The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,26

Rémi’s behavior toward me, hospitals flipped me out. I hated everything about them—the smell of ammonia, the sterility, and the fact that, sometimes, people didn’t leave them alive. I hoped that wasn’t the case for Grand-mère.

“Bonjour,” I said, panting. “I’m looking for my grandmother. Odette Valroux de la Tour de Champvert? She’s expecting me.”

“Pardon?” the woman at the information desk asked.

I didn’t realize that in my rush I’d spoken in English, which she clearly didn’t understand. I repeated what I’d said in breathless French, cognizant of my New York accent. She nodded and typed a few keys into her computer.

“Ah, oui, your grandmother, Madame Valroux de la Tour de Champvert. Her room is on the third floor,” said the woman. “Take the elevator, turn right, and head to the nurses’ station.”

“Merci,” I said before racing down the hall.

A female doctor wearing a white lab coat and black slacks rounded the corner as I exited the elevator. She was probably in her midforties (not that I was the best judge of somebody’s age) and wore funky green glasses, with her chestnut hair wrapped in a French twist. “Madame Valroux?” she asked, and I smiled, noting her use of “madame.”

As I recalled, former Prime Minister François Fillon had dropped the term “mademoiselle” from official contexts a few years prior, stating it referenced a woman’s matrimonial situation, whereas “monsieur” simply signified “sir.” Of course, this order came after a strong campaign by two French feminist organizations, Osez le féminisme! (Dare to be feminist!) and Les Chiennes de garde (The Watchdogs).

“Yes,” I said. “But please, just call me Sophie.”

“Alors, Sophie, Emma from l’accueil alerted me to your arrival. Permit me to introduce myself—I’m Dr. Simone. I’m the endovascular surgeon responsible for your grandmother’s treatment, care, and recovery.”

A nurse wearing pale green scrubs rushed down the corridor. A loud beep came from one of the rooms. More nurses followed her into the room. Jaw clenched, I met the doctor’s kind gray eyes, hoping my grand-mère was okay. What if I’d arrived too late?

“Can you tell me what happened?” I said once I found my voice.

“Yes, your grand-mère gave us permission to share her medical condition with you, Madame Girard, and Rémi Dupont. Alors, we ran a computed tomographic angiogram and found that your grandmother had an aneurysm, which caused bleeding in the brain. Thankfully, we were able to get it under control with a mildly invasive surgery.”

“And the prognosis? Could it happen again?” I asked.

“I’m not going to lie to you. There is a fifteen to twenty percent chance another aneurysm can occur. Because of her age, I’d like to monitor her condition for a bit and, perhaps, perform a follow-up angiogram in two months just to make sure she’s stable.”

I went silent for a moment as I took in what the doctor had said. I’d half hoped the doctor would brush off her condition, say it was nothing serious, that Grand-mère Odette would be back to her usual self in no time. But that was a dream. Grand-mère Odette was eighty-two years old. To me she had always been ageless, timeless. I blinked back my tears. I’d put off this visit for far too long.

“What do I do? How can I help her?”

“For now, keep her comfortable, surround her with love, and don’t let her overexert herself during the recovery time.” Dr. Simone smiled. “She’s a feisty woman, that one.”

“That she is,” I said. “When can I see her?”

“She’s in her room. I’ll take you there,” she said, and we turned to walk down the corridor.

Clothilde clicked down the hall, holding a small paper espresso cup. I immediately recognized her—chubby and wearing silly flats covered with ladybugs and a blue-smocked housedress. In her early seventies, and almost ten years younger than my grandmother, she’d aged, but her hair was still the same shade of bright red and coiffed in tight curls. My grandmother’s sidekick, the Betty to her Veronica, the Scarecrow to her Dorothy, ran up to me, her coffee spilling on the tiled floor. “Sophie, you’re here!” exclaimed Clothilde.

“Oh, Clothilde, it’s incredible to see you. I can’t believe it’s been so long. How is Grand-mère Odette?”

“Wonderful, wonderful! She’s doing much better!” Clothilde pulled me in for les bises, kissing my left cheek, then the right, all while making a lip-smack sound—mwah. “I see you’ve met Dr. Simone.”

“Yes, she was just explaining Grand-mère’s condition,” I said.

Dr. Simone handed me her business card. “I’ll leave Madame Girard to escort you to your grand-mère’s room. Please