Thank you, that’s nice, but I can’t. Tomorrow, I’m going to the clinic for a surgery.
“C’est grave? ” Is it serious?
“Non, pas de tout,” he said, but his kind blue eyes and mouth crumpled. He French pfftped and knocked his chest twice. “Mon cœur est fort.” He kissed my cheek. “Ne t’inquiète pas.”
Don’t worry.
The next day, Paulette waved in between the bushes that separated our property lines. “Coucou! ” Hey you, she said, stepping around the corner, speaking a mile a minute, waving her hands, explaining how they would be traveling back and forth from their house in Narbonne and only coming back here for quick visits to the doctor to check up on Claude and his heart, and how they were getting old and had to watch their health, how Jean-Luc and I, the young kids that we were, needed to watch our hearts, too. And I was listening and nodding and it dawned on me: I understood sixty-five, maybe seventy percent of what she’d said.
It really was a new beginning.
As the sun set that night, I sat in the teak chair in our backyard listening to Florence and the Machine, thankful for so many things, including Claude’s clean bill of health. I may not have had hummingbirds, but I loved watching the bats—les chauve-souris—and barn swallows—les hirondelles—at dusk. They swooped and glided in the air, eating the mosquitoes in an orchestrated dance. And it was beautiful. Well, if I ignored the lizard tails the cat kept dropping on the kitchen floor and the army of snails on my back deck clinging to the kitchen window when it rained. Snails aside (which I loved to eat when purchased frozen from the local Picard and doused in garlic, butter, and parsley), this was the life.
That’s when I heard it. At first, I thought somebody was whistling. Maybe Max? But Max was in his room and his windows were closed. And if it was Max, Elvire would be screaming, “Arrête de siffler! ” (stop whistling) and doors would slam and either Jean-Luc or I would have to break up another fight. The noise got louder and more frequent, like a beep, and it wasn’t coming from inside of the house. What the hell? I called out to Jean-Luc. “Oh my God! What is this annoying sound?”
He stepped out into the yard. “What sound?”
“Beep, beep, beep. Whistle. Beep, beep, beep. Don’t you hear it?”
Whatever it was got even louder. Jean-Luc shrugged. “I don’t know. Some kind of an animal?”
What kind of an animal beeps incessantly? At dusk? I bolted into the house and fired up my computer. Google would come to the rescue. There was my answer: it was an owl—a very loud owl, maybe two of them, or so I thought. For the next week, from sundown to sunup, the beeping continued. But there was no sign of an owl, not one feather. Isabelle and Richard came to stay with us for a few days. Isabelle was helping me set the table on the deck when her eyes went wide. “Ah, c’est horrible.”
“It does that all night,” I said. “I think it’s an owl.”
“It’s not an owl. It’s a frog,” she said.
I had to curb my laugh. After everything I’d been through, now a frog was my biggest problem in life? Like cleaning up the rose petals the morning after our wedding, this was not a crisis. I could live with Beepy the Frog. In a way, his noise was soothing. This was nature, glorious nature. Our garden was blooming. And sometimes I called Jean-Luc my frog.
Isabelle shrugged and then asked me to keep dinner light, as Richard was on a diet. It was too late, though. Anticipating their arrival, I’d already made my famed chicken Milanese breaded in panko and it was warming in the oven, to be served with a mango-avocado slaw, steamed rice, a hearts-of-palm salad, and an apple crumble for dessert. As I brought the dishes out, Richard’s eyes lit up and he licked his lips.
“C’est trop,” said Isabelle. It’s too much.
By now, instead of being insulted, I was used to how the French voiced their opinions. In fact, compared to the way some Americans hid behind false compliments, it was kind of refreshing. Sort of. I’d learned my lesson to never ask if something needed more salt or sugar, especially with family members who were more honest. And if I asked somebody if my jeans made me look fat, I didn’t necessarily want a truthful answer. Perhaps this was the reason French women were rumored to be more reserved when it came to opening up in the quest for new friendships.
“What are we doing this weekend?” asked Richard as he served up seconds of the chicken.
Isabelle shook her head, glaring at Richard. He shrugged, pulled out his iPhone, and sang an Elvis song. In English.
Quelle surprise! I wondered if Richard actually knew what he was singing. On more than one occasion, Elvire had randomly blurted out lyrics to American songs—songs whose meanings she didn’t know, along with a few mispronunciations. Case in point: Katy Perry’s “Peacock.” One day, I swore she was singing “I wanna see your big cock” instead of “peacock” and I nearly died—even though coq in French is a rooster. I quickly corrected her.
But to answer Richard’s question: What were we doing this weekend? His question should have been: What aren’t we doing this weekend?
It was Isabelle and Richard’s first trip to the area, and they wanted to see more of it. Alas, Jean-Luc, the good brother, had planned a non-stop itinerary—our first visit, the sweeping village of Rocamadour, built into the cliffs and overlooking a tributary of the Dordogne River in the Lot district, about a two-hour drive from Toulouse. I’d heard of Rocamadour at our local market. Jean-Luc, knowing my love for goat cheese, especially those from the neighboring department of Dordogne known as cabécou, ordered a package of the small, round creamy goodness called Rocamodour (after the village) from the vendor and placed it in our basket. Rocamodour cheese may have been amazing, but the town blew my mind. Breathtakingly beautiful, dramatic, and utterly impressive with its houses and churches, the whole village clung to the rocks, surrounded by greenery.
A UNESCO world heritage site, Rocamadour has been a popular stop on the pilgrimage route of Saint-Jacques-de-Compostole (Camino de Santiago or the Way of Saint James) for over a thousand years and, even in early May, was crowded with tourists. Most of the million visitors who visited Rocamadour every year didn’t come to worship its wonderful cheese, but rather the black wooden Madonna, or Black Virgin, housed in the Chapelle Notre Dame and presumably carved by Saint Amadour/Saint Amator, a saint who was supposedly a myth or a legend. Thankfully, we arrived early enough to find parking. We passed through a stone-fortified gateway, leading to a stone-paved street, and climbed 216 steps, which the pilgrims used to mount on their knees, to visit the town and the chapel.
After Rocomadour, we visited Pech-Merle, a cave with prehistoric paintings of woolly mammoths, reindeers, spotted horses, and human handprints, some dating back to 25,000 BC. Then it was on to the charming village of Saint-Cirq-Lapopie, a small village overlooking a river with winding, cobbled streets, and considered to be one of the most beautiful destinations in France. In fact, southwestern France lays claim to the majority of les plus beaux (the most beautiful) villages de France.
And it was time to see one more.
It was the charming medieval village of Cordes-sur-Ciel, built in the 1200s, that captured my heart. We traversed the cobbled streets, ate crêpes, and took in sweeping views of pristine vineyards dotted with beautiful rustic farmhouses. Jean-Luc stood behind me, taking in the scent of Valentina by Valentino, the bottle of which he’d randomly surprised me with. The children darted off to pet a gray cat while Isabelle and Richard sauntered into one of the art galleries.
Famed author Albert Camus once said, “In Cordes, everything is beautiful, even regret.”
“You smell so wonderful,” Jean-Luc said, nuzzling my hair.
All I could think was: I have no regrets, no, not anymore. But there was still one thing missing for me, something whose possibility I wanted to explore more—a child of our own, a celebration of spring and of summer, of our love, of everything beautiful. I knew I’d regret not giving the thought another chance. “I’d like to try again,” I said, and quickly co
rrected myself. “But I don’t want to be one of those women who plans sex with the only goal of having a baby.”
Jean-Luc popped his lips. “Pfffftp. What’s to plan? We make love every night. If it happens, it happens.”
I pinched my lips together. “Maybe it will?” I whispered under my breath.
Exhausted from a full day of touring the French countryside, we had another not-so-light-but-already-planned dinner back at home—a French-Creole gumbo. Thanks to Trupty, I’d discovered the local Asian market near our house. When I’d shopped there, I was surprised to find fresh okra. I picked up a sackful, thinking back to my mom’s southern roots and my spicy tastes. Gumbo was always better a day or two later, when all the flavors meshed together. Although I couldn’t find Andouille sausage, saucisse de Toulouse, a local specialty, was a tasty substitution, along with poached and shredded chicken. Color me happy! All I had to do was heat the meal up, add in the okra and the shrimp—BAM! We were set. Richard patted his belly, his eyes lighting up with glee when I brought out dessert—a gâteau fondant à l’orange, a recipe I’d picked up from Isabelle and added my own touches to—caramelized pineapple slices and mandarin oranges.
On a misty Sunday morning, it was time to leap back in time to the medieval village of Carcassonne, famed for its numerous watchtowers and fortifications, in the Aude region, followed by Château de Montségur, a ruined fortress. We were in Cathar country, an area with a turbulent history of the Albigensian Crusade spearheaded by Pope Innocent III in 1208—a holy war oftentimes described as the first act of genocide in Europe. Although the origins of the Cathar religion were believed to come from Persia or the Byzantine Empire, its exact origins would always remain a mystery. The route of the Cathars extended from the north of Toulouse, in Albi, then to the south toward Perpignan, near the Spanish border.
The village of Carcassonne was easy to explore. The four-thousand-foot hike up to Montségur took a bit more energy, the mist transforming into a light rain. We scurried up the steep path, careful not to slide down the moss-covered rocks or crush the colorful snails. I grabbed one of the yellow and brown swirled suckers from the ground, handing it over to Elvire.
“I’m taking a picture. Pretend to eat it,” I said, and she did.
We both laughed. She knew I’d post the photo on Facebook, along with the caption Yes, the French really do eat snails.
Once we reached the top, inside the crumbling walls of the fortress, history came alive. One could almost hear the battle cries, the sounds of swords clanging against one another, the hooves of galloping horses.
On the way back to Cugnaux, we stopped by Château de Puivert, a twelfth-century castle set over a pastoral countryside dotted with wildflowers—favorites like les coquelicots (red poppies)—and sleek, happy horses roaming the land. A couple of beautiful wolves greeted us like dogs, closely guarded by the keeper of the castle. I didn’t know why they were there. Jean-Luc made up a story about a haunting. The wolves kept away la dame blanche, the white lady, a ghost rumored to roam the lands. I googled that later. Jean-Luc’s story, although convincing, save for the legend of la dame blanche, wasn’t true.
We arrived home at about 7:30 p.m., and, again, Isabelle insisted on a light dinner. “I’d just like a green salad,” she said.
“Comme tu veux.” As you wish. “But I’m putting some tomatoes, avocado, hard-boiled eggs, and hearts of palm on the side. Maybe some roasted peppers, a couple of potatoes, some Feta cheese…and some tuna for the kids.”
For me, a salad wasn’t a meal unless it had some tasty stuff in it. Richard raised his hands to the heavens in thanks.
15
SALMONLUHJAH!
One week later it was our first anniversary—for the wedding that technically counted, when we legally got married in France. Le 7 mai. Jean-Luc was taking me to the symphony in Toulouse. I decided to cook up some salmon fillets seasoned with lemon and butter before setting off. The filets slid off my fingers and into the pan. The odor was pungent, filling the entire kitchen. I refrained from gagging, barely making it through dinner, and choking down the fish with rice.
We made it to the theater and took our seats. They were uncomfortable, straight-backed and small. There was no air conditioning. Sweat pooled in my cleavage. And, here I was, in high heels and a tight black skirt, trying to look nice, maybe a little sexy. The conductor came out. I clapped my hands. They smelled of salmon, the oil of which had seeped into my skin, and I instantly fought back the urge to puke over the side of the balcony onto the unsuspecting music aficionados below. My mouth filled with a sour, putrid taste. The symphony began to play. Wagner? Bach? I couldn’t have cared less at that point. My head was reeling, but I fought through it, making it through the first half. When it ended, I clapped, the scent of salmon infiltrating my nostrils. I tucked my hands under my thighs.
Jean-Luc turned to me during intermission. “Do you want a drink? Some champagne?”
“Water,” I said.
He knew I never said no to champagne. Regardless, it didn’t matter; there was no bar, no water or champagne to be found. The second act was torture, a cacophony playing in my stomach, on my taste buds, in my mouth. Salmonluhjah. Salmon! Salmon! When we left the theater I gulped in the fresh air like a fish lying on the sandy banks in the sun. A salmon?
“’Oney, did you not enjoy the music?”
The only words I could form were, “I think I’m pregnant.”
And, according to the test I took the following morning, indeed, I was. Jean-Luc met me at the clinique. We sat in the waiting room, waiting, waiting, and waiting. Doctor K was running late. It was sheer and utter torture. People going in. People going out. Finally, the good doc smiled at us, and waved us into his office, apologizing profusely.
“I’m glad to see you again, Samantha and Jean-Luc.” His face was aglow. “So, let’s see how things are progressing. But, first, Samantha, we have to update your chart. How much do you weigh?”
“I have no idea.”
“Hop up on that scale.”
And so I did. He marked down the number. “Sixty-eight kilos.”
It couldn’t be. I weighed fifty-seven kilos when I’d moved to France. I knew I’d gained a little weight, but close to twenty-five pounds? “What? Are you kidding me? Sixty-eight kilos?”
Jean-Luc sucked in his breath, raised an I-told-you-so eyebrow.
“How much did you think you weighed?” asked Doctor K.
“Um, a whole lot less than that. It must be the pregnancies.”
No wonder my clothes don’t fit anymore; and I’d thought they’d just shrunk. Yes, Jean-Luc had been dropping little hints like “Sam, you’re cooking too much food,” or “Honey, I think you’ve had enough bread,” or “Maybe one slice of tart will suffice,” but damn it if he ever said, “Darling, my crème fraîche puff, you’re kind of getting fat.”
Doctor K’s face was unreadable. “Well, on that, my dear, let’s see how things are progressing. Hop up onto the table.” He squirted the blue liquid onto my belly, rubbed the magic wand. His lips pinched.
I held my breath. “Am I pregnant?”
“Oh, you’re pregnant.” He pulled out a wheel that calculated the dates. “But according to the timing of your last menstrual cycle, you’re supposed to be seven or eight weeks along.” He scratched his chin. “You might ovulate late.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, you’re measuring at about four and a half weeks now. And I don’t see a fetal pole, only the gestational sac.”
Oksana’s experience slammed into my memories, making me tremble. “It’s a blighted ovum?”
“It’s too early to tell. I’d like to see you again in one week.” He smiled. “And, please, don’t worry. The only thing we can do is hope for the best.”
Right. The best.
We set the appointment for the following week. Before we left his office, Doctor K said, “Don’t even think about changing your diet right now. Eat healthy.”
> Jean-Luc took me by the hand. “’Oney, it will be okay.”
I nodded. But something didn’t feel right. At home, I combed through all the baby sites, looking for information similar to mine. What I found out wasn’t good and brought me to tears. Jean-Luc had to pry me away from the computer. But I was a woman obsessed. I used my iPod Touch in the bathroom.
Over the weekend at a dinner chez Christian and Ghislaine’s, I learned that Anne, their twenty-nine-year-old daughter, was pregnant and a healthy twelve weeks along. We were trying to keep my news quiet, especially with what had happened the last time. But I spilled the beans. Ghislaine squeezed my arm. “Ne t’inquiète pas.”
Don’t worry? Easier said than done. I couldn’t stop myself from worrying, and I was a freaked-out, shaky mess the next time I entered Doctor K’s office. He ushered me onto the exam table, rubbed in the blue gel, and placed the scanner on my belly. I closed my eyes, praying and hoping for the best. I was back to my old self, holding my breath.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
“Well, well, well,” said Doctor K, his voice knocking me back into the present, “what do we have here? There it is, the fetal pole. You’re measuring five weeks and two days.” He turned a knob on the ultrasound machine. Thump, thump. Boom. “What you’re listening to right now is the fetal heartbeat.”
How to Make a French Family Page 14