“Wait!” little Marc yelled accusingly. “Prayer. You forgot!”
Jean-Marc returned and stood against the wall, bowing his head as Marc prayed. He kissed us again and jogged down the hall. “Good-bye!” He tossed the word over his shoulder like a bag of laundry. I felt a little upset at his hasty departure, but I was determined to enjoy myself that night, and I wouldn’t be able to do so if I held a grudge.
The time for our date came and went with no word from my husband. While I was hurt, I wasn’t really surprised. I tried to call the bank, though I knew it was an almost hopeless endeavor. Jean-Marc spent most of his workdays out of the office with clients or on the phone, staying long after closing. At least the receptionist was still there.
“This is Ariana,” I said when she answered. “I need to speak with Jean-Marc.”
“He’s not here. Shall I transfer you to the other branch?”
“Yes, thank you.” But he wasn’t at the second branch either, and they didn’t know where he was. I left a message and hung up. Next, I called my mother to tell her I didn’t need her to watch the children after all.
My anger simmered inside me hotter than the soup I had made the children for dinner. “Bedtime,” I said when they were finished eating.
“I’ll get the Book of Mormon!” Josette shouted.
“No, me!” Marc was out of his chair in a flash.
I read them the story of how the brother of Jared made sixteen small, transparent stones to put in the eight boats and how they shone when the Lord touched them with His finger.
“And then Jesus showed Himself to the brother of Jared,” I explained, “because he had so much faith.”
“I wish I could make stuff light up,” Marc said.
“Where are those rocks now?” asked Josette. I didn’t know and told her so.
“I bet Daddy knows,” Marc said.
I rolled my eyes. “We’ll ask him tomorrow. It’s Saturday.”
“Saturday! Maybe we can play tiger!” the twins shouted. Saturday morning was the one time Jean-Marc usually spent with the children—or had, up until a few months ago. The children would come into our room and wrestle on our bed until finally hunger took control and Daddy got up to make breakfast. Then I would enjoy a leisurely bath alone, without any peering eyes. I wondered that the twins still remembered.
“Aren’t we going to the Saint-Martin tomorrow?” Marc asked.
“Daddy promised,” Josette added quickly.
The Canal Saint-Martin in Paris was the world’s only underground urban canal. We had promised to take the children there months ago after they had seen a special about it on television. We had already changed the date twice because of Jean-Marc’s work.
“Then we’ll go,” I assured them.
It took another half hour to put the children to bed. It wasn’t an easy task alone but one I had grown used to in the past year. And all the while my resentment built inside me until I wondered if I might explode.
Jean-Marc came home around ten. “Are you still in your pajamas?” he joked when he found me in bed reading a book. With his green-brown eyes twinkling, he looked vital and alive.
I glared at him.
“What is it?” he asked. Suddenly realization dawned, and he smacked his forehead with his open palm. “The Church activity! I forgot. I’m really sorry, Ari.”
“It’s okay,” I murmured untruthfully, as I had so many other times.
“Well, I practically closed the deal I’ve been working on,” he said, looking relieved. “Tomorrow I’ll wrap it up.”
“Tomorrow?” I felt my eyes narrow. “But it’s Saturday, and we’re taking the children to the Saint-Martin canal. We’ve been planning this for months. They’re so excited about it—we can’t let them down again.”
Once more he smacked his forehead. “I forgot about that. I can’t do it, Ari. We’ll go next time. They’ll understand.”
I pictured the disappointment on the twins’ faces when they learned their father had once again canceled on them—on us. The anger I’d held in check for months boiled to the surface as I got out of bed and began to pace around the room. “They’ll understand that your work is much more important than they are,” I said acidly. “Or me.”
“I’m working for us,” he retorted. “As soon as we’re set, I’ll slow down. I’m only doing it for—”
“We don’t need your money! We need you! The children, especially.” Now that I had begun, I couldn’t stop the hot torrent of words. “I’m sick of waiting in line for time with you. Home is not just where you come to sleep! I see the man at the corner bread store more than I see you!”
“That’s not fair,” he said. “Stop charging around like an angry bull, and let’s talk about this reasonably.” He tried to draw me close, but I was sick of listening to “reason” tinged with his bias. Besides, his touch always affected my judgment. I pulled away.
He released me and ran a hand through his hair. His face had grown stiff, and I felt a wall forming between us. “We’ve been through this before, Ari. It’s only for a short time.”
“Is it? I’m not so sure. Not even my father, who owns the bank, works as much as you do. He at least came home at night before Antoine and I were in bed. Tell me, how often do you see your children? Saturday mornings and Sundays? Yes, that’s about it. And half the time on Sunday you’re at Church meetings. You’re not around or available at the important intersections of life. You sleep here, but that’s all.” I put my hands on his shoulders and stared into his eyes. “Jean-Marc, we need you now, not ten years from now. In ten years, if the children haven’t learned to trust you and go to you with their problems, they won’t ever do it. It’ll be too late!”
He took my hands from his shoulders and held them. “It was for this new branch, Ari. That’s all.”
“And what was your excuse last year?” I took my hands from his, threw open the closet, and pulled his suitcase down from the top shelf, driven by my anger. “Maybe if you don’t want to be with us, you should leave,” I said, thrusting it into his arms. “Maybe our children would see you more if you didn’t live here.”
I was trying to make a point, trying to show him how serious the situation had become. He wasn’t just a man who worked overtime during deadlines but a man so obsessed with his job that he neglected his children, his family. Me. I was through simmering about it; the time had come for a change.
I met his eyes and saw hurt there, but it seemed deeply buried beneath his own anger. “Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’ll leave.”
His words pierced me. My insides seemed to tear apart as I watched him hastily throw a few things into his worn case. I loved him. What was I doing? What were we doing? Weren’t we married for eternity? I wanted to throw myself into his arms and tell him I didn’t mean what I had said and beg him to stay.
But I did mean what I’d said. We had been sealed in God’s temple for eternity, but I didn’t want to live my life alone, waiting for eternity to come.
He clicked the suitcase shut and left the room, pausing momentarily at the door but not looking back at me. His jaw worked and he seemed about to speak, and then he shook his head once and stalked down the hall, leaving whatever it was unsaid.
I couldn’t believe he was actually leaving. He wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t! I waited in our room for him to come back. He didn’t. Tears came, searing and painful. What have I done? But even as the question came, I resolved to see it through. I had to protect my children.
By losing their father? The accusing words seemed to come from the oppressive silence.
I was almost relieved when a cry came from the twins’ bedroom. Unlike little André, they still had difficulty sleeping through the night. I wiped my tears on the long sleeve of my nightgown and went down the hall, wondering how I would tell them tomorrow that not only was their daddy not taking them to the canal but he wouldn’t be coming home at all. Perhaps I would take them by myself. The sad thing was that they might not notice the
difference.
Chapter Two
“You can see her now.”
I started at the voice and looked up to see a nurse standing over me. At once the sights, sounds, and smells of the hospital came rushing back, firmly pushing aside the raw memories of the night before. I stood and followed the nurse down the hall to a room where Paulette lay on a tall bed, seeming very small and weak despite the mound of her stomach. She had an oxygen tube in her nose and a machine monitored her vital signs. An IV dripped steadily into her arm. She seemed to be unconscious or perhaps sleeping.
I glanced up at the doctor, who stood near my friend. He was an older man with white hair, sagging cheeks, and sad brown eyes that made him look like a basset hound. He was tall for a Frenchman and very thin. He studied a chart with an engrossed expression and then said something quietly to a nurse who replied with an equally soft voice. It was all I could do not to yell at them to speak louder. I bit the soft inner side of my cheek and moved restlessly in the doorway, finally drawing the doctor’s attention.
“Hello,” he said, his eyes coming to rest on my face. “I’m Dr. Flaubert.”
“I’m Ariana Perrault, Paulette’s sister-in-law.”
“You were with her when she collapsed?”
I nodded and swallowed hard, forcing my feet to take a few steps into the room.
“Tell me exactly how it happened.” I had told the nurses before, but it seemed Paulette’s doctor wanted to hear for himself. I was happy, at least, that they had found him. With her difficult pregnancy, Paulette was better off in the hands of her own doctor than those of a stranger.
As I spoke, guilt once more assailed me. It was my fault Paulette was here. This morning I had decided to take the children on our outing without Jean-Marc rather than to see their disappointment. Knowing that her husband was out of town on business, I called Paulette to ask if she and her daughter, Marie-Thérèse, would like to go with us.
Paulette was my sister-in-law and best friend and had been for years. She and Pierre used to live in Bordeaux but had moved to Paris after Pierre sold the family grocery store to a larger competitor who had a chain of stores throughout France. Now he worked for that same company, overseeing the stores in Paris and surrounding areas. His mother had retired and still lived in Bordeaux with her youngest, Lu-Lu, who was twenty-two.
“Want to come?” I asked, after explaining where we were going. “Please?”
Paulette was expecting her second child after three disheartening years of trying to conceive. She had been sick this time, almost to the point of being bedridden, but now that she was five months along, she had begun to feel better. “Canal Saint-Martin?” she said. “I’d love to. Marie-Thérèse has been wanting to go ever since she heard you were taking the twins.”
“Are you sure you’re feeling up to it?”
She laughed. “Not really. I’ve gotten a cold from somewhere and a cough as well, but I can’t spend the next four months doing nothing. I’m coming, Ari.”
I hung up the phone and looked down into the eager faces of the twins. “They’re coming with us,” I said.
“What about Daddy?” Josette asked, her large brown eyes luminous.
“Yeah, I thought he was taking us,” Marc added.
I frowned. “He’s working.” Both little faces drooped. “But we’ll have fun anyway.” I ruffled their dark brown locks and tickled their stomachs until the sadness vanished. It didn’t take long; they were accustomed to their father’s absence.
“It’s underground!” Marc said importantly when he had stopped laughing. “We get to ride on a boat! And underground for two kilometers!” He stumbled slightly over the last word.
Josette glared at him, unimpressed. “I know, I know.” She turned to me. “Mom, don’t you think we should go get André? He’s awake. I heard him a little while ago.”
I started guiltily. Oh, yes, André. My youngest was so well-behaved that I sometimes forgot he existed at all—quite a treat after the rambunctious twins. He had just turned one and had only recently weaned himself from nursing.
“Go get dressed,” I said to the twins, backtracking down the hall to the baby’s room. “Make sure it matches!” I added. “And bring a jacket.” It was mid-May, and though the day would most likely be pleasant, the underground canal would probably be chilly—if I remembered anything from my days of exploring Paris with my twin brother, Antoine.
André was awake, standing up inside his crib, waiting patiently. When he saw me, he smiled and jumped up and down, holding out his arms in anticipation.
“Good morning,” I sang, picking him up and kissing him.
“Ma-ma,” he said, grinning. Then he continued babbling, as if explaining something unquestionably important. I didn’t understand his baby talk but pretended I did. Otherwise, he would become so frustrated that I would never get him calmed down. It was his only true shortcoming, and I loved him for it. Besides, I couldn’t really consider it a shortcoming; after all, each of us craves understanding.
After taking care of André, I showered and exchanged my nightgown for chestnut-colored pants and a matching jacket; the dark colors served the dual purpose of setting off my brown eyes and announcing my disheartened mood to the world. Part of me kept listening for Jean-Marc’s step, but it didn’t come.
When we arrived in front of Paulette’s apartment, only five minutes away, she and Marie-Thérèse were waiting outside. Marie-Thérèse held her favorite doll in her arms—one Paulette had made for her at last year’s Christmas Homemaking meeting. Marie-Thérèse was four and a half, four months older than the twins, with light brown hair, brown eyes, and a slightly upturned nose. Taller than the twins, she took after her mother’s side of the family rather than her father’s. The cousins greeted each other eagerly, but as Paulette and Marie-Thérèse slid into the car, my friend’s face darkened. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You’re wearing brown. That’s your best color, but you only wear it when you’re upset. What’s going on?”
I shook my head slightly, moving my eyes toward the children.
“Okay,” she agreed. “For now. But you won’t get away with it for long.”
I smiled. She was really a good friend, and I loved her. I was closer to her than anyone, even Jean-Marc, though that hadn’t always been the case. Once Jean-Marc and I had been best friends—and once I had wished Paulette dead. I shook away the unwanted memories.
Paulette sneezed and drew out a tissue to blow her nose. I studied her anxiously. She looked thinner than I remembered her being even a few days earlier. Her brown hair hung limply on either side of her face; it also seemed thinner somehow, though surely a few days could make no real difference. Her stomach poked out hugely from her thin frame, dominating the scene. Though she was only five months pregnant, she looked almost like a caricature in an artist’s chalk drawing. There were several artists who worked along the Seine, mostly taking money from the many tourists, and only last week Paulette and I had had our portrait done. When the artist finished, Paulette’s stomach had taken up nearly the whole page, though in reality she was small compared to most pregnant women. It was just because she was so thin that her stomach jutted out so tellingly.
I drove to the yacht harbor near the Place de la Bastille where the canal tour began. The children were competing to speak louder than each other, and the din grew until I wanted to shout at them to be quiet.
“Children,” Paulette said in a composed but firm voice, “you all need to calm down a bit, or we won’t be able to find a parking place and we won’t go on the tour. It takes concentration to find a place to park.” The children grew silent, and I was amazed, as I always was with Paulette these days.
We finally parked and made our way down the sidewalk to the canal, where several boats floated in the water. We didn’t have a long wait, as the tourist traffic hadn’t reached its peak, and were soon comfortably settled in a medium-sized craft. A group of other people had joined us—mostly tourists—and Josette was
already talking enthusiastically to a woman seated on the bench next to her. Marc peered over the edge of the boat, making me nervous, and Marie-Thérèse sat quietly between me and her mother, playing with André, who was cuddled on my lap.
Before entering the corridor leading to the nineteenth-century tunnel, we sailed under the roundabout and the lofty, 180-ton Colonne de Juillet—Column of July—where the names of the five hundred who had died during the 1830 revolution were inscribed. Once we entered, the light faded, and we had to blink several times before our eyes adjusted. Skylights positioned every fifty meters cast a misty blue light into the passageway. It was a romantic setting, and I found myself missing Jean-Marc.
Above us we could see the stone base of the Colonne de Juillet, which served as a crypt for the bodies of those whose names were etched in the towering column above ground. The canal was more than impressive, and I settled down eagerly for the three-hour ride. Nostalgic memories of my twin brother softened the longing I had for my husband.
“Did Jesus make this?” Josette asked, coming to stand beside me.
“Actually, this used to be an open canal,” I explained. “But then, a long time ago, the people lowered the canal bed and covered it over.”
“Why?” asked Marie-Thérèse.
I shrugged. “I think they wanted to use the space above for cars and buildings.”
“But Jesus told them how, didn’t He?” Marc said. He still stood near the side, but at least now his feet didn’t leave the boat’s floor in his eagerness.
Paulette and I glanced at each other, trying to hide our smiles. This was one of those great teaching moments, one of the times I was so grateful to be a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. At least I knew what to tell my children.
“Yes,” I said. “Jesus is the source of all knowledge. Every great idea man has comes from the light of Christ. Every invention ever made.”
“Even boats?” Marc asked.
“Even boats,” I affirmed.
When the canal ride came to an end at the Bassin de la Villette, we made our way to a bread shop to buy something for lunch. The small boulangerie was filled with different breads, and I ordered two bagettes. As the lady handed me the long bread, the children clamored for pain au chocolat—bread with chocolate baked inside.
The Ariana Trilogy Page 20