A nurse rolled me down the corridor on a trolley to the elevator, and then ten minutes later—five, four, three, two, one—the anesthesiologist knocked me out. I woke up in my room, Jean-Luc by my side. The “procedure” was over. A few hours later, Doctor K released me from the hospital. We didn’t get home until eight in the evening. I just crawled into bed. And I cried. And cried. And cried.
Jean-Luc was kind and supportive, but his scientific viewpoint offered little comfort. “It was a baby that just wasn’t meant to be. It was just nature taking its course,” he’d say. “There wasn’t anything we could do.”
Tracey was the only person who said the words I wanted and needed to hear. “When you’re ready, and if you need to talk about it, I’m here if you need me. I won’t say a word or offer advice. I’ll just listen.”
The others, my friends and family, offered condolences such as “It happens all the time,” or “You can try again,” or “It wasn’t a baby yet; it was just a fetus.” But, to me, the life I lost wasn’t just a fetus. The pregnancy hormones still surging through my veins didn’t help the fragile state of my emotions either: one moment I’d be laughing, and in the next, crying. I felt alone, like nobody really understood what I was going through. Miscarriage was a taboo subject. And nobody really wanted to talk about it. Especially me.
A few days after the “procedure,” Elvire came home from school early and caught me gasping and wheezing, my back against the kitchen wall with my hands on my knees. Under my jeans, I was still wearing a car-sized sanitary napkin held in place with green mesh hospital panties. I felt like a freak. When Elvire sauntered into the room, I tried to pull myself together, quickly rubbing my runny nose with the back of my hand.
“Ça va? ” she asked, her eyebrows knitted with worry.
“Ça va,” I said. “Juste un peu triste.” I’m fine. Just a little sad.
“A cause de la fausse couche? ” asked Elvire.
“Oui, because of the miscarriage,” I said, then I found myself the recipient of the best hug ever. When she released me from her embrace, Elvire had tears in her eyes.
“Merci,” I said. “I needed that.”
“Moi, aussi,” she said. Me too.
Prior to Jean-Luc, unless I was in an intimate relationship with somebody, I had protected my territory, avoiding close talkers, space invaders, and huggers. Friends and family members would recoil from my arms and say, “Well, that was awkward.” But Jean-Luc had been the key, the one who had been able to open up my heart fully and completely. And I realized I had a lot of love to give—especially with two young children who needed the occasional hug. As Antoine de Saint-Exupéry wrote in The Little Prince, “It is only with the heart one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.” While love might be invisible, it was more than detectable. I could feel it radiating off both of us, a warm heat.
If I hadn’t been the best of huggers before, I was one now.
13
SWINGING FROM (THE SUGAR HIGH OF) LA CHANDELEUR
Instead of letting loss grip me in a tight vice of pain, I knew I had to switch emotional gears and focus on gain, like how lucky I was to have Jean-Luc and the kids, my friends—old and new, and my family, even when flashes of grief threatened to bring me to my knees. Still, this miscarriage would always be an emotional notch on the belt of my life, and I needed to say good-bye on my own terms. Once the ground thawed in the spring, I planned on planting an orange rosebush in Jack or Jill the Bean’s honor. Just the thought of performing this symbolic act eased my sorrow.
Jean-Luc came home from work. “If you’re up to it, I was thinking to invite Christian and Ghislaine over for dinner this weekend.”
I nodded. Cooking with love would provide the best of distractions. It was time to embrace my life again—and I desperately needed a huge American-sized glass of wine.
On Saturday, Elvire and I were dancing to Shakira’s “Rabiosa” in the kitchen. She was dropping it like it was hot, showing off some sexy moves she shouldn’t have known. I blamed music videos—not me or the fact I was channeling my inner Shakira. The song changed to JLo’s “On the Floor.” I wiggled my hips and poured a glass of wine. Like Julia Child, sometimes I liked to have a little nip while I cooked a big meal. Elvire eyed my glass and asked, “Je peux? ” Can I?
“Seulement un goûter.” Only a taste, I said.
She took a sip. “C’est bon.”
That rumor about French kids drinking wine at every meal wasn’t true. But they were allowed the occasional taste. Put it this way: French teens and young adults aren’t drinking from kegs and doing beer bongs like Americans. I’d learned this when Steeve (still the one with an extra e), Isabelle’s twenty-two-year-old son had people over one night during the Christmas season. He and his friends were watching a football (soccer) match while eating pizza and drinking sodas. And, no, the drinks weren’t spiked. Just a different mentality here—not of the beer funnel kind.
“This weekend, can you look at my English paper?” asked Elvire, adding a “please” when I raised a brow.
Both of the kids took English at school, and Elvire insisted on practicing her growing language skills with me, pretty much everywhere. There I was, trying to blend into my French life like a chameleon, and she outed me as a foreigner at the grocery store, at the mall, and every opportunity she got. The upside? She was close to fluent in English. And I was improving my mangled French. I corrected her. She corrected me. There was a lot of repetition. It was a win-win.
“Of course,” I said, throwing her a conspiratorial wink. Helping Elvire was a treat, especially when I compared her homework to the scientific papers Jean-Luc occasionally had me proof. Talk about speaking in another language…and reading the longest sentences ever known to man.
“Don’t make it perfect,” she said. “Or my teacher will think I cheat.”
“Cheated,” I corrected and turned the burner to low, the kitchen now smelling of cumin and ginger.
“By the way, I received my notes. My best mark was in English. I was the highest in my class,” she said proudly.
“And what did you get?”
“Eighteen and a half!”
The French school system grades kids from one through twenty. A twenty is like getting an A plus—nearly impossible to achieve in France, where the grading system is much stricter and isn’t inflated simply to put a smile on a parent’s or child’s face. French sports, even in children’s leagues, don’t award trophies to losing teams for participation. You win, or you lose. And you work—or play—hard for achievements. I knew Elvire had been working extremely hard at learning English; she cornered me and asked questions whenever she could. Maybe I’d take her shopping? Or to lunch?
“I’m so proud of you,” I said, giving her a huge hug. “What about math?”
Jean-Luc, like most French, believed that math and science were the keys to open every door in the future. He constantly made fun of the fact I had attended performing arts high school, calling it clown school. The French school system is divided into three areas of study: “S” (science), “ES” (economics and social), and “L” (literary/humanities). Jean-Luc was an “S” man, and often, we disagreed on the importance of the arts.
“Uh, my note in math is not so good. Papa is going to be mad.” She paused, her eyes filled with fear. “Can you hide the paper for a week? I got a nine, and I want to go to a slumber party next weekend at Eva’s.”
I winked. “Your secret is safe with me. For one week.”
In my defense, my mother would have done the same thing. A few times, I feigned an illness on exam days when I hadn’t studied for a test. Miraculously, my malady would clear up around lunch. And my mother wasn’t stupid; she was just a caring mom. She also liked having me around. I remembered the stressful days of being a teen. And what Jean-Luc didn’t know for a week wouldn’t kill him. Elvire and I both knew he would take away her cell phone and computer because of a poor grade in math.
Elvire blew out a sigh o
f relief. “Thank. You.”
“Do you know what you want to do when you grow up?”
“I have no idea,” she said.
“I think you should be a television journalist. You’re so beautiful and well-spoken and you look great on film.”
“On film?” Her face became brighter. I realized I didn’t tell her often enough how smart and beautiful she was. As mentioned, I was the keeper of their youth now. I’d downloaded all the photos and videos from Jean-Luc’s camera onto my computer and she was really photogenic. I’d also discovered something else.
“Yes, one video in particular. You were singing an American song into the camera. Boy meets girl, or something like that…”
“Ahhh! You saw that?” she questioned, her face flushing with embarrassment. “Please delete it!”
“No way. You’ll love it when you’re older.” I laughed and turned the music up. “Now, it’s time to dance.”
We grabbed wooden spoons and belted out the lyrics to Shy’m’s “Et Alors.” We danced and we sang and we laughed like nobody was watching. (Max was hiding upstairs in his bedroom with his headset on.)
Tonight’s meal was a Moroccan chicken with preserved lemons, olives, apricots, and chickpeas. I’d picked up a tagine, a clay baking dish with a conical lid, on sale at the local Carrefour and wanted to put it to use. I’d serve the chicken over a lemon-infused couscous, along with braised asparagus seasoned with a shallot and a vinaigrette using Banyul, a regional vinegar, and a recipe I’d picked up from Ghislaine. A perfect meal for six. Yes, this dish was definitely cooked with an extra dash of love, the scents of cumin and garlic and pepper enveloping the kitchen. I was looking forward to sitting down with my family and friends. I was looking forward to laughter.
After correcting Elvire’s homework that Sunday, marking it up and explaining the errors she’d made, I called up Jess, telling her how much Elvire and I had been bonding woman to woman. “Do you think Elvire has a boyfriend?” she asked.
“No. She thinks all the boys in her class are méga moche.”
“Méga moche? ”
“Not just ugly, but super ugly,” I said, and Jess laughed. “Plus, they really don’t date in France. You’re either set up with somebody, and that person instantly becomes your boyfriend or girlfriend, or they go out in groups. And, typically, they never date more than one person at a time.”
“That sounds nice,” said Jess. “Because dating in the city sucks.”
“Tell your big sis, what’s going on?” I said, adding, “I promise I won’t tell Mom.”
“Please don’t. She’s giving me heart palpitations.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “She keeps asking me when Jean-Luc and I are going try again.” I sighed. “She’s just being supportive. I guess.”
Jess had recently suffered a miserable breakup with her boyfriend of four years. As any sister would, I wanted the best man for her, someone stable, and someone who wouldn’t shatter her heart into tiny pieces. I wanted Jessica to have the same kind of love I had now.
Jessica sighed. “A few of my friends convinced me to sign up for one of those dating sites, and I’ve gone out with a few guys, but nobody special. I’ve been getting a lot of ‘winks,’ but I don’t know.” She spouted off her login info. “Please, help me decide. Anybody look good?”
I raced to my computer, pulled up the site, and flicked through her recent matches. “What about the thirty-seven-year-old? Viking5769. The guy with the really blue eyes? Some guys go gray early. He looks nice, has a good job, nice write-up. Anyway, I think he’s handsome.”
Plus, he was seven years older than she was. The exact age difference between Jean-Luc and me. Maybe I’d help my sister make an Internet love connection? The pitter-patter of hope raced in my heart.
“You think? I don’t know. We’ve been exchanging messages and all he does is brag about how big his house is.”
“Jess, it’s just a date. It’s not like you’re marrying him. Be open to new possibilities.”
As I’d been. And was.
Unfortunately, matchmaking wasn’t in the cards for me. Jess called me a few days later. Along with an eye twitch, not only had Viking5769 lied about his age and height, over dinner he pretended to be a cat. A dying cat.
“I’m going to kill you,” said Jess.
“What if I find you a sexy Frenchman?”
“Okay. I’m listening,” she said.
Like most French families, we traveled a lot on the weekends…in our own country. There was so much to see. It was important to Jean-Luc that the kids know the history of France. But it wasn’t all an education. It was time for some fun. An even better benefit of living in France, and being married to a Frenchman, was the delightful fact that Jean-Luc’s company supported cultural explorations and travel, offering discounted tickets to operas or plays and weekend jaunts, such as skiing in Luchon. I was a bargain shopper, and 30 percent off a cultural education was stellar.
Although it had snowed during my first winter in Toulouse, the weather typically averaged around thirty-four to forty degrees Fahrenheit. This season was gray and gloomy and rainy, not a winter wonderland. So of course I agreed when Jean-Luc proposed a ski trip. If the snowy mountains wouldn’t come to us, we’d head for them.
There were just a few problems. Both of the kids were excellent skiers like Jean-Luc, all of them having hit the slopes since the age of six. And I was, well…terrible. The first time I attempted to ski in France was at a ski community in the Alps where Jean-Luc’s childhood friend Gilles owned a ski chalet. Unfortunately, Jean-Luc had confused “I love to ski” with “I can ski,” and he’d ignored my request to start off on the bunny hill with the little kids stuffed into their snowsuits. Panicked on a slope, I ended up falling down, smashing my head, and twisting my knee on a green run. Then I slid into an orange safety net. Jean-Luc stood over me. “You look like a little trapped bird,” he’d said.
I was an angry and wounded bird.
But this winter I was committed to overcoming my fear of skiing. After a little research, I learned I could sign up for lessons with the ski school right at the station. Instead of torturing my family as I rolled down the mountain while screaming and falling down every two seconds or sinking into the snow with embarrassment, I opted to take a few private lessons with a ski monitor. Jean-Luc was in complete agreement. He booked me for two sessions that day.
Early on a Friday evening at the end of February, we approached the majestic snow-covered peaks of the Pyrénées and checked into a lovely snow-dusted hotel, a four-story historic château with wrought iron balconies and a very odd name: Hôtel La Villa un Maillot Pour la Vie (The Villa Hotel Jersey for Life), which didn’t make sense until we saw the sport jerseys decorating our room. As usual, the four of us shared accommodations—two twin beds for the kids and a double bed for Jean-Luc and me, with one tiny bathroom.
“J’ai faim,” said Max. I’m hungry.
“Moi aussi,” said Elvire. Me too.
In the winter, and especially in ski villages like Luchon, the food was a bit heavier, consisting of hearty stews like a pot-au-feu, a daube, a cassoulet; raclette, the French version of fondue where you poured melted cheese over charcuterie, zucchini, and potatoes; or, the kids’ favorite, tartiflette. We dropped off our bags and headed into the village for dinner. We passed by the Vaporarium, the one and only natural hammam (a spa with a steambath) in Europe, noting the sulfuric odor, and walked through the town with its boutiques and restaurants, making it an early night. Tomorrow was a big day.
The next morning, I woke up to find Elvire glaring at me.
“What?” I asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“J’ai dormi dans la salle de bain. T’as ronflé! ”
She’d slept in the bathroom because I’d snored. By the extent of her anger, I must have been making the sounds of a wood-chipper.
“Sorry,” I said.
Jean-Luc laughed. “Now she knows how I fe
el.”
“What?”
“Sleeping next to you is like sleeping on a farm, right next to all the barnyard animals.”
“Not funny,” I said, adding an oink-oink and pushing up my nose like a pig.
After Elvire shook off her irritation and we ate a continental breakfast of croissants, coffee, yogurt, and fruit, we jumped in the car, stopping quickly to pick up our rental gear at one of the local outfitters, and headed over to the Peyragudes ski station. The snow was coming down rather hard, and a flashing sign alerted drivers to pull over and put chains on the tires—obligatory in France even if your car had four-wheel drive. In the forest, we saw a beautiful buck with large antlers prancing in the snow. We all held our breath until he bounded off and then we squealed with excitement. Finally, we made it to the mountain in all its majestic glory. The flakes had subsided, and the sky was blue, dotted with puffy, white clouds.
Jean-Luc and the kids dropped me off at the ski school, and we set a meeting point for lunch. Then, I was left in the hands of my ski monitor, Jean-Jacques, who wore the required ESF (École du Ski Français) red jacket, and ski pants, and an orange wool jester cap. He only spoke two words of English, but my French was improving daily, and I’d manage.
Jean-Jaques asked for my level.
I adjusted my giant white helmet. “Débutant.”
“On y va? ” he asked.
Hello, bunny hill, here I come!
We made our way to the tire-fesses, which literally means “pull-butt,” a lift comprising a disk you slip in between your legs, and three-year-olds raced by without their poles, navigating the hill like pros. If they could do this I could. Two hours later, I’d found my confidence and ski legs.
“Practice this afternoon,” said Jean-Jacques. “Tomorrow, I think you’ll be ready for a green run.”
I smiled and nodded. Take that, fear. I’m conquering you, France, and this mountain.
I propped my skis outside the restaurant, then plopped on the ground and made a snow angel. When I opened my eyes, I found Max and Elvire splayed out beside me and Jean-Luc standing over us, smiling.
How to Make a French Family Page 12