snack. Just a snack! What a duplicitous disease. We all know it was a binge. Even Julia, though she keeps screaming:
I just wanted a snack! Let go of me, bitch!
Julia’s parents had not come to Family Day. They had not even called. And none of us had noticed, I realize now. She had not brought it up. In fact, she had feigned studied indifference, breezing through the afternoon, dinner, evening. She had made it all the way to her room, I suppose, before falling apart.
Julia’s voice is muffled. She gradually calms down, probably as the shot of Haldol begins to take effect. Emm and I stay in our spots, frozen quiet, while we hear some feet shuffle away. The nurse carries her up to bed while Direct Care cleans the mess.
Julia had been alone in her room while I had been out with Papa. She had been fighting her demons while I had been having ice cream with sprinkles.
I could have been there when she needed me, but I had been downstairs with Emm. Perhaps she had knocked on my door. We could have talked, and perhaps it would have helped.
Emm and I sit in the living room, she on the leather armchair, I on the couch. The house is quiet again. Eventually Direct Care finds us.
What are you doing here?! Go to your rooms and to sleep, you two! You barely have half an hour left before vitals and weights.
I go upstairs. Julia’s door is closed. It still is half an hour later. She does not emerge for vitals, weights, coffee, or the jumbles at breakfast. The latter begins promptly at 8:00 A.M. and ends at 8:30 sharp. We go on our walk. When we return we are informed that Julia has been discharged.
I run upstairs. Yes, her room is empty. Painfully, whitewashed empty. Not a vinyl, piece of chewing gum, or empty wrapper. No sock forgotten under the bed. Like Valerie, not a trace of Julia left. Another disappearing act, like a punch in the gut. The vanishing girls of Swann Street.
You know the rules, Anna,
Direct Care’s voice says. She is standing behind me.
You should not be up here after breakfast.
Where did you send Julia?
My voice is far too high-pitched.
She touches my shoulder lightly. I pull back, scalded.
How could you send her away?
Direct Care wants to calm me down, but knows better than to touch me again.
She assaulted a staff member.
She did not mean to!
I know, Anna, but those are the rules. She posed a serious threat to the patients and staff— Julia would never hurt anyone!
Anna!
Direct Care is no longer patient. Her next sentence bites:
She knew the rules. She broke them.
She is sick!
So is every patient here.
Her cynicism slaps at my face. For once I really look at Direct Care: she is tired, and old, much older than I realized. Direct Care is her job, not her name. And Julia in her notes today will be: Discharged Patient from Bedroom 4.
But I am not jaded yet. Julia is still Julia to me: my friend, and
Julia cannot leave!
She cannot give up! is what I mean.
You will bring her back,
you will help her,
won’t you?
Now my voice is low, begging.
She does not reply. I know she cannot. I try again nonetheless:
Will Julia be okay?
Direct Care sighs.
I really hope so.
87
On Mondays the day and night staff switch shifts, new admissions are brought in. The schedule starts over, and so do the meals. I know this by now; this is my fifth.
Monday morning also means a debrief of my weekend successively with the therapist, the nutritionist, the psychiatrist. Their own weekends they spend away from eating disorders and 17 Swann Street. They probably have brunch, cocktails, go to yoga classes or on runs. Not that they speak of those with us.
My session with Katherine is scheduled, as usual, post–midmorning snack, at ten thirty. That meal is particularly rushed today; I was delayed by the Julia affair. At least it is incident-free; I am used to the yogurt at this point. I sprinkle granola and swirl it into the vanilla. Both no longer scare me. Too much.
Ready, Anna?
Last bite, then yes. Direct Care checks my empty bowls and nods. Then walks me to the now-familiar office. I take my usual place on the couch.
Katherine comes in.
How was your weekend, Anna?
This time I am ready for her.
It was actually wonderful.
I tell her, in detail, about the evening I spent with my father.
She hears me talk about dinner and dessert. Asks:
How did the ice cream taste?
Painful, but worth it. You should have seen the look on my father’s face when I ate it.
So you would have it again?
A loaded question. I contemplate it and the window.
Yes, if it means that I get another evening like this with him.
She looks up from her intensive note taking to smile genuinely at me. For a second, Katherine the therapist disappears and Katherine, just Katherine, says:
You may get more than an evening, Anna. You may just get your life back.