Laying my head down on the desk, I prayed long and hard. The next thing I knew, Lu-Lu was shaking me. “Wake up, Ariana! Wake up! Are you okay?”
I tried to push her hand away. “I’m fine. I must have fallen asleep. Would you please quit shaking me?” The violent motion threatened to topple me over. The room whirled.
“Sorry.” Her hand dropped. “I only have a few minutes on my lunch break, and I had to talk with you.”
“So talk,” I said, yawning into my hand. The nap had made me feel considerably better; I hoped the Lord would excuse my interrupted prayers.
“I got the promotion,” Lu-Lu announced.
“Well, that’s great, isn’t it?”
“I started yesterday. I’m head of business accounts. I’ll be working with Philippe each day.” Her voice had taken on an indeterminate note, as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether working with Philippe was a blessing or a curse.
“Is that a problem?” I asked gently.
She began to pace in front of the desk, occasionally bumping into the other chair, though she appeared oblivious to it. “His wife is coming home from the hospital,” she said, pretending indifference. “At first I thought he gave me the job because he was grateful for the blessing, but sometimes when he looks at me, I get all shaky inside and I want to . . . to . . .” She sat abruptly in the chair, and all signs of pretense fled from her demeanor. “Oh, Ari! Can I still love him after all these years? And he me? What about his wife and those two adorable children? So help me, I think sometimes it would have been better if—” She broke off, staring at me aghast.
“If she had died?”
“Oh, what have I become, Ari?” Her head flopped onto the desk, cradled in her hands. “Dear Lord,” she muttered, “forgive me!”
I grabbed her hands from beneath her face, forcing her to look at me. “I’m sorry, Lu-Lu. I really am.”
“I wished I’d never met Danielle. Or seen Philippe again. It only reminds me of what I can never have!” She pulled away from my grasp, sprang to her feet, and ran from the office.
“Wait!” I called. But she was already gone.
Lu-Lu’s overt loneliness and longing had called up a melancholy I couldn’t explain, and I felt like crying. “The beginnings of a midlife crisis,” I said aloud. In about a month and a half, I would be forty. I sighed.
“Would you like some lunch?” Dauphine asked, holding out a platter with a bowl of soup and a large roll.
Suddenly I felt ravenous. “Yes,” I said eagerly, “but you needn’t serve me.”
She smiled. “I wanted to. You’ve been under a lot of stress lately, and you’re looking peaked.” She set the platter on my desk. “You have to keep up your strength for the family.”
I heard the genuine concern in her voice. “Thanks, Dauphine. You’re a good friend.”
“I know.” She turned on her heel and went back to work. I heard many customers coming in, but Annette had already arrived, and with Hélène, they could easily handle the lunch crowd. If not, they would call me.
I bit into the fresh-baked roll, which tasted like a slice of heaven. Since working in the café, I hadn’t had to worry about feeding my family; there wasn’t a shortage of food anymore. With all the delicious array, both Jean-Marc and I had gained a few kilos, even with all the tension of his not finding a job. The stout Marguerite would be happy.
“At least we’ll die fat,” Jean-Marc had joked. Being a woman, I hadn’t found the comment particularly humorous.
“Hello,” said a cheery voice. I looked up to see Ken standing in the open door, his red hair seeming even brighter in the stark light of my office. “Got room for one more?” He carried a plate of food in his hand.
“Sure. Come on in.” I motioned for him to set his food on the desk.
He took a bite and swallowed before speaking. “How are you holding up?”
“Good. How is your family?”
“Fine.”
We sat in silence for a long time, both concentrating on our meal, and then Ken dropped his fork onto his fast-emptying plate with a clatter. “I don’t know why I’m here, actually. I just felt I should come.” Through the door, I saw Hélène bringing a new pot of soup to the front counter.
“I’m glad to have you.” It wasn’t unusual for him to come to the café; he often ate here. Of late, he and many others in the ward had taken to coming to the café to see how we were faring, and I appreciated their support.
The vegetable soup was perfect, not too spicy, not too bland. I enjoyed it immensely. The peace echoed silently in the room, and I nearly jumped when the heavy black phone on the desk rang shrilly.
“Hello?” I hoped it was my mother. I wanted to talk with her about adding her special birthday cake to my menu.
“Hi, Ari.” It was Jean-Marc.
“How’d it go?” I asked. He had been to an interview that morning and then taken Marc for his dialysis treatment.
“Not well,” he said. His voice sounded strained.
I sighed. Jacques and the shortage of high-paying jobs had really worked against Jean-Marc. “Maybe next time.” I made my voice purposely light.
“It’s not that, Ari. It’s Marc.”
My heart beat faster. “What happened?”
“He collapsed before they could do the treatment. They don’t seem to know why. They got him on the bed and conscious again, but they’ve had to admit him. They think it might be the injuries from the bombing. He seems a little better now, but . . .” What he left unspoken was his fear, but I knew him well.
“I’ll be right there,” I said. “Wait for me.”
“I’ve got so much to do at the apartments. There are two showers that need fixing, and . . .”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll find help.” I hung up the phone and sprang to my feet.
“It’s Marc,” I said in answer to Ken’s silent question. “He’s had a setback. They don’t know why.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“Do you know how to fix showers?”
He smiled a bit crookedly. “Of course. I’m a teacher with eight children; I’ve had to learn to be self-sufficient. Tell me about these showers while I drive you to the hospital. Come on. My car’s outside.” Since Jean-Marc had our van, I didn’t protest. I was grateful for Ken’s company.
We reached the hospital and found Marc sleeping in his room, with Jean-Marc pacing outside. His face was tortured. “Why did this have to happen?” he asked. I knew he really didn’t need an answer, so I hugged him. Ken did the same.
“Would you give him a blessing?” Jean-Marc asked Ken. That he didn’t want to do it himself showed the great stress he was under. His self-doubt was showing clearly.
“I would be honored.” Ken’s clear blue eyes were full of compassion.
The two men gave Marc a blessing, and Ken left, saying he would take care of our showers as soon as he taught his last class that afternoon. The blessing comforted me somewhat, but the doctor’s words weren’t encouraging.
“I wish we could get him a kidney,” he said. “He simply isn’t doing well on dialysis. As good as dialysis has become, a working kidney is about ten times more effective, and a lot less time-consuming. And with his recent injuries, I’m particularly worried about his getting an infection that would make it so he couldn’t use the dialysis at all.” I knew that would result in death, and I scarcely heard the doctor’s next words. “And since there is a history of diabetes on your husband’s side of the family, that could also cause complications if it were to manifest in Marc. Besides, he’s young. He shouldn’t have to live off a machine. I absolutely feel he would be better off with a kidney. Do you have any friends who might be willing to donate? Maybe members of your church group?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Is it that serious?” I had thought a patient could go twenty years or more on dialysis, or at least until the technicians couldn’t get access into the body because of collapsing veins or excessive scar tissue. Thi
s new information was startling and unwelcome, and I was afraid to learn the ugly details. Before, I had simply focused on the twenty years as a cat grabs at a frail piece of yarn, but that was no longer possible.
The doctor nodded. “I feel it would be best. Like I said before, I’m worried about potential infection.”
Marc looked so helpless in the bed, made even more so because of his relaxed state. I could almost see in his stead the little boy he had been. I loved him more than I could express, and my heart ached at seeing him so ill.
“I wish it could have been me in that explosion instead of him,” Jean-Marc said, voicing my own thoughts. “I keep wishing I could turn back the clock and change things.” But we couldn’t. Marc would have to suffer for his brave impulsiveness, regardless of our futile desire to protect him.
Before going home, we stopped at the café to pick up the children. Annette was busily cleaning the last dishes in the kitchen prior to locking up. Pauline and André sat at one of the tables staring at some schoolbooks, and Josette and Marie-Thérèse were arguing near the counter.
“He asked me out,” Marie-Thérèse said in her reserved way. “Not you.”
“That’s because Mom won’t let me go,” Josette taunted. “But just wait until next week—that’s ten more days, not counting today. Then I’ll be sixteen, and he’ll have nothing more to do with you!”
“He wouldn’t want you with the games you play!” Marie-Thérèse shouted, finally losing her temper. Though she was attractive, she had none of the radiant passion that was Josette’s, and today she was obviously feeling the lack. From my point of view, Marie-Thérèse was much better off; she would be loved for who she was, not for her appearance. Yet I figured it would be many years before either girl would learn this lesson.
“You big—”
“Girls,” Jean-Marc interrupted. They both started. We had come in through the front door, but their discussion was so heated they hadn’t noticed us.
“You have a date?” I asked Marie-Thérèse.
She nodded. “With Kenny.”
I pictured Ken’s oldest child. At least he wouldn’t be a lasting problem between the two girls, because the family would be returning to America at the end of the college semester.
“It’s just because I can’t go!” Josette asserted, turning to me. “And it’s your fault. If you didn’t love her more than you love your own flesh and—”
“That’s enough!” I declared. “Marie-Thérèse is every bit as much my daughter as you are. And love has nothing to do with why you won’t be allowed on dates until you’re sixteen. I don’t want to hear this argument again. Ever. Or you will wait until you’re eighteen for your first date!”
Josette looked abashed, if not completely repentant, and I knew she would comply with my order. She talked big but ultimately wanted our approval. As yet I didn’t worry overly about her going behind my back. As vocal and headstrong as she could be, she was rarely secretly rebellious. I suspected she worried privately about hurting me. She had always been protective in her passionate way.
“We need to talk with you,” Jean-Marc said. “It’s about your brother.”
More tension entered the room. Pauline slammed her book shut and jumped up from the table. “Is he all right? I dreamed last night that he was gone and I couldn’t find him. But there he was when I woke up.”
I crossed to where she stood and placed a comforting arm around her. “He got sick again. He has to stay in the hospital a few days. He needs a kidney.”
“I wish I could give him mine,” she said sadly. Of course there was no chance of that, even had she been the same blood type and the required eighteen years old. Exchanging kidney failure for HIV infection wasn’t an option.
“We should have let that lady die,” André muttered.
“What!” Jean-Marc and I exchanged shocked glances.
“Then Marc would be home and everything would be fine,” he insisted. “It’s all your fault, Dad. You shouldn’t have blessed her.”
“Then those two little children wouldn’t have a mother!” I said. “What about them?”
“I don’t care.” But his eyes showed his pain.
Jean-Marc looked at his son for a long time. “I know this is a difficult situation. And I understand how you feel. Don’t you think I feel the same way?”
André stared at the ground, but he appeared to be listening.
“What happened was the Lord’s will,” Jean-Marc continued. “I couldn’t change it. At least you understand that without the blessing, the woman would have died. Doesn’t that show you God lives and loves His children?”
“What about Marc?” André didn’t raise his head.
“Can you trust in the Lord a little longer?” asked Jean-Marc.
“I don’t know.” This time there were tears in my son’s voice.
“Then just trust in me. And in your mother.”
“Okay,” came the mumbled response.
The crisis of the moment ended, we piled in the van and drove home.
Chapter Fourteen
The next few days we spent hours on the phone, calling everyone we knew about finding a kidney. We called old friends like René and Elisabeth in Bordeaux; Monique, the nurse who had introduced me to the gospel; and Colette, Marguerite’s niece. None of them had the same blood type. “I’m so sorry,” each said. “If I could give my kidney, I would do so gladly.”
Each time I hung up the phone I grew more depressed, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that these old friends and their growing families had remained strong in the gospel and in their commitment to the Lord. In the days that followed, donations toward Marc’s future transplant flooded in from them, tangible symbols of their love and support.
In our desperation, we turned to newspaper ads. A few people came forward, but the only tissue matches were a man who had high blood pressure and a woman who had diabetes, both of whom were disqualified. In our ward were several children who had the same blood type, as well as two pregnant women, leaving us exactly where we had started. Outside our circle of family and friends, we found little support. Finding a kidney simply didn’t have the importance of finding a liver or other organ that was immediately needed to sustain life.
Marc was released from the hospital after only two days and seemed to be growing stronger. He was depressed, however, and dreaded the dialysis treatments. The loss of his smiles and good-natured quips was the most difficult for me to take. I threw myself into finding him a kidney, but discouragement slowly ate at my determination.
“Is there anyone you’ve forgotten?” asked Ken. He and Kathy were at our house visiting on Wednesday evening. They had come with Kenny, who had taken Marie-Thérèse to see a movie, leaving behind a glowering Josette. “I’ve written home to Provo but haven’t had any luck. Marc’s blood type doesn’t match those who are willing. People are very concerned about losing a part of themselves. What if they should come to need it later in life?”
“I can’t fault them,” I said. “Before this happened, I wouldn’t have wanted to do it for someone I didn’t know.”
Jean-Marc shook his head. “Me either. I guess we just have to wait for one from the waiting list.”
“I can’t bear to think that he’ll have to endure this for perhaps years,” I said. “Having to depend on a machine for the rest of his life. What a waste of precious time. He’s only fifteen!”
“If only—” Jean-Marc broke off. I knew he felt guilty for being unable to help Marc himself.
“It’s not your fault,” I said for the millionth time. “It’s just chance. I mean, I could have been born with the same blood type. It would have simplified matters.” Thinking about this brought another paradox to light. My first daughter, Nette, had been the same blood type as Marc. If she had lived, perhaps she would have been able to donate, and we wouldn’t be in this bind. Then again, if she hadn’t died, I would not have joined the Church when I did or met and married Jean-Marc, meaning Marc wo
uld never have been born. So the point was moot.
Or was it?
At that moment, an intense revelation shot through me—a burst of pure understanding I had overlooked. Nette had been the same blood type as Marc—and she hadn’t gotten it through me! I gasped, standing abruptly. Without excusing myself from our guests, I ran from the sitting room and down the hall to my bedroom. I threw open the fire-damaged cedar chest where I kept Nette’s memories. Hands shaking, I fumbled for medical papers two decades old.
I began to cry with relief.
“What is it?” Jean-Marc had followed me, concern written on his face.
“Nette had the same blood type as Marc,” I said bluntly. “She got it from Jacques.”
“Him!” Jean-Marc’s exclamation held disbelief and anger.
I looked up into his eyes, pleading. “He told me he would do anything for me. Anything. Why not this?”
“Not Jacques. Anyone but him.”
Now it was my turn to become angry. “Marc’s our son! I’m as reluctant to ask Jacques for anything as you are. But we can’t let this chance for Marc slip by, can we?”
“Can you imagine how Marc would feel, knowing he had a piece of your first husband inside him?” Revulsion filled his voice.
“We might have to wait for more than three years to find a match. Three years! Can you watch Marc hooked up to a machine for that long when there’s another alternative? How will that affect him? And what about the infection the doctor mentioned? I think if we handle it openly, Marc won’t care about Jacques being the donor. At least he’ll know another person didn’t have to die to give him a chance at a better quality of life.”
My husband sat wearily on the bed, the fight dying in his eyes. “Do you miss him, Ari?” he asked me softly. “Do you miss the life he could give you?”
I stared at him aghast. “How could you ever think such a thing?”
His face was a mask of sorrow. “I never did before. He wasn’t important in our lives. But now it comes to me that you were married to this man, slept with him, had his child, and even loved him.”
I took his words literally. “I didn’t suspect that you were holding my past against me like this.” A bitter taste invaded my mouth.
The Ariana Trilogy Page 59