Hours after evening snack has been distributed, consumed, and cleared away, I lie on my back in the Van Gogh room. I have a stomachache. Perhaps it is the ice cream, the ratatouille, or the snack, or the gaping void my father left. I sit up in bed and turn the night-light on. My watch says 3:43.
I give up on sleep and get out of bed and into a soft sweater and slippers. Then I tiptoe downstairs for a glass of water. Any excuse to leave the room.
The house is deathly quiet, except for the light snores coming from the nurse’s station. The nurse has about an hour and thirty minutes left before vitals and weights. Direct Care is in there too, asleep, in an uncomfortable position on a chair. I must not wake them up. I head to the breakfast area but stop when I see the light on in the living room.
I peek in to find Emm curled up in the brown leather armchair in the corner. Her wild and curly hair is up for the night. Her cruise director mask is off.
She looks tired. Not the sleepy kind. She asks flatly:
What do you want?
Nothing. A glass of water. Do you want one?
No. Actually, yes.
Two tap waters come right up. I hand her one and stand in the doorway uncomfortably with mine.
How did your dinner go?
she surprises me by asking. The question itself is innocent, but the tone of her voice makes me wary. I opt for a cautious answer:
Very well, thank you. How was yours?
handing the reins back to her.
Do I really look like your sister?
she asks. My insides cringe.
No turning back.
I did tell my father that.
What is your sister like?
I am uneasy with this conversation but cannot avoid it. I answer:
Very different from me. She does not have an eating disorder.
Neither does mine.
You have a sister?
A twin.
Emm had never mentioned a twin. Emm had never mentioned her family. In fact, Emm never spoke of anything personal besides Friends and the Olympics, really.
Was she the person Direct Care was referring to this morning? Was she supposed to come to Family Day?
Yes. And no, because I didn’t tell her.
She turns the tables on me:
Are you and your sister close?
Sophie and I used to be, but when anorexia happened we drifted apart. We have not spoken since Christmas.
My twin and I haven’t in years. Not since my first stint here. She actually came to my first Family Day.
Then what happened?
Nothing. She left.
Her voice is misleadingly nonchalant.
She left, and I stayed. Then I was discharged. Then I relapsed and returned here. She came to the second Family Day, but not the third.
Then I stopped answering her calls. I had nothing interesting to say. She was calling less and less anyway. I don’t blame her,
Emm says.
Her life was moving on. Mine was not.
I think of Sophie and everything I do not know about her life now. I wonder if she has a boyfriend. If she still likes her work, and cake.
Emm’s features, in front of me, have hardened, but I know it is just for show. She is a lot like Sophie; Sophie’s jaw clenches like that when she is trying not to cry.
I want Emm to continue but am scared to push her too far. I decide to wait. A few minutes later she regains composure and speaks:
We cut off all contact after our birthday three years ago. I had just been discharged, again. Just in time for the party actually.
What happened?
I couldn’t eat the cake. The icing was pure sugar and food coloring. I couldn’t—or wouldn’t, my twin said—eat most of the food that was there. She said I made her feel guilty when she did, and that I wasn’t trying hard enough.
She pauses.
I guess she just got tired of anorexia and waiting for me to fix it.
But you cannot “fix” anorexia.
I know,
she answers tiredly.
Four years in and I’m still trying to.
We sit together in silence.
I break it this time:
What is your sister’s name?
Amy,
she replies. Then repeats it, lower:
Amy.
Her cruise director voice returns:
Perhaps it is better this way.
What is?
That she and I don’t talk. At least I know she won’t develop anorexia one day because of me.
Even I know it does not work that way.
You cannot pass anorexia to your sister.
No, but she could copy me.
Emm, it’s a disease.
But Emm is not listening:
I couldn’t bear it if she ended up here.
I could not bear it either, the thought of Sophie at 17 Swann Street.
Your sister is a grown-up,
I tell Emm.
You are not responsible for her.
She disagrees:
You are responsible for those you choose to love.