The Girls at 17 Swann Street

by Yara Zgheib

  We are Matthias and Anna. Anna and Matthias. He eats the olives I do not like. I always take his pizza crust.

  You followed him here from France, correct?

  Yes.

  He would have done the same for me.

  A big change.

  He was worth it.

  He still is. No one has ever loved me like him. Or made me feel so happy and safe. Mentally, I reaffirm my hatred for one-person beds.

  Matthias is the best thing that ever happened to me. I am the luckiest girl in the world.

  He is lucky too.

  No. He is a man who must drive for forty-five minutes every day to see his wife, who lives in a treatment center for anorexia while he lives in an empty apartment. Who comes home to an empty fridge, an empty bed, eats cereal for dinner, from the box. Who does not have children, nor is likely to, because his wife cannot conceive.

  No, he is not lucky, but I do not want to argue with the therapist. Monday morning and my second week are not starting off to a good start.

  I look out the window. The magnolia tree is there. So am I, I think bitterly, still. It is still raining; it has been since this morning. That had meant no morning walk. Perhaps that is why I am so irritable with the sweet therapist today.

  I’m sorry about the rain,

  Katherine says. I turn to her, surprised.

  You must have been looking forward to the walk.

  Very much.

  I do not have much else,

  I say, surprised at my own response.

  Nothing to look forward to?

  she presses,

  but I have closed up again. Not today, Katherine.

  She gets the message. We both turn back to the rain.

  My father and I used to walk our dog every morning,

  I surprise myself again.

  Have you spoken to him lately?

  Not since I came here.

  Perhaps you should give him a call.

  Perhaps, but I will not give her the satisfaction of a response. Besides, it is too late today; staff already has our phones. Perhaps I will call Papa tomorrow on the morning walk.

  I calculate the time difference; it will be midafternoon in Paris. Yes, I just might. I breathe out a little easier. And chess with Matthias tonight.

  43

  At 9:10 A.M. on my second Tuesday here, Direct Care walks into community space:

  Who’s ready for the morning walk?

  I am, phone in hand. Emm is already at the door. Most of the other girls are too; Sarah with her sunglasses on, Julia twirling a basketball.

  Not Valerie; she remains on the couch, a blanket draped on her thin legs. She is writing, again. I observe she rarely joins us on the walks.

  But I have no time to reflect any further:

  Come on, ladies, let’s roll!

  Thirty minutes of freedom, not one to waste. Emm and Direct Care lead the way.

  As soon as we are off the property, I call my father, seven time zones away. I silently wish the phone to ring faster. Allez Papa, allez.

  He picks up by the third ring:

  Allo?

  Papa?

  Anna!

  And a bark in the background. I smile: Leopold.

  How are you, Papa?

  I thought they took your phone away!

  They do, most of the day, but I can have it in the mornings and evenings.

  He does not mention the dozens and dozens of his phone calls that I missed, saw later and never returned since I was admitted into treatment. Instead, he asks:

  How are you feeling? Are you all right? How is the center? Are the doctors any good? Are there any patients your age?

  He stops. Then in a strangled voice:

  I am so happy you called.

  My heart tightens.

  Me too, Papa.

  I miss you more than I realized. I am so sorry I did not call. I was stupid and angry and ashamed of being here, and I know all these excuses do not count.

  Papa, how are you, really?

  So much better now that you called. Tell me everything, Anna. Where are you right now?

  I smile. He will like this one:

  On a walk. We get one every morning.

  Ho ho! Lucky girl. Leopold and I are on a short walk too. I just came home from work.

  What color is your sky?

  That purple gray you like. And yours?

  Bright blue after yesterday’s rain.

  I walk him past the little houses of the neighborhood with their pastel doors. I point out blooming flowers, changing leaves, progress in the vegetable patch. I greet the dogs and rabbits and mothers pushing strollers we cross on our way. I pretend I am elsewhere, on the sidewalk he is walking on with Leopold.

  Then I begin to walk him through my first week at 17 Swann Street, but I have barely started when I see the house reappear.

  Je dois raccrocher. I am sorry, Papa. My thirty minutes are up.

  It’s all right, Anna.

  Pause. Then,

  Anna?

  Oui, Papa?

  Silence on the other end.

  Me too, Papa.

  He says:

  Have a good day. Take care of yourself, d’accord? And call me tomorrow at same time?

  Of course, Papa.

  We hang up.

  44

  He never woke her, but she would hear him shuffle around the next room clumsily, inevitably stubbing his toe against the bed at the same angle every day. He would curse under his breath, trying not to wake her mother, search for his walking shoes and tie his laces in the dark. Then he would peek into her room. Anna would already be up.

  As would Leopold, waiting for them both anxiously by the door. Shoes, and often coats, scarves, and mittens on, they would tiptoe out of the house.

  The city and time were theirs when they went on their morning walks. Those often began in a silence they had never had to agree on. Quiet breaths and footsteps, his pace matched to hers. Neither would speak before they had turned the corner onto Vaugirard. He did most of the talking then, usually, leading the conversation and walk. Most of the time he spoke of mundane, weekday things and told her random stories.

  Today, at the market, make sure you get two artichokes and a few lemons. Do not buy the strawberries. I know you will want to, but wait a week longer. They will taste much better then.

  Did you reach the part where Phileas Fogg reaches Bombay? Non? You have been reading too slowly. I traveled to Bombay—they call it Mumbai now—and Calcutta, once.…

  On their walks, he taught her to smell the rain in the air, to walk slower, to look up. She learned to recognize the different types of clouds, the trees, elegant façades that lined the streets of this city she loved, and all the shortcuts.

  At six fifteen they would circle back and stop by the boulangerie, now open, that he liked. The baguette for breakfast, merci. Quick quick, they would hurry. The others at home would be up and waiting for them hungrily.

  He would stop nonetheless to greet the gardienne as she swept the entrance of the building, pull yesterday’s crumbs out of his pocket to leave in the feed for her birds. Then they would take the stairs, a race of dog, girl, and man. The first to reach the top won the prize: the crusty end of the baguette.

  Somehow, Anna and Leopold always won.

  45

  My heart feels heavy as I hang up. The walk is over, Papa is gone. The girls linger in the living room while midmorning snack is being set. Some sleep, some read, some color, some knit, some have already begun to wilt. Direct Care collects all the phones for the day and now I am really alone.

  I hear a soft scratch outside on the porch. I look at the clock: ten to ten. I jump to my feet. How could I have forgotten?

  Girls! The mailman is here!

  Emm has already opened the door and taken the letters from his hands. She brings them in and starts distributing them to fidgety, impatient girls. She gives me one too, to my surprise. Who could be writing me? The plain envelope has no stamp
or sender’s address but right in the middle, my name!

  I am ridiculously giddy. Someone has written me! I unseal the envelope carefully.

  Dear A.,

  I am not good at talking to people face-to-face. I communicate much better with a pen. I don’t know why. I guess I just feel distant from everyone else in real life.

  I have been meaning to write you again since the day you arrived. I can’t believe it’s been a week already. I wanted to give you time to settle in, then I chickened out.

  I’d still like to be friends, if you would. If not, that’s okay.

  Anyway, today is Tuesday …

  The letter is a short and neat page long. Valerie’s handwriting is beautiful. She asks about the morning walk. How I am settling in. If I like to read and what. If I want, she can lend me some books.

  Just the right degree of personal, just the right degree of formal. Valerie signs her letter “V.” I like it. I will sign my response to her “A.”

  I do not know why she chose to write to me, of all the other girls in this place. Valerie who lives in her books and notebooks and does not go on the walks. Who speaks so rarely and quietly that when she does, it is always an event. Whatever her reasons, yes I do want to be friends. I take a sheet of paper from the communal pile and write:

  Dear V.,

  Today is still Tuesday, and thank you very much for your letter. I know what you mean about feeling distant from people. I feel the same way.

  I cannot believe it has been a week either! You were right about the girls. And thank you for sharing the rules of the house with me.

  I am reading Rilke now. I found a book of his in the library. Do you know Rilke? Do you like poetry?

  I sign:

  Sincerely,

  A.

  I place my letter in the mailbox on the porch. It seems the most appropriate place. This will be how we conduct our secret letter exchange. After lunch, I sneak a look in the box, wondering if the letter is there.

  It is not! In its place, to my joy:

  Dear A.,

  I do not usually care for poetry, but I think maybe I don’t understand it. Perhaps if you explained one or two of Rilke’s poems to me?

  I haven’t been reading much lately. The medication I’m on makes it difficult. I’ve been having trouble concentrating in general, but I’ve been writing a lot, so it’s not that bad.

  V.

  Dear V.,

  It must be an anorexia thing, this difficulty concentrating. I have the same problem, but poetry helps. Rilke’s are short and simple enough that I can get through them easily.

  Would you like me to give you one of his poems, before dinner perhaps?

  A.

  After dinner:

  Dear A.,

  You were right. It’s magical.

  Dinner was particularly difficult. The poem helped a lot.

  V.

  I am glad.

  We are in community space again, sitting in post-dinner lull. Waiting for Matthias, I chat with the other girls. Valerie is in her usual spot. She does not take part in the conversation, but she is not isolated. Somehow, she is part of the group. Every girl here has her place.

  She looks up from her writing and meets my gaze. I smile. She looks down again.

  Doorbell. And chorus:

  Anna! Matthias is here!

  46

  Ninety minutes later, we come down the stairs to much hustle and bustle about the house. It is almost time for the late-evening snack, but on the table, there is nothing set.

  Where is everybody? In community space, on couches, cushions, and the floor. Even the nurses and Direct Care. The television is on.

  Where have you two been?

  Emm squeaks.

  You’re missing the opening ceremony!

  What?

  The Olympics!

  But that is not until August,

  a perplexed Matthias says.

  Dude, we know!

  Julia exclaims. I almost laugh out loud; by the look on his face, I gather Matthias has never been called a dude.

  These are the old ones: the 2012 Olympics! We’re watching them again.

  What an odd thing to do.

  Why?

  I ask.

  To prepare ourselves for August!

  Why else.

  It was Emm’s idea,

  Sarah says,

  and Direct Care said we could.

  There is something deeply sad about that sentence, spoken by the mother of a two-year-old. But she is leaning forward excitedly, center seat on the big couch beside Emm. Emm, I have not seen this excited about anything since I moved in here; she is staring at the big television screen in the living room intensely, remote control in hand. She turns the volume up over our voices to hear the commentator’s remarks. On the other side of her, even Valerie is looking up at the screen from her notebook.

  Sit down, you two!

  Julia commands, bouncing her basketball from hand to hand.

  We’ll tell you what you missed.

  I’m afraid my time here is up,

  says Matthias, glancing at the clock above us.

  I’ll just leave you ladies to your Olympics and bow out gracefully.

  I walk my husband to the door and see-you-tomorrow kiss him.

  You’ll tell me how it ends?

  he jokes.

  Of course. Can you handle the suspense?

  I return to our bizarre little movie night and sit cross-legged on the floor. The girls are on the edges of their seats, talking, pointing at the screen. The living room, uncharacteristically, is actually bubbling with excitement. I can feel it creeping up on me too; I have not felt such a buzz in a while.

  Here’s the plan, ladies,

  Direct Care says, her serious Direct Care face on.

  I will set the evening snacks on the table, we’ll pause the ceremony to eat, be as quick about it as we can, then meet back here. How does that sound?

  Hilarious, and fine. We inhale our evening snacks. Yes, even I, even Valerie. No one as fast as Emm, though; she is the first back in community space. Within ten minutes we all are too, watching the parade on the screen, gushing and gossiping like a bunch of adolescents. It feels nice. But odd.

  Why are we acting like a bunch of adolescents at a sleepover on a Friday night? Why are we watching a rerun of a four-year-old ceremony? I look at the women around me; sick women in a treatment center. And myself. Surely none of them, or I, would be doing this in real life.

  Then I get it: real life. For the moment, this is it. Our lives are nutrition, therapy, sleep. Our freedom is confined to our choice of the kind of cereal we eat. The perimeter of our world lines that of the house in which we are living. In this place the weekly schedule is on the communal board, unchanging. Its highlights include cottage cheese on Tuesdays and the occasional outing on Saturday, apple cinnamon tea, the morning walk, and yoga on Mondays and Fridays.

  I look at Emm and see the past four years. My other passion is the Olympics. No wonder she is excited. No wonder we all are, by a rerun of a parade.

  Gymnasts and runners and triathletes wave flags and circle the stadium. They blow kisses at the camera, at us, on the other side of the screen.

  I remember every bit of this parade!

  exclaims Emm, all fidgety.

  Pay attention, everyone! The Americans are up next.

  And the Americans parade next.

  That’s Michael Phelps! Anna, see him? Michael Phelps!

  He is gorgeous. I say so.

  I met him that year,

  Emm throws in casually,

  at the trials. He was nice.

  The whole room turns sharply toward her. Punctuation marks pop through the air. Questions are catapulted.

  You met Michael Phelps?

  You tried out for the Olympics? Did you get in? What sport?

  What did you say to him? Was he as dreamy as he looks?

  And cruise director Emm blushes profoundly red.

&
nbsp; It was so embarrassing: I stuttered, but he was really friendly. I have a picture of us together if you want to see.

  Of course we want, we beg to see it! And for more details.

  I was trying out as a gymnast,

  she explains.

  Actually, it was my third time.

  She pauses as she and everyone sigh in unison at a close-up of Phelps. Then we turn back to her.

  So what happened? Did you make the cut?

  Emm’s face changes. Silly, hasty question.

  No. I came here instead.

  We watch the parade end in silence, then Direct Care turns it off. The girls trickle off to their rooms. We had forgotten, for a while, that we lived here.

  I remain, as does Emm, her mind still in 2012. She seems smaller in her seat, or perhaps the walls of the living room seem narrower in indirect light. I understand why she had wanted us to watch the parade with her. I understand why she watches Friends again and again in between Olympic years.

  I understand her anorexia more than she knows, wings banging on the inside of a cage. But I say nothing; she does not want my understanding. She wants quiet and to grieve.

  I should leave her alone. I try, but I made a terrible mistake: I sat on the floor, and now my old lady’s bones are locked painfully in this position. She notices me try to pull myself up. The cracking sound of my bones says, Fail.

  She jumps off the couch and reaches down for my arm. We both pull me up, wincing.

  Osteoporosis?

  Almost, osteopenia. And you?

  Me too.

  Of course.