The Ariana Trilogy

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  “How much does she weigh?” I asked.

  “One point seven kilograms. And she’s thirty-six centimeters long.” That was much shorter than André had been and only half of what he’d weighed.

  I watched with detached interest, trying to tell myself this tiny, two-hour-old baby with the numerous white wires trailing from her body had nothing to do with me. Yet with her dark hair and enormous brown eyes, she reminded me of my own twins, who had been born three weeks early and had weighed less than two and a half kilograms each. They had been so small and yet so perfect. My earlier desire to have another child returned swiftly and unexpectedly. I stared at my niece, forcing myself to notice how small she really was. If not for the diaper, it would seem she had no bottom at all, just legs that began at the base of a too-slender back.

  “Would you like to hold her?” the doctor asked. I didn’t—it wouldn’t pay to become attached until we knew about the HIV. But he wrapped her body, bare except for the diaper, in a pink blanket that covered all the wires attached to her, and placed her in my arms before I could protest. “It helps to have someone who loves them to cuddle them, if only for a while,” he added. “And the blanket will help keep the wires in place.”

  One of the nurses handed me a bottle of warm milk with a minuscule nipple on the end. It had been a long time since I had used a bottle. André had never taken one, and the twins had only needed one extra a day to supplement my milk until they were old enough for cereal. I was out of practice, and my hand shook. The nurse helped me guide the nipple into the baby’s mouth. She sucked, and the whimpering stopped, but almost immediately she choked. I glanced at the nurse anxiously.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “Babies born this early have a problem swallowing and breathing at the same time. She’ll receive most of her food for the time being through a tube in her nose. Each day we’ll give her the bottle and gradually increase the feedings until we can take the tube off completely.”

  “When will that be?”

  “It depends. But the tube needs to be off before they go home. Try to give her a little more. The faster she learns, the sooner she’ll go home.”

  I did as she asked, but the baby didn’t seem happy about it. At last, I handed the bottle back to the nurse and simply rocked her. Soon she closed her eyes, which seemed overly large in her small face, and slept. I gazed at the precious newborn, thinking how cruel life could be, even at the same time a miracle was happening. Had this little baby come from heaven only to go back so soon? We wouldn’t know until later in the afternoon if she had HIV.

  Despite my determination to the contrary, I felt an immediate and distinct bond with my niece. Was this what Paulette had planned? What did it mean? Nonsense, I told myself. I would feel the same for any newborn who was also a relative. It meant nothing.

  I cuddled her gently for a moment more, until the nurse told me it was time to leave. She placed the infant carefully in an incubator with warm air circulating inside, removing the soft blanket. She checked all the wires while my niece slept peacefully on.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll watch over her,” she said kindly. For the first time, I noticed the nurse’s features. She was older than I, near fifty by the looks of her. She had a liberal sprinkling of gray in her dark hair and heavy lines around her eyes and mouth, as if she’d done a lot of laughing. “I’m a mother of six and a grandmother too,” she added.

  “Thank you.” I felt comforted to know she would be there, and I knew Paulette would also be grateful.

  As I turned to leave, the nurse said, “Only parents and grandparents are allowed to visit here. And you, of course. Are there any siblings?”

  “A sister. Four years old.”

  “She can come in a few days to see the baby.”

  “How long will the baby be here?”

  She smiled. “It really depends. Some are here for a week; others, months. But I would say about a month, give or take a little. Provided, of course, there are no complications.”

  I retraced my steps to find Paulette, but they had already moved her to a room. When I found her, she glanced up anxiously.

  “She’s fine,” I assured her. “She’s breathing on her own, and she looks good.”

  “Thank heaven!” Paulette said. “They won’t let me see her until later. They’re worried about how much I bled.”

  “Why don’t you go see her?” I suggested to Pierre.

  “Will you stay with Paulette?”

  “Of course.” I settled in the chair next to her bed.

  He left, and Paulette stared after him. “He doesn’t look good.”

  “He’s been worried, that’s all.”

  She didn’t reply but turned to face me. “How long before we know?” She didn’t need to explain further. We all ached to know if this new little baby had HIV.

  “This afternoon.”

  She bit her lip. “I can’t nurse her, you know. They won’t let me because of the virus—even if she already has it. In many ways, I feel I’m not her mother at all.” There was a touching sadness in her voice.

  “She’s here because of you. And tomorrow, when you hold her in your arms, you’ll know you’re her mother.”

  “Thank you, Ari. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “I’ll always be here for you, Paulette. Always.”

  There were tears on her lashes as her eyes drooped and closed. In a short time, her steady breathing told me she slept.

  I let my head drop into my hands, shielding my tired eyes from the bright morning light coming through the blinds. My head ached from lack of sleep, and my heart from something else. There was a hope, an aching, torturous kind of yearning inside me.

  I began to pray.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Ariana, wake up,” a voice said softly. A gentle hand nudged my shoulder.

  My eyes flew open. “Oh, Pierre. Did you see her?” I stretched and yawned.

  He nodded. “I’d like to give her a blessing. I’ve called Jean-Marc. He’s waiting for you to come home, and then he’ll stop by on his way to work. I’ve gotten it approved with Dr. Orlan.”

  “She’s okay, though, isn’t she?” I asked quickly.

  “Yes. She’s having a little trouble breathing now—they’re giving her oxygen again—and her heart rate is slower than it should be. But she’s got a strong spirit. I think she’ll be all right.” I noticed he didn’t mention the HIV. The omission was all too obvious.

  “What time is it?”

  “Seven.”

  “I’ll go home. Jean-Marc will be here soon.”

  Pierre’s nod was absentminded. His gaze was already focused on Paulette, a tender expression filling his face. With a light hand, he touched her cheek as she slept.

  I left them and wandered down the hall to the elevator. I didn’t notice anyone as I found my way to the car. When I arrived home, the house was bustling. The children were at the table, and Jean-Marc was ready to leave.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m just tired.”

  He kissed me, and we had a family prayer before he hurried out the door. I sank to a kitchen chair and concentrated on answering the children’s questions.

  * * *

  Paulette slept the morning and part of the afternoon away. Near three, Louise took Marie-Thérèse to the hospital to see her mother. Afterwards she came to my apartment. I was shocked at how old Louise looked. She walked slowly, hobbling, her face contorting at each step.

  “My arthritis is acting up,” she said. I helped her sit on the couch.

  “I have a baby sister,” Marie-Thérèse was saying importantly to the twins. “Only the doctor said I can’t see her till tomorrow.”

  “What’s her name?” the twins wanted to know.

  “We don’t know yet.” Marie-Thérèse’s voice was matter-of-fact. “We weren’t expecting her so soon. But I want to call her Marie.”

  “That’s your name,” Marc protested.

  She shr
ugged. “Mommy likes my name.”

  “Why don’t you go to your room to play for a while?” suggested Louise. “I want to talk to your mommy.” When the children left, she turned to me, her face grave. “The baby has HIV.”

  I felt as if someone had kicked me in the stomach. I had been sure she would be healthy, especially since Paulette had been so willing to sacrifice her life to save the baby.

  “I have to go to Paulette,” I said.

  Louise nodded. “I’ll stay with the children. I’ll walk them over to the park.”

  “But your arthritis . . .”

  She waved it aside. “I’ll sit on the bench and watch them. A little walking will do me some good.”

  When I told the children about going to the park, they nearly broke the door down in their hurry to leave the apartment. “I like it when people have babies,” Josette confided to Marie-Thérèse. “We get to play a lot more.”

  Jean-Marc had taken our car, but Louise gave me the keys to hers. I drove numbly to the hospital, wondering what I would say to my friend.

  Paulette wasn’t in her room. The doctor had let Pierre wheel her into the ICU to see the new baby. I waited until she came back. Her eyes were wet but strangely elated.

  “I held my baby,” she said when she saw me.

  “How is she?” I glanced at Pierre, but his face was impervious to my scrutiny.

  “Better since the blessing,” Paulette said. “She doesn’t need the oxygen anymore. The doctor seems encouraged—except for the HIV . . .”

  I knelt in front of her wheelchair. “I’m sorry,” I said. My voice sounded like I might cry at any moment—exactly how I felt.

  “She’s an angel,” Paulette whispered to me, looking more beautiful than I had ever seen her, despite the emaciation of her body. “I’m so grateful to have her any way she is.” She held out her arms, and we cried together. Only Pierre’s eyes were dry, his dark orbs standing out against the odd pallor of his face.

  * * *

  That night Jean-Marc came home early, after I had visited Paulette at the hospital. Carrying a bouquet of white roses and a box of fresh pastries, he announced a second family night. I was baffled and the children were ecstatic, but we all accepted his presence gratefully, without asking why. The lesson he gave was on fighting. I decided my husband still felt guilty for the night before, and I wondered how long it might last. Despite my cynicism, his presence lifted the somber mood that had overcome me since learning the baby was HIV positive.

  The next day, when I took Marie-Thérèse to the hospital to see her sister, the feeling of optimism remained. Before taking Marie-Thérèse to the nursery, we stopped to talk with Paulette. She lay listlessly on the bed, staring into space. Her breathing seemed labored, and her eyes had lost a bit of their light.

  “Where’s Pierre?” I asked. I knew he had taken a week off work to be with her and the new baby.

  “He went to see the doctor.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’ve got pneumonia again,” she said, frowning. “My body’s weak now, I guess. But I’ll be okay.”

  “Does it hurt, Mommy?” Marie-Thérèse asked. She gripped her doll so firmly that her little fingers were turning white.

  “Not much, honey. I feel much better seeing my princess.”

  Marie-Thérèse relaxed and smiled. She climbed onto the bed and lay next to her mother, giving her a full-body hug. Paulette sighed contently, the light coming back to her eyes. I wondered if her arms felt empty without her new baby.

  Marie-Thérèse’s patience didn’t last long. “I’m going to see the baby now,” she declared, sliding off the bed. “But what are we going to name her? She has to have a name.”

  We hadn’t told her the baby had HIV and that it might be as little as six months before she developed AIDS. I understood Paulette’s dilemma; it was hard to name a child who was almost a part of heaven already.

  “You’re right,” Paulette said. “What should we name her?”

  “Marie?”

  “That’s a wonderful name, but it might get a little confusing, don’t you think?”

  “Well, Mommy, what do you want to call her?”

  Paulette glanced up at me quickly, penetratingly, and then away again. “I once knew a baby named Antoinette. She was very pretty.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “She’s in heaven with the angels.”

  “Is that Josette’s sister you’re talking about?”

  Paulette nodded. I stared at her, but she refused to meet my gaze.

  “I like that name,” Marie-Thérèse said.

  “No,” I whispered with an intensity that frightened me. In my experience, people with that name never lived very long. I had named my daughter after my dead brother, Antoine, and after Queen Marie-Antoinette, who had been beheaded during the French Revolution. Naming this new little life Antoinette would be paramount to burying her early.

  “Let’s think about it some more,” Paulette said, meeting my eyes. “We’ll talk to Daddy, okay?”

  Marie-Thérèse nodded. She turned to me. “Can we go see my sister now?”

  As we were leaving the room, we ran into Simone. She was dressed as usual in a summer dress, but today her dark blonde hair was swept up into a bun, and little tendrils of hair fell in wisps against her cheek and neck. It was flattering, and for the first time she almost looked the forty-five she was instead of the sixty most people took her to be. The heavy wrinkles on her face were still there, but her expression was less tense, more content somehow.

  “Grandma!” Marie-Thérèse held out her arms and hugged her. “You look different today,” Marie-Thérèse said. For the first time, I noticed Simone wasn’t wearing heavy makeup, probably the reason for her more youthful appearance.

  “You look great, Simone.” I had only seen her twice since her admission to the drug and alcohol program two weeks before, but she had always seemed the same. Not like today.

  She smiled. “Thanks. I been experimentin’ with my hair and makeup. They teach a lot of stuff at the clinic. Today’s my first day out alone. They let me come a day early, seein’ as Paulette had her baby and all. I have two hours before I have to go back.”

  “Did you come to see me?” Paulette called weakly from the bed.

  Simone pushed past us. “Of course—and my new granddaughter, if they’ll let me.”

  “Oh, they’ll probably let you in, but they may not let you hold her,” Paulette said. “Though she is stronger today.”

  “We’re going to the nursery now. Would you like to come?” I asked.

  Simone shook her head. “I’ll catch up with ya. I want to visit with Paulette fer a while first.”

  We said good-bye and went toward the nursery. Marie-Thérèse nearly danced with excitement. “My very own sister,” she said over and over. “I can’t believe it!” Her enthusiasm was catching, and soon I had overcome my dread at seeing the new baby again.

  After scrubbing our hands and arms and putting on white robes, we were admitted to the nursery. They almost didn’t let Marie-Thérèse bring her doll, but the child insisted. The older nurse who had been there the day before watched over the baby. “You must be the big sister,” she said brightly.

  The brightness made me wonder if the baby’s condition was worsening. “Is she all right?” I asked.

  She smiled. “Better than all right. She’s doing so wonderfully, you can hold her for a few minutes, if you’d like.”

  “I . . . uh . . .” I couldn’t explain it, but the last thing I wanted was to feel again that strong bond with the baby.

  “Oh, goody!” Marie-Thérèse said. “I was hoping I could hold her. I brought my favorite doll to show her.” She held her worn rag doll up for the nurse to see. “My mommy made it,” she said proudly.

  “It’s very pretty,” the nurse said. “I’m sure your sister will love it. But let’s not get it too close to her yet. Only things that have been sterilized—that means scrubbed clean
with special soap—can touch your sister right now because she’s so little.” She opened the incubator and lifted the baby out. “Have you decided on a name?”

  “Probably Antoinette, but we still have to talk with Daddy,” Marie-Thérèse said. “Antoinette is Josette’s sister who lives in heaven now. Mommy says she was pretty.”

  The nurse glanced at me questioningly, but I looked away, feeling my face tighten. From the corner of my eye, I saw her wrap the baby in the pink blanket, once again covering the wires.

  “Here, honey,” the nurse said to Marie-Thérèse. “Sit right here, and I’ll help you hold the baby. We have to be very careful because she’s so tiny.”

  “I will.” Marie-Thérèse climbed onto the chair. She handed me her doll. “You hold it up so she can see.”

  So I held the doll up as Marie-Thérèse gazed down into her sister’s face for the first time. “You are so beautiful,” she cooed. “I just can’t believe how perfect you are. See?” She motioned toward the doll with her head. “That’s Dolly. When you are older, maybe Mommy will make you one, too.” I had never known the doll had a name, but then I had never dreamed Marie-Thérèse would take so quickly to mothering her little sister, either. I hoped it would be a long time before she would have to take on that role.

  “Why does she have the little tube in her nose?” Marie-Thérèse asked. The nurse launched into a simple yet thorough explanation, ending with a promise to let Marie-Thérèse help feed the baby a bottle before we left. I wondered if my niece might drop the baby in her excitement, but the nurse didn’t take her gentle hands away for an instant.

  “What are all these white strings on her?” Marie-Thérèse asked.

  “They’re wires. They go to these machines right here. They listen to the baby’s heartbeat and stuff to make sure she’s okay.”

  “What does that other baby have in its mouth?” Marie-Thérèse tried to point but remembered the baby in her arms.

  The nurse motioned to a baby across from us who was being gently cradled by a young mother. “You mean that baby?” Marie-Thérèse nodded and the nurse explained. “She has a mouthpiece to stop her mouth from being deformed because of the respirator. The respirator helps her breathe.”