The Girls at 17 Swann Street

by Yara Zgheib

  Obviously, Batman.

  It was a little chilly, but Anna had brought Matthias’s sweatshirt with her just in case. She slipped it on gratefully as they waited for their turn to ride.

  Anna, you can’t possibly be cold.

  Matthias was sweating profusely. Everyone around them was too.

  Well, she was, not cold necessarily, just uncomfortable with the light breeze. Even the temperature of Matthias’s cool hand had made her pull away. The sweatshirt helped, and she did not care what the people around them thought anyway.

  The queue edged forward.

  Batman, baby!

  Batman, baby,

  she echoed.

  Except there was a knot in her stomach, and there were palpitations in her chest. Anna was not afraid of roller coasters. Anna was not afraid of anything. Anna was the girl who went on all the rides and tried every new thing at least once. She had been skydiving, caving, mountain climbing, cliff hanging, and snowboarding with Matthias. Anna was the girl who went snowboarding with her husband, she reminded herself again. Still, the knot in her stomach. And it was their turn to ride. Too late.

  It started wrong. The jolt forward made her neck snap, then her head slam back into the seat. It bobbed and banged against everything uncontrollably like the loose head of a Chinese fortune cat.

  The train stopped at the top for a split-second release before dipping at vertiginous speed. Matthias screamed and Anna screamed. It was not the same scream. Her organs had been left behind, at the top, her vertebrae were being knocked around. At a sharp angle, her hip hit the seat on the right. And the wind, that horrible wind …

  Anna! Hands in the air, I dare you!

  But Anna was otherwise occupied; if she let go her arms would be yanked out of their sockets, no match for the ride’s speed.

  Screeching halt. Thank God. She could barely get out of her seat. She looked around; everyone around her was laughing, applauding. Matthias was hopping with excitement. He took her by the arm and pulled her along as he skipped like a child. It hurt.

  Shall we go again? Shall we go on the Superman? That was incredible! Let’s … Anna, is everything okay?

  No, everything hurt. Everything made her dizzy. Everything was hard and cold. That ride had been pure torture. How on earth had she once liked roller coasters?

  Everything is fine!

  Even she knew that sounded fake.

  I am just a little nauseated from the ride.

  And probably, from having been fasting since last night. She had had to, preemptively, knowing that Matthias would want to have ice cream today. And fries. Matthias and Anna went on roller-coaster rides together and shared ice cream and fries.

  Go on the next one without me. I just need to rest a little.

  What? Of course not! I’ll wait. We can sit here till you feel a little better, then go on the next ride together.

  Matthias—

  No way. Not without you. Don’t worry, we have plenty of time. Believe me, by the time the park closes we will have gone on each ride twice!

  To nausea was added panic: how would she survive the day? It was only noon and the park closed at nine, and the next ride, she was sure, would break her ribs.

  Matthias and Anna loved roller coasters.

  I love roller coasters, she reminded herself. To Matthias, she said,

  All right, Superman. I am ready! Let’s ride.

  No one else seemed distraught in the queue on that sunny Sunday. Anna plastered on her biggest smile, and when their train arrived, pulled the metal guard as far down on her chest as it would go.

  I love roller coasters. I love roller coasters.

  Jerk. Propulsion. Dive, turn, loop, bang, bang.

  I love roller coasters.

  A sharp pain in her pelvis. She was crying.

  Make it stop!

  Matthias went on the rest of the rides alone, and they did not have ice cream that day. Anna blamed it on the nausea. Matthias said nothing. They went home.

  The next morning there were big black and blue bruises on her thighs, arms, and behind. Matthias said nothing then either, except that he was late for work.

  Matthias and Anna used to love roller coasters, but after that April Sunday, Anna announced that theme parks had become a little too crowded for her taste. The music was too loud. The roller coasters redundant. Even good ice cream was hard to find. Matthias could have said something then, but he did not. What difference would it have made?

  They had both become too comfortably settled in the magical kingdom of make-believe. She made believe that she was happy and all was fine and he made believe it was true. It was less painful than confrontation. Confrontation just led to fights.

  And so she ate nothing and they both ate lies through three years of marriage, for peace, at the occasional cost of no more roller coasters, no more sharing ice cream and French fries.

  16

  We stand in line, two by two, for the brief walk to the adjacent house. There dinner will be served, my first meal here. My feet do not want to move. I glance at the rest of the girls; most of them do not seem to be faring much better. We must look comical; seven grown women like schoolgirls in two straight lines, waiting to be taken to dinner. No, we look sad; seven grown women in two straight lines, waiting to be taken to dinner.

  I fold and hold on to Valerie’s note. The girls ahead of me begin to walk. No turning back now. I am scared but do not even know what to expect.

  We cross the lawn from 17 Swann Street to the yellow house next door. The girl in the turquoise sweatshirt is in front. I conclude she must be Emm.

  She leads us into the dining room. My eyes and trust settle on her. She seems oddly calm for an anorexic at dinner. Her turquoise soothes me.

  I focus on her hair: spectacular, cascading. An anorexic abnormality. Enormous eyes, fierce beauty. An athlete’s posture, if not build. She must have been a swimmer or a gymnast, I guess. Not anymore, though; two matchsticks for legs.

  She walks up to me and speaks. Introductions:

  Hello, my name is Emily. Everybody here calls me Emm.

  Her warmth is professional and precisely titrated, like that of a customer-service agent.

  I’m so glad you are here. Please feel free to reach out if I can do anything to help.

  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

  I am back in community space and my stomach hurts.

  Once upon a time I used to eat. I even used to like to eat. I used to bake the best tarte aux pêches and dunk crackers in my cocoa or tea, and flip heavenly, airy crêpes with my eyes closed. I had a secret recipe for Sacher torte. I used to savor fresh, hot croissants on Sunday mornings with Matthias.

  I used to eat. I used to like to eat, then I grew scared to eat, ceased to eat. Now my stomach hurts; I have been anorexic so long that I have forgotten how to eat.

  Dinner is over, my first real meal in years. But the anxiety has just begun. It is 7:28. The day is settling down but my feet, heart, and mind are racing.

  Direct Care says:

  Anna, sit down please. Stop pacing like that. You’re making everybody uncomfortable.

  But I cannot. I am going to be sick.

  I need to step outside.

  You cannot.

  No, I cannot breathe. I cannot stay indoors, sit down, or stop pacing. Or do this. I want my anorexia back! I want to leave!

  The clock hits 7:30. The doorbell rings.

  19

  Matthias is standing at the door, clean shaven, hair handsomely combed, holding a red rose and looking extremely ill at ease. He is wearing a crisp blue shirt that I like, one I had ironed last week. Last week. Another world and time away, neither of which seems real.

  For an instant I stand, stunned, expecting him to disappear when I blink. He does not. I blink again, just in case. Then I fly into his arms.

  I am touching Matthias. Hugging Matthias as though I have not seen him in forever. It has been forever since he dropped me off here only a few hours ago. The heat from his chest.
I had forgotten the rhythm of his heart on my ear. My husband holds me stiffly, unpleasantly aware that we are being watched.

  A curious crew of six pale girls and Direct Care stand behind me. I do not notice them, too busy showering him with kisses and questions:

  What are you doing here? I cannot believe this! Are you allowed to be here?

  When I finally let him he hands me the rose that is now less crimson than his face, and says in a flushed voice:

  They told me visiting hours were at seven thirty.

  Visiting hours. Visiting hours! How had I not registered that? I must have misplaced that piece of information in the pile I was given at orientation. I ask Direct Care:

  How much time do I have?

  Ninety minutes,

  she says,

  till I call you for the evening snack. You may not go outside unsupervised yet, but you may go to your room.

  I am so happy I do not even revolt against the house rules; that I am twenty-six and have just been told that I “may” take my husband to my room. The rules of the real world do not apply here, in the house at 17 Swann Street. I accept that, for now; I only have eighty-nine minutes with Matthias left.

  Then a sobering realization: it is past seven thirty. I look at the front door and back at the other girls. No other visitor is here. Suddenly I feel inconsiderate for having kissed Matthias in public. I push him back gently, and with an effort at retenue, take him upstairs to my room.