Certain words and phrases are inappropriate here. She calls them triggering. No talk of food or exercise, no mention of weight or calories. My disease is not to be mentioned by name; a vague eating disorder is fine. If I am sad and want to die, I should say I am struggling. If I want to run away, throw myself under a bus, then I am having an urge. If I feel fat or worthless or ugly, I have body image issues. These verbal gymnastics are to be applied at all times and to every subject.
I should, she insists, always communicate my thoughts and feelings freely. Staff is here to validate those and redirect my behaviors,
and by the end of treatment, you will be cured of ano—your eating disorder.
Direct Care wraps up orientation with a sympathetic, condescending smile. The professionally appropriate, if slightly distracted, smile of a time-clock employee. She has given this speech hundreds of times to hundreds of girls just like me. Her mind is already on other things. Mine remains frozen in place.
11
As soon as orientation ends, another staff member comes to me.
Ready to meet with your therapist?
The tone of the question gives me the impression that I am not really being asked.
Minutes later, I am sitting on a gray suede couch in a nice office, on the edge closest to the window. There is a magnolia tree outside.
The therapist walks in. First impressions: bright blond hair, the warm kind, fine gold earrings, a turquoise dress. An impeccable pedicure and soft peony perfume. Her face looks fresh, but a slight crease around her eyes belies children at home under five.
Hello. I’m Katherine. You must be Anna.
I nod and proceed immediately to tell her that I do not need this session. She seems like a lovely lady, and I do not want to waste her time. I suffer from no psychiatric illnesses, except anorexia, of course. I come from a loving family and have a husband I adore by whom I sleep every night.
No depression or trauma, at least none that I need or am inclined to share. No unhealed wounds from my past or skeletons in my closet I need to address. I am just particular about what I eat, just a little underweight.
Thank you for your time. I’m fine.
She waits a few seconds, then repeats my speech to be sure she has understood.
So you’re happy.
Yes.
You feel fine.
Yes.
You don’t need therapy because you have no mental issues that need to be addressed.
Correct.
So when was the last time you ate?
I decide I hate therapy and proceed to draw butterflies with my finger on the couch.
All right,
she says,
what if we set anorexia aside for now? What if you tell me a bit about your childhood?
I glance at the clock on the wall.
You’re stuck with me for a full hour,
she adds. I decide I might as well.
I had a happy childhood.
Full, as childhoods should be, of picnics in parks, make-believe tea parties, bedtime stories, poetry.
My parents were good, hardworking people who married out of love. I had two younger siblings: a sister and a brother. He …
Had?
No, I will not answer that. Nor do I finish my sentence out loud: He used to like jelly beans.
Instead, I change tracks:
I was raised to work hard and always do my best. At school, that meant being first in class. I also played the piano and danced ballet.
Back straight, shoulders back, ankles crossed. I pause to correct my posture on the gray suede couch.
My daughter takes ballet lessons,
she says.
She really likes them. Did you?
I loved them. I became a dancer.
A ballerina? How interesting.
Exhausting and demanding, actually. But it was what and who I wanted to be. I joined the corps de ballet when I was seventeen.…
I let the thought linger, midsentence, midair. I am disinclined to tell this stranger that I have not danced in years. I tell her instead about performances and plane rides to Toronto, Moscow, London, Vienna. Beirut, Geneva, Rome. Beijing, Istanbul, Santo Domingo, The Hague, San José, Tokyo. Catalonian beaches and Tuscan countrysides, the rickety old trams in Prague.
You have traveled a lot.
Yes.
So where is home?
Paris, always Paris.
Of course.
But you have been in the United States for …
Three years. Paris is still home.
I am perhaps a bit blunt.
I understand. What brought you here?
The man I married. Well, his work. Well, both.
And while he is at work, you dance here?
she asks. And the pretense is up.
Actually,
I work at a supermarket by our house,
just north of Furstenberg Street. I do not offer more explanation. She, thankfully, does not ask.
You must miss it.
What, ballet or Paris? Both more than she can imagine, but
I’d like to talk about something else now, please.
Such as?
Anything.
Anorexia.
All right.
She moves on.
Let’s start with your eating habits. Your file says you are a vegetarian.
Vegan,
I rectify.
When did you make that transition?
I stopped eating meat at nineteen.
Why?
I am suddenly defensive:
Vegetarianism is not anorexia.
No it is not, you’re right. I was just curious. When did you become vegan?
When I came to America.
And why was that?
Because dairy tastes bad here.
Because dairy tastes different here.
What do you mean, bad?
I mean yogurt that contains fifteen ingredients, thirteen of which I cannot pronounce,
I snap.
I also avoid processed foods, refined sugars, high fructose corn syrup, and trans fats.
You don’t find that extreme?
No. I find that healthy.
She makes no comment, but the irony of that sentence is not lost on either of us.
I stare out the window for a while. She breaks the silence first:
Was food an issue before you moved to the States?
No.
Really?
Well …
What about your weight?
All dancers are careful not to gain too much weight.
Were you?
Of course. The environment is very competitive.
Back straighter, ankles crossed the other way.
She looks back at my chart:
But you were never overweight.
That is a relative term.
I mean to say your weight was average.
Silence.
Yes,
So was I.
12
She had opened the faucet so that the water would muffle any sound she made.
She was crying so hard she thought she would go blind, leaning into the bathroom wall. Her hands were pressed painfully against her face. She could not breathe or see, but she could not pull them away. She could not move. She could not stop shaking.
A sharp knock on the door.
She froze. She had thought no one had seen her leave the room.
Anna?
Not now, Philippe. She could not face him.
Un instant, Philippe.
She had not even told him about this evening; he had said he would be busy all week. He had said the black dress fit a bit too tight when she had tried it on for him. Now it did feel too tight and she felt fat and misshapen wearing it.
Anna!
Irritated rapping at the door. Hair, mascara back in place. Deep, concentrated breaths. She closed the faucet, pinched her cheeks so they were pink again. One last breath. She looked ahead, not seeing the creamy white marble, the fine gold frame around the mirror, the crystal chandelier above her head that matched those out in the hall.
She unlocked the door. He had not waited for her. Of course not. It would have appeared odd. She should not have come tonight. She would never have found out. She went back out into the crowded room.
Insipid, instrumental jazz was playing over the chatter. Waiters in bow ties were balancing trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne. Ten minutes ago she had been part of this world of blinis and sparkling toasts. Then he had walked in, and not with her. The room had run out of air.