The Ariana Trilogy

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  “Why?” I asked. “It’s not your fault.”

  “But it is. I shouldn’t have upset him so. Then maybe he would still love me and we would be getting married. Then you wouldn’t have to call.” Her voice sounded despondent.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” I said. “Your only mistake was to become engaged to him in the first place.”

  “What?” Her eyes flashed angrily.

  “At last, a spark of life,” I teased. “Don’t you see how much pain you’ve been spared? The many times you would drag your kids to church alone because he refuses to go? You are so lucky.”

  “But I love him!”

  “You can’t go through life not being yourself around someone. With him you’re afraid to speak your mind. You can’t even be with us without endangering his self-confidence.” I grabbed her hand. “Lu-Lu, that’s not love. Believe me, I know. Please listen.”

  “I didn’t know you didn’t like Philippe. You never said anything before.”

  “Only because you wouldn’t listen. But we’ve been praying so hard that what was best for you would happen.”

  She sniffed. “So have I.”

  “And our prayers have been answered,” I said. She frowned abjectly. I shook my head. “Oh, Lu-Lu, there’s so much more out there—so much that doesn’t involve Philippe! Love will happen when you least expect it. Until then, look outside yourself and see who you can help. It will get your mind off Philippe.”

  “But it hurts!”

  I hugged her. “I know. But it will go away, and you’ll be able to look back on it with a different view. Just as someday we’ll remember Paulette without the pain. You need to be happy within yourself,” I added. “You can’t rely on a man to make you happy, just on yourself and on the Lord. Only then can you be confident and whole enough to enter an eternal relationship. Until then, just take it one day at a time.”

  Her arms tightened around me. “Thanks, Ariana. It doesn’t seem so now, but if you say so, I believe you.”

  “Good,” I whispered. I only hoped Philippe wouldn’t realize what he had lost before she was over him completely.

  Pierre came into the kitchen for a drink of water. We said hello, but he appeared not to hear.

  “Is he always like that?” Lu-Lu asked, coming out of her self-absorption.

  I nodded. The whole time Pierre had stayed with us he had said little, walking around as if in a trance. We had given him André’s room for privacy, moving the little boy’s crib to ours. Now Pierre spent most of his time in the room, sleeping or simply staring at the teddy bear wallpaper. He didn’t visit little Pauline in the hospital or leave the apartment at all, except for doctor’s appointments and his radiation and chemotherapy treatments. I didn’t know what to do for him.

  Daily, I visited Pauline, who was growing stronger and gaining weight steadily. She took more milk at each visit and used the feeding tube less. The doctor was sure she would be able to go home soon. Marie-Thérèse accompanied me on my increasingly longer visits but only to see her sister. She refused to speak to me during our outings or at home, and even with her father she had become reserved and cautious. Only with Jean-Marc was she her old self. She talked incessantly to him and insisted on sitting next to him at the table. Josette began to feel displaced in her father’s affection, and it showed in her treatment of her cousin.

  “I want her to go home,” she said on Monday during family night, almost two weeks after Paulette’s death. She glared at Marie-Thérèse, who sat on Jean-Marc’s lap, clutching Dolly in her arms. We were in the front room playing a board game—always a difficult challenge with the twins. As usual, Pierre had retired to his room early, claiming exhaustion.

  “Josette!” I reproved her sharply. My daughter had made no attempt to lower her voice, and Marie-Thérèse glared at her.

  “But she gets all the attention. She still has a dad, but she only wants mine.”

  Marie-Thérèse was crying now, and Jean-Marc comforted her. He looked sternly at Josette. “That’s enough. You and I will discuss this later.”

  Josette’s tears began at her father’s tone, and in frustration I started to cry—but in loud, fake sobs. The girls looked up immediately to see if my tears were real. Grinning, little Marc did his best pretend wailing, and then Jean-Marc joined us. Soon only André was quiet, staring at us curiously. Despite herself Josette laughed, accompanied by Marie-Thérèse, though she resisted looking at me.

  When all the tears were giggles, Jean-Marc fixed his eyes on the children, moving slowly from face to face. “We’re a family now,” he said. “We’re all staying together. We’ll be moving next week to Marie-Thérèse’s house, only it’s bigger now because they’ve finished taking out the wall to Grandma Louise’s old apartment. You four children will live like brothers and sisters. That’s the way it is.”

  “And my baby?” Marie-Thérèse asked.

  “She’ll be coming, too,” I said.

  Marie-Thérèse, staring at her hands, appeared relieved. “Good. I really want her.”

  What she wanted was to not lose any more loved ones from her life. My feelings echoed hers.

  “But before we get the baby, we’ll need a bigger car.” Marc’s tone was matter-of-fact. “We don’t have enough seat belts.”

  Jean-Marc smiled. “How about us men going to look for one tomorrow?”

  “Yeah!”

  “I want to go!” Josette said.

  “Me too!” Marie-Thérèse added.

  Jean-Marc looked at me, but I shook my head. “You got yourself into it, and now you’re stuck. I’ve done it before with all of them.” I smiled and added helpfully, “I’ll keep André.”

  He grimaced, but I could tell he was enjoying the idea. “Okay, I’ll take you all.” The children cheered.

  “I get the front!” Marc shouted.

  “No, you had it last time!”

  “It’s my turn!”

  My husband’s eyes met mine, and we both sighed. But inside I felt happy.

  * * *

  Moving day, the Tuesday three weeks after baby Pauline’s birth, came sooner than expected. Pierre had returned to work the day before, but Jean-Marc and my father took the day off to supervise the movers. Louise, Simone, and Marguerite were in our new apartment, cleaning and putting things away as they arrived. Josette and Marie-Thérèse squealed excitedly at having their own room away from the boys, and Marc stoically accepted sharing with little André. Both rooms were in the part of the apartment that had been Louise’s.

  I went into the nursery Paulette had so painstakingly arranged for her darling baby. We had taken Marie-Thérèse’s old room next to where the baby would sleep. On the other side of the nursery was Pierre’s room—the one he had shared with Paulette. I had removed all of her things, either giving them away or keeping them for the girls when they were older. Pierre hadn’t wanted to return to the room, but I insisted he be where he could hear his baby cry and go to her, should she need him.

  When I had made the suggestion, he stared at me, looking strange without the thick head of hair he had sported before starting the chemotherapy. “She won’t need me,” he said. “She’ll have you and Jean-Marc.”

  I wondered if perhaps we had been wrong in stepping in to help Pierre so much, in spite of Paulette’s wish. But then I thought of Pauline’s precious little face, and I knew I had to do it for her. I couldn’t let her feel abandoned. Still, I hadn’t expected that Pierre would try to completely abdicate his responsibilities.

  At one o’clock, Jean-Marc, Simone, and I took the children to the hospital in our new van, leaving my father and Louise to finish things at the house. Pierre was notably absent, as he had insisted he couldn’t take any more days off work.

  In the nursery, I dressed Pauline in a warm but frilly outfit Marie-Thérèse and I had bought the day before. She was still tiny, just under two-and-a-half kilograms, and the clothes were big. We laughed as I wrapped her in the baby quilt Paulette had made from material left over
from the new curtains. I fingered the pattern, remembering how many times I had seen the fabric in Paulette’s loving hands as she worked on it.

  I carried Pauline to the van, wrapped snugly in her mother’s love. It felt wonderful, and not just a little strange, to be holding my new baby without all the wires and the feeding tube. I buckled her into the new car seat next to André’s and then sat on her other side to make sure she didn’t cry. The children bounced on their seats with excitement, and I felt like joining them.

  “Now remember what we’ve taught you,” Jean-Marc said as he started the engine. “What do you do if the baby spits up?”

  “Tell Mom or you so you can watch while we put gloves on and clean it with a cloth,” Marc said.

  “Then we put it in the special basket,” Josette added. “And throw the gloves away.”

  “Or if it’s a lot, we let you clean it,” Marie-Thérèse said.

  “Then what do you do?”

  “Wash our hands with soap,” said the chorus.

  “And what if you see blood? Do you touch it? Or try to clean it up?”

  “No!” all three children said emphatically.

  “What about dirty or wet diapers?”

  “Only with gloves,” they said.

  Jean-Marc continued to drill them on everything that might happen with the baby. They knew all the answers; it seemed we had them prepared well. We had tried to instill not fear but caution. We wanted them to love Pauline and to be prepared to help her for however long she would be with us, not to turn away from her because of the infection.

  Despite all my worrying about the virus passing to the healthy children, the doctor had been much more worried about our caring for the baby. “Since her immune system is damaged, keeping her free from sickness will be your chief concern,” he said. “You need to watch for signs such as cough, diarrhea, or any odd behavior that might signal an infection. Anything at all needs to be reported immediately.”

  We had been told to keep Pauline inside and away from people outside the family until she was stronger, at about six or seven months, and then she could go out only if it was good weather. It wasn’t only because of her HIV; most premature babies were too fragile to fight off even the normal germs coming from outsiders. As with any premature baby, anyone who did stay with Pauline was required to take a CPR class, and all the adults in our family took it, including Pierre. I hopeed we would never have to use it.

  As we gathered for dinner, Pierre came home from work. He glanced around at the changes in the apartment, and I thought his face showed relief; I had altered things enough so the memories of Paulette wouldn’t assault him at every turn. Then his eyes rested on the baby in her carrier sitting on the large kitchen table. He studied her, and for a moment I thought he might go to her, but he didn’t. He slumped into a chair and stared at his food listlessly.

  “Daddy,” Marie-Thérèse said, “I missed you.” She climbed onto his lap. As usual, she carried Dolly in her arms.

  Pierre managed a smile. “Missed me? But I was only gone to work.”

  “Do you have to go again?”

  “Yes, tomorrow.”

  “We brought Pauline home. Isn’t she beautiful? I’ve never seen a baby so beautiful.”

  Pierre grunted. Marie-Thérèse tried to turn in his lap. Clutching the doll made her clumsy, and she knocked Pierre’s fork to the floor.

  “Marie-Thérèse!” he said sharply.

  Her face fell. “But I love you, Daddy,” she wailed.

  “Pick up the fork,” he said. She slid off his lap and retrieved the fork, her face puckered in a fearsome scowl. Pierre took it but made no move to comfort her. I longed to go to her, but I knew she wouldn’t accept me. I met Jean-Marc’s eyes over the table, begging him to do something. He shook his head at me.

  “I love you, Daddy,” Marie-Thérèse said again.

  “I love you, too,” Pierre said.

  “I want to hug you.” Marie-Thérèse held out her arms. Pierre sighed wearily but did as she requested. Then he pushed his chair back from the table and lurched to his feet.

  “I’m not hungry,” he said. “I’m really tired.” He left the kitchen, and I stood staring after his ever-thinning frame. The doctor had warned us he would change as the effects of the cancer progressed, not only in body but in spirit, but surely not this soon. And why his utter rejection of Pauline?

  “I just love him,” Marie-Thérèse said softly. It was a phrase that had become common on her lips since her mother’s death. If her father showed even the slightest irritation, she would say the words over and over, whining, until he gazed directly in her eyes and responded with his own feelings of love. It was irritating at best and grated on us all, even though I knew it was only because she was not getting what she desperately needed. But Paulette wasn’t coming back, and Marie-Thérèse wouldn’t let me fill her place. There was only Pierre, who seemed too wrapped up in his own private misery to notice his daughter’s cry for help.

  Jean-Marc picked up Marie-Thérèse and danced her around the kitchen. “I bet I can eat dinner faster than you,” he taunted, coaxing a reluctant smile. The tension dissolved, and we passed the rest of the evening in peace. At bedtime we gathered the children around us, as we had begun doing since Paulette’s death, and read the scriptures. We sat on the floor in the girls’ room and Jean-Marc read aloud, acting out some of the parts to keep the children’s attention. This was how I had always imagined life with my family. Jean-Marc had so far kept his promise to me and tried to place us first, though some nights he still had to work late.

  Pauline wriggled faintly in my arms. She opened her eyes and stared at me with eyes seeming far too wise for someone only three weeks old. She was still so tiny, yet I sensed a strong spirit there. Pauline—little but big in love. The name fit her well.

  I cuddled her close, loving her. I felt a soft touch on my shoulder and looked up to see André watching me. He reached out and stroked the baby with surprisingly gentle fingers, his face bursting into a grin. “Baby,” he said. I helped him sit in my lap and placed the baby on top of his short legs. His smile grew wider. “Baby,” he said again.

  That night, we put Pauline in her crib and turned on the small machine we had purchased to monitor her breathing. Because of her size and the HIV infection, we had felt it best to keep it on her, just in case. We bought another device that allowed us to hear any sound in the room. It comforted me to know that though she was so far away from me, I could hear even her tiniest cry at night. My other children had always been in the same room with us for at least the first few months, but with Pauline we had to consider Pierre. “He has to have a chance to know her,” Jean-Marc said when I had reconsidered putting her in the room alone. “And he won’t if we keep her in our room.” Reluctantly, I agreed.

  The days went by quickly with my new responsibilities, and sometimes I wondered if I would make it through. I had forgotten what work a new baby was and how much time was necessary for her care. Though she had completely captured my heart, Pauline quickly turned into a demanding, fussy baby, with a surprisingly loud voice for one so small. The burden grew heavier as Pierre became more sickly and could work only part time. He spent more time in bed than out of it, staring at the wall and only grunting in response to my questions. He never thanked me for the care I gave him, and each day he withdrew more from Marie-Thérèse.

  Louise and my mother came over often to help, as did Simone on her days off. Still, it was all I could do sometimes to keep my sanity. Even with the relatives helping, Pauline’s care fell mostly to me and Jean-Marc. When he walked in the door at night, I usually plopped the baby in his arms, crying or not.

  “And to think I once complained because you wouldn’t let me take care of the children when they cried,” he said one day when Pauline was six and a half weeks old. The baby was crying, and nothing I did would stop her.

  I glared at him. “I’ve had it! Do you know what your sweet little children did today? They colo
red all over the kitchen walls with crayons while I was rocking Pauline!” The baby had stopped crying as I said the last words, and my voice seemed conspicuous in the abrupt silence.

  Jean-Marc’s eyebrows drew together, and he made a sympathetic noise.

  “And we’ve no food,” I added. “We’re eating leftovers again.”

  He shifted Pauline to one arm and put the other around me. For once, the baby didn’t cry. “I love you,” he said. “And we’ll get by somehow.”

  “‘This, too, shall pass,’ eh?” I quoted.

  He smiled. “Something like that. Why don’t I watch the children while you go out for a while?”

  “I could go to the grocery store.”

  A key turned in the lock, and Pierre entered. He hadn’t gone into work until after lunch, but already he appeared exhausted. “What’s wrong?” he said, immediately noticing my flushed face. I saw him glance at the baby and away again quickly.

  “The children wrote on the walls in the kitchen,” Jean-Marc said.

  Pierre’s mouth twisted in his gaunt face, and he stomped down the hall, making more noise than I had believed possible for a man who had grown so thin. I followed him, with Jean-Marc close behind.

  Marie-Thérèse looked up from the wall she was cleaning with a rag. She saw her father’s grim face and dropped the wet cloth onto the white linoleum floor. “But I love you, Daddy,” she said before he could speak.

  “You know better than this,” he said. “After you clean up, you’ll go to your room.”

  She began to cry. “I don’t love you, Daddy. Never, never!” Tears streamed down her cheeks as she faced him defiantly. “And I don’t like you, either!”

  Pierre gave a strangled gasp and then whirled and made his way down the hall. Marie-Thérèse stared forlornly after him.

  I ran after Pierre. I reached his room before he had completely shut the door and elbowed my way in. “She didn’t mean it, Pierre!” I said. “She just needs you. You haven’t been here for her, and she’s afraid of losing you like she did Paulette.”