Seven Letters from Paris (21 page)

“Now I'm investing in you.”

What a man. He would stick with me in any crisis.

Jean-Luc's tone turned serious. “Have you told Chris yet?”

“He's last on the list, but I'm getting to it.”

“I'm proud of you,” said Jean-Luc.

“Proud?”

“For being so strong.”

At the time, I didn't see myself as strong. The stress was overwhelming and I was beginning to question my sanity. I wondered if I would be able to accomplish everything I needed to do to get my life back on track. My checklist was a mess of illegible scribbles. The more I thought about what I needed to do, the longer the list grew. I called Tracey, needing to hear a friendly voice.

“Can you come visit me before I move to France?” I asked.

“When were you thinking?”

“Well, I'm supposed to go back in April, so March?”

“I'll look into the tickets the second we hang up,” she said. “I can't believe you're moving to France. It's crazy.”

I gulped. This was all so crazy. Reality was beginning to sink in. Moving to another country was a daunting experience, to say the least. What was I getting myself into? Since I was in list mode, I decided to make one of all the pros and cons of marrying Jean-Luc and moving to France:

CONS

1. I would be far away from my family and friends.

2. I didn't speak the language that well.

3. I'd become an instant parent.

PROS

1. I'd spent the last year living at home with my parents, and France was only a flight away. I could always come back home when I wanted to.

2. I would make new friends. And all of my friends in the States were dying to visit me in France—especially my sister.

3. I'd be immersed in French society, so obviously my French would improve.

4. Jean-Luc's kids and I got along really well. I'm sure they had room in their hearts for me.

5. Moving to a new country would be an adventure.

6. I couldn't imagine a life without Jean-Luc. I loved him.

All of the pros canceled out the cons, and the revelation I'd had on Christmas Eve slammed my brain. I remembered I was fighting for love. If this was all crazy, let the crazy begin. I could deal with the stress, but the items on my to-do list weren't going to check themselves off. There was only one person I could rely on to pull me through the sludge of life: me and only me.

My bank account was just shy of being negative. I really needed money. I called Stacy to let her know I was ready and willing to do overnights, but that I'd only be able to walk Kira, the husky, since she was in my neighborhood and I was turning my car in. After hanging up with Stacy, I left a voice mail message for my recruiter—and then for good measure, I emailed her. I sent a couple of résumés off to a few more freelance opportunities I'd found on Craigslist. I called the bank and alerted them to my misfortune, letting them know I was going through bankruptcy proceedings and I would be surrendering my car. For the rest of the afternoon, I worked on my taxes. Because I'd cashed in my 401(k) early, I watched my return go from being positive to owing three hundred dollars. My stomach plummeted too. Exhausted, I flopped down on my bed. I was just about to doze off to sleep when the phone rang. It was the estate agent who was working on selling my rings.

“Good news, bad news,” she said. “What do you want first?”

I craved good news. “The good.”

“Well, we sold the tea set.”

“That's great.” I sat straight up, wide awake. “And the bad news?”

“I spoke with my jewelry expert and she has an offer on your rings. It's not quite what you hoped for, but she believes it's as good as it's going to get.”

The dollar amount was disappointing, but I wasn't going to press my luck, considering nobody in town wanted to give me more than two thousand. I did the math in my head. “I'll take it.”

“I'll drop a check in the mail tomorrow.”

I breathed out a sigh of relief so hearty it could rustle every leaf on every tree in the canyon.

While I still had the car and health insurance, I made an appointment with my doctor for my annual Pap smear. During the routine breast exam, she expressed concern over a few lumps she'd felt in my right breast. We scheduled a mammogram and ultrasound. Just like when I had found the lump when I was sixteen, I was constantly grabbing my breast, poking and prodding—more than worried. I wasn't sixteen anymore.

• • •

Two weeks later, two tattooed thugs came to pick up my car. I didn't make eye contact. I just handed over the keys and didn't say a word. A few hours later, I received the certified copy of my divorce decree, which was a blessing, but I also got a letter from the Los Angeles County vital record's office saying they didn't have records of my birth. I soon learned that because I was half-adopted, my records were sealed in Sacramento, and I had to contact the California Department of Public Health (CDPH), whose website stated it could take up to eighteen weeks to receive a birth certificate. Without a birth certificate that was issued and certified within the past six months, I couldn't get married to Jean-Luc.

Anger set in.

Damn that Chuck. Once again, my biological father had messed up my life. Had it not been for him, my birth certificate would be in my hand, delivered within two weeks.

Since I didn't have a car anymore, I stormed one mile up the canyon roads in the heat to walk Kira, hoping her owner, Barbara, an attorney, would be home. About my mom's age, Barbara was my favorite dog-walking client because she didn't treat me like lowly help but as a friend. Breathless, when I opened the front door, I was thrilled to find her sitting at the computer in the living room. With a quivering chin, I filled her in on my dilemma.

“It's election time, Samantha. You were smart to start by writing the CDPH. If that doesn't work, move on to big guys, like the senator or maybe even the governor. In fact, I wouldn't waste any time. Do it now. Their offices for constituents are just for that—to help people in their districts. It can't hurt.” Barbara pumped her fist in victory. “Fight for your love. I'm rooting for you.”

I wrote to every state official in California, begging for their help. Then I broke the news to Jean-Luc.

“Honey, don't get so upset,” he said. “For now, we just have to keep moving forward with what we've got. Scan your old birth certificate and your divorce decree, send them to me, and I'll get everything translated while you track down the originals. And now that you have the decree, hire the attorney to execute the
certificat
de
coutume
and
non-remariage
. Don't stress. It will all work out.”

But what if it didn't?

“Breathe in, breathe out. You can do this. You are a fearless adventuress,” became my mantra. The three dozen orange and hot pink roses Jean-Luc sent on Valentine's Day solidified this new sentiment of power. And the email Jean-Luc sent later that day pushed me onward.

To: Samantha

From: Jean-Luc

Subject: Joyeuse Saint-Valentin

My Love,

Your first look this morning will turn to this message, and in my words you will see all the love that I carry for you. When we met, you were just a teenager and I was a young man, but a page of love was already writing itself—one page in a history book, our history with a capital H. This book was then closed as quickly as it was opened. Then one day in May 2009, twenty years later, the book was opened and the blank pages were filled with words of love…again and again.

This is what I did, what we did, every minute, every hour of every day since the month of May. I've got your heart in my hand and I will protect it as a priceless treasure. My words are never wasted when they speak or sing of My Love for You. The book is open today…Love…on this first Valentine's Day that we share for the first time. My heart beats for you as it never has previously beaten. I am faithful to your soul and your body. I am faithful to our oath. I'm faithful to my commitment. I am a man so in love, with you my princess, my beauty, my belle.

I love you. Happy Valentine's Day. Don't worry. Everything will work out. We will be together.

Jean-Luc, your man

Yes. I could do this. With love on my side, I could do anything, and I was fighting for it tooth and nail. Jean-Luc and I would be together, no matter the problems I faced.

The next item to check off the list was financial and extraordinarily stressful. My mother drove me to my bankruptcy hearing. I ran into the building to search out my attorney while she searched for a parking spot. Nausea set in. My palms perspired. My attorney waited for me in room number 110. Shannon rushed toward me. “You have your ID and social security card?”

My stomach dropped. “Social security card?” I held up my finger. A reminder email would have been nice. “Excuse me, I'll be right back.”

Love wasn't going to help me out with this oversight. Then again, maybe it would?

I dashed into the hallway, scrambled for my cell phone, and called my mom, frantic. “Mom, please, can you go back home and get my social security card? It's in the white desk in the little drawer.” I was practically hyperventilating. “They need it.”

“Sam, Sam, it's okay. Calm down. I'm on my way.”

I headed back to the room of doom and gloom where Shannon handed me a piece of paper. It was an old unemployment stub, which listed my social on it. “I hope this will do. But who knows?” She pointed to a pair of stainless steel doors. “Follow me.”

A man sat in front of a long metal desk, a woman typing by his side. Two tables faced them on either side of the room, like a capital letter
I
. There were about fifty chairs lined up in rows, some of them filled with people who all wore the same fearful expression as I did. I bit down on my bottom lip. Shannon led us to empty seats and motioned for me to sit down. She whispered, “When they call your name, you sit at the table closest to the door. I'll take the seat across from you.” I nodded in understanding. “Just answer the questions honestly and it should be fine.”

I looked at my watch. It was 11:30 a.m.—my judgment time. My name was called and my mom still hadn't returned. How did I overlook the social security card? The trustee spoke into a tape recorder, stating my name and case number, and that we were entering chapter 7 proceedings. Over his glasses, he peered at me and asked for my identification. I handed him my Illinois driver's license and my unemployment stub.

Shannon piped up. “She doesn't have her card with her, but we have a receipt for unemployment.”

The trustee nodded. “Let the records show a government-issued document is being supplied for proof of social security.”

The woman seated next to him typed away. I breathed out a sigh of relief as I was sworn in. The trustee flipped through the pages in my file. “You're including your car in these proceedings?”

“Yes. I voluntarily surrendered it last week.”

“And your total debt, not including the car, is twenty thousand dollars?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It states here you are a dog walker.” I grunted out a yes. “And you bring in approximately one hundred dollars a week?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where do you live?”

“Right now, at home with my parents.”

I sank lower and lower into my seat.

“You're recently divorced?”

I shifted in the hard, wooden chair. “Yes.”

“You don't receive any support from your ex-husband?”

“No.”

“And he can't help you with this debt?”

I choked back a laugh. The debt on Chris's cards was worse than mine. “No.”

The trustee squinted at a page before him. “You receive about fourteen hundred a month with unemployment. It won't go on forever. When does it run out?”

“In one month.”

The trustee scanned through the documents, shaking his head in disapproval, clucking his tongue. His eyes shot daggers in my attorney's direction. “With these sloppy financials, you have her coming in each month with a surplus of cash. Your projections are useless. Her unemployment runs out soon and she obviously won't be living with her parents forever.”

Shannon's draw dropped. “But she comes under the means—”

“Means or not, in this sloppy financial statement, you don't project rent, utilities, her health bills, anything.”

To qualify for chapter 7, my documents had to prove I didn't have enough disposable income to pay my bills, otherwise known as the “means test.” Apparently, Shannon's projections were shoddy, and the mention of health care had me cringing with fear. Financial ruin wasn't my greatest worry. The previous week, my Pap smear had come back abnormal and my doctor wanted to perform further tests to rule out cervical cancer. I was trying my best to remain optimistic, but it was hard—especially when I was reminded of the mammograms, ultrasounds, and the cone biopsy I'd just scheduled and the fact that my temporary health insurance only covered a portion of the costs for these tests. My hand moved to my armpit.

“But she comes under the means. I show she—” interjected Shannon, but the trustee cut her off.

Everybody in the room stared at us, their eyes jumping from me to my hack attorney. I wanted to scream.

“I'm calling for a continuance so you're able to get your client's financial statement organized. In addition to this, I'll need to see proof of expenditures. If everything is in order when you refile, there will be no reason to appear here again.” He scribbled something down onto a pad. “I expect all papers to be in my possession one month from today.”

Before we parted ways, Shannon placed her hand on my back. “Don't worry. We'll fix this.”

I forced a smile and, through clenched teeth, my words came out slowly and purposefully. I shrugged her hand off my body. “I'll get proof of my expenditures and estimates for everything else in the morning, including my recent doctor bills and estimates for the tests I'm going to have to go through.”

Shannon shuffled out the door and down the hall. I went outside and called my mom, my hands shaking in anger, my body trembling with fear. Ten minutes later, I climbed into her SUV. “I'm sorry I sent you all the way home for nothing.”

“It'll all work out, Sam. Seems the trustee was looking out for your best interests. And I've brought some good news with me.”

Good news? Yeah, right, like maybe I won the lottery?

My mom handed over two letters, one from Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger's office of constituents and one from Senator Pavley's office, both offering assistance in helping me obtain my birth certificate. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

My mind went from pissed off and angry to floating in a state I called absolute euphoria.

Until the next bomb hit, when Jean-Luc called me.

“Honey, I've got some bad news,” he says. “Every document needs to be certified by your government.”

I hissed through my teeth, “But they
are
certified.”

“Not with an Apostille.”

I knew exactly what an Apostille was. I also knew they were not always required. Now I had to send each document to the Secretary of State of its issuing state to obtain a special seal certifying that my already-certified documents were true copies of the originals.

I squeezed my eyes shut. “I can't get my birth certificate certified with an Apostille when I don't even have my birth certificate. What if it doesn't come in time? We can't have a wedding celebration if we aren't even married. Maybe we should put off the friends and family ceremony until we know what's going on?”

“We can't,” said Jean-Luc. “My entire family has already booked their tickets. It's the trip of their lives.” He cleared his throat. “There's something else.”

“What?”

“The
mairie
won't accept the documents we hired the attorney to draw up. Apparently, we need to pick up the forms at the consulate in Marseilles.”

Hot tears of frustration streamed down my face. I gasped. “This is a nightmare.”

“Honey, you're upset.”

“Of course I'm upset! We're hitting one roadblock after the other. I just wish something would come easily for once. This is ridiculous.” I paused. “Did you have this much trouble when you married Natasha?”

“No,” he answered flatly. “Just you.”

I flopped back on my bed. There was only one thing I could do: cross my fingers and hope for the best. “Send me all the documents back so I can take care of this.”

Out of curiosity, I Googled Natasha to learn she'd gotten remarried sometime in February. I found a picture of her looking like a giant cream puff in a wedding dress, standing next to a skinny guy in a tux. She'd married another Frenchman. I emailed the link to Jean-Luc. Jean-Luc emailed back:

Good for her. She looks happy, my little spy. I guess this means I should stop paying for her apartment.

I wondered why Jean-Luc and I were having so many problems. Clearly, Natasha was free and clear.

Over the next few days, I received word from Chris that death was knocking on Ike's door. He couldn't seem to bounce back from a case of pneumonia and now his organs were failing. He wasn't eating or walking and Chris had to use a special harness to lift him up. I asked him to set up Skype on his computer so I could say good-bye to my dog.

Ike's eyes were glazed and sad. He was sprawled out on the floor, panting. I told him what a sweet boy he was, how proud I was of him. And then I burst into tears. “You have to end his suffering,” I said. “This isn't the Ike I know. He can't even wag his tail.”

“I know, Sam,” said Chris. “But this is so hard.”

He could barely speak.

“I didn't mean to send you a sick dog,” I said.

“I know,” he said.

“We did our best for Ike.”

“I know,” he said. “Sam, please tell me our marriage wasn't all bad. We had some good times, right?”

“Of course we did.”

“I wish we had been better to each other. I've got to go,” he said. “I can't—”

“I understand.”

Trembling and holding back my tears, I closed out of Skype.

The following day, Chris sent a disheartening email, asking me to call him again. Ike was unable to move, and his body just trembled and shook. With my blessing, Chris scheduled Ike's euthanasia. He wasn't living a dog's life anymore. Hard as it was, I had to support this decision.

Chris and I talked and shared emails, grieving over the loss of our furry replacement child. In a way, Ike was my last link to my ex-husband. Now, before more damage could be done, it was finally time to tell Chris about Jean-Luc, about the kids, and our plans to get married. So I did.

“I've met somebody,” I said.

“Oh.”

“We're getting married.”

He sucked in his breath. “What?”

“I'm moving to France”

We didn't say anything for a moment.

“Well, I hope you've found what you're looking for, that you'll be happy.” His voice caught in his throat. “God, Sam, I wish I could have been that person, the one to turn the light on in you, not extinguish it. Whoever he is, he's a really lucky man.”

He apologized for his past actions. I apologized for mine. We were both sorry. We were good—or as good as we could ever be. I could finally move on. Well, if the French government would let me.