The Ariana Trilogy

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  “That’s my point. She picked me.”

  “The Church doesn’t teach women to leave their husbands, no matter how stubborn they are. Maybe she had faith you’d come around.”

  “Well, I have. I only hope she’ll forgive me.”

  “She will.”

  He smiled and stood, pulling me to my feet. “Then let’s go get something to eat.”

  “The sisters in the ward brought dinner. There’s plenty of food.”

  “Good. I’m starving.”

  He waited for me to touch Nette’s stone in farewell but paused and turned back to the bench when I began walking. I stopped short, watching him pick up a book which had been on the bench beside him, hidden from my view. The Book of Mormon.

  He held it up. “Good reading, this. I’m about finished.”

  I smiled and leaned against him, breathing in the fragrant air. The evening was perfect. As night approached, the heat that always marked July dissipated, making the evening comfortably warm without being oppressive.

  I smoothed the wrinkles in my father’s coat. “This needs cleaning.”

  He stopped and put his hands on my shoulders. Once again I saw the sheen of tears in his eyes. He uttered a sound somewhere between a cry and a laugh. “Oh, Ari! My suit doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all in the eternal scheme of things!” The laughter dissolved completely into tears, and for the first time in my life I saw my father convulsing with fervent sobs. “Today I learned Antoine is not gone forever and that I will actually be able to hold your little Nette! Oh, Ari. It’s all true!”

  He dropped his arms from my shoulders and closed his eyes before continuing in a whisper. “How grateful I am to God, and how unworthy I feel of His love! He never gave up on me, not even after all these years I’ve denied Him. He loves me! He loves my family! I will never look at anything the same way again. Not ever.” He opened his eyes and gazed into the western sky. The streaked mixture of oranges, reds, and yellows reflected off the few clouds until the heavens were lit more than they should have been—a bright, natural light, yet strangely poignant.

  I reached out and touched his shoulder. I remembered so well my own conversion and how miraculous it had all been. Gratitude once again coursed through me. My father could now take his proper place at the head of our family. We could finally be sealed, and my mother . . . my thoughts stopped there. There wasn’t room in my body for the emotions I felt.

  “There’s not room enough to hold all these feelings,” my father said, as if reading my mind. His voice rushed on. “I want to shout, to stop strangers on the street, to sing at the top of my lungs. I want to do radical, outrageous, unheard of things to make people understand the love of God. I feel like Alma in the Book of Mormon, who wanted to shout it with a trumpet to reach the ends of the earth! I understand how he felt!” He whirled around with his hands in the air. Then he stopped, his happy smile subsiding. “It was all because of Paulette and her illness and because of what you said. I went to tell her this morning, to have a nurse deliver the message if they wouldn’t let me in, but she was already dead.” He hugged me. “I’m so sorry. I know you loved her.”

  “Love her. I still love her.”

  “Of course. It’s not the end, is it?” Joy covered the pain.

  “Pierre’s dying, too,” I said. “Cancer. We’ve agreed to take the girls after . . .”

  “We’ll help you, Ari. I wasn’t there for you when Antoine died, but I will be now.”

  “Jean-Marc won’t be working so much.” I resumed my steps on the path.

  My father nodded. “He works too much, anyway.”

  “Not anymore. I don’t care if it means less money.”

  “Once I would have been appalled, but you’re right. Money means nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  A faraway look shadowed his face. “Paulette,” he said softly. “Can you picture her now, Ari? Wrapped in the arms of her Savior? I envy her that. Can you imagine the sheer bliss of that hug?”

  I could, though perhaps faintly. When I had first learned that families could be eternally together, my jubilation had far exceeded anything I had ever felt.

  We walked back to the parking lot in silence. My father turned to me before I opened the door of my car. “What is my new little granddaughter’s name?” he asked.

  “I don’t know yet.” I still didn’t want to name her Antoinette.

  I drove through Paris, thinking about the baby. I wanted to stop at the hospital and be with her, but I knew my other children needed me as well. I prayed she would be watched over. I felt that she would; she had a special connection with heaven. Surely Paulette, now released from her frail, earthly body, was at her side, loving her and comforting her. The warmth of the Spirit flooded through me, testifying of the truthfulness of my thought. At that moment, I knew without a doubt that Paulette was happier than she had ever been on earth.

  When my father and I arrived home, Pierre and Marie-Thérèse were sitting at the table with everyone else, finishing their meal. My father took my mother’s hand and drew her close, kissing her tenderly.

  “I’m sorry I worried you,” he said. “But I have something important to tell you.” My mother’s face grew worried, but my father laughed joyfully. He knelt down on the hard, tiled floor and took her hands in his. “My dear, dear, Josephine. How much I love you! Thank you for not giving up on me!” The room had gone silent as we watched them, captivated by the strong love emanating from my father. Even the children were enthralled and for once didn’t interrupt.

  “Will you do me the honor of being sealed to me for all eternity in the temple of the Lord?” he asked humbly. There was a stunned shock—everyone knew my father’s views on how religion was simply a crutch for weak people.

  My mother’s eyes opened wide. “You mean—?”

  He nodded. “Oh, yes. I do. It’s true—all of it!”

  Mother pulled him up and embraced him. This time her tears were from happiness.

  “Why is Grandma crying?” asked Josette.

  “Grandpa’s getting baptized,” I said, translating the adult conversation.

  Cheers and clapping exploded into the room. Questions and comments shot out from all directions.

  “It’s about time.”

  “I can’t believe it!”

  “But he said he’d never be baptized!” little Marc said, not wanting to be outdone.

  “Sometimes never is just around the corner,” Jean-Marc fluffed our son’s hair. “You never know when you’ll stumble over it.” Marc scampered out of the kitchen to look around the corner, and we all laughed.

  My father gently wiped my mother’s tears and then released her and walked over to Pierre. “I have your wife to thank for my conversion. It took this to make me find the answers. She was—is—a wonderful person. I’m sorry for her death, but I’m glad she is with the Savior.” The laughter died, and once again the stark realization of Paulette’s death hit us.

  “Thank you.” For a moment, peace seemed to light Pierre’s face.

  I grabbed a roll from the table and bit through the flaky crust to the soft inner white, but my appetite had left me.

  “Can we go see the baby?” Marie-Thérèse asked. “I really want to see her.”

  Pierre was quiet. His expression was so agonized that I imagined we could actually hear his pain.

  “I’ll take you tomorrow,” I said.

  Her lips drew into a pout. “I don’t want you. I want Daddy to go.”

  “Well, what ya goin’ to name her?” Simone said, cutting into the silence left by Marie-Thérèse’s remark. Her voice was rough with unspoken emotion.

  “Did Paulette have a preference?” Louise asked.

  “We didn’t talk about it,” Pierre said. “We didn’t pick a name.”

  “Yes,” Marie-Thérèse corrected. “Antoinette. Mommy wanted to name her after Josette’s sister in heaven. She said she was really pretty.”

  “Are you sure?” Louise asked, glancing
at me. I could feel my lips clamp tightly together, and I wondered if my expression showed my apprehension.

  “Yes, it was Antoinette, wasn’t it, Aunt Ariana?” Marie-Thérèse’s eyes turned on me, challenging and angry. I couldn’t understand her attitude toward me when we had always been such good friends, and this made me willing to back her up, despite my reluctance to name the baby Antoinette.

  “Paulette did mention it yesterday before she went into the ICU,” I said. “Maybe we could name her Antoinette Pauline,” I added, voicing a thought that had been in the back of my mind. “Then we could call her Pauline after her mother.”

  “It’s perfect fer her,” Simone said. “The name means ‘small in stature but big in love.’ That’s why I named her Paulette in the first place. She was so tiny, but I felt so much love. It seemed to fit somehow.”

  We all waited for Pierre’s response. “Fine,” he said without feeling. “Whatever you think Paulette would like.”

  So Paulette’s daughter became Antoinette Pauline Perrault instead of “the baby.” Marie-Thérèse seemed content with the name, though she still kept her distance from me. I didn’t know what to make of her new rejection, but I would give her all the time she needed.

  It was Pierre who concerned us now.

  Chapter Nineteen

  By Pierre’s request there was a short viewing, attended only by members of the family and held Saturday morning just before the funeral. The funeral director opened the top part of the casket and left the room. I hadn’t seen Paulette since I had told her I would take care of her babies. As then, she looked peaceful, though they had not gotten her makeup quite right. It didn’t matter; she was no longer in the body.

  For the first time, I saw Pierre cry. His body convulsed almost violently, and somehow I knew he stopped short of throwing himself over Paulette only because of Marie-Thérèse. Louise held him against her ample bosom until the wild shaking had relented. Then Pierre took Marie-Thérèse’s hand and walked up to the casket. He kissed his wife’s pale cheek, and silent tears splashed onto her face, smearing the makeup. Marie-Thérèse was crying, but she held out a trembling hand to touch her mother’s red lips and then held it to her heart.

  “I love you, Mommy,” she whispered.

  Pierre picked her up and stepped back into the semicircle we had made around the casket. Not a face was dry except for André’s, and he didn’t understand what was happening. Or perhaps he understands better than any of us, I thought.

  “Shall we pray?” my father asked. It was strange to see him standing up as the patriarch of the joined families. Louise and Simone looked at him gratefully.

  “May I offer it?” Jean-Marc said to his brother.

  “Please.” Pierre’s voice was hardly more than a whisper. He clutched Marie-Thérèse as though he were drowning.

  After the prayer, we each filed past the casket, bidding Paulette a private farewell. When all had said their good-byes, Pierre tenderly covered Paulette’s face with her temple veil and stepped back from the casket. The funeral director must have been watching from the door, because when we finished, he was quick to come in and close the lid. He reached under the curtain to unlock the brakes on the metal frame holding the casket and rolled it into the main room where friends were gathering.

  Marie-Thérèse was still crying. I longed to reach out for her, but when I tried, she shook my hand away. How was I to take care of her if she didn’t let me? I’ll find a way, I promised silently as they rolled Paulette from the room.

  People gathered in the large room where the funeral would be held. Elisabeth and René, old friends of Paulette and the Perrault family, had come from Bordeaux with their two little boys. Monique, the nurse who had first introduced me to the gospel, also attended with her husband and three children. Many of the ward members were there as well, including the parents of the students in Paulette’s former Primary class, the same ones who had shut her out from teaching. Their faces showed their regret, and this somehow comforted me. The mood was somber as people shared their memories of Paulette. Pierre took no part in the service but had asked me to speak.

  “Paulette has been my friend for many years,” I began. “I know of no one who has so turned their life around, no one who is more pure. She gave up the time she had left on this earth to save her baby’s life.” My words stopped, and sobs shook me. My baby, I thought. She died early to save the baby she would give me to raise, as she hadn’t been able to save Nette. Pauline’s sweet little face danced before my eyes, and the growing love I felt for her swelled even more in my heart because of Paulette’s sacrifice. What a precious gift!

  I don’t know how long I stood there crying before Jean-Marc rose and gently led me from the pulpit. I clung to him. He settled me beside my parents and then took the stand himself.

  “I know we all loved Paulette,” he began. “But I can’t help thinking that she might be a little upset at us today. We have remembered her but not once mentioned the thing most dear to her heart besides her family. I feel I should do so now.” He paused and stared out over the audience. An air of expectancy filled the room.

  He continued, “If Paulette were here, I think she might say it like this: Once there was a child born who came to save the world, not in but from their sins. He loved us so much that He willingly gave up His life so that we can live again. So that Paulette can live again! Think of it! Think of families being forever. I know as surely as I’m standing here that Paulette is alive, that we will all see her again. I’m sure she would ask us to remember our Savior today, to lift up our hearts and sing with joy for His everlasting love!”

  Of course! Jean-Marc was right. Paulette would have us remember the Savior. And who knew how many countless lives Jean-Marc’s testimony would touch that day? Nonmember neighbors and friends in the room couldn’t help but feel the Spirit bear strong witness of the truth. My husband had taken this somber occasion and turned it into a giant missionary discussion.

  “Paulette has made her transition from mortal life to the eternities triumphantly,” Jean-Marc declared. “Let us all redouble our efforts to obey the commandments and turn to our Savior.” He concluded with his testimony. The mood in the room had changed from sadness to one of hope and love.

  After the service, I gathered my children about me and headed for the car, steeling myself for the burial. At the cemetery, birds sang overhead, flying carelessly across the clear blue sky as the casket was lowered into the warm, protecting earth. This time I didn’t feel the devastation I felt when Antoine and Nette died. I knew where Paulette was and that I would see her again. It made things much easier.

  Nearby, I could see Louise holding Marie-Thérèse and whispering in her ear. I hoped she was telling her the things I would like to say, given the chance. My arms ached to hold her, to start fulfilling Paulette’s last wish, but I would have to be patient.

  * * *

  The next day we attended church as a family, including both my parents. Only Pierre declined to attend. Marie-Thérèse took her cue from him, and reluctantly, we left them both home. Later we went to the baptisms.

  We had settled in our seats in the chapel when Giselle and her grandfather entered. Giselle was beautiful and radiant, dressed in white, but it was Grandfather who held our attention. The white clothing across his barrel chest contrasted sharply with his ebony skin and yet matched the hair on his head. His countenance was regal, and a sense of unmistakable greatness hung about him. A row of dark faces, also dressed in white, trailed after him—his posterity. I found myself smiling.

  “Pierre should be here,” Jean-Marc whispered, a grin covering his face. “He’d like this.”

  “But who’s baptizing them?” I asked. Neither of the missionaries who had taught the discussions was dressed in white.

  The mystery was solved when we went into the room with the font, and Grandfather took his place in the water to baptize Giselle.

  “He was baptized earlier this week so he could receive the Aar
onic Priesthood,” Marguerite explained from the seat behind us. “He said that to make sure none of his children doubted the truthfulness of the gospel, he would baptize them all himself!”

  And so he did. His deep voice seemed never to tire as he said the words that would set his family on the path to salvation. After the baptisms, both Giselle and her grandfather came up to us.

  “Congratulations,” I said, hugging them.

  “How are you doing?” Giselle asked.

  “Pretty good, actually.”

  “Paulette told me to check up on you.”

  I felt a rush of emotion. It was as if Paulette were there in the room, telling me how much she loved me.

  Grandfather bent down to talk to my children on their level. He and Giselle were the only members of their family to live within our ward boundaries, so the children knew him fairly well. He rose and addressed us. “Time with them now will save a hundred sleepless nights later.”

  “I’m beginning to understand that,” Jean-Marc said.

  “You know,” Grandfather continued, “I have accomplished many things in my long life, but none equals the pleasure of having a righteous child.”

  “Well, I think you must be feeling pretty good then.” Jean-Marc motioned to his descendants.

  Grandfather’s eyes twinkled, and a warm smile stretched his lips. “Yes,” he said, nodding. “This is a pretty good day.”

  * * *

  Pierre and Marie-Thérèse stayed with us while the workmen took down the wall in their kitchen that separated their apartment from Louise’s. Louise hadn’t wanted to move into our apartment because of its larger size, and she and Lu-Lu were staying with my parents until they found a smaller one. We put our apartment up for sale and began to pack. I was grateful for the activity, as it kept my mind from my troubles with Marie-Thérèse.

  Lu-Lu had tried to make up with Philippe, but he refused to forgive her for her choice at the hospital. Unhappily, she called off the wedding and notified the guests.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said to me a week after Paulette’s death. She had asked me to call the caterer and florist to cancel and get back what money I could.