* * *
Seven hours later, the immigration officer in Paris regarded me with a quizzical expression when I handed over my American passport. “You have a French last name, non? Are you French?” he asked.
“I am,” I said, explaining that I was born in France but lived in New York. He asked to see my French passport, which made me a bit nervous, as it had expired a decade ago. I handed it over. He studied both documents for a minute, a scowl on his face.
“Alors, your name is Sophie Valroux on your American passport and Sophie Valroux de la Tour de Champvert on your French passport?”
“My mother changed our name in the US,” I said. “For her career. Uh, she thought our last name was too long—”
“But she didn’t change your name in France?”
“No, not in France,” I said, worried I’d have a problem with this one. “She hasn’t been back here in nineteen years.”
“Ah bon?” he said, his eyebrows lifting as if saying he found it extremely bizarre a Frenchwoman would eschew her roots, especially noble ones. “Welcome home,” he said with a sympathetic smile and handed the documents back to me. “While you are here it might be a good idea to renew your French passport.”
“I will,” I said. “Merci.”
One two-hour layover later, I finally stepped off the plane in Toulouse.
* * *
Unbelievably, my two suitcases were the first ones out at baggage claim. I grabbed a token from a machine and commandeered a cart, wondering how on earth was I going to recognize Rémi. Rémi—the clean-cut farm boy with thick black eyelashes most women would be envious of. Rémi Dupont. A spark of remembrance lit my chest as I thought about my first kiss. I was thirteen. Rémi was fifteen. We’d just gone swimming in the lake and he’d pinned me down on the bank behind the willows. I remembered the look in his caramel eyes—dreamy and mischievous. I’d liked the kiss, but it had shocked me. I scrambled off the ground and ran into the vineyard, Rémi chasing after me. He caught up to me and we laughed. “Was my kiss that bad?” he’d asked and I’d blushed twenty shades of crimson.
“No, I’ve never done that before,” I’d said, meaning with a boy. My stuffed animals, on the other hand, had received their share of passionate smooches.
“I’m going to miss you, Sophie,” he’d said with a bashful grin. “I can’t wait until next summer.”
Unfortunately, I’d left Champvert the following day and never went back. I was looking forward to catching up with Rémi, to see how my first crush had changed. I snorted at the thought. We had a lot to share, I was sure of that. Would he laugh at how young we’d been? And how awkward our first kiss was? As I recalled, he wore braces and they’d cut my lips.
I pushed the cart through the automatic doors and glanced around hoping to see a familiar face. A few old men and women chatted at the exit. A couple of families waved their relations over. No Rémi. There was nobody there to greet me. Not a soul. Clothilde and I hadn’t exactly planned out my arrival well. I stood in the hallway for a good hour, searching for him, when a heavily bearded man wearing army fatigues walked directly toward me with purpose. Blood stained his clothes. Underneath the scruff, I noted he was good-looking, maybe even exceptionally so. But so was Ted Bundy. The man stopped directly in front of me and went in for les bises, where he air-kissed each of my cheeks.
“I’m late,” he said in French.
“Rémi?” I asked. He was taller and more built than I remembered. And hairier.
His brows furrowed. “What? Did you not recognize me?”
“Um, désolée, but no I didn’t.” I stared openmouthed at his clothes.
“I went hunting early this morning. The sangliers”—(wild boars)—“are destroying the fields in the region and the deer are running rampant,” he said, his French quick. “You’re not afraid of dogs, are you? They’re in the car. I’ve come directly from the chase.”
His words swam around in my brain, one expression and conjugation at a time. To my knowledge, Rémi didn’t speak one word of English and, even if he did, his scowl made it clear he wasn’t going to make an effort for me.
“Only hunting wild animals, I hope,” I said with an awkward donkey-like laugh, trying to muster up my best French.
“Alors, I haven’t shot a person yet,” said Rémi, looking like he wanted to kill me. He scorned my cart, pushed it out of the way, and grabbed my luggage. Unnerved, I followed him through the terminal and out into the parking lot, his pace brisk. We made our way to a white Ford Ranger, where two black Labrador retrievers with sloppy drool trickling down their mouths bounced in the back seat. On the sides of the truck, the emblem of my grandmother’s château caught my eye.
“You have an American car?” I asked.
“The motor is French,” he replied. He threw my bags into the back and then jumped into the driver’s seat. He rolled the passenger window down further. “What are you waiting for? Le Père Noël? Get in,” he said.
No, I wasn’t waiting for Santa Claus. I wanted to get to Grand-mère, so I did as I was told. “It’s so great to see you after all these years,” I said as I settled into my seat and buckled up.
Save for a grunt, he ignored me and peeled out of the parking spot. We exited the lot and sat for a good five minutes as we made our way onto the autoroute. Rémi focused on the road ahead, his mouth curled into a sneer. I stared at him, my mouth agape.
“Why are you looking at me like that? It’s rude,” he said, his voice clipped.
Who was this guy? This wasn’t the Rémi I remembered.
The Rémi from my childhood had been a skinny, cute boy with sparkling eyes and an infectious laugh—a practical joker. I recalled the time he tricked me into eating a live snail, explaining that snails were a delicacy in France, and if I were to develop a true palate, I had to eat one. It wasn’t until later that I learned they were, indeed, delicious, but one didn’t just pick up a snail from the garden and put a dash of salt on it. Snails were eaten after a long curing process and served after they were baked in loads of butter, garlic, and parsley—les escargots de Bourgogne. Rémi had laughed so hard he fell to the ground and called me la mangeuse de bave (the slime eater) the rest of the summer. He’d laughed even harder when he told me that he made that expression up when I’d used it. “It’s not even a French expression,” he’d said.
I shot him the occasional glance. Gone was his silly grin, his mouth carved into what appeared to be a permanent frown. He had no laugh lines bracketing his eyes, just an angry, deep furrow digging into the space between his eyebrows. His hands were rough and calloused. His shoulders were broad. He was big, mean, and surly. Surely, he couldn’t have changed that much.
“What have you been up to all these years?” I asked as one of the dogs drooled on my neck. I wiped the slobber off, cringing.
“D’Artagnan, Aramis, sit,” said Rémi, and the dogs did.
“Do you want to go back the château or head straight to the hospital in Toulouse?” he asked pointedly.
“The hospital. I need to see my grandmother.”
“But your jeans are ugly. There are holes in them,” he said, each syllable he uttered dripping with disgust. “Tu l’as acheté, comme ça?” (You bought them like that?) he asked with disbelief.
In fact, I hadn’t purchased these jeans. They’d been a gift from Eric when we’d dated. He’d told me to get with the program, to possess an ounce of cool. For a second, I debated changing. My grandmother would hate what I was wearing and now I hated what I was wearing. I sat dumbfounded at his rudeness, picking at my cuticles. “Regardless of what I’m wearing, I’d like to go directly to the hospital, if that’s okay with you.”
“D’accord,” he said, blowing out the air between his lips. “Clothilde will drive you home. I’m heading back to the château and I’ll bring your suitcases up to your room.”
“Merci,” I
said.
Rémi turned on the radio, setting the volume to high, and hummed along to the ’80s French band Indochine’s “L’Aventurier,” which was played at every party I’d ever attended in France when I was a kid. Before I was able to reminisce over any good times I’d had in France, Rémi pulled up in front of the hospital and pointed. “You enter through those doors right there.”
“Thanks for the ride,” I said before jumping out. “I appreciate it.”
Aside from an impatient grunt, he didn’t say a word. Maybe he’d had things to do and was irritated he had to pick me up? Maybe he was having a bad day? He waved me away with an impatient flick of his wrist. “You should go,” he said.
“I will.”
The second I closed the door, the car peeled out of the parking lot. I stood there for a moment in the dust the tires of his truck had kicked up. The more I tried to excuse his behavior, the more I realized he’d changed into a person I didn’t particularly like.
This was not the welcome I’d expected.
9
lost in translation
I HURRIED INTO l’accueil, my lungs pumping so hard I thought I’d have a heart attack. Not only was I stunned by Rémi’s behavior toward me, hospitals flipped me out. I hated everything about them—the smell of ammonia, the sterility, and the fact that, sometimes, people didn’t leave them alive. I hoped that wasn’t the case for Grand-mère.
“Bonjour,” I said, panting. “I’m looking for my grandmother. Odette Valroux de la Tour de Champvert? She’s expecting me.”
“Pardon?” the woman at the information desk asked.
I didn’t realize that in my rush I’d spoken in English, which she clearly didn’t understand. I repeated what I’d said in breathless French, cognizant of my New York accent. She nodded and typed a few keys into her computer.
“Ah, oui, your grandmother, Madame Valroux de la Tour de Champvert. Her room is on the third floor,” said the woman. “Take the elevator, turn right, and head to the nurses’ station.”
“Merci,” I said before racing down the hall.
A female doctor wearing a white lab coat and black slacks rounded the corner as I exited the elevator. She was probably in her midforties (not that I was the best judge of somebody’s age) and wore funky green glasses, with her chestnut hair wrapped in a French twist. “Madame Valroux?” she asked, and I smiled, noting her use of “madame.”
As I recalled, former Prime Minister François Fillon had dropped the term “mademoiselle” from official contexts a few years prior, stating it referenced a woman’s matrimonial situation, whereas “monsieur” simply signified “sir.” Of course, this order came after a strong campaign by two French feminist organizations, Osez le féminisme! (Dare to be feminist!) and Les Chiennes de garde (The Watchdogs).
“Yes,” I said. “But please, just call me Sophie.”
“Alors, Sophie, Emma from l’accueil alerted me to your arrival. Permit me to introduce myself—I’m Dr. Simone. I’m the endovascular surgeon responsible for your grandmother’s treatment, care, and recovery.”
A nurse wearing pale green scrubs rushed down the corridor. A loud beep came from one of the rooms. More nurses followed her into the room. Jaw clenched, I met the doctor’s kind gray eyes, hoping my grand-mère was okay. What if I’d arrived too late?
“Can you tell me what happened?” I said once I found my voice.
“Yes, your grand-mère gave us permission to share her medical condition with you, Madame Girard, and Rémi Dupont. Alors, we ran a computed tomographic angiogram and found that your grandmother had an aneurysm, which caused bleeding in the brain. Thankfully, we were able to get it under control with a mildly invasive surgery.”
“And the prognosis? Could it happen again?” I asked.
“I’m not going to lie to you. There is a fifteen to twenty percent chance another aneurysm can occur. Because of her age, I’d like to monitor her condition for a bit and, perhaps, perform a follow-up angiogram in two months just to make sure she’s stable.”
I went silent for a moment as I took in what the doctor had said. I’d half hoped the doctor would brush off her condition, say it was nothing serious, that Grand-mère Odette would be back to her usual self in no time. But that was a dream. Grand-mère Odette was eighty-two years old. To me she had always been ageless, timeless. I blinked back my tears. I’d put off this visit for far too long.
“What do I do? How can I help her?”
“For now, keep her comfortable, surround her with love, and don’t let her overexert herself during the recovery time.” Dr. Simone smiled. “She’s a feisty woman, that one.”
“That she is,” I said. “When can I see her?”
“She’s in her room. I’ll take you there,” she said, and we turned to walk down the corridor.
Clothilde clicked down the hall, holding a small paper espresso cup. I immediately recognized her—chubby and wearing silly flats covered with ladybugs and a blue-smocked housedress. In her early seventies, and almost ten years younger than my grandmother, she’d aged, but her hair was still the same shade of bright red and coiffed in tight curls. My grandmother’s sidekick, the Betty to her Veronica, the Scarecrow to her Dorothy, ran up to me, her coffee spilling on the tiled floor. “Sophie, you’re here!” exclaimed Clothilde.
“Oh, Clothilde, it’s incredible to see you. I can’t believe it’s been so long. How is Grand-mère Odette?”
“Wonderful, wonderful! She’s doing much better!” Clothilde pulled me in for les bises, kissing my left cheek, then the right, all while making a lip-smack sound—mwah. “I see you’ve met Dr. Simone.”
“Yes, she was just explaining Grand-mère’s condition,” I said.
Dr. Simone handed me her business card. “I’ll leave Madame Girard to escort you to your grand-mère’s room. Please feel free to call me if you have any questions.”
“Merci,” I said. “And thank you for taking such great care of her.”
She shrugged. “I’m a doctor. It’s what I do.”
As Dr. Simone turned on her heel, Clothilde embraced me in a tight hug. “Oh lord, are you skinny, Sophie! About the same size as when I last saw you. I thought Americans ate big meals.”
“I guess I follow the French rules of portion control,” I said.
“Come with me. I’ll take you right to your grand-mère, ma petite puce.” I smiled. Clothilde had always called me her “little flea,” a term of endearment. She raced down the hall, her ladybug flats clacking on the tiled floor, speaking with breathless exuberance. “She’s so excited to see you, Sophie. You should have seen the smile light up her face when I told her you were coming.”
I couldn’t stop my words before they escaped my mouth. “That’s good. Because Rémi wasn’t so happy.”
Clothilde nudged me in the ribs. “Don’t mind him. He can be a surly one, that boy. He’s always working and a bit of a loner.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Not that I’m one for gossip, but I’ve heard all of the single girls in town and the next towns over are after him.”
“Why?” I asked, grimacing. “He’s a bit rude—”
“But very good-looking, très beau, indeed.” Clothilde giggled like a schoolgirl. “Let’s get you to your grand-mère. A little warning first—her speech is a bit slurred and she forgets a few things, but she snaps back.”
I stopped in my tracks. “Wait. What if her condition doesn’t improve?”
“Ma puce, don’t think about the what-ifs. They’ll frazzle your beautiful mind. Your grand-mère is a strong woman and she’ll be back to herself in no time.” She pinched my cheeks, like she’d done when I was a child sitting on my stool in the kitchen watching Grand-mère Odette cook.
My head dropped; I missed those days. I was petrified to see the state my grand-mère was in. My body shook and trembled. What if?
Clothilde placed a
loving hand on my back. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” I said.
When I opened the door to her room, my grandmother’s eyes brightened the instant she saw me. I exhaled a worried breath before regaining my composure. The pale green color of her eyes was the only recognizable thing about her. Where had the beautiful regal queen I’d held like a snapshot in my mind gone? Her gray hair was thinning, so fine I could see her scalp. She must have weighed less than a hundred pounds. She wasn’t a pillar of strength; she was weak. Pushing the guilt of not visiting sooner into the deepest corners of my mind, I forced a smile and sat on the side of her bed. I took her hand; it was cold and fragile, the skin almost like a thin sheet of paper, her grip weak. I needed to keep my surprise veiled. The last thing she’d want, and this I knew, was pity.
“Grand-mère, I just arrived this morning,” I said, worried about the pallor of her complexion as we exchanged les bises. “How are you feeling?”
“Better, ma chérie. Much, much better now that you’re here.” She broke into a wide grin, reminding me of the woman I remembered. Her speech was indeed a bit slurred, but I could understand her words as clear as a bell. “You came back to me, my darling, my beautiful Céleste, the light of my life. You’ve forgiven me.”
I shot Clothilde a panicked look. She shrugged and spread out her arms as if she didn’t know what to do. Clothilde whispered, “Memory loss and confusion are two of the symptoms we’re hoping will go away.”
I wondered why my mother would need to forgive my grandmother as I lightly squeezed her hands, trying my best to smile through the worried and gut-wrenching knot tying up my stomach. “Grand-mère, non. It’s not Céleste. It’s me, Sophie, your granddaughter. Céleste’s daughter.”
Her hands ran across my face and down my neck. She placed her palms on my chin lovingly. “Oh, yes, yes, ma chérie, how could I make such a mistake?” Her pale green eyes darkened with fear. “I’m sorry, my love, I’m not feeling like myself. Lately, I forget things—so many things. And then this happened. I really should have paid more attention to the warning signs.”
The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux Page 7