I looked at her, really seeing her for the first time. Something she said seemed to speak directly to my soul, to all my treasured hopes hidden deep within. And yet the part of me that hurt so badly was afraid to hope and didn’t want any part of it. Closing my eyes, I saw Nette’s beautiful, perfect face as it had been in the hospital. I had felt her there, just for a moment, hadn’t I? But the thought that she might still exist somewhere brought even more agony to my soul. “Where is my baby now, Monique?” I asked, feeling my heart breaking all over again. “Who’s holding her? Who’s singing to her and telling her how much she’s loved?”
She gazed at me with understanding. “People often ask me that same question in the hospital,” she said quietly. “I personally think your little Nette is with Antoine. And I think he is holding her and loving her and telling her all the things you want her to know. He’ll watch over her until you are able to be with her again. And knowing she is well taken care of, you can do something meaningful with the time you’re apart from her.”
Dumbfounded, I stared at her. For the first time since Nette died, I felt myself focusing on something other than my loss and my feelings of guilt and pain. I didn’t know exactly where heaven was, but I suddenly wanted to believe in it. I could almost see Antoine holding and kissing Nette. And in that moment I knew what I had to do. Antoine had died for no reason, but I would not allow Nette’s death to be in vain.
Monique watched my reaction closely. “I have some friends from my church who spend two years out of their lives to teach these things. Wouldn’t you like to listen to them?”
I shook my head. “No, Monique. I know what I’m going to do.” She regarded me curiously as I continued. “I’m going to make Nette’s death mean something. I’m going to call that coalition against drugs they’re always advertising on TV, and I’m going to volunteer. What happened to Nette should never happen to anyone, and I want to make sure no one ever has to go through this hell that I’m living!”
Monique nodded. “That’s a definite step in the right direction. I knew you would find a way to come out of this.”
I nodded, but I think we both knew that I was just hiding the pain away so I didn’t have to look at it right then, masking the hurt with anger and action. Still, I had survived terrible loss before, and I knew that time would dull the pain.
After lunch, we went down to the café, where I called the drug hotline and told them my story, still so fresh and painful. The woman on the phone seemed very interested and said she’d get back with me after talking to her supervisor. I went back to my apartment, grateful to leave the pitying stares of the café customers behind. Again I sat on the couch clutching Nette’s bear, staring into nothingness. I didn’t notice when Monique left for work.
The next day, two women and a man from the Anti-Drug Coalition appeared outside my apartment. They talked with me for hours and finally asked me to be the focus of a new television campaign. I would have to tell parts of my story on camera, and they would use the footage to warn others of the terrible potential of drugs. Posters and personal appearances would also be required. I was overwhelmed with their plans, though grateful for something to focus on. We made a date for the following week to begin working on the campaign. Somehow, I told myself, I will do this. But the pain in my chest made it almost impossible to breathe.
They also planned to attend Nette’s burial the next day. “We’ll stay in the background,” one of the women promised. “You won’t even know we’re there.”
Indeed, I didn’t see them among the few people who came to the short graveside service. Marguerite and Jules had come back from vacation and attended, along with Colette and Jeanne. We were all dressed in black—except for Monique, who stood out from among the others in her rich mauve dress. Instead of being offended, I found she was the one bright spot in the whole day.
My parents also came to the cemetery, though I hadn’t told them when the funeral was to be held. We stared at each other from across the gaping grave, not knowing what to say. I was close enough to see the tears on their cheeks and that their eyes were swollen and red. I didn’t cry, though, until they lowered the tiny coffin into the dark hole. Then I began to sob, helplessly and horribly. I had lost one more part of myself, and I knew that nothing could ever fill the resulting void in my soul.
A few days later, several lawyers came to see me about testifying at Jacques’ trial. I also received near-perfect scores on my school exams, though that victory seemed hollow now.
A week after Nette’s funeral, I returned to work. Marguerite and Jules had canceled the rest of their vacation and were home to stay. Françoise and Colette had gone home, so I was needed again at the café. I found relief in work, until closing time, when I went into the kitchen to get Nette ready to take home. A terrible grief washed over me as I realized that she wasn’t there, that she wasn’t ever going to be there again. Blinking back the tears, I hurried out the door before Marguerite understood the mistake that had caused me fresh pain. I cried all night, hugging Nette’s stuffed bear, and slept in late the next morning. I was getting ready to go down to the café when the doorbell rang. Opening the door, I found Monique, but she was not alone. Two young men in white shirts and dark pants were in the hall with her.
“I know you said you didn’t want to listen to my friends,” she said. “But when I told them about you, they wanted to come and see you. Please, even if you don’t want to listen to them, at least let them come in and leave a blessing in your house.”
I sighed. “Oh, Monique, I accepted what you said about there maybe being a heaven, and I’m grateful for the hope it gave me. But I’m not ready to talk about all this. I’m getting back on my feet; isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Yes, but I didn’t want you to bury your feelings. You’re so angry inside. I just want you to understand our Father’s plan and learn to be happy again.”
Sorrow and pain filled my heart. “I don’t know if I will ever be happy again,” I said. “Or even if I want to be.”
“There’s one more thing I have to tell you, Ariana,” Monique said, looking at me beseechingly. “I told you Antoine and I had been meeting. What I didn’t tell you is that he had also been taking the discussions, the lessons the missionaries have, and that he wanted to be baptized into my church. But he wanted you to hear the lessons first. You were supposed to come with him the day he didn’t show up. Think back . . . didn’t he mention meeting with me that day?”
I nodded and closed my eyes to stop my tears. “He did, Monique. But that makes no difference now. Please go. I have to leave for work.”
One of the young men in the poorly lit hallway stepped closer, his features suddenly revealed by the light from my doorway. “Please,” he said. “Give us a chance.”
I gaped at him. This was the same tall, red-haired missionary who had stopped me by the Seine River two years ago, after Antoine’s funeral.
“You!” I exclaimed.
He nodded. “You didn’t forget, then. I wasn’t sure if it was you when Monique told us about you—until now. Still, I didn’t want to take the chance of missing you. You see, I’ve always been sure we would meet again. I was supposed to go home two months ago, but I asked for an extension and a transfer back into this area. I kept seeing how your eyes looked that day, and I’ve wanted the chance to see you again—to teach you.”
His voice took me back to the day when I had crumpled up the pamphlet in his face and thrown it to the ground. And how he had not been angry but kind and loving.
“Did you pray for me?” I asked, a trifle unsteadily.
He nodded, and when he spoke, his voice also shook. “Every single day. I never forgot your face or the look in your eyes. It was as though it had been burned into my memory. I wanted to help you that day we first met, but I couldn’t. Please, let me have a chance now.” His clear blue eyes bored into mine, imploring.
I started to shake my head, wishing he would go away so I wouldn’t have to think abo
ut my dead brother or little Nette, just two weeks dead. I pulled my coat tighter around me; the weather had turned exceptionally cold for September, and I would need the coat later on that evening. Besides, it seemed I was always so very cold now that Nette wasn’t there to warm me with her sunny smiles and affectionate hugs. I thrust my hands deep into the large pockets.
I felt the paper there and brought it out before remembering what it was. There in my hands was the homemade pamphlet the young woman missionary had given me the day after Jacques had left me all those months ago—the day I had told little Nette how she and I were going to be noble queens who ruled themselves and weren’t afraid to love and be kind, even though it sometimes hurt so much.
I had to blink twice before my eyes cleared enough to see the picture on the pamphlet. It was of a mother and a baby cuddling, and over it were the words: “You can have your baby with you forever. It’s true! Our Heavenly Father has a plan for families.”
The pamphlet and the memory of that day decided me. How could I refuse, when I had told Nette that we must be kind despite the pain in our hearts? This missionary wanted, even needed, to teach me, and just maybe I needed to hear what he had to say. “Okay,” I said finally, looking into the red-haired missionary’s pleading eyes. “But not right now. I have to go to work.”
“How about tomorrow morning?”
I shook my head. “I’ve got an appointment with the Anti-Drug Coalition.”
“What about the day after—on Saturday? Would ten o’clock be all right?”
I nodded. “But I’ve got to be to work at noon, so be on time.”
I left them without a backward glance, using the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, hugging my aching memories of Nette to me as tightly as possible so the tears wouldn’t come. They had already seen enough of my pain.
All that day, I couldn’t keep my mind off the red-haired missionary. I had to admit I was curious. What was it about this church that had made Antoine want to join?
Chapter Ten
The next morning Marie, one of the women from the Coalition who had come to my apartment the week before, appeared with three men in tow. She introduced me to the men, and they went to work quickly, setting up their lights and cameras. They moved my TV into the kitchen to make room but brought a large picture of Nette from there to place beside me on the couch.
“Now, here’s what’s going to happen,” Marie said. “You tell your story, and occasionally we might stop you to ask a question or ask you to retell a part of the story. Later, they’ll splice everything together to make the commercial. Enrique, here,” she pointed to a short man with long black hair, “will also take photos of you while we videotape—for the posters and billboards. Just tell me your story the way you did the other day.”
I sat on the couch and tried to do as she asked but couldn’t. I kept looking at the cameras and feeling awkward with the strange men watching me. After more than an hour of failure, Marie called it quits.
“Let’s take a break, boys.” They all stretched and stopped staring into their cameras for a moment. Marie came to sit with me on the couch. “Look,” she said to me, “I know this is all kind of awkward, but it really will help others.”
“I’m sorry.” I motioned to the cameras and lights. “I can’t seem to do it with all this stuff here.” As I spoke, I spied Nette’s bear where it had fallen beside the couch during the setting up. I picked it up and held its fluffy white body close to me.
“Was that Nette’s?” Marie asked.
I nodded. “I bought it for her when my husband left me, when I was still so full of hope for her. She didn’t pay much attention to it until a couple of months ago, when it became her favorite toy.” At that I had to bite my lip to stop it from quivering. “But now she’ll never hug or play with it again.”
“How did you meet Nette’s father?” Marie asked suddenly.
In response to her questions, I slowly told my whole story again in more detail than I had the other night. I told her of our separation, my schooling, and everything leading up to Nette’s death. I don’t know when I started crying, but suddenly there were tears making their way slowly down my cheeks.
“It’s just not fair!” I said when I’d finished. “My baby never had a chance to even take her first step alone! Jacques killed her, that’s true; but it never would have happened if it hadn’t been for the drugs. People must realize the ruin drugs make of lives—and not just our own but the innocent ones like Nette’s!” I hugged the bear tightly and looked down at Nette’s picture. “Now my heart aches, my arms are empty, and Nette’s gone. It has to stop somewhere—it has to stop now!” I looked up at her, my eyes pleading. “Please tell the people.”
Marie smiled at me. “I think you just have, Ariana.”
“What?”
She motioned to the men, who, unbeknownst to me, were back at their cameras. I saw tears on two of their faces. “It’s an old trick, Ariana,” Marie said gently. “Pretending to stop filming but not turning off the cameras. I think we’ll have enough now to make our commercial. Could we borrow some of Nette’s photographs?”
At first I was upset at what Marie had done, but relief came quickly after. Enrique took a few more photographs as the others packed away their equipment and put my apartment back the way it had been. Soon they were ready to leave.
“Thank you so much.” Marie hugged me as she left. In her hands she held several photographs of Nette. “You’re a strong woman. I’ll be in touch.”
After they left, I cried until I thought my head would explode from the pressure. “Oh, Nette,” I moaned over and over in despair, rocking myself to and fro on the floor. “How can I go on without you?”
But I knew that I would.
Abruptly the tide was over, and I went around the apartment and gathered up all pictures, clothes, or any remnants of my baby. I left only the bear and a large picture of Nette in my bedroom, storing the rest in the closet where Monique had already put most of her toys. Someday, I would be able to look at her things without anguish; but I knew that for now, I had to put them away where I would not be assaulted by the memories and the grief at every turn.
I noticed the calendar on the wall. It was September 10, the day my brother, Antoine, had died two years earlier. I was nineteen years and six months old, and I felt that my life was over.
* * *
Saturday morning, the missionaries rang the bell ten minutes before I expected them. I opened the door to see their smiling faces. Monique was with them. “We’re on time,” she said cheerfully.
“No, you’re early. But come on in and have a seat anyway.” I motioned to the couch with a sweep of my hand.
The missionaries sat on the couch, and Monique and I used the kitchen chairs which I had moved into the living room. The red-haired missionary waited until we were all settled before beginning.
“Well, now, let’s properly introduce ourselves. I’m Elder Kenneth Tarr, and this is my companion, Elder Robert Cocteau. We’re missionaries from the . . .” He now spoke fluent French but still had a slight American accent. I listened intently, enjoying the sound. Soon he was explaining about prayer and asking Monique to offer one.
I found her prayer curious, yet intriguing—far different from the memorized ones my mother had taught me as a child. Monique talked to God as if He were a real person, someone who actually cared about us individually. And somehow I felt He really was listening to her.
Afterwards, Elder Tarr began talking about God and Jesus and the method God always used to communicate to His people—through prophets. “Ariana, this is what He has done in our day,” Elder Tarr said in a soft voice. “In 1820, there was a young boy named Joseph Smith . . .”
The missionaries took turns explaining about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon. They often bore their testimonies, looking sincerely into my eyes as they spoke. Monique also told how she had been converted to the gospel shortly after her parents’ deaths. I knew they all believed wh
at they were saying, and I felt strange and wonderful at their words.
“Do you think it is important to know if this book is true?” Elder Cocteau asked me, showing me the book he claimed Joseph Smith had translated. I nodded, and he continued, “It really is important, because if you know it’s true, you will know Joseph Smith is a prophet of God and that everything else the Church teaches is true.” He turned to a page near the back of the book and showed me verses that promised I could know the truth of this and all things if I but asked. “This is yours now, Ariana,” he added, handing me the book.
I took it and promised to read several marked sections. We also set up another appointment for the following Monday. I waited for them to leave, but Elder Tarr looked at me. “Would you offer a closing prayer for us?”
“I don’t know how,” I said, remembering the easy, eloquent prayer Monique had offered.
“Well, you simply say, ‘Heavenly Father,’ and then thank Him and ask Him for what you need. Then close in the name of Jesus Christ.”
“Okay,” I said softly, surprising myself. I wasn’t completely sure I even believed in God. We knelt on the carpet around the coffee table, and I glanced about nervously until the others bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Finally, I closed my own.
“Heavenly Father,” I began hesitantly. “Thanks for my friends. Please help me to know if You exist and if You love me.” His certain love was something they had stressed during the discussion, but I couldn’t understand how He could love me and still let Nette and Antoine die. “And please,” my voice broke, “if there is a heaven, please take care of my baby. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
We were all crying when we stood up, but I didn’t know exactly why. For the first time since Nette’s death, I felt strangely comforted. We stood around looking awkwardly at each other until the elders left. Monique stayed. I still had an hour before work, so I asked her if she wanted some coffee.
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