The Ariana Trilogy

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  The color had fled from Jean-Marc’s face, leaving it as gray as my father’s had been when he thought my mother was dead.

  “I’ve put Marc on the list, but your quickest bet would be the patient I mentioned before. They don’t think she’ll last the night.”

  “You mean the lady Marc saved!” Lu-Lu said. “Danielle.”

  Marc’s smile vanished. “She can’t die! She can’t! I don’t want her kidney. I’ll wait for another!”

  Jean-Marc sighed heavily and slumped to a chair. “I’m sorry, Marc.”

  Marc turned his face away and squeezed his eyes shut. A single tear appeared in the corner of one eye.

  The doctor left, and we sat there in gloomy silence. Jean-Marc looked up at me in utter defeat. “I’ve failed again, Ari.”

  I grabbed his hands. “It’s not your fault! Don’t worry. We’ll find a kidney for Marc. Everything’s going to be all right.” I didn’t know that for sure, but I had to be strong. This news had been a sharp blow to Jean-Marc’s already damaged confidence.

  “You couldn’t have known,” Lu-Lu added. “None of us could have.” My parents moved forward, united in an instinctive desire to comfort us. An awkward silence fell as we struggled to accept this new information.

  The door opened again, and this time Pauline appeared. But she was not alone; a tall, brown-haired man and two subdued young children stood with her. The youngest, a girl, had one hand in Pauline’s; the other clutched his father’s leg. Even after more than a decade, I still recognized the man’s bleak face.

  “Philippe!” Lu-Lu exclaimed.

  “It is you,” he breathed, his blue eyes boring into hers. “I wasn’t sure, but I hoped when I found out Pauline’s last name today.”

  “What are you doing here?” Jean-Marc asked, his voice hard.

  Philippe nodded, as if he hadn’t expected to be well received. He put a gentle hand on Pauline’s shoulder. “I’ve been talking with Pauline here.” He addressed us all, but he had eyes only for Lu-Lu. “She’s an incredible little girl. I wish I could have understood that when I walked out all those years ago.”

  His words brought the memories back vividly. Lu-Lu had wanted to support her family during Paulette’s AIDS crisis, had even wanted to help raise the premature Pauline. But Philippe had wanted nothing to do with a baby who had HIV.

  “I was wrong,” Philippe continued, “about a lot of things.” His voice broke. His moist eyes rose to include the rest of us. “But I came to ask your help. My wife’s dying. She was in the bombing. She’s in a coma now, and they say she’s not going to make it. But Pauline here,” he cast a grateful look at my daughter, “reminded me of how her mother was healed long enough to give birth to her. Please,” he begged in a wavering voice, “I don’t want my children to lose their mother. God knows I haven’t been good to her, but I know I was wrong. I knew the minute I saw you at the bank. You brought it all back.” He made a tentative step toward Lu-Lu. Once again he spoke only to her. “I lost you eleven years ago, just as I’m losing her now, and it was my fault. I’m the one who needs to change. And now it’s too late—unless your family will give her a blessing. Even after all these years, I’ve never forgotten the feeling I had when your brother gave his sister-in-law that blessing, though heaven knows I’ve tried. But that blessing saved Paulette, and she was able to give birth to Pauline. I want that blessing for my wife. Please, can you forgive me enough for that? If not for me or for her, then for our children?”

  Once Philippe had denied the miracle of the priesthood, and now he asked for its blessing.

  The little girl and boy stared up at us with their sad gray eyes. Both had auburn hair and high cheekbones, probably inherited from their mother, though I could see Philippe’s handsome features in their faces as well. I wanted to help them and save their mother, even if it meant Lu-Lu would never have another chance with Philippe. But there was something else complicating the matter. Danielle Massoni, the woman whose death would save my son months of torment and even his life, the same woman my son and later Lu-Lu had tried to save, was none other than Philippe Massoni’s wife. Now I knew why her last name had seemed so familiar to me.

  “Your wife is Danielle,” I said. Lu-Lu gasped and held her hand to her heart.

  Philippe nodded. “Please, will you help?”

  Marc’s tears ceased, and he responded eagerly. “Oh, Dad, please. I don’t want her to die. I can stand the dialysis for a while longer. I’m not a girl; I don’t care about the scars. I don’t want her kidney! Please give her the blessing!”

  “He’s the boy who needs the kidney?” Philippe said, the color draining from his face. “I didn’t know.”

  “He’s our oldest son,” I said.

  Philippe nodded. “Marc, isn’t it? I remembered he was named after his father.” His eyes flicked to Jean-Marc and then away quickly. He didn’t say another word but simply waited.

  “Well?” Marc demanded, staring at his father.

  Jean-Marc lumbered to his feet, sighing wearily. “Of course we’ll give Danielle a blessing.” He glanced at my father, who nodded sharply, his face drawn and tense.

  Pauline smiled in her innocence. “See, I told you they would bless her. Grandpa ’specially likes to bless people. He almost never comes over to see me, because he’s always doing it.”

  My father’s mouth opened slightly in protest, but he didn’t speak. Surprise, with a touch of sadness, lingered in his expression.

  “I’ll pay you anything you ask,” Philippe said, dormant hope springing to life in his face. “Anything at all. I know that won’t make up for the kidney, but it should help find a new one.” It seemed as if he was almost begging. I wondered if he was trying to ensure that they would give him a real blessing and not just lip service. How little he knew about the gospel—or my husband!

  Jean-Marc’s eyes met his. “No,” he said firmly. “The priesthood is not for sale. Not now or ever.” He glanced back at Marc before continuing. “It’s not even ours but was given to us by God to bless those in need. If I refused to bless your wife, I would be refusing my God.” His voice sounded rough against my ears. “And I cannot do that.”

  “Not even to save your own son?” Philippe asked. Curiosity had dampened some of the obvious fear he felt for his wife.

  Jean-Marc’s face saddened, and he glanced in my direction. “Marc will be fine,” I said. “We have our faith.”

  Philippe nodded. “Then you have more than I.”

  “That’s not true.” I took a step in his direction. “You came to us and asked for a blessing. That’s a beginning of faith.”

  Uncertainty crossed his features, softening the bleakness. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “She is,” Jean-Marc said.

  Philippe had always excelled in convincing others to his way of thinking, but even so it took some long, hard talking to get us all, Marc included, into his wife’s room for the blessing. Marc’s eyes danced with enjoyment as he watched Philippe negotiate with the nurses. Finally, they moved Marc to a portable bed, and we rolled him into the room.

  Danielle lay deathly still, her striking face marred by the many bruises and the heavy bandaging on her head, but for the first time I noticed her resemblance to Lu-Lu. Her hair was long, but the auburn color was nearly that of my sister-in-law’s. That Lu-Lu used hair dye to achieve the effect on her normally dark brown hair made no difference in the end. Danielle’s build and rounded face also mirrored Lu-Lu’s, and I remembered that she too had striking eyes, though of a different color. The two women might be taken as sisters. Could that be why Philippe had chosen Danielle? Did he still love Lu-Lu?

  I glanced at Philippe. He watched his wife with obvious concern, but his gaze occasionally rested on my sister-in-law, soft and regretful. She eyed him in the same manner and appeared close to tears. I wished I could take her away from there, but I knew by the stubborn set of her jaw that she was determined to see this experience through.

  “I’ll anoint
,” said Jean-Marc.

  My father regarded him silently for a long moment. “I think you should give the blessing. It was you Philippe asked. I wasn’t even a member when Paulette died.” They both glanced at Philippe, who nodded anxiously.

  “All right,” Jean-Marc agreed. I saw that he was reluctant, but I knew he wouldn’t let his personal feelings for Philippe color the words—at least he would try not to let that happen.

  After the anointing, he began slowly and hesitatingly. He told Danielle that the Lord was aware of her trials and had heard her many tearful pleadings. He promised her that she would be made well. It was a simple blessing, shorter than Jean-Marc’s usual, but powerful all the same.

  “That’s it?” Philippe asked.

  “Now it’s up to our faith.” Jean-Marc bent down until he was at eye level with Danielle’s children. “Do you believe in Jesus?” Both children darted a frightened glance in their father’s direction, disclosing that this had been a point of contention in their parents’ relationship.

  When Philippe said nothing, the little girl meekly replied, “Yes.”

  “That’s good,” said Jean-Marc, “because He does exist, and He loves you! Do you believe that?” This time both children nodded. “Then I promise you He will make your mommy well.” Without another word, he stood and left the room. André followed him, a dark expression on his face. Lu-Lu and my mother were in tears, and even Marc, flat on his bed, looked misty-eyed. In another situation, I might have teased him.

  “Oh, you big baby,” Pauline said, laying her cheek against her brother’s. “I told you she wasn’t going to die, but you just didn’t listen.” Marc nearly choked with laughter.

  “Thank you, Pauline,” Philippe said. His voice was steady, and his face showed no sign of tears, yet I sensed he had been touched. “Thank you all.” We left the family alone, Lu-Lu staring over her shoulder long after the door had closed behind them.

  Both Jean-Marc and André had vanished, and I hoped they were together. The revelations of the day had not been easy on any of us but even less so on them. Jean-Marc blamed himself for his inability to help Marc, and I knew this was one more thing André would blame on the Church. And I could understand his response. A blessing to save Danielle’s life would necessarily deprive his brother of the organ he needed. The paradox didn’t seem fair. Even within myself I sensed a struggle, but I felt content that we had done everything we could do. Now Danielle’s life was in the hands of the Lord.

  We settled Marc in his room. He looked tired and satisfied. “I want to sleep now,” he said with a grin. “So go home!”

  “You don’t have to kick us out,” Pauline protested. I laughed, but my parents and Lu-Lu were silent, each intent on their inner thoughts.

  “Are you coming home, Josephine?” My father waited until we stood in front of the elevator doors in the deserted waiting room before asking the question.

  “I don’t know,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “I think that depends on you.”

  My father paced, flexing his hands. “I’m trying to do my best. You know how much I’ve longed to retire so that I could dedicate myself to the Lord. It’s just that there’s so little time left for me to help people recognize the truth!”

  “But you work too hard! And don’t give me that line about it being only this last year. You’ve been this way ever since you were baptized. How many times did you spend your evenings tracting with the missionaries? Supervising them? How many times have you stayed out all night counseling people who are perfectly capable of handling their own problems? You don’t have time to eat—you’ve lost weight.”

  “Me? Who cares about me?”

  “I do! You’ll work yourself into the grave.”

  “But I’m already baptized. I know the truth. It doesn’t matter if I die.”

  My mother sniffed. “It matters to me—or doesn’t that mean anything?”

  “That does mean something, but I am not as important as they are.”

  “Yes, you are, Grandpa!” Pauline had been listening to their argument with increasing dismay. “You told me when I was baptized that I was special to Jesus because I accepted Him. So that means you’re special, too! Jesus loves you. He doesn’t want you to die from so much work!”

  “She’s right, Father,” I said. “We have accepted the covenant, and the Lord loves us even more for doing so. But I think He would want you to take time to smell the roses. After all, He made them for us, didn’t He?”

  My father scanned the circle of faces. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “I always thought,” my mother said, “that the Church is supposed to be important in your life but never above your own family. Above me. Dedication to the Lord is one thing, but Church work comes after your family. I just want to spend more time with you, that’s all.”

  “I’m supposed to treat my wife as the Lord did His Church,” my father mused. A sigh escaped him. “Oh, what have I done?”

  My mother hugged him, and Pauline, Lu-Lu, and I joined in. “This is nice,” he murmured. We embraced for a moment more and then separated, staring at each other in the awkwardness that always seems to follow an emotional display.

  “Why hasn’t this blasted elevator come?” Father asked.

  I hid a smile. “It helps if you push the button.”

  “Yeah, but we didn’t want to disturb you,” Lu-Lu added.

  Pauline giggled. “I’ll do it!”

  We rode down the two floors in comfortable silence. When the doors banged open, we found Jean-Marc and André waiting in the lobby.

  Jean-Marc jumped toward us. “Is Marc okay?”

  “Yes,” I returned. “In fact, better than okay. He said to thank you.”

  A touch of irony marked his next words. “Thank me?” he mumbled. “When I took his two best chances away?”

  I grabbed onto his hands. “You did what you had to do.”

  “I know. But that doesn’t make it any easier.”

  My father coughed. “What do you say we go and buy some roses?”

  “What?” Jean-Marc asked.

  Father put his arm around my husband’s drooping shoulders. “I’ve got a mind to smell them, Jean-Marc. Didn’t you know the Lord made them for us to smell?”

  “Of course,” Jean-Marc replied, recapturing some of his former cheerfulness. “Did you think that He said, ‘Hmm, I think I’ll make a few people to take care of those roses’?”

  This evoked a smile, even from André.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go home.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the morning Danielle Massoni regained consciousness, and during the next week she slowly recuperated. As the swelling and bleeding in her brain diminished, the doctors declared a miracle. By contrast, Marc’s health deteriorated. Except for the kidneys, his internal wounds healed, but he lacked the energy that had characterized him. The marks on his arms from the dialysis were deep and ugly. He said he didn’t mind, but at times I caught him staring at them with a wistful expression. Despite his weakness, the doctor allowed him to go home after seven days, as long as he promised to take things slowly.

  We went back to work or to school, except for Marc, who needed to recover further before he would be allowed to return to his normal schedule. While on dialysis, he had to adhere to a strict diet, and this depressed him further. Louise stayed with him during the time we spent at work. Jean-Marc and I talked about getting him a portable dialysis machine which could cleanse his blood as he slept and which the doctor claimed was less taxing on his system. The expense was exorbitant. Money was an increasing problem, though the fund-raisers were well underway. Each day I prayed for Marc, but even as I did, I pictured the devastation another family would feel if my prayer were answered.

  On Monday, a week and a half after the bombing, my father came into the café alone. He walked with an air of confidence and vitality, and his face appeared rested.

  “Where’s Mother?” I asked, looking up from the smal
l desk in the office where I worked on the café finances.

  A smile stretched his lips. “Getting her hair done,” he said. “I think she’s had enough of togetherness for a while.”

  I laughed. My father had a tendency to overdo things, and it would take time for my parents to come to a happy medium. “How are the members you’ve been working with?”

  “Fine,” he said. “I still call them every day, but I only see them once a week. The odd thing to me is that they actually seem to be doing better without so much . . .”

  “Interference?” I supplied.

  He smiled wryly. “I guess so. I think I’m realizing that even after everything I do for them, they will have to make the choice to follow the Savior. I can’t force them to be good the rest of their lives.”

  “Like with our children.” The burdens of the past few months weighed heavily upon me, and I sometimes wished I could curl up in bed and stay there without moving for a week.

  His gaze became sympathetic. “André will find his way. He’s very young yet.”

  I blinked back the tears. “Will he? Somehow I keep wondering what I could have done to prevent this. He was always such a good, undemanding child. Did I neglect him? Pauline was so demanding as a young child; in caring for her, did I overlook his needs? I always tried to be fair. What could I have done differently?”

  “Don’t, Ari.” He leaned over and covered my hand with his. “I tortured myself with those same questions when you were a teenager. The fact is, it doesn’t matter what we could have done; it’s what we do now that we need to worry about.”

  He was right. Worrying about the past wouldn’t change the present, and doing so would only waste precious energy. I needed to concentrate on loving my little boy and bringing him back to himself.

  My father glanced at his watch. “I’d better get back to your mother. I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

  I smiled. “Thanks, Father.” It meant more than I could say to have him back in my life once more—with his heart and not merely the occasional physical display he had offered in recent years.