The Girls at 17 Swann Street

by Yara Zgheib

  She nods and wipes mascara from the corner of her eyes.

  I help her hang the four sketches of the bouquet on the wall in community space. The doorbell rings again. We stop. We look at each other, confused.

  Family Day is over, and Matthias never comes before 7:30 P.M. So who is at the door at 6:05? Have we missed anyone?

  83

  I cannot believe it. I do not dare. Next to Matthias,

  Papa!

  I leap toward him, hanging on to his neck, terrified he may disappear.

  What are you doing here?

  Well, I was told it was Family Day.…

  begins the story of how my father took two planes from Paris to see me.

  I cannot stop hugging him. I do not let go. He smells of eau de cologne and every happy memory of my childhood.

  Papa! Papa is really here! I am crying like a child, wrinkling his shirt, hugging him tighter. He holds me close to him, not letting go either.

  Anna, Anna,

  a small tremor in his voice. His hand ruffles my hair. He finally pulls back and hands me a cotton handkerchief.

  You still carry those.

  I laugh as I inelegantly blow my nose.

  Of course.

  He smiles, his composure back in place but his voice still shaky.

  My father, his eau de cologne, and his handkerchiefs are here at 17 Swann Street. My heart could fly right out of my chest, I am so happy.

  Only for the evening, though. I am very sorry, Anna. I was supposed to land yesterday but I missed my connection, and tomorrow I must be at work.

  Only an evening. Only an evening? A whole evening with my father! I stare, overwhelmed, at this man who crossed an ocean for an evening with me.

  And …

  Matthias adds,

  I have news that is good and bad. Your team has allowed you to go out.

  Away from Swann Street with Matthias and Papa!

  … but it will have to be a meal outing.

  I understand. It makes sense; I will be skipping dinner here. But:

  At least that way you get more time with your father, right?

  Matthias adds hopefully.

  Matthias, wonderful Matthias.

  Yes!

  I let go of Papa long enough to kiss my husband passionately.

  Thank you,

  I whisper, then step back to contemplate the two men of my life. I exhale the breath I have been holding in, but the pressure on my chest is still immense.

  It is happiness; I could burst with happiness.

  I love you,

  to both of them.

  Before we go to dinner, Papa requests a tour of 17 Swann Street. All I want is to leave; he and this place represent two worlds I never want to intersect. Nonetheless, I show him around. Ground floor: community space.

  Good evening, ladies,

  he greets the girls politely, with only the faintest accent.

  I am Anna’s father.

  Good evening, MONsieur,

  Direct Care answers formally. Irrepressibly, hilariously American.

  Good evening, sir,

  Emm says, a tad more composed, speaking on behalf of the group.

  My name is Emm.

  Ah! Yes, she told me all about you. It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Emm.

  He turns to me:

  Yes, I see what you mean: she does look like Sophie.

  Emm raises an eyebrow at me, but I have no time to explain, because,

  And who is Valerie?

  Papa asks next. I freeze. I had not told him.

  Of course I had not told my father that Valerie had died. One does not tell one’s family these things. Another rule at 17 Swann Street.

  Sarah saves the day:

  I am Sarah. Has Anna told you about me?

  Oui bien sur! The actress, non? Tell me, how is your son?

  Sorry to interrupt, Papa, but we have to leave soon.

  Hurriedly, I sweep him out of community space, through the breakfast area, the sunroom, and up the stairs to my room.

  Just as you described it,

  he says.

  My father in the Van Gogh room. He looks out of my window, admiring the setting sun and

  that magnolia tree is lovely.

  He sees the board and his picture on it alongside Leopold, Sophie …

  She misses you, you know.

  I wrote her and I tried to call, but she has not been answering me.

  He sighs.

  This is difficult for her to understand. It is difficult for me too.

  My sister smiles brightly at me from the photograph. She looks happy, beautiful, healthy. Next to her, I look healthy too; that photograph is so old. We have the same eyes and the same heart-shaped face. We once shared a bedroom and clothes. I do not know when, where, or how we diverged to end up in such different places.

  She will come around. I think she just needs time. She feels like she lost you,

  her sister, who once loved cake, to anorexia and a house full of skeletal girls. I really hope Papa is right and Sophie will call. I miss her terribly.

  We walk out and down the stairs, through the rooms again; he does not comment on the locked cabinets and bathroom doors.

  It was lovely to meet you, ladies. Have a good evening,

  he says to the girls before we walk out. The lifeless group waves us goodbye. We cannot reach the door fast enough.

  Anna! Wait!

  Direct Care. Now what? She puffs over, paper in hand.

  Your meal plan for dinner tonight at the restaurant. The nutritionist left clear instructions.

  She goes over those, three times, with me, while the minutes tick away and I fidget. My father and Matthias look away studiously, trying not to listen.

  Is this clear, Anna?

  Crystal. Good night!

  Have a good time, and don’t forget—

  But I am already skipping off to the car with my father and husband.

  84

  We drive off and far, far away from number 17, Matthias behind the wheel, Papa to his right, I between them both in the backseat. It is a blissful ride. We talk of random things, the conversation flowing as though we had last seen each other just this morning.

  I look at Papa; he had been crying the last time I had really seen him. Now his forehead seems less tense, his hand reaching over his shoulder for mine, his jetlagged eyes closed, his head swaying softly to the song on the radio. It had been Christmas last time.

  Matthias too, seems more relaxed; from where I sit I can tell from his shoulders. In Paris they had been stiff and high, now they are loose. He leans back.

  Papa, how is Leopold?

  As cheeky as ever, but I think he is getting old. Lately he has been letting me win when we run up the stairs to the flat. What about that dog you see on your morning walks? What was his name?

  Gerald.

  She told you about Gerald?

  Matthias asks, amused.

  Naturally.

  Papa winks at me through the mirror.

  We reach the restaurant Matthias chose, a tiny affair of a place. Eight tables at most, and utterly charming. Our table for three is the one by the window, under the chandelier.

  We order three glasses of prosecco, to start. I kiss Matthias:

  This is beautiful. Thank you.

  Then:

  To the men in my life, and how lucky I am.

  It is a gorgeous evening. The waiter arrives:

  What would you like to have?

  I pull out my menu and my good intentions to comply with my meal plan. I give myself a few seconds to breathe while the waiter goes over the specials.

  I know what to order; the instructions are clear and folded neatly in my purse. Papa and Matthias are waiting, I know, for a glimpse of the Anna they remember. This is my chance to show them both how far I have come, how cured I am. My chance to bring Anna back. All this hard work,

  but I panic. Instead,

  I order a side salad. Matthias sighs. Si
lence. Breath,

  and the ratatouille.

  There!

  My father and husband nearly fall off their seats. I genuinely laugh out loud.

  Papa says:

  I will have the same. I have not had ratatouille in years!

  Make that three then, with three side salads please,

  Matthias tells the waiter. Menus shut.

  We do not order appetizers, but all three of us dig into the bread. Papa and Matthias spread freshly creamed butter on theirs. I am not quite that cured yet.

  Our salads arrive, and our main dishes are steaming hot, well seasoned, excellent. The conversation is mild but pleasant. Papa leads it, thankfully. He and Matthias do most of the talking while I focus on bite after bite. Just as we practiced at 17 Swann Street, I nudge myself on.

  I am the last to finish, but I do finish. Fork down, I reach for my glass. A celebratory sip of prosecco; now I can concentrate on Papa’s story. Matthias is listening to him intently, but underneath the table, his hand reaches for mine and squeezes it proudly, then remains on my knee.

  Lady and gentlemen, would you care for dessert?

  Papa looks at me expectantly. He will follow my lead. I check in with my anxiety: the old Anna would have ordered dessert in a heartbeat.

  I suppose we could have a look at the menu,

  I say to buy myself some more time. A decision I regret: chocolate fondant, crème brûlée, tarte aux framboises, au citron, profiteroles …

  The foreign voice in my head, panicked and jumpy, wants to say

  No thank you. Check please.

  The real Anna would have ordered dessert: the chocolate fondant with three spoons. Papa’s favorite, and Matthias loves chocolate too. But I am no longer she. I am an anorexic fraud whose place is at 17 Swann Street. Who am I fooling with my glass of prosecco, my ratatouille, my bread?

  Matthias, Papa, and the waiter are still waiting for me to reply. Guessing my answer, breaking the silence, Matthias asks for the check.

  I feel like crying. Like I let them both down, especially Papa. Papa, who crossed the globe to be here with me only for a night. And even for a night, I cannot order dessert, cannot keep up a simple pretense. Cannot fight anorexia for another hour, just another hour, for him.

  Can’t I?

  Big breath. Quick, before I have time to think:

  I know where we can get dessert.

  I laugh for the second time this evening at the expression on both faces.

  We have ice cream, of course. Vanilla for me, chocolate strawberry for Matthias. And for my father, two large scoops of chocolate, with chocolate sprinkles and chocolate sauce!

  Would you like some sprinkles, Anna?

  Of course, Papa, but rainbow ones.

  I watch them melt into blue, red, orange, and green swirls in the creamy white.

  Anna used to love the colored sprinkles when she was a child,

  Papa informs Matthias.

  Yes she did, Papa, and she is still the Anna you remember.

  We eat in the car, windows down, in the parking lot by the kiosk. There are a few other cars; a few couples, a group of teenagers. Trying perhaps, like us, to lengthen the last few minutes of Sunday.

  We finish our ice cream with ten minutes to spare before we have to head back. I ate the little, but whole, scoop. And the sprinkles, and the little cone. Matthias says,

  I am very proud of you.

  I look at him gratefully; he had heard my anorexia screaming tonight, had watched me fight it silently, and had silently cheered me on. Matthias is proud of me.

  As am I,

  says Papa.

  And amazed at how far you have come. Keep walking, Anna. Don’t stop.

  Keep walking, Anna.

  He used to say that to me when I was little. When my feet hurt and blistered, when I scraped my knee, when I was tired on a hike. Keep walking, when it rained. Keep walking, when I was teased in the playground, called in the street, when I fell.

  Dust off your knees, get back up. Keep walking, Anna. As he and Maman had done together, as he had then done alone. As he still did every morning with Leopold, every afternoon with me on the phone.

  I am scared, Papa.

  I know you are.

  This is so difficult. It hurts.

  I know, Anna. Life does, and it is messy.

  You never told me that.

  No,

  he acknowledges.

  I did not know it either, until your mother and brother. Just as I did not know what anorexia was until last Christmas.

  He looks onto the parking lot, now empty. The ice cream kiosk is closed.

  There is no tragedy to suffering. It is, just as happiness is. To be present for both, that is life, I think. And it is a beautiful evening.

  It is, and I am here to witness it with the two men of my life. I am grateful, for it and for the long painful walk that brought me here.

  I am not ready to die. I want more evenings like this, more time with him. With Matthias, with Sophie, with a baby. I want the happiness, I will take the sadness. Keep walking. All right, Papa.

  The ten minutes end. We roll up the windows and drive back to Swann Street. At number 17, Matthias slows, turns, parks. The last few seconds in the car, silently.

  Papa and I step out. I hug him one last time, breathing in the familiar cologne. Then he gets back into the passenger seat and they leave for the airport.

  I wave my father and husband goodbye, the Anna they knew till the end, then Matthias’s blue car turns onto the street and out of sight. I am tired. I sit down.

  My name is Anna, and I have a life and people who love me waiting outside 17 Swann Street.

  I have a husband, a father, a sister, a reason to keep walking. It is a beautiful evening. I spend one more minute in it, then stand up and go inside.

  85

  Hours after evening snack has been distributed, consumed, and cleared away, I lie on my back in the Van Gogh room. I have a stomachache. Perhaps it is the ice cream, the ratatouille, or the snack, or the gaping void my father left. I sit up in bed and turn the night-light on. My watch says 3:43.

  I give up on sleep and get out of bed and into a soft sweater and slippers. Then I tiptoe downstairs for a glass of water. Any excuse to leave the room.

  The house is deathly quiet, except for the light snores coming from the nurse’s station. The nurse has about an hour and thirty minutes left before vitals and weights. Direct Care is in there too, asleep, in an uncomfortable position on a chair. I must not wake them up. I head to the breakfast area but stop when I see the light on in the living room.

  I peek in to find Emm curled up in the brown leather armchair in the corner. Her wild and curly hair is up for the night. Her cruise director mask is off.

  She looks tired. Not the sleepy kind. She asks flatly:

  What do you want?

  Nothing. A glass of water. Do you want one?

  No. Actually, yes.

  Two tap waters come right up. I hand her one and stand in the doorway uncomfortably with mine.

  How did your dinner go?

  she surprises me by asking. The question itself is innocent, but the tone of her voice makes me wary. I opt for a cautious answer:

  Very well, thank you. How was yours?

  handing the reins back to her.

  Do I really look like your sister?

  she asks. My insides cringe.

  No turning back.

  I did tell my father that.

  What is your sister like?

  I am uneasy with this conversation but cannot avoid it. I answer:

  Very different from me. She does not have an eating disorder.

  Neither does mine.

  You have a sister?

  A twin.

  Emm had never mentioned a twin. Emm had never mentioned her family. In fact, Emm never spoke of anything personal besides Friends and the Olympics, really.

  Was she the person Direct Care was referring to this morning? Was she sup
posed to come to Family Day?

  Yes. And no, because I didn’t tell her.

  She turns the tables on me:

  Are you and your sister close?

  Sophie and I used to be, but when anorexia happened we drifted apart. We have not spoken since Christmas.

  My twin and I haven’t in years. Not since my first stint here. She actually came to my first Family Day.

  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.