Were she not so painfully thin underneath that giant sweatshirt, I would have mistaken her for staff. Were her face not so painfully devoid of emotion, I would have mistaken her for genuine. I’m so glad you are here. She seems indifferent at best. Tired too, like Valerie. Late twenties, I guess. Again the dissonance: old woman’s face, child’s body.
The clock on the wall announces: six thirty. Direct Care announces:
Let’s eat!
The anticipation that had been gnawing at my stomach has developed into pain. The acrid fear now grates throughout my insides; the result is corrosive and hot.
There are two round tables in the room; our names are on one or the other. Every girl locates hers and takes a seat.
Our plates are already set in front of us, wrapped in plastic and ominous. I am not ready; I know that if I look at mine I will panic. My stomachache has, I think, developed into a proper ulcer. Distraction, I need a distraction. I look around at the other girls.
Valerie first, but she is in no state to offer me reassurance; the cook hands her what looks like a frozen orange. Wordlessly, roughly, she grabs it. She digs her nails deep into the flesh; my first exposure to a grounding technique. She will clutch the orange for the rest of the meal and eat with her other hand.
Within minutes, other odd behaviors emerge. One girl taps her foot anxiously. It makes the unsteady table shake and the rest of us even more jittery. Another girl proceeds to cut a piece of potato into paper-thin slivers. I squirm; the gesture is too familiar for comfort. I do that with my food too.
Too small, Katerina. You know that,
says Direct Care, watching over us like a warden.
Emm has not started. She is still examining every piece of her silverware, wiping it methodically with a paper napkin and placing it neatly on the table.
Do what you like, Emm, but remember: this is the only napkin you’ll get.
Nonplussed, she carefully peels the plastic wrap covering her first course, folds it carefully, places it to her right. Calm? Or obsessive-compulsive? Or just delaying having to eat?
Forty-five minutes and not one more, ladies.
Silent tension answers Direct Care.
Julia, you can’t possibly be done already!
Julia objects:
Hey! I was hungry!
I stare at the girl and her empty plate, dumbstruck. Mine is still untouched in front of me.
She turns toward the kitchen and calls to the cook:
Great job, Rita! Man, I was starved! I’d have seconds if I could,
pointed glare at Direct Care,
but I’m not allowed.
After a period of acclimation to this odd little dinner affair, conversation slowly, painfully picks up. To my surprise, it gains momentum. It flows almost normally from the weather to current, random events, a brief exchange of backgrounds, interests, a few photographs of children and pets. Stories of jobs and trips and a life prior to here are shared. I begin to loosen up. But every few minutes Direct Care interrupts the pretense:
Stop spreading that sauce around your plate, Chloe. You’ll have to scoop it up at the end. No, Julia, you cannot help her finish her rice. And no! You cannot taste!
Once, twice,
All the cheese and salad dressing, ladies. Come on, you all know the rules.
Conversation becomes difficult to rekindle. The group lapses into sad silence.
Dessert will bring down even more walls, I am sure, but dessert has not been served yet.
Thirty minutes, Anna,
Direct Care reminds me. I have not even begun!
I cannot afford any more delays. I look down at my plate; the plastic wrap covers half a bagel and some hummus, with carrots, yogurt, and fruit. Some of these foods I have not eaten in years. I cannot eat all of this! I cannot eat any of this. Protest? Refuse? Make a scene? Leave the room? Where would I go?
Direct Care is looking at me. I have no choice. Eyes on my plate, brain far away. I reach for a carrot but panic and bile rise in spite of me up to my throat.
This is it: You will eat whatever is put on your plate, I was told. But I cannot. I am not a quitter, but I cannot do this. I cannot breathe. I cannot breathe.
Anna, do you watch TV shows?
The voice belongs to Emm, sitting across from me, her back to the dining room wall, cutting her food, one bite at a time, chewing pensively, thoroughly. Her question is so outrageously mundane it dissipates the noise in my head. I cannot eat this meal but I can answer that question.
Very few, in fact, but I grew up in the nineties; I am a devoted fan of Friends.
That’s my favorite show of all time! My other passion is the Olympics.
I understand what she is doing for me, her cruise-director smile on. This girl is not the kind to unfold a personal life at the table. She does not mention a dog, career, family, but she does talk, at length, about Friends. As she does I mirror her picking up a baby carrot and dipping it into the hummus.
Dinner progresses. Just focus on Emm. Bite, chew, swallow. Emm. She chatters on and I wonder how she manages to eat at the same time. I make it through the carrots and hummus, and even, with a lot of water, the bagel. I am not thinking, just chewing and picturing episode after episode of Friends.
The fruit is fine, but I hit a wall at the yogurt. I do not eat dairy. Please, Direct Care. I turn to her, ready to beg, but before I can Emm interjects:
Do you like word games?
I suppose I do.
We have word jumbles every day at breakfast.
But as it is dinner, she has charades on hand.
Let’s see what you’ve got, Anna. Consider this your rite of passage. Prepare to be hazed.
Julia chortles, but Emm, with utmost seriousnous quizzes me. My mind still on the yogurt, I fail miserably at the first two charades.
Come on, Anna! Concentrate,
Emm chides, as she scoops up a spoonful of her own yogurt. Come on, Anna. I imitate her gesture and focus my thoughts on her clues.
I solve the third charade. Applause around the table. And in my head. I take a few more bites. Emm appears not to notice and quizzes me through the rest.
Her own assigned meal is huge and I worry she will not be able to finish it. But if she is distraught, she does not show it, just checks the clock from time to time. By the end of the forty-five minutes, my meal is eaten. Hers is too. We put our spoons down. Dinner is over. Emm, like a switch, turns quiet.
She almost looks calm. I almost believe it. Direct Care says,
Ladies! Two lines.
17
The girls disperse when we reach the house. The atmosphere is one of quiet mourning. Except for Julia who, bulimia and headphones blaring, informs us that she is still hungry.
Valerie is in her spot on the couch, crying softly. No one disturbs her. Every girl for herself now, fighting her own demons, waiting for the guilt to dissipate.
Emm takes a book and sits on the stairs, away from the rest of the group. She clearly wants to be left alone, but I approach her nonetheless.
Thank you,
I say, standing there awkwardly, wishing I had come better prepared.
You did fine back there. You’ll be fine,
she says.
Her voice businesslike and detached.
The course of treatment for anorexia is painful but not impossible. If you really want to recover, you will.
At this very instant I really want to take my anorexia and run away. But I do not tell her that, or anything, still unable to say something smart.
She speaks again instead:
Again, if you have any questions at all, do not hesitate to ask.
Clearly an effort to end this conversation and return to her reading. Except I do, finally, have a question:
How do you know I will be fine?
She looks up from her book, no longer emotionless. The saddest smile and answer follow:
Because I’ve seen girls like you get better. I’ve been here for four years.
18