Seven Letters from Paris (5 page)

I would take all my valuables and breakables in six plastic containers in the rental Jessica had helped to arrange. In California, Ike could swim and go to the beach; he wouldn't have to struggle up three flights of stairs, huffing and wheezing. Chris and I had both agreed the lifestyle change would be good for our furry kid.

Jessica walked by the dining room table and picked up the Nambé salt and pepper shakers, which had been a wedding present. She dropped them into one of the open containers. “You might need these.”

Like I needed a hole in my head. I pulled them out. “I'm trying to pack light.”

She crinkled her brows. “But you're hardly taking anything.”

I looked at the furniture, at the things we'd accumulated over the years. “It's just stuff.”

Reminders of a life I was leaving behind. But I knew moving on wouldn't be easy.

Two days before I hightailed it out of town, my husband returned to our apartment, needing closure. He also wanted to say good-bye to Ike. No matter how Jean-Luc's letters affected me, no matter how hard I tried to fight it, I opened up the door and welcomed guilt back into my life. Chris told me what a wonderful woman I was, how he wanted to start a family with me, everything I'd needed to hear. We talked about everything, every sin we'd committed against one another, the good and the bad and the ugly, and we confessed and professed. For once, blame was left out the equation. He almost convinced me to stay. Almost.

“While you were gone, I started communicating with another man,” I said.

“You're having an affair?”

“No,” I said. “Just exchanging emails.”

I was expecting an explosion. It didn't come. A vision of the man I'd married almost twelve years prior flashed in my memories—a man no longer recognizable to me.

“Well, stop,” he said. “Do it now. End it. For us.”

Maybe Chris was right. Maybe there still was an
us
. But if there was, why did I feel like it was too late? I kept those reservations to myself.

“Okay,” I agreed, wondering if there was something, a lifeline, in this marriage I could hang on to.

We talked and we cried and we talked.

After twelve years of misunderstandings and hurt feelings, we were finally communicating, but the damage had been done, the flames smoldering for far too many years. Guilt set in. I was drowning. The demise of our marriage could only be blamed on one person: me. I never expressed my feelings to Chris, and over the years, everything I'd once felt for him had just shut down. I was so detached, so emotionless; I didn't recognize this cold side of myself. When communication broke down, even bigger problems emerged. It was too late. Love didn't come with a switch I could turn on and off when I wanted to.

I finally met his eyes. “I'm still going to California,”

“I know.” Chris wrung his hands. “Maybe this separation will be good for us.”

Ike followed me into the guest bedroom. Feeling like utter crap, I pulled out my computer and backed up my blog, archiving it to my desktop before deleting it. Then I sent Jean-Luc an email, ending our affair of letters. I didn't deserve his friendship. I was a spineless coward who had agreed to a temporary split with Chris just to avoid a war.

In the morning, before Krakatoa could erupt, spouting off in molten anger, Chris left the apartment, heading off on another business trip. From the balcony, I watched him get into the taxi. He looked up at me. I looked down on him. When he drove off, a dark cloud lifted off my heart. I could breathe again.

Letter Three

Paris, August 3, 1989

I eyed the bottle of vodka on the kitchen counter, then the clock, and then the bottle. How about a martini, Sam? It's five o'clock somewhere, right? And then I felt like a freak. My God, it wasn't even ten in the morning. Instead of bending to the temptation of drowning out my emotions, I headed for the master bath. I didn't need a shrink to tell me alcohol veils reality for a moment, oftentimes making it worse. And I certainly didn't need to be told I looked like total crap. All I needed to do was face the mirror. Who was that person? She'd really let herself go.

I was covered in black dog hair and I'd been wearing the same sweats for three days. My hair was greasy, my stomach was bloated, and my eyes were bloodshot. Not only that, there was a planet-sized zit on my chin. It used to be a source of pride for me to look nice—heels and makeup, lip gloss over lip balm. Grimacing, I pulled out the tweezers and plucked away, certain the old me lurked around somewhere.

Fifteen minutes later, I stepped into the shower…

Good lord, the hair on my legs was long, and my bikini line was reminiscent of the jungles of the Amazon. Break out the weed whacker. It was time for this woman to get some of her pride back. One hour and fifteen minutes later, it was time to go pick my mother up at the airport. I didn't know if I was ready for her. Not that she'd be checking out my bikini line.

I made it to the airport just in time, pulling up to baggage claim as planned. I stared at my mom for a moment or two. In high school, rumor had it the boys at school didn't show up at the basketball games for the games, or to see me cheerlead, but rather to check her out. While you could tell we were definitely mother and daughter, I was a more sinister version of the apple to her tree—my nose a little bigger, my blue eyes smaller, and my lips thinner. I'd tried to rectify that last physical insecurity with an injection of collagen when I was twenty-seven, only to end up with a bruised mouth I'd paid two hundred dollars for. I've since decided thin lips are sexy.

As usual, my mom looked fantastic, all tan and blond and bubbly and perky, a wide super-white smile spanning her face. She got into the car. “What's that on your chin?”

“It's a stress zit.” I lowered my voice. “Please don't talk about it. It will hear you, causing another one to appear.”

“Toothpaste will get rid of it. Or tea tree oil. Do you have any tea tree oil?”

“Ugh. Can we please not talk about it?”

“Sam, don't be rude. I'm only trying to help.”

“I know, Mom, thanks. For everything.” I bit down on my bottom lip. “Can we change the subject?”

“Of course. What do you want to talk about?”

Anything but my stress zit. “Tell me that story again.”

“Which one?”

“The one where you picked me up after not seeing me for a while, when I lived with Nanny and Poppy.”

“Oh, those three months without you were the worst in my life,” she said. “You were my little girl, my angel. I couldn't take another second without you. When I was settled in Chicago, Nanny and I decided to meet at the midway point, at a Holiday Inn in Kentucky. You guys were late. I was pacing the lobby of the hotel, waiting. Finally, I saw Nanny's red Dodge Duster pull into the parking lot, saw your little strawberry blond head in the backseat. I screamed, ‘My daughter, my daughter!' People must have thought I was crazy.”

“And then—”

“I ran out into the parking lot, opened the door, pulled you out of your car seat, and twirled you around and around, me crying like a fool, you giggling away. Once they figured out what was going on, everybody in the lobby applauded. They were pressed up against the window of the hotel, I swear.”

I shot my mom a sideways glance. She was getting all teary eyed. I was too. “Do you ever regret it?”

“What?”

“You had to put your dreams aside.” I choked back my words. “For me.”

My mom had had big aspirations when she was younger. She was going to be a famous ballerina, dancing in
Swan
Lake
, fluttering around in tutus and pink satin toe shoes with the New York City Ballet. At the age of eighteen, she'd moved to Manhattan to pursue this lofty ambition. She moved into one of those group apartments for girls, living with hopeful actresses, models, and dancers. As she waited for her dancing career to take off, she cocktail-waitressed at one of New York's most illustrious clubs, Salvation, on West Fourth and Seventh. Rock stars hung out there—legends like the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, along with wannabes like the guitar-playing Chuck, whose claim to fame was jamming with Jimi Hendrix.

A small-town Southern girl who moved around from military base to military base in her youth, my mother had never met a guy like Chuck before: he was a bad boy, dark and dangerous. He swept her off her feet and they married then moved to California, where he pursued his dreams of becoming a musician and she put her dreams on hold, working as a sales clerk in a clothing boutique. When she became pregnant with me, her toe shoes were hung up on a hook of unfulfilled dreams.

“Sam, dreams change.” Mom squeezed my hand. “And I've been living vicariously through you. I've tried to give you all the opportunities I didn't have. Like performing arts school. Like college.”

I gulped. “Well, at least you were a top model in Chicago.”

“A top junior model,” she corrected. “That's how I supported us. It was just you and me—”

“Until Dad came along.”

Before she'd met Tony, we lived in a basement apartment and she sometimes worked two jobs to pay the bills when bookings were slow. She made sure I had everything I needed—food on the table, clothes on my back, or a new Barbie doll. Funnily, I had never realized how very poor we were. She'd always provided for me, surrounding me with love.

My mom may not have achieved her dream of becoming a prima ballerina, but her love of dance turned into a career in the fitness industry. Now she was a volunteer, teaching yoga at the Greater Los Angeles Veterans Administration, helping veterans overcome post-traumatic stress disorder, brain injuries, and drug and alcohol addictions—a program she was instrumental in creating that was now going nationwide. I was so proud of her.

I was about to find myself in the same position she'd found herself in so long ago—broke, heavyhearted from a breakup, and about to move back home to her parents. The only difference was that I wasn't twenty-one with a small infant; I was almost forty and childless. It dawned on me that our lives may have taken different paths, but my mother was exactly like me. I could talk to her—really talk to her—and not just about the latest beauty treatments. With a thirty-five-hour road trip ahead of us, we had plenty of time.

“I know we talked about leaving on Sunday, but can we leave tomorrow?” I asked.

“I think that's an excellent idea.”

• • •

In the morning, we loaded up the rental minivan. Soon, the Chicago skyline disappeared from the rearview mirror. Fear had me shaking in my gym shoes. I clenched my teeth. My mother sat in the passenger seat, so excited she was practically bouncing up and down, a wide smile plastered on her face. Twenty miles into the drive, she blurted out, “I spoke to the woman who walks our dogs, and she's looking for some help. I suggested you.”

“Why? Does she need a website designed?”

“No, actually, she needs more dog walkers.”

“Wait. What?”

“It will be good for you until you land on your feet.”

“Great. Just great,” I said.

I had nothing but a mountain of debt. I was about to turn forty and I was moving back in with my parents. I'd just left the man I'd spent thirteen years with. I'd sabotaged my love affair of letters with Jean-Luc. And my mother had just asked me if I wanted to become a dog walker. This was not the way I'd mapped out my life.

My knuckles turned white as I gripped the steering wheel. “They have bridges in Los Angeles, right?”

“Yes. Why?”

“So I can throw myself off one when we get there.”

“Sam, that's not funny.” She huffed. “So when we get home, we have some work to do. Obviously, you need to have your hair highlighted. And look at those nails. They're a mess—”

“Yeah, I'm sure the dogs will judge me. They
are
from Malibu.”

My mother shot me her patented look, a half-disgusted sneer, half pout. The kind of look that made me feel bad in one flash second. “Don't be so rude. You don't have to walk dogs if you don't want to. I'm only trying to help.”

“I'm sorry, Mom. I'm dealing with a lot on my plate right now. I'm feeling overwhelmed.” I felt terrible for snapping at her, but I wasn't in the mood to plan anything. I was all talked out. “I have an idea. Why don't we listen to one of those books on tape you brought?”

“I know exactly which one,” said my mom.

She'd come prepared.

As Elizabeth Gilbert, a woman also leaving a long-term marriage, narrated her book
Eat,
Pray,
Love
along the not-scenic route to Omaha, Nebraska, we passed blurred cornfields and cows, cheese shops and strip clubs. We drove through a town named Marseilles, right when Liz said, “I wanted out of a marriage I didn't want to be in.” Although it was in Illinois, I couldn't stop thinking of France and a certain someone who lived there.

My mom was at the wheel when my cell phone buzzed. It was a text from Chris, calling me a freak, along with a few other choice words, for taking the salt and pepper shakers. I was about to call Jessica who, unbeknownst to me, had clearly decided I needed to spice up my life, when another text came in. Apparently Chris was in the process of hiring a divorce attorney who would work on both of our behalves, and since our marriage had essentially been over for more than six years, it was going to be quick.

Stunned, I read the messages out loud. I realized Chris was lashing out, but if there was ever a proverbial nail in the coffin, those two texts had hammered my decision in. I deleted the messages and I didn't respond. Forget about a separation. I knew I was never going back.

“You need to hire your own attorney,” Mom said. “You have to protect your best interests.”

“I am. I left him.”

“What about money?” she asked.

“Mom,” I said. “Everything is gone. There's nothing to split.”

“I'm surprised you didn't leave him years ago,” she said.

I knew how she felt about my husband. I'd been put in the middle of them, defending one against the other, which was tiring to say the least. In Chris's mind, I was married to him and therefore he was the only person who mattered in my life. I was the wife. Period. The fights about my mom started two years into our marriage, creating more than a wedge; it had driven us apart. As much as my mom had protected me over the years, I also protected her. To me, it wasn't a big deal that she occasionally interrupted our meals with phone calls. Look what she'd given up for me. But Chris didn't see it that way.

“I wanted to.”

My mom pinched her lips together, her eyes narrowed into a glare. By the way she was breathing, I could tell she wanted to say something else on the subject. For once, she held back. “Sam, I've said this to you time and time again. The most important thing for me is to see you happy. You've been punishing yourself for far too long and you're not the martyr type. Now that you're leaving him, I'm noticing positive changes.”

“Like what?”

“For one thing, you're actually talking to me again, not brushing me off.” She squeezed my hand tightly. “It's good to have the old Sam back. I've missed you.”

Jessica had said the exact same thing. I wondered how much marriage had changed me.

We arrived at our hotel at a little past eight in the evening and ordered room service. My mom and I got comfortable on the bed, both of us wearing yoga pants and T-shirts. I pulled out my computer and handed her Jean-Luc's letters from 1989 while I checked my email. Stunned, I stared at Jean-Luc's latest message, which described his scientific view of faith, how nature hates empty spaces and unbalanced systems, and how the world needs to be filled with wondrous things. Since he'd been on a business trip to Germany, I was pretty sure he hadn't read my last message. The more I thought about what I'd written to him, the more like an idiot I felt. “I wish I hadn't ruined things with Jean-Luc with the last email I sent,” I muttered. “He's going to hate me.”

Mom peered over her reading glasses. “Well, what you wrote couldn't have been that bad.”

“No, it was pretty bad.” I pulled up the email, cleared my throat, and I read. “Everything in a relationship is passionate in the beginning. But like a star, this kind of intensity fades in brightness over time. After time, things get comfortable—like an old pair of socks, holes included. I'm still leaving Chris, but I need some time to figure out what exactly it is that I'm looking for. Really, you are a truly incredible man, a gift. Our whirlwind of letters caught me off guard. And I wouldn't trade them in for anything in the world. I will be here for you. But right now, this love affair of letters has to stop, and I can only be your friend.”