I still loved Jean-Marc, still yearned for him, but I knew that I could—and would—survive without him. The thought, though aching and raw, came as a welcome relief. Within myself I had discovered the power to be happy, with or without Jean-Marc. My thoughts once again turned to the Savior and the plan of redemption. I realized that once and for all, I had finally and completely forgiven myself for Nette’s death, as I had Paulette. There was only one more thing I had to do.
With numb hands, I opened my briefcase and retrieved the list of names I had given Jean-Marc so long ago. The cold air began to blow more forcefully in my face, but I didn’t stop, not even when my scarf fell back and let the searing wind into my nose and throat. Filled with purpose, I unfolded the paper and reached for a pen. Firmly, I wrote in the last name.
Jacques de Cotte.
I remembered what I had told Elisabeth the day she learned that Paulette had been with Jacques when he had given Nette the drugs—how we would be forgiven through the same spirit in which we forgave. The scripture I had been referring to was in Luke 6:37: “Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.”
Once, I had believed that God would punish Jacques for killing Nette. It never occurred to me that he wouldn’t go to hell and burn forever; indeed, the thought had given me comfort in those first lonely months without my daughter. That he might repent and be forgiven didn’t even cross the far reaches of my consciousness. But, after all, he hadn’t murdered our baby in cold blood; it had been a horrible, drug-induced nightmare, and just maybe he was ready to go on with his life.
And I knew I had to forgive him.
I didn’t have to love him or visit him daily, but I had to start him on the path back, to free him from my anger and accusations. After feeling Aimee’s scorn and seeing how desperately Paulette had yearned for my forgiveness, I knew I had to at least give him that. The thought frightened me, and my heart beat rapidly and painfully. How could I face him again?
Chapter Seventeen
Two weeks passed before I found the courage to go see Jacques at the prison. I wanted to make sure that I really had forgiven him deep down. Forgiving Jacques was much more difficult than it had been to forgive Paulette, because he had betrayed my love, all my hopes, and my trust. I finally decided there was only one way I would know for sure: to see him face to face.
I went on Christmas morning. My parents were sleeping in after the eating and present-opening we had done at midnight, and I didn’t tell them I was going. This was something I had to do alone.
The morning was very clear and cold but windless. I was dressed in thick black stretch pants and a dark brown ribbed shirt. I had chosen the outfit carefully; it was sober but flattering to my coloring and features. I had always looked good in dark colors. I didn’t know why I cared how I looked, but I spent extra time that morning getting ready for my visit. At least the confidence my appearance gave me helped calm the pounding of my heart.
There was almost no one out on the streets yet, and I walked toward the subway, moving briskly to keep myself warm. My heavy, thigh-length coat was more than adequate, but I felt a chill of terror spreading out from my heart in anticipation of what I was about to do. The public transport was operating even on Christmas, and as I settled into my seat in the train, I felt grateful I would not have to drive. My hands were shaking badly—and not only from the cold.
The rhythm of the underground train soon had me relaxing, and my mind recalled the previous Sunday when I had borne my testimony. It hadn’t been fast Sunday, but a few days earlier I had been called in to talk with the bishop, who had asked me to be the new Young Women’s president. I accepted with trepidation. During our conversation, I told him about Jean-Marc, about Aimee and the incident at the café, and also about my plans to go see Jacques. There were tears in our eyes when I finished.
“I wish everyone could understand the Atonement as you are learning to,” Bishop Rameau said quietly. “I think too many times we are hard on ourselves and too quick to judge others in an attempt to ease our own feelings of inferiority.” He paused. “Do you feel able to tell your story to our members? I feel it could greatly help them.”
Hesitantly, I agreed.
The next few days I had prayed about what I would say and about choosing my counselors. Strangely, a particular name kept coming to mind. On Saturday, I gave Bishop Rameau my names written on a piece of paper, and he smiled when he saw them.
“I’ll ask them tomorrow,” he said almost laughingly. “These are just the people I would have chosen myself. But I want you to talk in church before I ask them. I know it’s unusual to call a president without counselors, but I want them to hear your testimony first.”
Sunday dawned bright and cold. I went to church, once more accompanied by my parents. When the bishop read my name to sustain me, I looked at Aimee. She stared at me, and I almost expected her hand to be raised in opposition. But she didn’t raise her hand at all, not even to sustain.
“Now,” the bishop continued, “I’d like our new Young Women’s president to speak to us.”
I smiled nervously at the bishop as I approached the podium. The congregation seemed much larger from in front, and I swallowed once or twice before beginning. I was used to talking and teaching others, but today was different; I no longer had the mantle of a missionary to sustain me. My parents smiled up at me encouragingly, and Aimee’s green eyes fixed on my face. The others around them blurred, and I felt that my talk was only for these three.
The words came slowly and then more quickly as I told of my feelings of self-doubt, the experience in the bar, and my ensuing understanding of forgiveness. I told them about Paulette and Jacques, but I didn’t mention Aimee or Jean-Marc. My testimony rang out strong and true, and I saw many people with tears in their eyes. Finally, I was finished and sat down, my eyes once again searching for Aimee’s. She was crying and gazing at me sorrowfully.
Afterward, she came up and hugged me. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize what I was doing. I was blind, I think. Please forgive me.”
“Does that mean you’ll serve as Ariana’s first counselor?” Bishop Rameau asked, suddenly appearing at my elbow.
Aimee’s eyes widened in shock. She turned an incredulous face to me. “Me? You want me? Why?”
“I don’t know. I just do.” I hugged her, and we both made fools of ourselves, weeping like babies.
“I—there’s so much I want to tell you about Jean-Marc,” she whispered in my ear. “I was just so hurt that—”
“It doesn’t matter, Aimee.” I cut her short. “Neither of us needs Jean-Marc to live. We’ll become the best we can be. And we will be happy.”
She nodded, her golden locks bouncing. “But I still want to tell you.”
I sighed, suddenly feeling the weight of the extreme emotions I’d been through that day. “Later. In a few weeks, when things calm down. Not today.”
Aimee agreed, but since then I had seen her only at a planning meeting where we hadn’t been alone to talk. My other counselor, secretary, and my mother had also been present, each coming up with ideas for the Young Women. Not for the first time, I had found myself thinking that my mother would make an excellent member. Caught up in my new responsibilities and thoughts of converting my mother, I had forgotten Aimee’s comments at church—until now.
My thoughts came slowly back to the present, and I found I had almost reached my destination. I stood and walked carefully to the doors, remembering how Antoine had hung on the bars our last night together in the stopped train. I smiled. This time there was no pain associated with the memory.
The train slowed, and as it stopped the doors slid open to let me out. I still had a good walk in front of me to reach the prison, but I didn’t mind. I had called several days before to ask about the visiting hours and procedures, and now my watch told me I had plenty of time.
When I reached the prison, I was immediately ushered to a d
esk where I had to show identification and sign some papers. Afterward, I went through a metal detector and into a hall, led by a strong-looking guard who whistled Christmas tunes. One side of the corridor was made of glass windows; I could see the inmates inside, sitting at long tables with various friends and family members. Some seemed happy, some sad and sullen. I guess we choose our attitudes no matter where we are, I thought.
I saw Jacques before he saw me, and I stopped a moment at the glass to study him. He was waiting at one end of a table. At the other end, a fellow inmate was deep in conversation with two friends who had come to spread Christmas cheer. Jacques watched them wistfully, his dark blond head tilted to one side. His hair was cropped shorter than I’d ever seen it; other than that, he hadn’t changed much physically, except that maybe he was a little thinner. Like all of the other inmates, he was dressed in prison blue.
Memories of the past shook me, and I wanted to flee, to run back the way I had come and be rid of Jacques forever. But deep inside, I knew this was the only way we could both be free. I had loved him once, we’d had a child together, and despite the anguish raging through my heart, I would do this.
I watched him a minute more and then shook myself. I wasn’t doing any good here, peering through the window like a child spying. I resumed walking, quickening my pace to reach the guard who was waiting at the entrance to the visiting room. He smiled gently, which surprised me, but all at once I felt the fear on my face as well as the pain. Glancing at the long glass window beside the door, I saw my white face, just for an instant, stark and stiff against large eyes and brown hair—alabaster framed in dark shadow. My lower lip was trembling, and I bit it to still the movement. I swallowed once, closing my eyes briefly to find courage, praying for strength, and then walked into the room.
He looked up as I entered, sad brown eyes fixed on me, never flickering for an instant, a tentative smile on his face.
I sat across the table from him. “Hi, Jacques.”
“Hi, Ariana,” he replied warily. “I never thought I’d see you again.”
I returned his steady gaze. “Nor I you.”
“You look really good,” he ventured. “You’ve cut your hair short, like when we first met.”
I didn’t reply but sat there staring at him. The old attraction I had felt for Jacques was completely gone. Instead of the wild, desperate urge for him to love me, I felt only sadness and acceptance.
“Why are you here?” he asked. His hands clutched the edge of the table as he steeled himself for my response. I knew he was afraid of what I might say. In his eyes there was also a glimmer of hope, which he quickly squelched before it began to mean too much.
I glanced away for an instant, trying to find a way to begin. At the other end of the table the inmate was telling a story to his two visitors, arms raised in animation as he spoke. On one thick arm he had a tattoo of an anchor. I was feeling lost and scared, but the anchor seemed to strengthen me, to remind me that my anchor was my God and that with Him nothing was impossible.
“Ariana.” Jacques’ voice was agonized. “I never did drugs again after that night. It’s been three years now. It wasn’t because I was in here, either; those who want them know how to get drugs. But I didn’t want to ever forget what I did that night. I will never forgive myself—ever—for what happened to our baby.” His voice was dead, and I abruptly tore my gaze away from the tattoo anchor to see the terrible mask of suffering that was Jacques’ face. His eyes were now completely devoid of hope.
My eyes flashed again to the anchor and then back to Jacques’ face. “But I forgive you,” I said softly.
The incredulous, wondrous expression on his face made me glad I had come. Under my very gaze, he became more alive. And as I watched that change take place in him, somehow I too was freed from the chains that had bound my spirit to the past.
“But why? How?” he asked. His hands still gripped the table so tightly that the fingers were dead white against the dark hairs, the blood vessels standing out grotesquely.
I gave him my best missionary smile. “That’s a long story.”
“Well, I’ve got time,” he said seriously.
I began from the first time I had seen the missionaries to the present, leaving nothing out, not even my feelings for Jean-Marc. At times Jacques’ eyes showed disbelief, yet at others I knew he understood and accepted. We talked the entire time allotted at the prison. When it was time to go, I handed him a blue book.
“The Book of Mormon,” Jacques read the cover aloud. He opened it to see my testimony and the missionaries’ number, pamphlets, a list of reading assignments, and one thing more: a picture of his daughter.
He started to cry, taking in loud, heaving breaths, and I thought my heart would break all over again for him. “Thank you,” he whispered when he had recovered slightly. “Thank you so much.”
“Will you see my friends the missionaries, Jacques?” I asked him fervently. “Will you at least let them explain? Maybe then you can make sense of all this and forgive yourself.”
He nodded. “Yes, Ariana. For you I will.”
I stood to leave, but he reached out a hand to stop me. “Jean-Marc would be a fool not to see what he has in you.” He glanced down at the ground and added, “As I was.” After a brief moment he looked up at me again earnestly. “You are a true lady, Ariana. A queen like you always talked about. And you’ll get the best, because that’s what you deserve. I only wish I hadn’t hurt you so much.”
I smiled and shrugged. “I also wish it had never happened. But, Jacques, the making of a queen or a king is never easy, you know, though terribly worth it in the end.” We stood looking at each other without speaking, sharing a bond that could only be felt by those who had faced joint tragedy and survived.
I said softly, “Good-bye, Jacques. I hope you have a good life. I hope you can be happy.”
“You too, Ariana. And thanks for coming.”
“You’re welcome, Jacques.” I left without a backward glance, feeling lighter and happier than I had since Jean-Marc had deserted me. What was it Jacques had said? Oh, yes, that Jean-Marc would be a fool not to see what he had in me.
And Jean-Marc had never struck me as a fool.
Chapter Eighteen
After leaving the prison, I went straight home. The afternoon was very cold, and an icy breeze had started blowing, yet my heart was warm. I was filled with a strange kind of contentment I had never felt before. I realized that these past few weeks I had learned to have faith in the Lord and accept His will, knowing it would be the best thing for me. I no longer needed others to make me happy but could rely on my inner self that was buoyed by the constant power of my Savior. At last, I understood what it meant to have a testimony.
A part of me still ached for Jean-Marc and the love I had so hoped for, but I knew that time and the gospel would heal my wounds as they had the last time—wounds far deeper than I had now.
I was so intent on my inner thoughts that I was upon the man before I realized who he was. Suddenly, there was Jean-Marc, sitting on the cement steps outside my parents’ apartment building! I had no time to prepare my reactions or steel myself to pretend that I didn’t care. I felt my face light up with the love I had for him, though I could feel the hurt there as well.
“Jean-Marc, I—I didn’t expect you,” I stuttered as he jumped up to greet me. His face was reddened by the cold and his hair tousled by the light breeze. His expression was anxious as his green-brown eyes searched mine. I suddenly wished desperately for night to fall, to quickly hide my face, but the afternoon sun shone clearly and did nothing to mask my feelings. “Why have you come?” Tears gathered in my eyes.
“It’s Christmas, Ari,” he said in a hoarse, emotion-filled voice, blinking his eyes rapidly as if trying to stop his own tears. “I had to come.”
“Why?” I really wanted to know. Almost two months had passed since I had seen him at the baptisms, and I had been sure it was over between us.
Un
til now.
Jean-Marc stared miserably at me, his eyes filling with tears. “Why? Because I love you, Ari!” I could feel the warmth of his breath against my face, and it was too much to bear. I dropped my gaze to the ground as he continued. “I have always loved you, since the very first day I met you. It wasn’t just the way you looked. It was the way your soul touched mine, the way you threw yourself into the gospel so wholeheartedly after going through the worst nightmare any woman could imagine! It was the way you made up with your parents and helped Paulette, even though she was partly responsible for Nette’s death.” He paused and gave a short, mirthless laugh. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you had already forgiven Jacques and invited the missionaries to visit him.” He stopped talking as a sob shook him. I was still staring at the ground, unable to believe what I was hearing. After all, there was still the matter of those two months between us. Why had he left me so long without even a letter? He had hurt me deeply—shattered my dreams. How could I trust him again?
I knew I had to at least hear him out. I needed to understand why he had acted as he did so I could begin to heal properly, putting it behind me. Besides, I had learned that to be kind was important, even when—no, especially when it hurt.
“Oh, Ari!” Jean-Marc’s voice was anguished, and he fell to his knees on the cobblestone sidewalk before me so he could look up into my downcast eyes. “I’m so sorry I haven’t called you! You see, when you got off your mission and came to the church that day, you were so beautiful and confident, a true queen, worthy of all the blessings of the eternities—and I felt unworthy of you!” Now it was his turn to look down at the ground while I gazed upon him in amazement. The torment of self-doubt that I had felt came back to me vividly, self-inflicted but powerful and wrenching. I understood exactly what Jean-Marc was saying.
He paused a moment, as if organizing his thoughts, and then stared up into my teary eyes with a love so unmistakable that I wondered how I had ever doubted him. “If you remember, it was a missionary who posed the question that day,” he continued. “What made me think I deserved you? And I knew deep down that he was right. I kept staring at you, unable to get his words out of my mind. You had been through so much, refined way beyond me by fires I could not begin to imagine! You made it, despite where you came from, despite the horrible death of the daughter you loved more than life! You came up fighting, long after others would have given up, and I felt I had nothing to offer you. I’ve been a member almost all my life—I never even knew what it was to have a testimony until I went on my mission. I’ve never had to fight for anything or prove that I would stay true to the Lord no matter what.
The Ariana Trilogy Page 18
