one hot summer

by carolina garcia aguilera

  And once Ariel began to panic at the very real possibility that I might leave him, I stated the terms and conditions under which I would stay, the ones I had worked on earlier that day while consulting with the Virgin in the Ermita de la Caridad.

  As I listened to Ariel swear to me that he would abide by our deal, I was positive that I could see the Virgin looking at me from the bay window, a big grin on her face. We Cuban women certainly know how to cut a deal, especially when we were playing with weak cards. I had come out on top in a bad situation.

  Gracias a Dios!

  After having settled my business with Ariel, I decided that I could not postpone speaking with Luther. Therefore, the very next day, as soon as Ariel left for the office, I picked up the telephone and punched in a familiar number. Luther answered it on the first ring, almost as if he had known I would call just then. When I told him that the reason for my call was to see if he was free to meet that afternoon, the relief at hearing from me was palpable, making me feel instantly guilty. I had been so engrossed in my own situation that, the truth was, I had not really thought about how my not being available to see him had affected him.

  After quickly asking each other how we were, we agreed to meet at noon at the apartment. Luther sounded so excited at the thought of us getting together again that I just hung up without saying good-bye. Clearly, he did not suspect anything was amiss.

  As I drove toward the apartment in the Grove, I could feel my heart beating faster every mile I traveled. I fiddled with the radio, tuning in to this station and that in an attempt to distract myself from picturing what lay ahead of me.

  Just as always, I stopped off at Scotty’s and picked out some tantalizing tidbits for our lunch. I wanted this meeting to be special, memorable. Once I had finished, I got back into the Escalade and headed for the apartment. I had scheduled my time perfectly, for Luther was turning into the driveway of the building just as I arrived here.

  We followed the same routine, as if there had not been any interruption at all. At that point, I could have done it in my sleep. Luther and I were perfectly formal and correct with each other, so much so that a stranger observing us would have been hard pressed to say that we knew each other at all, and, of course, much less in a biblical sense.

  That day Luther looked particularly attractive, in a tan cotton suit, with a blue shirt underneath that matched the color of his eyes perfectly. While we waited for the elevator, I could feel myself start to melt, and by the time we walked down the hall toward the apartment, my knees were so weak you could have picked me up off the floor. I somehow managed to restrain myself from jumping on him. If he felt the same way about me, he disguised it with perfect WASP control.

  It was only when we had closed the door of the apartment behind us that we touched each other and, only then, after having put the package of groceries down on the kitchen table. The time we had spent apart had only served to make us hungrier for each other. By mutual consent, we skipped the champagne and went straight to the bedroom. I thanked God that the antibiotic cream had worked so well that I could fully enjoy our lovemaking.

  Afterward, as we rested, spent and sweaty, the realization that I would never again have a lover as skilled as Luther in my life hit me, making me very sad. Luther must have sensed the change in my mood, for he turned to me and asked. “Daisy, what’s up?”

  Instead of answering, I asked him, “Luther, could we have some champagne now?”

  Sensing something was amiss, Luther did not comment, but instead did as I asked. He got out of bed and walked toward the kitchen. As I watched him cross the room stark naked, admiring his body, I almost wept at the thought I was not going to see it again. I was fairly confident nobody would admire it the way I would, nor enjoy it in quite the same way.

  I could hear familiar noises coming from the kitchen as Luther readied the champagne and glasses. Even though I should not have been drinking because of the baby, there was no way I could have this conversation totally straight. I determined to have only a few sips, enough to take the edge off. Besides, I really did not think a glass of champagne would be that harmful to the baby. It was only when overdoing the drinking that it really had calamitous effects. Still, better safe than sorry, so I would be cutting back drastically—but after today.

  Luther came back carefully holding the silver tray with the bucket and glasses in front of him. I could just see the orange-colored top of the bottle of Veuve Clicquot poking out. What a wonderful sight that was—a naked man, especially one built like Luther, bringing such a lovely offering to me.

  Luther placed the tray on the bed, and began opening the bottle, carefully twisting off the cork. It certainly would not do to have the cork hit an inappropriate place on his body. He poured the golden liquid into the glasses and handed me one. Sitting up in bed facing each other, we tipped our glasses in a silent toast and sipped the delicious drink.

  “Okay, Daisy.” Luther put his glass down on one of the bedside tables, and took mine and did the same. He then took both my hands in his and looked into my eyes. “What is it?”

  Gazing into his blue eyes, I knew this was going to be much more difficult than I had thought. Still, it had to be done, for Marti’s and the baby’s sake.

  “Luther, I don’t think we should see each other anymore,” I began. I pulled my hand from his and reached over for the glass of champagne on the bedside table. I took one long swallow and decided there was no perfect time to say what I was going to say, so I might as well get on with it.

  “Luther, you know how much I love you.” Luther nodded warily, instantly sensing that this was not going to be a pleasant conversation. “These months this summer with you have been the happiest of my life.” Luther began breathing a bit easier. Seeing his reaction, I decided I had better hurry, or he was going to get the wrong impression as to where this was going.

  “As much as I love you, I believe that we do not have a future together,” I stated straight out. I held out my arms, and waved them around the room, and then pointed toward the living room. “This has been a fantasy. A wonderful, terrific fantasy, but a fantasy nevertheless. This is not real life. We come here in the afternoons to have lunch, drink champagne, and make love.” Luther just looked at me as if I had just told him that Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and Tinker Bell did not exist.

  Knowing from experience that champagne has been known to make me change my mind, Luther reached for the bottle and poured us two more very hearty servings. “What are you telling me, Daisy?”

  The look in his eyes was such that I almost backed out of what I was going to say, but only the image of Marti’s face gave me the strength to keep me going. “I have family responsibilities—I have a son, and I have to think of him.” I threw Luther a face-saving explanation. I wanted and needed to part as friends with him. I have never believed in burning my bridges. I took a large sip of champagne and continued. “The more I see you, the deeper I am becoming involved with you.”

  Luther seemed perplexed. “What’s the matter with that?” he quite logically asked. “I’ve told you how I feel about you, that I’m willing to move down here for you.” His eyes flashed. “Daisy, I even learned Spanish for you, for God’s sake!” He reached over and touched my cheek with his right hand. Do you know how difficult that is for a gringo?”

  Luther was breaking my heart. “I know my love, I know.” I kissed him softly. “But I have responsibilities.” We both knew what I was referring to.

  “I’m willing to assume those responsibilities,” Luther pointed out. “I am, I told you that.”

  “I know, and I am very, very grateful, but I don’t think that would be right,” I said. “Miami is not a natural environment for you; you would be here for me, and that would be very difficult. Ariel would fight me for Marti, and I could lose him.”

  “But, Daisy, if we love each other—” Luther put his arms around me, “—we could fight him; we could. I lost you once before, I cannot let you go again.�
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  It took all the strength I had to continue. “Luther, I’m sorry. My mind is made up. My life is here in Miami, with my husband and son.” Every word was being wrenched from me. “You are the love of my life—you always have been and always will

  be, but sometimes in life things don’t turn out the way we want them to.”

  “Daisy, we are not two characters from West Side Story—just because you’re Cuban and I’m American. We can work something out. I know we can.” Luther was trying his best to convince me. “We’re mature adults; we can make it work.”

  I shook my head and began to cry. I felt like an actress in a really bad soap opera. “I’m so sorry. I can’t risk losing my son.” Just then, I came very close to telling him about the baby, but I knew that if I had done that, he would have persuaded me to stay with him. And, if there was something I was persuaded about, it was that that would have been wrong. I could not blame him for doubting my logic, as even to my ears the arguments I had given him had been pretty flimsy. But, of course, I could not tell him the whole truth. That was impossible. “I’m so sorry,” I repeated through my tears.

  Luther realized he was fighting a losing battle. He could not win against motherhood. All he could do now was to make our parting sweeter. He was nothing if not an optimist, and considered the possibility that maybe I would come around in the future if we left off on a positive note.

  “Come here.” He pulled me to him, as we lay back on the bed. “If you are really convinced as you say you are, maybe this will make you come back to me, Daisy.” He began playing with me in a way he knew would give me the most pleasure imaginable. “I know you’ll be back, Daisy. I’m a patient man.”

  And, as it was going to be our last time, Luther applied himself wholeheartedly to the matter at hand. The man was an overachiever, no question about that. He explored my body with a thoroughness not even a CAT scan could have achieved. After that day, I could have applied for a job as a contortionist in the circus. Never in my life had I felt so supple. If we were to have continued our relationship, I would never have to worry about osteoporosis.

  At the end of our encounter, feeling the way I did, I could have agreed to almost anything Luther proposed. Anything except for the one thing he wanted. That I could not give him. I had my children to consider, and I was, above all, a Cuban mother.

  [39]

  EIGHT MONTHS LATER.

  The lights in the delivery room were blinding white, making my eyes hurt whether they were open or closed. To distract myself from the excruciating pain below my waist, I kept them open so I could look around. I was freezing cold despite all my exertions over the past few hours, but when I pointed that out to one of the bustling nurses, she told me it was necessary to keep the birthing room cool. She said she would bring some extra blankets to cover me up, but she seemed to have gotten busy and forgotten me. I felt as though I was on an endless flight; I had asked the flight attendent for a blanket hours ago, and she had promised to bring it but never quite managed to tend to me.

  Marti’s delivery had been relatively easy, so this one, long and brutally painful, was a real surprise. Dr. Kennedy saw that I was suffering about as much as I could take, so he administered an epidural as well as a hefty dose of Demerol to dull the pain. I watched the medicine being added to the drip hanging next to me, and blessed the fact that I had chosen an obstetrician who believed in the power of pharmaceuticals. After a quick injection into the base of my spine, I felt my mood change dramatically.

  All of a sudden I was floating on clouds, warm milk running through my veins. I welcomed the painkillers, although part of me felt I didn’t deserve the relief. I deserved to suffer for what I had done.

  I lay on the table in the delivery room, sensing all kinds of activity going on around me, my body being pulled and pushed every which way, but I didn’t care and was no longer paying attention. I was off in another world. Dr. Kennedy left, came back, and was saying something to me. He was at the foot of the table but I couldn’t really hear him; there seemed to be yards and yards of green cotton fabric separating us. There seemed to be about a dozen people working in the room, talking to each other, talking to me, but I didn’t even bother to count them. I was past caring what I looked like, and what they had seen of my body. I was way beyond any kind of modesty.

  My emotions had been conflicted about that day—March 8—the very day Dr. Macia had set for my due date. I always was punctual for a Cuban. It was a day that I had both welcomed and dreaded.

  Floating off in a sea of pharmaceuticals, I replayed the events that had led me to that cold steel table, with my private parts opened up for the world to see. I replayed the moment when I got the news from Dr. Macia, then the encounter with Rodrigo at the Santos drugstore, when I found out about Ariel and Mamá conspiring to substitute placebos for my birth-control pills.

  And if I closed my eyes tight enough, I could hear my voice at the Ermita de la Caridad, and see her lips moving. The Virgin hadn’t let me down.

  I know you can’t negotiate with the Virgin, but I felt she had made an exception in my case. Maybe it was my sheer desperation that had compelled her to help me. She must have believed my pledges that I would do whatever she asked if she would only give me guidance, help, and support.

  It ended up taking three visits to the Ermita over the course of three days for me to understand what the Virgin was saying. By the end, though, I was confident of what I should do, and what she demanded of me in return. It was a hard bargain. First of all, I was supposed to start attending Mass every Sunday, to live my life according to the sacraments, and to have Marti serve as an altar boy as soon as he was old enough. So far, I had stuck to m

  y promises, and I fully intended to keep doing so.

  The Virgin had compelled me to take stock of my life, and figure out my priorities. It took me two days, but by the end my mind was clear. The most important person in my life was Marti, and now the baby joined him. My own wishes and desires had to be secondary to my children. I had to acknowledge that my own selfish desires had gotten me into this mess, and that it was time for me to truly think about someone else.

  Once I understood this, everything else fell into place. Although I had been unfaithful to Ariel, I felt that his conspiring against me to get me pregnant matched, if not exceeded, that betrayal. All the extra lovemaking we indulged in during those weeks hadn’t been compelled by his passion for me, but merely to increase the chances that we would conceive. I knew, though, that there was no point getting angry. I was carrying a child, and I believed that harboring negativity and bad energy would be unhealthy for it.

  Suddenly, I felt someone touching my neck and shoulders. I opened my eyes and saw that the nurse had returned and was wrapping cotton sheets around me. I could barely coordinate my mouth to form words, but I somehow managed to mumble a “Gracias” before closing my eyes again. The blankets soon made me feel warm and cozy in the cold, sterile room. I had no idea what Dr. Kennedy was doing down there at the foot of the operating table. I glanced down and saw the top of his head, but that was all.

  I drifted off again. This time, I conjured up the scene when I confronted Ariel about switching the birth control pills. I could also visualize the scene at Luther’s apartment when I told him I would not be seeing him anymore. Both had been equally painful. In my drug-induced haze, I kept going back from one scene to the other. Soon they had merged and become one.

  “Margarita,” someone said to me.

  I almost said Luther’s name, but stopped myself.

  “Margarita, meet your daughter,” Dr. Kennedy said. And he showed her to me, just before handing her off to a nurse who was waiting next to him with an open blanket.

  I lay back and smiled.

  “We’re going to call her Caridad,” I said, just before I passed out.

  [40]

  My time in the recovery room passed in a haze, though I vaguely remembered a nurse coming in and pushing down hard on my stomach to exp
el as much fluid as possible after the birth. Later she told me I encouraged her to push down as hard as she could because I didn’t want to struggle to lose weight once I left the hospital.

  Hours later, back in my private room, I finally felt awake enough to receive visitors. Before I allowed anyone to see me, I bribed the Haitian nurse’s aid to help me take a shower and wash my hair. At first she told me it was strictly against hospital rules, and that I had to lie down quietly in bed. I was so desperate that I told her I was an immigration attorney, and that I’d help anyone in her family if they were having problems with their legal documentation. I felt as though I’d run a marathon, and I was in no shape to see anyone in my present condition. Finally she held me up as I lathered myself in the shower stall, moving the I.V. stand around so I didn’t yank the needle out of the top of my hand. After the shower, despite how difficult it had been, I felt like a new woman.

  Ariel was my first visitor. Although most couples these days have the spouse in the delivery room during birth, I felt no such need. There was no percentage in having Ariel watch me in pain. I hadn’t let him witness Marti’s birth, and I didn’t want him there for Caridad’s. Besides, I wasn’t even sure if he was the father, another reason for keeping him out. Although Ariel didn’t know about the latter rationale, he was happy to spend the hours of my labor and delivery waiting in the lounge down the hall.

  The nurse’s aide was a jolly middle-aged woman whose mood had picked up considerably after my offer of free legal work. She helped me towel off my hair and pull a nightgown over my head. She even held up the mirror so I could apply makeup, then a squirt of Chanel No. 5.