The Ariana Trilogy

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  I put a hand on Pierre’s shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. “Shall I stay?”

  He shook his head. “I’d like to be alone.”

  “Then would you like me to take Marie-Thérèse home?” I asked. He nodded mutely. I squeezed his shoulder once more and then leaned over to kiss Paulette’s white cheek, wishing I could hug her and tell her how much I loved her.

  I left the room and walked dejectedly down the hall. I could see Paulette’s laughing face in my mind, but the memories held no comfort. As I reached the door to the waiting room, Giselle caught up with me. Her brown face was wet with tears. “Ariana, it’s going to be all right,” she said. Her fingers on my arm compelled me to stop walking.

  “Paulette’s dying,” I stated, facing her. “She may never wake up.”

  She nodded. “It was expected. The surprise is that she’s holding on so long.”

  My teeth dug into the soft flesh of my lip. “I never told her good-bye.” Could that voice be mine? It sounded like rocks grinding against each other.

  “Yes, you did. You told her you would take care of her daughters, didn’t you?” I nodded. Her eyes bore into mine. “Then don’t you see? You did say good-bye. Until she knew they were safe, she couldn’t let go.”

  I remembered then that when Paulette first discovered she had AIDS, she had asked me to help her. I had feared she meant helping her to die, and I hadn’t thought I would be capable of such a thing. But in the end, it seemed I had—twice. By helping her understand and accept the AIDS two months ago and then by agreeing today to take her children, I had helped her to die.

  “You have been a good friend to her,” Giselle said.

  “As she has always tried to be for me.” I paused and then asked softly, “How much longer do you think Paulette will hang on?”

  “I think Paulette is already gone,” she said, “or nearly so. Once the light comes—”

  “You saw the light?” I asked.

  “It’s not the first time. Are you surprised?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? Because I’m not baptized? I may not be a member yet, but I was living the gospel before I ever met Paulette, before Marguerite introduced me to those young missionaries.”

  I believed her. “Are you saying you are going to be baptized?”

  Her smile was serene. “This Sunday. And I’ll be forever grateful to Paulette. If she hadn’t become sick, I might have never found the true church. Her gift to me is most precious.”

  “I’d like to come.”

  “I appreciate your support.”

  I took her hand. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for my friend.”

  “You don’t have to thank me. She’s my friend, too.”

  We smiled, and then I went through the double doors to the waiting room. Jean-Marc stood near the door with a sleeping Marie-Thérèse in his arms. His suit was wrinkled, but he didn’t seem to mind. He and the others looked up anxiously as I entered. “Well?” Jean-Marc asked. “What’s going on? Giselle came and gave me Marie-Thérèse and then disappeared. Did something happen?”

  “Paulette has lost consciousness. It’s just a matter of time now, the doctor says.”

  Simone gave a cry and buried her face in her hands. Louise and Lu-Lu tried to comfort her.

  “She did get to see the baby,” I said. “And I told her what she wanted to know.”

  Jean-Marc closed his eyes, holding tightly to the little girl in his arms. I saw in his face how he wished he could spare her the pain she would have to face, not once but three times, as those closest to her died from AIDS.

  I set my jaw resolutely and wiped away my tears. I couldn’t afford to be weak now. I had to take care of Paulette’s daughter first. “Come, let’s go home. She needs to be in bed.”

  “I’m stayin’ here,” Simone said. “I want to see my little girl again.”

  “We’ll stay with you,” Louise said. “I don’t want to leave Pierre alone, either.”

  “What about the drug clinic?” Jean-Marc asked Simone. “I thought you had to go back there.”

  Simone shrugged. “I don’t care. It don’t matter.”

  “I called and explained,” Louise said. “As long as I am with her, it’s okay. I’m sort of a companion. I’ll take care of her. You two go on home.”

  We said good-bye and made our way to the car. As we left the hospital, I felt a ripping sensation in my breast, one that had nothing to do with Paulette. We had left behind the little baby, alone in the hospital, with only the nurses to look after her. Although they were kind, their care could never match that of a mother’s. What if she cried? What if she needed me? Now that I knew she was my responsibility, I felt her absence acutely.

  I held my head in my hands and let the tears flood my body, purging it. Jean-Marc pulled over, and we held each other until there were no tears left. Then he held my hand as he drove the rest of the way home. When we arrived, he carried Marie-Thérèse to our apartment. I carried Dolly, who had fallen out of the sleeping child’s arms.

  A short time later, we laid Marie-Thérèse on our bed, removed her shoes, and tucked the covers up around her neck. Normally I insisted on the children wearing pajamas, but there were times when clothes were just as good, and this was one of those times. We slept that night with little Marie-Thérèse between us. During the late hours she awoke, crying for her mother. We soothed her the best we could, but only when Jean-Marc gave her Dolly did she finally return to sleep.

  Early Thursday morning, Paulette died. Louise called us from the hospital to tell us she had passed away, never again regaining consciousness. Louise sounded old and tired.

  “Pierre doesn’t look good,” she said. “I’m afraid for him. He loved her so much.”

  “We’ll help him,” I said.

  By the time Marie-Thérèse awoke, Pierre had arrived at our apartment. She was at the table eating and wondering aloud when her cousins would be home.

  Her eyes brightened when she saw her father. “Are we going to go see Mommy?”

  Pierre shook his head. He took her in his arms and held her close. “Remember about the sickness Mommy had? Well, in the night Mommy couldn’t hold on anymore, and she went to live with Jesus.”

  Marie-Thérèse cried with heart-wrenching sobs. Pierre cuddled her close for long minutes until they subsided. “Why don’t we go somewhere together? For a walk or something.”

  She nodded, her eyes red and swollen. “Can we take our baby?”

  “She’s too little to leave the hospital,” Pierre said. “But soon.”

  “Can we go see her? She gets so lonely there.”

  “No, not now.”

  I imagined it was difficult for him to go to the hospital. When my baby died, the place had represented a nightmare.

  “I can take you to see her later, if you want,” I said.

  Marie-Thérèse didn’t look at me. “Okay,” she mumbled. She laid her head against her father’s chest.

  They left, clinging to each other for support. “He’s going to be all right,” Jean-Marc said.

  “I hope so.” But tendrils of worry crept up my spine. Pierre’s face was unemotional, as if he had buried any residue of feelings so deep that no one could find them. Paulette had died, and I wondered if part of Pierre, the most vital part, hadn’t gone with her. I prayed I was wrong; Marie-Thérèse and that helpless baby in the hospital needed him now.

  Chapter Eighteen

  My mother brought our children home soon after Pierre and Marie-Thérèse left. Her eyes radiated sadness. “I’m so sorry about Paulette,” she said. The children were dry-eyed and more curious than sad.

  “Do you think she’s talking to Nette and Uncle Antoine?” Marc asked brightly.

  “No doubt,” Jean-Marc said.

  “So where’s Father?” I asked.

  My mother shrugged. “He got up early and left. He didn’t say where he was going. I assumed he was at work.”

  Jean-Marc shook his head. “I called
to say I wasn’t coming in, but he’s not there. It surprises me. We have a big account to settle, and one of us should be there.”

  “Do you have to go?” I asked. So much for his promises of the day before.

  But he smiled. “No. I told the secretary to cancel if your father didn’t show up. I’m not leaving you today. We have to make arrangements for Paulette, and I don’t think Pierre is the one to do it.”

  I hugged him. “Thanks for staying.”

  “He’s my brother, and I meant what I said yesterday.”

  Jean-Marc was on the phone all morning, making arrangements for Paulette’s funeral on Saturday. Mother stayed with us, and in the afternoon she watched the children while Jean-Marc and I went to the hospital to see the baby.

  “Has my brother been here?” Jean-Marc asked the nurse as he cuddled the infant.

  She shook her head. “We have everyone sign in when they come,” she said. “He hasn’t been here since Tuesday when he brought his wife in the wheelchair.” She hesitated before continuing. “I’m really glad she has you two.” She motioned to the baby. “She needs someone. I think she’ll be ready to go home in a couple of weeks. She’s nearly regained her birth weight, and she’s having no trouble breathing. God must be looking out for this one.”

  I ran a hand over her so-soft little cheek. “I think you’re right.” It was true she would develop AIDS, but her Father in Heaven had not abandoned her. I felt certain she had a mission to accomplish here on earth—an important one that only she could fulfill.

  “Do you have a name yet for the baby?” the nurse asked. “We keep calling her Antoinette because of what her sister said.”

  “We’ll talk to her father,” Jean-Marc said. “I don’t think they had decided yet about a name.” I hadn’t told him yet about Paulette wanting to call her Antoinette. There hadn’t been time.

  When we arrived home, the apartment was full of people. Marguerite and several of the other ladies in our ward were there with a huge dinner. Louise and Simone were also seated in the kitchen, looking somber. The twins stood near the counter, staring at a large cake, and André sat in my mother’s lap chewing on a roll.

  I hugged my old friend. “But how did you know, Marguerite?” Jean-Marc had called the bishop before we left for the hospital, but surely that hadn’t been enough time for the women to put together such a feast. Besides the cake, I saw breads, pastries, cheeses, salads, and fruit on the table. On the stove were pans of soup, and through the window in the oven door I could see evidence of a main dish.

  “Giselle called us this morning,” Marguerite said. “But actually I started cooking last night after visiting the hospital. It makes me feel better to cook. We made two dinners, one for you and one for Pierre and Louise, but we brought them both here when no one answered at Pierre’s.”

  “Where is Pierre?” Jean-Marc asked quickly.

  “Don’t worry,” Louise said. “He’s here. He came back a little while ago. He said he couldn’t bear to go home. Marie-Thérèse was asleep, and he looked tired so we made him lie down in your room. I peeked in a little while ago, and they were both sleeping.”

  Jean-Marc appeared relieved. He settled in the only remaining chair at the table, surveying the spread appreciatively. “This all looks good. I don’t think we’ve eaten all day.”

  Marguerite put her hand on his shoulder. “That’s to be expected.” She glanced up at me. “We’ll be bringing dinner for the next few nights. I’ll call to make sure Pierre’s still here.”

  I nodded, touched. When we needed them, the women of the Church were there. It helped to know others were aware of our loss, and, recognizing our pain, were able to jump in and make sure that mundane things like food were taken care of. We hugged and thanked the women as they left.

  “Where’s Lu-Lu?” I asked.

  Louise’s expression darkened. “She went to talk to Philippe. I’d hoped she wouldn’t, but I guess she loves him.”

  “Let’s wait and see,” I said.

  “Can we eat now?” Josette whined. “I’m hungry for cake.”

  “Dinner first, my girl.” Jean-Marc stroked her hair.

  My mother sighed. “I should go.”

  “No, stay. There’s enough food, if that’s what’s worrying you,” I motioned to the table.

  Her eyebrows drew together as she frowned. “No, it’s your father. He’s not home, and he still hasn’t been in to work. I’m worried about him. I should go home in case he calls.” There was fear in her voice.

  “But he’ll call here if you’re not home,” I said.

  “Maybe he can’t . . .”

  Then I understood; it wasn’t his call she feared but the impersonal one, a strange voice like the one who had announced my brother’s death that rainy morning so long ago.

  “He was agitated after we left the hospital last night,” she added. “I think what you said must have bothered him.”

  I felt my heart sink. All I needed now was to feel guilt for something I had said in my disturbed state. Still, there was one place he might go . . .

  “I’m going to look for him,” I said. “I think I might know where he is.”

  Jean-Marc pushed back his chair. “I’m going with you.”

  “I want to go,” Josette wailed.

  “Me too,” Marc said. “You already went somewhere without us!”

  What they were really saying was they needed us with them. Perhaps Paulette’s death was real enough to them that they secretly worried about losing us, as well.

  “You stay with them,” I said to Jean-Marc, putting my hand on his shoulder to prevent him from rising. “They need one of us here, but I have to go find my father. Besides, Pierre may wake up and want to talk.” He seemed about to protest, but little Josette climbed on his knee.

  “Stay, Daddy.”

  He nodded. “I will.” He reached out to clasp my hand. “But drive carefully.” I felt the love in his eyes and bent to kiss his lips.

  “I’ll be back,” I whispered as I drew away, feeling his hot breath mingling with mine. A thankful tenderness welled up inside me. How bittersweet it was to recognize the eternal nature of our relationship—bitter because of Paulette’s death but sweet because I could understand how it would continue forever, despite death’s toll.

  I drove straight to the cemetery and hurried up the cobblestone path. My father sat on the bench opposite Nette’s tombstone. He stared into the air, seemingly alone and forlorn, his gray pin-striped suit wrinkled as if he had mistakenly put on a suit meant for the dry cleaner. He wore no tie, and the top buttons on his shirt were open, revealing the dark hairs on his chest. His dark hair and moustache were uncombed. While he didn’t look like a vagrant, his appearance wasn’t what I was used to from my meticulous father. My foot hit a loose stone, and his head jerked up.

  “Ari.” His voice was low. He patted the bench and then turned to gaze again over the graveyard.

  I settled beside him, and silence fell over us as it had so often over the years. The sun rested low in the sky and no longer sent its rays dancing through the leaves and over the tombstones. The late July air was warm and without the hint of a breeze.

  “It’s not Wednesday,” I said after a time.

  His laugh was short. “Or after lunch, either.”

  At his mention of food, my stomach growled loudly. “Was that my stomach or yours?” I asked.

  “Haven’t you eaten?”

  I shook my head. “Have you?”

  “I’ve been fasting.”

  “Paulette’s dead.”

  His arm slid around me. “I know. I went to the hospital this morning before coming here.”

  “Have you been here all day?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “Mother’s been worried.”

  Remorse was etched on his face. “I’ve been so busy sorting things out, I didn’t stop to think that she would worry.”

  “Well, she has been. She loves you.”

  His ja
w clenched. “I know. I know. And only today did I discover how much.”

  I turned to stare at him. There was something different about my father, something I hadn’t noticed before. “Why are you here?” I asked.

  He gazed in the direction of my brother’s grave. “I’ve been fasting—and talking to Antoine.”

  “Oh?” I hoped my father hadn’t taken to seeing ghosts.

  “What you said at the hospital touched me. When you stared at me with your righteous indignation, I realized you believed every word you were saying—that even in death Paulette was better off than I am and that I was standing in the way of our becoming an eternal family.”

  “I was upset.” I rotated to face him. His arm dropped from my shoulder.

  “But you believed what you were saying and still do. Don’t you?”

  I thought about it and then slowly nodded, my eyes meeting his. “Yes.”

  “I realized you meant it, and that decided me. I would fast and ask the Lord if what you said was true.” He paused, his stare dropping to his hands, which were now twisting in his lap. “I know you’ve wanted me to do this for some time, but it seemed so ridiculous to fast about something I already knew was false.” He chuckled and looked up. “Imagine my shock when I knelt down this morning in my office, before anyone had arrived, and discovered it was all true.” His eyes gleamed with unshed tears.

  Abruptly, I knew what was different about my father. He had felt the touch of the Savior’s hand. He had a testimony! I smiled, feeling giddy. My father knows the Church is true!

  “Oh, don’t look so pleased,” he said testily. “I feel absurd enough as it is. Imagine what I’m going to have to tell your mother. And to think she has put off her baptism because of me!” His head rocked back and forth in amazement. “I don’t know if I would have done the same.”

  “It was you who asked her if she loved the Church more than she loved you,” I said dryly.