says a confused Matthias, taking in the dress.
You are being kidnapped,
he is informed before I put the blindfold on him.
In the dark, literally, Matthias is led through the house and into the sunroom.
And where am I going?
Away, with me.
He smiles.
I would love nothing more.
I guide Matthias to the perfect spot in the center of the room. Then I uncover his eyes and say:
You can look around now.
We are standing on a giant chalk drawing of a big jet plane, mostly white; it is purple in the spots where I ran out of chalk. Also more flying fish than plane. But he understands the idea and smiles: We are flying away.
My treatment team thinks that I am ready for Stage Three level of treatment.
Matthias makes no reaction at first. I emphasize:
Nonresidential treatment.
Slowly, very slowly, he asks:
Anna, what exactly does that mean?
That, if you don’t mind, I would like to sleep at home on Monday night!
I cannot keep calm in any longer:
I still have to go to treatment every day, but I can leave after six! They say I am stable enough not to need night supervision!
Still no reaction.
I would have dinner and evening snack on my own. Well, ideally with you.
I smile.
I would sleep at home and come back the next day, like school.
I watch him cautiously process this:
No more visiting hours …
No, Matthias. No Direct Care watching us from the window. No more walks whose trajectory lines the borders of the garden around 17 Swann Street. No more sneaking around to kiss, no more saying goodbye, no more lonely bed.
I get my wife back,
he whispers, overwhelmed. Matthias finally understands.
This is not over,
I hasten to clarify.
It is just a phase transition.
He nods; we both understand that this is not the finish line. But we have come this far, haven’t we? So far since that first day here. Keep walking.
Matthias takes me by the hand and we dance.
We dance, on a bad drawing of a big jet plane, in a sunroom at the back of a house with peach-pink walls at number 17, Swann Street. There is no music, but an entire orchestra is playing in our heads.
We had danced on the sidewalk on our first date, and months later, when we were married. I remember how close his face had been to mine, noticing every feature for the first time. I look at them now: the freckle I had marked as my own under his right eye, his lashes that curved up. The scar on his upper lip, that had tasted of ice cream that first date, first kiss.
Since then we have danced in nightclubs and in bars, in kitchens and in hospital waiting rooms. Now, in a treatment center for women with eating disorders.
He is humming a song. I know the lyrics well:
… a ride on a big jet plane.
Hey, hey …
He kisses me on the lips and says:
I will, you know.
What?
Take you away, in a big jet plane.
Where?
To Vienna, to Rome, to Phuket, Tokyo, and Havana. To the farthest place in the world from here. To wherever you want, but first, I was thinking, we could go home on Monday. And then to Paris.
Home, yes, and Paris, please. We dance on in the quiet room, to the end of visiting hours and a song no one else can hear. To violins, cello, and harp in a magnificent movement, and trilling, rippling piano keys. Then we step out of the plane and I walk Matthias back to the front door.
90
Monday morning. Six Mondays ago, my life was ending here. I open my eyes; it is still beautifully purple in the Van Gogh room. Vitals and weights soon, then the sun will rise, for the last time from this angle I hope. Then, after breakfast, I might as well carry my suitcase downstairs.
After the walk, I will have a few forms to sign, I suppose, then will spend the day with the girls, alternating meals, sessions, snacks. There may be new admissions, but they will be busy with orientation all day. I will not meet the patient who moves into this bedroom after me.
I get out of bed and wear my flower-print robe, flap to the front, for the last time. I head downstairs for vitals and weights early. Discharge Day has begun.
Two short hours later, the smell of coffee beckons me back down for breakfast. Yes, I would love a good cup of coffee now, and—
Surprise!
There are colorful streamers strewn across on the breakfast table. Glittering cards with my name on them. The girls are already at the table, each in her spot. I have a card for each of them too.
I hand them out, then sit down to this celebration of my Discharge Day, looking at every face, starting to feel emotional.
You girls are wonderful—
But Emm interrupts:
Coffee?
The pot of steaming black brew is passed around the table. No emotions, not yet. All right, Emm. At Direct Care’s signal, we peel the plastic film off our bowls and reach for our spoons.
Monday is cereal day. My first bowl contains what looks like a whole tub of yogurt. In my second, a mountain, a mountain chain of sugar-coated, glistening cereal.
Frosties and vanilla yogurt. To think they had once paralyzed me. I sprinkle the light flakes onto the creamy swirls. There is silence around the table. Also, silence in my chest where, a few weeks ago, panic had been. I dip my spoon into the bowl and the earth remains still. I take a bite with academic curiosity.
Contrasts: smooth cream coating the hard, uneven ridges, little sugar crystals forming peaks. It feels cold and tastes cold. Hints of tangy and sweet. I listen to it crunch and crackle and wonder if one day it will be quiet in my head.
The patient manual clearly states:
Only 33% of women with anorexia nervosa maintain full recovery after nine months. Of those, approximately one-third will relapse after the nine-month mark.
Next to me, Emm has not touched her yogurt yet.
No predictors of relapse exist.
Or of surviving treatment in the first place.
In the seat next to her, Sarah fills the silence by reading our horoscopes herself. We take them seriously, as the rules at 17 Swann Street say we should.
Full recovery of women with bulimia nervosa is significantly higher than anorexia,
I remember reading in the manual,
Up to 74% maintain recovery after the nine-month mark.
She then distributes copies of the daily word jumbles Emm brought. Silence again as we pore over them in between mushy and crunchy bites.
All eating disorders are chronic, and the risk of relapse remains. It is greatest within the four-to-nine-month period following discharge from inpatient care.
Tomorrow I will be eating breakfast at a different table, with different girls. Will I still be eating breakfast in four to nine months?
Symptoms may return.
Perhaps, but I have seven minutes of breakfast time left and a small hill of Frosties to swallow. Then I have to run upstairs and zip my suitcase shut.
The minute hand on the clock hits eight thirty. My last breakfast is over. The dirty dishes are piled high in the sink, and we are dismissed.
In community space, the discussion of the day is about what I will do when I leave. Will I go back to my old job at the supermarket? I hope not. Will I go back to school? Will I try to have a baby? Will I start dancing again?
I do not know,
I reply. And I genuinely do not. One step, one day, one meal at a time.
What would all of you do?
Dreams fly around the room like the streamers that had colored the breakfast table. Travel plans, family plans, career, love, life goals. Emm remains silent. She speaks last.
Her dream overrules all of ours:
If I could leave, I would go on a walk. A very long walk in the countryside. Somewhere fresh, with my sister. Maybe talk, but mostly just walk, I think.
I know Emm would not appreciate me reaching for her hand in public. No superfluous words or display of emotion; our friendship was not built that way.
Direct Care comes in.
Morning walk, ladies?