The Ariana Trilogy

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  “That’s not really true, Simone. You and I both know she’s tried to see you. It’s you who has refused.”

  Simone ignored me. “Come ’ere, child. Let me see ya better.” She reached out a bony hand, but Marie-Thérèse took a step back. Simone didn’t seem to mind. “Ya look ’xactly like Paulette when she was yer age. A spittin’ image.” She repeated the last sentence, this time adding a word I would have preferred she not use, especially around the children.

  “We really have to be going,” I said, retreating into the dark hallway. “Church will begin soon. Would you like us to come back for you?”

  The older woman shook her head. “No. She don’t want to see me, or she would’ve called.”

  “Your phone’s disconnected,” I reminded her.

  Simone glared at me in annoyance. “I ain’t up fer preachin’ today. That’s all she ever does.” She reached for the door. “It was good seein’ ya, Ariana.” I thought she might have added a thank-you, but if she did, it was muffled by the slamming door.

  “That was my grandmother?” Marie-Thérèse asked once we were back in the safety of the car.

  “Yes.”

  “Mother told me all about her, but I didn’t think she’d look like that.”

  “How?”

  “Sad. I don’t know. Like she doesn’t have anyone.”

  I pondered Marie-Thérèse’s words on the way to church. Children could be so perceptive. I wanted to explain how Simone’s lifestyle had distanced her from her family, but I didn’t know how much Paulette wanted Marie-Thérèse to know about the past. And there was also the matter of Simone’s refusal to come with us. Paulette would be hurt if she knew.

  “I think we’d better not talk about our visit with Simone until your mommy comes home from the hospital,” I said to Marie-Thérèse.

  “Why?” the older three children chimed.

  “Because Simone didn’t want to come and see Paulette at the hospital. I think that might hurt her feelings, don’t you?”

  They thought about it, and then three little faces bobbed up and down. “After Mommy comes home from the hospital, I’ll tell her,” Marie-Thérèse said.

  “We’ll both tell her. And perhaps your grandmother will let you visit her again, now that she knows who you are.”

  “I want to. She smells funny, but I like her.”

  “She swears, though,” Marc said. “We have to tell her not to.”

  We arrived at the church and piled out of the car. I scanned the parking lot but didn’t see my husband or any of the company cars he sometimes used. For the first time, I wondered if our argument would lead to a more permanent separation. Perhaps he had been waiting for an opportunity to leave. The thought sent cold shivers to my heart.

  “Where’s Daddy?” Josette asked. It was the first time any of them had mentioned their father that day.

  “Hurry, kids,” I said brightly, trying to distract Josette. “We’ll be late.” To my relief, she didn’t pursue the thought.

  My mother’s wave attracted my attention. She stood on the cement sidewalk in front of the main entrance to the church. Near her was Marguerite, my longtime friend who had befriended me during the years I had been estranged from my parents. Marguerite and her husband owned several cafés and an apartment building here in Paris.

  “Ariana!” my mother cried as they rushed up to me.

  I set André down, and he toddled on alone. There were no other members in sight, confirming my idea that we were late. “What is it?” I asked, fearing the worst.

  She glanced at the children, who were already scampering to the chapel doors. They were out of hearing range, but even so she lowered her voice. “It’s Pierre. He called from the hospital. Paulette’s awake, and they want to see you. He says to come immediately—with Jean-Marc. He says not to bring Marie-Thérèse.”

  “Is Paulette all right?” I asked quickly.

  “He wouldn’t say.”

  “Maybe she’s having her baby,” Marguerite suggested.

  “So early?” my mother said. “She’s not due yet.”

  “No. She’s got another four months,” I said, frowning. “But maybe the pneumonia is causing early labor.”

  “Pneumonia? Is it bad?” Marguerite asked. I had assumed my mother had already told her about Paulette’s condition.

  “Bad enough. She’s stable but in serious condition. The doctor said the next twenty-four hours will tell.”

  Marguerite was quiet. “Michelle died of pneumonia.” She was talking about her only child, who had died long before I knew the family.

  I felt my eyes widen in surprise. “But I thought she died of drugs.”

  “It was the drugs, but the actual cause was pneumonia. If it hadn’t been for the drugs . . .” Her voice faded, and she looked away, concealing her regrets.

  “Have you seen Jean-Marc?” I asked. My mother’s gaze was sharp, but she said nothing. Both shook their heads.

  “You’ll have to go without him,” my mother said.

  I hesitated. “But the children . . . and I’m supposed to teach Paulette’s Primary class.” I taught Relief Society once a month, but my lesson had been the week before.

  “I’ll take care of the class,” Marguerite said.

  “And I’ll watch the children.” My mother gently pushed me back the way I had come. “They’ll be all right. Take as long as you want.”

  I knew my mother was serious. She always carried one of the twins’ old car seats in her car for André, just in case it might be needed. With kisses for the children, I made my way hastily back to my car, casting my eyes about once again for Jean-Marc. My heart called out to him; I missed him more than I had imagined possible.

  I drove through the streets of Paris, fearing what I might find awaiting me at the hospital. Still, whatever it was, I felt confident I could handle it alone; after all, I had already faced more tragedy than most people did in a lifetime. It didn’t matter that Jean-Marc wasn’t with me.

  I didn’t understand then that refining fires sometimes had to be repeated many times and that we couldn’t change the consequences of our earlier choices. I especially didn’t fathom that even I could not face this next challenge alone.

  Chapter Four

  The hospital halls were oddly quiet, menacingly so, and I seemed to see everything sharply and acutely as if in slow motion. The wheelchairs against a wall were bigger than life, the feather designs on the wallpaper more alive, and the occasional spot on the brown carpet seemed to rivet my attention. The nurses at the desk near Paulette’s room looked up as I passed, staring at me with fixed eyes until I glanced in their direction. Immediately their gazes dropped, as if unwilling to meet mine. I walked on and felt eyes on me again, curious and scrutinizing, but when I turned abruptly, they jerked their heads away and focused on their paperwork.

  I was sure I imagined their stares and silent refusals to meet my eyes, but nonetheless an overpowering apprehension hung over me. Quickening my pace, I was relieved to see Paulette’s room. I rapped on the partially closed door, even as I pushed it open.

  The scene made me stop short. Paulette was lying back on the bed. This time she wasn’t using the oxygen, but the IV still dripped into her arm. Her eyes were open, and she breathed steadily, if somewhat roughly. In all, she appeared much better than that morning, but there was something disturbing about the way she stared into space, seeming not to see anything.

  I coughed, and Pierre, sitting on the edge of the bed with Paulette’s hand in his, glanced up. He said something inaudible to Paulette, who started and looked over at me. Her gaunt face crumpled, and she began to cry with heartrending sobs.

  I rushed across the room. “What is it, Paulette?”

  Her eyes were red-rimmed. “I have AIDS,” she said unsteadily.

  I felt my eyes grow impossibly wide, and my heart hammered in my ears. Surely this was some kind of hideous joke. AIDS? Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome? “No!” My voice came as a gruesome whisper.


  She nodded. “Probably from a dirty needle years ago or . . .”

  Or prostitution. My mind completed the sentence she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—finish. Paulette had done many things in the past to get drugs after Nette’s death. But that was over now; she had repented and been forgiven. I couldn’t believe the past could come back to haunt her future. It wasn’t right.

  I glanced at Pierre; his red-streaked, swollen eyes and ghastly pale visage confirmed his wife’s words. His overwhelming grief made him appear close to death himself. “Oh, Paulette!” Tears cascaded down my cheeks in silent torrents, and my shoulders convulsed.

  She held out her arms, and I went to her. We hugged. It felt strange because she turned her head, as if not wanting me to see her tears.

  After a long while, she pulled away. “Marie-Thérèse and Pierre have to be tested. The doctor has agreed to do it today so we’ll have the results by morning.” The words were matter-of-fact, but I struggled for breath; somehow oxygen seemed to elude me. Marie-Thérèse? Pierre? But of course. AIDS was a highly contagious disease. How could they not have it?

  “The baby?” I asked carefully.

  Pierre sighed. “She has about a 30 percent chance of contracting HIV. If we had known earlier, they could have given Paulette a drug that might prevent the baby from getting the virus. It could be too late, but the specialist has started Paulette on the drug in the hopes that the baby doesn’t already have it.”

  A 30 percent chance of having AIDS! Nearly one in three! The same odds must also apply to Marie-Thérèse. Even now she could have the latent virus in her blood.

  “We’ll know tomorrow,” Pierre said bleakly. “There’s a chance that—” He couldn’t finish the sentence. The slim possibility that one of them might not have the disease made it too painful for hope.

  I wanted to scream out the unfairness of it all. Innocent children! And Pierre, who had never done anything wrong, except perhaps to love a woman back to life. Was that so evil?

  The silence in the room was far from tranquil. I could almost feel Paulette’s and Pierre’s hearts pounding out their hopeless despair. My own feelings threatened to drown me with sorrow. I thought it could get no worse until Paulette spoke again, and it seemed as if my world had been torn from beneath my feet, causing me to fall into an endless void.

  “You need to be tested, too. And your family.”

  “What?” The word felt ripped from my throat.

  Paulette closed her eyes and raised a hand to wipe the stream of tears. Pierre reached out to her, but she gently pushed him away.

  He faced me. “Dr. Flaubert told us about Paulette’s having AIDS this morning. He called in a specialist, and he explained that AIDS is the result of having HIV. AIDS can set in anywhere between six months and eleven years after a person is infected with HIV. They begin to call it AIDS when a patient has signs of two or more sicknesses they call opportunistic diseases. The virus is usually contracted through sexual intercourse, from exposure to contaminated blood or blood products, or from a mother to her child before or during birth. But HIV has also been detected in tears, saliva, urine, and breast milk. It isn’t probable, but it’s remotely possible that it could be spread through those things as well.”

  I said nothing, feeling inundated with information that couldn’t possibly have anything to do with me. Then I understood why Paulette had turned her face from me during our embrace. It wasn’t because she hadn’t wanted me to see her tears; it was because she worried she might give me HIV—if I didn’t have it already. After all, she had done drugs with my first husband, had perhaps shared needles with him. Who knew when she had become contaminated? Perhaps I too had the virus in my blood, a last bitter present from Jacques. I felt myself backing away from the bed.

  HIV in blood? Yesterday, hadn’t I taken Paulette to the hospital while she was spitting blood? I had put my arms around her, never thinking I might be exposed to a disease that inevitably kills.

  HIV in saliva? Hadn’t my children and Marie-Thérèse shared suckers countless times during their young lives?

  HIV in urine? Years ago, hadn’t I changed Marie-Thérèse’s diaper or cleaned up her mistakes when she was potty-training?

  The thoughts raced through my mind with a velocity that made me stagger. Had HIV been passed to my own children and Jean-Marc? Were all those I loved destined to die?

  It was all I could do not to run from the room.

  “I’m sorry,” Paulette whispered.

  I seemed to remember vividly when she had said those same words the night Nette died.

  “I’ve got to go find Jean-Marc,” I managed to say. “He has to know.”

  Pierre nodded. “The doctor wants to test us all. Could you bring Marie-Thérèse later? We’re lucky to be in a hospital that does the tests in its own lab. In some clinics it takes a week for the results. Here they even have a wing for AIDS patients.”

  I nodded numbly. “I’ll bring Marie-Thérèse.”

  “And don’t tell her anything yet,” Pierre added. “We want to be the ones.”

  “Of course.”

  Once out of their sight, I ran down the hall. Spotting a bathroom, I ducked inside and began washing my hands and arms with the strong-smelling soap, over and over again, as if to wash Paulette’s touch from my skin.

  AIDS! She had AIDS! Paulette was going to die!

  And perhaps take all of us with her.

  The hot water seared my skin, but I didn’t stop scrubbing, not even when my arms turned red from the heat and tiny beads of blood oozed from the broken flesh. Steam rolled up, covering the mirror and dampening my skin. I sobbed hysterically, and mascara-laden tears blocked my vision and streaked my face. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair! How could the Lord let this happen?

  I was in the bathroom for a long time, and when I finally emerged, I felt frail and shaky. I passed the nurses’ station, once again feeling their eyes on me. Now I understood; they remembered my being with Paulette that morning. They had known about her having AIDS, and they felt pity for us all.

  My mind was in too much turmoil to go home. I drove to the Quai of Montebello that ran along the Seine River, opposite Notre Dame. In my growing-up years, this had been one of my favorite places to come with my brother. I walked along the parapets where the booksellers’ stalls were located. The stalls were really only large boxes bolted to the stone wall of the quay itself. At night, the boxes would be locked.

  My attention drifted from the stalls to the river. I stopped to stare down into the water that lapped softly at the base of the wall below. It held many memories for me, mostly happy ones. Life was good, every minute so precious. Was it now running out?

  I wasn’t afraid of dying; part of me even longed to be near my brother and Nette. But I was terrified of leaving my children without a mother or of watching them suffer.

  Why had this happened?

  I watched the boats pass by, staring at the rippling wakes they left in the water. Paulette and I had both come so far. She, especially, had changed her whole life to accept the gospel. She had repented of her sins and been forgiven. What kind of justice was this? I wanted to scream and cry out my pain to my Father, but something inside was also angry. He could have prevented this! Logically, I knew there had to be an explanation, but perhaps I wasn’t ready yet to hear it.

  Leaving the river, I made my way to my car. I drove slowly, ignoring the impatient honking of the cars behind me. Just as in the hospital, I seemed to see everything under a strange, intense light, as if through a magnifying glass. What was it about death that made life suddenly so precious?

  Before I realized where I was going, I found myself near the cemetery where Nette and Antoine were buried. I parked and made my way languidly up the cobblestone path. My foot occasionally hit a loose stone and sent it flying, echoing loudly over the quiet graveyard. I sat on the bench opposite my daughter’s grave, my eyes soaking up the quiet green of the grass and trees. Her tombstone was a twin
to my brother’s; both were made of gray stone with carved scrollwork decorating the top, and they stood nearly as high as my waist. Afternoon sunlight reflected through the leaves and onto the stones and the names carved there, inlaid with gold.

  Usually I visited my daughter’s grave on the second and fourth Wednesday of every month, right after lunch. I always brought the children—much to the caretaker’s dismay—and told them stories of little Antoinette and my life before they were born. I didn’t want them ever to forget their older sibling and the pain drugs could cause. Knowing about their sister could only keep them on the right path.

  It wasn’t the cemetery where Nette had originally been buried. After my marriage to Jean-Marc, my father and I had her moved next to Antoine, for whom she had been named. There I could talk to them both and remember the happy times. Oh, I knew their spirits weren’t in the ground beneath the headstones, but coming here gave me a focus, a time out of the real world to concentrate on spiritual things.

  Because today was Sunday, there were more visitors than I was accustomed to seeing on my semimonthly trips. Most carried flowers for their loved ones. I paid them no heed but let my head slump into my hands. Tears came again, and I rubbed my eyes to stop the torrent. I had no idea how much time had passed since I left the church, nor did I have the energy to check my wristwatch.

  Someone sat down on the bench beside me, and I stiffened. Who would dare to intrude on my sorrow? I darted a glance in the newcomer’s direction.

  “Hello, Ari.” My father slid closer and put his arms around me. “Today’s not Wednesday, you know,” he murmured against my hair. The cemetery was the one place my father and I met alone. The first time it had happened by accident, but when he discovered four years ago that I visited Nette’s and Antoine’s graves twice each month, he began to visit on the same days. Sometimes his work wouldn’t allow his regular visits, and I would be there alone with only the children and my thoughts for company. Occasionally I was unable to make it at the right time, and he would be alone. It didn’t matter; there was always the next time we would visit.