“You’re a member of their church?” the nurse asked. Marguerite nodded. “But I wasn’t always.”
“Giselle, this is our good friend, Marguerite Geoffrin,” I said. “She owns several cafés here in town.” As I introduced her, I exchanged knowing glances with Paulette. Marguerite had recently been made a stake missionary, and there was nothing she liked so much as a serious investigator.
“Why don’t you two come to the house, and we can talk about it?” Paulette said.
“I wouldn’t want to intrude. You need your rest,” Giselle said. But the words seemed reluctant.
“Nonsense,” Paulette dismissed the thought. “I’ve done nothing but rest for days. Besides, as my friend, you should come and make sure I’m settled in bed, right?”
“Well, I am getting off now,” Giselle said, her black eyes sparkling with amusement. “I’m tired—I’ve just finished a double shift—but I guess I could come for a while.”
“I’ll stop off for lunch at the café,” Marguerite said. “No sense in going hungry.” She turned to Giselle. “Want to come along to help me choose the food?”
“Why not?” Giselle said. “Just let me get my things.”
We left the two of them talking like old friends and made our way to the parking lot. I could hear honking in the distance and sounds of traffic. Nearby, a woman getting into a car talked excitedly, and the man with her laughed. They were the usual noises, but each seemed precious. Paulette lived, and I was taking her home!
When we arrived at Paulette’s apartment, I called my mother to tell her I wouldn’t be home for a while longer. “I don’t want to leave Paulette, at least until Marguerite gets here. She shouldn’t be alone at all this first little while.”
“We’re fine here,” my mother said. “We went to the park.”
“Did Marc make it to the bottom of the sandbox?”
She chuckled. “No, not yet. In another year or so, perhaps.”
I hung up and went to where Paulette was settled on the couch. Marie-Thérèse had covered her mother with a light blanket and now lay cuddled beside her.
“How’re you doing?” I asked.
Paulette sighed contently. “Good. Tired but good.” The hoarse voice of previous days had all but disappeared. She motioned to her chest. “The pain here is gone, all gone. It’s a miracle!”
“I agree.”
“Will you hand me the phone? I’d like to call my mother at work.” There was a sense of pride as she said the words. “I called her earlier, but she wasn’t in. I want her to know that I’m all right.”
I did as she asked and then went to the kitchen to make myself scarce. Paulette has her mother back, I thought as I took dishes out of the cupboard on which to place the lunch Marguerite would bring. Something good has come out of this whole mess.
The buzzer in the hall rang, signaling Marguerite and Giselle’s arrival downstairs. I went to let them in. When they stepped out of the elevator, they were smiling—a good sign. “We’re eating in the sitting room,” I said. I led the way to where Paulette was resting. The apartment had the same basic layout as mine, except the entryway was three times the size and had warm wood strips as flooring instead of cold ceramic tile. Paulette also had two balconies, one off the kitchen and one off the sitting room, whereas I had none.
Marguerite had spared no expense, bringing a variety of food, from soup to pastries, that she or her husband had made themselves.
As we set it out, the phone rang. It was the Relief Society president with a list of sisters who had called to help out by bringing meals or staying with Paulette while Pierre was at work. Paulette hadn’t been joking when she told the doctor about the lines of people waiting to help. I hung up and relayed the information.
“The members of your church are doing that?” Giselle asked, her eyebrows rising. “But they just found out about Paulette being released today.”
“Oh, we have a sort of network.” Marguerite explained about the visiting teachers. “And they probably passed a sheet around on Sunday, asking who would like to help out.”
“Can we pray?” Marie-Thérèse now sat on the floor near me, eyeing the meat pastries Marguerite had brought. The others had settled themselves on two comfortable chairs opposite the sofa. “I’m hungry.”
“Would you like to offer it?” Paulette asked.
The child shrugged. “Okay.” We bowed our heads and folded our arms. Giselle did the same. “Heavenly Father, thank you so much for making Mommy better. I knew You could do it. And thank you for Marguerite bringing the food, especially the pastries. Please bless them and the meat and rice, too. Help us to know if someone needs us so we can help them.” She closed in the name of Jesus Christ, and we all said amen.
We began to serve ourselves from the food loaded on the coffee table, but Giselle sat without moving. “How does she know how to pray like that?”
Paulette looked at Giselle in mild surprise. “We taught her, I guess.”
“But she talks to God, not at Him. Like she knows Him.”
“I do,” said Marie-Thérèse. “He’s my Father, and Jesus is my Brother. I learned that in Primary.”
A sensation of wonder passed over Giselle’s face. “I have always believed God was my Father,” she said slowly, “and I have always prayed to Him as such. Other people I have met have similar beliefs, yet never have I felt it as now. How can that be?”
I stopped with a piece of bread halfway to my mouth. Paulette lay on the couch in perplexed silence; Marguerite had her mouth full. It was up to me to answer.
“Do you feel warm inside?” I asked.
Giselle nodded. “Tingly. Almost like when your foot goes to sleep, except it feels good.”
“That’s the Spirit,” I said. “Sometimes it comes as a warm feeling or a tingling. Sometimes it’s simply a certainty or even like a hug. It’s hard to describe, but once you feel it, you can never forget.”
Giselle nodded. “I felt it last night when your husband blessed Paulette,” she said. “And that’s what interests me. He did it by laying his hands on her head, but where did he get the power? I’ve never seen anyone recover so quickly. It wasn’t possible, and yet,” she glanced at Paulette, “there she is. Is your husband a prophet?”
The question startled me until I remembered that she had seen a miracle. “No. But he has received the power of God to heal and to bless. Every worthy male member of our church has this ability.”
“Oh.” Giselle seemed disappointed. “Then you don’t believe in prophets.”
“Yes, we do,” Marguerite said. “We believe the priesthood was restored to the earth by a latter-day prophet. The living prophet, like those of old, receives the word of God and passes it to the whole Church.”
“Marie-Thérèse, go in my bedroom and get the Liahona off the table by my Book of Mormon,” Paulette said. “It’s the conference issue.”
“We believe the Lord always reveals things to prophets,” Marguerite continued. “Just like in the Bible times. You see, when Jesus was on the earth, He established His Church.” She took a blue book from her purse, one with a gold angel on the cover, and grabbed it firmly between the fingers and thumbs of both hands. “Pretend my fingers are Jesus’ disciples, and this book is the Church. When Jesus died, the Church remained, guided by apostles and a prophet. But eventually wicked people killed the apostles, one by one.” One at a time, Marguerite began lifting her fingers from the book as we watched in fascination. “Until at last, the Church fell.” She let the book plummet to her lap. “It broke into many different pieces, as shown by the many different religions of today. Each had a part of the truth, but none held the truth in its entirety. Thus began the dark age of apostasy from the Church of Christ. And so it remained until the Lord decided the time had come to restore His Church.” Marguerite stopped like a good missionary did, to give her companions a chance to speak. There was only Paulette or me.
I picked up where Marguerite had left off. “In 1820 a fourte
en-year-old boy, Joseph Smith, was searching for the true Church. His family visited various churches, and each chose one to attend, but Joseph couldn’t decide which one was true. One day while reading in the Bible, he came across a scripture in James that said, ‘If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God.’ When Joseph read those words, he knew what he had to do.” I explained how young Joseph had gone to the woods alone to pray and how he had been answered. Everyone was quiet and intent on my words—even Marie-Thérèse, who had returned with the Liahona.
“He saw God the Father and Jesus,” I said with quiet conviction. “And through him they restored the true Church to the face of the earth, never to be taken away again. Later Joseph was given the priesthood, and since then it has been passed down through the members of our church.”
Marie-Thérèse handed the Liahona to Giselle and opened to the page with the general authorities. “See, that’s our prophet,” she said. “And those are the ’postles.”
Giselle took the magazine gingerly in her hands. “A prophet and twelve apostles,” she mused. “And who are these?”
Marguerite explained about the Seventies while Paulette’s eyes met mine. I saw a contentment there, and instinctively I knew it was because of Giselle’s interest in the Church.
“My grandfather always said that Jesus’ true Church would have a prophet and twelve apostles,” Giselle murmured, as if to herself. “He said they would have the power of God. But he never found a church like that.” She touched the picture of our prophet with a brown finger. “A real prophet of God? Could it be true?” I could actually feel the hope and longing in her voice, and for the first time in a week the tears springing to my eyes were from joy, not from sorrow.
“I want to know more,” she said. “Please teach me.”
“Gladly,” Marguerite said. “We’ll set up an appointment for you to talk with our missionaries. But for now, take this.” She gave the Book of Mormon in her lap to Giselle.
“What is this?” Giselle asked.
“It’s a book the Prophet Joseph Smith translated,” Paulette answered, her uncertainty about teaching overcome in her eagerness to share the knowledge. “It’s a second witness of Jesus Christ. Part of it tells the story of when Jesus visited the people on the American continent. It is the most beautiful book I’ve ever read. It was what first made me believe in God’s love.” Her face shone with the strength of her belief.
Giselle stared at the book in awe. “Thank you. I’ll be very careful with it.”
“Keep it as a gift,” Marguerite said. “There are some passages marked and a study guide. Read those first, if you will, and then the missionaries will begin from there.”
“May I bring some of my family to listen to the missionaries?” Giselle asked.
Marguerite smiled. “Of course.”
Giselle stood abruptly, clutching the book to her chest. “Thank you. I really must be going now.”
“But we haven’t eaten,” Marguerite protested.
“Suddenly, I’m not hungry.” In Giselle’s eyes I saw a hunger that had nothing to do with food.
“Let her go,” I said to Marguerite and then spoke to Giselle. “But leave us your number so we can arrange the discussion with the missionaries.”
Giselle pulled a card from her purse and handed it to Marguerite. “Any time in the afternoon is best,” she said, “since I normally work the night shift—twelve hours, four days a week. Or I sometimes have the weekend off. Just let me know.”
“You can take this, too.” Marie-Thérèse picked up the Liahona from the table where Giselle had left it. Giselle glanced at Paulette, who nodded.
With her treasures, Giselle went to the door. “Thank you,” she said as I walked with her.
When I returned to the others, everyone had begun eating except Paulette. “To think what life would be like without the gospel,” she murmured. “I’d quite forgotten. What a wonderful feeling!” She turned to me. “Ariana, will you help me with my mother? I want her to understand how much God loves her.”
“Of course,” I said automatically. I didn’t know how Simone would take to the gospel, but I would do anything to help her.
During the rest of lunch, Paulette and Marie-Thérèse chatted happily about the new baby. Marguerite and I had everything cleared away when Pierre walked in the door. He settled on the floor near his wife, and they exchanged a loving glance.
“I’d better get home,” I said, taking the cue.
Marguerite rose. “Me, too.”
I kissed Paulette on the cheek and hugged Marie-Thérèse. “Call me if you need anything.”
The Lord’s love radiated in the room. They looked so happy sitting there as a family, and my heart filled with thanksgiving for this time they had together. The priesthood of God had surely worked a miracle.
Chapter Thirteen
The summer days slipped away like rats scurrying out of sight behind the garbage bins in the basement parking lot. As Paulette continued to mend, everyone relaxed and began to treat her as they had before we knew she had AIDS. Only I seemed to hold my breath, as if waiting for something dreadful to happen.
Nothing did. My parents had called an unspoken truce and settled again into their lives without discussing the gospel. Neither appeared extremely happy, but at least they were together.
Louise returned from Bordeaux and set about taking care of Paulette while she waited for an apartment to open up in Paulette’s building. Lu-Lu stayed with us; I suspected she wanted some time away from her mother.
To our dismay, my sister-in-law persisted with the idea of marrying Philippe, and we had no choice but to go along with it. We tried to fit him into our family, but he mocked our beliefs at every turn. “Crazy. Your family is crazy,” I heard him say to her several weeks after Paulette was released from the hospital.
“They are not!” They were out in the hallway near the elevator, but Lu-Lu had left the door ajar as she bade him farewell for the evening.
“If they think a little prayer is going to save your sister-in-law from AIDS, they are crazy. It’s incurable, and nearly everyone dies within three years of coming down with the symptoms of AIDS. Three years!” he repeated. “That’s not a long time. And your brother has been infected with HIV; it’s only a matter of time before he develops AIDS and dies, too. No olive oil and prayer will help him then.”
“Philippe!” Lu-Lu chided. “Miracles do happen. I’m not saying Paulette is going to be cured, but I’m telling you she was made well this time by the power of the priesthood.”
He snorted derisively. “The doctor’s drugs made her well. I tell you, as soon as you are out from under your family’s influence, the better I will feel. I love you, Lu-Lu. I’ll take care of you.” His voice lowered, and I couldn’t hear any more from the sitting room where I had been reading before their arrival. I supposed he was kissing her. At first, I hadn’t understood her attraction to the man, but once he had cut his shaggy hair and shaved his scruffy beard, he had uncovered a genuinely handsome person. To make things worse, in our view at least, he was succeeding so well in his job at the bank that he was already being considered for a promotion.
“I don’t know if I like the way he does things,” Jean-Marc said to me late one evening when he had returned home from work. “But it’s always done on time and correctly.”
“What’s wrong with the way he does it?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know exactly. People seem to jump when he calls. He has a sort of magnetism or something. The other workers seem to be in awe, or maybe even afraid, of him.”
“That’s not good.”
“No, it’s not. But I don’t know what to do about it. I hoped he’d fail and Lu-Lu would see what a loser he is.”
“Is he really a loser? Or is it because he’s not a member? Lu-Lu loves him so much. Can she be so blind?”
Jean-Marc didn’t have an answer, nor did I. Once I had been blinded by the man I thought I loved—my first husband, J
acques. I knew it was all too easy to get caught up in the emotion. Was it true love, or simply the dream of love, that held Lu-Lu in its grip?
“I think she’s tired of being alone,” Paulette said. It was Sunday and Paulette’s first day back at church. In her arms she carried an array of projects and lesson aids for her Primary class.
“Marrying the wrong person is a heavy price to pay for companionship,” I countered. “It’s worse than being alone.”
Paulette sighed. “I know. But we can’t expect her to realize that.”
“So what do we do?”
“I don’t know. Just keep on like we are, I guess.”
“Maybe she’ll come to her senses in time.” My voice didn’t hold much hope.
“I’m praying,” she said.
Since the onset of her illness, Paulette had changed. She had always been good, but now she seemed more centered, somehow, and more patient. I guess looking at life from her perspective made a difference. It wasn’t something I wanted to think about.
We had arrived in Primary opening exercises, and I said good-bye to the twins. They were jumping with excitement at having Paulette back after two weeks of substitutes. “I hope they’re not too wild for you,” I said.
Paulette smiled. “They won’t be.” She sat down with the twins near her, but not one of the other class members appeared. I saw several parents peek into the room, but when they saw Paulette they hurried their children away. At first I didn’t want to believe it, but when Primary started, only one of the other five children appeared. Children in the other classes stared at Paulette with open curiosity.
Time showed that many of the parents with children in Paulette’s class had withdrawn them from Primary when they learned of her illness. They felt it was one thing to let someone with AIDS in the church house but quite another to expose their precious children to the risk at close range. The bishop refused to succumb to pressure to release Paulette, and he worked to educate the ward members and calm their fears. In the end, his effort was in vain, and Paulette decided to resign rather than see the ward divided into two warring factions.
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