Whispering in French Read online

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated with love and gratitude:

  to my parents, Marie-Solange Leglise and

  G. Richard N. H. Nash, who taught me

  courage by looking fear in the face;

  and to my editor, Carrie Feron, who taught me to dream.

  Epigraph

  “What is essential is invisible to the eye.” —Le Petit Prince

  “Fall down seven. Stand up eight.” —Old proverb

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .* About the Author

  About the Book

  Read On . . .

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  A lady of stone sleeps atop the peakery of the Pays Basque, each foot in a different country. Her dark hair spills in valleys carved from green, green mountains tumbling into the sea. As storm clouds scud above her tranquil profile crowned by martyrdom, dignity, and solitude, she dreams of trials suffered, won, and lost. Indeed, sometimes I wonder while walking in the valley below these mountains what she would do if she ever wakes up, breaks free of the roots that bind her, and finds her way far from the fog of the Cimmerian years that shroud her. Or will she continue to slumber, and slowly dissipate under the weight of the years until she melts into the granite core and nothing hints of the lost potential under the verdant spring grasses?

  I also sometimes wonder if I’ll ever wake up.

  Chapter One

  In a night sky salted with stars, the waxing moon unspooled its light over the jet’s wing. Inside, disconnectedness settled over the passengers of the Air France night flight to Paris. And in those murky hours after the food carts lurched down the aisles, the die-hards began a third film, exhausted infants surrendered to sleep, and the travelers in business class retreated ever further into the luxury of elbow-room anonymity.

  I don’t belong here. The bonhomie of economy is my standard. But Antoinette, during a familiar mother-daughter dance, with guilt and obligation as accompaniment, had asked me to handle a family matter in France and had eased her maternal conscience by putting me beside people of a class of which she almost approved. But I knew the other truth. Antoinette had likely purchased the upgrade because she thought I’d become like an egg past its expiration date, and there was less danger of me cracking and leaking noxious fumes in the cocoons of Espace Business.

  So far, not a soul had dared intrude upon my solitude. After picking over a tray of curried something and chocolate something else, I settled into half-reading a book, half-watching a movie, and glancing at other distractions.

  My marooned neighbor’s hand shook as he raised a double whiskey to his night-shaded profile reflected in the window. Well, of course his hand shook. That was the life aim of back-to-back double whiskeys.

  It was hard to judge his age. There was no way to study him to make it out. It would only invite conversation. I vaguely remembered graying hair, a starched white collar, and a weathered face. Turning away, he fixated on the darkness beyond the porthole. Thank God he too was unwilling to exchange niceties with someone he’d never see again.

  I’m sorry. Perhaps you were expecting me to be kind, indeed, even beautiful in spirit if not in face, and heroic—yes, perfectly imperfect with an amusing assortment of eccentricities. But you see, I’m none of those things. Not sure I ever was. The faster you understand this, the better you might like the story.

  Like so many trotting down the track, I’m nothing more than a battered soul, whose metal has been tested and proven to be the commonest ore despite a golden youth lived by a firm belief in the opposite. Yes, I’m as uncomfortable in my skin as a hermit crab looking for a new shell on the Skeleton Coast beyond the vast Namib, or a black mamba as he consumes an animal three times his size—all of which I’d seen in vivid detail alongside my father, whose sojourns to Africa were long and legendary.

  At least I’ve finally come to accept that this sensation will never go away. Not that I’m complaining. I’m explaining—an uglier action as it implies guilt. This is what all modern therapists suggest, and since that is what I am, I must spout it as if I believe it. I never tell my clients that if there is a religion to follow, it is the one my father advised, “Don’t cry if you end up crying.” Life is far less complicated if you follow this one rule. Of course, this goes against the cardinal rule of therapy, “Let it out.”

  By now you may have surmised I’m not a very good psychologist—or life coach, my newest, more marketable professional title. But here you would be wrong. I know how to bite my tongue and listen with the best of them. It’s the token wisps of advice-giving that pain me. But, you see, well schooled in the “let them burble on until they figure it out for themselves” technique, I rarely need to offer advice. We need only to prod and point the unhappy in the correct direction during a forty-five minute window of concern and eventually they start listening to their oozing helter-skelter. In ninety percent of the cases—six months to six years later—they either become so disgusted paying two hundred a pop to unload their shite that they change, adapt, grow, and live slightly less unhappily ever after, unless fate has something nasty in store, which it always does, or they give up and choose not to change, in which case fate might deal them a new, great hand—proving, once again, that fickle fate holds all the cards.

  Either way, their Visa card balance is lighter each month.

  And the ten-percenters? The narcissists, the good and bad psychopaths, sociopaths, and the total screw-ups (of which I am a card-carrying member)—those dear souls? Why, they never change—no matter how many times they wallow in front of someone like me.

  So much can happen in this unit of time. Good things. Terrible things. And looking back now on what happened in the next forty-five minutes, I regret not biting my tongue. I’d blame it on the Veuve Clicquot, but we both know I wasn’t in Espace Premier, and that treacle they serve in business isn’t fit to be called champagne.

  The flight attendants, tired of serving us with false but efficient smiles, turned off the cabin lights and prayed we’d quietly incubate before the jarring return to reality by way of a stale, rude excuse for a breakfast. A push of three buttons slid me into an awkward tilt for which 1A through 3F passengers pay double to avoid.

  And there it was again. The shudder of my neighbor’s fingers, peeking just beyond his seat.

  For Christ’s sake, I was off duty.

  This was not the telltale tremor of Parkinson’s. Nor did it appear to be old age, for he just didn’t give off an ancient vibe. God, I hoped it wasn’t a precursor to something for which I’m ill trained—cardiac arrest or stroke, or . . . “Are you all right?”

  His hand went still.

  I counted to fifteen and closed my eyes, my duty done. “I’m well. Perfect. Excellent.” The man’s halting monosyllables penetrated the engine drone.r />
  I said not a word.

  “But, may I ask your opinion on something?”

  Why, oh why? I rose to my elbows.

  “I’d prefer not to discuss this face-to-face.”

  It was to be a confession then. I lay back down.

  “It’s a simple question, really.”

  “Yes?” It was never simple. Indeed, when someone said it was simple it was always a thousand degrees in the opposite direction. And I was no good at math, degrees, or directions.

  “Is there anything that trumps someone’s word once given?”

  You see? I told you it wouldn’t be simple. “Your word?” Repeating often jogged loose more information.

  “When you make a promise to someone, is there anything that justifies breaking it?”

  “It depends, of course, on what the promise is,” I replied.

  “It depends,” he echoed. “That’s not an answer. I require a yes or a no.”

  I remained quiet, waiting. It always amazed me that nothing made people continue talking more than utter silence. People are hardwired to fill awkwardness.

  But no words rushed from his side of the great divide. Well, at least his hand was no longer shaking. I closed my eyes. Five minutes of ill ease dogged me before I relaxed. People had to own their shit before I would put on a show of empathy.

  “Look, I realize the question is rude.” He stopped.

  I waited, letting silence do its dirty work.

  “I guess the real question is if it’s ever right to gamble with a family’s happiness and security or is martyrdom the only right course?” The rush of words slowed to a drip. “Sorry. I’ll stop. Forget it.”

  Heartburn. Yes, that was what curried Thai chicken, beet salad, and chocolate cheesecake on a plastic tray did to you. I could do this too-close-to-the-bone issue under the sterile layers of the vault of my office, but not blindsided on a jet. “What matters more is what you believe. You don’t know me. How can any answer I give be of value? I could have the moral fiber of an ax murderer for all you know.”

  He said not a word. After such intimate revelations, I wasn’t surprised. I never told anyone what I truly thought anymore, especially when I’d spectacularly fallen down in this corner of life. So, why not provide the generic, one-size-fits-all answer? “Actually, I believe in a person’s right to do anything as long as they are of sound mind, and it isn’t criminal.”

  “Ah. The right to pursue happiness.”

  “Yes,” I said. “But, this is a subject beyond right and wrong.” I was tightfisted with my memories as well as my words. I wanted to scream that you couldn’t protect anyone from everything their entire life. “I can’t give you an answer.”

  “Or won’t answer.”

  “Same outcome.”

  “Please,” he whispered in the darkness. “Do you have a family?”

  “Yes,” I replied. Sort of was the more correct answer.

  “Well, how do you calculate risk and fallout when every option hurts someone?”

  “I’ve taken an oath to do no harm.” Oh, the impossibility of that promise. “And I am not the person to give you advice.”

  “You’re a doctor.”

  “You requested anonymity and I’m keeping it.”

  A moment’s silence.

  “I fear I’ve intruded on your privacy long enough,” he finally said.

  His hand retreated from the space beyond his lowered seat and he shifted away from me. Ill ease raked the corners of my mind. Unhappiness and ill fortune dog the heels of every living being on this planet. When would people learn that happiness is but a fleeting gossamer thread woven into our lives like fool’s gold, which cannot endure throughout the course of our lives? Our best option is to embrace the concept of change, our ever-evolving paths, and endure the good and the bad. Or just become numb. I was one to muse. Only work kept one sane. The loftier called it a sense of purpose. Oh, and hope? That saintly word? Forget hope. Forget Oprah and Dr. Phil. Just learn to endure. With a sense of purpose. Or not.

  Because really, we, each of us, are born alone and die alone.

  My therapist (and yes, therapists do sometimes go to therapists, albeit special therapists, who can smell bullshit better than a bluetick pointer on a covey of grouse) suggests I am depressed. We quibble on one issue only. It concerns the words possibly, mildly, moderately, and severely. He refuses to buy my opinion concerning the beauty of existentialism, and the gold standard of nihilism. Cynical humor, according to him, who I’m convinced last laughed in 1983, is my favorite defense. So he thinks me only mildly unhinged and prescribes slow-release Ambien in impressive quantities. He says he’s not worried because I don’t have an addictive personality. Little does he know. I have my reasons for being a chameleon—and why spoil it by saying more?

  A few minutes passed and I raised my seat to glance at my neighbor’s still form beside me. He’d find his answer on his own. He was merely uncertain in a healthy sort of way. No one else could make up his mind nor should they.

  Of that I was certain.

  I picked up one of the newspapers and switched on the light. News of the ever-churning turmoil in the Middle East flooded the page. My gaze jumped to my book, and then to the mini screen ahead. Lack of focus and distraction had lost its charm many months ago. I turned off the light and lowered my seat again to rest an arm over my eyes. Sleep still eluded me as time floated in the eerie space above 39,000 feet.

  Involuntarily, I finally gave an answer. “I used to think promises and sacrifice were the currency of family.” I paused. “And that you could protect the ones you love by giving your all if necessary.” Wow. This newfound level of Hallmark drivel deserved a halo. Hollow bitterness stepped in. “Now I know it’s impossible to protect anyone from the trials of life. Follow your gut—good or bad.”

  Slumber must have come, for suddenly my mind zapped back to reality when jarring lights illuminated the cabin. Attendants jostled down the aisle with bitter coffee brewed twice over. Buckled and prepped for reentry, I refused to glance at the man beside me. He was clearly of the same mind.

  The baggage carousels at CDG were as slow as the horrendous crocodile of travelers inching their way through the taxi lane. I would miss my connection at Orly, halfway around the Paris périphérique. It was steadily raining, the annual state of the weather for Paris in April. Insufficient heating in a taxi awaited. There’d be a few more hours reprieve before stumbling into my grandfather’s crumbling house on the coast of the Pays Basque. Secrets and lies lurked in every corner of that ivy-covered villa since the first sand-colored stone had been laid three hundred years ago.

  A long, dark blue Mercedes pulled in front of the taxis and an immaculately suited driver exited, heading toward the trunk. Others in the taxi lane looked on with bored interest. A moment later, the man who’d crossed the Atlantic beside me, Mr. I Have A Question, strode past onlookers and slid into the cool darkness beyond the door the driver now held open. As the dark, expensive car pulled away, the man’s eyes found mine for a fraction of a moment.

  Had he heard me? No. The entire interaction had been oddly normal in my world of the mentally disordered. But still. Had I changed the course of a family’s life? Had I instilled guilt where none should be? God, I hoped not. I now wished I could take back those stupid, whispered words.

  And then I was at the front of the line, jostling into a dirty Parisian taxi driven by a bearded, heavyset, smiling immigrant. He grunted and hoisted my bag into the trunk, but I refused to give up the carry-on, filled as it was with two laptops and the files of a couple of the more stubborn clients, who’d refused to be handed off to a colleague for the coming month or two. Skype, that lovely invention by someone who assumed women loved to smear on makeup at any hour in the name of professionalism, was to be the only tool in the mad sandbox now. Half my clients were in LA, where the lure of an escape from driving in traffic, had produced more Skyping clients than the in-person appointments in Manhattan. Well, if I’d t
hought NY-to-LA videoconferences were taxing, I’d bet my backup power sources that I was in for a rude awakening to the oddest of odd hours now that that laggard, America, was in my rearview mirror.

  What had I been thinking? Clearly, not clearly at all.

  Beaten yet again by that beast called family obligation, I got into the car, one step closer to six weeks in Gallic purgatory.

  God, I hated Hallmark moments.

  Chapter Two

  I’d forgotten the erratic toll of the church bells. Situated on the steep hill on the other side of the Route Nationale, St. Nicholas’s two access roads had signs that read Accès Interdit. No access. What would Jesus say? No one had ever been able to explain why the bells pealed five to twelve times a day, eight to eighty-seven clangs each time in this corner of France where I’d been packed off to my grandfather each summer. The July I was twelve—too old to enjoy netting shrimp in the tide pools with Magdali, the housekeeper’s daughter, yet far too young to be part of the mysterious adult world that involved alcohol and the hot beat of the nightclubs—I’d counted and notated the peals while it rained. The following dry, hot July, the mildew receded, and all interest in church bells had been replaced by a fascination for surfing. The obsessions had fluctuated, much like the tides, for fourteen summers until I stopped going to France entirely.

  There was only so much of the French an American should have to endure, my father used to say. It always made people laugh and forget the original question. But the unspoken fact I figured out years later was that, more likely, no one could afford an airline ticket to send me that summer. My father had lost his shirt and things of far greater value, such as our house, to that wild rodeo known as the commodity market, where pork bellies, beef, sugar, and gold—among other mysterious things—bucked and fell without much rhyme or reason to my childish mind. It was only too bad my father hadn’t embraced my entrenched thinking in the end: Don’t risk what you can’t afford to lose.