The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux - Samantha Verant Page 0,86
car ride home, you told me you wanted to have an abortion. That, my darling, will never happen. You’re not in the right frame of mind.
Ta mère
“‘Right frame of mind,’ Grand-mère?” I said, every bone in my body so tense I thought I’d crumble to pieces, to dust.
“At the age of sixteen, Céleste was diagnosed with clinical depression. The doctor prescribed lithium to control these mood swings. When she fell pregnant with you, it got worse. I’ve always assumed that she stopped taking her medications when she did what she did.”
Although my grandmother refrained from using the word “suicide,” this explained everything. Almost everything. But if she knew my mother was so sick, why didn’t she do anything about it? Why didn’t she save me from her and the misery I’d lived with?
“She took me away from Champvert and I didn’t have a choice in the matter. I was too young, couldn’t even walk or talk. Why didn’t you try harder to take me away from her? She was sick.”
I’d pointed the finger of blame at her and I couldn’t take my words back.
“I tried. The courts ruled in her favor. This put another wedge in our relationship, as you can imagine. There is a file under the plank in my closet. You can read the judge’s ruling.” Grand-mère’s eyes filled with tears. “Taking you away from her would have killed her.”
“But she killed herself,” I said, the memory of her blue and bloated in the tub flashing in my mind.
“Ma chérie, she was sick long before you were born. Did you ever notice the glazed look in her eyes when she’d smile, as if she was never really there? The way her moods would switch from abnormal highs to severe lows?”
When my mother was on an upswing, she was the belle of the ball. She’d take me shopping to buy clothes. Sometimes she’d brush my hair, telling me how beautiful I was. One time, she came home with seeds, dirt, and terra-cotta pots, with the thought that I’d like to plant a garden on our small terrace because I liked cooking so much. I did. On these good days, her eyes were clear and she was full of life. But her bad days were terrible. She’d hole up in her room with the curtains drawn, barely moving. Looking back, these days were marked when she lost out on an audition to an actress younger than her.
“Keep reading,” said Grand-mère, squeezing her eyes shut. “There’s more you need to know.”
14 July, 1993
Céleste—
Jean-Marc Bourret came by looking for you. I didn’t like the looks of him. He was dirty, unshaven, and not a proper fellow. You were in your room, sleeping. This pregnancy has been tough on you. You are always with morning sickness and on bed rest. Jean-Marc insisted that I wake you from your slumber. He told me that he was the father of your baby, and that he wanted to marry you.
I told him to wait on the front steps. And then I grabbed my checkbook. He didn’t want to accept the check at first. He argued and pleaded to see you. And then he looked at the sum. Oh, you should have seen his smile, the glimmer in his eye as he surveyed the château. I told him there would be more coming for every year he stayed away from you. Of course he agreed. I suppose this is my confession. And I don’t feel bad about it. I did what was right for you. A marriage to the likes of him would never have worked. Today is Bastille Day. And I’ve just claimed your independence.
Ta mère
The notebook slipped from my hands. I rubbed my eyes. This couldn’t be real. The answer I’d been searching for half of my life just appeared on the page, right under my nose, written in Grand-mère Odette’s loopy handwriting. Although I now had some answers, more questions loomed. Rivulets of sweat dripped down my neck. Was this Jean-Marc Bourret really my father? Was he still in the area? If so, could I find him? Did I want to? My tears fell, smattering the notebook with tiny droplets. I’d been looking for truth and I’d found it. But sometimes the truth was hard to swallow, a jagged pill.
“How much did you pay him?” I asked.
“At the time, it held the equivalence to ten thousand euros.”