At least the other view inspired awe instead of making me feel like a manatee.
Dotted with umbrella pines, the majestic clay-colored cliffs rose high into the cloudless sky. Gilles pulled out of the little harbor. We toured the many calanques of Cassis and La Ciotat, drinking a rosé from Bandol, the wine bearing the name of the region a mere twenty kilometers away, and stopping to swim in clear and surprisingly warm waters.
The next day, we met up with Christian and Ghislaine, who had an apartment in St. Tropez, at the famed coffeehouse with the red awning of Sénéquier. For their last night, Muriel hosted a family barbecue, another evening filled with love, laughter, and wine. We were living la belle vie—a great ending to our last twenty-four hours in Provence.
“I can’t wait to see your home,” said Jess.
“You will. But we’re making two stops first.”
My parents and sister had experienced life on the Mediterranean Sea; now it was time for some history. On the way back to Toulouse, we visited Arles, known for its bullfights and two-tiered Roman amphitheater, which dates back to 90 AD, a magnificent structure where chariot races were in fashion and gladiators fought. Then, it was onto the medieval and fortified village of Carcassonne (a standard stop for any guest), and where my mother was less than impressed with the shops selling swords and “knight-wear.” We didn’t get home until seven in the evening.
Jean-Luc gave my family the tour, showing off the room we’d just built and all his handiwork. I shut myself in the kitchen cooking, wanting to introduce my family to one of the specialties of the region: saucisse de Toulouse, which I’d serve with a trio of peppers and onions, along with a salad. My mom and Jess rested as Jean-Luc and my dad left the house to pick up Max, Elvire, and a rental car at the airport, since we wouldn’t all fit in one car the next few days.
Over dinner, my dad’s eyes bugged out when Jean-Luc told him that we would leave early in the morning, before nine, for the next day’s full-day tour. My dad wasn’t used to running around nonstop—only working nonstop. This was good for him. We were taking them to some of our favorite places, incredible villages. After all, the town built into the cliffs, Rocamadour, was a must-see. And we’d be nuts if we didn’t take them to Saint-Cirq-Lapopie and Cordes-sur-Ciel.
Jean-Luc smiled at Jessica, poured her glass of wine. “Is there anything in particular you’d like to do?”
Jess nodded. “I’d love to visit a vineyard.”
“Me, too,” said my mom.
“Which is why we’re going to Saint Émilion. Again, we have to leave early as it’s two and half hours away and we have to be back in Toulouse by eight.” Jean-Luc paused. “Christian and Ghislaine are hosting a dinner for your final night.”
“Will we see Toulouse?” asked my mom.
“If there’s time,” I said.
With the itinerary Jean-Luc had planned, there wouldn’t be. But my life was in France now; my family could always come back.
21
DIGGING UP ROOTS
Until I qualified for a ten-year card (requiring three years of marriage to a French national and four years of living in France) or, better yet, dual citizenship (five years of living in France, still married), I would be stuck in the blue, white, and red tape of having to renew my “green card” every year. But an immigrant had to do what immigrant had to do. No exceptions.
Four months prior, I’d submitted my dossier—a folder filled with exact same papers from the previous year—at the préfecture. I kept my récépissé—a temporary receipt that proved my legal status in France was on the up and up—tucked safely in my wallet. Exactly two and a half months after my first card had expired, the notification came in the mail, a postcard alerting me that the card was finally ready to be picked up. Before they closed, I headed to the local treasury to pick up the les timbres fiscaux—eighty-seven euros of tax stamps. No stamps, no card.
The weather was unusually hot for mid-October, eighty-four degrees in the shade, and the kids were out of school for the La Toussaint holiday, home with us for a week before they flew to Provence to visit Meme. Honestly, it was hard keeping up with the time the kids had off from school. Along with all of the holidays, les grèves (strikes) seemed to hit France on a monthly basis. Teachers, like the people working at the préfecture, were under the umbrella of les fonctionnaires (civil servants), and if given a reason to strike, that’s exactly what most of them did. In France, substitute teachers didn’t exist, which blew my mind, and left me scrambling to prepare more than a few impromptu lunches for the kids on days when they were unexpectedly home from school.
Max was playing video games on the Wii in the living room, whistling. Elvire was in her room, no doubt, watching a dubbed version of Gossip Girl or Pretty Little Liars on her computer. Either that, or she was spaz-dancing with a hairbrush in her hand, pretending she was a pop star. I went back to chopping up rosemary for my potatoes as Jean-Luc fanned the barbecue.
From upstairs, Elvire screamed, “Max, arrête de siffler! ”
Elvire was mostly angel with a little devil thrown into the mix—basically a one hundred percent, occasionally hormonal, almost fifteen-year-old girl. Growing up right before our eyes, her figure and facial features had transformed from a child’s into a woman’s practically overnight. With her beautiful, thick auburn hair and blue, feline eyes, she was beautiful, but didn’t know it yet. I was dreading the day she started to date. So was Jean-Luc—even though Elvire was a strong-headed girl who wasn’t afraid of speaking her mind, especially when it came to her younger brother.
“Max!” Elvire yelled again. “Arrête de siffler. C’est énervant.”
“Tais-toi,” he yelled back. “C’est toi. T’es énervante.”
Elvire’s bedroom door slammed. Max whistled, louder.
“Max!!!”
This war of “shut-ups,” whistles, screeches, and door slams went on for another five minutes. They were both being très énervant—very annoying—and I was getting a headache. Before a migraine set in or Elvire came downstairs and the argument escalated into a tear-filled, red-faced wrestling match, I stepped in to mediate.
“Max,” I said, poking my head into the living room. “Stop whistling, please.”
He shifted his eyes from side to side. “It wasn’t me. It was my doppelgänger.”
I had to laugh. Along with “freak,” “weirdo,” and a whole slew of other words I probably shouldn’t have taught him, his English was improving. He continued whistling, the tone a little softer.
“Max,” I said, using my patented step-parental growl, and the house went quiet.
When it came to the opposite sex, I wasn’t worried about Max. No, it was the girls I feared for. I knew his father’s history, every last sordid detail of it, and the reason as to why Jean-Luc had concerns for Elvire. The French had an idiom: “les chiens ne font pas des chats” (dogs don’t make cats), which didn’t make sense until Jean-Luc later explained that it was like the American expression “an apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Given either scenario—dogs and cats or apples and trees—one day, just like his dad, Max would be a real heartbreaker.
Max looked up from his video game, raised a quizzical brow. “Quoi? ”
I was staring at him. Like a weirdo.
“Rien,” I said. Nothing. “Can you set the table?”
“Deux secondes,” he said.
Unlike Elvire, whose “two seconds” lasted twenty hours, I didn’t have to ask him twice…and then ten more times. Although it had taken some time, through trial and error, I had this whole foreign stepmom thing down, locked and loaded. Kids would be kids, no matter what country they were from. Which made me question if having a baby with Jean-Luc was still a possibility. I threw some fresh rosemary into the potatoes and stirred, lost in my thoughts. If having a biological child wasn’t in the cards for me, at least I had a good man, who vacuumed, mopped, and worked the grill, and two kids, who were, for the most part, well behaved. I opened up a bottle
of Cahors wine, known as Malbec in the U.S. Other than having to go to the préfecture in the morning, I was lucky in life, and I had no complaints. Kelly Clarkson belted out her latest song, the off-key lyrics of which Elvire now sang in her room.
“Elvire,” I said, loud enough for her to hear. “Your windows are open and the neighbors can hear you.”
“Tu chantes comme une casserole,” said Jean-Luc from the garden, teasing his daughter about singing like a pot—another one of those odd French expressions.
Silence.
We were eating barbecued merguez (spicy sausages) that Jean-Luc had grilled, along with my famed “I could eat-the-whole-pan-but-I’ll-restrain-myself” sautéed potatoes, which were crunchy and golden on the outside, soft on the inside, and an endive salad with lemon-mustard vinaigrette, when I announced that I’d be heading into Toulouse the following morning to finish up my paperwork.
“Can I come with you?” asked Elvire.
Was she crazy? I wrinkled my nose. “But I’m going to the préfecture. It’s, well, un vrai cauchemar.”
A real nightmare. I was pretty sure the préfecture liked torturing us immigrants, watching us squirm in our chairs as we waited in never-ending purgatory.
“But I want to go shopping at Place St. Georges. I need some things for school.”
My upper lip curled. Which one was more painful? The préfecture? Or shopping with Elvire? Her eyes pleaded with mine. Jean-Luc raised his eyebrows. Guilt set in. Just like an immigrant, a step-by-stepmom had to do what a step-by-stepmom had to do. “Fine,” I said. “But we have to pick up my card first, d’accord ?” I turned to Max. “Do you want to come, too?”
Max held up both of his hands in the stop motion, his teeth clenched in mock fear. Like me, he knew that shopping with Elvire was like having an annoying song stuck on repeat.
“By the way, Elvire,” I said. “We have to leave early. No later than eight. If we’re not there right when the préfecture opens, we could be there for days.”
The next morning, Elvire was in her slow-motion teenaged-Matrix mode and we didn’t leave the house until a quarter until nine. When we got to the préfecture, I raced to the ticket kiosk and grabbed my number. There were fifty people ahead of me—at least. I shot Elvire a look, but didn’t say a word. Thankfully, we were able to find some seats in the hallway. I pulled out my iPad from my bag, opened up an iBook, and said, “Looks like we’ll be here for a while.”
Before she snapped in her earbuds, she said, “I don’t like it here. The people are bizarre.”
It was true. On this day, it was as if someone had unlocked the door to an insane asylum and ushered all the crazies to the préfecture. An hour later, Elvire jabbed me in the ribs. “Regarde,” she whispered. “That woman? With the man?”
It was hard not to notice them. An elderly, platinum-haired Frenchwoman wearing tight, leopard-print spandex and mile-high heels was canoodling with what appeared to be her very much younger Nubian lover. And by canoodling, I mean her tongue was in his ear. But who was I to question love? The brash public display of affection was a bit too much for Elvire.
“C’est dégueulasse. Really disgusting.”
“What about the kids at school?”
“That’s normal. They’re not old.”
“Have you kissed a boy?” I asked, seeing an opportunity for open communication sans her dad.
“Pas encore,” she said. Not yet. “But I want to. Not like that, though.” Her brows furrowed. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Well, one day you will, and when you do, you can talk to me about anything.” To be clear, I had to add in, “Anything at all.”
“Je sais,” she said. “I will. Just don’t tell papa.”
I did an internal happy dance.
Two hours later, we finally left the préfecture, my new card in hand, for our next adventure: shopping. I survived the day, Elvire was happy with her purchases, and we didn’t go over budget on her selections (which included one cute T-shirt with a graphic print of a mustache on it but, unfortunately for my favorite boots, no shoes). More importantly, we’d opened up to one another even more, building up a mutual trust. Plus, Elvire now understood my frustrations of being an immigrant in France a bit better—and maybe the importance of being on time. Then again, life never moved fast at the préfecture.
At home, Max eyed me curiously. “Why do you have a dark stripe on the top of your head?” he asked.
He was referring to my roots. I explained that I color my hair, have it highlighted. He pointed to my head. “Mais, your hair is black. But only the top.”
“It’s not black. It just looks that way because of the contrast of light and dark. My natural hair color is just like yours—châtain,” which was medium brown that turns blond in the summer (sometimes with the help of Sun-In or lemon juice or highlights and hair dye).
Elvire sauntered into the kitchen. “You look like une moufette.” She picked at my scalp like a monkey grooming its young. “This is not natural. And you have a gray hair. You’re old.”
“I’m not old. And I do not look like a skunk. I was born blond, and I don’t look good with dark hair. It doesn’t match my complexion.” I brushed Elvire’s hand away and bolted upstairs to my box of photos, and raced downstairs with baby pictures in hand. “See? See? I was blond. And I don’t have gray hair. I don’t. It’s just a strand of glittery blond.”
The more I explained, the more the kids laughed.
They had me. And they knew what they were doing.
I looked in the mirror. For the past year, in order to save money, I’d been doing my color myself, picking up boxed kits at the grocery store. Put it this way: Tweety-Bird yellow with dark roots wasn’t a good look. And those “glitter” strands had to go. Clearly, it was time for me to get to the hairdresser, so I called and made an appointment for the following day. I also made one for Max, whose hair was so long and out of control he was beginning to look like an orphan or the long-lost twin of Justin Bieber. We couldn’t send him to his grandmother’s like that. Surely, she’d scream!
Max walked into Hairmes (yes, Hairmes) at eleven-thirty. I’d been at the coiffure since nine, my hair now plaited into layers of foils. Max grimaced and choked back on his laughter as he took a seat. I was sure he wanted to pretend he didn’t know me. But I didn’t let that happen. He sunk into his chair. It didn’t help matters when I caught Max’s eyes in the mirror and did robot moves while mouthing, “I come from planet Freak.”
Michel, the owner of Hairmes, laughed his butt off, as did Laure, my hairdresser.
On the way home, Max, his haircut short and spiked with gel, and me, my now-blond hair no longer skunk-like with no signs of “glitter” strands, grabbed a baguette for lunch at the local boulangerie. The scent of fresh buttery bread warmed my soul as we opened the door. The bell jingled and the woman I’d become friendly with as my confidence with the French language turned from mouse voice to full and strong greeted us, clapping her hands in delight. “Oh, is this your son?”
Max’s mouth twisted. I couldn’t tell if he was offended or not. He did the sort-of motion with his hand. “No,” I said, reading the signs. “My stepson.”
“Oh,” she said with surprise. “You look alike. Look at his eyes. They’re just like yours.”
I caught Max hiding a little smile before his gaze darted to the tartes. For a moment, it was almost as if he seemed proud, not embarrassed of me like he’d been at the hairdresser.
“What can I get you?”
“I’d like to try something new.” I read the names of the varying baguettes. “I’ll take the Avey-blah-blah-blah.”
Max smirked. “Blah, blah, blah?”
And he was embarrassed again.
The woman said, “Repeat after me. A-vey-ro-naise.”
She rolled her r heavily, the way of the South. I repeated her, light on the r.
“Non, non, non.” Her kind blue eyes met mine. “Rrroh. Rrroh. Rrroh! Aveyr-r-rrrro-naise.”
>
I gave it the good old college try. “Avey-r-rrr-ro-naise,” I said, sounding more like a cat coughing up a dozen hairballs.
“Better,” she said, handing me a paper-wrapped baguette. “Your French! It is improving!”
Fresh-baked bread under my arm, Max and I left the shop and walked the two blocks home. He tapped me on the arm. “Don’t ever speak like that woman,” he said. “It was bizarre.”
“Does it bother you she thought you were my son?”
“No, it was funny.”
I bumped him with my hip. “Want to race? Last one home is un oeuf pourri.”
By the way Max knitted his brows, “rotten egg” didn’t translate. But it didn’t matter. He got the gist of it. Max took off before I could explain, leaving me smiling in his dust.
22
DREAMS CHANGE
One month before my forty-second birthday, I knew. My period was two weeks late. My breasts stung to the touch as if live wires electrocuted them. I was super sensitive. This time, instead of crying during a Disney cartoon, I sobbed through a dubbed version of Glee. It wasn’t even sad. And when I sprayed my wrists with Opium, I found myself dry heaving over the porcelain bowl. Not to mention the scent of the salmon baking in the oven, which, before I’d made it, had sounded good. Now, the smell coming from the oven made me sick. Suffice it to say, instead of going to the pharmacy to grab a test, I called Doctor K to make an appointment for the following day.
“You’re six weeks along,” he said. “And, listen, we’ve got a fetal heartbeat.”
He waved his magic wand over my belly and turned up the volume on the machine. A frantic heartbeat thumped, the sound like an echo of a train rumbling down the tracks. My own heart beat faster. Jean-Luc stepped over from his seat, grabbed my hand, and we listened to the life growing inside me. “Everything looks great. Perfect.” Doctor K broke out into a wide, happy grin. “Would you like a printout of the ultrasound?”
How to Make a French Family Page 20