As we exit the church courtyard to the street, the capricious wind sends eddies of tiny leaves around the chin and outstretched arms of a small stone madonna mounted on a town house and a bar of sun angles an irregular path down the length of the street.
A woman passes in and out of the light, carrying a baguette and a tote of groceries, the neck of a wine bottle poking from the top. She’s so utterly Avignonaise, tanned, fine-boned, with a pretty mess of brown hair in a loose chignon. From another street comes a man about thirty in a black T-shirt with a skeleton on it over skintight jeans, motorcycle boots, with a face right out of a medieval painting, with big, dark eyes, flat cheeks, a long face, and sharply angled jaw and nose. Behind him walks a young couple, she a neo-’ippy, he looking like a festival leftover in a Mad Hatter hat and magician outfit. In a moment the street is empty but for the wind and sun and ancient stones.
When we first arrived, the city seemed to confuse and intimidate. She’s still a marvelous mystery, but now we feel ourselves enfolded rather than intimidated, we feel woven into the tapestry of Avignon.
Till now, I’d suspected that choosing it wasn’t just because it’s in Provence, near Chrystelle, and affordable. Like clearing the studio walls, I think there was a deeper instinct at work that I wasn’t conscious of. I turn and look up at our bluff, high above my left shoulder. How fitting, how perfect that the place I came to cleave more closely to my daughter is watched over by a gleaming, gilded woman, her serene face the first thing to shine in the morning and the last thing alit at twilight. A mother.
Mia and I wind our way to our bluff for our last sunset together and find the entire palace area under heavy guard in preparation for an EU summit meeting. As the sun begins to sink, Mia grabs my hand and we run for the closest wall portal to watch the sun set from the bank of the Rhône.
Mia stands a few feet in front of me, gazing into the fiery Provençal sky with the summer-bleached tips of her hair sparkling in the light. Silhouetted by the sun, she’s as majestic and awe-inspiring to me as the women Pignon-Ernest painted, as sweet and tender as the three little girls on the bluff, as courageous and compassionate as any woman I’ve ever known. I don’t know what I was in a prior life, but whatever it was, I must have done something right.
I know that for every mother, there is always the possibility of three in your relationship with your daughter. You, your daughter the way she is, and your daughter the way you want her to be. I learned the hard way ten years ago that that kind of control is an illusion and a barrier. You can’t even control the inner life of your daughter when she’s a toddler; you can only control her environment, and not always even that.
Once she’s an adult, the only environment you can offer her is you. I am, and always will be, the place called Mother for Mia, the river we navigate together for a time, never long enough, riding the waves and plumbing the depths, a river that will carry her for all of her days.
Only in France would you see someone swearing as they unsuccessfully try to light a cigarette while bouncing up and down on a galloping horse (sans helmet, to boot). Said someone is Margot, a heavyset woman whose large chest isn’t helping matters, and considering the wind is frizzing and blowing her hair every which way, it’s amazing she hasn’t set herself ablaze with her lighter.
Margot lives in the building where Sarah had stayed, and when she heard I loved riding, she offered to take me to a riding ranch nearby. She’s a riot, extremely funny, very animated, and with a penchant for flooring her car while swearing and honking at any driver blocking her path.
Either because Margot knows the owners, or because the French thumb their noses at rules and regulations, the ranch is surprisingly laissez-faire. There’s no liability waiver to sign, nary a helmet in sight, and our guide didn’t bother asking what level rider anyone was before kicking his horse into a full gallop, sending the rest of us thundering in tow.
There’s an element of surrender to galloping that I love. When your horse takes off and you tuck yourself down into its mane, it’s a completely sensory experience: rhythmically pounding hooves, rushing wind, surroundings flying by so fast they’re just abstractions of shape and color. It’s a rare combination of soothing and exhilarating—and when you’re doing it through vineyards and châteaus, it’s pure heaven.
By the time I’m back in Avignon and waving good-bye to Margot, I’m still on cloud nine, and decide on dessert for dinner. I stop by the apartment for the last of my Gourmandize candies, buy a triple-scoop gelato for the main course, and climb upstairs to the bluff to sit for a while.
My mom left last week and I’ve enjoyed having some days to myself before stepping back into my life. This summer was about bonding with my mom, but considering I’ve learned just as much from her as I have about her, it seems fitting to spend my final days more quietly and reflectively.
I walk back to the apartment slowly, enjoying how the air cools and silhouettes blur in the moments between dusk and dark. My gaze skips along the landmarks now so familiar to me, the sweeping plaza of the palais, the clothing boutiques in the zone piétonne, the bell tower of St. Pierre. I walk past the boucherie at St. Didier until I see the glowing neon outline of Bar les Célestins come into sight, followed by our very first landmark, Le Petit House of Condoms, and, finally, turn into our little alley with its massive stone wall. I walk upstairs, let myself into the room, and then it hits me.
Ever since we first moved into the studio, I’ve had a strong sense of déjà vu. It would spring up randomly, when I was turning on the shower, sweeping the floor, making the bed. Sometimes it was more of a sad, nostalgic feeling, other times it would make me smile and feel comforted. I didn’t say anything to my mom because I had absolutely no explanation for it.
Now I understand. The naked white walls, the lack of furniture, the large window filled with green. It’s just like my old room at Morava. Even the dark orange curtains echo the brown carpet. A medieval city is infinitely nicer than a Soviet-era hotel, not to mention the food’s better, but here I’ve had a regular routine, been completely removed from my life, lacked television and radio, had little time online.
The circumstances are extraordinarily different, of course, but the outcomes are quite similar. I’ve come away from each feeling calmer and more confident. I have a deeper understanding of how I operate, what is missing from my life, and what I want for myself. I’m leaving with a more compassionate attitude toward people in general.
When you open yourself up to the world, she opens herself up back and you step into a space that’s wider and brighter than you imagined it to be. People are hospitable in countless ways, and our common humanity often overshadows even radical differences in circumstance or culture. I’ve found you can often rely on the kindness of strangers, and I’m pretty sure that I could be plunked down almost anywhere, and find a way to create a life I like there.
I feel at home in the world, undoubtedly because I feel at home with myself. At two critical points in my life I’ve been lucky to have been able to hit the pause button and withdraw for a period of reflection and examination, both opportunities that were created by the person who best knew I needed them: my mother.
All relationships happen in stages, with varying depths, multiple layers. You invariably reach a point where you hit the ceiling of a certain level of intimacy and then have the option of staying there—which risks the relationship becoming predictable or stale—or you can take it to the next level. We did that this summer.
There are, and will always be, roles and boundaries, but room’s been carved out for a mature friendship. The footing feels more equal, the connection more solid, and our understanding of each other much deeper. And it’s nice knowing that, as I go through stages of life like motherhood or menopause, we’ll continue connecting on new and different levels. My mother will pass one day, but our relationship will continue well past that, evolving and deepening until I myself go. An
d then, if I’m lucky enough to have one, it will live on through my own daughter.
fin
EPILOGUE
Two weeks before leaving for China, I was having dinner with Soraya at Thai Eatery in Brooklyn. When the bill came, we reached for our fortune cookies and I cracked mine open to find this: You are about to embark on a most delightful journey. Followed, of course, by what lotto numbers to play.
It’s not often that our expectations are met, and even rarer that they’re surpassed, and while the lotto numbers didn’t pan out, the fortune did tenfold. It’s been a delightful journey in every aspect imaginable, one that continues.
Because structuring and writing a tandem memoir is best done when both writers are in the same physical space, following the trip I moved from Brooklyn to West Palm Beach to work on this book with my mom. Within a few months the walls of our office were a kaleidoscope of chapter outlines, Post-it notes for various scenes or emotional beats, and pictures (we re-created Avignon photographically to help keep it alive as we wrote).
As the book took shape, I grew along with it; some might even say I grew up. After cracking open Financial Planning for Dummies, I opened a ROTH IRA, and have worked part-time as a publicist to actually contribute to it. I’ve taken advantage of coastal living by becoming a certified scuba diver, and I go to museums, lectures, and concerts regularly. My television watching has been whittled down to about four hours a week, and I’ve ditched reality TV entirely. I’ve also become a proud vegetarian (you try eating meat after listening to the entire audiotape of Eating Animals on a road trip with my dad) and am s-l-o-w-l-y learning to cook.
I’m clear about my commitment to work with lawmakers and the educational community in an effort to prevent or stop child abuse, and I write and speak about my own experience as a way of helping other survivors heal and move on. This year I began research for my next project, a narrative nonfiction book that combines four of my greatest interests: travel, human behavior, history, and culture. I’ll be writing this one sans Maman, and starting next month I’ll be sleeping on Soraya’s sofa as I transition back into life as an author in New York City.
The same week I got home I did three things. The first was to call my mother. It took a lot of calls but she did start speaking to me. I eventually went to visit her; it was as if no time at all had passed. Words cannot express how grateful and happy I am to have her in my life again.
The second thing was to join a boot-camp class. I couldn’t run a block or do a single man’s push-up. Nowadays I’m running five miles, doing fifty push-ups and a couple hundred sit-ups, all before sunrise. It’s changed my life.
The third was to start learning how to assist others in changing theirs. Just before I left Avignon—ironically, as I was packing up my vision map—I got an e-mail from Barbara: did I want to train under her to become a performance/transformational coach? As she likes to say, there are no accidents. Still jet-lagged, I got on a plane to San Jose and a year later became certified. I then went on to become a certified relationship coach.
Sadly, a year after I returned, both the house and my marriage continued their slow decline. As much as we respected and loved each other, Paul and I weren’t sure which was causing the other to further decay. We’ve separated and have never gotten along better. The week I left, he bought the paint color he’d wanted for five years (and I didn’t). Dating in my fifties, for the first time in twenty-five years, will be an interesting adventure.
Having Mia live near me these last two years has been fabulous. I feel like I got back the two years we lost when she was fifteen. I’ve watched her grow as a woman in so many ways and I’ve grown and learned from being with her. Mostly, we’ve had fun together. That girl could make a stone laugh. Our editor won’t want to hear this, but half the reason we took so long to write this book is that we laughed so much whenever we worked. We can’t walk two blocks without stopping to laugh, and you can’t ask for more than that, because like life, the mother-daughter relationship is, après tout, just a matter of good.
I’m currently living in Paris, researching a historic novel. I have no idea where I’ll live when I return, and I’m not really bothered by that. Trust seems to be working pretty well for me these days.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Chrystelle Guisset, chère amie and chief muse, you are a constant source of delight for us. We cherish your wisdom, love, and support, your humor and your joie de vivre (not to mention your talent for logistics and efficiency). This book would not have been possible without you.
We’re fortunate in having an agent who is also a friend (and a mother of four daughters, all under age five!). Stacey Glick, of Dystel & Goderich, thank you so much for being our cheerleader and champion over the years.
We’re just as lucky in our brilliant editor, Cassie Jones, who’s got the patience of, well, a mother. You make us look good, you make us laugh, and you call us “your lovelies.” Doesn’t get any better than that for an author. Nous t’adorons!
We’re grateful to Jessica McGrady as well, for her smarts, efficiency, and care, especially when we’re down to the wire (which is often). And to our amazing copyeditor Olga Galvin Gardner, whose sharp eyes and mind made this a much better book. Our gratitude and a round of applause to everyone on our team at HarperCollins—your support and hard work have meant the world to us from day one.
A very special acknowledgment goes to William and Pamela Chalmers. What Bill (aka the Ringmaster) has created in The Global Scavenger Hunt is sheer genius. How Pamela pulls it all together, and holds it all together on the road, is just as amazing. To learn more about this amazing annual travel adventure and competition, and the great good they do with the funds they raise for the GreatEscape Foundation, go to globalscavengerhunt.com.
We would like to acknowledge and thank again everyone who donated to charities in our names. Your generous donations went to the organizations Childhelp and Protect.org, and, through the GreatEscape Foundation, funded coed elementary schools in Sierra Leone, Sri Lanka, Ecuador, India, and Kenya, and gave to the Clinton Foundation, World Monuments Fund, and the September 11 Freedom Fund, among others. To learn more about the remarkable work done globally and in the United States by SOS Children’s Villages, visit www.sos-childrensvillages.org and www.sos-usa.org.
To all the women who have so generously shared their personal stories with us, in person, through e-mails, and questionnaires, thank you—you have enriched this book, and our lives, more than we can express. Every one of you has touched us and made the journey that began with Come Back one of continuous discovery, inspiration, and growth.
A huge thank-you to the many folks who have supported, advised, humored, fed, and sometimes housed us during the writing of this memoir. In the United States: Nancy Marsden, crusading for our children on the Huffington Post; Chris Simpson; Leah Komaiko (who births a lot of amazing things over at leahkomaiko.com); Kelly Sterling, who nourishes us in every way (put on your apron and go to snailsview.com); the remarkably doublegood Karin Anderson; Robyn Tauber, mother extraordinaire who spreads sunshine everywhere she goes.
In France: Kristin and Jean-Marc Espinasse, who continue to enchant with their words and wine at French-word-a-day.com and rouge-bleu.com. The humor and kindness of Isabelle Oudin and Anthony Viro gave us more unforgettable memories than we could fit in here. Nathalie Daguet, for your keen insight and for giving us all Avignon on your gorgeous blog, avignon-in-photos.blogspot.com. Christine Witebsky, la belle Isabelle, and Xavier Robaux, for your kindness, friendship, and last-minute rescue. Thank you, dear Amy Plum, for the warmth and welcome of your home. And Bruno Lavollé, for your extraordinary generosity, warmth, and humor; you and your delightful family have made Paris feel like home.
A special thank-you to Maureen Murdock, Ph.D., therapist, photographer, and author of The Heroine’s Journey and Unreliable Truth, among many others; Tracey Jackson, screenwriter, filmmaker, and author of Betw
een a Rock and a Hot Place; Sabrina Faludi, for giving so generously of your time, care and expertise, usually at a moment’s notice.
We are grateful to Mindy M., Jill R., Amy H., Sue L., Tracey S., and Nikki R., for their wisdom and courage in sharing their stories with us.
For sharing their experiences and insight on the mother-daughter relationship in other cultures we thank Noni Darwish, Violet Mess, and Sabrina Faludi and her friends.
Un grand merci to those who’ve given us a home-away-from-home office, in France: the Fabulous Five at Bar les Célestins—Stephan, Christine, Edith, Jeremy, and Roman; and in West Palm Beach: the gang at the Clematis Starbucks, the Marulli family at the historic Harvey Building, Chef Scott Helm for care and feeding, and a very special thank-you to Molly Charland and her staff at the Four Arts King Library, a haven of tranquility and beauty.
We’ve had the privilege of speaking with book clubs across the country over the last five years. In the last two, some of you let us interview you, so a special thank-you to Queen Nancy and the Venice Book Club Chicks; Pamela and the Jersey Girls; Not Too Busy to Read in Plymouth; Sherri and Wendy of the Yale book club in Miami. The Chicago area has so many book clubs full of smart, funny women; please forgive us for not mentioning you all by name. If we’ve forgotten anyone, and we’re afraid we have, it’s only because we let Claire handle logistics and filing. Bad idea.
A huge thank-you to the warm and wonderful Dee Bloom, a cheerleader and friend who gave this book a critical read at a critical time, giving us, and you, a much better book.
To our Hungarian family—Alice, Zolie, Hajnalka, Eva, Gabby, and Zoliku—connecting with you has been an amazing gift. You’ve shown us that love, laughter, and generosity require no translation.
Claire would also like to thank:
My first and greatest debt of gratitude goes to you, Mom, for all the things I never thanked you for, the wisdom I didn’t see, the sacrifices I didn’t notice, the quiet acts of loving kindness and devotion, the patience and joy you took in mothering us, all the ways you said you loved me that I was too foolish and wrongheaded to recognize. I see more and more each day how much I owe to you, as a mother and as a woman.
Have Mother, Will Travel Page 34
