Christmas Chocolat

The passage of October thirty-first to November first was always rough, and this year was no exception. I liked it better before the Belgians began celebrating Halloween. In a country where most of the holidays were either about saints or Jesus and Mary, or national holidays like the king’s birthday, Halloween came as an imposter. Nevertheless, I made an effort. I was usually at the theater so the effort consisted of some jack-o-lanterns and overbuying candy, which Laurent and I would end up eating until I forced him to take it to work. At least the candy here was really good.

Laurent would wear plastic vampire teeth and one of my old capes, assuring me he was “just doing it for the kids.”

For me, it was too many memories. The nice ones were harder to bear. My parents had always gone all out: decorations, parties, and beautiful costumes. Even during the darkest times, after Maman died, a ghost of his old happiness seemed to visit Daddy on Halloween. I never understood why, but the spark was there. It was snuffed out at Christmas, which remained bleak. I shuddered.

The next day was a biggie for Belgians—All Saints’ Day. Schoolchildren had the week off and Laurent almost never had to go in to work for lack of scheduled meetings. Everything except for the flower shops, restaurants, and cafés was pretty much closed so people would be free to bring large pots of chrysanthemums to the graves of their dead relatives.

Dressed in somber clothes, Laurent and I headed out to my grandmother’s house, where the whole family was gathered. Not only Tonton Gérard and Tante Charlotte, but their sons, Pierre and Maxime, accompanied by their respective spouses, Isabelle and Marianne, and, of course, their brood of kids.

My grandmother offered us une petite goutte—literally a little drop—but meaning a tiny glass of liqueur or cognac to “guard against the chill.”

It was an old tradition, no longer much followed by my generation, except in the villages that dotted the countryside where, on days like today, time seemed to have come to a standstill.

I usually accepted a small glass of Bénédictine, but this year I begged off.

Laurent sipped a calvados, a cordial from Normandy made from apples, but rich and smoky rather than sweet.

We left for the cemetery around nine-thirty, bringing umbrellas to protect us from the steady drizzle.

It was crowded when we arrived. Laurent dropped us off at the gate and went to park the car. While we waited, holding our pots of flowers, the kids ran around, playing an impromptu game of tag.

Laurent strode up the walk. He threaded his arms through ours and we went to my grandfather’s grave. It was in the center of the cemetery in the beautifully groomed pelouse d’honneur, where the heroes were buried. We went to the section reserved for the political prisoners and placed our pots of russet and gold chrysanthemums. My grandfather had been captured by the Gestapo, tortured, and executed, shattering the lives of my grandmother and her three daughters. He’d been forty-two and a half.

The exact same age as Maman when she’d died.

We accompanied my grandmother to various graves, where she paid her respects. I kept my eyes trained on the gravel walk, unwilling to read the lives etched on the polished granite.

Then, the three of us went to Sainte Marie to light a candle for Maman.

Afterward, Laurent drove Mamy Elise and me to Chez Nous, her favorite restaurant. It was small but inviting, with snowy white linens and etched crystal salt and pepper shakers. A fire blazed in the open hearth and it was like being inside a cashmere cloak. Not to mention that they knew her well and always made a big fuss over her, treating her like a queen, which is exactly the way she deserved to be treated.

Laurent and the others had all gone off to the other sides of the families and another tour of the dead. Mamy, as the eldest and the matriarch, always came first.

She ordered a Porto and looked at me.

“Un Perrier.”

She looked tired. I covered her hand with mine. “Ça va?”

She sighed. “I just wish she was buried here, close to me. In her own country.”

I nodded but was, in fact, relieved Maman wasn’t here. A lot of the time, I could almost pretend it never happened. She was still alive, just living in Pennsylvania, so it was normal for her not to be around. So few of my memories of my life with her were here, just a handful of vacations, time out of time. In the States, her absence was too sharp. I didn’t know how Gali could stand it.

I didn’t know if I could get through a family Christmas without her. I pushed the bud vase to the side of the table and rearranged the salt and pepper shakers.

“So,” my grandmother said, taking a sip of her drink, her blue eyes bright. “When are you going to tell me about the baby?”

“I . . . I . . .” How could she know? Laurent and I agreed not to breathe a word until another month had passed and we were in safer territory.

“I’m right!” She clapped her hands.

“We’re not saying anything yet. It’s too soon. Don’t let Laurent know you know.”

“Nonsense! It’s wonderful news. I’m going to be a great-grandmother.” She leaned forward and grasped my hands.

“For the . . . how many times would this be? Seven?” I asked.

“But every time is like the first.” She signaled the waiter. “Antoine! Deux coupes de champagne, s’il vous plaît!” She rewarded him with a dazzling smile. The same smile Maman had inherited, then my sisters, and now, I hoped, the little one I was carrying.

“But Mamy, I can’t drink.”

“But you must! Champagne is good for the baby, lots of iron. And,” she said, lifting one finger, “life must always be celebrated. Your mother would have been so happy.”

I could never picture my mother as a grandmother. I couldn’t picture her old. She remained in death as she’d been in life: young, beautiful, vibrant.

Still, when the champagne arrived, I hesitated. According to Shoshanna, most doctors here encouraged pregnant women to have a glass of wine, especially red. But the puritan American in me was frantically waving a flag, also red.

My grandmother lifted her glass. “In this day of celebration of the dead, let us drink to life.”

I picked up my glass, the condensation cool on my fingers. We toasted.

“A la vie!”

“La vie,” I echoed. To placate the worried American in me, I only drank a little less than half. But Mamy had been right, as usual. The bubbles tasted like life.

That evening, after hanging up with my sister, I sank into the cushions of the couch and stared at the flame of the fat orange candle burning on the coffee table. I’d changed into soft jeans and a cream sweater, holding my cup of chamomile without drinking from it.

Laurent came back in, fresh from the shower, wearing a warm blue sweater and jeans. He joined me on the couch.

“How’s your sister?” He put his arm around my shoulders.

“Fine. The same.” I put my cup down and covered his hand with mine. “The usual harassment about getting plane tickets, you know. But it was the strangest thing.”

“What?”

“You know how every year she brings flowers to Maman on the day of Toussaint?”

He nodded.

“This year, there were already fresh flowers on her grave.”

“Probably your aunt.”

I shook my head. “No. Tante Solange was with Gali.” I shrugged. “Weird.”

“A part of me still doesn’t get it.” Sho put down her tea. We were sitting in the kitchen. The rain pelted on the windowpane and it was still dark at nine in the morning.

“Me neither,” I said, blowing on mine. “I’m the one whose only motivation for pulling myself out of bed each morning is getting to drink coffee. It’s like a breakup.”

“At least we have the same aversions.”

“Practical. Though I can’t seem to stand the smell of peanuts either. Even if Laurent has had so much as one and tries to kiss me . . .” I shuddered. “I make him brush his teeth.”

“No.” She giggled.

“Yes. And what about the cravings?” I rolled my eyes, but secretly I was so pleased to be able to share this conversation.

Shoshanna groaned. “Sardines on buttered bread.”

“Apples. And eggs. I wonder if an apple omelet would taste good.” It sounded really appealing.

Raising her cup and clinking it against mine, Sho said, “It’s all for the good cause, right?”

“The best. I just wish I felt better.” I hadn’t even had the courage to dress this morning. I was wearing yoga pants and a wraparound sweater over a T-shirt. “If you move, we’d lose this.” I waved my hands around, indicating the kitchen and everything in it. “Is that what you really want?” We shared coffee—or more recently—tea in the mornings several times a week. “We’re like family. We’re better than family because we don’t have all that baggage. Can you just throw that away?” My voice was slipping out of my control. I cleared my throat.

Tears filled her eyes. “Don’t. I’m trying not to focus on all I’m going to lose.”

“Me, you’re trying not to focus on me.” I picked up a dishcloth and wiped the table.

“Would I really lose you?”

“Of course not! But it will never be the same.” I wiped the counters and rinsed out the dishcloth. I wrung it out and hung it on its hook over the sink.

She heaved herself out of the chair. “We’ll talk later. I’m going to be late. Thanks for watching the kids.”

“Please.”

“I’m going to ask the doctor how I can get that second trimester glow. This time it feels like I segued from first to third. I hope nothing’s wrong.” She had dark smudges beneath her eyes and a pained tightness around her mouth. Even her hair drooped.

“Nonsense! You’re a pro. Aren’t you the one who keeps spouting that no two pregnancies are alike and who confiscated my copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting?”

“Makes you crazy, that book. I’d love to have a Hollywood pregnancy for once, airbrushed into baby bump perfection.”

“I think it’s Photoshopped these days. I don’t care what I look like, as long as I have a perfect baby.”

“She of the flat tummy said. Just you wait.” She ran her hands over her belly. “Even this dress is getting tight.” She was wearing a stretchy, multicolored striped dress over tights and boots.

The kids were in the living room watching a Sesame Street DVD. She went in to kiss them good-bye, put on her raincoat, grabbed her umbrella, and was gone.

Back in the living room, I said, “Hey, guys. What do you say we turn off the TV. Are you hungry?”

“Yes!” They jumped to their feet and Myla switched off the TV.

“Come to the kitchen. You can help me make chocolat chaud.”

Once they’d eaten their buttered baguette dipped in the rich cocoa, they decided it was music lesson time.

At the piano, they clamored for one song after another. At eleven-thirty, they had mastered “Chopsticks” and were moving rapidly into “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”

“Where’s Mommy?” asked Myla, running her fingers up and down the keys.

Good question. “She’ll be back soon.” A routine checkup shouldn’t take this long.

I set the kids up with a DVD and called Sho on her cell phone but it went to voice mail.

Once the DVD was over, I gave the kids lunch and settled them with drawing paper and colored pencils on the kitchen table. It was past one.

I called again, with the same result.

Then I called Josh. Voice mail.

I texted Laurent out of a meeting and he called back a few minutes later. He was reassuring but I wasn’t reassured. I vacuumed the rug.

At two I put the kids down for a nap.

Where was Shoshanna?

At two twenty-five the phone rang. I almost jumped out of my skin in my hurry to answer it.

It was Josh.

“Shoshanna’s in the hospital. She had the baby.”