I am back in community space before 10:00 A.M. I try to breathe down the storm in my chest; I have cried enough for today, for the week, and it is only Tuesday.
Only two days, and I am already suffocating in this place, from being told when and what to eat, when to use the bathroom and when to go to sleep. Two days ago I was a grown woman. Now I have two refusals left. I must have signed my independence off on one of those admission forms.
All the women who come here do, with the keys, phones, and tweezers they hand in. They also sign off their lives, careers, families, closets of dresses and high heels. Stripped of the energy to process anything beyond heartbeat, breathing, some body heat, they then devolve into little girls throwing tantrums at breakfast tables.
What a mess and first impression I made this morning in front of the other girls. Most do not even know my name yet. They are now out on their morning walk.
I must apologize as soon as they return. The front door opens and they enter.
Emm comes straight to me and in her professional voice, asks if she can have a word.
I follow her to the alcove underneath the stairs. She climbs into it and sits on the floor, motioning me to join. Her manner is so natural I know she has had meetings like this here before.
I understand how difficult this morning was for you,
she begins before I can,
but you disrupted breakfast. Everyone in here is suffering, and everyone is suffering enough.
She speaks quietly and kindly. It strikes deeper than if she had been upset. The frozen orange, the sweetener, the silence at the table. One of the rules of the house: to be kind.
I open my mouth to apologize but she cuts me off before I can:
It’s okay, and so are the others. We don’t hold grudges here. We each lived our own first forty-eight hours in this house. Just focus on surviving yours.
She pauses.
It will get easier after that. At least then you get the morning walk.
Yes, I remember Direct Care saying that. Forty-eight hours in and pending good behavior. Only twenty-four more to go.
I am sorry,
I say lamely anyway as she climbs out of the alcove.
No need,
she calls over her shoulder.
Twenty-four hours left. I can focus on surviving this place till then.
Then I notice Direct Care setting the table: midmorning snack, already.
I am not ready yet. I have no choice. We all flock toward the breakfast table. I keep my eyes down, still embarrassed by my earlier behavior. Two bowls and a plate are placed in front of me. All three wrapped in plastic and labeled.
The first contains yogurt. Vanilla. The second has animal crackers.
In spite of me, of the horror of the situation, I suddenly want to chuckle. In my head, I hear the first lines of a poem I used to know and love:
Animal crackers and cocoa to drink,
That is one of the finest of suppers I think.
My mother’s voice is reciting the words. I am five and in the kitchen with her. The cocoa is steaming in its wide white bowl, warming me on a rainy school night. My animal crackers are waiting patiently for their turn to be dipped until just soft. They did not scare me then. That memory is a happy one.
I then turn to the plate, confused. I do not understand, till I do: my uneaten half bagel and cream cheese, this morning’s breakfast I had refused.
I choke; I am expected to eat it now, and my midmorning snack too. The girls around me, even Direct Care, are quiet, waiting for me to react.
Yogurt, and crackers, and the bagel and cream cheese. I try to rein in my breaths.…
And hyperventilate.
My body is screaming: Not all at once! Please! The nutritionist’s voice responds: You have two refusals left. And Emm’s, who is sitting across from me: Everyone is suffering enough.
Every girl is to be kind. I cannot make a scene. But I cannot do this! Please …
The animal crackers in the bowl. I hear the poem again. Somehow, my mother’s quiet voice drowns out all the others in my head. It trails along rhythmically, soothingly slowing the pace of my inhales and exhales:
Animal crackers and cocoa to drink,
That is one of the finest of suppers I think.
This is ridiculous. I am twenty-six years old and reciting a children’s poem. But it helps, if only with the breathing. I continue, in my head:
When I’m grown up and can have what I please
I think I shall always insist upon these.
I cannot refuse this meal. I wish Maman were here. I wish I were anywhere, anywhere but here. How did the poem go?
Focus on the next line. And on unwrapping the bagel. Now the cream cheese. Spread. Take a bite. And another bite. Chew. Do not think, keep your brain on the poem.
What do you choose when you’re offered a treat?
When Mother says, “What would you like best to eat?”
Swallow. Drink water. Start again. One more bite. And another, and another after that.
Is it waffles and syrup, or cinnamon toast?
Keep chewing to the end of the stanza. I swallow the last bite of bagel and recite:
It’s cocoa and animals that I love the most!
No one is talking and I do not know if anyone is looking at me. I cannot look up to find out, however. I cannot stop. Now the snack.
The yogurt is smoother and easier to swallow. I keep reciting nonetheless.
Chew. Swallow. One more spoonful. Think of the next line, the girls, the morning walk. Just a bit more. Breathe. Good, now only the animal crackers are left.
I line them up as I used to and contemplate their childish shapes. Maman, I am twenty-six years old and scared of little animals.
But I eat one, then the other, and recite the last stanza. I finish the poem and the snack at the same time.
And it is 10:30. The table is cleared in front of me. The room, and my brain, are quiet.