Seven Letters from Paris

by Samantha Vérant

  “Why what?”

  “Why, if I’m his daughter, didn’t he try to get to know me better?”

  “I’m sure he loved you. In his own way.”

  “No, no, he didn’t. How could he? He doesn’t even know me. Never did. I met him once. I know this now, but it’s impossible to love somebody you don’t communicate with. That’s what killed my marriage.”

  I went on to explain how, during the times I was in correspondence with Chuck, I felt that my adopted dad, even though he had always treated me as his flesh and blood, loved my sister more because she was his. I explained how Chuck was an unhealthy ghost in my life, an evil poltergeist floating over all my relationships, one that I needed to get rid of once and for all. I told her how his leaving her, leaving us, had affected the way I carried out my relationships with men.

  My mother’s eyes filled with tears, threatening to explode. “I hate him. I hate what he did to us.”

  “Mom, Mom, I’m sorry, I don’t want you to cry,” I pleaded. I didn’t want her to cry because if she started up, I’d start up too.

  “Oh, Sam,” she said with a sniffle. “I hope you know, we were only trying to protect you. I guess we should have talked about it—about him—more.”

  “Well, we have plenty of time,” I said. “Who knows how long I’ll be staying with you—”

  “I know.” She nodded her head enthusiastically. “I’m so excited.”

  “Me too, Mom. Me too. I’m starting a new life.”

  The thought both thrilled and scared the pants off me at the same time.

  When Life Goes to the Dogs

  Three days later, Mom, Ike, and I pulled the minivan up to my parents’ house—my new home. I should have been happy that my mom and I survived a thirty-hour road trip in a loaded-down minivan. I should have been happy that my supportive parents were taking me in. I should have been happy that I had a private room with its own bathroom, complete with a balcony overlooking their sparkling pool. But I wasn’t happy. I was ashamed.

  My mom was exhausted from the long trip. She excused herself to take a nap, suggesting I do the same. Instead, I unloaded the car, my former life slapping me in the face. The container filled with my old design projects reminded me I used to be self-sufficient, a go-getter. Now, almost forty, jobless, and debt ridden, I had to rely on my parents to put a roof over my head. The more I unpacked, the more ridiculous I felt.

  Why did I bring so much crap? What was I going to do with the wedding china? Host a dinner party and say, “Oh this? It was from my first marriage. Pretty, isn’t it?” Soon, I had six containers and ten boxes sorted into piles: things my parents might want—like the china, since they’d gifted most of the set anyway; things I would keep, namely a few pieces of art, photo albums and yearbooks, jewelry my parents and grandparents had given me, and my blue plastic folder of letters; things I would throw away, like old pay stubs and papers; things I would donate—all my DVDs, books, and a pile of clothes I hadn’t worn in years.

  When I was finished, I was left with just three containers and two suitcases.

  It was the rudest of awakenings.

  This was it? This was my life? This was all I had left? I clenched the Nambé salt and pepper shakers in my hand, deliberating, finally placing them in the “to keep” pile. For me, they were symbolic, a reminder of all the bad choices I’d made.

  Looking more like a zombie who’d just crawled out from the earth than his vibrant daughter, I must have been unrecognizable to my dad when he came home from work. He walked into the kitchen, unable to hide the concern in his watery green eyes. Even worse, I hated asking him for help when he’d done so much for me over the years, but certain things couldn’t be ignored. Like the fact that in California you need a car, especially when your family lives three miles up a long, steep canyon road with no public transportation. To get a car, I needed money, which I didn’t have. My mom, dad, and I sat at the kitchen table trying to put a logical game plan together. Dad scratched his stubbled chin. “Sam, honey, I’m taking off work tomorrow so we can go to some car dealers.”

  He’d always been there for me when I needed him, but my dad was a workaholic who never took a day off. Family vacations were rare, and so our time to bond together was spent on the weekends. When I was little, he’d take me to the IHOP on Sundays, where I’d order piles of blueberry and chocolate-chip pancakes smothered in strawberry syrup and he’d read the paper and try to ignore the waitresses’ flirtations. I’d make it a point to let those ladies know I had a mom, she just wasn’t with us—a little girl’s way of saying “back off, lady, he’s taken.”

  In high school, these daddy-daughter dates turned into dinner and a movie, the latter of which usually involved seeing something my mom, a romantic comedy kind of gal, didn’t want to see. It was on one of these outings, at the age of seventeen, that I discovered a lump, just shy of my left breast, under my armpit. The whole evening I was like one of those old paintings of Napoleon Bonaparte, but instead of one hand tucked into my shirt, my hand was sneaking a feel under my armpit in the darkness of the theater. On the ride home, I burst into tears. “Something is wrong with me.”

  My dad took me to the doctor the following day and to the hospital a week later, when I’d had the fibroadenoma, a benign tumor, removed. Although it wasn’t breast cancer, the worry crinkling his eyes stayed until I’d woken up from the operation. Just like the worry written on his face now. “Dad, you don’t have to take off work. I’ll be all right.”

  “I’ve already arranged it. It’s settled. We’ll help you out for a couple of months until you land back on your feet. Have you thought about how much you can afford for a car payment?”

  Car payments? I felt sick. Land on my feet? I’d landed flat on my back. But I was the daughter my parents never worried about, the fearless one, the one who got up on stage, the one who never let life get her down. I kept all my reservations to myself.

  Bodhi, my parents’ bear-sized golden retriever, placed his big head on my lap and gazed at me with soulful eyes. Jack, the bichon, danced his funny dance, standing upright and pumping his little arms up and down. Gunnar, the Brittany spaniel, sniffed Ike, who was curled up on his dog bed and panting. The dogs reminded me that I had one temporary fix to my financial mess: dog walking. Of course, I knew I wasn’t going to become an overnight millionaire walking dogs, but I figured I’d soon land some kind of job in advertising or design. I had about four months, maybe five, to make some money and get my finances in order. I hoped to keep some of the freelance clients I’d had in Chicago, as they promised to keep me busy.

  “I think I’ll be able to afford around two-fifty a month,” I said.

  My dad set his coffee down on the glass kitchen table. “How are your finances?”

  Nonexistent. I have nothing, nothing but pride and hope.

  “I have a couple of hundred dollars in the bank. I’m looking into cashing in my 401(k). And I want to sell some of my jewelry.” I rubbed my temples, trying to push back the monstrous headache that had begun river-dancing in my head the moment the word “finances” was mentioned. “I also have my unemployment.”

  My mom wrung her hands. “I can’t believe after nearly twelve years of marriage, you have nothing but a few pieces of art and the clothes—”

  “Anne, don’t start,” said my dad, cutting my mom off. I shot him a sideways glance and a grateful half smile. My dad squeezed my shoulder and continued, “How much do you think you can get for your jewelry?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “And bills?”

  “There’s health insurance, my cell phone, and credit cards.”

  “And the amount you owe on your cards?”

  “Twenty grand.”

  Silence filled the room. Even the dogs stopped panting. I put my head in my hands. Saying everything out loud just made it all that much more real. Now, I’d l
ove to say I was addicted to designer clothes and shoes, which would offer an explanation for this gut-twisting, made-me-want-to-vomit-in-my-mouth amount of debt, but I was no Carrie Bradshaw. Christian Louboutin, Jimmy Choo, and Manolo Blahnik had never set foot in my closet. Accumulated over the years, the cost of married life soared one dollar at a time—a few moves, two failed businesses, groceries, dentists, doctors, maybe a plane ticket or two, things of that nature. I was to suffer the consequences.

  The vein in my mom’s forehead throbbed. “He should pay. He left you with nothing—”

  “But I left him—”

  “I just hate—”

  “Anne, you’re not helping matters,” said my dad.

  “Mom, stop. Dad’s right. In order for me to move on, I can’t think about Chris. I have to figure things out on my own. Please.” My nails created half-moon indentations in the flesh of my palms. I clenched my teeth so hard I thought I’d break a tooth or two. “God, Mom. I don’t want you and Dad to feel the need to dig me out of this hole. In fact, I refuse. Unbelievably, I’m an adult now. Hopefully, my finances will clear up. Hopefully, I’ll get a job. Hopefully, things will work out.”

  But I knew hope could only get me so far.

  At the very least, I had one thing going for me. Jean-Luc finally wrote me back:

  From: Jean-Luc

  To: Samantha

  Subject: Re: Greetings from the road

  Hi Sam,

  Concerning the letter I received, it is true to say that it troubled me significantly. Since you were confused, consumed with a high level of guilt, and a person in front of you was able to promise you even the moon to not lose you, everything and anything was possible.

  BUT according to your words in all your letters, I was really not expecting such a change. It crossed my head, but never stayed. I understood your marriage was concrete, anchored in reality, whereas I was just a shadow behind words, known only for a few weeks and one day of passion. I thought about the arguments he probably used to confuse your mind. I was thinking that I am a man, and I know men. Whether they are American, British, or French, men know women are often driven by the guilt. They can “play” with that.

  I don’t know your husband except from your words, and I tried to find all levels of understanding through them to get the best knowledge about the situation. I imagined you fragile for some instants…always with your guilt. Sam, take your decisions for you and you only. Don’t take any decisions for me. You have to feel good with yourself first. I will be waiting for you, if it is your wish and your desire.

  Kisses to my pretty princess.

  P.S. This night, look at the sky and you will see a bright point moving; that’s the space station. I wrote something on it for you. Watch it with your heart. The future will be bright. Believe it.

  That evening, in the dark, I stood on the balcony off my room, searching for that damned space station for hours and hours. Maybe I was having a severe bleached blond moment, but as I looked up toward the sky, I’d hoped to discover “Toujours Samantha” blinking in big ball Christmas lights. Certainly, it could happen in the movies, so why not in real life? To my utter disappointment, no such message appeared in the starlit sky, just a few satellites bouncing around as sporadically as my thoughts.

  In the state of California, unemployment had reached an all-time high, peaking at nearly 13 percent. Lucky me, I was a number in these statistics. While I could have delayed my job search to settle in a bit, I’d decided to meet with a recruiter to see what opportunities, if any, existed. Now that I had a car (and the bills that went along with it), if I wasn’t able to get a full-time gig, at the very least I could pick up some freelance design work. The recruiter raved over my portfolio and said she could get me working right away. Even with the depressed state of the economy, I was optimistic. So while I waited for all the wonderful design opportunities, it was time to launch into my new day job.

  Nothing could have prepared me for the perils of dog walking in Malibu.

  In the first house I visited, a black-and-white photo of a woman sat on the entry table. She stood naked in the middle of a street, waving a large feather boa over her head. Her very large breasts couldn’t be ignored.

  “Um, is that our client?”

  “You should see some of the other pictures,” said Stacy, the owner of Whiskers and Tails and also an instant friend. Her clean-scrubbed face broke out into a wide grin. “They’re, um, interesting.”

  Stacy originally hailed from Boston, which explained both her laid-back demeanor and her ambition. A producer by trade, dog walking was her side business to pay the bills. As two creative types, we connected immediately, surviving Malibu’s neurotic pet owners one dog at a time.

  My eyes darted across the hall to a photo of a much, much older man, who looked like Santa Claus, save for the fact he was naked with the woman from the other photo in a bathtub. I choked on my tongue.

  “They’re nudists,” explained Stacy.

  “To each his own. As long as it doesn’t affect me.”

  But their lifestyle choice would affect both Stacy and me—like the day the nudist husband was home and we came face-to-face with his pecker, nothing but a screen door separating us. It was funny, in an “oh my god, did we really just see that” way, and we snorted back our laughter as we scrambled to get the leashes on the dogs and get them out of the yard, into the car, and to the beach. The man just stood there as if nothing was out of the ordinary. I realized my dog-walking training sessions weren’t for just the dogs but for dealing with their human owners.

  Besides making a friend in Stacy, dog walking, if one ignored the occasional weirdness, came with its perks. Day after day, I walked up and down the canyons of Malibu, quickly losing fifteen pounds and getting back into shape. This new version of the soon-to-be-divorcée diet also included daily double shots of wheat grass instead of double shots of vodka. And the pale pallor of my icy Chicagoan complexion was aglow, tanned by the California sun.

  To go along with my svelte figure, the nudist client gave me boxes and boxes and boxes of clothes, each garment still with its tags on. And while the fake-fur-covered bustier or the black sequined pants were not quite my taste, I would find use for the many, many dresses. Brand-new used clothes from a nudist. Ah, but my life was filled with irony. At any rate, I’d dropped two sizes and fit into my skinny jeans.

  Not that the dogs I walked cared.

  June quickly turned into July, and some days were better than others. Now a self-proclaimed divorcée dog walker, I came up with my own tag line—picking up crap and my life one piece at a time. Every day I received calls or texts from my soon-to-be-ex-husband. Like he’d promised in that first round of texts, Chris had hired an attorney to file our “uncontested divorce,” pushing to end our marriage very quickly, but he was also still hanging on to the concept of “us.” The court date, for which I would not have to appear, was set for the end of July. My emotions were all over the place. I was happy I’d finally found the courage to move on, yet I really didn’t like hurting somebody else in the process.

  In addition to twice-daily emails, Jean-Luc and I talked on the phone two or three times a day, sometimes for hours. I was so comfortable with him, one time I even fell asleep. He stayed on the line, just listening to my breath rise and fall until he had to go to work. Unfortunately, my parents didn’t have an international calling plan, and along with the car and all my other bills, I didn’t know how I’d ever pay them back when we received a six-hundred-dollar phone bill. Job opportunities, according to my recruiter, who’d changed her tune, were few and hard to come by.

  Thankfully, we were able to switch my parents’ phone service to one that included three hundred minutes of international calling for an extra seven dollars. It was a little late, but there was nothing I could do about that. Jean-Luc switched his phone plan as well, getting a much better deal with unlimited
calling to sixty countries for a few euro extra a month. From there on in, if I needed to call him, I would, and then he’d call me back.

  Of course, at home I did my best to pitch in. I walked all of the dogs, went to the grocery store, and prepared all the meals, something my dad really appreciated—especially my signature dish of filet mignon served on a crusty crouton and artichoke bottom with béarnaise sauce. Before I came home, I think my yoga teacher of a mom had them both on some kind of weird starvation diet consisting of coffee and kitchari—an Indian cleanse comprised of mung beans and vegetables. Being creative in the kitchen kept me sane. With so much time on my hands, I could experiment more—cooking everything from chicken paprika to lobster thermidor to fresh crab cakes with a tarragon sauce.

  My life could have been worse. My parents’ house was beautiful, a vine-covered Spanish-style hacienda overlooking the canyon, complete with a pool and gardens full of hummingbirds, roses, and jasmine. But I couldn’t just live at home in la-la-land paradise forever, the personal chef to my parents.

  I was a realist. And I had my pride, damn it.

  On top of all this, Ike’s health was declining rapidly. A week or two after I arrived in California, I took my fur-covered replacement child to a new vet. As usual, he was the biggest baby in the waiting room, hiding between my legs, his body shaking violently from his nose to the tip of his tail. The Chihuahua next to us showed more courage. Doctor Lisa took one look at my furry kid and gave her diagnosis.

  “It’s obvious,” she said. “Ike has laryngeal paralysis, a disease common to Labrador retrievers.”

  I stroked Ike’s velvet ears. “Laryngeal paralysis? Is it bad?”

  Dr. Lisa pinched her lips together. “I’m not going to lie to you. It can get bad. The problem is the nerves and muscles that control Ike’s laryngeal cartilages are losing their function—they’re paralyzed—which makes it difficult for Ike to breathe, eat, swallow—”

  “What causes it?”