I think back to our Friday-night dates. I remember that pizza night; I was wearing a black lace dress and little pearls in my ears. I had also, uncharacteristically, let my hair down; Matthias preferred it that way. He was in slim-fitting blue jeans that suited him perfectly, and to this day my favorite striped shirt. He had worn it just for me.
I remember feeling giddy; the wine had been good, as had the pizza I had ordered. I remember the thin crust, fresh tomato and basil leaves, the creamy dollops of mozzarella. They had dribbled on my fingers and down my chin. Matthias had not minded.
I do not remember the taste of the pizza, though. Anorexia wiped that bit of memory out. Another thing I will have to bring back, but one step at a time.
Anna, may I have a word with you? This will only take a minute.
And to the other patients, Direct Care says:
Start lining up for dinner, please.
She takes me to the side; never a good sign. I am in trouble, or …
Your treatment team has reached a decision about your meal outing.
And?
And?
She smiles:
And I must call your husband to inform him of his date with you on Sunday night.
I could jump. I could hug her. Of course, I do neither. She continues seriously:
Remember this is all probationary. Do you understand that, Anna? If the meal outing goes well then the team will consider making your Stage Two status permanent.
It has to go well. It has to go well. I have to make this date work.
The nutritionist will come in tomorrow morning to plan the meal with you.
76
So what will it be?
the nutritionist asks, cutting right to the chase. It is Saturday morning. We are both in her office, I on the edge of the plump red chair.
She looks less than thrilled to be in my company. I understand; it is her day off. I try to set aside the antipathy I have been cultivating for her for weeks.
I will be civil.
An Italian restaurant,
I say and, as an afterthought,
Please.
And what will you order there?
she asks.
A pizza margherita,
says the girl I once was, before I have time to stop her.
Two full slices, at least,
comes her verdict,
and the house salad with dressing as well.
Her eyes are on the clock. I keep mine on the prize. This painful meeting is adjourned.
77
Matthias pulls up at 17 Swann Street at precisely 6:00 P.M. on Sunday. I have not seen him since that horrible Tuesday. My heart is pounding madly.
I am wearing my navy-blue dress and white ballet shoes, my hair down. My outfit clashes with the yellow of my feeding tube, but I am too nervous to care. Matthias turns the engine off but keeps the radio on. He steps out of the car, sharp in a white shirt, beige pants, his sunglasses on.
I cannot make out the expression on his face. The sun is in my eyes. I wait nervously at the door. He reaches the house.
For all of two seconds we face each other. His face is solemn and foreign. He is still angry at me. My heart sinks. He has every right to be.
Hello,
I say.
Hello.
Polite.
My eyes beg his silently.
Then, he smiles! A shy and sheepish grin. I fly off the porch into his arms.
He kisses me. We stop. I kiss him back, again and again, crying.
I am so sorry,
as I try to compensate for the days of kisses lost.
His smell, his hair. I missed him.
I missed you,
he says, then kisses me again.
Then, abruptly:
Let’s get out of here.
Let’s.
Doors slammed, windows down, music turned back up, we drive off immediately in our blue getaway car, my hand on his switching gears.
The two of us, just the two of us again, we are both quiet. There will be time, later, to talk. Now the sun is warming my cheeks and nose and the music is soft, and besides we already summed the last five days up:
I missed you.
This time I say it.
We arrive, Matthias and Anna. The Anna he married, I hope. The girl he took on a date to a pizzeria, a Friday night years ago.
I am scared. Anorexia has tagged along, and the tube on my face will not let me forget it. No turning back; we walk into the restaurant. It is lovely; Julia had recommended it, and the table by the window.
We are seated. Sir, madam, the menus, and with them a side of fear. I glance at the table to my right: an older couple, two giant, cheesy pizzas. Two glasses of wine.
I focus on my breath. Matthias is looking at the options on the menu. He always does, I realize, though he orders the same thing every time.
The familiarity of that act, the Matthias I knew, sitting in front of me. I exhale. The Anna he married; I must keep her on hand. Our waitress arrives.
What would you like to order?
Two glasses of house wine, red of course. Then Matthias and she look at me:
Ladies first.
I know what I should order, what Anna always orders, and how this date should go. But I did not leave 17 Swann Street fast enough:
If I have the pizza marinara …
I begin. A little voice in my head continues: then I could eat more bread. I do love bread, and do not care much for mozzarella anyway.
That was not the plan,
Matthias begins uneasily.
The nutritionist said …
I look sharply at him, outraged that he and the nutritionist had spoken behind my back.
I know what I am doing. Please do not police me. I get enough of that back there.
No sooner have the words left my mouth than I regret saying them.
Matthias looks away from me and at his menu again. I can hear the silent thoughts in his head, even louder than the screams in mine: Nothing has changed.
He is right.
The waitress looks down at her notepad. I want to defend myself, to explain, to her and him, the tube, the cheese, my heart beating so loud I am certain everyone around me can hear it.
A pizza marinara is not anorexia! pleads the voice in my head. I am not sick; I am a girl on a date who simply does not like mozzarella.
Then I hear it: my own lie. Two voices in my head: anorexia’s and mine. Deep down I know which is ordering the pizza marinara.
I see the past four weeks go up in pale, translucent smoke, Valerie and the other pale translucent girls in their robes. My own robe in the Van Gogh room. My husband across from me. I see the years of Friday nights with him that I lost because I could not eat.
Never mind,
I tell the waitress. And my anorexia to be quiet.
I would like to start with a house salad please. Then a pizza margherita.
She writes the order down, unaware of its implications.
And what would you like, sir?
I eat the salad. And the dressing, and cheese. Then I eat my pizza. One slice of it, two. Calmly cutting the pieces with my fork and knife, chewing, fighting my brain for every bite. I pause at times to sip at my wine, look at Matthias, look at us.
I finish, lay my silverware down, and my courage, and begin to cry.
Still not looking at me, Matthias finishes his last slice. He has eaten all of his pizza, extra mushrooms and truffle oil, and left the crusts on the side, because Matthias ate the olives Anna did not like, and Anna always took his crust.
Matthias and Anna held hands across the dinner table, talked with their lips, their eyes, their feet. Anna and Matthias emptied bottles of wine together, shared ice cream cones and French fries. Anna peeled oranges for Matthias because he had never learned how. He ate the olives she did not like and always gave her his pizza crusts.
I reach across the table and touch his hand.
May I have a piece of pizza crust?
For a second he does not look up. His hand does not move. I am too late.
Then he gives me a piece and looks at me. He is crying too.
He talks.
About guilt. Toward me, toward Papa and Sophie, even Maman and Camil.
I promised your father when we got married that I would take care of you. We came here and I promised you that you would not be lonely.
I am sorry I worked late. I am sorry you had to eat so many meals alone. I am sorry I did not say anything sooner, sorry I did not push harder.
That moment at the airport last Christmas, Anna. The look on your father’s face. I had loved you too close to see what was happening. No, I chose what I wanted to see.