one hot summer (27 page)

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.

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.

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 expel 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.

Ariel knocked softly before entering the room.

“How are you?” he asked in a soft voice. He bent over to kiss me, then sat on the corner of the bed and held my hand, careful not to disturb my I.V. “I just came from the nursery, Margarita. The baby’s beautiful. She’s already driving the nurses crazy with her screams!”

Ariel chuckled, then turned serious. “Thank you for our daughter,” he said. “I know she didn’t come into the world under ideal circumstances and, believe me, I still feel terrible about that. But thank you.”

Ariel’s sincerity was touching, and I almost weakened and let him off the hook. But I told myself I had to be strong, and to hold on to our agreement no matter what happened.

“I only saw her for a second in the delivery room,” I said. “But they should be bringing her in for a feeding pretty soon.”

As though the nurses had read my mind, a moment later there was a soft tapping at the door. Ariel got up and opened it.

“Mrs. Silva? I’ve brought your daughter to you.”

The nurse pushed the door open wide and came in carrying the baby in her arms; Caridad was wrapped in a pink blanket and wore a little cap on her head. I sat up as straight as I could and held out my arms to receive her.

“She
is
beautiful,” I said to Ariel as I took off her cap to examine her more closely. “Our little Caridad.”

Ariel frowned. “Caridad?” he asked. “What’s that?”

“It’s her name,” I replied. “And I think it suits her perfectly.”

“That’s not one of the names we discussed,” Ariel protested.

I think it’s a beautiful name for a beautiful little girl,” I said. “She’s named after our patron saint, Ariel. Surely you don’t object to that.”

Ariel thought for a second, then decided to agree with me.

“Caridad is beautiful,” he said.

I picked up the tiny bottle of milk the nurse had given me, and began to feed the baby with it. I had had physical problems nursing Marti the first time around, and decided to avoid the trial and heartache with Caridad.

The baby took the nipple eagerly and began to suck the milk. Watching her, I tried to banish a mental image of Luther. Now was the time to remind Ariel of the deal we’d cut when I confronted him with conspiring with Mamá to switch pills on me.

“Pay attention,” I told him. “Remember, you’re going to be doing this for her in a few weeks.”

“You don’t have to remind me, Margarita,” Ariel said, smiling, trying to put a good face on the situation. “I’m a quick learner.”

When I first confronted Ariel about the pills, I was prepared to leave him and told him so. The idea of my leaving with Marti was more than Ariel could bear, so we had come to an agreement. Ariel would stay at home with the kids for two years while I went back to work. That was the price for his betraying me. I knew we had more than enough money for him to quit work for a couple of years without affecting our standard of living. I worked the numbers out and was confident of my argument, so he really had no defense.

I pointed out to Ariel that he had wanted this baby so much that he had been willing to lie, manipulate, and coerce in order to bring her into the world. And now he could care for her, and Marti, too.

I took Caridad home from the hospital two days after her birth. She was a good baby, good natured and pleasant. We both recovered from the difficult birth quickly. Family and friends came by to visit, and the house was so filled with flowers it reminded me of Caballero’s, the Funeral Home, when one of the politicos of Miami passed away.

Vivian and Anabel visited daily. Twice Vivian brought her daughter, and I was both pleased and surprised to see the child was behaving herself and minding Vivian. It had not been an easy road, but from all appearances, Vivian seemed content with her role as a mother. Well, at least she was getting her hair highlighted regularly, and she was going in to work, both reliable barometers of her state of mind. Anabel still dressed in her usual outlandish outfits, some combinations so frightful that I was grateful that Caridad’s eyes were barely opened for her visits so she could not see them.

After ten days, on a spectacular, beautiful spring day, I decided we had to pay a visit to a very special lady. So after Caridad had woken up from her afternoon nap, I dressed her in her best baby outfit, and carefully placed her in the car seat in the Escalade.

We drove across the MacArthur Causeway
from Miami Beach to the mainland and, once there, headed south on Bayshore Drive. On the street just north of Mercy Hospital, I turned left toward Biscayne Bay. I drove to the Ermita de la Caridad and parked the car as close to the building as possible.

Even though it was a warm, sunny day, the wind off the Bay was blowing hard. I stepped out of the car and opened the back door to take out the baby, who was sleeping peacefully in her carrier. Gently, so as not to disturb her, I picked her up and held her tight against my body. Carefully, I closed the car door and began walking toward the building.

There was someone inside I wanted to show Caridad to—her namesake. We slowly made our way up the aisle toward where the statue of the Virgin was. As we stood there, I could have sworn I saw the little Virgin wink at me. I winked back. To me, that sign meant that the Virgin knew I was there, and She was with me. I looked down at my baby, and thought I saw her eyelashes flutter as well. My heart began to pound as I reflected on what that meant. It was all I could do to keep from yelling out that I had had a sign from the Virgin.

Not wanting to break the spell, I walked back toward the first row of pews and sat down directly in front of the Virgin. I knew that pew well: it was the same one where I had spent all those long hours consulting with the Virgin. As I looked down at the face of my daughter in my arms, I could not help but think back on the long road that had led us here.

And so, after my one-year leave of absence, I went back to Weber, Miranda, et al., and resumed working there. Upon my return I told my partners I would require a six-week maternity leave, after which I would be returning full time. Maria told me that the possible deal with the other immigration attorney had been quietly dropped, and I was welcomed back into the fold at the firm.

I lay there in the nursery at home, watching Caridad sucking on the nipple of the bottle of milk, amazed at how well things had turned out. Now the only problem would be if Caridad was tall, blond, blue-eyed, and athletic.

Then I would have a lot of explaining to do.

But I wasn’t worried about it. I would just take Caridad to visit her namesake at the Ermita de la Caridad, again. Before then, I would try to brush up on my lip reading.