I nodded my head yes, trying to think positively, but I couldn’t. I’d already been down the road called “getting my hopes up” two times before. What if? What if? I regarded the grainy image with trepidation. Nope. No horns.
Jack (or Jill) the Bean, this time, you better stick.
“If you feel anything is wrong,” said Doctor K, “don’t hesitate to come see me as many times as you want to, every week if you want to.”
I sat up and pulled my shirt over my belly. The first time I’d miscarried had happened at eight weeks, but I didn’t know until week twelve. The second time, I’d been a little over five weeks. I was now six weeks along. “I’d like to come back in two weeks, just to check in.”
“Not a problem.”
We set the appointment.
Once again, I made the calls—first, Tracey, then my sister. I saved my mom for last. This time, she knew better than to express her excitement. We were all keeping our cool, trying to remain level-headed in case of another disaster.
Right before a lunch with the girls, I checked my email. My New York literary agent, Stephanie, had sent a message letting me know that she had sent out the pitch for Seven Letters from Paris in the agency newsletter. Ten editors, five from the same house (which was unheard of), and two from another house and the same imprint, along with three others, had requested the manuscript. I was a nervous wreck, hoping for good news on all fronts.
When I met up with Monique, Oksana, and Trupty for lunch in Toulouse, they ordered wine. I opted for plain old water—clearly a giveaway. Monique picked up on it first. “You’re pregnant.”
“Looks like the cat is out of the bag,” I said.
“Stay away from cats!” said Monique.
Oksana stood up from her chair to give me a hug. “Do you think France puts folic acid in its water? Because I need some.”
My nerves settled down the next time I saw Doctor K. Not only was I eight weeks along, but the fetal heartbeat was strong at one hundred sixty-seven beats per minute, the fetus itself measuring sixteen millimeters. I let out the breath I’d been holding, seemingly for the past two weeks, and then I scheduled another appointment for the following week. Just to be sure.
I was cautiously optimistic. And I had reason to be.
Two days later, it was as if all my pregnancy symptoms had disappeared overnight. My breasts were still full, yes, but they didn’t hurt at all. I checked the Internet. Maybe, just maybe, my body was adjusting to the hormones. But I should have been tired. And I wasn’t. I should have been mildly nauseated, a sign, apparently, of a healthy pregnancy. But I wasn’t. I felt normal. And normal wasn’t good. I called Doctor K, explaining my fears. He had me come to the clinic the next day. Jean-Luc and I sat in the waiting room, rigid.
I went absolutely numb when Doctor K delivered the news. My gut instinct had been right; there was no fetal heartbeat and, according to the measurements, I’d lost the pregnancy only the day before. Doctor K’s hand shook when he ran the wand over my belly again. “I don’t understand what happened. Everything was fine three days ago.”
All cried out, I could only stare at the ceiling, shaking my head. “Will I have to do another D&C?”
“I’m afraid so.” He sucked in his breath. “I’ll call down to surgery and see if we can schedule you in for tomorrow.”
It was as if someone had lobbed five thousand baseballs into a glass house. And I was that glass house, my dreams of having a biological child of my own blown to smithereens.
I was shattered.
The next day, before I left the hospital after the procedure, Doctor K sat Jean-Luc and me down, presenting us with a few options: I could have a series of tests done to see if we could pinpoint a problem; perhaps my blood wasn’t delivering enough oxygen to the fetus. If I got pregnant again and if I had this issue, I’d have to give myself a shot every day during the entire term of the pregnancy; I could see a fertility specialist, although, he said, I obviously don’t have a problem becoming pregnant; or, I could curb this baby-making activity by going on the Pill.
He urged me to keep trying.
I bit down on my bottom lip. “I don’t know.”
“We’ll figure it out,” said Doctor K.
On the car ride home, Jean-Luc and I weighed all the pros and cons. My parents and his family were far away, too far to lend a hand. We’d be the oldest parents in preschool. With his fiftieth birthday approaching the following year and me still reeling from my forty-second, after three consecutive miscarriages, the answer for me was clear.
“We have to really want this,” I said. “Really, really want this. Like more than anything we’ve ever wanted in our entire lives.”
“’Oney, I only want what you want.”
“I’m tired of getting my hopes up. I’m tired of the crushing disappointments.” My shoulders shook and I slumped in my seat. “I’m just tired. I’m tired of feeling like this.”
Back when we had first started trying, Jean-Luc and I had agreed; if I were to get pregnant naturally, it would happen—no planning, no fertility treatments, and no pressure. But now all I was feeling was pressure. I didn’t know if my body, my mind, could deal with another loss. Plus, because of my age, the chance of having a baby with health issues had risen exponentially and, along with that, there was always the possibility of having twins, which would be a whole different challenge.
“I think having a baby would really mess up our family dynamic. You already have two kids. I think of them like my own—”
“But, ’oney, I thought this was your dream.”
Was it? I thought of the car ride from Chicago to California with my mother right after my divorce. My mom had had big aspirations when she was younger. She was going to be a famous ballerina, dancing in Swan Lake, fluttering around in tutus and pink satin toe shoes with the New York City Ballet. But then she met Chuck, my biological father, married him, and moved to Los Angeles at the age of nineteen. When she became pregnant with me, her toe shoes were hung up on a hook of unfulfilled dreams. Chuck abandoned my mom and me when I was six months old, leaving us for another woman. My mom was forced to move back home to her parents, too young and broke to care for an infant on her own.
At the time, I was about to find myself in the same position she’d found herself in so long ago—broke, heavy-hearted from a breakup, and about to move back home to my parents. The only difference was that I wasn’t twenty-one with a small infant; I was almost forty and childless. I’d asked my mom if she ever regretted putting her dreams aside for me. She looked at me like I was nuts and said, “Dreams change.”
They did. I was so thankful for my dad, the one who raised me.
“Love doesn’t only come from DNA,” I said.
Jean-Luc squeezed my hand. We were in agreement. But this decision, I felt, was not ours alone. I was close with the kids, more than close, so I sat Max and Elvire down when we got back to the house. Elvire’s eyes glistened with tears when, with a shaky voice, I shared the devastating news. Having just turned twelve, Max was too young to understand terms like fausse couche (miscarriage) and why they were an emotional roller-coaster ride of epic proportions, but he was sweet.
“Ça va? ” he asked, his bottom lip puffed out with concern.
“I’m fine. I just have a few questions for the two of you.” I paused, swallowing back the lump in my throat. “Would you be upset if I can’t give you a brother or sister? Or do you like the way things are now? Just me, the two of you, and your dad?”
Max grimaced. “It’s up to you.”
Elvire nodded her head in agreement. “You’re kind of old. The baby has a chance of being born with major problems, come out—”
Either she’d been talking to her grandmother or she’d been studying fertility in school.
“So, you’re against the idea, I take it?” I asked.
It didn’t take a translator to read the real message veiled in both of their eyes. Right then, I knew that my decision not to have a biol
ogical child of my own was the most selfless thing I’d ever done. I wrestled Max into my arms. “So, since I’m not going to have one, do you mind if I pretend you’re a baby for two seconds?”
Naturally, a massive pillow fight ensued.
With the threat of a cloud of goose feathers exploding over our heads, those pillows and our laughter knocked me right into acceptance. Sure, I was sad about the loss, but I no longer felt shattered. In less than a few minutes, my family had glued the pieces of my heart back together. I knew the kids would never call me “mom.” And I was okay with that. For me, having their love was more than enough. Max and Elvire would benefit from the way my parents had raised me—supported and cared for no matter what.
“Can we have American breakfast tonight?” asked Max.
Homemade hash browns and cheesy scrambled eggs—food was the way to this little man’s heart, especially when it was prepared with love. Hold the veggies. And the tuna noodle casserole. Shame I wasn’t able to find American bacon in Toulouse. Believe me, I’d looked everywhere.
Shortly after this third consecutive loss, my agent, Stephanie, emailed to schedule a call. I was hoping for good news. I needed it.
“Well, I have some bad news,” she said, and my heart dropped into my stomach. “I’m leaving agenting and going to work for a publisher.” She paused. “The good news is you’ll be placed in the hands of one my co-workers, Susan. She loves your story. And I’ll transfer you over to her once we’re done.”
I blew out a sigh of relief. She wasn’t dumping me. “I’m so sorry you’re leaving. I hope it’s for greener pastures.”
“It is. And just so you know, I loved working with you.”
“Me, too. Thanks for everything,” I said.
“No problem.”
I bit down on a fingernail. “While I have you, any news on the submissions?”
She sucked her in breath. “Well, I’m afraid I have more bad news. Please remember that this was only the first round, and all of the rejections were positive. They all loved the story and your voice, but they didn’t like the epistolary format. Too many letters and emails driving the plot forward was the general consensus. I’ll send them on to you in a few…”
My throat constricted. My book was rejected. My body rejected the baby. I wanted to throw up. I was sick of rejection.
“Don’t worry. You’ll find a publisher. I believe in your book. And I believe in you. There are lots of other imprints and houses out there.”
My response came out as a gurgle.
“Are you ready to talk to Susan?”
“Yes.” There. I got one word out.
“You’ll be in good hands. Keep in touch.”
Stephanie transferred me to Susan. And, from the moment she opened her mouth, I knew we didn’t have a connection. I wanted to rewrite the story based on the comments—to eliminate all the emails and just keep Jean-Luc’s letters. She told me not to rewrite anything, that the only way I stood a chance of publication was if I got an article published in the “Modern Love” column in the New York Times. I figured I’d listen to her. She knew what she was doing, right? And, at the time, I figured having an agent was better than not having one at all.
A few days later, I received an email from the agent who had filled Stephanie’s position. His email said something like, “I’m sorry, but we’ve reached the end of the line with Seven Letters.” He urged me look for representation elsewhere. I googled him to learn that he represented manga. I was livid, shaking in my shoes, steam-coming-out-of-my-ears mad (also very hormonal). So, I forwarded Susan the email, copying the owner of the agency and this random dude.
Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I thought I was working with Susan.
I received a reply a few hours later, explaining that it was an internal communication mishap, that, yes, I’d been assigned to Susan. No apology.
Needless to say, my relationship with my new agent wasn’t off to a great start. I cried for about an hour, and then I got over it. Although sad, I was feeling good about the decision Jean-Luc and I had made regarding our family. I didn’t need another outside influence I couldn’t control bringing me down. I needed to get back to and embrace my life. So while I worked on writing the “Modern Love” article, a little voice inside of me said, “Sam, you should also follow your gut instincts and rewrite the book.”
And that’s exactly what I did.
Along with the parties and lunches, I was most looking forward to two things this holiday season: my parents and sister were spending Christmas with us at Isabelle’s; and my core group of friends (Monique, Trupty, and Oksana, plus our significant others) were spending a weekend away at Trupty’s boyfriend’s gîte in Valon, a tiny village in Aveyron.
The kids were invited but, wanting to avoid the boredom of adult conversations, opted to stay home. (I also told my neighbors to keep an eye on our house just in case Elvire, soon to be fifteen years old, took advantage of our departure to sneak back into the house to throw a party).
To say that Jean-Luc was nervous about leaving the kids alone was an understatement. Although French parents were generally less obsessive than Americans when it came to their kids’ activities, that didn’t mean they didn’t worry. In France, young adults often lived at home while attending university and, according to statistics, more than half of children between the ages of eighteen to thirty still lived at home to save money.
Oftentimes, Jean-Luc and I discussed our childhoods. Like me, Jean-Luc had his first job at the age of sixteen. He worked at the shipping yard in La Ciotat. I worked at The Limited (where I spent my paychecks on clothes) followed by a pharmacy, and then taking orders at Talbots (where I didn’t spend my paychecks on clothes, but saved up for my first car—a burgundy 1978 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme with white pleather interior). But times changed. Today, the majority of teens in France don’t work. They call it the “dependent generation.”
Still, it was important to me for the kids to be independent. I never relied on my parents to wake me up in the morning for school; I had an invention called an alarm clock. Somehow I convinced Jean-Luc that they would be just fine on their own for one measly night. Fine, Elvire’s first cooking attempts were a bit of a disaster—specifically the time I was out of town when she attempted to make spaghetti, not realizing that you had to push the noodles into the water with a wooden spoon so they were completely covered, and she’d called me up, wondering why the pasta was only half cooked. But, by this point, Elvire had spent enough time in the kitchen cooking and singing with me. She knew how to cook basic dishes as well as a few desserts, such as gâteau au yaourt, a simple cake made from yogurt, a staple in any French home.
Regardless, before we left, Jean-Luc instructed the kids.
“Don’t forget to turn off the gas. You don’t want to burn the house down.”
“Don’t leave the water on.”
“Don’t forget to feed the cat twice a day.”
“Don’t stay up too late.”
“Don’t forget to do your homework.”
“Oui, je sais, Papa,” said Elvire with an eye roll, and a sigh. Yes, I know, Dad. She practically pushed us out the door.
Jean-Luc posted the neighbors’ number on the refrigerator. “If there are any big emergencies, call Claude and Paulette. And don’t forget to lock the door.”
He called them every two hours. “Everything okay?”
I could hear Elvire’s sigh. “Oui, Papa.”
On the three-hour drive from Toulouse to Valon on Saturday morning, Jean-Luc informed me we were headed to la France profonde—deep France, the winding route taking us by forests, rivers, and towns dressed up for Christmas.
Valon was a very tiny village of around twenty old, beautiful homes, centered around its pièce-de-résistance, the Château de Valon, a twelfth-century fortress with a panoramic view of the Gorges de la Truyère, lush mountains, and forests. A layer of fog made it appear as if it were floating in the clouds.
A charming s
tone home, Chris’s gîte was absolutely amazing, and even more impressive was the fact that he’d restored the property from ruin, including the roof. In addition to the main house, which had four bedrooms, there were two bedrooms in a downstairs apartment, a barn that Chris was in the process of converting into a one-bedroom apartment, and an art gallery.
After dropping off our bags in our room, Jean-Luc and I joined our friends for lunch, the vichyssoise soup I’d prepared in advance and served, with a crisp salad, crusty baguettes, sausages, cheeses, and foie gras filling our bellies. Trupty and Chris had constructed homemade ornaments from branches they’d found in the forest, tying them with raffia into the shape of stars, and embellishing them with dried oranges.
Since the weather was more than agreeable, we took our coffee outside at a picnic table, the view overlooking the valley, and then we headed off to Conques (a beautiful medieval village on the pilgrimage route of Saint-Jacques-de-Compostelle), before exploring the Christmas market in Mur de Barrez, where we came face-to-face with Le Père Fouettard, the whipping father who, according to French legend, accompanied Saint Nick on December 6 to dispense lumps of coal or to flog the naughty children.
At night, together we cooked up a feast—Oksana’s famed chapon (a capon, or castrated rooster) in a kiwi sauce, my roasted potatoes, and Trupty’s eggplant and zucchini blinis. Our resident non-cook, Monique, played sous-chef.
“See, I can do this,” she said.
Side by side, everybody chopped and laughed, the men working just as hard as us ladies, preparing the verrines for the apéro. It was a real group effort. After dinner, we exchanged Secret Santa gifts by the fire. And we girls hadn’t forgotten that it was Oksana’s birthday the week before. When she saw the extra gift we’d all pitched in for, a spa day, she burst into tears. In the morning, we hiked through the forest, discovering rivers, old barns, and wonderful beehives, the weekend deepening our friendships even more.
How to Make a French Family Page 21