I know what to order; the instructions are clear and folded neatly in my purse. Papa and Matthias are waiting, I know, for a glimpse of the Anna they remember. This is my chance to show them both how far I have come, how cured I am. My chance to bring Anna back. All this hard work, but I panic. Instead,
I order a side salad. Matthias sighs. Silence. Breath,
and the ratatouille.
There!
My father and husband nearly fall off their seats. I genuinely laugh out loud.
Papa says:
I will have the same. I have not had ratatouille in years!
Make that three then, with three side salads please,
Matthias tells the waiter. Menus shut.
We do not order appetizers, but all three of us dig into the bread. Papa and Matthias spread freshly creamed butter on theirs. I am not quite that cured yet.
Our salads arrive, and our main dishes are steaming hot, well seasoned, excellent. The conversation is mild but pleasant. Papa leads it, thankfully. He and Matthias do most of the talking while I focus on bite after bite. Just as we practiced at 17 Swann Street, I nudge myself on.
I am the last to finish, but I do finish. Fork down, I reach for my glass. A celebratory sip of prosecco; now I can concentrate on Papa’s story. Matthias is listening to him intently, but underneath the table, his hand reaches for mine and squeezes it proudly, then remains on my knee.
Lady and gentlemen, would you care for dessert?
Papa looks at me expectantly. He will follow my lead. I check in with my anxiety: the old Anna would have ordered dessert in a heartbeat.
I suppose we could have a look at the menu,
I say to buy myself some more time. A decision I regret: chocolate fondant, crème br?lée, tarte aux framboises, au citron, profiteroles …
The foreign voice in my head, panicked and jumpy, wants to say No thank you. Check please.
The real Anna would have ordered dessert: the chocolate fondant with three spoons. Papa’s favorite, and Matthias loves chocolate too. But I am no longer she. I am an anorexic fraud whose place is at 17 Swann Street. Who am I fooling with my glass of prosecco, my ratatouille, my bread?
Matthias, Papa, and the waiter are still waiting for me to reply. Guessing my answer, breaking the silence, Matthias asks for the check.
I feel like crying. Like I let them both down, especially Papa. Papa, who crossed the globe to be here with me only for a night. And even for a night, I cannot order dessert, cannot keep up a simple pretense. Cannot fight anorexia for another hour, just another hour, for him.
Can’t I?
Big breath. Quick, before I have time to think:
I know where we can get dessert.
I laugh for the second time this evening at the expression on both faces.
We have ice cream, of course. Vanilla for me, chocolate strawberry for Matthias. And for my father, two large scoops of chocolate, with chocolate sprinkles and chocolate sauce!
Would you like some sprinkles, Anna?
Of course, Papa, but rainbow ones.
I watch them melt into blue, red, orange, and green swirls in the creamy white.
Anna used to love the colored sprinkles when she was a child,
Papa informs Matthias.
Yes she did, Papa, and she is still the Anna you remember.
We eat in the car, windows down, in the parking lot by the kiosk. There are a few other cars; a few couples, a group of teenagers. Trying perhaps, like us, to lengthen the last few minutes of Sunday.
We finish our ice cream with ten minutes to spare before we have to head back. I ate the little, but whole, scoop. And the sprinkles, and the little cone. Matthias says,
I am very proud of you.
I look at him gratefully; he had heard my anorexia screaming tonight, had watched me fight it silently, and had silently cheered me on. Matthias is proud of me.
As am I,
says Papa.
And amazed at how far you have come. Keep walking, Anna. Don’t stop.
Keep walking, Anna.
He used to say that to me when I was little. When my feet hurt and blistered, when I scraped my knee, when I was tired on a hike. Keep walking, when it rained. Keep walking, when I was teased in the playground, called in the street, when I fell.
Dust off your knees, get back up. Keep walking, Anna. As he and Maman had done together, as he had then done alone. As he still did every morning with Leopold, every afternoon with me on the phone.
I am scared, Papa.
I know you are.
This is so difficult. It hurts.
I know, Anna. Life does, and it is messy.
You never told me that.
No,
he acknowledges.
I did not know it either, until your mother and brother. Just as I did not know what anorexia was until last Christmas.
He looks onto the parking lot, now empty. The ice cream kiosk is closed.
There is no tragedy to suffering. It is, just as happiness is. To be present for both, that is life, I think. And it is a beautiful evening.
It is, and I am here to witness it with the two men of my life. I am grateful, for it and for the long painful walk that brought me here.
I am not ready to die. I want more evenings like this, more time with him. With Matthias, with Sophie, with a baby. I want the happiness, I will take the sadness. Keep walking. All right, Papa.
The ten minutes end. We roll up the windows and drive back to Swann Street. At number 17, Matthias slows, turns, parks. The last few seconds in the car, silently.
Papa and I step out. I hug him one last time, breathing in the familiar cologne. Then he gets back into the passenger seat and they leave for the airport.
I wave my father and husband goodbye, the Anna they knew till the end, then Matthias’s blue car turns onto the street and out of sight. I am tired. I sit down.
My name is Anna, and I have a life and people who love me waiting outside 17 Swann Street.
I have a husband, a father, a sister, a reason to keep walking. It is a beautiful evening. I spend one more minute in it, then stand up and go inside.
85
Hours after evening snack has been distributed, consumed, and cleared away, I lie on my back in the Van Gogh room. I have a stomachache. Perhaps it is the ice cream, the ratatouille, or the snack, or the gaping void my father left. I sit up in bed and turn the night-light on. My watch says 3:43.
I give up on sleep and get out of bed and into a soft sweater and slippers. Then I tiptoe downstairs for a glass of water. Any excuse to leave the room.
The house is deathly quiet, except for the light snores coming from the nurse’s station. The nurse has about an hour and thirty minutes left before vitals and weights. Direct Care is in there too, asleep, in an uncomfortable position on a chair. I must not wake them up. I head to the breakfast area but stop when I see the light on in the living room.
I peek in to find Emm curled up in the brown leather armchair in the corner. Her wild and curly hair is up for the night. Her cruise director mask is off.
She looks tired. Not the sleepy kind. She asks flatly:
What do you want?
Nothing. A glass of water. Do you want one?
No. Actually, yes.
Two tap waters come right up. I hand her one and stand in the doorway uncomfortably with mine.
How did your dinner go?
she surprises me by asking. The question itself is innocent, but the tone of her voice makes me wary. I opt for a cautious answer:
Very well, thank you. How was yours?
handing the reins back to her.
Do I really look like your sister?
she asks. My insides cringe.
No turning back.
I did tell my father that.
What is your sister like?
I am uneasy with this conversation but cannot avoid it. I answer:
Very different from me. She does not have an eating disorder.
Neither does mine.
You have a sister?
A twin.
Emm had never mentioned a twin. Emm had never mentioned her family. In fact, Emm never spoke of anything personal besides Friends and the Olympics, really.
Was she the person Direct Care was referring to this morning? Was she supposed to come to Family Day?
Yes. And no, because I didn’t tell her.
She turns the tables on me:
Are you and your sister close?
Sophie and I used to be, but when anorexia happened we drifted apart. We have not spoken since Christmas.
My twin and I haven’t in years. Not since my first stint here. She actually came to my first Family Day.