Fueled by the answer, any answer, the smile beams louder. The white teeth are unnaturally straight. The therapist turns to look at me specifically:
How are you today?
Well, I am on the spot, unprepared, and extremely uncomfortable. I just had a terrifying meal. My stomach hurts and I want to cry, but I doubt that is what she wants to hear.
Fortunately, I do not have to reply. She speaks again instead:
Welcome to group therapy. These sessions are a safe space where you can share and receive feedback.
I nod politely and whisper thank you, hopefully loud enough that she hears. I then look down at my pink trainers, signaling she can move on.
She does not.
Since this is your first time with us, would you like to introduce yourself and tell us a little bit about your past?
Oh I most certainly would not, but as I am coming to learn, at 17 Swann Street most questions are really instructions in sweetened, buttered disguise.
I could introduce myself—
Hello, my name is Anna.
—but my past is not hers to know. As far as she is concerned, I am just another patient at an eating-disorder treatment center. My disease is just a variation of that of every other girl in this room. All of whom, I suspect, have heard more than their share of sad anorexia stories.
That’s all.
The therapist’s eyes widen, glance briefly at the clock, then look back at me with a clear message: I am going to stop wasting her time and share. I look back at my feet, wondering how and where to begin. Help …
It comes from the girls. Valerie, to my surprise, goes first:
Where did you grow up? Any siblings? Pets?
Another patient chimes in:
Married? Kids? What do you do in real life?
Emm asks me why I came to the States. Julia wants to know if I like jazz. Another patient—potatoes in small bites, I remember, from dinner last night—asks with a sly smile:
Will the gorgeous man who came to see you yesterday be back?
The irritated therapist tries to redirect the conversation onto a therapeutic track:
Or, if you would rather, you could tell us about how your eating disorder developed.
I would rather not. So I turn to the questions the other girls asked.
I grew up in Paris. I have a sister and a brother,
I tell Valerie first.
I am the eldest. My sister and I are very different but very close. She is the sophisticated banker; vodka martinis and the like. My brother …
was hit by a car when he was seven. His name is Camil. But I do not want to mention him, or Maman.
I switch tracks, hoping no one notices:
I do have a pet: a limping dog called Leopold. He lives in Paris with my father.
If they did notice, no one mentions it. I am grateful to the girls yet again.
Yes I am married. To the gorgeous man from yesterday,
I add for potatoes-in-small-bites’ sake.
His name is Matthias. He is kind and my best friend and we have been married for three years.
Space, and then,
No kids.
Now, what do I do in real life? I cannot remember, is the honest answer. I have not had a real life in years. This one I have been spending mostly just stopping myself from eating. It takes up a lot of my time. And energy, and concentration. My brain is slow and rarely looks beyond anticipating the next hunger pangs. Or back past the guilt of the last bite. By nighttime, it is exhausted. I sleep.
In real life I starve and I sleep, but I know that is not a proper answer for this crowd. So I rummage through my memories to pre-anorexia:
I was a dancer for a while. I was not very good. I also hurt my knee, then we moved here, and
now I remember:
Now I work as a cashier at a supermarket. Or I used to before checking in here. I hated it. It was supposed to be temporary, but at least it paid a salary.
I trail off with the thought.
In an ideal world, I would go to university. I went straight to ballet after school. I think I would study art history, or Italian, or maybe teach dance to children.…
I realize no one had asked me about that. Embarrassed, I move on.
To Emm:
Matthias was offered a position at a research laboratory here. He is a physicist and very smart. Or I am biased. I don’t know.
The offer was generous, and we were struggling in Paris, especially when I stopped dancing.
It was a brilliant opportunity for Matthias,
and we needed the money.
And now I need a lighter interlude. Julia’s question provides it:
I do not know enough about jazz, but what I do know I love. I love music that moves me. The saxophone. I like Billie Holiday.
I wrap up:
And yes, Matthias is coming tonight!
and add to myself, self-consciously: I hope I can put some makeup and perfume on before he arrives.
That leaves the therapist’s question unanswered. I hope she does not notice.
She does:
So what made you seek treatment for your eating disorder?
Seek treatment for my eating disorder, like a case in a medical textbook. The question is as cold and indifferent as everything behind that fa?ade.
I think of every possible answer I can give the overzealous therapist. I open my mouth, ready to fire sarcasm, but to my surprise the truth comes out:
I am here because Matthias and I went home to Paris last Christmas. I had not seen my family in three years. My father was waiting at the airport. He did not recognize me at first, and when he did he cried.
He did not hug me either, too scared that if he did something in me would break.
It was supposed to be a happy occasion. My father, my sister, we were all there. But I could not eat, was too cold to go outside. They were so frightened, they confronted me. They begged me to get help. We fought and I left angry.
It was extremely sad.
Back then I decided it was none of their business, and I made that very clear. If I wanted to die it was my choice. They were not around, and neither was Matthias. No right to interfere.
I wince, remembering the harsh words I said, the phone calls I stopped answering.
We returned to Saint Louis and Matthias returned to work. Then everything unraveled. So quickly.
I realize I am speaking too much and too intimately again. I falter, but cannot retreat now; they are all waiting, even the therapist, plastic smile folded away.
I try to bring the story to a clean close:
Nothing dramatic happened. I just fainted in the bathroom one night. And a few other times. Matthias found me.
And when I woke up he was crying.
I did not have a choice. I knew I was hurting him—
but I had never made him cry before.
So I came here.
I turn to the therapist.
And that’s it. May I use the bathroom now please?
25
It was the end of the world.
It was not, she told herself again. It only felt like it. Just the end of a world. Just a job as a cashier, to help pay the bills.
She was still Anna. She was still a dancer. She still loved poetry and sparkling wine, but Matthias worked long hours that felt even longer in this city where she was alone. Her supermarket shifts would fill the time perfectly, she reasoned in her uniform.
She was where she needed to be. Missing home was a tangent. She would go back for Christmas, or in the spring. Her shifts would help them save for the trip too, and buy presents for her family.
So she helped elderly men count quarters, pennies, dimes to pay for their two slices of ham and bread. She helped ladies with polished nails and Chanel handbags navigate coupons and food stamps, ashamed.