The Awakening

by Allen Johnson

  Lupita loved her mother more than her own life, but her father, Juanito, commanded a special place in her heart. Juanito was like Diego: courageous and strong. But there was something more: He was funny. Everything about him made Lupita laugh.

  Juanito loved to dance. When he heard a favorite song on the radio, he often invited little Lupita to dance with him. “May I have the pleasure of this dance, señorita?” he would ask with the deepest of bows.

  “Oh, yes, my prince charming,” Lupita would say.

  Then the little girl would put her bare feet on her father’s shoes, and Juanito would waltz or tango his daughter around the living room, spinning her left and right, and invariably ending the romp with a grand dip, which would make Lupita giggle.

  Juanito was like that: full of good humor and unrelenting mischief. One of Lupita’s last memories of her father immortalized that sense of impish playfulness.

  It was only a few days before the accident. Mother and daughter cleaned up the dinner dishes, and Lupita returned to the dining table to finish her homework, as was her custom. She was intent on deciphering a stubborn algebra problem, when her father crept up behind her and laid his hands over her eyes.

  “Guess who, my sweet and lovely maiden.”

  “Oh, Papa, I am studying,” Lupita said without looking up.

  “But I want a bite of you,” her father said in his best Dracula voice.

  Lupita turned to look at her father, who had the devil in his eyes and two raw string beans wedged under his upper lip. He brushed away Lupita’s hair and plunged the green fangs into his daughter’s neck, growling like a pit bull over a disputed shank of meat.

  Naturally, Lupita laughed and then leapt from her chair and tackled her father, sending him tumbling to the ground. The wrestling match ended as they always ended: Lupita plunked triumphantly on her father’s chest, her hands pinning his hands to his ears, and her hair swishing across his face until he cried for mercy.

  “You give up?” she warned, implying there was more torture to come if he did not relent.

  “I give, I give,” he yelped through tears of laughter. “You are still the undefeated champion of the world.”

  “Good. Let that be a lesson to you,” she said, kissing her papa on the cheek.

  Those memories always washed over Lupita when she prayed in the church. But this day, she was not thinking so much of her parents; she was praying for Antonio. It was curious how the stranger had crept into her heart. They had not shared a single word; they had not even looked into each other’s eyes, and yet she cared deeply for the mysterious man.

  Lupita’s plea was simple: “God in heaven, hear my prayer. Let Antonio awaken. Let him come back to us.”

  Lupita crossed herself. As she slowly came to her feet, she heard her name called in a whispered but frantic voice. At first she looked to the crucifix, then she realized the voice was coming from behind her. It was Diego standing silhouetted at the church entry, his hands propping the doors open.

  “Lupita! Come, come, come!”

  Lupita ran to her grandfather. “What is it? Is he all right?”

  “No, something is wrong. Something is very wrong. Please hurry.”

  The two dashed out of the church, onto the church square, and down the twisted steps to their home, Lupita leading the way. Lupita slammed through the front door, crossed the living room, and charged into her bedroom. The sight of Antonio took her breath away.

  Antonio’s face was swollen and blue-gray in color. She touched his cheek with the back of her hand; he was freezing. She placed her thumbs over his eyes and pulled back the lids; his eyes were dilated.

  Diego was now at her side. “What is it? What is happening?” he said out of breath.

  “He is in profound hypothermia,” Lupita said, pulling back the bed sheet.

  Antonio’s entire body was shaking. His chest, arms, and legs were pale, almost white, with an irregular patch of blue shrouding his stomach. She gently lifted his arm; it was stiff.

  “How could this happen?” Diego asked.

  “I do not know. I have never seen anything like it, but we have to warm his body core immediately, or he will die.”

  “Should I get hot water?”

  “No, that will not work. Find a stocking cap and a wool scarf.”

  Diego stood immobile for an instant, staring blankly at Antonio.

  “Now!” Lupita shouted.

  Diego came to his senses and rushed from the room.

  Lupita placed a thermometer under Antonio’s tongue, waited a moment, and then quickly withdrew the glass tube. She looked at the thermometer calibration. Impossible. She looked at it again: 26.6 Celsius. She checked his pulse at his wrist; it was weak, very weak, pulsing at only thirty-two beats a minute. “God in heaven help us.”

  Diego was back with the cap and scarf in hand.

  “Put the cap on his head and the scarf around his neck,” Lupita ordered. “When you have done that, get blankets, as many blankets as you can find.”

  Lupita began to undress.

  “What are you doing?” Diego asked.

  “We have to raise his body heat. Get those blankets now!”

  Lupita stripped naked, flinging her dress toward a chair near the door, and slipped under the bed sheet, gently pressing the length of her body against Antonio. She tucked her arm under his back and pulled him into her. The cold made her shiver.

  Diego rushed back into the room and snapped four wool blankets over the bed, one after the other. Diego watched his granddaughter enfolding Antonio in her arms. She looked cold.

  After a few minutes, Lupita called out to Diego. “It is not enough, Tito. Get undressed.”

  Diego did not even blink. He kicked off his shoes, lowered his pants, and tore off the work shirt over his head. He stood for a moment in boxer shorts and singlet.

  “Everything,” Lupita said.

  Diego peeled off his underwear and eased under the mountain of blankets, his chest and stomach sealed against Antonio’s back and rump.

  The three lay there in silence for just over an hour. Gradually, Antonio stopped shivering, and his body heat began to rise. As for Lupita and Diego, they were drenched in sweat, their hair flattened by the moisture. Lupita was beginning to think it was safe to leave the bed.

  Just then there was a knock at the front door.

  “Lupita. Diego. Anybody home?”

  “It’s Miguel,” Diego whispered to Lupita.

  “This could be hard to explain,” Lupita whispered back, a pixilated smile on her lips.

  “Even harder for me to explain,” Diego said, suppressing a giggle. “What do we do?”

  Lupita put her finger to her lips. “Shh. Get out and close the door,” she mouthed, as she began to slip her arm out from under Antonio’s neck.

  “Lupita. Diego. The door’s open. I’m coming in.”

  “Oh, my God,” Diego said, moving to the bedroom door, dressed only in a thin coat of perspiration.

  “Lupi . . .” Miguel rounded the corner into the bedroom and collided with Diego at the door. In the scuffle, he caught sight of Lupita, as she peeled back the load of blankets and emerged naked from Antonio’s bed. The police chief stood gaping. “Caramba!” he said. Then, after a moment—after the shock had turned to revulsion—he added, “That is the most disgusting thing I have ever seen.”

  Lupita’s dress was pooled on the chair next to Miguel. She spotted the dress and looked beseechingly at Miguel. Without a word, the police chief lifted the dress with one hand as if lifting the tail of a snake and held it out to Lupita with a straight arm, finally remembering to divert his eyes as Lupita plucked the dress from his hand and held it against her body.

  “Caramba,” Miguel repeated, his face squashed like a prune. “What in the hell is going on here?”

  Diego scrambled to the far side of the bed to recover his clothes.

  “I can explain,” Lupita said.

  Miguel held his ground, waiting for the expla
nation, something that Lupita had no intention of starting in her state of undress. She looked at Miguel with imploring eyes, pointing the way to the door with her eyes. Miguel did not get the hint.

  “Could you give us a minute?” Lupita finally asked in exasperation.

  “Huh?” Miguel said, taking a moment to catch on. “Si, si, I will be in the living room,” he said, closing the door to the bedroom.

  A moment later, Lupita and Diego stepped out of the bedroom fully dressed. Miguel stood up and faced the accused. There was a long, awkward pause.

  “Well?” Miguel asked.

  “Well what?” Diego quipped, slicing his shirttail into his pants.

  “I am talking to Lupita,” Miguel said, firing a threatening squint at Diego, who responded with a shrug. “Lupita, you said you had an explanation.”

  “I do,” she said in a professional tone. “Hypothermia.”

  Miguel could not believe his ears. “What?”

  “Abnormally low body temperature, Miguel.”

  “I know what hypothermia is.”

  “Good. Then you probably know that skin-to-skin contact is the best way to transfer heat.”

  Miguel ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Lupita, what are you talking about? This is not the Antarctica. This is Spain. Today’s temperature is twenty-nine degrees Celsius. How in the world can he have hypothermia?”

  “I do not know. I just know it happened.”

  Miguel’s head bobbed—propelled by pure skepticism. He stared at Lupita like she was out of her mind.

  “Do not look at me that way,” she said. “I am not on trial here.”

  “Of course not, but you have to admit, it sounds very strange.”

  “I do not care what it sounds like. It is the truth.”

  “I believe you, Lupita,” he said, not sounding altogether convinced. “May I see him?”

  “Of course,” Lupita said, leading Miguel back into the bedroom.

  Lupita checked Antonio’s pulse. It was normal. More importantly, his skin was warm to the touch. There was color in his face. “He is all right now,” she said.

  “Uh-huh, I can see that,” Miguel said.

  “Stop that, Miguel. There is nothing depraved happening here.”

  “Uh-huh,” he repeated.

  At that moment, Miguel hated the stranger. He had no right to lie in Lupita’s bed; he certainly had no right to be caressed in her arms. Suddenly, the image of Lupita slipping naked out of Antonio’s sickbed twisted in his gut—not with jealousy or disgust, but with craving. The curve of her breasts and hips replayed in his mind. He wanted her. He was sure that he must act now, this very instant, or lose her forever to the stranger.

  Miguel took Lupita by the shoulders and turned her around. They were standing face-to-face.

  “Miguel?” Lupita asked in confusion.

  “Lupita, I love you. I have always loved you. I want you to be my wife. I want you to have my babies.” With that, Miguel pulled Lupita into his body and kissed her on the mouth.

  Lupita struggled to be released, and Miguel held her more firmly.

  “No,” Lupita said, twisting her head away from Miguel. “I am sorry, Miguel,” she said breaking loose from his grip. “I do not think of you in that way.”

  “But why not?” Miguel was pleading. “We have known each other our entire lives. We belong to each other.”

  Lupita smiled sadly, sympathetically. “No, Miguel, we do not belong to each other.”

  “Then who do you belong to?” He waved his hand over Antonio. “This stranger, this gutter rat?”

  “That is enough, Miguel. I want you out of our house.”

  The police chief did not move. He stared at Lupita, his chest heaving.

  Diego was now standing at the bedroom door. “I think my granddaughter asked you to leave, Miguel.”

  The policeman turned, his eyes blazing, and faced Diego. “Do not worry; I am leaving,” he said, brushing past Diego and plodding out of the house.

  Diego went to Lupita and softly patted her back. “Are you all right, my dove?”

  Lupita’s jaw was trembling. “I think so, Tito. Yes, I am fine.”

  Diego took his granddaughter in his arms, while Lupita quietly sobbed.

  That surprised Diego. His granddaughter was not easily shaken and not easily brought to tears. After her parents’ death, she added a veneer of toughness to her personality. It was not that she became calloused or cynical; no, what she became was undaunted.

  For example, in medical school she was the only female surgeon in her class—a courageous act in itself—but some of her male classmates treated her, not as a serious student, but as an object of their sexual fantasies.

  Once, at the end of a grueling term, Lupita went to a bar to celebrate with three other medical students, including Gabino, the most brazen of the three, who flirted with her most of the night. At the end of the evening, Lupita was the first to leave. She kissed her companions goodnight and made her way home, stopping briefly at a small all-night grocer for a can of coffee.

  By the time she reached her home, she was no longer alone. She climbed the front steps and inserted her key into the lock at the front door when Gabino crept up behind her from the shadows. He hooked his arms around her and groped at her breasts. “Good evening, doctor,” he said, half drunk.

  Lupita’s body jerked, and the coffee slipped from her hand and rolled down the stoop, one step at a time. In the next instant, she took control. She recognized Gabino’s voice and slowly turned to face him. “Gabino, you scared the wits out of me, but I am so glad you came.” Then, seductively, she added: “I have something I have been wanting to give you for a very long time.”

  “And I have something for you,” he said, adjusting the package between his legs.

  “Me first. This is my gift for you.” She took his hand from his crotch and placed it on her breast.

  “Oh, yes,” he said with a long sigh.

  With her other hand she reached down and gently squeezed his genitals, and Gabino spread his legs to accommodate her.

  “Does that feel good?” she purred.

  “Yes, yes,” he moaned.

  “Good. And how does this feel?”

  Lupita moved her hands to his shoulders and with all her might swung her knee into his groin, perfectly hitting her mark. Gabino crumbled to his knees and toppled to one side.

  “Do not ever touch me again,” she said between clenched teeth, standing over her victim like a fighter who had just landed a knockout punch.

  That was the last of her trouble with Gabino. He never spoke to her again, nor did he ever admit the defeat to his colleagues; that would have been too damaging to his Latin pride, and Lupita knew it.

  So Diego was somewhat astonished when Lupita cried in his arms. He lifted Lupita’s chin with one finger and looked into her eyes. “All is fine,” he reassured. “Do not worry about Miguel.”

  Lupita gave up a little laugh through the tears. “I am not worried about Miguel; I can handle Miguel. Besides, I can never stay angry with him; we have been friends for too long. I have already forgiven him.”

  “What then?”

  “I am worried about Antonio. His body temperature is normal again, but he is still showing no signs of reviving.”

  They turned and moved to Antonio, whose voiceless lips were moving. “Look at him, Tito. He is still fighting to come out.”

  Then, Lupita saw something curious in Antonio’s face. She sat down on the edge of the bed and studied her patient, holding her fingers lightly over his mouth. “This is crazy, Tito.”

  “What is it? What do you see?”

  “I cannot read lips,” she said, smiling softly, “but I could swear he is calling my name.”

  “LUPITA! LUPITA!”

  Anthony looked into the doctor’s eyes when she bent over him and passed her fingertips across his lips. Her eyes were angelic, and her touch divine.

  “My God, why doesn’t she answe
r me?”

  “What do you want from her?” the specter asked.

  “I want to thank her . . . to know her. I want . . .” Then he knew what it was: “I want to love her.” Again, he called to her—longingly, pleading—this time pronouncing her name like a prayer: “Lupita.”

  “You are wasting your time. She hears nothing.”

  Anthony looked at the ghost, a small head in the distance, outlined in a vat of darkness. “But why?”

  “She is in her world; you are in mine.”

  “How long must I stay in your world?”

  “Until you have learned something.”

  “God damn it to hell. What is there left to learn?”

  The specter stiffened. “Watch your words with me. You know what I am capable of doing.”

  Anthony waved his hand in surrender. “I’m sorry; I apologize. Please help me.”

  “That is better.” The face of the ghost swooped in from the black and landed silently before Anthony. “You remember what you did in Águilas, Spain?”

  “I am so tired,” Anthony said, his head dropping to his chest.

  “I did not ask you if you were tired, cow dung. I asked if you remembered what you did.”

  Anthony slowly lifted his head like a man with a knotted, arthritic spine. “I cut a business deal there.”

  “That is right. Do you remember the man you made the deal with?”

  “Harry Tubbs: An American fat slob—a real-estate developer from Seattle with a second office in Paris. I met him in Águilas to seal the transaction.”

  The specter waved his arm, splitting obscurity and revealing La Glorieta, the principle town square in the Mediterranean seaport of Águilas.

  “Look,” the ghost said, “He is waiting for you.”

  Tubbs was seated at an outdoor café under a four-story rubber tree with a trunk like a bundle of elephant legs. He was morbidly obese, looking more like a kumquat than a man, the end of his chin and the beginning of his neck nearly indistinguishable. He was sweating under a white, short-sleeve shirt with an open collar that was three sizes too small for his massive neck.

  Despite the titanic effort, Tubbs stood up when Anthony approached from across the park. The two men shook hands and sat down.