“I am sorry,” the young man said softly and hesitantly in his uncertain French. “I hope you find what you need. I will pray for you.”
How dare he! I thought, and I was about to say something even more unkind, but he was already gone, leaving me alone as I had requested. I went home and cried as I hadn’t been able to since Antoine’s death earlier in the week—red-hot tears that seared my cheeks as they fell. There seemed to be no end to the bitter flood. My throat felt raw, and my eyes were swollen, but the ache in my heart was worse. I thought I was going to die, even hoped that I would.
At last the torrent subsided, and through my abating tears I spied my parents’ liquor cabinet. I had never been drunk before, but I had often had alcohol with dinner. I knew it would give me a euphoria that would make me temporarily forget. I began to drink, and an unnatural warmth flooded through me.
Yet I didn’t forget, not even for a moment, and all my drunkenness did was to put another wedge between me and my parents when they came home to find me nearly passed out. They utterly forbade me to drink. I didn’t give it up, though; I continued drinking at home or with friends in the months that followed. My parents’ anger was better than their indifference.
A loud knocking at the hotel door brought me abruptly back to the present. I came in from the balcony, hardly noticing my wet hair and the thin nightgown clinging to my body. I glanced at the TV, which I had left on. The sound was muted, but I could see the latest Disney movie filling the screen. Special TV channels were the only modern concession the run-down hotel had made for its questionable clientele. I had always enjoyed Disney cartoons—one more thing I had shared with Antoine—but this time I didn’t stop to watch.
The knocking sounded again. Could it be Jacques? And it was only one o’clock in the morning! With a hopeful heart, I hurried to the door and threw it open to reveal not Jacques but Paulette, the girl who had become my best friend after Antoine’s death.
My heart sank. “Oh, hi, Paulette.” I stood back and let her enter the room. As she swept past me I could smell the cigarette smoke in her hair and the alcohol on her breath. Involuntarily I flinched. In the months after Antoine’s death, those things had been my constant companions—but no more. I had someone else to think of now.
When I had shut the door, she turned her plain face to me. “Ariana, you’re soaking wet! Haven’t you got any sense? I—” She broke off when she saw my pain. “Oh, I’m sorry, Ariana, I know you wanted Jacques, but he’s not coming. I was just down at the bar and saw him with the gang. That’s why I came. I knew you were alone and thought you could use some company. Come on.” She put her arm around my shoulders. “Let’s get you out of these wet things.” Numbly, I let her lead me to the bathroom.
A short time later we sat together on the large bed. I was now wearing a long T-shirt and my robe instead of the negligee. I drew my feet onto the bed and lay back on a mound I had made of the pillows, my fingers plucking carelessly at the green coverlet, faded and worn but clean. Paulette drew out a thin, homemade cigarette and lit up, breathing deeply. She offered it to me, but I refused as I hadn’t in the weeks and months following Antoine’s funeral.
Antoine had never liked Paulette, who lived nearby, though she would have given anything to be noticed by him. “I don’t think you should hang around with her,” he had told me. So I hadn’t; I was too busy with school and spending time with him, anyway. Then he died, and suddenly I didn’t care about anything. I stopped going to school and began to hang out with Paulette, who hadn’t been to school for years.
“It’s too bad about your brother, Ari,” she had said the first day she found me drinking alone in the park. That had been the day after Antoine’s funeral.
“Ariana,” I said dully. “Don’t call me Ari ever again.” In my eyes, Ari had died with Antoine.
“He was one good-looking guy. He . . .” Paulette had talked on, but I hadn’t really heard her; it was just nice to have someone to sit with. She pulled out some of her thin cigarettes. “Want one?”
For the first time, I looked into her clouded eyes. “What is it?”
“Marijuana. It will help you feel better.”
I took the cigarette and breathed in, hesitantly at first and then more deeply, coughing some but at last finding some relief for the aching pain in my heart. I didn’t realize at the time that drugs would bring much more misery to my life than I could ever imagine.
After that day at the park, Paulette and I became inseparable. We hung out with a group of teenagers like us, brave on the outside, yet each hurting in some way on the inside. We drank all the time, went dancing, and smoked. Sometimes I never even bothered to go home. At times my parents didn’t notice, at others they yelled at me, but it made no difference. I was living my own life, and they had no influence over me.
Then I met Jacques. I had just turned eighteen, and we were at our favorite dance club celebrating when I saw a good-looking young man with dark blond hair come from across the room toward our group. Several of the guys got up to meet him.
“Hey, welcome back, Jacques! How did things go on the Riviera?”
“Good, good,” Jacques replied, a sincere smile on his handsome face. “But I missed you all.” His eyes suddenly spotted me. “Who’s this? Someone new to our little group?”
“I’m Ariana,” I said with a smile. “It’s my birthday, and we’re celebrating.”
Jacques came to sit beside me and put a casual arm around the back of my chair. “I’m glad to meet you, Ariana.” His brown eyes burned into my own. “Very glad.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m sure you are,” I joked dryly. “I’ve heard all about you, Jacques, and your way with women.”
He smiled impudently. “Good. Then you will let me help you have a great birthday, won’t you? I’ll make it one you’ll never forget!”
And he did. We danced together all night, laughing and joking. He was so handsome and attentive, always saying just the right thing. He knew how to treat a woman, how to flatter her and make her feel loved and cared for.
I didn’t go home at all that night, not wanting to be separated from the dashing Jacques. The magic between us was strong, yet I feared it would vanish if we were parted, even for a few hours. The group of us crashed at someone’s apartment, and we stayed up all night watching videos, smoking pot, and drinking. At last I went to sleep in the crook of Jacques’ arm, feeling more content than I had since Antoine’s death.
Jacques and I became a couple. The group seemed amazed that the wild Jacques had finally settled down, and I secretly worried that he would leave me. I didn’t understand what he saw in me, a girl who had been rejected by her own parents, but he seemed genuinely fascinated and wanted to be a part of every aspect of my life—including my parents. I took Jacques to meet them a few days later, but they refused to accept him and even forbade me to see him. So less than a week after we met, I moved to Paulette’s, so Jacques and I could spend every minute together. How could I have known I was only getting into more trouble? I had still been so innocent, even then. That had been just three months ago.
And now we were married, a thing we had decided to do only two days earlier—or rather, something I had convinced Jacques to do. When he finally agreed, Paulette and I had thrown together what kind of a ceremony and party we could. It wasn’t much, but our friends pitched in to see that it had a least a semblance of a real wedding. My parents hadn’t bothered to show up. They simply sent a substantial check, like some kind of a payoff. I wanted to rip it up into a hundred little pieces and send it back to them, but I had learned the importance of money in the last three months and knew that I would probably need it. I took the check immediately to the bank my father owned, careful to choose a time when he wouldn’t be there. I cashed the check, withdrew my own childhood savings, and took the money to another bank, where I opened an account that I kept secret even from Jacques. I wanted to save it for an emergency and couldn’t trust him to do so; he seemed to live only for the m
oment.
“Ariana!” Paulette’s voice was insistent. “Are you okay?”
I looked up at her, shaking away the memories. “Yes, I was just thinking.”
“About Jacques?”
“Yes.” I stared out the open balcony door into the wet night and added softly, “And about Antoine.” It was the first time I had said my brother’s name to anyone since the day he died, and Paulette seemed taken aback.
“I’m sorry, Ariana. I know things haven’t been easy for you. But now that you and Jacques are married, things will get better; you’ll see. He’s got a job now, and you can get one.” Paulette’s homely face was serious for once. The curious light of the room made her brown hair seem dull and lifeless, matching the look in her drugged eyes.
I smiled gently at her. “Yes, it just has to be okay.” We hugged each other impulsively. I brought my hand to rest on my slightly swollen stomach, where my true hope for the future lay. There the baby I had conceived nearly three months ago, a week after meeting Jacques, was already making its welcome presence felt. For this baby, I had given up drinking and drugs. I was determined to do right by this life inside me, no matter what.
Chapter Two
When Jacques came home three hours later, I was long asleep. I felt him slip into the big bed next to me, and his movements woke me. Sighing contentedly, I rolled over to him; but he was snoring almost before he hit the bed. Once again the tears came, and I blinked them back angrily. After all, he had at least come back to me.
For long moments I stared into the darkness, hearing Jacques’ even breathing, yet feeling utterly alone. The night was finally still, broken only by an occasional shout or a lone car. The rain had stopped sometime while I had been sleeping, and I was fiercely glad. Now things would be all right again.
Almost unconsciously, my hand went to where my baby was growing. Sleep finally came, giving me a welcome relief from my lonely thoughts.
* * *
“Wake up, my love!” Jacques sang to me the next morning, kissing my face all over. He threw back the covers, and his hand slid down to my stomach. “Hey there, baby, wake up. Daddy wants to talk to you!” He made a show of kissing my belly noisily.
I opened one eye and then the other and held out my arms for him. The dashing man I had fallen in love with was back!
He lay next to me, our arms entwined. “I’ve brought you breakfast,” he whispered, kissing my ear. “Though we’ve slept so late it’s more like lunch!” One brown eye closed in a wink.
I smiled and sat up slowly so I wouldn’t feel nauseated; I still had morning sickness most days. While I ate, I examined Jacques carefully. His handsome face showed no signs of a hangover, though his eyes were still clouded with drugs.
“So what are we going to do today?” I asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.
He raised his eyebrows a couple of times suggestively, making me laugh. Then he said seriously, “Well, I thought we could find an apartment. I’ve got a few leads to follow up. I’ve had everyone I know out looking since we decided to get married. It has to be something we can afford.”
I knew that meant a dump, but I didn’t care because we would be together. I smiled. “At least we’ll be able to pay for the first month’s rent.” I was referring to the paycheck Jacques had received just the day before our marriage.
His smile suddenly vanished. He pushed his longish hair back with a nervous hand. “I, uh, spent some of the money last night,” he said.
I wanted to scream at him, but I didn’t. More than anything, I wanted to keep the peace. Besides, getting upset would only make my morning sickness worse. “How much?”
He told me, and it wasn’t as bad as I had expected. We would still be able to get the apartment; we just wouldn’t be able to eat for more than a few days. But I knew we would manage somehow. At least he had a job, and I would look for work tomorrow.
After breakfast and a quick shower, we left the hotel. Outside, the June day was hot and sweltering, and many times I felt dizzy. Heat always seemed to do that to me since I became pregnant. But I was determined to spend as few days at the hotel as possible. We went from one old apartment building to the next, and just as I was giving up, we found an apartment. It was a real dump, but at least it was a place to put our few belongings. The real selling point was that it was available immediately.
We paid the landlord and took a second look at the apartment. The paint was peeling, and the room lacked air conditioning. The bathroom was so small that I couldn’t go in without leaving the door open or I would feel claustrophobic. The vinyl tile in both the kitchen and bathroom was loose and coming up, the grayish carpet in the living room had dark stains everywhere, and the bedroom had no carpet at all, just heavily pocked and scratched hardwood flooring. I was suddenly glad my parents wouldn’t be coming to see me in such a place, far removed from their elegant apartment on the better side of town.
We checked out of the hotel immediately. Paulette helped me move my few belongings from her mother’s apartment, and one of the guys helped Jacques move his things from his cousin’s where he’d been staying. There wasn’t much to move, but the gang had found an old bed, a worn couch, and even a small table for us.
After helping us settle in, our friends laughed, making jokes about newlyweds, and left us to our honeymoon. But Jacques and I spent the day cleaning, or at least I did. Near dinner time, Jacques kissed me and went to get something for us to eat. He didn’t come back until after eleven. By that time the apartment was liveable, though not completely clean.
I heard Jacques come in, and I glanced up at him tiredly from the kitchen floor where I was finishing up. “There must have been a long line,” I said dryly, eyeing the plastic bag he held in his hands.
He grinned the beautiful smile that always made my heart skip a beat. “I got waylaid down by the bar, but I’m back now.” He leaned down to kiss my cheek and handed me the sack. I grabbed it eagerly; I had eaten only bread since lunch and was feeling sick from the lack of good food. But all the bag held was wine, some pastries, and a few thin marijuana cigarettes.
I shook my head at him in anger. I knew that if I didn’t eat soon, I would be very sick. “Jacques, I can’t eat this junk! You heard what the doctor said when we went last week. I’m supposed to eat healthy stuff!”
But Jacques only smiled. He walked to the door and picked up another sack that he had left outside. “I know, gorgeous. That’s why I brought you this.” He handed me another sack full of yogurt, fruits, cheese, and various other healthy items I had asked him to buy. The food was still cold, so he must have just gotten it down at the new market on the corner that was open all night. “I must have mixed up the sacks,” he continued as I tore off the lid on one of the drinkable yogurts.
I drank the yogurt before I replied, needing to stave off the nausea I was feeling. “Thanks, Jacques.” I smiled and pulled my husband down to the floor to kiss him with all the passion of a young wife. He loved me so much. It would mean a lot of work and adjusting, but together we would make everything turn out right.
* * *
Morning dawned all too soon, bright, hot, and bustling. Jacques left early to go back to his job at a distribution warehouse, where he loaded boxes of clothing and other items into trucks all day. After kissing him good-bye I went back to bed, feeling sick from the late night before. But the sounds from the street and the heat that seeped in from the thin windows and poorly insulated walls made me even more ill. I made myself get out of bed and eat more of the food Jacques had brought me last night. I also spied the wine and marijuana on the counter, but, with a hand on my belly, I resisted the impulse. I was going to do right by my baby.
After breakfast, I showered and left the apartment to look for a job. Though still hot, the streets were better than the apartment because of a cool breeze that blew fresh air into my face. I set my jaw determinedly and started out. I tried nearly every supermarket and café in the area—it was the only work I was qualified for—
with not even a hint of an offer. Half of the owners turned me away the minute they found out that I was expecting, so I soon stopped mentioning my condition. I didn’t feel good about it, but I needed to eat, didn’t I?
The June sun was hot on my head and back as I reluctantly started searching the bars for openings. Not even a breeze broke the afternoon heat. I didn’t like the idea of working in a bar, not appreciating the environment for my unborn child because of the smoke and the rough handling of the customers, but I felt I had no choice. Several of the workers told me there were openings and asked me to come back the next day or later in the evening to talk to the managers. I saw a glimmer of hope but was depressed nonetheless; I didn’t want to work in a bar.
On the next street, I saw two young men in white shirts and short haircuts walking toward me. With a flash, I remembered the young American with the bright red hair who had talked to me the day of Antoine’s funeral nine months before. Pain washed over me, and I hurried across the street to avoid them.
“And he said he’d pray for me,” I muttered. “Then why doesn’t his God get me a decent job?” Of course, I wouldn’t pray for myself; I didn’t believe in a God that would let Antoine die. Besides, I had done well enough without Him, hadn’t I? I had a husband and a baby—what more did I need? Certainly nothing that confused young man could have offered.
I shrugged the thoughts aside and hurried down the street to the next bar and the next. I had no luck at either. I was only two streets away from our apartment when I suddenly saw a little café squeezed in between a shoe store and a cheap clothing outlet. Above the shop, as above many shops in Paris, loomed a three-story apartment building that appeared old but well-maintained.
I sighed, almost unwilling to risk rejection again. But something urged me over to the café. “Now would be a good time for you to pray,” I murmured to the absent red-haired American boy. Again thoughts of Antoine flooded my mind, but I shoved them away. He was dead and gone forever; he couldn’t help me now.
The Ariana Trilogy Page 2