The Ariana Trilogy Page 11

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t drink coffee, Ariana. It’s got caffeine in it, you know, and that stuff’s a drug. It’s even addicting.”

  “I guess you’re right. I never thought about it that way, probably because it doesn’t do damage like other drugs.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  I didn’t argue because she was a nurse and would know better. I poured my cup of coffee down the drain and had juice instead.

  “Tea is bad, too,” Monique said suddenly. “Not certain herbal kinds, though.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Anything else?”

  “Just drugs and alcohol and stuff like that. Anything that harms the body.”

  Light suddenly dawned. “Does this have something to do with your church?”

  “Well, yes, but not just. You see, the Prophet Joseph Smith received a revelation counseling the early members not to use such things, years before our doctors began finding out they were bad for our bodies. That was one of the reasons I looked into the Church in the first place. It was incredible to me that an uneducated man could be so right.”

  “Anyone who counsels against drugs can’t be too bad,” I agreed. I found I liked the idea of such a standard for a church. “I wish I’d had an influence like that in my life. Maybe then—” I couldn’t continue.

  “Ariana, would you like to go to church with me tomorrow?” Monique asked, covering my sudden silence. “We have a meeting in the morning.”

  I thought of the church services my parents had taken me to at Christmas or for christenings. I had never felt comfortable there. Still, I had nothing else to do, and Monique was good company. I had to admit I was very curious. “Okay,” I agreed. “But I don’t have anything appropriate to wear. My few good dresses that fit are pretty worn. Some of my dresses from before my marriage are still in great condition, but I’m bigger in places. Not that you can tell. I was such a twig before.” Before I had Nette, I added silently, feeling the emptiness in my arms again.

  “Let me see them,” Monique said. “You’re still thin; they can’t be all that difficult to fix.” I took her to my room and pulled two dresses from the closet that my mother had bought at her favorite shop. They were expensive and well-cut, much better than anything I could afford now. Monique turned them inside out immediately. “Why, this can be let out a little, and I think I could add some material to the other. Try it on for me, and let’s see what’s what.” I tried each on in turn. The waist was fine on both, but the hip and bust were definitely too tight.

  I found some thread, and Monique went deftly to work, pulling out the stitches and placing tiny, even ones of her own. “This one I can do by hand, but the other I’ll take with me. I have a machine at home.” Her fingers flew in and out quickly, becoming almost a blur.

  “So where did you learn this?” I asked enviously. “Is it one more thing your grandmother taught you?” My own grandmother had died before I was born, during the long years my parents had tried to have a child.

  “Oh, no,” Monique said quickly. “My grandmother hated sewing. But after she and I joined the Church, the sisters there taught me. We get together once a month, or more often if necessary, to teach each other different homemaking skills. You would hardly believe the many different talents they have to share.” She laughed. “Why, even I have to give a lesson on home remedies next week.”

  I laughed with her but wistfully. “I wouldn’t have anything to offer.”

  “Oh, Ariana!” Monique stopped her sewing abruptly. “That’s not true! In fact, what you have to offer I think would be a lot more important than what I could ever teach!”

  I stared at her in disbelief. What could I possibly know that Monique didn’t?

  My thoughts must have been obvious, for Monique continued softly, “Well, if you don’t know, maybe it’s best to let you find out for yourself.” She put her sturdy hand on my shoulder. “But trust me on this, okay? You have so much to share inside of you. Maybe you’re just not ready.” She turned back to her sewing while I readied for work, still puzzling over her words.

  That night after closing the café, I began to read the book the elders had given me. They had assigned me 3 Nephi 11, but I didn’t stop there. I read until chapter 17, where Jesus blessed and wept over the little children. Suddenly, I felt His love around me as tangible as anything I had ever touched. Though I had always believed I was alone, I never really had been. The concept was amazing.

  I thought of Nette and cried, but this time hope mingled with my tears—hope that she might actually be with Jesus and Antoine. I didn’t quite understand it all, yet I wanted to. Slipping into my schooling mode, I read far into the night, searching for scriptures that had anything to do with children or resurrection. Hours later when I finished reading, I knew for certain that I would see Nette and Antoine again. This knowledge, after the dismal feelings of finality before, made my heart sing. I still hurt terribly inside, but at least I could see a tunnel and a light at the end. The light was my Savior, Jesus Christ, and I knew that He loved me and understood what I was feeling.

  The next morning Monique arrived early, but I was awake and ready in the dress she had let out the day before. I hadn’t slept much that night, but I didn’t feel the lack; I was alive with questions. “I need more to read about the Church,” I told her when she couldn’t answer my questions fast enough.

  “Okay, okay,” she said laughingly. “After church we’ll stop off at my apartment and get all the books I have. I have quite a few of them, some I haven’t even read. I never was much of a reader.”

  The church building was quite unlike anything I expected—large and spacious without being pretentious. We were greeted at the door by a friendly man Monique introduced as the bishop. A score of young people gathered around us excitedly, talking and laughing. Entire families filed past us into the chapel to sit on padded benches, their faces smiling and relaxed. As we talked with the young people, several sets of missionaries arrived, among them Elders Tarr and Cocteau.

  “Hey, Elder, I hear you’re finally going home!” someone said to Elder Tarr. “Or are you going to try and extend again?”

  He laughed and shook his head. “No, I think I’ve done the work I was supposed to do.” He looked directly at me as he talked. “Haven’t I, Ariana?”

  I think I had always known Elder Tarr’s church was my destiny, ever since I had seen his kind face on the day of Antoine’s funeral. I didn’t know how he knew I had accepted the teachings, but I did know that he was the only missionary who could have broken through my shell of hurt and anger to make me listen. And it had only taken that once.

  “Yes, I want to be baptized,” I said softly. “Why didn’t you ask me yesterday?”

  “Because you weren’t ready yet,” he answered with a smile. “But how about next Sunday. Is that soon enough for you? I go home the Wednesday after.”

  “I have to wait that long?” I asked. The group of young people around me burst into laughter at my words. I hadn’t realized until I spoke that they had all been holding their breath, waiting for my reply.

  “Well, we need to give you the rest of the discussions,” Elder Tarr replied. “Just to make sure you understand the covenants you’ll be making.”

  We confirmed the appointment we had already made for Monday and made two more for later in the week. They would teach me two discussions the first two days and the final one on Friday.

  “And you might want to start thinking about people you want to invite to your baptism,” Elder Tarr added. “It’s a very good way to share the gospel with people you care about.”

  I immediately thought of my parents, but the gulf between us was so great that I didn’t know how to go about breaching it. In my heart, I partly blamed them for my life since Antoine died and especially for Nette’s death. Why hadn’t they wanted me? I shut out the feelings quickly because I wasn’t ready to deal with them. Someday, perhaps, when my wounds weren’t so fresh.

  The week went by quickl
y in a flurry of reading and learning. On Wednesday, the missionaries taught me the fourth and fifth discussions. They showed me the film Families Can Be Together Forever. I found myself crying when the boy’s mother died; I knew so well what he was feeling. “Are you all right, Ariana?” Elder Tarr asked me, concern apparent in his eyes.

  I nodded. “It’s just that I wish I had listened to you two years ago. I can’t help but think what a lot of pain I could have spared myself . . . and my baby.”

  The elder’s sadness glistened in his eyes, but we both knew nothing could change the past. “Sometimes we don’t always understand why things happen,” he said, “but we must trust in the Lord. He knows what He’s doing. And whether we appreciate the trials or not, we always learn and grow from them.”

  “Well, I’d like to stay this size for a while, if you don’t mind,” I said, trying to make my voice light.

  My tone didn’t fool Elder Tarr. He gazed at me sincerely as he spoke. “I think you will, Ariana. The Lord knows you better than anyone, and He knows when the growing needs to ease up. But never forget that the Father loves those He tests. If He didn’t care, He wouldn’t want us to progress and become more like Him. That’s what the trials do for us, you know. They make us more like Him. And I believe with my whole heart that He suffers right along with us.”

  I nodded. We had always wanted to be queens, Nette and I. We just hadn’t realized exactly what kind. And I knew that to be like our Heavenly King would be even more difficult than I had thought—but also much more rewarding in the end.

  That Sunday, three and a half weeks after Nette’s death, I was baptized. It was a beautiful, cloudless day in late September. Marguerite, Jules, and my next-door neighbor, Jeanne, attended. Marguerite was mostly disapproving, feeling as though I was being taken advantage of because of Nette’s death, yet even she felt the Spirit at the baptismal meeting and shed a few tears. Jeanne came gratefully, happy to know I didn’t blame her for what Jacques had done. We hadn’t talked much since that terrible day, but slowly our relationship was returning to normal.

  I emerged from the warm baptismal water feeling new and reborn. As I received the Holy Ghost, I knew there would still be many trials ahead in my life, but now I would never feel alone again. My Savior would be near, and I would also have the constant companionship of the Holy Ghost.

  Life changed drastically after my baptism. When I wasn’t at work, I was involved in Church service. Almost immediately, I was put into the Young Women organization, where I learned by teaching. I avidly read every Church book I could get my hands on and spent hours researching my lessons.

  Church was much like an extended family, and I loved being there. People were friendly and caring. There were many young adults my age; but while I enjoyed being with them, and maybe even resembled them on the outside, I realized that my experiences distanced me from them. Not in a negative way but in a manner that actually made my observations and comments help them understand life and the gospel. Monique was right; I did have something important to offer. In turn, the older sisters helped me come to terms with my loss, as well as the anger and guilt that still burned in my soul. Slowly, as the weeks and months went by, the pain I felt at Nette’s passing dimmed in the light and love of the gospel.

  Of course, I still found time in my busy schedule to volunteer once a week at the Anti-Drug Coalition and make a few personal appearances. The new media campaign was a huge success, and the Coalition received not only many new calls for help but also much additional funding. Unfortunately, this also meant that my face was plastered from one end of France to the other, and often I felt embarrassed when people would recognize me in the street. I cut my hair very short again to reduce such recognition, and to some extent the disguise worked.

  My divorce from Jacques was final in the middle of November, and shortly afterward he went to prison. I learned about it when the lawyer prosecuting the case came to see me at work. “He’s pleaded guilty so you won’t need to testify against him,” he said. “It’s just as well, because our main witness, Paulette, has disappeared somewhere. She wasn’t too reliable anyway because of her drug habit.”

  I drank in the information slowly. “I haven’t seen her since that night,” I said. “I haven’t wanted to.” I felt guilty as I said it, but I was telling the truth. “How long will Jacques go to prison for?”

  “Well, the judge will decide next week, but since he was under the influence of drugs at the time, he probably won’t get more than seven years. That means with time off for good behavior, he’ll probably serve around five.”

  Five years didn’t seem like much of a punishment compared to all the years he had stolen from Nette, but I didn’t become upset. I told myself that ultimate punishment would come from the Lord. Meanwhile, I couldn’t help but hope that Jacques would be miserable in prison. The feeling wasn’t very Christlike, but I was helpless to shake it.

  “So where do you go from here?” the man asked, really seeming to care about the answer. Maybe it was because he had three little ones of his own and needed to know how I could cope with my loss.

  “Well, I’m starting school in accounting in January,” I told him. “From there, I’ll take one day at a time. I know I’ll see my daughter again someday.” Feeling compelled, I began to explain some of my beliefs and even gave him a pamphlet with the missionaries’ phone number on it.

  “Thanks,” he said as he left. “Maybe I’ll check it out.”

  * * *

  The year passed quickly for me. I kept busy learning, teaching, and just plain surviving. For the most part I did well, except when it rained at night. Then I was alone, so very alone. Often I would relive Nette’s death—and Antoine’s, as well. During those nights, only my growing testimony of the Lord kept me sane. Crazily, I found that at those times I even missed Jacques.

  “You’ll find someone else,” Monique assured me. Indeed, she kept trying to introduce me to every eligible bachelor in the Church. Those I did date either weren’t my type or they couldn’t get beyond my past. I told myself it didn’t matter. But deep inside, where I didn’t let anyone see, I hoped I would find someone special. At times I despaired it would ever happen. I felt lonely and unfulfilled.

  Until I met Jean-Marc, and my life once more changed forever.

  Chapter Eleven

  In January, three months before I turned twenty-one and more than a year since my baptism, Elder Jean-Marc Perrault, from Bordeaux in the southwest of France, was transferred into my area. From the moment I set eyes on him, I knew that somehow he was different from any of the other missionaries I’d known before.

  He wasn’t much taller than I was, and I had never been very tall, but he was large in presence. He was my age and incredibly handsome, with black hair and wonderful green-brown eyes. He had an engaging grin, yet a serious way about him that appealed to me.

  “I know you,” he said to me the first day he saw me. It was Sunday, and Monique and I had just arrived at the chapel for an early morning meeting called by the missionaries in our ward. We had been introduced to the new missionary, and since that moment he had been staring at me curiously. “You’ve cut your hair, though, and you’re much prettier in—” He stopped talking, as if suddenly remembering he was a missionary, one who still had five months left to serve.

  We all laughed at his expression. “Yes, that’s me on the TV commercials,” I admitted.

  “Don’t worry about it, Elder Perrault,” said his companion, Elder Jones from America. “We all forget ourselves the first time we meet Ariana.” We laughed more, but I could see that Elder Perrault wanted to ask me if what the commercials said was true; everyone always asked me that, even though the commercial came right out and said it was a true story before I even began talking. Usually I didn’t like to dwell on my loss, but somehow I felt it important that this particular missionary understand the truth about me right from the first.

  “It’s all true,” I said quietly to him as the others found
their seats.

  His eyes locked onto mine. “Somehow I knew you wouldn’t lie about such a thing. I’m so sorry.”

  I smiled wistfully. “I’ve gone on now, and I know I’ll see her and raise her someday. I’m stronger for it.”

  “Yes, I guess you are.” The look he gave me was admiring, without pity. “Anyway, I’m pleased to meet you after all this time. To tell the whole truth, I’d hoped to meet you one day.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, too, Elder,” I returned, though I was thinking it was a little strange that he should want to meet me because of my commercials. Usually men seemed turned off when they heard about my past. But Elder Perrault was a missionary, and he certainly didn’t mean he had wanted to meet me in the romantic sense . . . or did he?

  I was saved from having to think about it further when Elder Jones motioned for us to sit so he could begin the meeting. After a song and a prayer, he came right to the point. “We need volunteers to help with the missionary work,” Elder Jones said. “Those who want to help will be divided into member-missionary teams to work with the different missionaries in your area. They will visit you each week and help you understand how to do missionary work with your friends and relatives and set specific goals to reach. Our mission president feels that by working through our members, we will not only find and baptize more people but have them stay active because of your love and support for them. We need every one of you. Now who wants to volunteer?”

  I raised my hand immediately. Ever since a year ago, when I had talked to the lawyer who was prosecuting Jacques’ case, I had wanted to learn how to share the gospel. I always felt so strange and unsure of myself when talking about it with others. Even when spiritually prompted to speak up, I didn’t know what to say.

  We divided into teams. Monique and I were put with another girl, Aimee, and a young man named Claude. We were assigned to Elders Jones and Perrault, the missionaries in our area.

  “Well,” began Elder Perrault, looking at the other teams who each had at least twice as many members, “we’re outnumbered. But we all know that quality is better than quantity.” We laughed.