I follow her to the alcove underneath the stairs. She climbs into it and sits on the floor, motioning me to join. Her manner is so natural I know she has had meetings like this here before.
I understand how difficult this morning was for you,
she begins before I can,
but you disrupted breakfast. Everyone in here is suffering, and everyone is suffering enough.
She speaks quietly and kindly. It strikes deeper than if she had been upset. The frozen orange, the sweetener, the silence at the table. One of the rules of the house: to be kind.
I open my mouth to apologize but she cuts me off before I can:
It’s okay, and so are the others. We don’t hold grudges here. We each lived our own first forty-eight hours in this house. Just focus on surviving yours.
She pauses.
It will get easier after that. At least then you get the morning walk.
Yes, I remember Direct Care saying that. Forty-eight hours in and pending good behavior. Only twenty-four more to go.
I am sorry,
I say lamely anyway as she climbs out of the alcove.
No need,
she calls over her shoulder.
Twenty-four hours left. I can focus on surviving this place till then.
Then I notice Direct Care setting the table: midmorning snack, already.
I am not ready yet. I have no choice. We all flock toward the breakfast table. I keep my eyes down, still embarrassed by my earlier behavior. Two bowls and a plate are placed in front of me. All three wrapped in plastic and labeled.
The first contains yogurt. Vanilla. The second has animal crackers.
In spite of me, of the horror of the situation, I suddenly want to chuckle. In my head, I hear the first lines of a poem I used to know and love:
Animal crackers and cocoa to drink,
That is one of the finest of suppers I think.
My mother’s voice is reciting the words. I am five and in the kitchen with her. The cocoa is steaming in its wide white bowl, warming me on a rainy school night. My animal crackers are waiting patiently for their turn to be dipped until just soft. They did not scare me then. That memory is a happy one.
I then turn to the plate, confused. I do not understand, till I do: my uneaten half bagel and cream cheese, this morning’s breakfast I had refused.
I choke; I am expected to eat it now, and my midmorning snack too. The girls around me, even Direct Care, are quiet, waiting for me to react.
Yogurt, and crackers, and the bagel and cream cheese. I try to rein in my breaths.…
And hyperventilate.
My body is screaming: Not all at once! Please! The nutritionist’s voice responds: You have two refusals left. And Emm’s, who is sitting across from me: Everyone is suffering enough.
Every girl is to be kind. I cannot make a scene. But I cannot do this! Please …
The animal crackers in the bowl. I hear the poem again. Somehow, my mother’s quiet voice drowns out all the others in my head. It trails along rhythmically, soothingly slowing the pace of my inhales and exhales:
Animal crackers and cocoa to drink,
That is one of the finest of suppers I think.
This is ridiculous. I am twenty-six years old and reciting a children’s poem. But it helps, if only with the breathing. I continue, in my head:
When I’m grown up and can have what I please
I think I shall always insist upon these.
I cannot refuse this meal. I wish Maman were here. I wish I were anywhere, anywhere but here. How did the poem go?
Focus on the next line. And on unwrapping the bagel. Now the cream cheese. Spread. Take a bite. And another bite. Chew. Do not think, keep your brain on the poem.
What do you choose when you’re offered a treat?
When Mother says, “What would you like best to eat?”
Swallow. Drink water. Start again. One more bite. And another, and another after that.
Is it waffles and syrup, or cinnamon toast?
Keep chewing to the end of the stanza. I swallow the last bite of bagel and recite:
It’s cocoa and animals that I love the most!
No one is talking and I do not know if anyone is looking at me. I cannot look up to find out, however. I cannot stop. Now the snack.
The yogurt is smoother and easier to swallow. I keep reciting nonetheless.
Chew. Swallow. One more spoonful. Think of the next line, the girls, the morning walk. Just a bit more. Breathe. Good, now only the animal crackers are left.
I line them up as I used to and contemplate their childish shapes. Maman, I am twenty-six years old and scared of little animals.
But I eat one, then the other, and recite the last stanza. I finish the poem and the snack at the same time.
And it is 10:30. The table is cleared in front of me. The room, and my brain, are quiet.
24
I am not dead. I am drained but not dead. So drained I can barely walk. Perhaps it is a good thing. I cannot think of what I just made myself do.
None of the girls speak to me. That is good too; I do not trust myself to talk just now. Now I need to be alone and to cry. I need to process this meal. This meal that stood against everything my brain has firmly believed for so many years. I need time for the yogurt, bagel, cream cheese, crackers, and anxiety to settle down.
I’d like to use the bathroom please,
but am not given that luxury:
You can go after group therapy, Anna. Now follow the other girls, please.
I have no choice. I follow the others to the back of the house, a sunroom, for my first group session at 17 Swann Street. There are chairs set in a circle in the middle.
Each girl automatically takes a seat. Here too, each has her spot. I hesitate: Where is mine? Three voices call out at once:
This seat is free if you like.
They have spoken to me!
Emm was right: No grudges here. I sink into the nearest chair gratefully. I notice her looking at me, a few chairs away. Thank you, I mouth. She nods.
Valerie, across from me, is obviously still shaken from both the breakfast incident and her last snack, but her fingers are unclenched and she even, maybe, I imagine, smiles at me.
Julia is sitting to my right, headphones around her neck now. She shakes my hand buoyantly:
Ah, the French rebel. Glad to meet you, neighbor! I’m Julia, from Bedroom 4.
Hello Julia, I’m sorry I got you into trouble at breakfast—
but she brushes it off:
Nah, don’t be sorry! No worries, I was just trying my luck anyway. They won’t slap my wrists too hard for stealing a few packets of sweetener.
Speaking of wrists, my osteopenic bones are cracking in her jovial grip. I look down and see fresh calluses on her knuckles: Russell’s sign, caused by self-induced vomiting. The skin is chafed where it scraped against her teeth while she was making herself gag. I do not want to imagine what the inside of her mouth must look like.
There are dark circles under her eyes, but she seems quite upbeat.
It’s the coffee, it’s still morning,
she answers my unvoiced question with a wink.
The days are all right. I like the meals here, and I chew gum during sessions. It’s the nights that are hard. But hey, we share a wall. Let me know if my music is too loud.
Bulimia nervosa. Julia does not look emaciated or frail. She is warm and misleadingly jolly, but, as she said, it is still morning.
She pops a piece of chewing gum in her mouth. It must be allowed here.
Want some? I’m always well stocked.
No thank you,
but good to know. I used to chew gum all the time as well, to keep hunger and anxiety at bay.
I look away from Julia as a therapist walks in. I have not seen this lady before: loud bleached hair, loud bleached smile. She sits in the last empty seat, closing the circle of quiet patients, and, queuing all the loud bleached sympathy she has, asks:
How is everyone today?
She receives no response, though in our defense, I do not know what she expects to hear. The question seems far too high-pitched to be anything but rhetorical. It clashes as loudly as her hair against the melancholy in the room. Everyone around me seems too tired for theater. Except for Julia, who pops a bubble.
Emm finally breaks the silence, on everyone’s grateful behalf:
Everyone’s fine.