The Ariana Trilogy

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  “She is going to lose me,” Pierre grated sarcastically. His face seemed heavily marked by black despair. “I’m dying. I can barely work anymore. The doctor says I probably have only a few months left. Before long, I won’t be able to get out of bed!”

  “You’re not so sick that you can’t love your daughter,” I retorted. “She won’t let me do it; you’re the only one.”

  He pulled up the leg of his trousers. Covering his calf were strange growths, standing out dark and ugly against his thin, white leg. I gasped and recoiled.

  He laughed mirthlessly. “Another opportunistic cancer,” he rasped. “It’s eating away at the outside while the other cancer eats at the inside.”

  “How long have you had it?”

  He shrugged. “A month now.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  His smile was bitter. “Oh, yes.” His eyes narrowed as he added, glancing toward a large picture of Paulette and Marie-Thérèse hanging on the wall above his dresser, “But it’s nothing compared to the feeling in my heart.”

  I felt his hopelessness, but I was also fighting for my best friend’s child, my child. “And you’re a grown man,” I said acidly. “How do you think Marie-Thérèse feels? She’s hurting just as badly as you are, maybe worse, because she feels she’s lost you as well.” He glared at me, but I wasn’t through. “And Pauline needs you, too. Don’t for a minute think that she’s too young to feel your rejection. You and Paulette wanted a baby, and it was Paulette who made the decision to save her life when no one else wanted to.” I shook my finger at him. “You have to come to grips with that. Your wife chose to give your baby a chance at life. It’s not Pauline’s fault. Stop blaming her for her mother’s death.”

  “She’s going to die.” Pierre’s face was stricken.

  “We’re all going to die someday. Our job is to survive until then and try to be happy.” I purposely made my voice hard. “And don’t tell me you’re enduring to the end. Enduring isn’t standing idly by and letting life sweep you away. It’s making the best of what you’ve been given. If you ever want to see Paulette again, maybe you should think of that. Eternal families take work.” I turned from him and strode from the room.

  Outside in the hall, Jean-Marc waited with the baby. “Did you hear what I said?” I asked.

  “He had to be told,” Jean-Marc said. “It should have been me.”

  “You love him too much. He’s your brother. But I love the girls more than I love him.”

  “Where are you going?” he asked as I passed him.

  “To see Marie-Thérèse. We’ve something to settle between us.”

  He nodded, and I felt perhaps he stopped himself from saying it was long past due. I felt a stab of guilt; he was right. She was just a child, and whatever it was that stopped her from letting me love her, it couldn’t continue—especially if Pierre wouldn’t come to his senses.

  I found Marie-Thérèse alone in her room. The door was slightly ajar, and I pushed it open far enough to squeeze in. She sat on the floor, facing the window, holding her doll to her chest and rocking it as she sang. Her voice was thin and high and shook with feeling.

  “Heavenly Father, are you really there? And do you hear and answer ev’ry child’s prayer?” I realized that Marie-Thérèse’s prayer was actually a song she had learned in Primary.

  “Please, send my mommy back,” she whispered when she couldn’t remember any more words to the song.

  I must have moved, because she turned. Her lips drew together as she saw who I was, and she turned back to face the window.

  “We need to talk,” I said, sitting on the floor beside her. She said nothing, so I plunged ahead. “I know I can never take the place of your mommy, but we’ve always been such good friends. Can’t you tell me what’s wrong? Why are you angry with me?”

  Marie-Thérèse’s face darkened, and she clamped her lips together tightly.

  “I love you,” I said.

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do. And before your mom died, I promised her I would take care of you. That’s why we all live together now. I’ll always love you, no matter what.”

  Her face turned in my direction, eyes challenging. “You said my mommy wasn’t going to die, but she did.”

  Of course! I had told her that, and I had believed at the time she wouldn’t die—at least not right then. How was I to know Paulette would die so abruptly? But at least I now understood the problem. In Marie-Thérèse’s eyes, I had lied. How could she believe me when I said I would always love her?

  I sensed a waiting about the child, as if she wanted to give me a chance. “I thought I was telling you the truth,” I said. There was passion and conviction in my voice, but I wondered if she would understand it. “I didn’t think she would die, not for a long time. I just kept telling myself she wouldn’t. I guess I thought if I said it enough, it wouldn’t happen.”

  Marie-Thérèse watched me for a moment before saying softly, “She could come back. Heavenly Father could make her come. He can do anything. Can’t He?” The last two words were spoken tremulously, as if she was afraid this too was a lie.

  “He can, but He won’t,” I said. “There are certain laws He also lives by. Because your Mommy got AIDS, she had to die, no matter how much we hurt or how much Heavenly Father hurts with us. Now we have to show how we can grow strong and learn how to get along without her. And you needn’t worry about your mommy. She’s with Jesus now, with no more pain or hospital beds, and she’s looking down on all of us, waiting for us to be together again.”

  Her eyes dropped, and I thought I had lost. “Oh, please, Marie-Thérèse! Please, let me love you. I miss your mommy so much. Can’t we help each other? I don’t know if I can do this without you!”

  I saw the tears on her lashes and reached out to draw her close. To my extreme relief, she didn’t pull away. “I love you so much,” I said, to make sure she understood. “And I’ll always love you. Always.”

  She still didn’t meet my gaze, but now she clung to me, letting her rag doll slip to the floor. As at Giselle’s baptism, I felt Paulette’s presence warming me, and I knew she was with us.

  “We’re fine,” I whispered. “Just fine.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Sunday, several days after my confrontation with Pierre, dawned bright and tense. He hadn’t emerged from his room all the day before, though I thought I had heard someone in the kitchen during the night. An air of expectancy had seemed to settle over the house. The children were abnormally quiet—except Pauline, who cried a great deal, as usual, squeezing her tiny fists together and howling with all her might until I gave her whatever she desired. Lately, she wanted only to be held in the rocking chair in her room. The automatic swing we bought wouldn’t do; she wanted human contact. She demanded almost constant attention, as if she had too much energy for her little body. Tomorrow she would be seven weeks old, though she was still smaller than most newborns.

  I hummed to myself that morning as I rocked Pauline in her room. André sat on the floor in front of me, dressed in his Sunday clothes and playing with some toys. Jean-Marc was in the bedroom dressing the children. As usual, Josette was whining because her tights weren’t quite right, and Jean-Marc sounded exasperated. I knew he was tired from lack of sleep—we had both paced the floor with Pauline last night—yet I stilled the urge to rush to Josette and take over. My husband had been right about my never letting him solve the problems with the children, and I had been practicing sitting back and watching. It seemed to be working. More and more often the children turned to him when he was home, leaving me more time for the household—or, more accurately, for Pauline.

  I stared at her face. She wasn’t sleeping, just watching me. I knew if I stopped rocking she would cry. She favored Pierre rather than Paulette, with abundant dark hair and intense brown eyes. There was no hint of illness yet about her, only the urgency to experience life.

  André lurched to his feet and held onto my knee, swaying
as I rocked. A grin nearly split his face. “Such a big boy,” I cooed. As usual when looking at him, I marveled at how good he was. Then it hit me; my Father had known all along I would be raising Pauline and had given me the steady and serene André because He had known I would be overwhelmed. I reached out and patted his tousled brown locks. “I love you, André.” He giggled and reached for my hand. In my arms, Pauline gave a small cry, as if suspecting my attention had shifted.

  “Well, we’re ready,” Jean-Marc said, coming into the baby’s room. It was his turn to go to church with the children. Since the baby could not leave the house except for doctor’s visits, we took turns staying at home with her. Pierre was usually in the house, too, as he hadn’t returned to church since Paulette’s death, but we were afraid to leave her with him because he had never looked twice at her in the same day.

  “Remember to come home right after, just in case Simone is late,” I said. “She’s working and was worried about getting here on time. I may not have time to get there on the subway.” Today at the baptisms after church, my parents would become members. Since the day of Paulette’s death, my father had been taking the missionary discussions and searching out every minute aspect of the Church, as was his thorough nature. Finally, he and my mother were being baptized. Simone had agreed to watch Pauline while Jean-Marc and I attended together. I felt comfortable leaving the baby with Simone as I had never imagined I might. The subtle changes that had begun in her since entering the clinic had continued, though she still refused to accept the missionaries.

  “I’ll be here,” Jean-Marc assured me. “And if Simone’s not here, you’ll go on ahead and I’ll meet you at the church.”

  “And probably miss the baptisms,” I said.

  He kissed me. “Don’t worry about it. Since I’m baptizing them, they won’t start without me.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” I said lightly. “My father’s pretty determined now that he’s learned everything he can. If Simone is late, maybe I should stay.” I grimaced even as I said the words.

  “It’ll work out,” Jean-Marc said confidently. His grin was infectious. “Now kiss Mom, kids, and let’s be on our way.” The twins came exuberantly, Marie-Thérèse shyly, and André sedately, as usual. I felt especially grateful for Marie-Thérèse’s acceptance of me. Her little face seemed less tragic now. If only Pierre could be there for her.

  Pauline had fallen asleep, but I didn’t move from the rocker. I was content to hold her and enjoy these moments of peace. Later, I warmed a bottle. As I fed her, I held her close and studied the tiny, perfect features so superbly masking the time bomb ticking away inside her.

  The minutes turned into hours, and when my family arrived home from church, I jerked awake in the chair. My body felt stiff and sore, and I tried to stretch my back. Pauline awoke with the movement and smiled as she always did after a good sleep. I grinned back, helplessly drawn to her charm.

  The phone rang, and I stumbled to my feet to answer it, but Pierre had come out of his room and beat me to the kitchen. “Okay, I’ll tell her,” he said into the phone.

  “What?” I asked.

  He didn’t meet my gaze, and I sensed an embarrassment about him. “Simone can’t come. She says she has to stay at work.”

  I groaned. Jean-Marc came into the kitchen with André in his arms and the others scattering around his feet like little yellow chicks. Except for Marie-Thérèse’s slightly lighter hair on a head poking an inch above the others, the three could pass as triplets. “Then Pierre will have to watch his daughter,” Jean-Marc said firmly.

  Pierre’s eyes widened, and he shook his head, backing away. “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.” Jean-Marc let André slide to the floor and took Pauline from my arms. “You know how to rock her and feed her. If you don’t remember from when Marie-Thérèse was little, you have seen us doing it enough.” He tried to give the baby to his brother, but Pierre retreated down the hall. He went into his room and slammed the door. I heard the lock click firmly into place.

  “She’s your daughter,” my husband yelled through the door, “and it’s about time you took your responsibility. You’ve had time to adjust. Now stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something with the time you have left. Is this how you want your daughters to remember you—a man whose spirit has been broken? What kind of example is that?”

  There was no answer. “Well, we’re leaving,” Jean-Marc said through the door. “Ari’s parents need our support today, and we haven’t left this apartment together since we brought your baby home. Your baby, Pierre! We’re going to leave her in her crib, and you’re taking care of her!” He stomped away from the door and into Pauline’s room. Gently, he laid the baby in her crib, stroking her cheek for a moment so the sudden change wouldn’t make her cry.

  “No!” I whispered. “What if he doesn’t take care of her?”

  “Ari, I know what I’m doing. Please take the children and wait in the hall.”

  I wanted to rebel, but his eyes pleaded. “Come on, children.” I ushered them out, stopping only to collect my purse on the small table beneath the mirror in the entryway.

  As I opened the door, Jean-Marc ducked into our room for an instant and then out again. He glanced over his shoulder. “We’re leaving, Pierre,” he declared.

  I heard Pauline start wailing in her room, realizing she was alone. My heart constricted, and I tried to go back into the apartment.

  “No,” Jean-Marc said, stopping me. The children watched us with anxious faces.

  “I’m her mother. I won’t leave her without knowing.”

  Jean-Marc shut the door and put his arm around me. “Of course we won’t leave her.” Out of his pocket he drew the baby monitor and held it out to me.

  I grabbed it and switched it on. Now we could hear Pauline’s shrill cry even more loudly. Marie-Thérèse’s eyes held tears; I too wanted to cry. We huddled together in the hall around the monitor in Jean-Marc’s hand.

  “Let’s go get her,” little Marc said, voicing my feelings.

  “Wait a minute more,” Jean-Marc said. His tearful gaze met mine. “It’s the only way, Ari. They need each other, and this is the only way I know. It’s like me with our children. I need to be with them and take care of them, even when they are being difficult—no, especially when they are being difficult.”

  The resentment building in my heart dissolved. Leaving Pauline alone, so little and helpless, was hard, but we had to balance her needs now against a possible relationship with her father for however long they had left.

  The crying went on and on, seemingly forever, though it could only have been a few minutes. Then a new sound: stiff steps, a low mumbling. “They left,” came Pierre’s puzzled voice. “They really left!” Pauline screamed even louder.

  “Shhh, baby. Be quiet. Just be quiet.” His voice was rough, and I wondered if he might hurt her.

  Jean-Marc saw my thought. “It’s Pierre,” he reminded me. “He loves her. He’s her father.”

  “Pauline!” Pierre’s voice came through the monitor, sounding frustrated. “Please stop crying!” Then, “Okay, come here.” The cries changed slightly but didn’t stop. “There, there,” Pierre mumbled.

  “I’ve got you. Don’t cry.” The cries lessened to a whimper and then ceased completely.

  “See? It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re not alone.” Pierre’s voice sounded odd now. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to leave you alone.” Again we heard crying, soft sobs, but they came from Pierre, not Pauline. “Hi, little one,” he murmured. “I guess it’s time we met. I’m your daddy. Yes, I am.” He paused before adding hoarsely, “And I love you. I’m so sorry, Pauline. I love you so much!”

  I looked up to see Jean-Marc watching me. His hand was gentle as he touched my cheek, wiping a stray tear. “It’s going to be all right, Ari. He just needs time alone with her.” I nodded.

  “So are we going?” Marc asked. Now that Pauline was no longer crying, his child’s brain had mo
ved on. “I don’t want to miss Grandpa getting baptized.”

  “Me either,” Josette said.

  Jean-Marc glanced at me questioningly, and I gave a sharp nod. “Okay,” he said. “Go push the button on the elevator.”

  “It’s my turn!”

  “No, mine!”

  I left Jean-Marc to sort it out and focused on Marie-Thérèse. She still stared at the white monitor in my hands. Pierre was singing a song so softly I couldn’t make out the words or recognize the tune.

  “He’s singing ‘Tell Me Why,’” Marie-Thérèse said, a smile playing on her lips. As she said it, I recognized a few lines from the song I had known as a child:

  Tell me why life is so beautiful.

  Tell me why life is so happy.

  Tell me why, dear Mademoiselle.

  Is it because you love me?

  “He used to sing that to me before Mom—” She broke off and transferred her gaze to me. “Is he back?” she asked. Her expression was hopeful but tinged with caution. “Do you think he’ll love me now?”

  I hugged her. “He has always loved you. He just misses your mom, and he’s a little scared, like you are. But I think he’s back. I think everything’s going to be okay now.”

  She seemed relieved. “I’m glad. I missed him.”

  “Me too,” I said. “Me too.”

  The elevator chimed, and I picked her up and carried her inside where the others waited. There would be time later for her to be with Pierre. Right now, he and Pauline needed to get to know each other without interruptions.

  I didn’t know if I was right about leaving Pauline with Pierre; it didn’t matter. I was only doing the best I knew how; it was all any of us could do.

  * * *

  At the church, my father was pacing in the hall, already dressed in white. “Oh, you’re here,” he said. Jean-Marc went to change while my father led us to where my mother was seated. Louise and Lu-Lu were with her.

  “They look so happy,” Lu-Lu whispered to me.

  I smiled. My parents were holding hands, and occasionally their eyes met and held as if exchanging deepest thoughts. “They know they’ll be together forever,” I said.