57

You should not be here on a Friday night,

I say when I open the door.

Not the warm welcome Matthias is used to. Still, he tries, with a smile:

Well, I was in the neighborhood. I just thought I’d drop by.

But I am not in the mood to smile back. I turn around and head upstairs. Perplexed, but in his usual reserved way, he closes the front door and follows me.

Alone together in the Van Gogh room, he tries to kiss me, but I tense:

I met with the therapist and nutritionist today.

He steps back cautiously.

And?

Well, the first had tried to explore grief in my past, in light of Valerie’s attempted suicide:

Do you think of your mother and brother a lot?

I had promptly shut that door in her face.

The second had increased my meal plan and said:

No, you cannot have your dressing on the side,

and that fruit and peanuts do not count as healthier substitutes for peanut butter and jelly.

I had then sat through a particularly painful group session, also on grief. The therapist with the loud smile had been desperate to know how we were processing the incident of the week.

Fine thank you,

had said Emm.

She is lucky not to be here,

had said Sarah.

At least she can ask for seconds at the hospital,

had said Julia, still, always hungry.

I was not hungry. I was miserably full. My stomach hurt after every meal. I was developing an ulcer, I think, because of all this refeeding. I had just had dinner, and dinner had been cheese tortellini. Nightmare. I had once upon a time loved cheese tortellini. And there had been chocolate cake for dessert.

Exposure therapy. Repeated confrontation with a feared situation, object, or memory, used to treat post-traumatic stress disorder, anxiety disorder, or phobias.

Like food.

The purpose of exposure is to achieve habituation. I am not feeling habituated. I have been here for almost two weeks and the meals have only gotten worse.

But I am too tired to tell Matthias that. So I answer:

It went well.

I am lying to Matthias, being horrible to Matthias, whose only crime is that he loves me. Who could be anywhere, with anyone, tonight, and instead is here with me.

I wish you would not come here every single night. I would rather you do something fun.

Like what?

I do not know! Go to the movies, watch a comedy.

But whose popcorn would I finish if you were not with me?

And the walls come crumbling down.

I cannot stop crying. Matthias just holds me. I no longer have the strength to be cold. I tell him about Valerie, choking on the details, choking on her name.

I tell him everything, sobbing into his shirt. Her father’s letter, her arm, her soiled pants, the ambulance last night. When I look up, he is not smiling anymore. He kisses me and this time I kiss back.

We pull away. It is hard to tell if the tears are his or mine. Holding hands still, needing the physical contact, we lie down together on the bed.

He finally speaks:

I am so sorry, Anna. Was Valerie the girl who wrote you that note on your first night?

Yes, and yesterday I had watched her wheeled out of here and away. And today the rest of the world had wheeled on, uninterrupted and undisturbed. Now I am watching Matthias spend another night here because of me.

I am so sorry. I am so sorry,

I cry. I cannot say it enough.

What are you sorry for?

For anorexia. For you here. For interrupting our life.

I am sorry for anorexia, and you here too. But Anna, this is our life.

You did not choose this!

This cannot be the life he signed up for on our wedding day.

Hey, hey.

His arm reaches over me. I missed that weight. I miss that weight.

I chose to be here. I chose this and you and us. I still do. The question is: do you?

Of course I do. I nod forcefully and turn in to the crevice of his torso.

This is so hard.

I know.

It is so hard on you too. One day you will leave me because you can no longer take it, and I will not blame you.

Matthias pulls away and looks straight at me, face dark:

Don’t say that. It will not happen.

It hurts too much to know it will. When one day he gets tired of putting his coat around me, asking the waiter to just steam the vegetables, please. Spending Friday nights here.

I am not tired. I am exhausted, we both are, of carrying this disease. One day Matthias will leave because he cannot, should not keep carrying me.

You should not be here every night. Please go somewhere fun tomorrow.

You cannot tell me what to do. Besides, where would I go, what would I do without you on a Saturday night?

Matthias, this is not healthy.

Direct Care appears. Nine o’clock.

Two more minutes,

he tells her.

Please.

Direct Care is human. She looks at both our faces, and to our surprise, says,

You know what? We’ll start the evening snack without you. Just come down whenever you’re ready, Anna. You won’t be bothered.

Door closed.

I cannot believe it, and neither can Matthias. Suddenly, we are both very shy. He speaks first:

You know what is unhealthy, Anna? Not being with you.

We have never played games with one another; our emotions have always been raw. He grazes my collarbone, barely.

I love you. I want you. Do you?

I do.

We make love in the Van Gogh room, and in the small space of that time and that bed, we are Matthias and Anna again and nothing else exists.

Matthias gets dressed and one last time kisses me. A long time since he has like this. He promises to come back tomorrow and opens the bedroom door. I hear him head down the stairs and make my own promises to him silently. Then the ghosts that were hiding just outside, in the corridor, flood the Van Gogh room.

Later, much later, I think of grief and suicide. I understand Valerie. I know why she walked away from the father she loves too much to let down. I lack her courage, though; I cannot push Matthias away. I love him too much, but enough, I hope, that if and when he ever decides to leave me, I will let him go.

And if and when he ever does, I hope it is with someone good. Someone who will make him happy and like roller coasters and ice cream.