Lies My Mother Never Told Me Read Online Free PDF Page A

fine arbitrator; he didn’t automatically take her side in our battles simply because she was the adult and his wife and I the child.
    He responded quite calmly, “Well, you know she doesn’t mean it, that’s just angry talk. She says things she doesn’t mean when she gets angry. You have to make an effort. You have to try to get along with her.”
    Now, in my fantasies of returning to a time in my childhood, this is it—that is where I am, standing by the dining room table in our Paris apartment. I take a seat, catty-corner to him, I place my palm over his cool hand, and I say in a calm, measured tone, “You know what, Daddy? I think you believe what you’re saying, but it’s not true.”
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    For the summer of 1969, my parents rented a house in Deauville, a chic resort town in Normandy. I liked to watch my mother pack her hard-bodied Louis Vuitton suitcases. She’d roll two bottles ofJohnnie Walker scotch into sweaters—the first thing she’d take out when we arrived. When we traveled, sometimes she’d forget the tickets, or the visas, or the passports. But never— never —the scotch.
    The lovely white-fronted Deauville house with cross-hatched dark wood beams stood in the first line of buildings, on the boulevard Eugène Cornuché, just a short walk from the Hôtel Royal and the Casino de Deauville. From its front windows stretched a view of open fields and the beachfront boardwalk in the distance. Deauville was the Hamptons of the Paris jet set, where vastly powerful members of the European nobility and famous actors like Brigitte Bardot and Audrey Hepburn, and directors like Roger Vadim came during the high season to hang out at the casino, the Clairefontaine racetrack, and the boardwalk cafés.
    Two weeks before we left Paris, I’d gotten a cold and had overused the extra-strength nasal spray, and now, I couldn’t go to sleep at night without it. For the first week I still had my spray, but I ran out. On this night, at bedtime, my sinuses exploded, and the pressure was excruciating. Bedtime was already traumatic for me—everything had to be just so, the sheet turned down a certain way, the curtains drawn tight, a light on down the hall, but not too much light, and total silence. These theatrics annoyed my mother, who was usually in a hurry to go out, or to return to her guests. On this night, both my parents were decked out in formal attire, de rigueur at the casino.
    â€œMommy,” I said, nervous, upset, my voice shaky, “I can’t breathe through my nose. I’m really not feeling well.”
    Sitting at the edge of the large, creaky, still unfamiliar bed, she said sorrowfully, “You’re so neurotic,” and shook her head. “It’s because Judite isn’t here, that’s all. You never can sleep when Judite is away. One day you’ll realize that Judite is only a maid, a servant. She’s not your mother. I’m your mother. There’s nothing wrong with your sinuses. Now go to sleep.” And she stood up,smoothing down her luminous, silvery casino gown. I heard her elegant high-heeled sandals clicking down the hall and then down the wooden stairway, the sound growing fainter as my desperation increased.
    How could I have let this happen? Get caught like this, unprepared? I had the feeling I was suffocating and couldn’t get enough air in my lungs, even though I could breathe perfectly well through my mouth. I didn’t realize I was hyperventilating, breathing too fast and getting too much oxygen, but breathing into a paper bag was not something I knew to do at that age.
    The next day, exhausted and anxious, I went by myself on my bicycle to find a pharmacy. I had no problem buying whatever I needed at our local pharmacy in Paris, but here, in Deauville, the druggist asked me if it was for me and I answered yes, when I should have simply said it was for my mother. He gave me some