The Girls at 17 Swann Street

by Yara Zgheib

She and I half laugh, half cry. Then we fall quiet, both of us wanting to speak, neither of us knowing how.

  I am sorry about the trials and anorexia,

  I say.

  I used to dance. I hurt myself too. It was not too serious, but I guess I was gone too long. They could not wait; they replaced me.

  She nods, then looks at the now black television screen:

  I thought I would be competing this year. I spent four years convincing myself I would. That I would be in the parade this August, or at least try out again. Instead I’m still here. Four years, Anna. I’ll watch the games on this screen.

  The games are not till August, though. You could still be discharged before then.

  My sentence is voiced, unintentionally, as a question, to which she answers with a wry smile. The Emm smile. The sad one that broke my heart on my first night here.

  I could, but who would prepare the jumbles and lead the morning walk then?

  A sad and old lady has replaced the girl whose eyes were sparkling at the screen, just minutes before, proudly boasting about her encounter with the athlete of her dreams. The jumble and the morning walks; she is not joking. Friends, the Olympics, and animal crackers. And cottage cheese on Tuesdays.

  Emm needs those, and to be the leader of our group, to survive. De facto director of this house. There is nothing for her outside it.

  You cannot give up, Emm.

  I haven’t,

  she replies,

  I haven’t killed myself yet. The jumbles and walks help.

  Said in a soft voice. Then,

  I’m tired. Good night, Anna.

  She expects no empathy from me. Or comfort. She has the Olympics.

  And the jumbles, and the walks, and Gerald the Saint Bernard. I head toward the stairs.

  Good night, Emm.

  47

  Mother and daughters on a ladies’ night out: Anna and Sophie’s first ballet. It was still quite chilly for a June evening. Maman was wearing her salmon coat. Over their new dresses, the girls had matching white princess coats that covered their joyous fidgeting.

  Maman’s fingers had coaxed the knots out of Anna’s thick blond hair and pinned it into her first bun. It was the most magical night of her life: Swan Lake. Anna had fallen in love.

  The stage, the lights, the audience blackened out of sight. The violins flooding the hall, the music filling her lungs. Pas de bourré, pirouette, glissade, grand jeté. The closest anyone could come to flight.

  She left thinking ballerinas existed only in that enchanted, chandelier-lit world of red velvet seats and carved wood painted gold, undulled by grimy city light. That place, and the swans’ delicate white feathers, filled the daydreaming six-year-old’s head. So Maman took her to ballet lessons once a week, then twice a week, then every day. To rehearsals and auditions, and she and Papa applauded proudly at every curtain call.

  Anna became a ballerina like the ones she had dreamed of, and she found out they were real. Up close and offstage, they were competitively, painfully thin as well. They sweated and stretched for eight hours a day, went to bed aching and starved, but when the curtain went up at 8:00 P.M. every night, they turned into swans.

  She also found out that she did not have the body of a perfect ballerina. She was just a little too short and her feet were a little too flat. And she could stand to lose a little weight, she was constantly reminded. But she was good and disciplined enough that she could entertain the dream that if she pushed a little harder, stretched a little further, spun a little faster, she could change.

  She did her pliés, put more fire in her jumps. Glissade, glissade, grand jeté. Back straight, shoulders back, ankles crossed. Always. The lighter she was, the easier it would be to flutter off the ground. So the less the other girls ate, the less she did too. Dancer see, dancer do.

  Anna neither flew nor grew taller; she got shorter as her spine collapsed. Her knees buckled one afternoon in rehearsal. Surgery at twenty-three, then bed rest.

  48

  Wednesday begins stickily humid and disconcertingly hot. Disconcertingly, because I have anorexia, and anorexics never feel hot. Today I am, uncharacteristically, sweating, though my hands and feet remain cold. They are always cold; poor peripheral circulation. Acrocyanosis, the doctor had called it.

  Otherwise known as the inability to hold a chilled glass of champagne, or Matthias’s hand, because I cannot afford to lose what little heat I have. Or wearing two pairs of socks under layers of blankets in the summer, shaking for hours, unable to sleep. Acral coldness. As lonely as it sounds.

  The day does not improve as it progresses; I am served half a bagel and a mound of cream cheese for breakfast. Consequently, the morning walk is miserable. I am short with Papa on the phone.

  I change into clean and dry clothes when we return. My irritation is harder to shed. However, just then I hear the door and the mailman. My first smile of the day.

  I wonder if V. wrote to me.

  She did!

  Dear A.,

  I think I like having a pen pal. Last night was fun with all the girls. It was actually my first time watching the Olympics, but don’t tell Emm!

  I saw you struggle with the bagel and cream cheese at breakfast this morning. It’s a difficult one for me too. But we did it. They say it gets easier with time.…

  Across from me, Valerie is in her spot, of course, reading a letter of her own. Her hair is in a tiny bun at the top of her head, like mine. It looks even smaller, and so does she, compared with the sweater she is wearing; two sizes too big at least, I guess, and obviously a man’s. Boyfriend? Father? Brother? Too early in our friendship to ask. Perhaps in a few letters, I tell myself as I reach for a sheet of paper from the communal stack, when—

  A shriek.

  We all look up and around. Valerie, holding her hand up: paper cut. The letter she had been reading and its envelope are on the floor. Her index finger is red and bleeding abundantly all over the place.

  Asteatotis: dry and scaly skin. Another symptom of anorexia.

  The condition can lead to profuse and prolonged bleeding from superficial cuts. I know this from experience; a pair of scissors, a knife, a sweater that is a bit too rough, air that is even slightly dry or cold, the edge of a letter or envelope …

  And blood is flowing everywhere: on her hands, down her sleeves, on the sweatshirt. Emm is the first to react. She runs to the nurse’s station for supplies and help.

  Sarah withdraws, feeling faint. Julia is staring curiously. I take Valerie’s hand and with a wad of tissue paper try to blot the blood.

  Her hands.

  Pellagra. Hyperpigmented and scaly plaques. Vitamin or protein deficiency.

  Lanugo. Downy fine hair, to preserve body heat, covering the entire body.

  I would not notice either, normally; Valerie always wears long sleeves. The nurse and Direct Care arrive and take over. My red tissues and I step aside.

  Valerie is swept out of community space before any of the other girls faint. Emm, of course, is right behind Direct Care. The rest of us wait.

  Just a cut, dear, but we must clean it.

  We can all hear the nurse’s voice.

  You may need stitches. Let me see. Pull up your sleeve.

  Suddenly, her voice is silent. For a full minute, then,

  Emm, thank you for your help, now please leave. Go back to community space.

  I am surprised not to hear her object to this. Emm returns with a look on her face I have never seen before.

  Are you okay?

  I ask.

  She nods.

  Is she?

  She hesitates. Then, as if she were dropping something very heavy, she whispers:

  She cuts.

  Dermatitis artefacta. Skin lesions, ulcers, bruises, scars. Valerie, placid Valerie, cuts herself. How could any of us have guessed?

  Her possessions are still on the floor, but my hands are still stained with her blood. Emm picks them up before I ask her and sets them in Vale
rie’s spot.

  The letter she was reading sits, face up, staring me in the face. My curiosity wins over my well-bred discretion. I do not touch it, but from where I sit:

  Dear Valerie,

  Happy birthday, sweetheart. I’ll be in town this weekend to celebrate.

  I look away. I should not be reading this. She had not mentioned her birthday.

  Soon, Valerie, good as new, returns. I am allowed to wash my hands. Back in community space, I hesitate: what had I been doing before this?

  My letter to Valerie. My blank sheet of paper. Suddenly I have nothing to say; Valerie’s hands put yesterday’s Olympics and this morning’s breakfast into perspective. Whatever I write now will be insignificant. But I had promised I would. I think of how happy her letter had made me only a short while ago.

  I could write this girl a thousand superficial letters, except I know her now. I know it is her birthday and I know she cuts. Pen to paper:

  Dear V.,

  That paper cut must really sting. I hope it heals quickly.

  May I ask whose sweater you are wearing? Does it mean something to you?

  You do not have to answer my questions. I know they are personal. I would just like to get to know you a bit better. If you are willing. I like having a pen pal too.

  A.

  49

  She cut herself, again. Stupid apple, stupid fingers always in the way. Anna reached for a paper towel to blot the blood. It seemed to be gushing out a little too profusely for such a tiny cut. Lately those had been taking longer than usual to heal.

  She looked, frustrated, at the half-diced apple on her plate. It was covered in blood and now inedible. She would have to start all over again.

  She prided herself in how finely she could cut an apple into little pieces. The smaller they were, the more bites she got per apple, the longer an apple lasted.

  She reached for another paper towel and wondered if they had any Band-Aids left.

  50

  No response from Valerie all day and it is now time for dinner. I think I pushed too hard. We form two lines at Direct Care’s instructions to walk to the house next door.

  I make it a point not to stand next to her. Space. My way of saying that she has the right to be left alone within her boundaries.

  She comes to me instead and slips a note in my hand just as we reach the dining room. I lag behind the others and open it; I simply cannot wait till after dinner.

  Dear A.,

  I’m sorry I didn’t write back. I’ve been in my head all day.

  The sweatshirt belongs to my father. He’s coming to Saint Louis this weekend.

  She does trust me. I stare thankfully at those two brief lines.

  Anna! Everyone’s waiting for you!

  I hurry in and take my seat. Everyone else has already taken theirs.

  Finally, Anna! Dinner is getting cold, and it is absolutely delizioso today!

  “Delizioso,” of course, is a debatable term, but Rita is in such a good mood that I do not challenge her. I even dare hope she is right.

  Of course, that hope promptly dissipates as soon as dinner is revealed: a heaping plate of spaghetti marinara, with basil and mozzarella cheese. On the side, a garden salad concealed under a hill of cheese and doused in olive oil. Of course. I rue my overconfidence at meal planning last Thursday, and do not even try to recall what I had circled for dessert in my folly.

  Valerie’s plate is set on the other table. I am disappointed. Not that we would have been able to talk even if we had been seated together. Every girl for herself tonight, and the pasta. Even Emm does not pull out the charades. I focus on surviving the salad and its dressing first. Then the spaghetti, the cheese, the sauce. One bite at a time. I keep my mind firmly elsewhere. Done.

  And then, spumoni.

  One of the girls is crying and Valerie needs her frozen orange. Julia and Sarah fare a little better; non-anorexics: different demons. They try to lighten the mood with a few jokes. The rest of us listen gratefully. We all wait until the last girl makes it to the apple cinnamon tea.

  No one dies, and somehow, the hands on the clock hit seven fifteen. We lie to Rita about dinner being wonderful and walk back in the sweltering heat.

  On the way back, I find myself next to Emm.

  I’m proud of you,

  she says.

  Just that and just out of the blue. I turn to her:

  Thank you. I did not think I could do it.

  You can. Just don’t stop.

  I want to tell her, You too. But we reach the house and I have infringed on enough privacy for one day.

  Back in community space, my hand in my pocket feeling Valerie’s letter, I wonder whether I should write back or just talk to her. A glance in her direction: she is staring out the window, her big squirrel eyes vague. I walk up to her; I can always write if she turns me away.

  Are you okay?

  She does not look it, nor does she look at me. Her chin quivers; response enough. But she remains quiet, and I hesitate. Perhaps she just wants to be alone.

  I turn around, but she blurts out,

  He doesn’t know I am in treatment.

  I sit down. Exhale. Of course he does not know; anorexics are selfless lovers and masters at painting rosy lies.

  He thinks I came here for a job.

  She shows me his letter, now with little bloodstains across on the top corner. He signed it:

  Always proud of you, Valerie.

  I love you.

  Dad

  I hand the letter back to her, unsure of what to say. Rather, unsure she wants to hear it. I finally do:

  He deserves to know, and I think you need him now.

  I look at her. Emaciated and so terribly pale. She has not had a visitor or left the house since I came here.

  Valerie is quiet. I wish she would talk to me.

  Please tell him where you are. He will understand.

  Faux pas. I can see I crossed a line.

  Not every father does,

  she says.

  No, not every father does.

  Valerie does not look angry at me for my transgression. She just looks tired and sad.

  I was always an A student. I am an Ivy League grad. I am my father’s perfect, only daughter. Tell me, what do you think he’ll say when he finds out about this?

  “This” is anorexia, and 17 Swann Street, but she also pulls her sleeve up, just enough for me to see the start of a thick and engorged red scar. The skin along her entire arm is mangled. She covers it and whispers jaggedly:

  His perfect girl lies, cuts, and cannot eat. Why on earth would he be proud of me?

  I understand. I think of the men I tried so hard to be perfect for. Philippe, pretending not to know me in public as he stood by his beautiful wife. Matthias, taking my hand and introducing me, proudly:

  Have you met Anna, the love of my life?

  Valerie is not looking at me anymore, away in her mind, out the window.

  51

  They were married. They were married! What a cold and happy day. They cut through the frozen park and raced the six flights of stairs up to the flat. They spent the evening talking, playing music, making love. Making plans for the coffee they would have the next morning. They would have it in bed. Then they would have breakfast: eggs, sunny-side up for him, scrambled for her, basil, tomato, oregano. She would make those while he went downstairs to get the baguette.

  She went to sleep and was happy for an entire night. But the next morning she woke up at five with a nauseating stomachache.

  The boy she had married was still sleeping next to her. On her finger, the delicate ring. What if he woke up and realized his mistake? That he deserved better? That she was not what he had signed up for? The ring was glistening rainbows.

  His sweatshirt on a chair, her pink trainers by the door. She slipped both on and snuck out. She began walking briskly in some, any direction, across the park, beyond the park.

  Matthias’s wife could be nothing le
ss than perfect: smart, beautiful, thin. Anna wore trainers, no makeup, big book lover’s glasses, and her hair in a messy bun. He loved that about her, now, but would he still in a year? In a year, in his eyes, would she still be “Anna, the love of my life”?

  The stomachache worsened. She thought of Philippe. Who had found her pretty, just not enough. Smart and elegant, but not enough. Philippe, who had told her “I love you” and “Do you really want that slice of cake?”

  She had cut her lettuce into smaller and smaller bites, let her hair down, lowered her voice, straightened her back. But she had never met his mother or licked ice cream with him, fit in his mold.

  Philippe had not loved her. Matthias did, and she him. He made her blissfully happy. He deserved to be happy. He deserved smart, beautiful, thin. She would be smart, beautiful, thin for him. She would be the wife he deserved. Matthias would be proud of her. She was out of breath.

  The wind had picked up and the sky was overcast. Anna stopped and looked around. She did not know this neighborhood, had no key, money, or phone. She had not realized that her walk had turned into a run.

  52

  Thursday, fresh start. To prove it, the sky rains, washing away yesterday’s angst and heat. I can hear the droplets tipping and tapping at the window of my Van Gogh room. I have just returned from weights and vitals, discarded my flower-print robe, and now, back in bed and in my pajamas, close my eyes. This reminds me of Paris.

  Today will be a good day, I decide. I shower. Peach blush and perfume. I come down the stairs early for the occasion: coffee, breakfast, and the jumbles. And art class this afternoon.

  None of the girls must be in the living room yet; no sound except for the rain. I walk in and jump: Valerie! Valerie, standing in the middle of the room.