So I do, and slather some cream on one end and dare myself to take the first bite. Slow, mindful breaths. This is so painful that I almost laugh at the situation. Here I am, about to have a breakdown over a bagel and cream cheese.
I want to recite Maman’s poem in my head, but the fear is overwhelming to the point that I cannot remember the first line, or her face. Or ever being this scared. It takes my full concentration just to take a second bite, to swallow it, to take a third. I make it through the first half of the bagel not daring to stop, think, or look up.
Two more bites of the second half remain. About a third of the cream cheese. My heart is about to stop. The screaming in my brain is almost turning me deaf. No more, I think. I cannot. I did my part. Not another bite. The guilt feels like being dunked into freezing water; I cannot breathe, my stomach is clenched.
Two more minutes to the end of the meal.
Anna, you must finish your plate.
I could force down the last two bites of bagel, but the cream cheese … I cannot.
A furtive glance at Direct Care, who is looking the other way. I do not recognize myself doing it: I stuff the cheese inside my napkin.
I wait for the apocalypse. It does not come. No one seems to have noticed. The conversation continues. The clock above my head ticks the last two minutes on. Breakfast is over. We clear our plates. I throw the napkin deep in the bin. Evidence discarded, I ask to use the bathroom. Minutes later, I lock myself in.
I dare to smile at myself in the mirror: Breakfast is done. I survived.
Too soon. Someone knocks gently on the door. I go under freezing water again.
Anna, when you are done in there, I would like to talk to you please.
I take my time brushing my teeth and braiding my hair. I even look out at the magnolia tree. Then I wipe my hands, take one last look outside, noting the sky is bright blue. Perfect weather today for the walk, I think. That I will probably not be on.
I open the door. Direct Care is outside, avoiding eye contact with me.
Why don’t we talk in your room?
she asks, wanting to spare me a scene.
We go upstairs. Once in my room, she shows me my cream-cheese-filled napkin. I cannot remember being more mortified or ashamed. I admit it is mine.
We have a policy about stolen or discarded food,
she explains uncomfortably. She looks as distraught as I am. No, not as distraught, not exactly.
I know that policy. I know the house rules; my punishment is a full liquid meal. A nauseatingly thick shake containing the caloric equivalent of breakfast. And another black mark on my record. And of course no morning walk.
The calories. The calories.
I could die right here just thinking of the calories in that liquid supplement. I have never felt anything more overwhelming than this fear flooding my stomach, the room … and then the shame.
When did I become a liar and a cheat? What will Matthias think of me? What will he say when he learns that his wife hides cheese in napkins like a thief?
What would my mother say? My father? My siblings, who looked up to me once? What will Papa think when I do not call him as usual on the morning walk?
I can feel something unraveling inside, but Direct Care is still here. I will not cry, or argue with her. I will take responsibility for what I did.
She returns with a large glass of thick, beige cream. Thoughtful, she included a straw. I take the supplement without a word and drink it methodically, all of it.
When the glass is empty I hand it back. She is decent enough not to preach. She stands up and leaves the room, saying,
You can come down whenever you’re ready.
I want to die. Instead, I sit still. Time does too, in the bedroom. I stay there forever, but it is still Tuesday morning when I come down. The girls are waiting by the door for their walk, sunglasses, phones, and trainers on. They all know what happened but do not say anything. I am grateful. They leave.
There is no one in community space, but I need a place to hide. Those are intentionally rare at the house on 17 Swann Street. The bedrooms are off limits by day, the bathrooms permanently locked. There is the laundry room, the coldest room in the house. I go there, curl into a ball, and cry.
I cry more than I ever have. More than when Camil died, and Maman. More than over Philippe. How sad, the power of a piece of cream cheese.
Free fall from a tightrope, and it just keeps going, me lying on the floor behind the dryers. I look up and see the first diet I ever went on and Philippe’s beautiful wife. I see that night the wooden stage rose up to meet me and crashed against my knee. I see my brother’s empty bed. My mother locking the bathroom door. I see transatlantic flights and two dinner plates set, in a lonely apartment, getting cold.
I see the life I wanted with Matthias, the baby I wanted with him. Every plan and dream that went wrong. Every decision snatched out of my hands.
I see the alarm set for five thirty each morning, after long nights, too cold to sleep. I see fourteen-hour work shifts and thirty-minute runs that got longer and longer gradually. The numbers dropping on the scale. Food groups disappearing with them, along with my friends, ambition, and personality. I see what remained: my apples and popcorn, and my eighty-eight pounds.
I see myself on my first day here, physically as trapped as I felt. I see myself asking for permission to use the bathroom, to step outside on the porch. I see food set in front of me that I did not choose, did not like, did not want. And the yellow feeding tube that will go through my nostrils if I do not comply.
I see every one of those six meals a day and every group and individual session. Then I see the cream cheese and nutritional supplement. But I do not see the point.
My fall ends in a silent crash on that floor. It knocks breath and emotion out of me. The tiny blood vessels in my eyes pop. I am done crying, done trying. I am so tired. I cannot get up.
Not that I have anything to get up for, anywhere or anyone to be. So I stay behind the dryers, on the floor, till the girls return from their walk.
Emm finds me.
There you are. Direct Care is calling us for midmorning snack.
I do not reply or get up, so she pulls me up herself.
Listen to me, Anna: so you slipped. It happens. This is not who you are. That voice in your head that made you do it, that’s not you. It’s anorexia. It just sounds like you.
Her hand gripping my arm firmly, she leads me to the big wooden table, where the snacks are already set and most of the girls are sitting.
You just need to start recognizing the difference between your thoughts and your disease. You can do it. Try again,
she says.
Try again. I glare at Emm, who does not see me as she goes to her seat across from me. I do not need advice or encouragement from her or anyone else. I do not need a nutritionist, therapist, psychiatrist, Direct Care. And I especially do not need empathy in the form of condescending head tilts.
I have never been more furious in my life. Something in me quietly explodes.
63
Contingency Update—June 7, 2016
Weight: 92 lbs.
BMI: 15.8
Patient attempted to conceal a portion of her breakfast in a napkin and was apprehended. The caloric equivalent of her meal was administered in the form of liquid supplement. Patient was then denied permission to go on the morning walk.
Patient was repeatedly offered sessions with her team therapist, nutritionist, and psychiatrist, all of which she refused.
At 10:00 A.M., patient refused midmorning snack and nutritional supplement shake. At 12:30 P.M., patient refused lunch and nutritional supplement shake. Patient was repeatedly made aware of the implications of each refusal. At 3:00 P.M. patient was given her afternoon snack via nasogastric feeding tube as stipulated by the rules in the patient manual.
Patient has been missing since 4:00 P.M. on June 7, 2016. Search party has been dispatched.
Spouse has been notified.
64
They had known each other less than two months. They were hiding under the covers for warmth, her ice-cold feet between his, on a particularly dreary and dark Thursday in February.
Let us run away,