I then listened vaguely as he outlined what tests I would need to have—the amniocentesis, monthly blood tests for toxoplasmosis, regular sonograms.
We drove home in a daze. I hadn’t wanted to tell anyone I was pregnant until the third month but we could announce it to whom we liked—it was the third month.
For at least three years Joe had begged me for a little sister. I hadn’t explained why he didn’t have a younger sibling, and now I wouldn’t have to. While I couldn’t guarantee him a sister, his wish for a sibling was about to come true.
His reaction to the news was shock. “Oh Mama, I don’t want you to get fat,” he said. We laughed, hugged each other, and that was that.
My middle now grew exponentially. I went about my life and plans in the unique state of grace that pregnancy confers. I didn’t care if it would complicate our lives. It was like a dream come true, more wonderful because of its unexpectedness. Of course I did occasionally think about all the paraphernalia we would need to collect: clothes, booties, hats, strollers, bassinet. But I had time.
I continued bicycle riding and swimming in the early mornings with Edith, though I was often so nauseated I could hardly see. I had chosen to tell few people, but I naturally told her and she was happy but incredulous. “Oh Suzanne, how will you manage? I tell you I couldn’t do it,” she said. Since she already had four children I sympathized with her sentiment—one more probably would have killed her. But I knew I had energy to spare.
I had settled on a gynecologist in a nearby town to follow the pregnancy and on my first visit she outlined what I could and couldn’t do. “Do not eat salad or tomatoes because of the toxoplasmosis problem,” she said firmly. “Ride as little as possible in a car—they are bumpy and can bring on contractions. Do not run. Bicycling is not encouraged. Walking and swimming are. Do not eat oysters, because they can transmit bacteria to the fetus. Other than that, you are free to live normally.”
Come on, I said to myself. A warning not to eat salad but nothing about cigarettes or alcohol? And what was this about not riding in a car? But I drove home gingerly. Once a concern is planted in your mind, it’s hard to shake it.
As the pregnancy progressed, I encountered the considerable obligations imposed by the French medical system, which included the monthly blood test for toxoplasmosis. This disease is apparently transmitted by fecal matter from cats and unwashed vegetables and can harm the fetus but leave the mother unaffected. When I asked a doctor at the clinic why I had to have a test every single month he rolled his eyes. “It is a disease discovered by a Frenchman. We are very proud to have discovered it, thus we must test constantly for it. It is ridiculous.”
Another obligation was regular visits to the clinic where the baby would be born, meeting the anesthesiologist, and a session with a genetic counselor. The anesthesiologist, a charming woman originally from Jordan, spoke a French so difficult to understand we practically ended up drawing pictures for each other. The genetic counselor was another story. Very French in his pinstriped designer shirt and color-coordinated tie, well-fitting navy blue trousers, and healthy summer tan, he was brisk and had a lively sense of humor. He welcomed Michael and me heartily into his office, which had several tasteful paintings on the wall. On his wrist he wore a diving watch, and for the first twenty minutes of our visit we discussed art and his passion for boating. A retired pediatrician, he was a genetic specialist, and when he finally gave us his speech on genetics his passion for the subject was obvious.
When he was finished he asked me if I wanted an amniocentesis. While I had eschewed it for Joe, I felt it was important this time, given my age. When I said I wanted it he assumed a grave expression. “You understand what we test for here,” he said. “We do not test to see if your child will be a mass murderer, will have a drug addiction problem, will end up in prison. All we test for are certain genetic irregularities, do you understand this?” When we said we did he looked relieved. “Good, I don’t want you to think we are performing miracles.”
He then went on to outline our options should we discover a problem. Actually, he only mentioned one option, which was to dispose of the fetus, and when he was finished I asked him what people did who decided to keep their children despite genetic irregularities.
He looked surprised. “Few people ask this,” he said quietly. “Should you decide to keep a child with a problem I could advise you. But let me say that in France we are not well equipped for this situation. We like to hide such things here. It isn’t like America. I hope that your child is normal.”
The clinic required that I have at least four sonograms there. In addition my gynecologist administered a sonogram at each monthly visit. This would be a well-documented baby. I loved going to the clinic for all the pre-pregnancy tests and visits. In a graceful old building with a lovely chapel surrounded by gardens and woods, it had a friendly, homey air. Women in various states of pregnancy walked the halls as did new mothers and proud family members. Each time I went there was a knot of nervous young men outside the clinic door, smoking furiously, as well as one or two pregnant moms puffing heartily on cigarettes as well. I wanted to shake them, but resisted the urge. Most of the clinic’s staff was female and each person I met with was cheerful, solicitous, genuinely interested in my state of health.
Michael and I both went for the first “official” sonogram. An attractive technician took us into the room where it would be administered and waited as I settled myself on the examining table. She asked us lots of questions, some formal, others simply showing her interest.
As the image of the baby came on the screen the woman’s face brightened. “Ah, voilà, le bébé,” she said with an air of satisfaction. Moving an apparatus slowly over my abdomen she showed us the body parts. “Voici le coeur, voilà la nuque, et voilà! Deux petits reins,” she said in her lovely singsong. “The heart, the top of the spinal column, two little kidneys.” She was thrilled at every little part she saw. The hand went up and she laughed, then tried to get the baby to turn so we could see all of its parts. It wouldn’t cooperate. “Le bébé sait déjà ce qu’il veut,” she said. “This baby already knows what it wants—usually I can get them to turn.”
She spent at least a half hour examining the baby, as filled with awe as though it were the first time she’d done it. When we left I heard her cheerfully welcome her next patient. There, I thought, is a woman who loves her job.
For days I was unable to get her melody out of my mind and I would find myself singing “Deux petits reins, deux petits reins.” A baby with two kidneys—it was a comforting thought!
The results of the amniocentesis not only showed that our baby was normal, but that it was a girl. Joe was going to have his little sister.
I told our neighbor Marie-Odile, one of the florists, that it was to be a girl. A smile spread across her face. “Le choix des rois,” she said. I smiled and nodded and walked off thinking it was a poetic thing to say but not really understanding what it meant. From then on I heard the same phrase over and over—everyone congratulating me on the choix des rois, the choice of kings. Then one day I was with a friend and decided to get to the bottom of it. “What is this choix des rois anyway?” I asked him. “Mais Suzanne, c’est evident,” he said to me with a laugh. “Kings always wanted an elder son to inherit their title, land, and wealth, and a daughter who would marry well and bring more titles, land, and wealth into the family.” Of course. Le choix des rois.
I had a professional obligation in the United States and was gone for five weeks. When I returned home, twice the size I had been when I left, time raced so fast I could hardly believe it. I had received conflicting dates as to when the baby would arrive, somewhere between the end of January and the beginning of March. Given my size I was convinced they were all wrong and that she was bound to arrive sometime right after Christmas.
I always throw myself into holiday preparations with gusto, baking cookies and fruit cakes, decorating, buying, and making gifts, and up until t
his year we had had family with us so it was not only necessary but part of the celebration. But this year was different. There would be just the three of us, my energy was extremely limited (despite my grand ideas about all the excess energy I had), and I was happy to make just a couple batches of cookies. I took a poll of Joe and Michael to find out what I should make for our Christmas Eve meal and they both decided they wanted fresh pasta. I suggested we have it with black truffles (I had some frozen, which I had been saving for a special occasion), and that was unanimously agreed upon. Michael and I chose champagne, Joe opted for Perrier.
Christmas Eve afternoon I made the pasta dough, which Joe cranked through the pasta machine then carefully hung across the two broom handles balanced on the backs of chairs. I sliver-cut the truffle and blended it with butter to put on the pasta right after it was cooked, and I made a simple green salad. There had been no request for dessert and I had no energy to make one so we were going to have fruit and cookies. Late that afternoon, however, we heard a knock on the door. Edith’s eighty-five-year-old aunt and our friend, Miche, was there with one of her legendary bûches de Noël. “I didn’t think you’d have the energy to make dessert so I made you a small one,” she said. She wished us a Joyeux Noël and went on her way.
That night we set the table with silver and lots of candles, then each dressed up to celebrate what would be our last Christmas as a family of three. We talked about what the baby would be like. “I just hope she’s pretty,” said Joe.
Though the subject of a name for the baby had been broached, we had made no decision, but this evening we discussed it earnestly, each arguing for our favorite. Mine was Fiona. Michael’s was Emmanuelle. Joe’s was Ruby. We were at a stalemate. From that day on the baby’s name became a major topic of conversation. All of us held to our favorite. I secretly prepared myself for compromise, though I had my heart set on Fiona. Michael liked Fiona but he was sure she would be called Fi-Fi, which he couldn’t abide. He didn’t like Ruby at all. Joe liked Ruby and only Ruby.
The French give their children strings of names, so I suggested we do likewise and name our baby all three names, beginning (naturally) with Fiona. That wasn’t acceptable. No one really wanted to give up his chosen name. I mentioned the situation to friends when they would ask what the name would be. Everyone said “Suzanne, it’s the mother who decides.” I guessed that was a French tradition, and since we were in France . . .
December melted into January. My doctor told me the baby was anxious to arrive but that it was too soon so I would need to stay in bed. I must have looked at her like I thought she was crazy. “Non, madame, vous ne devez pas bouger,” she said firmly. She was serious—I wasn’t to walk, to use the stairs, to get up at all. Of course this was the doctor who’d told me not to eat salad or ride in a car. I listened, however, as I did feel something wasn’t quite right. For three weeks I worked from a prone position as I wrote, edited, and organized myself to the end of a project. Michael assumed the household chores; friends came by to visit.
One day Michael ushered in Héloïse and Anne-Marie, two very good friends. They came with two huge plastic bags, which they set next to the bed and proceeded to empty. Out came baby clothes of every size and description, blankets, booties, bibs, many of them antique and each one lovelier than the last. “We’ve been collecting these things for you, Suzanne,” Héloïse said. “We thought since you were in bed you would have the time to go through them.”
I was speechless. Everything was so gorgeous. I had gone from having the bare minimum to being deluged. Héloïse and Anne-Marie, both of whom have grown children, were cooing and crowing like chickens in a particularly choice patch of grass. Anne-Marie held up a dusty pink velvet sleeper. “This is my favorite,” she said until she found the pair of pink leather slippers that looked about a hundred years old and were in perfect condition. There were little lace bonnets, white hand-knit sweaters, tiny little bodies, or one-piece undergarments. There was a miniature maroon velvet dress with a lace collar, itsy-bitsy trousers, a selection of blue-and-white-checked gingham dresses, everything so perfect and oh so French!
All the clothes had come from the donations Héloïse receives as part of her volunteer services for the Catholic church. I had long ago stopped feeling guilty at being on the occasional receiving end of such bounty—Héloïse assured me that she collected so many things that no one went without.
Once we had gone through all the clothes, Héloïse and Anne-Marie brought in another huge bag. They opened it to reveal a gorgeous wicker baby basket completely lined with white lace, the frilliest, frothiest contraption I had ever seen. “This is for her to sleep in,” Héloïse said, and I burst into tears. I was overwhelmed with the generosity of these two women.
And it wasn’t over yet. Out of the bag came a small down comforter covered in antique chintz and a graceful, round white wicker basket lined with more white lace. “This,” Anne-Marie said, looking at me with laughter in her eyes, “this is for your produits.” What produits, or products, I wondered. I must have looked quizzical for she said, “You know, the creams and unguents and sprays and aspirins and salt water nasal spray, the antiseptics, all the things you have to have for a baby.” I was nonplussed. Yes, of course I would have all those things. But it would never have occurred to me to outfit a basket to put them in. Anne-Marie assured me that all good French mothers had baskets like this for their produits.
As we sat talking and admiring the baby things, Michael brought us tea and lemon biscotti I’d made some weeks earlier. Then these guardian angels left, giving me kisses and telling me they would be back to visit. I spent a good couple of hours looking at all the clothes, the baskets, and coverlets. Our baby would enter a very well-provisioned and comfortable nest.
I had no fear and few worries during this pregnancy, in part, I’m sure, because I had already been through a successful pregnancy, and in part because of the care I was getting. Every time I went to the clinic I left feeling like a princess. The staff was completely oriented toward my physical and emotional well-being. They cared about the baby, of course, but they were determined to see to my comfort and to assure me that my stay with them would be the finest it could be. I was beginning to view it as a vacation. Occasionally I would remember that I would actually have to give birth before I could take advantage of it, but five days in a single room with an entire staff to see to my needs sounded pretty comfortable, and I was looking forward to it. A friend of mine who had given birth there told me it was one of her finest memories and that she almost hated to leave when her five days were up.
Patricia Wells, an American friend in Paris, had offered to give me a shower and we settled on a date in January. I hadn’t known I would be confined to bed, of course, and I called my doctor to see about a release from the confinement. She told me to come in and after examining me said I was free to go, as long as I took the train. “The car will be too rough,” she admonished.
The baby shower is not a French tradition, and in inviting French friends I wasn’t sure what to call it. I couldn’t call it “une douche,” for that signifies stepping under a faucet to get clean. I checked with Edith and she didn’t have any ideas, since she had never heard of such a fête. I ended up calling it une fête entre copines pour donner du courage à la femme enceinte, a party among good women friends to encourage the pregnant mother!
The day arrived and Michael drove me to the train station. When I purchased my ticket I asked the young woman behind the counter if I could simply cross the tracks to get to the platform rather than climb up and down the momentous stairways, given my condition. “Non, madame, you must take the stairs. What you suggest is not permitted. We are not equipped for the handicapped.” That made my blood boil, which was good because I forgot how tired I was and climbed the stairs in record time.
Though it was January, there was a brightness to the sky and the sun came out the moment I arrived at Patricia’s apartment, shining warmly through her sloped glass ceiling
. Flickering cinnamon-scented candles burned next to bouquets in my favorite color of blue. A bright baby toy was hung on the front door knocker and the centerpiece was another pile of baby toys. Heavenly aromas set my taste buds flickering right along with the candles.
Soon everyone had arrived, each dressed as if going to a fancy soirée. We began with glasses of champagne, which I sipped right along with everyone else. Champagne, I’d learned, is an integral part of a French pregnancy. Every single time I announced to friends that I was pregnant they broke out a bottle and insisted I drink a glass. “Champagne is good for pregnant mothers,” they would say. I believed them and sipped completely free of guilt.
We sampled the luscious dishes that streamed from Patricia’s kitchen—toasted almonds tossed with fresh mint and sea salt, tiny cups of rustic celery root and leek soup, discs of inky black truffle sandwiched between thin rounds of pristine white goat cheese and set on tiny, toasted croutons, and miniature rolls of smoked salmon filled with diced salmon and fresh dill. Bliss. Everything was finger food, so the table remained uncluttered except for the shower gifts of toys, miniature tennis shoes, a bright wooden music box. We laughed, we shared secrets, we relaxed into this most special of afternoons.
Michael and I had agreed that, despite the doctor’s warnings about riding in the car it would be easier on me if he simply came into Paris to pick me up after collecting Joe from school. We decided to turn the experience into an evening out and planned dinner with Patricia and her husband, Walter. Afterward I arranged myself in the front seat and the ride home went off without incident.
Edith had been invited to the shower in Paris, but couldn’t make it. The idea intrigued her enough so that she planned one of her own, for my friends in and around Louviers. We settled on an evening and she called to ask what she should do. I explained the idea of the shower and she seemed to understand. At about 8:30 on the designated evening six women showed up at our house and, with much gaiety and hilarity, entered the living room. I was no longer confined to bed simply because my due date was close enough that the baby was no longer in danger, and I was delighted to have yet another celebration among women friends. I settled down to see just how the evening would play out.
On Rue Tatin Page 24