As soon as orientation ends, another staff member comes to me.
Ready to meet with your therapist?
The tone of the question gives me the impression that I am not really being asked.
Minutes later, I am sitting on a gray suede couch in a nice office, on the edge closest to the window. There is a magnolia tree outside.
The therapist walks in. First impressions: bright blond hair, the warm kind, fine gold earrings, a turquoise dress. An impeccable pedicure and soft peony perfume. Her face looks fresh, but a slight crease around her eyes belies children at home under five.
Hello. I’m Katherine. You must be Anna.
I nod and proceed immediately to tell her that I do not need this session. She seems like a lovely lady, and I do not want to waste her time. I suffer from no psychiatric illnesses, except anorexia, of course. I come from a loving family and have a husband I adore by whom I sleep every night.
No depression or trauma, at least none that I need or am inclined to share. No unhealed wounds from my past or skeletons in my closet I need to address. I am just particular about what I eat, just a little underweight.
Thank you for your time. I’m fine.
She waits a few seconds, then repeats my speech to be sure she has understood.
So you’re happy.
Yes.
You feel fine.
Yes.
You don’t need therapy because you have no mental issues that need to be addressed.
Correct.
So when was the last time you ate?
I decide I hate therapy and proceed to draw butterflies with my finger on the couch.
All right,
she says,
what if we set anorexia aside for now? What if you tell me a bit about your childhood?
I glance at the clock on the wall.
You’re stuck with me for a full hour,
she adds. I decide I might as well.
I had a happy childhood.
Full, as childhoods should be, of picnics in parks, make-believe tea parties, bedtime stories, poetry.
My parents were good, hardworking people who married out of love. I had two younger siblings: a sister and a brother. He …
Had?
No, I will not answer that. Nor do I finish my sentence out loud: He used to like jelly beans.
Instead, I change tracks:
I was raised to work hard and always do my best. At school, that meant being first in class. I also played the piano and danced ballet.
Back straight, shoulders back, ankles crossed. I pause to correct my posture on the gray suede couch.
My daughter takes ballet lessons,
she says.
She really likes them. Did you?
I loved them. I became a dancer.
A ballerina? How interesting.
Exhausting and demanding, actually. But it was what and who I wanted to be. I joined the corps de ballet when I was seventeen.…
I let the thought linger, midsentence, midair. I am disinclined to tell this stranger that I have not danced in years. I tell her instead about performances and plane rides to Toronto, Moscow, London, Vienna. Beirut, Geneva, Rome. Beijing, Istanbul, Santo Domingo, The Hague, San José, Tokyo. Catalonian beaches and Tuscan countrysides, the rickety old trams in Prague.
You have traveled a lot.
Yes.
So where is home?
Paris, always Paris.
Of course.
But you have been in the United States for …
Three years. Paris is still home.
I am perhaps a bit blunt.
I understand. What brought you here?
The man I married. Well, his work. Well, both.
And while he is at work, you dance here?
she asks. And the pretense is up.
Actually,
I work at a supermarket by our house,
just north of Furstenberg Street. I do not offer more explanation. She, thankfully, does not ask.
You must miss it.
What, ballet or Paris? Both more than she can imagine, but
I’d like to talk about something else now, please.
Such as?
Anything.
Anorexia.
All right.
She moves on.
Let’s start with your eating habits. Your file says you are a vegetarian.
Vegan,
I rectify.
When did you make that transition?
I stopped eating meat at nineteen.
Why?
I am suddenly defensive:
Vegetarianism is not anorexia.
No it is not, you’re right. I was just curious. When did you become vegan?
When I came to America.
And why was that?
Because dairy tastes bad here.
Because dairy tastes different here.
What do you mean, bad?
I mean yogurt that contains fifteen ingredients, thirteen of which I cannot pronounce,
I snap.
I also avoid processed foods, refined sugars, high fructose corn syrup, and trans fats.
You don’t find that extreme?
No. I find that healthy.
She makes no comment, but the irony of that sentence is not lost on either of us.
I stare out the window for a while. She breaks the silence first:
Was food an issue before you moved to the States?
No.
Really?
Well …
What about your weight?
All dancers are careful not to gain too much weight.
Were you?
Of course. The environment is very competitive.
Back straighter, ankles crossed the other way.
She looks back at my chart:
But you were never overweight.
That is a relative term.
I mean to say your weight was average.
Silence.
Yes,
So was I.