Thirty-four and hailing from Toronto, Trupty was a gorgeous, exotic beauty with dark almond-shaped eyes and flawless skin. A wealth of information on just about everything in the area, she’d been living and working in Toulouse for four years, after meeting and falling in love with a Frenchman. But we soon learned that Trupty and her boyfriend recently had a difficult breakup and she was currently having issues with renewing her carte de séjour—so much so, in fact, that she’d hired an attorney to help her with the fight to stay in France.
Soon, our conversation became very animated. We talked about sex, about having to repeat ourselves in both languages to make a point, and how men don’t have the best listening skills—no matter what country they’re from. I realized that the feelings of distress and alienation I’d felt the first month of living in France were completely normal. I wasn’t crazy or neurotic. Along with becoming an instant stepmom to two teenaged French kids, I was simply going through the five stages of adapting to life an as expat: the honeymoon stage, culture shock, feelings of isolation, all leading up to stages I was now in—conquering acceptance and integration at the same time. We cheered Trupty on to fight for her right to stay in France, and laughed when I talked about my love of cooking and how—although she was capable of preparing simple meals—Monique got hives just thinking about turning on the oven.
“Thankfully, JC is a really good cook,” said Monique.
“I think it’s a requirement for men in France,” I said.
Once we settled down, the waitress came over to take our order. We all took the same thing—le plat de jour—a spinach quiche with a dessert of our choosing. The waitress responded to our French in English. I wasn’t sure if she was trying to be polite or making a point, as if to say our French was so horrible that she’d rather die than hear us speak it again.
“Does it bother you when they do that?” I asked.
“What?” asked Monique.
“Respond in English when we’re speaking French.”
Monique lifted a brow. “After you’ve lived here as long as I have, you won’t care.”
“How’s your French?” I asked.
“It should be better. Way better. But I manage.” She blew out the air between her lips. Pffftp.
“Now, that’s French,” I said.
“It is, isn’t it?” said Monique with a laugh, then she turned her attention to Oksana. “You have an accent. It doesn’t sound Canadian. What’s your story?”
Oksana’s posture straightened. “My family moved from Belarus to Canada when I was a young teen. More or less, I grew up in Winnipeg.” She shrugged. “I’m a mishmash. I have Polish roots, and, apparently, now I’m on my way to becoming French.”
Monique laughed. “Ugh, God. We all are. What’s up with these Frenchmen?”
Oksana’s lips pinched into a sheepish grin. “It’s so nice to finally have friends. I’ve really needed you guys. I’ve been dying for girl talk. In English.”
“Me, too,” said Monique. “I’m so glad I was able to find someone to look after Kissa today.”
“What’s Kissa?” asked Trupty.
“My daughter.” Monique pulled out her iPhone and proudly displayed a picture of her mini-her—a little girl with fuzzy blond hair, dressed in pink. “She’s one year old. And, yes, we made her name up.”
Jean-Luc had told me about the naming laws in France, which restricted the names that parents could legally give to their children to protect the child from being given an offensive or embarrassing name. Apparently, Kissa had made the grade.
“She’s adorable,” I said.
“She is.” Monique smiled with fierce motherly pride. “JC and I tried for years. And after three rounds of IVF, we finally got our dream. So, I know you have two stepkids, but do you have kids of your own, Sam?”
Monique reached for the carafe of rosé and was about to pour when I stopped her. “Well, the thing is…”
“Oh my God. You’re pregnant! How far along?”
“Eight and a half weeks,” I said, thrilled to share the news.
“Did you see the heartbeat?”
“Two weeks ago.”
“Oh, I hope you have a girl. I have tons of baby stuff I can give you.”
Oksana’s hands shot to her breasts. Her mouth dropped open. “I think I may be pregnant, too. My boobs, they are killing me. And my period is two weeks late.”
Monique leaned forward. “Did you take a test?”
“No, not yet.”
“You go buy one and take it tomorrow morning,” I said.
“You need to know,” said Trupty.
Oksana’s lips pinched together. “Okay, fine. I’ll do it.”
Monique and I spoke in unison. “Email us the moment you find out.”
The four of us exchanged an odd glance. And in that moment, we all knew we’d become forever friends. On the walk back to the Metro, we passed a bookstore. I noticed a cookbook in the window titled Qu’est-ce qu’on mange ce soir? What’s for dinner? I nudged Monique in the arm. “Hey, I think that’s the book for you.”
“Is it a phone book listing delivery restaurants?” she replied, and we all burst out into laughter.
And that’s how the first members of the Toulouse “Les Chicks” group came together. And how, with the little help of new friends who understood the triumphs and tribulations of being an expat, I began to carve out my own life in France.
A few weeks later, on a blustery day in February, our core group of girls planned to meet up in front of the Midica. Oksana walked toward Monique and me, her head hanging low. There was no bounce in her step. She choked back a sob. “I just got back from the second ultrasound. There is no embryo. There is nothing. I have a blighted ovum. I’m empty.” She pointed to her purse. “The doctor gave me pills to start a miscarriage. If they don’t work, they’ll have to operate.”
We took our friend in our arms. Her tiny shoulders quivered, but she held back the tears. “Honey, honey,” said Monique. “You could have canceled lunch.”
Oksana looked up at us, her long eyelashes fluttering. “I know. I know. But I really needed to talk to you guys, to women. I’m not quite sure Philippe understands.”
Before Trupty arrived, Monique took over the conversation, for which I was thankful. Oksana’s news had me shaking in my boots. Monique noticed my discomfort. “Don’t worry, Sam. You saw the heartbeat. The risk of anything going wrong goes down after that.”
Oksana shook her head in agreement. “I’m praying for you. Because to go through this is hell.”
I placed my hand on my stomach. Life was fragile. Anything could happen. Silently, I prayed everything would be all right.
12
LOVE DOESN’T JUST COME FROM DNA
At the eleven-week mark, Jean-Luc and I decided to share our two-armed, two-legged news with the kids. I’d been sleeping so much Max and Elvire thought I was sick. I’d burst into tears while watching Disney’s Tangled, and the kids had looked at me like I was an escaped mental patient. I’d been extra cranky—not the usual, smiley me. Plus, they knew something was up since I hadn’t touched one ounce of wine, unless it was to surreptitiously pour the glass meant to throw them off into Jean-Luc’s glass.
February 2 was La Chandeleur. In addition to being a religious celebration for Catholics, it was also France’s national crêpe day. Fortunately for us, we had a professional crêpe maker: Jean-Luc. In this house, any kind of crêpe was a hit, from ham and cheese to steak and spinach to chocolate. I’d tried them all, and I couldn’t think of a better day to share the news, when life was looking pretty sweet. Tonight we were having both dessert crêpes and a savory dish, my mother’s recipe of chicken and mushroom crêpes in a cream sauce. I sat in my chair, tapping my feet, nervous as to how they’d react to the news. Before dessert, I glanced at Jean-Luc. He winked.
“J’ai des nouvelles—” I began, my hands shooting to my stomach. Boy, did I have news.
Elvire’s eyes went wide. She leaned f
orward and whispered, “Tu es enceinte? ” Are you pregnant?
I shrugged and smiled. She gasped and clapped her hands over her mouth in delight. Max bounced up and down in his seat, nodding with a wide grin. I was floored by their happy reactions. But once the initial excitement died down, to my horror, the conversation turned to sex.
“I’ve heard to make a baby, couples need to make love once a month,” said Elvire.
Max laughed. “Don’t be stupid. It’s once a week.”
Instead of pretending that I didn’t understand the French words flowing so eloquently from their lips (as I sometimes did when they mouthed off), I changed the subject. We threw around some names, Jean-Luc suggesting Salammbô, the heroine in a novel by Gustave Flaubert. The kids and I burst into hysterical laughter, me begging him to come up with something that didn’t sound like salami. Chloé? Ah, no! That was a girl in Max’s class. She was stupid. And weird. Sophie? Theo? Vincent? Ew. Non. Ugh. This scenario was repeated with every suggestion.
“Do you know if it’s going to be a boy?” asked Max, a spark of hope lighting his eyes.
“Not yet,” I said. “But we’ll find out in a few more months.”
Elvire jumped out of her chair and gave me a hug, which I returned, holding on to her. “I’m so ’appy for you,” she said in her best English.
The following morning, though, the discussion turned from light-hearted and fun to serious. Apparently, Max was very concerned about three things. One: He wouldn’t be able to understand his new brother or sister because I was American. Wouldn’t the baby speak English? Two: He wanted to know where the baby would sleep. (Jean-Luc told him right in his arms, which didn’t go over well.) And three: He was worried I’d love the baby more because it was mine.
Well, number three I could relate to.
Two months after my father, Tony, had officially adopted me, my mother gave birth to my baby sister, Jessica. I was eleven and I burst into tears. “Dad is going to love her more than he loves me. She’s his real baby. And I’m not.”
I was almost the exact same age as Max when my sister was born.
So just as my own dad had done with me, I told Max we were a family, that we were just adding one more person to our newly formed Franco-American mix. I assured Max that a baby wouldn’t change anything, that I loved both him and his sister very much. Love didn’t come from just DNA. When he told me they loved me, too, my heart almost burst.
Love aside—don’t mess with a highly hormonal step-by-stepmom.
When Jean-Luc was at work, Max and Elvire got into another brawl over whose turn it was to set the table and clear it, Elvire taunting her brother until he slugged her in the arm. Their screams reached alien-like decibels. Once again, I had to physically separate them before they killed one another, sending them to their rooms, not caring who started the fight. And then I put a schedule on the refrigerator. Max would have Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays. Elvire would have Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. On Mondays, they’d share.
The day after Valentine’s Day, I was to meet my new doctor for the twelve-week ultrasound. The new member coordinator at the Toulouse Women’s International Group, or TWIG, a group Trupty had connected me to, highly recommended Doctor K when I’d asked for a referral for an English-speaking obstetrician. A man with kind eyes and a warm smile, Doctor K’s English was impeccable. Plus, he ran his practice out of a private hospital, a clinique—not one puppy in sight. Upon my mother’s insistence, I’d brought in a video camera to capture the moment. Jean-Luc had the camera pointed at the monitor. My eyes darted from the screen to the doctor’s face. Just by the way his eyebrows furrowed, I knew something was wrong.
I let out a low, pain-filled wail. “Jean-Luc, turn the camera off. Right now. Please.”
There was no fetal heartbeat.
The embryo had stopped growing at eight weeks.
I’d had what’s called a missed miscarriage.
As Doctor K’s words registered in my brain, the air was sucker-punched right out of me. I went numb, hoping Ashton Kutcher would pop out from behind the blue curtain, telling me that I’d been punk’d. That didn’t happen. After trying his best to ease the shock, Doctor K scheduled the dilation and curettage for two days later.
Immediately after the ultrasound, the doctor sent me to the laboratory for blood work. Not usually one to cry in public, I tried to fight back the tears, but the moment the technician stuck the needle in my arm, the dam exploded. The poor woman thought she’d hurt me.
“Non, non, ça va,” I said, waving my hands. “Je viens juste de recevoir de mauvaises nouvelles.” I just received really bad news.
Jean-Luc and I left the hospital, passing by dozens of expectant mothers rubbing their bellies swollen with life. Averting my gaze, I stared down at the white-tiled floor and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other—angry, jealous, and sad. Jean-Luc squeezed my hand. “It’s just life, nature taking its course. There’s nothing we could do.”
I could only nod. On the ride home, I wondered how on earth was I going to tell the kids. I needed to be strong for them. It was hard, but I managed to sit them down to explain what happened. When I choked up, I pulled my turtleneck over my face.
“Don’t be sad. You still have us,” they said. “And Bella.”
I snorted out a laugh. Unsure of how to respond to me, the kids let me have my space and they went up to their rooms. I emailed Monique, the only one of my new friends who had a child. She called me three seconds later, offering kind words and recounting the stories of her miscarriages while going through IVF in an attempt to make me feel better. Talking to Monique gave me the courage to do the impossible: tell my mom. I shut myself off in the master bedroom.
“I’ve been waiting for you to call!” she exclaimed. “How did it go today? Are you excited?”
“Mom,” I said. “There is no baby.”
“Sam, that’s not funny,” she said.
“I’m not joking. I wish I was.”
I silently cried myself to an almost sleep, trying to hold back the sobs, my shoulders shaking. I didn’t understand what had gone wrong. I had done everything you’re supposed to do. Doctors in France were more lax with the rules. They said it was okay to have one glass of wine a week. They said it was okay to eat foie gras, pâté, but I’d done none of those things.
Jean-Luc wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close. “If we want it to, it will happen again,” he said.
I wasn’t so sure about that. For now, I was following doctor’s orders; after the dilation and curettage, he was putting me on the Pill for two months. That night, I woke up with a nightmare so horrifying, I wondered if I’d ever be able to sleep again.
For three months, I’d woken up filled with joy and wonderment about the life growing inside me, my breath smooth and easy; now, it simply hurt to breathe. When I was alone in the house, I cried and I wailed and I shook my fist at the sky. I let myself feel all the feelings I needed to feel on the road to healing, such as the severe jealousy that overtook me at Doctor K’s the day of the procedure, where I had to sit in the waiting room surrounded by women nearing their due dates. The happy smiles, the way they rubbed their bellies…everything about these women made my blood boil with anger. Why them and why not me? I questioned, avoiding their joy-filled eyes. Inside me, a life once alive with a heartbeat was now dead.
We were ushered into a private room, where I was to wait for Doctor K.
Most people think that health care is free in France. This is true for those who don’t have jobs or can’t afford it, but not true for all. Our family insurance policy cost around one thousand euro a month, half of which was paid by Jean-Luc’s work, including additional coverage called the mutuelle. There are no deductibles, and all prescriptions, doctor’s appointments, and hospitalizations are covered 100 percent. Even my contact lenses and glasses were “free.”
I curled up on the bed with a book. Scared, sad, and nervous, I wasn’t able to read. Jean-Luc
pulled up a chair next to me and held my hand. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to keep my tears at bay. I’d never been a crier. But after moving to France, the tears were constant. Part of it had to do with Jean-Luc; he’d opened up my heart. Part of it had to do with all of the ordeals I’d had to face. A nurse came in and put a wristband on my arm. I gulped. Doctor K had told us to arrive at noon. It was now three-thirty. I finally looked at the band on my arm. Maybe it would say what time the procedure was scheduled for?
“Who in the world is Svetlana?” I screamed. “What if she’s here for a lobotomy?”
Jean-Luc’s eyes went wide. “Wait. What? We’re in the maternity ward.”
“They put the freaking wrong name on me! And I, I, I—”
Jean-Luc raced into the hall and grabbed a nurse. “Sorry,” she said, as if it happened all the time, and replaced my wristband.
Doctor K came into the room an hour later. He eyed his watch. “I thought I told you guys to be here at noon.”
“We were here at noon,” I said. “We’ve been waiting for hours.”
He apologized profusely. “Heads will roll,” he said. “Let’s get you down to anesthesia.”
Good idea. I wanted to numb out my sadness, my anger. I wanted to sleep. And, mostly, I wanted to get out of this damned hospital. On the one hand, I was blessed to have Doctor K. He wasn’t cold and perfunctory like most French doctors, the type who treated everything—even miscarriage—lightly. On the other hand, I was still mad that they had screwed up my name. How could they have done that on a day like today?
How to Make a French Family Page 11