I cozied up to the group, not worrying if I was conjugating verbs right or, more likely, wrong, and when they asked if I’d dive, I told everybody about my war wound. “No, I can’t. I fear the wet suit will rip my skin. But no worries, the kids only get to dive once, so I’ll hang out with them for most of the trip.”
At least that’s what I thought I’d said.
“The island is big,” said Carole, one of the wives. “Cars are prohibited. The only way to get around it and to the beaches is by renting bicycles.”
My eyes darted to my bandaged arm. Max and Elvire glanced at me, disappointment darkening their eyes. My stomach lurched.
“It’s okay,” said Max. “We don’t have to rent bikes if you don’t want to.”
I wasn’t going to be a downer. Wasn’t I the type of woman who, when she fell off a horse (or bike), brushed the dirt off and got back on, yelling giddy-up? “Max,” I said, “If the only way to get around the island is to rent bikes, that’s what we’ll do.”
“Are you sure?” asked Elvire.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said forcefully, my voice exuding the confidence my twisted guts did not feel. The boat pulled into the dock and, to hide the fear in my eyes, I put my sunglasses on.
Because Jean-Luc’s company worked on defense projects for the French government, we were able to stay at the Hôtel Igesa, which was usually reserved for the Department of Defense. To my delight, instead of sharing accommodations with the kids, we were only sharing a bathroom. Elvire jumped with joy; she wouldn’t have to sleep in the shower due to my snoring. Since the hotel was a former military base, our rooms were basic and barracks-like. But who cared? Who wanted to stay in their room when they had a beautiful island to explore? Plus, the compound was charming, with its pink sand–colored buildings. The paths to the beaches and the town were filled with flowers and towering trees, with the sweet symphony of cicadas buzzing in tune with my happy heart.
After dropping off our bags, Jean-Luc took off with the kids for the morning dive, and I walked through the village amongst the flowers, meeting cat, after cat, after friendly cat. The town itself was laden with oleander and bougainvillea, which climbed up the whitewashed houses, giving them bursts of vibrant colors—oranges, hot pinks, deep purples, and reds. In the distance, the sparkling sea beckoned. I decided instead of listening to our general doctor, I’d follow Doctor K’s expert advice. I was ready to swim, let my cares float away, not letting a little flesh wound stand in my way. Plus, my small backpack was loaded up with extra bandages, tape, painkillers, and antiseptic. I walked to the nearest beach, and I swam and I read and I napped.
It was when I was cleaning the gash I noticed the little filament sticking out. Skin didn’t knot, nor did it look like fishing line. I raced to my room to grab a pair of tweezers, poured antiseptic on them, and pulled, teeth clenched. There was no pain, but a sense of release as the fishing line unraveled out of my skin. Jean-Luc walked into our room.
“That crackpot of a doctor didn’t miss one, but two stitches.” I waved the tweezers victoriously in my hand. “I think I got all of them. But you check.” I held out my arm, twisting it so Jean-Luc had a better view, and handed him the tweezers. He pulled another stitch out. This one was at least two inches long. I flopped back on the bed, breathing out a sigh of relief, the feeling of ants dancing under my skin now gone. “We need to find a new GP stat. No wonder he never has a wait at his office.”
Jean-Luc’s laughter started out soft and then it exploded. “Honey, I think I just played doctor.”
I wiggled my brows. “Can I play nurse?”
Jean-Luc was about to lock the door to our room when the knock came.
“I’m hungry,” said Max.
Jean-Luc sighed. “Let’s head to lunch.”
Jean-Luc took off with the diving club early in the morning, and the kids and I rented bikes so we could discover everything this Mediterranean island paradise had to offer.
“T’as mis de la crème solaire, Elvire? ” I asked. Did you put on sunscreen?
“Non, pas encore,” she said. Not yet.
Unlike Max, who was a deep shade of brown, Elvire’s porcelain complexion was white and creamy like milk, and she was already turning pink. I handed her the bottle. With my backpack loaded up with my arsenal of medical supplies, sunscreen, a camera, and three bottles of water, we sped down one of the trails. Well, the kids did. I was like a grandmother at first, pedaling so slowly I might as well have been going backwards. The kids raced on before me, stopping and waiting when they realized that I wasn’t behind them. As dirt and rocks swished under the tires, my stomach twisted into knots, and I prayed silently, finally suggesting that we lock up the bikes and discover a hidden trail by foot. Because wouldn’t that be exciting?
Max and Elvire screeched like banshees as the vegetation became thick. We were climbing over thorny bushes and two-foot high croppings, when I finally put a stop to my very bad idea. The plants were cutting into my legs. I had burrs in my hair. “Let’s go find those hidden coves,” I said. “By bike.”
On the way, we stopped at one of the larger beaches to cool off—because we could. The day was ours. We stumbled down a long dirt path, kicked off our flip-flops, and made our way to the sand. In the distance, sailboats bobbed in the water. Elvire yelped when she dipped her toes into the sea.
“Is it cold?” I asked.
“Non, mais il y a beaucoup de méduses.”
I was about to ask her what in the world a méduse was, when Max grabbed a stick and hoisted a large, jiggly jellyfish out of the water. He ran toward Elvire with it. Then, chased her down the beach. I plopped down onto the sand and pulled out my camera, snapping picture after picture. Five minutes later, the kids splayed out next to me, breathless.
“Some water? And then we’ll find the other cove?”
The kids shot me the thumbs-up.
I pulled out a map and we backtracked to the path that would take us to the other side of the island. We traversed a vineyard, taking in the sweeping landscape, perfectly spaced vines on each side. Besides the occasional cat, there wasn’t another soul in sight, and it was as if we had the whole island—nature—to ourselves. When we finally reached the small rocky cove, our bodies glistened with perspiration, and limestone cliffs soared high above our heads. The water was so clear we could see the sand on the bottom. Even better, we didn’t see a single jellyfish. We stripped down to our bathing suits and dove right in. Refreshed, I climbed up onto the rocks to watch the kids splash around. They pointed at me and giggled.
“What?”
They didn’t stop giggling.
“What?”
“From the back we thought you were Natasha for a second,” said Elvire.
Max laughed harder. “She had a big butt.”
“Enorme,” said Elvire.
Out of the mouth of babes. I was a pork roll on the island of Porquerolles. I cringed, thinking about the twenty or so pounds I still needed to lose. Speaking of loss, they’d never brought her up before. “Do you ever miss her? Natasha?”
Their mouths twisted into an expression I could only describe as sheer and utter disgust. “Non,” said Elvire. She launched into a breathless five-minute speech about how living with Natasha was like living with a big baby, how immature she was, and how she cried all the time and barely spoke to them. When she did, it was only to tell them what to do. Max’s eyes went wide, and he bobbled his head in agreement. Wildly animated, he told me about how one time he had thrown a stuffed animal at her and how she’d burst into tears, darted up the stairs, and locked herself in the master bedroom. When she finally came out, she wouldn’t look at him.
I was stunned. “I hope you think things are different with me.”
“Non,” said Elvire, a wicked light sparking her eyes. “It’s the same.”
I jumped into the water and splashed her. “Take that back.”
Max jumped onto Elvire’s shoulders and dunked her under the water, swimming aw
ay before she could take her revenge. Elvire popped her head out of the water and treaded in the sea. “Tu m’aimes? ”
Do you love me?
I bit down on my bottom lip, keeping my emotions at bay. “Of course,” I said, and then I dove into the water and pulled her under. The three of us swam and splashed for a good half hour until another couple entered the cove. The kids and I exchanged quick glances. I nodded. It was time to leave. We were the family Vérant, on our own private adventure. No strangers allowed.
Once again, we were on the bikes, stopping to take pictures of the cliffs, a random horse, or the occasional tiger-striped cat—like the one Elvire had found at the old windmill. On the way to a beach on the south side of the island, the bike path became rockier and rugged. The kids zoomed ahead. I yelled for them to slow down, but they didn’t hear. There were too many rocks, the incline was too steep, and I was petrified to pedal faster. With my heart racing, I yelled, “Lentement! ”
Slowly!
I was two hundred yards behind them when it happened. It took about three seconds, but seemed like slow motion. My heart stopped. I screamed as Max and his bike did a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree flip. Max’s feet were in the air and he smashed to the ground, his bike landing on top of him. One of his flip-flops flew into the bushes. I hopped off my bike, throwing it to the side of the path, and ran as fast as my own flip-flopped feet would allow. “Max, I’m coming. J’arrive. Je viens. Oh my God.”
Elvire just stood over Max, her jaw dropped, looking absolutely dumbfounded. “Elvire, don’t just stand there! Move the bike off Maxence.”
She didn’t budge. I pushed my legs to move faster and approached Max. His eyes were squeezed tight as he held back his tears. I lifted the bike off his little body. “Max, just stay quiet. Don’t move.” I grabbed a towel, lifting his head ever so slightly. “Does your neck hurt?”
“Non,” he said. I placed the towel under his head and assessed the damage. He had a huge scrape on his right arm, just above his elbow, in the exact same place as mine. Remaining calm, I pulled out the arsenal of supplies from my backpack and cleaned the wound. He clenched his teeth as I poured the antiseptic. I exhaled a sigh of relief. It wasn’t a deep cut. We wouldn’t need to get stitches. I bandaged his arm. “Can you sit up?”
“Oui.”
“Does your head hurt?”
“Un peu.”
A little.
I handed him an aspirin and helped him to a sitting position. Elvire fetched the water bottle. He chugged it. Since we were three kilometers from the village, I told Max we were just going to sit for a while until he felt better. Then, we’d walk the bikes. His bottom lip quivered, but he didn’t cry. A big hug was in order. “I’m proud of you, Max.”
“Pourquoi? ”
“You’ve been very brave.”
Ten minutes later, we began the uphill climb and, once the trail became manageable, Max decided he didn’t want to walk; he wanted to ride. And so we did. We returned the bikes in the village and I bought the kids ice cream cones, not caring that we were supposed to eat lunch in ten minutes. Today, it was dessert first.
19
LA GUERRE DES BOUTONS (THE WAR OF THE BUTTONS)
In the middle of July, the kids were taking off for their grandmother’s house in Provence. Before they left, I wanted to spend as much time with them as I could, which meant dancing in the kitchen with Elvire when I cooked or playing baseball or pétanque with Max. After a quick game of catch in the park, Max and I were walking home when we passed by some bushes with orange and red berries. I grabbed a hearty handful of them and yelled, “La Guerre des Boutons,” a French movie for which I’d recently seen the preview, and I threw them at Max, starting our own little war.
From behind the bushes, an old woman screamed, “Qu’est-ce que vous faites?”
We stopped mid-throw, berries flying into the air and splattering on the ground. Max looked at me. I looked at him. We clasped our hands over our mouths. What were we doing? What was I doing was more like it. I may have been une femme d’un certain âge, but I’d always had the heart of a child, and it had just been unleashed.
An older woman, around seventy, with gray-blond hair, peered at Max and me over the hedge, her cold blue eyes narrowed into a glare.
Instead of running away giggling, I apologized profusely, explaining that we were just having some fun. She harrumphed and shook her finger. “Leave my bushes alone,” she said.
Max and I tucked our chins into our necks, trying to keep straight faces, while nodding and saying désolé. Once we were out of earshot, though, we couldn’t stop the laughter. Max had his afternoon snack and went up to his room. I sat on the couch, checking email and Facebook.
A knock came at the door. By the shape of the shadow, I assumed it was my neighbor, Claude. But instead of Claude, a short, boxy man stood in front of me, a packet of cigarettes in the front pocket of a dirty T-shirt. His nose reminded me of a half head of garlic, the nostrils flattened on the sides. In one hand, he held an apple. In the other, he held a pocketknife, which he waved toward a white truck while explaining that he was selling vegetables and fruits. They were organic, direct from the producer. If I didn’t have cash, I could use my debit card.
“Venez voir! ” he exclaimed. Come see!
If he’d come to slit my throat, I figured I’d already be dead. And, thankfully, this guy wasn’t a cop. Like I’d be arrested for throwing a handful of bush berries? I walked over to the truck, noting the prices were very reasonable and by the kilo. The man stabbed the apple with his pocketknife, slicing off a piece.
“Alors, goûtez-le,” he said. Taste it.
I eyed the apple, which looked nice and juicy. Then, I eyed the man’s dirty fingernails and his rusty knife. I wasn’t going to have a Snow White sleep, waiting for my prince to come and kiss me. “Non, merci,” I said. “J’aime pas les pommes, mais les enfants les aiment.”
I don’t like apples, but the kids do. Was that polite?
The man shrugged and ate the slice, juice dripping down his chin.
They did look delectable. I decided to purchase some apples, shallots, and two varieties of potatoes, around twelve euros’ worth. I finished my order and he handed me the bill. It was over one hundred euros?
“Pardon? ” I questioned.
He told me I had to buy twenty kilos of each item—not one kilo.
“Non, non, non,” I said. “J’ai mal compris.” I misunderstood. Seriously? What was I going to do with over one hundred kilos of produce? Where would I put it?
The man tried to convince me to buy, buy, buy! The more I said non, non, non, the angrier he became, steam practically rising from his bald potato head. He stormed away, screaming and swearing and shaking his fist. Immediately, I called Jean-Luc, my hand trembling as I punched in his work number.
“What?” he said. “That’s illegal. Vendors aren’t allowed to sell to you at your house. It’s a trick to get the old people to open up their pocketbooks. Une arnaque. A scam. Did you get the license plate number of the truck? We need to call les gendarmes.”
“I wasn’t exactly thinking of that.”
Nope. Unless I was absolutely, positively sure who was on the other side of it, I vowed never to open the front door again. And, just in case, the next day I brought the woman with the bushes some roses from my garden. And that’s how I made a new friend in Marie—a woman who complained way more than I did about anything and everything. Like Marie, I believed I was just stating the facts, like it was hot inside without air-conditioning or I was tired, thanks to Beepy the Frog keeping me up all night. Much as I loved his melodies, it was difficult to sleep with his incessant noise. Jean-Luc, on the other hand, never uttered a word of complaint. He could lose a limb and smile. He was even-keeled like that. Les Chicks wondered if he was really French.
Unlike most French women, who are usually more reserved in the beginning of a friendship, Marie confided in me right away. She invited me into her garden, introd
uced to me to her cats and rosebushes. An older woman in her seventies, Marie had lost her husband years ago. To what? I didn’t ask. I just let her talk.
“My children live close by,” she said. “But I don’t see them very often. They’re busy with their own lives, their kids, and don’t have much time for me.”
“Are you lonely?” I asked, my heart breaking for this woman.
She sighed and said with a shrug, “It’s just life. And I’m proud of my children.” She laughed and took my hands. “I’m just an old lady. Thank you for listening to me.”
Well, she had every right to complain. About the garbage men who didn’t do their jobs right. About the loud kids in the park who littered. About how it seemed everybody she knew was passing over to the other side. About life in general. Thankfully, she didn’t mention weird Americans who ripped a couple of berries off of her bushes. Before I left, she retrieved a pair of garden clippers from her jacket, cutting the most beautiful roses I’d ever seen and handing them over. To me.
That day, I cooked way too much food for a dinner party with Christian and Ghislaine, the main course a barbecued gigôt d’agneau (leg of lamb) pierced with garlic and pine nuts and wrapped in rosemary. For the apéro, I’d made a chickpea, olive, and roasted pepper and garlic tapenade. I turned to Jean-Luc and said, “I’ll be right back. I’m going to bring some of this over to Marie.”
“Sam,” he said, “you don’t really know her. And, in France, we don’t do that.”
I put my hands on my hips and said, “Well, I’m not French. I’m American. And I do do that.”
Marie was shocked when I rang her bell and offered her a Tupperware filled with the dip. Her hand went right to her heart. “Thank you for thinking of me,” she said.
Amazing what a friendly “bonjour” and a smile could do.
It wasn’t all fun and games or avoiding killer vegetable salesmen in the south of France; we had a lot of hard work ahead of us. Jean-Luc had a plan.
How to Make a French Family Page 17