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.
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.
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.