The Ariana Trilogy

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  I had never told anyone except Jean-Marc of the time my father and I spent together at the cemetery—not even my mother, though she probably knew, if not from my children, then from my father. It was special, a time for us to be together and talk or just to sit in comfortable silence as the children played nearby.

  “Paulette has AIDS,” I said, my voice hoarse. I wasn’t expecting much sympathy from him. He had warned me all my life about drugs and the consequences of using them. To him, it might even seem a kind of justice.

  In thinking this, I misjudged my father. “I’m sorry, Ari,” he said. “It doesn’t seem fair.”

  “You already knew?”

  He nodded gravely. “Pierre called after you left. He was worried about you. Your mother took Marie-Thérèse to the hospital, and I came to look for you. I hoped to find you here.” He held me tightly, smoothing my hair with his strong hands.

  “Thanks for coming,” I said after a while. “I just couldn’t go home. How can I tell my children their favorite aunt is going to die? I haven’t even gathered the courage to tell them Jean-Marc has left me.”

  My father chuckled. “That’s not how I heard it.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked hotly, drawing away from him.

  “Jean-Marc told me you threw him out.”

  “But I didn’t—” I stopped. Well, maybe I had. “I was just trying to make a p—” But that didn’t matter now. The point was that my father knew where Jean-Marc was. “Where is he?” I demanded.

  He shook his head, his voice dripping irony. “For a couple who claim to be married for all eternity, you two aren’t communicating very well.”

  “I never said I was perfect,” I retorted. “Just tell me.”

  “All right, all right.” My father raised his hands as if fending me off. “But I’ll tell it my way.” I sighed and settled back on the bench, knowing I would have to hear the whole story, instead of the part I was most interested in.

  “I was very angry after we talked this morning. As I dressed, I planned all the things I would say and do to Jean-Marc once I found him.” He paused. The sunlight seemed to reflect off his chiseled features and his graying temples. His trimmed moustache was still a shiny black and seemed to soften his strong face. Not for the first time, I noticed that my father was a handsome man. “Luckily, I calmed down a bit,” he continued. “By the time I arrived at the bank, I had begun to think there might be another explanation for his behavior.”

  “Then he’s at the bank?”

  He frowned disapprovingly, but I thought I saw a twinkle in his brown eyes. “I remember how before your marriage, Jean-Marc disappeared and didn’t call you for two months,” he said as if I hadn’t spoken. “He ran away then for a reason, and I thought maybe he might have one in this situation. So when I found him asleep on the couch in his office, I didn’t kill him at once.”

  I smiled despite myself. “And?”

  “And he told me you two had a fight and that you practically threw his suitcase at him. What else was he supposed to do but leave?”

  “That’s not the way it was at all,” I said. “I felt I had to do something. He’s never home. He works more than you do. He neglects the children. And me. It’s been going on for years, though I’ve been so busy with the children, I didn’t recognize it until now.”

  “I’m not the one you should be telling this to.”

  “But I tried to tell him, and that’s why he left.”

  My father said nothing but gazed out over the tombstones. He put his arm around my shoulders. “You know, your mother and I married very young. She was only nineteen, and I was twenty.”

  I held my breath in frustration; I had heard this story many times, and I didn’t see what it had to do with my situation. However, I had learned that there was no stopping my father once he started. But as he continued, the love in his voice made my resentment fade.

  “We were both only children, born late in life to our parents, and they objected to our getting married so early. But Josephine was so beautiful, and I knew that having her as my wife would only give me more purpose, make our lives fulfilled. I was right. I worked hard—and you can see where I am today.

  “That’s not to say we didn’t go through troubles. During those first seven years, we tried to have a baby, but it didn’t happen. Your mother grew sad, and I didn’t know how to help her. I worked harder to earn money, and it was that money we used to pay for fertility treatments.”

  “And the treatments got you Antoine and me,” I said. My mother had been twenty-seven when she had us, a year younger than I was now.

  He smiled. “Yes, but even without the drugs we could have had you both. Your mother’s line has a history of fraternal twins—her own mother was one, as you know. We’d wanted a son, but when we got an extra surprise, it was the happiest day of our lives. By that time our parents had died, and I thought that we had already faced the biggest trials we would ever face. Until Antoine was killed.”

  I saw tears on my father’s thick lashes and looked away, embarrassed in spite of our closeness.

  “What I’m trying to say, Ari, is that I’ve learned a lot in my fifty-four years of life. Each day has its hills or mountains, and how each person deals with those problems is different, especially if those people happen to be of the opposite sex.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, for instance, a woman will say, ‘André needs a diaper change,’ and another woman will understand that the first woman wants her to change the diaper. However, a husband will think, ‘Oh,’ and go about his business, while the wife becomes angry because he’s not doing what she asked. But he thinks that if she had wanted him to change the diaper, she would have said, ‘Will you change his diaper?’ I see this miscommunication at the bank all the time. In fact, we have a class on it now. Employee relations, you know.”

  “Jean-Marc has to know how I feel,” I said.

  My father nodded. “I think he does now. And maybe he did before, but he didn’t realize how large the problem has grown.”

  “Then I did right,” I said, “by . . . uh . . . kicking him out.” Even as I said the words, I felt ashamed.

  “Maybe. But it still doesn’t explain why he feels he has to work as hard as he does. There must be some reason. And simply knowing your feelings might not make him change.”

  I found I didn’t really care if the problem between us was solved at all. I only wanted Jean-Marc to come home. Paulette was dying of AIDS, and I felt my reaction to his working late was trivial now. At least he was alive, and I was, too. We could go from there. I refused to consider that one or both of us might have contracted HIV.

  “So now what?” I asked.

  He sighed. “First, you have to realize that not everyone faces trials the way you do. You tend to go at them head on; Jean-Marc backs away and thinks about it first. One way isn’t necessarily better than the other. I’ve done both in my life, and both have consequences. But one thing I do know is that you can only change yourself, not your spouse. Change has to come from within a person because he wants it. And I learned that the hard way.” His voice held memories of the past. A sudden, deep sorrow emanated from him, and I knew it was because Antoine was lost to him forever. While my father had some belief in God, no manner of begging, pleading, or talking on my part could make him realize that he could be sealed to Antoine, that we could be an eternal family.

  “What can I change?” I asked, wanting to wipe the sadness from his face. “I haven’t been nagging.”

  He cocked his head back and stared into the blue sky. A white cloud floated across the sun and cast a shadow over us. “That I don’t know.” He grimaced slightly. “Just when I think I have it figured out, your mother changes the rules.”

  I bit my lip, knowing that though my mother had not told him of her desire to be baptized, he obviously sensed something in her demeanor.

  I kissed his cheek. “Thanks for your advice. When will I ever know as much as you?”


  The sadness vanished, and again I caught a gleam in his eyes. “When you’re as old as I am, perhaps,” he said. “But don’t forget that I’ll be older then, and I’ll still know more than you.”

  I laughed. One part of me questioned how I could do so in light of Paulette’s illness and my own marital problems, but reality seemed far away right then. I stood, crossed the soft grass to Nette’s tombstone, and ran my finger over the gold-colored indentations of her name. The edges of the carved stone felt rough against my skin.

  I nodded at Antoine’s stone and then joined my father. Together we walked back down the path to the black cast-iron gates that separated the graveyard from the world.

  “Are the children at your house?” I asked when we reached our cars.

  “No. At yours. With Jean-Marc.”

  My heart seemed to skip a beat. “He’s home?”

  “I dropped him and the children off before I came here. He wanted to come with me, but,” my father’s face broke into a wide grin, “I thought he should get a taste of being alone with the children for a while.”

  I hugged him. “Thanks, Father.”

  “That’s what I’m here for,” he said, opening my door.

  Smoothing my brown linen skirt around my knees, I slid into the soft bench seat in my car. My father hesitated. “When I talked to Pierre, he said you all needed to be tested tomorrow. And that his and Marie-Thérèse’s results will be ready. We’d like to be there, your mother and I.”

  “I’d like you there,” I said softly.

  He nodded and closed the door. With a short wave of his hand, he turned and strode to his own car.

  On the way home, my mind drifted to Paulette. Jesus Christ died for our sins, I thought, including hers. I believed that with my whole being; the past was over and gone. Yet why, after Paulette had embraced the gospel and become new, did the past still have the power to destroy her? It simply didn’t make sense, and I needed to understand why.

  Chapter Five

  In my eagerness to see my husband, I fumbled for the keys in my purse. Finally, I opened the door.

  “Mommy!” My children ran to me, and I hugged them.

  “Why are you crying?” asked Josette, reaching up to wipe away a tear. I caught her hand before it touched me. Until I knew more about HIV, my family would have to take precautions.

  “Because I love you so much.” They didn’t seem to think my answer strange.

  “I love you too, Mommy,” the twins answered together.

  I felt eyes on me and looked up to see Jean-Marc watching us from the kitchen doorway, a wooden stirring spoon in one hand. He wore rumpled suit pants and a white and gray pinstriped shirt. His hair wasn’t combed as neatly as usual, and he looked tired, but the green-brown eyes were the same, except today they held no mirth. I stood up and took a few tentative steps toward him. He met me halfway, and we clung together in a tight embrace.

  “I missed you,” he said, burying his face in my hair.

  “I missed you, too.” My words sounded like a sob.

  He held me back enough to see my face. “After I talked to your dad this morning, I went to church. When I didn’t see you there, I got really scared. I couldn’t believe it was over between us. Please forgive me!”

  I put my finger on his lips, stilling the words, and then kissed him. It was enough just to have him back. He responded fervently, until my head swam from lack of oxygen. For a moment time was suspended, and I was happy and right where I belonged.

  “Were you two fighting?” Josette asked.

  We broke away to see three curious faces staring up at us. Jean-Marc coughed delicately and moved into the kitchen, drawing me with him. Dipping the spoon he still held into the enormous pot of soup I had made Friday night, he stirred slowly.

  “We’re just happy to see each other,” he said. His eyes searched my face. “I wish I could have been there for you last night,” he said quietly. “How is Paulette?”

  “We need to talk.”

  He looked startled. The spoon dropped from his hand and sank out of sight into the soup.

  “Stay here, children.” I grabbed Jean-Marc’s hand, leaving the spoon submerged in the soup.

  “Why?” Marc asked.

  “Stay here!” I repeated. They stared with wide eyes as I led Jean-Marc into the hallway and toward our bedroom. The tears were coming, despite my attempt to stop them.

  “I know about the AIDS,” Jean-Marc said. “I was at your parents’ when Pierre called. We went there after church.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “What’s wrong, Ari?” Jean-Marc came close and reached out to touch my face.

  “Don’t!” I said, remembering the HIV. Then again, we’d been kissing, so a tear hardly seemed important.

  “What’s wrong? You’re scaring me!” He cocked his head back and studied me, his expression unreadable. “I’ll be with you through this, Ari. I love you.”

  I shifted my eyes to the floor. “I hope so,” I said softly, “because Paulette’s not the only one who may have HIV.”

  “Pierre!” Jean-Marc looked as if someone had punched him in the stomach and he couldn’t find his breath. He slumped to the bed. “Of course! My brother is going to die, isn’t he?”

  “They don’t know, but he probably has it as well. He’s probably had it for years.”

  Jean-Marc put his head in his hand and cried, the tears seeming to dissolve all the problems separating us. My heart went out to him, but I had to tell him the rest. “Marie-Thérèse and Pierre are being tested today, and we need to go in for a test, too.”

  His eyes grew wide as he reeled from the shock. I tried to comfort him, but he stood up and paced the floor. “No,” he said. “It’s not possible. We’re fine.”

  “We have to believe that, but we still have to be tested. Tomorrow morning, when the lab opens.”

  “No.” His voice sounded oddly detached. “We don’t need to. God wouldn’t do this to us.”

  “Nor to Paulette. Yet she has it.”

  “We’ve lost too much already!”

  At first I thought he was referring to Antoine and Nette, but from his distant expression, I realized he was thinking of his father. I didn’t know much about the man’s death, except that it had been from a heart attack. Jean-Marc had never talked about it, saying only that he didn’t remember the event very well. I believed he blocked it out; sometimes it was easier to hide pain than to deal with it.

  “We need to be tested,” I repeated. “And to learn more about AIDS—if only to help Paulette and Pierre.”

  I thought he might hug me then and reassure me that everything would be all right, but he didn’t. He shook his head. “No. I’m not going.”

  “But we have to know.”

  “I do know, and I’m not going!” He pushed past me and into the hallway. He didn’t stop when he reached the kitchen.

  Leaving! Not again. I followed him, stunned. He picked up his briefcase and opened the apartment door.

  “Jean-Marc!”

  “I’ve got work to do. I’ll be home later.”

  “On Sunday?” I said. He never went to the office on Sundays. “It can wait. We have to talk about this.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “You’re running away!” I called after him. “Come back!”

  He paused in the hallway, eyes pleading. “Let me go.”

  I softened, remembering what my father had said about the different ways people handled problems and how I couldn’t change him. The only thing I could change about this situation was my attitude. “When will you be home?” With these words he would know that I wanted him back.

  “Later.”

  “Okay.” I kissed my hand and then blew on it.

  He caught the imaginary kiss with his hand, touched his mouth, and smiled unsteadily. “I love you, Ari.” He pushed the elevator button and stared expectantly at the closed double doors.

  “Jean-Marc?” An idea had come to me, a
flash of memory. One that perhaps could help both of us.

  He turned to look at me, eyes guarded. “Yes?”

  “Once, you promised me never to try to solve the important things yourself. You said we’d do it together. Do you remember?”

  His shoulders slumped. The elevator chimed as it opened, but he made no move toward it. His briefcase slid to the floor as the doors slammed shut again. When he spoke, his voice was teary and full of memories. “Yes. It was when I proposed. I said you were a queen, and I’d do my best to become your king.” His eyes met mine, and his voice sounded ragged. “I haven’t done too well, have I?”

  I gave him a watery smile. “Maybe not tonight or in the past few days, but there’s still time.”

  He walked over to me and hugged me tightly. “What would I ever do without you?”

  “Is that why you’re afraid of our getting tested? Are you afraid of losing me?”

  “Well, it’s like this.” He held up his hands in a cupping motion, his voicing breaking as he spoke. “Friday morning I felt as if everything was right here in my hands, and now it’s suddenly slipping away, and I can’t stop it.” He opened his fingers and stared down at them.

  “What can we do?” I asked him. He probably didn’t know, but to ask him might get us both on the right track. He was a priesthood holder, and I had faith that he would rise to the challenge. I wasn’t to be disappointed.

  “Pray,” he said after a long pause. “We need to pray together. And let’s start a fast tomorrow.”

  Jean-Marc retrieved his briefcase and grabbed my hand, holding tightly, as if afraid to let go. We went inside our apartment and turned to face the three pairs of eyes, wide and scared-looking, watching us from the kitchen doorway.

  “Come here,” Jean-Marc beckoned to them. He led us into the family room where we knelt in a circle, holding hands. The twins were strangely reverent, as if somehow sensing the importance of the moment.