We drive off and far, far away from number 17, Matthias behind the wheel, Papa to his right, I between them both in the backseat. It is a blissful ride. We talk of random things, the conversation flowing as though we had last seen each other just this morning.
I look at Papa; he had been crying the last time I had really seen him. Now his forehead seems less tense, his hand reaching over his shoulder for mine, his jetlagged eyes closed, his head swaying softly to the song on the radio. It had been Christmas last time.
Matthias too, seems more relaxed; from where I sit I can tell from his shoulders. In Paris they had been stiff and high, now they are loose. He leans back.
Papa, how is Leopold?
As cheeky as ever, but I think he is getting old. Lately he has been letting me win when we run up the stairs to the flat. What about that dog you see on your morning walks? What was his name?
Gerald.
She told you about Gerald?
Matthias asks, amused.
Naturally.
Papa winks at me through the mirror.
We reach the restaurant Matthias chose, a tiny affair of a place. Eight tables at most, and utterly charming. Our table for three is the one by the window, under the chandelier.
We order three glasses of prosecco, to start. I kiss Matthias:
This is beautiful. Thank you.
Then:
To the men in my life, and how lucky I am.
It is a gorgeous evening. The waiter arrives:
What would you like to have?
I pull out my menu and my good intentions to comply with my meal plan. I give myself a few seconds to breathe while the waiter goes over the specials.
I know what to order; the instructions are clear and folded neatly in my purse. Papa and Matthias are waiting, I know, for a glimpse of the Anna they remember. This is my chance to show them both how far I have come, how cured I am. My chance to bring Anna back. All this hard work,
but I panic. Instead,
I order a side salad. Matthias sighs. Silence. Breath,
and the ratatouille.
There!
My father and husband nearly fall off their seats. I genuinely laugh out loud.
Papa says:
I will have the same. I have not had ratatouille in years!
Make that three then, with three side salads please,
Matthias tells the waiter. Menus shut.
We do not order appetizers, but all three of us dig into the bread. Papa and Matthias spread freshly creamed butter on theirs. I am not quite that cured yet.
Our salads arrive, and our main dishes are steaming hot, well seasoned, excellent. The conversation is mild but pleasant. Papa leads it, thankfully. He and Matthias do most of the talking while I focus on bite after bite. Just as we practiced at 17 Swann Street, I nudge myself on.
I am the last to finish, but I do finish. Fork down, I reach for my glass. A celebratory sip of prosecco; now I can concentrate on Papa’s story. Matthias is listening to him intently, but underneath the table, his hand reaches for mine and squeezes it proudly, then remains on my knee.
Lady and gentlemen, would you care for dessert?
Papa looks at me expectantly. He will follow my lead. I check in with my anxiety: the old Anna would have ordered dessert in a heartbeat.
I suppose we could have a look at the menu,
I say to buy myself some more time. A decision I regret: chocolate fondant, crème brûlée, tarte aux framboises, au citron, profiteroles …
The foreign voice in my head, panicked and jumpy, wants to say
No thank you. Check please.
The real Anna would have ordered dessert: the chocolate fondant with three spoons. Papa’s favorite, and Matthias loves chocolate too. But I am no longer she. I am an anorexic fraud whose place is at 17 Swann Street. Who am I fooling with my glass of prosecco, my ratatouille, my bread?
Matthias, Papa, and the waiter are still waiting for me to reply. Guessing my answer, breaking the silence, Matthias asks for the check.
I feel like crying. Like I let them both down, especially Papa. Papa, who crossed the globe to be here with me only for a night. And even for a night, I cannot order dessert, cannot keep up a simple pretense. Cannot fight anorexia for another hour, just another hour, for him.
Can’t I?
Big breath. Quick, before I have time to think:
I know where we can get dessert.
I laugh for the second time this evening at the expression on both faces.
We have ice cream, of course. Vanilla for me, chocolate strawberry for Matthias. And for my father, two large scoops of chocolate, with chocolate sprinkles and chocolate sauce!
Would you like some sprinkles, Anna?
Of course, Papa, but rainbow ones.
I watch them melt into blue, red, orange, and green swirls in the creamy white.
Anna used to love the colored sprinkles when she was a child,
Papa informs Matthias.
Yes she did, Papa, and she is still the Anna you remember.
We eat in the car, windows down, in the parking lot by the kiosk. There are a few other cars; a few couples, a group of teenagers. Trying perhaps, like us, to lengthen the last few minutes of Sunday.
We finish our ice cream with ten minutes to spare before we have to head back. I ate the little, but whole, scoop. And the sprinkles, and the little cone. Matthias says,
I am very proud of you.
I look at him gratefully; he had heard my anorexia screaming tonight, had watched me fight it silently, and had silently cheered me on. Matthias is proud of me.
As am I,
says Papa.
And amazed at how far you have come. Keep walking, Anna. Don’t stop.
Keep walking, Anna.
He used to say that to me when I was little. When my feet hurt and blistered, when I scraped my knee, when I was tired on a hike. Keep walking, when it rained. Keep walking, when I was teased in the playground, called in the street, when I fell.
Dust off your knees, get back up. Keep walking, Anna. As he and Maman had done together, as he had then done alone. As he still did every morning with Leopold, every afternoon with me on the phone.
I am scared, Papa.
I know you are.
This is so difficult. It hurts.
I know, Anna. Life does, and it is messy.
You never told me that.
No,
he acknowledges.
I did not know it either, until your mother and brother. Just as I did not know what anorexia was until last Christmas.
He looks onto the parking lot, now empty. The ice cream kiosk is closed.
There is no tragedy to suffering. It is, just as happiness is. To be present for both, that is life, I think. And it is a beautiful evening.
It is, and I am here to witness it with the two men of my life. I am grateful, for it and for the long painful walk that brought me here.
I am not ready to die. I want more evenings like this, more time with him. With Matthias, with Sophie, with a baby. I want the happiness, I will take the sadness. Keep walking. All right, Papa.
The ten minutes end. We roll up the windows and drive back to Swann Street. At number 17, Matthias slows, turns, parks. The last few seconds in the car, silently.
Papa and I step out. I hug him one last time, breathing in the familiar cologne. Then he gets back into the passenger seat and they leave for the airport.
I wave my father and husband goodbye, the Anna they knew till the end, then Matthias’s blue car turns onto the street and out of sight. I am tired. I sit down.
My name is Anna, and I have a life and people who love me waiting outside 17 Swann Street.
I have a husband, a father, a sister, a reason to keep walking. It is a beautiful evening. I spend one more minute in it, then stand up and go inside.