“What hurts most,” she said to me, “is that they can think I would actually expose their children to such a grave danger. If there were any risk at all of them getting AIDS—any at all—I wouldn’t even want to teach.”
Part of me carried a heavy guilt because I remembered too well how I had felt upon learning of her AIDS—especially the uncontrollable fear. If I, who loved her so deeply, could feel such a thing, how much more anxiety would accost those who were more distanced?
Marie-Thérèse’s Primary teacher was one of the few parents who had backed Paulette, and she treated Marie-Thérèse the same as the other children in her class, never recoiling from her embraces or her outstretched hands. She had calmed the other parents enough so that they hadn’t ostracized the little girl because she had infected parents. Her influence had healed my breaking confidence in the members of our ward in general. She reminded me the Church was still true, even when sometimes the members didn’t act accordingly.
That same first Sunday back also brought another surprise to our lives—one that gave us unexpected joy.
“I would like you two to stay,” Marguerite said to us after church. “Giselle is coming here after work with a few members of her family for her first discussion with the missionaries.”
I glanced at Jean-Marc. “What do you think?”
“I guess we can stay,” he said.
“I meant for you to take the children home,” I clarified. “You can take the car and drop off Pierre and Marie-Thérèse. Paulette and I will use her car. A missionary discussion is no place for children.”
He made a face. “Baby-sitting, huh?”
I laughed. “It’s not baby-sitting when they’re your own children. Besides, they need to spend some time with you.”
He appeared disconcerted, almost fearful, but he agreed.
The missionaries showed up—two young French elders. We waited outside in the warmth of the summer sun until Giselle arrived. With her were four other people, each with skin as dark as hers. One was older than the rest, and his hair was almost completely white. He had a benevolence about him that made me want to be his friend.
“My grandfather,” Giselle said as she introduced the old man—no, not old. Though he was aged, he would never seem old.
I held out my hand. “Nice to meet you.” But I was more surprised than anything. From the reverent way Giselle had talked about him, I had the impression he was already deceased.
“The pleasure is mine.” His deep voice was rich and flavorful, his smile warm and sincere. “Please call me Grandfather,” he said when I asked his name. “I’ve been called that so long that I don’t remember any other.”
“Shall we go in?” the missionaries asked.
“Can we wait a bit?” Giselle scanned the parking lot.
“We have a few more of our family coming,” Grandfather explained.
Another car drove up, and three people emerged. The missionaries greeted them and started to lead the way up the walk.
Grandfather held up a dark finger. “Just a moment more, if you would,” he said politely. He turned to welcome another handful of people, who piled out of a station wagon. The missionaries’ jaws dropped.
Our surprise deepened as several more cars drove up to the church to let out people of all ages, dressed in their Sunday best. The skin tones were varied, but all could clearly trace their heritage to Africa.
Next to me Paulette breathed in amazement, and I heard the missionaries make quick arrangements for a larger room. I counted silently; in all, Giselle had brought us twenty-three investigators.
Grandfather noted our astonishment. “I have raised my family to believe in God,” he said. “We are searching anxiously for Christ’s Church. I have faith that one day my search will come to an end.” He held up the Book of Mormon that Marguerite had given to Giselle. “This, I believe, is true. Now I want to hear the rest.”
The missionaries appeared dazed for a few moments, and having served a mission myself, I understood their feelings. In France, most missionaries were lucky to have this many investigators during the whole two years they served, never mind in one day.
“Working through the members really works,” I heard one elder say quietly, almost under his breath. He was a new missionary, a greenie, and I knew this was a day he would never forget. Nor would I.
We went to the Relief Society room and talked about Heavenly Father and Jesus and the coming forth of the Book of Mormon. Grandfather sat in full patriarchal authority and watched as his family responded to the missionaries, their faces eager. I had a feeling he understood the principles on a level that could only be achieved by one who was already close to the Lord. These people were obviously elect.
Paulette turned to me. “I feel so strange,” she whispered. “I love them so much, and I don’t even know their names!” She brought her hand to her chest. “I’m so happy.” Aside from her own conversion, her experience with Giselle was her first close-up view of missionary work.
“I know,” I whispered back. It was the same way I had felt on the day she was baptized. I reached out and held her hand.
* * *
At the end of June, a month after Paulette’s hospital stay, Louise and Lu-Lu settled into a two-bedroom apartment next to Paulette’s. They both seemed content and happy with their move to Paris, and it made me feel easier to know they were near enough to check on Paulette during the day.
Not that she had needed it. She had recuperated quickly, though she didn’t gain additional weight as her pregnancy progressed. She faithfully visited Dr. Medard, and aside from a few odd tumor-like growths on her neck, which he was able to remove, and her lack of weight gain, her AIDS seemed to be temporarily arrested. She spent her days with Marie-Thérèse, and in anticipation of the baby, together they busily decorated the third room in their apartment. I often joined them, and we talked for long hours about everything—except her AIDS. By unspoken agreement, it was the one subject we held as taboo.
Mid-July found us in Paulette’s sitting room working on new curtains for the baby’s room. Paulette fingered the fabric she had purchased six and a half months earlier, when she had found out she was pregnant. It had a charming array of clowns and balloons in pastel colors, with solid stripes setting off the different sections. Because of the design, it had to be arranged just so. It was all too complicated for me, but Paulette had taken to sewing and worked what I considered miracles before my very eyes. I was there more to give support than for anything else, but at least I could cut where she told me, saving her the difficulty of working around her large belly.
As she smoothed the material out over the floor, I videotaped her with the new camera she had made Pierre buy. She wanted to record what moments she could to leave for her children. Her baby might not remember her, but at least she would understand how much Paulette had loved and wanted her.
“There’ll be enough for a baby quilt too, I think,” Paulette said, smiling up at me.
I was glad the videotape recorder hid my expression. She looked so happy and yet . . . sick. Though Paulette had gained no weight since her hospital stay, the baby had grown. This meant Paulette was thinner than ever, and her bones seemed to stick out awkwardly. The skin on her face stretched tight and was so dry it looked almost brittle. I didn’t know what was going on inside her, but obviously her body wasn’t taking care of itself as it once had. Each time the thought came, a wave of dread assaulted me until I pushed it somewhere into the back of my mind, firmly out of awareness.
“Mom!” Josette’s wail came from Marie-Thérèse’s bedroom. “We’re trying to dress up, and Marc won’t leave!”
“I want to play too,” he said.
I walked down the corridor and to the bedroom door. “You all need to play together.”
“We are,” Josette said. “We just want him to leave until we get our princess dresses on. Boys aren’t ’posed to see girls naked!”
I sighed. I appreciated my daughter’s modesty, b
ut lately it had been causing problems between the twins.
“She’s not naked—she has underwear!” Marc protested, pushing his dark locks out of his eyes. It was long past time for a haircut.
I grabbed him and tossed him into the air, catching him in a tight hug. It took all of my strength, but it got his attention temporarily away from the problem.
He laughed. “Do it again!”
“Me too!” chorused the girls.
I gave them each a turn and then knelt down in front of Marc. “Why don’t you come outside the door and knock on it? You can be the visiting prince. Then you get to come in and see the beautiful princesses all ready for the ball.”
He thought about this for a moment. “Okay. But why does André get to stay?”
“He’s just a baby,” Marie-Thérèse said. “He doesn’t know any better.”
“Oh.”
I took Marc’s hand and led him out the door. The girls slammed it. “You’d better be ready soon,” I yelled through the door, “or the prince won’t dance with either of you!”
“I’m going to huff and puff and blow the door down!” Marc howled like a wolf, and behind the door the girls screamed with laughter.
I returned to Paulette. She was scrunched down, trying to cut the fabric. “I’ll do it,” I said, taking the scissors from her. I sighed. “Sometimes I don’t know what to do with those two.”
“You’re very good with them,” she said. “It’s a talent I admire.”
“What do you mean? You’re good with Marie-Thérèse.”
“It’s not that hard to take care of one.”
“What about your Primary class? You handled them pretty well.” I knew the minute the words escaped me that it was the wrong thing to say. Paulette’s face turned despondent, and a strong feeling of heartache emanated from her.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, dropping the scissors and crawling across the floor to sit beside her.
“It’s not your fault,” she said. “You couldn’t help their reaction.”
I knew that, but I could have kept my tongue from reopening barely closing wounds.
“At least Marie-Thérèse’s Primary teacher understands,” Paulette said, her pain eased by the memory. She found the good in even this woeful situation.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“So what was the problem?” Paulette asked.
“What?”
“In the bedroom with the children.”
I snorted. “Josette and her suddenly discovered modesty. Ever since that TV show last month, she won’t dress in front of Marc. It’s getting so bad I’m thinking about moving her into her own room and letting the boys share. The only problem is that Josette gets scared at night. And besides, André sleeps great by himself.”
“Too bad she doesn’t have a sister,” Paulette said mildly.
“I don’t know where I’d fit another child in at this point. Maybe in a few years.” I stopped cutting and added, “Maybe when Jean-Marc isn’t so busy.”
“He’s still working late?”
“Every night. He’s so good about most things, and I love him more than ever, but . . .” My voice trailed off. I had thought Paulette’s illness might make him change his devotion to work, but I guess my father was right when he had said that change had to come from within.
“It’s more than work,” I said suddenly. “It’s like he’s afraid of something, but I don’t know what. Something that prevents him from opening up completely. I don’t know. Maybe I’m making it up.”
“Give him time,” she said. “Men usually need more of it than we do to get things straight.” She lifted her shoulders and let them fall again with an exaggerated sigh. “It’s in their nature.”
I laughed. That was one thing I could certainly agree with.
The doorbell rang, and Paulette opened it to Louise. She carried a huge box of wedding invitations. “Well, here they are,” she said unhappily.
I took one. “They turned out nice.”
Louise grimaced. “Unfortunately. And now I have no choice but to address them. Will you help? I wanted to mail them this week. Oh, I can’t believe she’s going to marry him in less than a month!” She groaned and slumped into a chair opposite the couch. Paulette and I exchanged understanding looks. Lu-Lu was heading straight over a cliff, and there was nothing any of us could do to save her.
As we commiserated together, another visitor came. Simone. Two good things had come out of Paulette’s illness: Giselle’s introduction to the gospel and then Paulette’s reconciliation with her mother. Simone now visited frequently at Paulette’s apartment—on the condition that she didn’t swear, drink, smoke, or use drugs around Marie-Thérèse. Simone obeyed strictly but had been unable to completely conquer her addictions. Occasionally, she wouldn’t appear at Paulette’s for a few days. During these times, Paulette had learned to leave her alone. For her part, Marie-Thérèse loved her grandmother and no longer complained about the smell of smoke lingering on her clothing and breath.
After greeting everyone and spending a short time with the children, Simone settled on the sofa to watch Paulette with the curtains. “Them are lookin’ real nice,” she said. “Ain’t no talent ya got from me, that’s fer sure.”
Paulette looked up. “The women at the church taught me. They could teach you, too, if you wanted.”
Simone seemed to bristle without provocation. “Ain’t good ’nough fer ya, am I?”
“That’s not what I meant.” Paulette came to sit with her mother on the sofa. “I just meant that if you wanted to learn, they could teach you. They did me. I’ve learned so much since I’ve joined the Church.” Louise and I watched, unable to stop what would happen next.
“Well, can they teach ya not to die?” Simone said, lurching to her feet. The careless way she spoke made me wonder if she had been to a bar for a drink before coming here. Or perhaps she had recognized the sickness eating away at her daughter, as I had earlier.
Paulette stared up at her mother calmly. “I’m not afraid to die,” she said, lifting her chin slightly. “I’m going to be with Jesus and my Heavenly Father. That’s what’s so wonderful about the gospel; you don’t have to be afraid anymore.”
“But what if it ain’t true? Did ya ever think of that? What if ya die and that’s it? Poof!”
“I know the Church is true, Mother. I know it with my whole being!” Paulette’s simple testimony was potent, but it didn’t stop the fear in Simone.
“I wish I didn’t see ya again. It ain’t worth it.” Without another word, Simone fled from the room.
“Go after her, Ariana,” Paulette pleaded. In her eyes there was no hurt, only compassion for her mother. “She won’t listen to me. Please!”
I glanced at Louise, and her face told me she would take care of Paulette, if needed. I hurried to follow Simone, but the elevator had already closed. Throwing open the door to the stairs, I practically plunged down the five flights to the bottom. Simone was just leaving the building, head bowed and shoulders hunched, when I arrived.
What should I say? My thought was a silent prayer.
Down the cement sidewalk she went and then across the street and a half block more until she turned on a side road. I followed from a distance, recognizing the path to the store near Paulette’s. To my left there were more apartments, to my right a small forest-like strip of undeveloped land that had a path of logs leading down the gentle slope to the store. It was the only green for miles around, and the children loved to come here, where they were free to romp at will.
Simone stopped halfway down the slope, clutching the remains of a wooden railing that had once run the length of the path. “Go away,” she muttered.
“What’s really wrong?” I asked. “You picked a fight on purpose.”
She stared at her foot as it systematically ground a fallen twig into the dirt. “It ain’t true, that bunk about yer church, and I don’t like to see my daughter trustin’ in stuff that’s only goin’ to let her d
own. She’s dyin’, and that’s it.” Her despair was easy for me to understand. Not so many years ago, I had been in her position.
I put a gentle hand on her shoulder and said with all the emotion I could muster, “I know the gospel’s true! Look around you. The very beauty of the world, the exactness of the universe—everything testifies of God, of His love for us! Every blade of grass, every bird that flies, every idea that man has! This is no random accident we see. This is the loving creation of a Supreme Being, a God! It’s perfect, and all made for us.”
“A perfect world wouldn’t have no people dyin’ like Paulette,” Simone retorted. For the first time, her colorless eyes met mine. “What’s perfect about that?”
“That wasn’t God’s fault, and you know it, Simone! Heavenly Father must let people suffer the consequences of their actions, or no one would learn anything. If He came down and solved all our problems for us, we would never grow. We would never develop faith, because He’d be right there in front of us. Our Father gave us agency because He knew it was best for us. What would life be like if we were forced to do right all the time? Don’t you see? Sometimes the innocent have to suffer, but it’s not God’s fault. It’s ours, because of our own choices.”
“I wish it was true,” Simone said. “I really do. If it is true, I hope ya can make me believe. Or maybe Paulette.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, pulling back from her. “It’s not my responsibility to make you believe. Or Paulette’s. It’s yours to seek out the truth. Everyone is responsible for their own salvation. You can’t put that burden on someone else.”
She stared. “Am I doin’ that?” Her voice was low, and I knew it wasn’t directed at me. “How can I know?”
“You could pray.”
“Me?” The word came as a snort. “He won’t tell me.”
On my mission, I had always been taught to use the Book of Mormon because it would bring the Spirit. I knew it wasn’t coincidence that only the day before, my study with the children had led me to 1 Nephi 15.
The Ariana Trilogy Page 34
