The Ariana Trilogy

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  “Ariana.” My mother’s voice called to me as if from far away. “Are you ready to go home?”

  “Uh, yeah. I’ve just got to get my pictures.” I went around the room quickly, taking down the few pictures I wanted to keep. I handed them to my mother.

  “Is that all?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve got a few more in the bedroom. One more of Nette and one of me.” I turned to go into the bedroom but stopped at the door. Elder Perrault had taken down the photograph of me from the wall and was staring at it. One hand reached out to touch the glass, as if stroking my face. I coughed delicately, and he started. Our eyes met. We stood there not speaking, as a current of something wonderful and priceless seemed to pass through us.

  He spoke, his voice suddenly husky. “You left this, Ari.” He came across the room to give it to me. “And this one as well.” He took a picture of Nette off the dresser near the door. “This is a very good picture of you,” he said, indicating the first one. As he talked, his companion and my parents came over to look at it. The strange intensity of my emotions made me glad they had come. I knew Elder Perrault would never do anything to jeopardize his missionary status, but I didn’t have the same confidence in myself. At least not when I felt the way I did at that moment.

  “Here.”

  I accepted the picture from Elder Perrault’s reluctant hands. Was I only imagining his reluctance? “Thanks,” I said. “Monique took it, and she liked it so much that she had it enlarged and put in a frame to give me for Christmas.” Looking at his familiar face, I added impulsively, “Would you like to keep it, Elder Perrault?”

  His eyes told me how much he did before he spoke. “I would, Ari. It’ll be a great remembrance of our most successful missionary team member. Right, Elder Jones?” He glanced over at his companion, who nodded.

  We said our good-byes, and on the way home I was very quiet. I wasn’t sad, only aware of my budding feelings for Elder Perrault. Somehow I knew he was very special.

  * * *

  Three weeks after my birthday, I received my mission call. I was called to the Bordeaux mission, due to leave the first of May, three weeks away.

  “Only three weeks?” my mother asked when I told my parents.

  I smiled. “That only means I’ll be home sooner,” I replied.

  “I know.” My mother sniffed and reached out to hug me. Her embrace was just what I needed. I felt loved and happy.

  The weeks passed by quickly. I enjoyed both school and my new job immensely. Spring was beautiful, and I found myself taking walks again along the Seine, contemplating my life. Compared to where I had come from, it seemed nearly perfect. I was so excited to serve a mission! A week before I left, I received my endowments at the temple in Switzerland. To my joy, while in the temple I felt I could almost glimpse beyond the veil to see my baby.

  With a rapidity that scared me, Saturday night arrived, two days before I was due to leave. My mother and I were packing my clothes into two suitcases. Most of the items were new and in very good taste, all picked out and paid for by my mother.

  “Does this go?” she asked, pointing to a picture of Nette on my dresser.

  “No. I already have tons of them in my suitcase. I’ll leave that one for you.”

  “Thanks,” she said quietly, holding the photograph to her slim body. She turned her gaze on me intently, as if searching. “Do you . . .” she began hesitantly. “Do you ever wish you could go back and change things so that those years after Antoine’s death had never happened?”

  I shook my head violently. “Never! Not ever! That would mean Nette would never have existed. And I could never wish for that.”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “That’s how I feel. Even though Antoine’s death hurt us all, I could never wish that he hadn’t existed.”

  We stared at each other, caught up in our thoughts. We had both been through the worst a mother could face and had survived, though not unmarked. Of the two of us, I was better off; I at least had hope for a future reunion, while my mother did not.

  The next day at church, I said good-bye to all my friends. There was a flurry of address exchanging and hugs and kisses. Marguerite was especially emotional. “Thanks so much for everything,” she said.

  “No, I should thank you,” I returned.

  But she shook her head. “I mean for introducing us to the Church. Now it looks as though Colette and her husband will be baptized, and my sister is even taking the discussions.” I could hardly picture the large, terse-faced Françoise agreeing to listen to the missionaries, but I was happy for her. I was even more excited to know that Colette was accepting the gospel. She had returned home about the time I had received my mission call and I had not had word of her since, except that she had given birth to a healthy baby boy.

  “I’m so glad!” I hugged Marguerite and Jules both.

  A cough sounded behind us. I turned around to see Elder Perrault and Elder Jones.

  “I’ve got something for you, Ari.” Elder Perrault held out a paper in his hand.

  “What is it?” I asked as I reached for it, but I immediately saw that it was a list of ten names.

  He grinned. “Well, your mission area covers where I live, and just in case you serve anywhere near my home, I’ve written down the names of ten people for you to go and see. You did it for me, so I want to do it for you. I’ve been writing to these people and preparing them since I’ve been on my mission.”

  “Well, thanks,” I said. “But I never did give you ten names, you know.”

  He looked at me seriously. “You’re only one short.” He motioned to his companion, who took a paper out of his notebook. “We’ve decided to give it back to you until you finish it. If not for us, then for the other missionaries who follow.” I took the proffered sheet and saw that someone had written in my parents’ names. Now only one space was left blank.

  “Thanks.” I put both papers carefully away and turned to leave the building. Outside, clouds had gathered, blotting out the sun. I sighed in frustration. After weeks of beautiful sunshine and warmth, the rain had chosen this day to return.

  I glanced back to see Elder Perrault watching me. “You’ll write to me?” I asked. “After you finish your mission?” He had only a few weeks left now.

  “I will write, Ari, as soon as I’m released,” he said softly. “And please believe me when I say that someday the rain will remind you of Nette and Antoine, without the pain.”

  Once again I heard the promise in his voice.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I had been away from home several weeks when I received Jean-Marc’s first letter. It was mid-May, warm and sunny, with only occasional rain showers to remind me of my past. I was serving in Tours at the time, feeling homesick and sort of lost, and I tore the envelope open greedily.

  My dearest Ari,

  How wonderful it is to write to you and to finally share my feelings without fear of breaking any rules. Though I’m not with you, I feel closer to you since I’m no longer a missionary and can consider our possible future.

  I hope you are settling into your mission life. I am at home now with my family, but in a couple of months I’ll be leaving to serve my time in the army. I promised them, and so I’ll do it. I’m lucky I was able to go on my mission first. Beginning today, I will write to you weekly as I promised.

  I think of you every day. It’s time I risk my feelings (and your possible rejection) and confess that I have felt something special for you since I first saw your commercial over a year and a half ago. It touched me in a way I can’t describe. I wanted so much to comfort you. I did some checking and found that you lived in Paris, though I never dreamed you were a member. When I was transferred to Paris, I took my poster of you, knowing somehow we would meet.

  And we did! What a wonderful day for me! The fact that you were already a member only made me even more sure that you were as special as I had thought. As we started to work together on the missionary team, my feelings for you grew—first
as a friend and then . . . Well, I didn’t dare think beyond that, except to begin praying that you would go on a mission so I could at least have a chance with you when my army service is over. (Otherwise, I’m sure some lucky guy would have convinced you to marry him!)

  It’s raining here as I write this, and, Ari, I love the rain because it reminds me of you. I hope you will also think of me when it rains and not just of sad things. If you give me a chance, I promise someday I will help you love the rain.

  Write to me soon.

  Yours,

  Elder Jean-Marc Perrault

  P.S. Your lawyer friend, his wife, and their three children were baptized yesterday by Elder Jones and his new companion! He (the lawyer) called and asked me to tell you thanks for your great example. He will be a bishop one day, I think.

  P.P.S. I’m glad you think I am similar to your brother, but don’t ever make the mistake of thinking my feelings for you are brotherly!

  I laughed with joy and even cried a bit. His feelings for me were all I could hope for at the moment. The next preparation day I wrote him a long letter, recounting everything I had been doing and how much his letter meant to me. I also admitted my budding feelings for him. Thus began a year and a half of weekly letters. With each long letter, my love for him grew. I learned about him—things I had only suspected before. I found he shared my love of numbers, of rivers, and of watching people. And most important, we had the same eternal goals.

  But that was only the beginning of what I would learn about my Jean-Marc.

  I had been out in the mission field a year when I found I was to be transferred in a week to Bordeaux and I would serve in Jean-Marc’s home ward. He was thrilled. “Go see my family, lovely Ari,” he wrote from his army barracks. “I’ve told them all about you. They will make great members of a missionary team. Show them my list of people, and tell them I said they’d help.”

  I was transferred on a Monday, and that night my junior companion, Sister Moura from Portugal, and I went to see the family, armed with Jean-Marc’s list. My companion had been in the area two months and knew them well.

  I felt nervous as we rang the outside bell to their apartment. “Who is it?” they asked through the speaker.

  “The sisters,” my companion answered. The buzzer sounded, and soon we were on our way up the elevator.

  “This is my new companion,” Sister Moura said as we were ushered into a modest apartment by a plump woman and a thin girl of about sixteen. “She knew your son in Paris. Her name is Sister Ariana Merson.” I had taken back my maiden name after my divorce.

  Jean-Marc’s mother stared at me incredulously. “You mean you’re Jean-Marc’s Ari? How glad I am to meet you at last!” She hugged me effusively and then settled me on her flowered sofa. “You may call me Louise, and this is my daughter, Lu-Lu.” She indicated the young girl. “Jean-Marc’s brother is working at our store. You knew we had a grocery store, didn’t you?” I nodded because Jean-Marc had mentioned it in his letters. “Now tell me, how did you and Jean-Marc meet?”

  I was swept up instantly by Louise’s warmth and charm, and soon I was telling her of my time with Jean-Marc in Paris. When I was finished, she sighed heavily. “Yes, that is what he told me. Ah, that boy has been a blessing to me, he really has, and I miss him every day.” She straightened up on her chair, flashing me a smile much like Jean-Marc’s. “Still, I know he is in the service of the Lord, no matter where he is, and that’s what’s important. But to think he met you as he dreamed of doing since your commercial came out on TV! And you a member; that is a miracle indeed.”

  She paused a moment, and I sat there with a silly smile on my face, suddenly speechless. What does one say to the mother of the man she loves? I turned my head to look around the comfortable room, especially noticing the photographs lining her piano in the corner of the room. Impulsively, I went to examine them.

  “That’s Pierre,” Louise said, pointing to a picture of a man who resembled Jean-Marc. “He’s a year older than Jean-Marc.” She touched another photograph. “This is their father. He died when Lu-Lu was still a baby, shortly after we joined the Church.”

  “How did you manage?” I asked.

  “We had the store. At first, other family members helped me with the store, but finally my boys were old enough to do the work. And by the time Pierre went on his mission, Lu-Lu also could help. Then Pierre was home, and Jean-Marc went on his mission—a little later than most boys because he was helping me, but he took it all in stride. He has great trust in the Lord. He has always been a good example to us.”

  “I miss him.” Lu-Lu spoke for the first time, and her green-brown eyes, twins to Jean-Marc’s, were wistful. “Only home for a bit and then gone again.”

  “I miss him, too. But he’ll be back before we know it.” Louise traced a finger along the frame of a recent picture of Jean-Marc. She glanced up at me. “He wrote us when your commercial came out. He said he was going to find you and baptize you someday, that there was something different about you. Of course, by the time he did get there, you were already a member.” Her voice grew quiet. “My son says you’re a special person, and from all he’s told me, I think he is right. I’m glad you’re here.”

  “He never told me,” I said softly. I was happy to hear her words, but I suddenly felt very uncomfortable. I looked to my companion for help.

  “Show them the list, Sister,” she said helpfully.

  “Oh, yes.” I crossed to the couch to pick up my appointment book. Carefully tucked into the flap at the back were the two papers Jean-Marc had given me that last Sunday—the two lists of names, one mine and one his. I drew his out and showed it to Louise.

  She smiled. “Yes, he told me about this list and who was on it,” she said as she held it in her hands. “The first person is Elisabeth, our next-door neighbor. For two years I have been trying to send her the missionaries, and she has always refused.”

  I was puzzled. “Why does Jean-Marc think she will accept me?”

  Her eyes met mine. “If she ever would accept a missionary, it would be you,” she replied enigmatically. She crossed the room to the couch and sat down with the others.

  “Why me?” I asked.

  But it was Lu-Lu who answered. “It’s because of your commercials and posters.” That explained a little. Often during my mission, people had been curious about my past and it had led to discussions, especially the past few months when they had begun to play my commercials again after nine months of having focused on other similar commercials. Marie, the lady in charge of my campaign, had written to tell me that mine had been the most successful, so they were giving them another try.

  Louise sighed. “You see, Elisabeth lost a baby two years ago in a car accident, shortly after she moved here. She hasn’t been the same since.”

  Understanding dawned. I too had lost a baby, and maybe I could give this woman hope where no one else had been able to. “Well,” I said, “I’m willing to give it a try.” I gazed down again at the photographs of Jean-Marc. A fresh May breeze came through the window and touched my face like a whisper or a caress. I will try my best, Jean-Marc, I promised silently. Aloud I said, “Can we go now?”

  The others looked at me, startled. “Right now?” asked Louise.

  I shrugged. “She’ll either accept or she won’t. I feel we should go now.” Hope flashed briefly over Louise’s face, and I felt myself drawn to this woman who cared so deeply about her neighbor. Jean-Marc is very lucky to have such a mother, I thought.

  I could see that my companion was nervous. I too felt my stomach churning. To hold the salvation of another person in one’s hands was almost too much to bear, even if only temporarily. Please, Father, I prayed. Let me be enough to get her to listen. Let Nette’s death be worth this one thing more. As I prayed, longing for my baby came over me, and I almost wept. I shut my eyes momentarily against the pain, knowing it would abate.

  But it didn’t. We were at Elisabeth’s door now, and it was as if my em
ptiness and longing grew by the moment. The grief I felt seemed fresh. Why, Father? I pleaded. Then suddenly I knew I was being reminded so distinctly of Nette’s death in order to understand how real it still was for this woman who didn’t have the gospel to help her understand her devastating loss.

  Louise rang the bell but didn’t back away as I had expected. She stayed in front of me with a determined expression on her face. I was glad, because I wasn’t sure if I would be able to speak past the bitter lump of sorrow forming in my throat.

  “Oh, hi, Louise,” said the woman who opened the door, as she looked up at the taller Louise. I knew instinctively that this was Elisabeth. She was young, maybe five years older than I. She was not slim but not fat either, and with her dark eyes and auburn hair, she was very pretty. Everything about her appeared normal, except for her eyes, which had the same hopelessness mine had held before I had joined the Church—empty, longing, alone, and so afraid of trying again.

  “I have someone I want you to meet, Elisabeth,” Louise said softly in the stillness of the hallway. “Jean-Marc sent her to you.” Louise’s hand reached out, lightning quick, and squeezed mine reassuringly. Then she moved her bulky figure to the side, and I faced Elisabeth alone.

  Her eyes focused on my name tag first. “Louise, we have gone over this,” she began, but suddenly she saw my face and stopped talking. She gasped. “The girl on the poster, the one whose baby died!” Her eyes began to water. “You’re a member of their church? But how? Why? How can you serve God after what He did to you?”

  I met her gaze steadily, seeing the anguish in her face, and I couldn’t help the genuine tears that fell from my eyes and onto my cheeks. “Because,” I said softly, remembering the thing that had bothered me most once I had begun to believe in a heaven, “I know where my baby is and who is holding and loving and singing to her. May I please come in so that I can tell you about it?” As I spoke, a vision passed through my mind of Elder Tarr standing in the poorly lit corridor outside the apartment Nette and I had shared. Now I knew how he felt that day two and a half years ago—anxious, hoping, fearful, accountable, and loving. Yet how could I love this woman I had never before met? Why had Elder Tarr loved me? I knew the answer, of course, being a missionary and having felt the pure love of Christ before, but each time the feeling came as a new wonder.