Saturday morning, and Direct Care announces that whoever wants to go on the outing will have to be at the door and ready to leave promptly after midmorning snack.
This will be the first of the bimonthly excursions I go on. Participation being optional for those, some girls opt not to join. Like Julia, who rolls her eyes:
Manicures? A therapeutic outing? You’ve got to be kidding me.
Sarah is, naturally, in. As are two of the other girls, and Emm, who answers Julia:
Any excuse to get out of here.
I agree. Today especially; the mood around the house has been tense and apprehensive ever since Valerie left.
I am in no mood for a manicure, but the very triviality of the outing feels like a gulp of air after being held under water. Besides, the sun is out, so at 10:30 precisely, Direct Care and five of us head out.
The road trip only lasts ten minutes in the service van, the same one that drove me to church. It has almost been a week since last Sunday, I reflect, in the backseat between Sarah and another girl.
Parking lot. Engine off. We disembark and enter the nail salon. An overly friendly lady loudly invites each of us to pick her nail polish. I head to the shelves and shelves of rainbow colors on the wall. They remind me of the lights from the ambulance dancing on my ceiling and walls.
Let’s do something fun!
Direct Care suggests to lighten the macabre mood.
We’ll pick a color for every girl based on the name that matches her!
That actually does sound like fun.
Miss Emm, you’re up first!
After much deliberation, the group assigns Emm: Turquoise and Caicos.
For our fearless cruise director!
Plus, it matches the color of her sweatshirt, I observe.
Sarah gets, obviously, Leading Lady. And I get A French Affair. A girl called Chloe is next. She gets a shade called Berry Naughty. Direct Care picks The Girls Are Out for herself and Forever Yummy for the last girl. She laughs; she suffers from binge-eating disorder, but her sense of humor is fine.
Polish chosen, the manicures commence. Our hands are massaged and lotioned. Our nails are filed, painted, and dried like those of every other lady here.
The salon is full. Typical for a weekend, I think as I look around. Most of the other clients are in their twenties and thirties. Like us. In fact, we almost blend in. Well, perhaps some of us are a bit thin. But otherwise we could be a group of girlfriends getting their nails done on a Saturday morning.
But Direct Care and her glances at her watch are a clear reminder we are not; she is wondering whether we will be back in time for lunch. Suddenly I am jealous of the other women who, after their polish has dried, will have their own lunches in cafés nearby, not portioned, labeled, wrapped in plastic.
This is just an interlude of normalcy, a hiccup in a schedule that hangs on a board in a treatment center’s community space. We all know that when our own polish dries, none of us will be going home. The effervescence will simmer down and we will pile into the service van. No keys, no wallets, no phones, no choice, we will be driven back to Swann Street.
The windows are closed in the van and the air is stuffy with breath, polish, and dread. I do not want to go back. To Valerie’s empty seat, to lunch, to three courses and a ticking clock, and after the meal, to group therapy.
The van parks in spite of me. We are back, in spite of us. I ask Direct Care if I may sit outside, just for a while, as I had with Sarah last week. She allows it but warns:
Do not wander off the lawn, and come in when you hear me call. Lunch will be ready soon.
She and the girls go inside the house, leaving me alone.
My exhale comes out a sob, breaths jagged. My hands come to my mouth, trying to muffle any sound I might make. I catch a glimpse of my painted nails. I look the part, don’t I, of a manicure-on-a-Saturday lady. One with a life in which she can eat and go anywhere, be anywhere but here.
I sit on the bench, exhausted. The back door opens behind me. I do not bother to turn around. Julia sits beside me.
Bubble gum pops.
So what color did you get?
I show her my nails. They look ridiculous in my eyes now, in the context of this place.
Julia gives me an appreciative whistle that we both know is sarcastic:
Very fancy. Very ladylike.
Both of which I am not, with my hair in a bun and thick layers on. There was no way, I realize, that I had blended in with the other women at the salon earlier.
Julia chews on silently. We stare at the cars in the parking lot.
Wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like that. Still, it must’ve been good to get out.
It was,
I reply,
It just makes coming back here very hard.
Yeah. It’s cruel. That’s why I don’t go. Well, that and I don’t do nail things. But seriously, if I ever do leave this place, believe me, Anna, I’m not coming back.
She is serious.
But where would you go?
I ask—more to myself than to her, we both know.
I have no idea.
She shrugs.
Wherever, doesn't matter. Can’t be worse than where I am now. Don’t even know who I am now.
Me neither. My name is Anna and I am twenty-six and anorexic. I have not always been; I used to want things and do things. Now I am not sure how much of me still exists.
Julia interrupts my thoughts:
Where would you go if you weren’t here?
I look at my nails, and before I even realize it, answer:
To the coffee shop by the nail salon.
She laughs. I do too, surprised at my answer.
You wild woman you,
she quips.
And what would you do at that coffee shop, may I ask?
I do not know.
Have a coffee, and read,
I suppose, and watch the people around me.
There would be children on the swings and parents on the benches. Retirees reading newspapers. Dogs and their owners rehydrating, in the shade. And, of course, the ladies with painted nails, gossiping over lemonade.
Julia swallows her gum and reaches into the pockets of her baggy jeans. She pulls out two square pieces of bright pink candy and offers one to me.
Me?
I shake my head politely. No candy for the girl with anorexia, thank you.
She raises an eyebrow, pops hers into her mouth. I am a long way from that coffee shop.
She leaves the other piece on the bench between us, in case I change my mind. I look at it; once upon a time I would have eaten it without a thought. I would have enjoyed it, swallowed it, then easily forgotten it. But that was once upon a time ago.
Then I think of the ladies at the nail salon, probably having their lemonade now. They would have taken the candy, said thank you. I take a deep breath. Experiment:
I reach for the piece of candy and unwrap the colored paper,
Thank you, Julia,
and pop it in my mouth before I have time to think.
It tastes heavenly. And sticky and chewy and the sugar is melting on my tongue. I have candy all over my teeth. I chew mindfully, breathe. My anxiety is building up to a heart attack, and there is screaming in my ears,
and it is over. And I am still here, and Julia next to me is smiling.
She nudges me playfully:
Look at you, wild woman!
I do and cannot believe it.
It takes me a moment to catch my breath and finally return her smile.
Are you even allowed to have candy here, Julia?
She winks. We both smile. How wild we are.
Cue Direct Care’s voice:
Ladies! Lunch!
Julia jumps up:
Thank God! I’m starving!
I follow her in, but slower, still processing the candy and guilt. And some degree of surprise, I admit: I ate a piece of candy. I did it.
The wrapper is still in my hand. I fold and put it in my pocket. Then I ask Direct Care for permission to wash my hands before eating.