On Rue Tatin (24 page)

3 pounds/11/2 kg apricots, pitted and halved

1 pound/500g sugar

1. Place the apricots and sugar in a nonreactive pan or bowl, stir, cover, and let macerate for at least 12 hours.

2. Transfer the fruit and sugar to a large, heavy saucepan and bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Reduce the heat so the mixture is boiling merrily and cook for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. Remove from the heat and ladle the jam into sterilized canning jars, leaving 1/4 inch (.7cm) headroom. Seal according to the jar manufacturer’s instructions.

ABOUT
10
CUPS/
21/2
LITERS

SIXTEEN
               

Too Good to
Be True

MICHAEL, JOE, AND I were walking to a neighbor’s house for a Bastille Day party. It was hot and I was wearing a lightweight blue and white polka-dotted skirt with red and white buttons, my most patriotic item of clothing. I’d had the skirt for many years and it had always been on the large side. This day it felt tight, a phenomenon I’d noticed all too frequently recently.

A couple of days later we were driving to Paris to meet friends for a picnic on the Champ de Mars. I was suddenly struck with a headache and general malaise that lasted well into the picnic then disappeared as suddenly as it arrived.

Over the next several weeks I experienced the malaise more frequently and it always seemed to disappear as suddenly as it arrived. My clothes continued to feel tight, my head a bit light. I didn’t think a lot about it except that it was odd and that the symptoms seemed a bit familiar, like when I’d been pregnant with Joe.

But I couldn’t be pregnant. Michael and I had wanted a second child and had tried for nearly three years without success before I went to see a doctor and get some tests. The doctor told me I couldn’t have more children because I was so advanced into menopause that pregnancy was virtually impossible. It didn’t matter that I was young—facts were facts, and tests were tests. As a double check I went to see our family doctor who put it to me like this. “You are past child-bearing age. It is time for you to say good-bye to that phase and to prepare yourself for the second half of your life.” While it broke my heart to hear that, I thought it a considerate way to tell me.

But I had these strange symptoms. Without saying anything to anyone I went to the pharmacy for a pregnancy test kit, a pharmacy where I knew no one, of course, as news travels fast in Louviers. The test was packaged with a tiny gold heart, which was, I guessed, for the happy mother. It was as if the makers of the test didn’t envision the possibility that the test results could be negative. I imagined women hoping against hope for positive results, finding them negative, and hurling tiny golden hearts out of windows.

Unbelievably, my test results were positive. I bought another test to be sure and it was positive, too. Oh my goodness. Michael and I had wanted another child but after trying for such a long time we’d given up, put it behind us. I was forty-three, busy, satisfied to be a family of three. This was totally unexpected and I was ecstatic.

When I told Michael he looked at me, his brain working. “I’ll be sixty-five when the baby goes to college,” he said, then we threw our arms around each other. We were too old, over our heads in every aspect of our lives, and just a year before we had finally given away all of Joe’s baby things. We were deliriously happy.

I had a blood test to confirm the situation, then called a friend who had just given birth to ask her what was the protocol in terms of the clinic where she had had her baby. She told me I needed to reserve a space immediately, that the clinic was so popular it was booked for months in advance. I called right away and was told that there were no more rooms for the period when I thought my baby was due. I called another highly regarded clinic and was lucky to find a space there. The receptionist briefly described the clinic to me, informing me that midwives delivered the babies, though a physician was always on call, and that I would need to schedule a meeting with a midwife immediately, as well as with an anesthesiologist, if I thought I wanted anesthesia during the birth. I told her I was ready to schedule both appointments. She told me all the appointments were full for August, since most of the staff was on vacation, and the computer couldn’t schedule anything yet for September.

She then told me I needed to see a doctor immediately to initiate the necessary paperwork, so I tried to make an appointment with one of the clinic’s doctors. Same story. “You must see a doctor before the tenth of August, but we have no one here until mid-September.”

I called our family doctors who were both on vacation. I called doctors suggested by friends and they were all on vacation. I called the few gynecologists in the area and they were gone. How was I supposed to schedule an appointment with a doctor if they were all on vacation? Finally I called another clinic and, miracle of miracles, their doctor was not only working but had time to see me.

Michael and I went together. The doctor was visibly shocked when I told him my age. He looked at me, scribbled a few things on a notepad, and said seriously, “Madame, you will have to have an amniocentesis you know.” I said I did know that. He looked at me again then told me he had to give me an ultrasound because the paperwork required it. It seemed awfully soon to be doing that, but I was delighted.

“You are twelve weeks along,” he said as we looked at the little form on the screen. “You didn’t get here a minute too soon.”

We were stunned. How could I have been pregnant for so long without realizing it? Both Michael and I paid rapt attention as the doctor measured every possible part of the fetus. “The neck is thin, this is a good sign,” the doctor said. “It means there is little chance the baby has Down’s syndrome, which is something we worry about in women of your age.”

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 this 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.