CHAPTER 20

Jacqueline

Monday dawned bright and cold. Figured. For once there was sun in Belgium and all I could see was how it spotlighted every defect, every speck of dust. The procedure was swift. I sleepwalked through most of it. The drugs helped.

Upon returning home, I went back to bed. This time, my legs could barely hold me up. Someone had put on fresh sheets. Not smoothed out the way I liked them but I was too groggy to care. They were soft and smelled like summer.

By the time I woke up, it was dark. I wrapped myself in a cream pashmina and went downstairs.

Laurent was sitting at his keyboard, looking a bit rumpled in jeans and an unironed shirt. He had earphones on and hadn’t heard me come in. I went over to him and smoothed back his hair. He looked up and pulled me down on the bench next to him, removing the earphones. He hung on to my hand.

“I’m happy you’re up. How do you feel?” he asked.

“Okay. I feel okay.” I was spotting a bit, but really couldn’t feel anything.

“Are you hungry?”

I wasn’t. “Maybe a little,” I said. To have this talk, I needed him not to be worried, to trust that I was back to normal. “Working on something?”

“Yeah. I was about to go to Alain’s house. We’re going to play around with it a bit. And to rehearse for our gig at Soleil Bleu.”

“That’s right. I’d completely forgotten.”

“We both had other things on our mind.”

“I’m fine. Come on, let’s have some wine and cheese.” I closed the fallboard and stood, pulling him up.

“I didn’t buy any bread.”

“We’ll figure it out.” We went to the kitchen and I yanked open the refrigerator door. It felt like months rather than days since I’d been here. “Oh, I know. What about this?”

“David’s care package from Thanksgiving. I’d forgotten about it,” he said.

Tears pricked my eyes. On Thanksgiving, I’d still been blissfully pregnant. I swallowed. “Let’s heat it up. It would be a crime to let it go to waste.”

“I’ll get the wine,” said Laurent.

Once we were seated with David’s feast in front of us, I found that I did have an appetite.

Laurent filled our glasses. “Did you give any thought to calling that therapist?”

“No. I don’t need it. What I do need is something no therapist can give me.” I drank. “This is nice. What is it?” I turned the bottle to look at the label. A Chateauneuf-du-Pape.

He cut a piece of duck. “Jacqueline, it’s too soon.”

“I’m not entirely sure I believe that. I think it’s just standard procedure. She’s worried about my psychological state. But again”—I took a bite of gratin dauphinois—“I’m fine. Or I will be once we get another baby on the way.”

Laurent sighed and put down his knife and fork. He took a big gulp of wine before speaking. “I don’t think I can do it again.”

“What?” I stopped eating.

“It’s too hard, Jacqueline. On you, on me, on us.”

“But that doesn’t mean we should give up. Is that what you want? To give up?” I realized I was becoming shrill. I took a deep breath and drained my glass of wine.

“You see? What it’s doing to you?” His tone was gentle.

“But we want children.” I didn’t understand.

“Of course. But I also want to live. Now. Not throw all my heart into a future that I have no control over.”

“So, you don’t want a baby anymore?” I banged my knife against the edge of my plate. “Sorry.”

“I don’t want another three-ring circus of hormones and doctors’ appointments. More hormones, Jackie?” He shook his head.

“If that’s what it takes. It’s not that bad,” I lied.

“No? I’ve had a lot of time these past few days to do research on IVF. It’s not a panacea.”

“You Google a subject and all of a sudden you’re an expert?” I drummed my fingers on the table.

“It’s nuts. Did you know that some people go broke putting themselves through several IVF attempts? Sometimes, it never takes. I’ve been giving this a lot of thought. I want you back. I want us back.” He tried to take my hand but I snatched it away. Then I reconsidered, and placed my hand in his.

I took a deep breath. “We can have it all. Us and a baby. You’re not really giving up on our baby, are you?”

“Stay here.” He got up and left the room. When he returned he was carrying a manila file. “This,” he said, handing me the file, “could be our answer.”

I looked at the folder on the table. In his neat European script, he’d written Adoption across the top.

I stood, nearly toppling my chair. I grabbed it just in time.

“Pas question! Out of the question.” I couldn’t even look at it.

“But why?” He picked up the folder and held it toward me.

“Because! Because . . . I want my own baby.” I was blinking back tears. “I mean our own.”

“I think you were right the first time.”

“Just . . . take that thing away.” I wrapped the pashmina tight around my body and went upstairs. There were things I could not talk about. Not even to Laurent.

Back in my bedroom, I heard the clink of plates and silverware, water running. Then silence. I sat on the bed and waited for him to come up.

Then came the sound of the front door opening and closing.

I stood and remade the bed, exactly the way I liked it. Then I got in, curled into a ball, and pulled the covers over my head.

The next morning we managed to avoid saying a single word to each other.

 

The advantage of not having announced my pregnancy was that I didn’t have to tell anyone in the company what had happened. Laurent had been right about that.

It felt good to be back at the theater. The people surrounding me were like a motley second family. I embraced Thierry, having forgiven him his betrayal from a few weeks back. François was almost dancing in his excitement.

“Allez. Let us begin,” he said.

Odd. The concert was a tradition. We knew the drill, though the selection changed every year. But this was our time to relax and enjoy. I felt light and happy. Here, I wasn’t the one who couldn’t. I was good enough. Better than good enough. And with a light rehearsal schedule, no stress about learning lines, great clothes and makeup but no elaborate costumes and accessories, I was excited. It would be just us and the musicians. It would be me as me on the stage, not me playing a part.

I opened my mouth, prepared to sing, but nothing came out.

 

I didn’t want to talk. To go home. To see anyone I knew. I ducked into a café and ordered coffee, but didn’t drink it. The garçon came over to ask me if anything was wrong with the coffee. What was he, American? I shook my head. Put some coins on the table and fled.

I ended up at Edith Cavell and sat by Rachel for a while. One of the nurses came over and placed a hand on my shoulder. “No singing today?” she asked.

“No,” I whispered. “My voice is tired.”

“That happens. You should drink some hot tea with lemon and honey.”

She left and I whispered to Rachel, “Beautiful little baby. It’s all in front of you. Be deliriously happy. And strong.”

Back outside, I wandered. It was dark, though it couldn’t be later than five-thirty or so. Without realizing where I was heading I ended up at the one place I needed to be, the one place I could be. I used my key to let myself in.

My grandmother’s face lit up at the sight of me.

I burst into tears.

And told her everything. Almost. How unbearable it was to lose yet another baby, how I knew I should get some therapy but was afraid, Laurent and his adoption file, Rachel, Shoshanna moving away. And how I’d lost my voice. Maybe this time for good.

“Nonsense,” she said. “What you need, is some food. Unless you’re sick? You are not sick, are you?”

“No.” Just my heart.

“Then you need food. Ça va s’arranger.”

I sighed. “I’m not hungry.”

“L’appétit vient en mangeant.” Your appetite will come as you eat.

She poured me a glass of Martini blanc—sweet white vermouth in a small glass with one ice cube. I sipped it. It tasted both sweet and bitter at the same time. The cool syrupy drink slid easily down my throat.

“What are you making?” I asked.

“Just a biftek-frites-salade.” Steak, french fries, and salad, one of Belgium’s national dishes, the other being mussels and frites. Mamy used a lot of garlic when cooking her steaks. It was wonderful.

“Let me help,” I said.

“You should rest.” She took her yellow bowl and went to the cellar. When she came back, it was filled with potatoes.

“I’ve been resting. I need to do something,” I said.

She eyed me and probably decided I could be trusted around a knife.

“Alors, peel these.” She handed me the bowl. “I’m going to telephone Laurent and tell him you’re having dinner with me.”

“Okay.” I set to work. I unfolded a section of yesterday’s newspaper over the table and started peeling. I listened to her speaking with my husband with half an ear.

It felt good to be doing something, anything I could actually complete. Once peeled, the potatoes were set to soak in water, so some of the starch would seep out. While they were soaking I peeled and crushed garlic while my grandmother washed and spun some lettuce for our green salad. Once the potatoes were dried and sliced into thick sticks, she began the actual cooking. I cringed a bit at the amount of butter she used for the steak but the aroma of garlic butter was intoxicating. While she was busy, I set the table in the other room. In traditional Belgian homes, the kitchen was for cooking, not for eating. A kitchen in which you ate was called, unsurprisingly, a cuisine américaine.

The bell rang.

“Answer the door, ma belle.” I hoped it wasn’t Laurent. I just wanted to be alone with my grandmother. Have dinner. Watch some TV with her after the dishes were done. I opened the door and there stood David, holding a pie.

“David?”

“Right the first time.”

“What are you doing here?”

“You have just perfected the art of the gracious welcome,” he said. “Well? May I come in or shall I just stand out here freezing my tush off and letting a perfectly wonderful apple pie go to waste. Besides, shouldn’t you be at rehearsal? You’re dressed for it.”

I was still in my black rehearsal clothes. “Of course. I’m sorry. Come in.” I stepped aside, still perplexed.

Mamy Elise came into the hallway drying her hands on a dishtowel. “David. How nice. Right on time. Ah! La belle tarte. Merci.” He kissed her on the cheek. She took the pie from him before disappearing back into the kitchen.

“Fais comme d’habitude,” she said.

“Merci.”

Comme d’habitude? As usual? He noticed my confusion and reddened a bit.

“Do you make a habit of this?” We walked to the dining room.

“Well, I adore your grandmother, that’s no secret.” He sat.

“No, you’re not alone in that,” I said. I got him a glass from the cabinet. I held up the bottle of vermouth.

He nodded. “Exactly. So, once or twice a week, I come over and have dinner with her. She always makes too much for just one. Then I clean up and we play cards.”

The vermouth I was pouring sloshed over the side of the glass.

He got up and got a dishrag to wipe up the spill. “Gin, actually. She’s a master card shark.”

I thought back to the endless games we used to play when I was living here and going to school. She was fierce. I felt myself melt a bit. “That is so incredibly sweet. But why didn’t you tell me?”

“I have a reputation to preserve. I’m supposed to be the single gay man living the high life.” He took a sip of his drink. “Needs ice. I’ll get it.” He went back to the kitchen.

“And instead,” I said, when he returned, “you spend your evenings playing cards with my grandmother.”

“Not all of them. Are you mad at me for not telling you?”

“No. Just . . . surprised.”

“I’ll get the wine.” He went to the cellar to fetch a bottle.

When he got back, I said, “Still. You could have told me.”

“I didn’t want you to think that I was stomping on your turf.” He got the corkscrew out of the drawer and opened the wine.

“Is that what you think I’m like?”

“I know what you’re like. You, darling Jacqueline, are a cat. Very territorial.” He set the open bottle in the center of the table.

I’d been compared to much worse so I let it go. Besides, he was right.

“I like coming here. She tells the best stories.” He grinned.

“And gives the best advice.”

“And makes the best frites in a country known for the quality of its fried potatoes.”

“A table!” My grandmother came in bearing the meat and salad. “Sit down and help yourselves while I get the potatoes.”

The wine was still a bit cool from having resided in the cellar but it would warm up quickly in the cozy room. It was like being in a museum dedicated to my family. Photographs from the beginning of the last century up to the most recent school pictures of her great-grandchildren adorned every wall and flat surface.

She may live alone, but if photographs did in fact contain parts of their subjects’ spirits, she lived in a crowded house, surrounded by generation upon generation of love.

As usual my grandmother was right. Once I started eating, my appetite came. It was wonderful—the steak was seared to perfection, the frites were crisp and golden on the outside and fluffy on the inside, light, not greasy. The vinegar in the salad cut the richness and cleansed the palate.

When we were finished, we cleared the table and attacked David’s pie—and it was a pie, not une tarte. A real deep-dish American apple pie with just the right combination of tart and sweet, not too much cinnamon and a crust so flaky it was like eating the wings of angels.

“What’s your secret? For the crust?” I asked him.

“I’ll never tell.”

“Maybe if I threw the rest of the pie at you?” I looked at the pie, then at him.

“Ice water. And frozen butter,” he said.

“I’ll try it.” I helped myself to a second piece.

Then we played cards. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so relaxed.

Around ten, David stood and stretched. “I’d better get home and try to restore a bit of my self-respect. Good thing we never play for money or you two would have cleaned me out. I would have had to look for a new place to live.”

“Like grandmother, like granddaughter,” I said, grinning.

“Already I regret giving you the secret to my crust.”

Mamy Elise patted David’s hand. “But you are improving. Maybe one day you will win.”

“Unless I begin to play your great-grandchildren, I’m not counting the seconds. And I would never put money on it.”

“You are a wise man,” said my grandmother. He kissed her cheek and I walked him to the door.

“You bring her so much joy,” I whispered.

“It’s reciprocal. There’s no one else like her. Especially not in my family. Are you okay? Are you sure you don’t want me to get you home?” He glanced at my middle. “I didn’t ask you about . . .” His eyes came back to mine.

“Yeah. I’m okay. It’s . . . hard. Thanks for not talking about it tonight.”

“Kind of what I figured.” He opened the door and a blast of freezing wind hit us.

“Jacqueline! Close the door. You are letting the cold in.”

He took a finger and rubbed it under one eye, then the other. “Smudged mascara. Very unlike you.” Then he was gone, holding his empty pie plate under his arm.

I returned to the living room where Mamy was sitting in the soft glow of the floor lamps. She looked twenty-five years younger. Knowing the benefits of good lighting was a talent.

“I should go too.” But I sat down next to her.

“Jacqueline?” She was playing a game of solitaire.

“Oui?” Maybe I should just stay here tonight.

“You must try to understand why you want a baby, a family,” said my grandmother. “What is it that would make you want to risk your marriage, your profession—”

“But—”

“Let me finish. A baby isn’t just about blood.” She turned over a nine of spades and placed it on the ten of hearts.

“But it’s not really a part of the family. It won’t resemble any of us. Inherit any of our traits.” I indicated all the photographs around the room.

“And so it wouldn’t be worthy of love?” My grandmother put down her cards and looked at me.

“That’s not the point. But I’ve read that the bond comes when you are carrying the baby. I’ve felt it.” I wanted the picture of my baby on the mantel. Or the wall. Or the buffet. Or all three. He or she would look like a mixture of my mother and Laurent. With someone else’s baby, you missed out on all that.

She sighed. Took a sip of water from her glass. “Would you like some? Help yourself.” She pointed to the bottle of Spa Reine in front of us.

I poured myself a glassful. “You had your own children. You can’t know what it’s like.”

“True.” She stood and straightened an already-straight photograph on the wall. “I am going to tell you a secret.”

My heart was beating hard.

“Your aunt Charlotte. She couldn’t have her own children.” She turned back toward me.

It didn’t register. “But Pierre and Maxime—”

“Are adopted.”

I was stunned. “Do they know?”

“Oui. But no one else does. I don’t know why she wants to keep it a secret. It seems silly, after all these years. It’s her choice. But listen to my words.” My grandmother sat back down and took my hand.

Still reeling, I tried to focus on what she was telling me.

“Carrying the baby is but a small part of having children,” she went on. “The loving them and taking care of them, that is what makes the family.”

“But if I hadn’t been my mother’s real daughter, would you have taken me in?”

“Do you think it would have made a difference?”

“I don’t know,” I said in a small voice.

“You are my grandchild, regardless. As are Pierre and Maxime.” With that, she released my fingers and gathered up the cards that were still scattered on the table.

“I don’t want to stop trying.”

“Why? Did you ever consider that there is a reason you cannot conceive? That there is a baby out there who needs you to be his mother?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“Consider this. If Rachel were an orphan, what would you do?”

“But I love Rachel! As if . . .” As if she were my own.

“Exactement,” she replied. “I am not telling you what you should do. I’m asking you not to reject Laurent’s idea without giving it serious thought.” She shuffled the cards and began a new round.

 

When I got home, I wasn’t sleepy. I put the piece of pie for Laurent in the kitchen. He wasn’t back from his rehearsal yet.

In the bedroom I opened the bottom drawer of my bureau and carefully removed a tissue-wrapped bundle from under a stack of T-shirts. I then unfolded and looked at every bootie, every sweater, every Petit Bateau onesie, every hat, every minute sock I’d bought over the past two months. Impossibly tiny. I stared at my clandestine purchases for what seemed like a long time.

I was inalterably flawed. Never would I live up to my father’s image of what he thought I should be. My stabs at perfection were wounding not only me, but everyone I loved.

When Laurent came in, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed from the night chill, he found me cross-legged on the bed surrounded by baby clothes.

“What’s all this?” He looked panicked.

“It’s clothes. For a baby. What does it look like, the makings of coq au vin?” I got off the bed and walked into his arms.

And I cried.

Again.

“Does this mean you’ve changed your mind?” He still had his worn leather jacket on, his musician’s jacket I called it. It was soft against my skin.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what it means.” I looked at the baby picture my father had sent. It was now framed and sitting on my nightstand.

He stiffened a bit.

“Can you give me some time? Can we maybe not talk about it right now?”

He nodded and kissed my hair. I turned my face and found his lips. We undressed each other and made love among the tiny clothes on the bed. For once, I didn’t stop to turn down the sheets. Afterward, I clung to him, hard. I had to hang on, because if he knew the truth, he wouldn’t love me anymore.