Monday, and I have lost track of how many of those there have been. Time is a surreal concept that seems to have little place in this house. Dinner is done and visiting hours with Matthias are back. Matthias is back. I breathe out with relief as I reach for his outstretched hand.
We walk in the garden, in a circle around the house, my invisible leash acting as radius. One day I will grow up and step off the property where no one will tell me what to eat. Or how far to go, or what I may and may not do with my husband. My husband, hand in mine, walking beside me. I missed this, and us.
We do not talk about the week that passed. We talk about last night instead.
I had a lovely time, thank you.
I did too,
he replies.
A few steps later, he observes:
I hadn’t seen you eat in a long time.
His voice is deliberately calm but a tremor sneaks in with the last word. I glance sideways at him, troubled:
Come on, Matthias—
I meant eat something that was not lettuce or an apple, or fucking popcorn.
He shuffles through his memories, then nods his head:
A long time.
His hand tenses in mine. We have stopped walking. He asks me abruptly:
You won’t stop, will you? You won’t give up again?
I cannot give him the answer he wants. Last week was too recent for that, and my throat is still sore from the tube that was only removed today.
I want to tell him: I will not stop, Matthias. That we will go on many more dates. Maybe even next Friday night. That I will have pizza again, or pasta next time. That next week I will be home, and that I will make crêpes for us both for dinner,
but time is as treacherous as it is surreal. So is an anorexic brain.
I tell him the truth instead:
I promise you that I will never stop trying.
It is not what he wants or deserves, but it is everything I have. He takes it:
All right, Anna.
One last lap around the house, then it is 9:00 P.M.
Evening snack, then exhale: the day is really over. I climb the stairs to the Van Gogh room.
And stop: there is a suitcase in the hallway, and new sheets and towels in Bedroom 3.
A new admission, but where is she? There had been no new face at evening snack. Perhaps she arrived in the afternoon, I reason, and is still at orientation with Direct Care.
I brush my teeth as fast as I can and disappear into Bedroom 5, closing the door and postponing introductions till tomorrow morning. I put on my pajamas and climb into Van Gogh’s bed. A few minutes later I hear the floorboards creak and the door of Bedroom 3 close.
Well, I am already in bed. Besides, she must be tired. Surely the new girl does not want to be disturbed on her first night.
But I look up at the cracks in the ceiling I remember noticing on my own first night here. How lonely and scary, how long ago that first night had been. I had read Valerie’s note to exhaustion. It is still on my bedside table. I look at my name in her cursive handwriting, and:
I’m so glad you are here.…
I pull the covers back and turn the night-light on. I need a paper and pen.
Dear neighbor in Bedroom 3,
Welcome to 17 Swann Street. I am glad you are here.
Do not let this place scare you. It is not as impossible as it seems.
I think of what else I can tell this girl, what else could help. Oh yes:
They serve good coffee in the morning that is well worth getting out of bed for. You get two cups, which is lovely. As is the morning walk. Once you are cleared to go on that you will meet Gerald, the dog.
And staff. She needs to know about staff:
The staff here is very nice. The nurse on shift tonight is particularly lovely. She has blue eyes. You will meet her in the morning when she takes your vitals and weight. The rest of the girls, you will meet over breakfast. They are all incredible. They will help.
Which reminds me:
We have a few house rules besides those you heard at orientation.
I open Valerie’s note for guidance, and in my finest, most cursive handwriting begin:
All girls are to be patient with one another.
No girl left at the table alone.
Composure is to be maintained in front of any guests to the house.
Horoscopes are to be read and taken seriously every morning over breakfast.
Copies of the daily word jumbles are to be distributed then too. Responsibility for that falls upon the group leader, who will disclose the answers no sooner than evening snack later that day.
Note writing and passing is encouraged. No note must fall in Direct Care’s hands.
Books, music, letter paper, postage stamps, and flowers received are to be shared.
The availability of cottage cheese in the house is to be celebrated every Tuesday, as are animal crackers, the morning walks, and any excursions on Saturday.
No girl will ever judge, tell on, or cause any suffering to the rest.
I end, rather lamely:
I really hope this helps.
By the way, my name is Anna. I hope we become good friends.
Letter folded, slippers on, I tiptoe to Bedroom 3 and slip it under the closed door.
A few hours later, I see the new girl sitting at the breakfast table. She has survived her first night, and has a cup of steaming hot coffee in front of her. I introduce myself and do not mention the letter. She smiles and does the same.
The coffee is good and strong this morning. Everyone has two cups.