On Rue Tatin (25 page)

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.

Since there is no taboo in France on alcohol during pregnancy, it didn’t surprise me in the least when one friend set down a bottle of homemade prune brandy that was at least 90 proof. “We shall all drink to your baby,” she said as I went out to the kitchen to boil water for herb tea. Champagne was one thing, moonshine another. One friend whose husband is a baker had brought petits fours, and each woman had brought a gift. Edith gave me hers first. It was a jacket big enough for a two-year-old, absolutely adorable. “I had to get it for you, Suzanne, it’s just your colors,” she said. Magaly, who owns an antique store, offered me a vintage turquoise ashtray. I must have looked stunned. “I admit it,” she said. “I had no idea what we were doing and what this was about. I just picked this up off the shelf before I came.” Lise-Marie gave me a little cookbook from New Caledonia, where she and her husband were about to move, and Chantal gave me tiny dance slippers filled with sugared almonds. Héloïse handed me a pink and white stuffed rabbit and a small truck for Joe, and Anne-Marie gave me a stack of bibs she had hurriedly made. They were all laughing and giggling and just the slightest bit ill at ease. Finally Anne-Marie turned to me and said, “What exactly is this all about, this fête you Americans have among women?”

“C’est une
fête entre copines pour donner du courage à la femme enceinte,”
I explained. I went on to give an entire cultural explanation about the solidarity of women in the United States. My friends looked blank. I could tell they didn’t get it, and from my experience of pregnancy in France I understood why. First of all, the original point of a shower was to make sure the expectant mother had all she needed for the baby before it arrived, but in France that simply isn’t necessary. For one thing, the state gives a sum of money to women in about the seventh month of pregnancy if they prove themselves financially eligible (i.e., middle class). This sum is enough to purchase almost everything needed for a baby including stroller, bassinet, bed, and changing table. If family members can’t supply everything else, friends can.

From my point of view, showers are about friendship and solidarity among women. It is also a chance to spend time with friends knowing that once the baby arrives time will be the most rare of commodities. I’m sure this point of view is one result of age. Anticipating a baby at forty-three, I found, one needs all the courage, reassurance, and support one can get.

In any case, little of this made sense among my French friends. Here, the older mother is a rare breed. Times are changing, of course, but my friends are still the norm, and they had most of their children in their twenties. While I was pregnant they were looking forward to getting their youngest children out of the house, and some were even anticipating being grandmothers, yet we were all, except for Héloïse, within five years of the same age. We had a wonderful time, anyway.

Edith raised her glass and said, “Let’s drink, to Suzanne, to the baby, to all of us who have no more babies and will watch Suzanne with hers and be thankful it isn’t us!”

We all shared a laugh and spent the rest of the evening talking and laughing some more until Héloïse looked at me and said, “All right everyone, we need to go. Suzanne is tired.” She was right, I was exhausted but I was sorry to see them go. Edith gave me a brisk hug and said, “OK, Suzanne, you can have the baby now. We’ve been here and given you your shower.” Everyone left with hugs and kisses, wishing me the best.

The next day I was working in the living room and Joe and Michael were outside. Joe walked in, closed the door, and came over to me. “Mama,” he said, seriously. “Papa and I have decided that we like the name Fiona for the baby. We want her to be called Fiona.” I looked at him and cried. I could tell my date was nearing as I cried at just about everything!

Less than forty-eight hours later I awoke at 5:30 in the morning with that telltale feeling that is akin to an inner earthquake. I got up, put the finishing touches on an essay I was writing, cleared off my desk, and wrote a note to Joe. I cleaned the bathroom and the kitchen and when I was certain that it was time to go to the clinic, I went upstairs to wake Michael and Joe.