Seven Letters from Paris (7 page)

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?”

“It's idiopathic.”

My bottom lip quivered. “Can it be fixed? Cured?”

“Medical treatments are only aimed at reducing swelling or just calming down the dog. If his condition continues to get worse, to the point where it becomes debilitating, surgery is the next step. But with or without surgery, there is always the risk of developing aspirational pneumonia.”

Pneumonia had caused the death of my very healthy grandfather, Poppy, when he was hospitalized after choking on a poorly made brownie and rupturing his esophagus. The pneumonia started in the hospital. If a brownie was the catalyst to kill off a very fit war hero, my dog was doomed. Ike inhaled his food.

“What do I do?”

“Limit his physical activity and keep him out of the heat.”

I had to do something more, something to keep my dog in the best possible condition. My furry kid wasn't feeling well, and I wanted to give him the best care I could get. “You have an acupuncturist on staff, right?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think it would help?”

“I'm up for anything natural. It's worth a shot.”

I took Ike for a hot dog at the Mutt Hutt in Malibu's Country Mart and then for a walk on the beach. One of the greatest, and also one of the saddest, moments I'd ever shared with my dog was just sitting with him on the beach that day, my arms wrapped around his neck. Together, we watched the waves breaking onto the shore and the pelicans soaring across the sky, and Ike licked my face, which he only did on very rare occasions, as if to say, “Thanks, Mom. You gave me a great life.”

I buried my face in his fur and hugged him close.

Everything hit me all at once. The floodgates opened, the tears streaming down my face far from fake. Hugging Ike tightly to my chest, I let it all out; I finally cried. I cried for the loss of my marriage. I cried for my dog's health. I cried for just about everything. I also forgave myself. For everything.

If life was the sum of the choices I'd made, I was just going to have to make better decisions. Starting now.

In the beginning of July, Jean-Luc had taken the kids away to Scotland for a two-week summer holiday, and our communication slowed. Instead of twice daily emails and our two-hour-long phone calls, I was lucky to hear from him every three days, and only if he was able to find an Internet café. The one time he did manage to call, he put his children on the phone. This I was unprepared for. Elvire, his daughter, was first.

“
Bonjour
,” she said, her voice soft and sweet.

“Hi, I mean,
bonjour. Ça va?
” Although they were only kids, I was a bit nervous.

“
Oui. Ça va
.” Yes. I'm fine.

A mile-long pause.

“
Et
vous?
” she asked.

“
Moi? Ça va bien aussi
.” Another pause. I asked her about her trip. “Scotland, I mean,
L'Écosse? C'est bien?
”

“
Oui
.” We listened to each other breathing. She burst into laughter. “
Je
vous
passe
mon
frère.
”

I wouldn't have wanted to talk to some strange tongue-tied American woman I'd never met before either. And then Jean-Luc put his son on the phone. The moment Maxence's voice reached my ears, I was surprised that a ten-year-old boy could possibly have a voice that low. To make matters worse, I couldn't understand one word he said. He laughed and passed the phone back to his dad.

“Sorry, honey,” said Jean-Luc. “They were both very curious about you, breaking my balls a bit.”

Jean-Luc explained that Maxence had been looking over his shoulder at the Internet café and he'd wanted to know why I'd addressed my emails to Jean-Luc as
mon
écureuil
(my squirrel),
mon
loup
(wolf),
mon
Yeti
(bigfoot or sasquatch), and
mon
Shrek—all animals or characters that Jean-Luc had at one time or another referred to himself as over the course of two months of correspondence. I could imagine his son's laughter, deep and throaty, his daughter's giggles, airy and soft, as they peered over his shoulder trying to figure out what I'd written.

The French have always had funny expressions for terms of endearment. Jean-Luc, like most French parents, referred to his children as
mes
puces
, or my fleas. One time Jean-Luc called me
ma
biche
, which, hearing the pronunciation as “bitch,” I took as highly offensive, until he explained it meant “my doe.” Normally though, Jean-Luc called me his American princess, which led to me referring to him as my “frog”—which was inspired by the fairy tale
The
Princess
and
the
Frog
and also the fact that the French were oftentimes referred to as frogs because they were known to eat frog legs. Luckily, Jean-Luc did not take offense to the stereotype. Instead he laughed, reminding me that Americans were oftentimes referred to by the French as pigs. I much preferred princess.

“What have you told your tadpoles about me,
ma
grenouille
?” I asked, teasing Jean-Luc with the French word for “frog.”

“I thought I was your
prince
charmant
,” said Jean-Luc.

“Maybe. But I haven't kissed you yet.”

“As I recall, you did. Twenty years ago. Remember the stairwell leading up to my apartment in Paris?”

Boy, did I. Before I got all flustered, I changed the course of the conversation back on track. “And the kids? Have you told them anything about me?”

“Well,
princess
,” said Jean-Luc with a laugh, “Maxence was very concerned as to why I was calling and writing a person named Sam so much, especially after he saw your letter. So he asked who you were.”

“And you said—”

“I explained that Sam was a very good friend from America. And then Max asked me with a very straight face, ‘Papa, are you a gay?'”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes. I explained your name was Samantha, but they didn't believe me. Like me, a scientist, they wanted proof.”

While we waited for our laughter to settle down, a thought popped into my head. We hadn't really discussed his divorce much as of late. “Any news on Natasha?”

“She's found an apartment, which I'm helping her out with until our divorce is finalized. I'm hoping she'll be moved out when the children and I return home.”

“Will the kids miss her?”

“Honey, they've only asked if she's taking the cat.”

My heart ached just thinking about their estranged relationship with this woman. “Well, you'll just have to get them a new one.”

“I'll leave that up to you and the kids.” Even without seeing me, Jean-Luc was already trying to include me in his children's lives. He let out a labored breath. “I think Natasha's found somebody new. Some women are like monkeys. They won't leave quietly unless they've got a firm grip on another branch.”

“I'm nothing like a monkey,” I said. “And if you're a branch, it might break. We haven't seen each other in twenty years.”

“We're going to change that.”

My heartbeat quickened. “Are we?”

“Could we talk about August? It's a good time for me since the children will be at their grandmother's. I checked my Air France miles and I have enough to afford you a round-trip ticket from Los Angeles to Paris.”

We'd touched upon the subject of seeing each other, but no real plans had been set. Could I do this? Could I fly over five thousand miles to visit a man I hadn't seen in twenty years? The answer came quickly. I may have made many mistakes in the past, but I wasn't an idiot. Twenty years ago, I left a chunk of my heart on a train platform at Gare de Lyon. Now I had a chance to reclaim it. And I had a plan.

Right after I got off the phone with Jean-Luc, I was going to cash in my dwindled-down retirement account, which would give me five thousand dollars. According to Fidelity's website, all I'd have to pay was a 10 percent fee. With this money, I could pay my credit cards down, making the payments more manageable, leaving a cushion of two thousand dollars.

“I can buy my own ticket,” I said.

“No, Sam, I'm a man. I can't let you.”

“But I—”

“You don't even have a job.”

“I walk dogs…”

It was a lost cause, and I wasn't about to beleaguer this point with him. Really, if he wanted to use his frequent-flyer points on me, so be it. Judging by the tone in his voice, there was no way he was going to back down. “You're sure you can use the miles?”

“I've already reserved the ticket. All I need to know is if the dates of August second to the twelfth work for you and then I'll book it.”

I was going to dare to follow my heart. “My schedule is wide open.”

“That's a yes?”

“Yes!”

“Do you want to hear what I have planned?”

“No, I want it all to be a surprise.
Amène-moi n'importe où
.”

Take
me
anywhere.

The moment we hung up the phone, I called Tracey. Before I could utter a word, she said, “You won't believe this!”

“What?”

“I found the photo album from our trip. I mailed it out yesterday, along with a few other surprises.” She laughed her hyena laugh. “So, what's up with you?”

My next sentence spilled out of my mouth in one breath. “Jean-Luc wants to fly me to Paris. And I'm thinking of going,” I said, even though I'd already verbally committed to the trip. Perhaps a part of me wanted Tracey to talk me out of this insane decision.

“When?”

“The beginning of August.”

“Oh. My. God. You're
so
going to Paris. If you don't, I'll kill you. This is incredible. Jean-Luc, I think he's the one and always has been. He's your soul mate.”

Was he? All signs seemed to be pointing to yes. Then again, I wondered: Why did I have to fly all the way to France to find
mon
âme soeur
? Later that evening, out of curiosity I pulled up a dating site. It was time to investigate. Were there other men out there like Jean-Luc?

You are: woman

Seeking: men

Age range: ?

For scientific research, the laws of attraction, and whatnot, I had to think about the last one to give an honest answer. Much younger was out of the question. I couldn't imagine myself carrying on with somebody who would get carded at a bar. And what if somebody mistook me for said dude's mother? As for older men, I didn't need a father figure who wanted me to put my tiny hand in his. After giving it some thought, I plugged in the ages of thirty-seven to forty-seven, a ten-year spread seeming reasonable, not too old, not too young—Goldilocks right.

First guy: wanted women in between the ages of eighteen and forty-five. Errr, potential pedophile or serial killer. Second guy: spent time on the beach. That's nice, but shouldn't he be working? He also wanted women between the ages of eighteen and thirty. He was forty-seven. This was a total reality check. Oh yes, the older guys wanted their women younger—much, much younger.

Next.

And next.

I clicked through men like they were shoe listings on Zappos.com to realize none of them would be the perfect fit for me. I knew exactly the kind of person I was searching for if I was lucky enough to find love again, and yes, after not understanding what it was for so long, I did want to find love. I wanted a man who was open to the possibility of having children and who wanted, no,
needed
to have them with me. I didn't need a rich man, but I did want stability. I wanted to be attracted to him physically, intellectually, and emotionally. I wanted to be able to communicate openly, not feel as if I was walking on eggshells. I wanted a man who didn't need to be mothered. My thoughts gravitated to Jean-Luc. I had it pretty good with my sight-unseen Frenchman.

The fantasies playing around in my dreams had turned increasingly vivid and erotic. Take the one where I'm wearing a short summer dress with nothing on underneath it. That's right—no bra, no panties, nada. And we're in a public place, either a park or a dark alley, and he presses me up against a tree or a stone wall, and his hand slides up my thigh, and his breath warms my neck, and his body is pinned against mine, and…

What could I say? I'd been repressed. Either that, or I'd fallen asleep to an airing of
Emmanuelle
on Cinemax. At any rate, one day I woke up needing to hear Jean-Luc's voice, but it was too early to call. Our correspondence had evolved from friendly to romantic to dropping sexual innuendos to sexually charged, so I decided to send Jean-Luc a one-line email using some “dirty” French slang I'd learned on a website.

J'ai la trique pour toi
.

I clicked on send, thinking this surely would impress him, because it was definitely not the kind of French one learns in school, definitely not what he'd expect to hear from me at this juncture. Enter, stage left, a forward and very brash—when hidden behind a computer screen—American. I was proud of myself for making the first move until I received his response a few minutes later.

Your sentence “
J'ai la trique pour toi
”? I laughed, but I'm a bit scared—especially for my ass. Don't forget I'm virgin at this point. So if you have “
la
trique
,” I think I'll need to walk with my backside to the wall. Plus, I'll never pick up the soap when I shower with you! Please, Sam, protect my virginity! Kiss.

Clearly, this was not the response I'd expected. What had I lost in translation?

I pulled up the site and came to the realization that while yes, this little line, this simple little thought, was slang for being horny, the literal translation was “I have a big stick for you.” Which would imply I had a hard-on! Before I scared the guy off with my big stick, I wrote him back.

Zut alors!
Sorry! I read somewhere that “
avoir la trique
” was slang for feeling horny. I guess it's only for guys. Rest assured, your virginity is safe with me. Now, go ahead, laugh! Laugh all you want.

To which he instantly replied:

You are incredibly funny and beautiful. I'll call you in five minutes, just enough time to drink my coffee.
Tu
es superbe
, Samantha.

I waited for his call, rereading our exchange, cringing with embarrassment. Five minutes later (as promised), the phone rang. I stared at it, dreading to answer. On the third ring, I made my move. Might as well not beat myself up. Just roll with it, Sam. “
J'ai la trique
,” I said.