We return from the morning walk, stepping on the lawn, just as the sky begins to cloud again. The first few droplets fall. Direct Care and Emm hurriedly lead the way back in. The rest of us follow close behind, Papa and I chatting along, in French, about trivial, mundane, pleasant things across the ocean and the phone.
I am just about to hang up and step onto the porch, when the tiniest splash of red catches my eye underneath the damp grass. I stop, curious, then drop to my knees and lift the thin green blades carefully.
Strawberries! Two little strawberries, smaller than the size of my thumb!
Papa!
I call excitedly into the phone through which he had been walking with me.
Papa! Papa! The first strawberries of the year!
Julia, who had been strolling behind me, nearly trips over my outstretched feet. The other girls have already gone inside.
Emm! Come back out here! Quick!
They all do, and Direct Care. Even Sarah, but not Valerie. She had not come on the walk.
Sarah gushes over the little gems with me, much to my surprise; I would have thought her too glamorous to get excited over something as trivial. Julia makes fun of me but kneels to look at the strawberries anyway. Emm rolls her eyes and goes back in, but I know she is secretly impressed.
Direct Care goes inside as well; she has a midmorning snack to prepare. As soon as she does Julia plucks a strawberry and eats it, winking at Sarah and me.
The other girls humor me to varying degrees, but my father truly makes my day: thousands of miles away, he cheers and applauds the beginning of summer on the phone.
My name is Anna, and I have just remembered that I love summer and strawberries. Their presence reassures me; that they can grow, even here, at 17 Swann Street.
Midmorning snacks are already set on the table when I walk back in. I hand my phone to Direct Care and take my place next to Valerie.
Yogurt and granola. Again. Vanilla. Again. Valerie’s bowl is light pink. She asked for strawberry. She always does, I realize just now. Valerie, the only girl who asks for strawberry yogurt in this house.
She is quiet. She always is, but she is also very pale. My hand touches her shoulder. She jumps. I should not have.
Sorry, Valerie!
I pull back. Then in a lower voice:
Is everything all right?
No, it is not. It is most obviously not. She does not reply or look at me, her eyes on the bowl of pink yogurt.
I feel sick,
she whispers low enough that Direct Care cannot hear.
I believe her. I know that feeling. I watch her hold back her tears. Direct Care must not notice, and Valerie must not refuse this snack.
Desperate, I look around the table. Emm. What would Emm do? What had Emm done for me when I had panicked at my first meal?
Did I ever tell you about the time Matthias and I rented a car and drove across Costa Rica?
I have no idea why I chose that memory, or how I had dared voice it out loud, but everyone looks up from their bowls and at me, including Valerie.
No turning back.
We wanted to see the Arenal Volcano, a three-hour drive from the coast. We knew we had to get to the crater before eleven, because after that the fumes would cloud the peak and there would be nothing to see, so we left around seven o’clock in the morning and drove across a postcard-perfect countryside.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Valerie’s hand move. It lifts from her lap and rests hesitantly on the spoon to her right. I pick up my own spoon and with the other hand, slowly peel the plastic wrap off my bowl.
Village after village, plot after plot of banana trees. Costa Rica is known for its bananas, you know. We stopped for some and two shots of coffee from a small cart by the side of the road.
She reaches for the plastic wrap.
It was a quarter past ten when we began driving up the narrow road to the volcano. The whole mountain looked like it was on fire in the morning sun. I had my sunglasses on and my hand up to shield my eyes. It took me a while to realize there were no more banana trees.
I make it a point to address the group, not Valerie specifically.
Instead, a carpet of red across the entire mountainside! I could not believe it! The volcano was completely covered with strawberries!
She pours the granola in a single shot onto her yogurt and stirs. I take a bite from my own bowl and continue my story:
Someone later told us that volcanic soil was so fertile that the strawberries that grew there were the ripest and most delicious you could find. We drove past dozens of farmers selling giant crates of them from the trunks of their 1960s cars. Matthias wanted to stop and buy some for me, but we had to reach the crater first.
We did and it was incredible, but the best part was the way down. He bought me an entire crate of strawberries! Oh, strawberries are my favorite fruit.
Valerie takes one bite, then another. I keep telling the story. Whenever she pauses, I remember a detail I had forgotten.
They were so brightly red that we parked the car on the side of the road, sat right there on the grass, and gorged ourselves. They were the juiciest strawberries I have ever had in my life.
I notice Emm watching me, her face expressionless. She knows what I am doing, but I cannot tell if she approves. She looks back at her own bowl and sprinkles more cinnamon on her yogurt.
Every bit of the story I tell is real. The volcano, the crater, the strawberries. Our sticky hands, forearms, and chins. Our grass-and-berry-stained clothes. The fact that for a day, in those strawberry fields in Costa Rica, I was not a girl with anorexia. I was a girl blissfully happy and in love and eating strawberries.
I contemplate my finished midmorning snack and that distant memory. I find it difficult to reconcile the two, and the two versions of me. Valerie and her pink yogurt. Matthias and his crate. Is there really a volcano in Costa Rica completely covered with strawberries?
Valerie takes one final bite and puts her spoon down. I am happy. Emm smiles, or I imagine she does. The minute hand hits ten thirty.
Midmorning snack is over. We all head to community space.
Dear V.,
You did it. Please don’t stop.
A.