The Ariana Trilogy

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  “Well, you know more than I do,” I said. “I haven’t seen him since Friday night. We had a fight.”

  There was a pause before my father asked, “What are you saying? You mean he’s not at the hospital with you?”

  I shook my head, though my father couldn’t see. “No,” I said in a small voice. “I don’t know where he is. He doesn’t even know Paulette is sick.”

  “I’ll look for him, Ari. If that’s what you want.” He was angry, I could tell.

  “Would you? I—” I broke off, not knowing how to explain what had happened without sounding like I was whining. Then I began to wonder if my father’s involvement would only make things worse between Jean-Marc and me.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll find him.” A loud click sounded in my ear.

  It was nearly eight o’clock in the morning when I arrived at my apartment building. I pushed my card into the small box that would automatically open the huge metal door of the underground parking garage. It was very dark inside, lit only by overhead lights, which were quite weak compared to the brightness of the morning sun. I came to a quick stop in our numbered spot, sprang from the car, and strode across the rough cement floor, anxious to get home.

  Since we lived on the eighth floor, I was glad we had an elevator. Once it had broken and I had lugged André up the steps, listening to the twins complain about how their legs hurt. They would never know what real pain was, at least not for many years. I put my key in the lock and opened the door. The smell of cooking food wafted around me, pulling me into the apartment.

  “Mommy!” Josette, named for my mother, Josephine, came running into the small entryway. She was dressed in her church clothes, but her feet were bare. “I missed you!”

  “I missed you, too,” I said, hugging her.

  “Grandma made a cake,” Josette informed me with an air of importance. She turned and yelled at the top of her voice, “Marc, come and see! Mommy’s here. She’s going to eat some cake with us!”

  Marc came running from the bedroom, with little André toddling behind. Both smothered me in hugs and kisses. They didn’t look any worse for not having had me around for the night.

  “There’s no cake until after church,” my mother said, coming from the kitchen. She was fifty-three but looked younger. Her body was slender, with just a slight thickening at the waist. Only the thin streaks of gray in her dark locks and the deepening wrinkles around her eyes and mouth gave any indication of her true age.

  “Oh, Mother, I’m sorry it took so long.”

  “That’s all right, Ari. I’ll admit, though, it’s been a long night.” She let out a weary, lingering breath and walked to the arched opening off the entryway leading to the sitting room. She sank to the sofa while I opened the blinds to let in the morning sun. Instinctively, I checked my answering machine. There were no messages from Jean-Marc, only one from the bishop saying that he and the home teachers were on their way to the hospital.

  “How is Paulette?” my mother asked when I settled on the love seat across from her.

  “Where is Marie-Thérèse?” I asked before replying. As if in answer, the little girl appeared in the doorway, clutching the doll Paulette had made. Marie-Thérèse wore one of Josette’s dresses, and it was short for her taller frame. Her face was pinched and red-looking.

  “Is my mommy going to die?” she asked, her bottom lip quivering slightly.

  “Goodness, no!” I exclaimed, jumping up to wrap my arms around her. Until she asked the question, I didn’t realize that my faith in the matter was so strong. “Of course not. Your father’s giving her a blessing, you know. She’s got pneumonia, but now that she’s in the hospital, everything is going to be all right.” I thought I was telling her the truth.

  Marie-Thérèse seemed relieved, and I felt bad that I hadn’t been there to comfort her earlier. I hugged her again, more tightly. Marie-Thérèse was actually lucky; in a few weeks her mother’s problems would most likely be over, but mine with Jean-Marc wouldn’t be solved quite so easily.

  “But she will be in the hospital for a few days,” I added.

  “Then does Marie-Thérèse get to stay with us more days than one?” Josette asked, her eyes bulging with excitement.

  “Yes,” I said.

  She squealed enthusiastically. “Oh, Marie-Thérèse, can you believe it? You’re going to stay a few nights with us. Finally, I won’t be the only girl here. Mommy doesn’t count, ’cause she’s a mom.”

  “Yeah, yeah, we already heard,” Marc said. “We’re right here. You don’t have to tell us what she said.”

  Josette ignored him. “Come on, Marie-Thérèse. Let’s go play dress up. I’ll be Princess Jasmine, and you be the prince.”

  “The prince has to be a boy!” Marc protested.

  Marie-Thérèse frowned. “I don’t want to be a boy.”

  “You can be a princess, too, and Marc can be the prince.”

  Her brother hit his forehead in dismay, reminiscent of his father. “Then I’ll have to marry both of you!”

  “No, André can be the other prince,” Josette said.

  “He’s too little,” Marc protested.

  “I can tell him what to say.”

  I watched them with a smile on my lips. My mother stood. “Right now, you’ll all go into the kitchen and sit at the table. We’re going to eat that breakfast I made. Then we’ll go to church. Afterwards, we’ll have cake.”

  My mother was a small woman, as was I, but rarely did her words go unheard by my children, even when she didn’t have cake to bribe them. The authority in her voice was unmistakable.

  “Thanks, Mother,” I murmured as the children raced to the kitchen. We followed at a more sedate pace.

  She smiled. “I’ve enjoyed being with them.” Her eyes took on a faraway look.

  “Are you thinking of Antoine?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Marc is a lot like him.”

  “I’ve noticed,” I said dryly, pointing at Marc. We had arrived in the kitchen in time to see him teetering on the counter, reaching a hand toward the cake cooling on top of the refrigerator, supposedly out of the sight and minds of certain little four-year-olds. He stepped on the butter on the counter and lost his balance as it squished between his toes. He shrieked as he fell, but I was fast enough to catch him, as I hadn’t been during our outing the day before.

  “I told him not to.” Josette sighed and shook her head, hands on her little hips. I saw my mother swiftly covering her smile. “And I told him not to go up on the wall yesterday. But he did anyway. Boys never listen, do they, Mommy?” Thinking of Jean-Marc, I couldn’t have agreed more.

  “Marc, how many times have I told you not to climb on the counter?” I asked, setting him down. “You’ll cut your chin open again if you’re not careful. Didn’t you learn your lesson yesterday?” I didn’t suppose he had, but I had to say it anyway; as a mother, it was my duty. Just as it was Marc’s to ignore me.

  “But I was seeing if the cake was cold yet, so we could put on the icing.” He grinned at me engagingly, and despite my resolve, I melted. He was so like the brother I had adored.

  “Go sit down,” I said firmly. He ducked his head and obeyed.

  While the children ate, I went into my bedroom for a change of clothes. Mother followed me with André, though she knew I needed to shower. “I already fed him earlier,” she explained.

  My blinds were pulled shut, and the yellow light coming from the overhead lamp cast strange reflections on my mother’s face. Surely these shadows were what made her look so despondent.

  “What’s wrong, Mother?”

  “Nothing.” But she sighed.

  “Tell me.”

  Her smile was wistful. “I never could hide anything from you, Ariana.” I didn’t speak but simply waited for the rest.

  She heaved another sigh and sat on my bed, sinking her head onto André’s tousled hair. “I want to be baptized.”

  I nearly slammed my finger in my dresser drawer. “You do
? But that’s wonderful!” I sat beside her, throwing my arm around her shoulders. “I’ve waited so long to hear that!” It had been four years since my parents had agreed to listen to the missionary discussions. My mother had attended church with me often, especially in the last year. I hadn’t pushed her but had prayed constantly that she would accept the truth. Now it seemed as though she had.

  “Why aren’t you happy about it?” I asked.

  “Oh, Ariana, I’m not like you. From the moment you first knew the Church was true, you forged ahead, not letting anyone persuade you otherwise.”

  “The Church explained Nette’s death,” I said softly.

  “And Antoine’s.”

  We were silent. Only the cars in the street below broke the quiet.

  “When did you first know you wanted to be baptized?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s been a long time now—years. I keep waiting for your father. I thought he would accept the gospel and we’d be baptized together. But Géralde is no closer to accepting it than he ever was.”

  “Does he know you want to be baptized?”

  “No. I haven’t had the courage to tell him.”

  I understood why. My father was a forceful man and assured of his own place in the world. He considered religion a weakness.

  “I’m tired of waiting. I want to be baptized, and I want to go to the temple.”

  “Then you will, Mother. But you’ll have to tell him.”

  She sighed. “Why are men so blind to the truth?”

  I snorted. “Tell me about it. Jean-Marc’s so busy with work that he doesn’t seem to have time for me. Sometimes I feel home is where he goes only to shower and change his clothes.”

  “It should ease up after the new branch is settled. You’ll get used to being married to an important man. I had to.”

  “He left me,” I said abruptly.

  “Oh, no! He can’t have!”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  She set André down and hugged me. “It’ll be okay,” she murmured.

  Would it? I knew if it were up to me, it would be over now. As it was, I couldn’t help the gnawing questions. Where was my husband? Could there be someone else? I didn’t really believe this last thought. Jean-Marc might be obsessed with success, but he was a good man.

  “And we thought marriage ended the struggles.” My mother cast me a wry smile.

  “The honeymoon is over, huh?” I added. “And the work begins?”

  “I guess so.”

  I glanced at my watch. “I’d better get going, or we’ll be late,” I said. I couldn’t help hoping that Jean-Marc would be at church.

  The phone rang, and I flew to the kitchen to answer it.

  “Hello, Ariana?”

  My hopes plummeted. “Hi, Louise.” It was Jean-Marc’s mother, not him.

  “How are you?”

  “Great. And you?”

  “Well, I’m worried about Paulette. Pierre called and told me what happened.”

  “She’ll be fine,” I said. “She has to be.”

  “Where’s Marie-Thérèse?”

  “Here, with us.”

  “Oh. That’s good.” She was quiet, but I sensed there was something she wasn’t saying.

  “So was there another reason you called?” I asked mildly.

  She heaved a sigh. “It’s Lu-Lu. She’s fed up with dating only members. She says there’s not enough around. It’s gotten worse since she started working as a secretary for that construction company. And now she’s going out with this guy she met at a nightclub—Philippe, or something. She brought him home, and I don’t like him.”

  “She’s twenty-two now. You can hardly tell her who to date.”

  Even over the phone, I could hear Louise bristle. “Well, she still lives under my roof!” It was the same argument my parents had used on me all those years ago when I had started drinking after Antoine died. I had simply moved out, thinking to free myself of their constraints. It was the worst thing I could have done, and I didn’t want Lu-Lu to rebel as I had. She was old enough to be on her own but not if she parted from her mother in anger.

  “She’ll get through this. She just needs some time. Don’t be too hard on her.”

  “I thought perhaps you could talk to her. You know, share your experiences with her. She’s young for her age, and I’m afraid she’ll make a mistake.”

  I wanted to tell her that mistakes were how we all learned, but I knew only too well how those errors could slice deep into your soul. Look what had happened to me only two days ago—and I was a mature twenty-eight. Still, I wanted to help, if I could, spare my sister-in-law the pain I had endured in my youth. Lu-Lu was immature and had always been shy, and it seemed she was finally breaking out of her shell—but not in the way her mother expected.

  “So I thought we’d come down to help Paulette. Or you with the children. If Lu-Lu thought she was needed . . .”

  At long last I understood why Louise had called. “You want to get her away from this guy?”

  “I guess that’s it.” Louise’s voice was subdued.

  “I can always use another hand. Taking care of four children under four is not an easy task. Tell her you’re coming to visit for a few weeks and see if she’ll come.”

  “Will you talk with her when we get there?”

  “I’ll try.” But I wouldn’t have listened to anyone when I was younger; I hoped Lu-Lu was smarter.

  “We’ll leave tonight and be there tomorrow,” Louise said.

  “Why don’t you take a plane?”

  I could almost hear Louise shudder. She hated airplanes. “No, I like to drive. Besides, it will give Lu-Lu and me a chance to talk.”

  Or you a chance to preach, I couldn’t help thinking.

  “We’ll see you tomorrow,” Louise said. Already, she sounded happier. Strangely, I too felt more content. Maybe things would work out.

  I hummed as I drove through the streets, crowded even on Sunday. Ahead of me, I could see my mother’s car. Since I planned to stop at the hospital after church, she had driven herself. We were nearly at the chapel when an idea occurred to me. Paulette’s mother, Simone, should know about her daughter. I veered to the left, turning away from the church, and drove to a poorer section of Paris where Simone lived. I had once lived there, too.

  We stopped outside a run-down apartment building that had to be at least a hundred years old from the appearance of its worn cement exterior. Clothes hung out of windows and on thin lines dangling over the cobblestone road. Some of the windows had small balconies with rusted metal railings that couldn’t be trusted to hold anyone’s weight. I was glad my children didn’t have to live here.

  The streets were safe at this hour, but I still searched to be sure there was no apparent danger. “Come on, children.” They filed out and gazed around in curiosity. Marc kicked at a pile of loose cobblestones, scattering them. Similar mounds were strewn the length of the street, mixed with refuse.

  “Someone needs to fix this road,” Marc said.

  “Leave the cobblestones alone,” I warned, worried more about his church shoes than the rocks.

  “It stinks, Mom.” Josette pinched her nose.

  I hefted André onto my hip. “Follow me, and stay close.”

  The outside door to the building was ajar, and I could see the lock was broken. The mailboxes just inside the door were rusted and peeling. A foul odor assaulted our senses, and more trash lay strewn about.

  “It’s dark in here,” Marie-Thérèse complained.

  “It’s not far.”

  Like the hallway lights, the elevator was broken and had been since I had stayed with Paulette for three months before my first marriage ten years ago. But I hadn’t noticed how bad it actually was until I had found a better life. Everything looks pleasant when you are using drugs. I hurried up the stairs, ignoring the way my high heels seemed to stick to the stained marble that had deep grooves worn into its surface.

  Simone lived o
n the second floor, so we hadn’t far to climb. As I knocked on the door, the children clung to me in the murky darkness of the hallway. They weren’t really scared; they were more thrilled to be in such a curious place. I knew the building, and this adventure would be echoed in their play for many weeks to come.

  The door opened, a slice of light cutting through the dark in the hallway, and a woman with greasy dark blonde hair peered out at us. Her colorless eyes seemed unfocused, giving a rather vague feeling. She was taller than I but slightly stooped, so we appeared near the same height. I knew her to be in her mid-forties because she had given birth to Paulette when she was sixteen, yet she looked much older.

  “Wha’d ya want?” she asked. The smell of alcohol was on her breath, and in her hand she held a thin homemade cigarette. I wasn’t surprised.

  “It’s Ariana, Simone. I’ve come to tell you something about Paulette.”

  “Oh, Ariana,” she said, squinting into the dark. “Come in.” She backed up and opened the door wide. I took a few steps forward and the children came with me. The hallway inside the apartment was brightly lit but in a terrible chaos. Papers, empty containers, bits of food, and various articles of worn clothing lay haphazardly strewn around, and a thick coat of dust covered everything. “Ya could have called, ya know. I got me a phone now.” I couldn’t miss the trace of pride in her voice. She picked up a heavy black phone that stood on a tiny table positioned under a mirror in the hall and put it to her ear. She muttered an expletive. “Stupid phone company disconnected me again!”

  I shifted André’s weight to the other side. “Paulette’s in the hospital.”

  That got her attention. Her face turned to me. “Why?”

  “She has a severe case of pneumonia. I’m taking her daughter to see her later, after church. I thought perhaps you’d like to come with us.”

  Simone stared at the children, her gaze settling on Marie-Thérèse. “Yer Paulette’s daughter?” she asked. Marie-Thérèse nodded.

  “Why, I ain’t seen ya since ya was about two years old, still a baby practically. Not really my fault, ya know. Yer mother don’t want to bring ya here. I ain’t good enough fer her no more.” Her way of speaking clearly showed the accent of the small French village where she had been raised, as well as a lack of formal education, but her speech was mostly an act. She was smart, perhaps one of the most clever people I had ever met.