My fifth and last Friday evening at 17 Swann Street. My last Friday-night date here with Matthias. It must be different.
I have an idea. I share it with Direct Care, who, to my surprise, says yes. She finds what I need easily enough: a box of colored chalk. Then, after lunch, she escorts me to the sunroom, where I spend twenty minutes on my knees, sketching and scribbling on the floor. I use up all the chalk.
At 7:26, I am long finished with dinner and peeking out the window. I am wearing my white dress for the occasion, pink lipstick, a little blush, my mother’s pearl earrings, some perfume.
Matthias’s blue car pulls into the driveway at 7:28. He does not know. I cannot wait to tell him, cannot wait for him to reach the front porch.
I open the door before he rings, too excited to wait.
Why, hello,
says a confused Matthias, taking in the dress.
You are being kidnapped,
he is informed before I put the blindfold on him.
In the dark, literally, Matthias is led through the house and into the sunroom.
And where am I going?
Away, with me.
He smiles.
I would love nothing more.
I guide Matthias to the perfect spot in the center of the room. Then I uncover his eyes and say:
You can look around now.
We are standing on a giant chalk drawing of a big jet plane, mostly white; it is purple in the spots where I ran out of chalk. Also more flying fish than plane. But he understands the idea and smiles: We are flying away.
My treatment team thinks that I am ready for Stage Three level of treatment.
Matthias makes no reaction at first. I emphasize:
Nonresidential treatment.
Slowly, very slowly, he asks:
Anna, what exactly does that mean?
That, if you don’t mind, I would like to sleep at home on Monday night!
I cannot keep calm in any longer:
I still have to go to treatment every day, but I can leave after six! They say I am stable enough not to need night supervision!
Still no reaction.
I would have dinner and evening snack on my own. Well, ideally with you.
I smile.
I would sleep at home and come back the next day, like school.
I watch him cautiously process this:
No more visiting hours …
No, Matthias. No Direct Care watching us from the window. No more walks whose trajectory lines the borders of the garden around 17 Swann Street. No more sneaking around to kiss, no more saying goodbye, no more lonely bed.
I get my wife back,
he whispers, overwhelmed. Matthias finally understands.
This is not over,
I hasten to clarify.
It is just a phase transition.
He nods; we both understand that this is not the finish line. But we have come this far, haven’t we? So far since that first day here. Keep walking.
Matthias takes me by the hand and we dance.
We dance, on a bad drawing of a big jet plane, in a sunroom at the back of a house with peach-pink walls at number 17, Swann Street. There is no music, but an entire orchestra is playing in our heads.
We had danced on the sidewalk on our first date, and months later, when we were married. I remember how close his face had been to mine, noticing every feature for the first time. I look at them now: the freckle I had marked as my own under his right eye, his lashes that curved up. The scar on his upper lip, that had tasted of ice cream that first date, first kiss.
Since then we have danced in nightclubs and in bars, in kitchens and in hospital waiting rooms. Now, in a treatment center for women with eating disorders.
He is humming a song. I know the lyrics well:
… a ride on a big jet plane.
Hey, hey …
He kisses me on the lips and says:
I will, you know.
What?
Take you away, in a big jet plane.
Where?
To Vienna, to Rome, to Phuket, Tokyo, and Havana. To the farthest place in the world from here. To wherever you want, but first, I was thinking, we could go home on Monday. And then to Paris.
Home, yes, and Paris, please. We dance on in the quiet room, to the end of visiting hours and a song no one else can hear. To violins, cello, and harp in a magnificent movement, and trilling, rippling piano keys. Then we step out of the plane and I walk Matthias back to the front door.