Miss Buddha

by Ulf Wolf

  “But she wasn’t dead.”

  “No,” said Melissa. “She wasn’t.”

  “She’s sorry she scared you,” said Ananda.

  “Now you are scaring me,” said Melissa.

  Ananda held out his hands, inviting Melissa’s to finally find their rest. She placed hers in his. They were so very smooth, those lovely young mother’s hands, like doves in his darker, treelike ones.

  “I have lied to you,” said Ananda.

  Melissa jolted a little, and by reflex tried to bring her hands back. Ananda held them, warmly, firmly, and would not relinquish them.

  “I am not writing a book,” he said.

  She tried to answer, but it seemed like too many thoughts competed for air, and no two or three words would gather long enough to carry meaning.

  “But that is the only lie I told, or will ever tell you,” he said.

  “Why?” she said—unclear, it seemed, even to herself what she wondered.

  “You believe in God,” he said. It was part question, part statement.

  She nodded, a quick up and down. Her words still had too many jumbling takers, no one thought won rights to them.

  “Have you prayed to him?” asked Ananda.

  She nodded again.

  “Has he answered you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Would it scare you if he did?”

  That earned him a long glance, more curious than afraid now. Then she said, realizing as she said it that it was quite true:

  “Yes, it would.”

  Ananda’s turn to nod. “I thought so.” Then he asked:

  “Have you heard of the Buddha?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “He lived in India.”

  “What else do you know about him?”

  “Not much. Nothing. A long time ago.”

  “Do you believe in reincarnation, Melissa?”

  “What are you talking about, Ananda?”

  “Do you believe the soul lives on?”

  “I believe it goes to heaven, or hell.”

  “But not that it may live on in another body, in a new life?”

  She hesitated. “I haven’t really thought about it,” she began. Then corrected herself, “No, that’s not true. I thought about it in college, now and then. I guess it could.”

  Ananda increased his soft grip upon Melissa’s hands. Then said:

  “It does.”

  “Live on?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you telling me, Ananda?”

  “I am telling you that Ruth has lived before. And that he, who Ruth was then, now lives on.”

  Ananda’s words seemed to enter one by one, and slowly at that. As if Melissa were reading them on the air, with difficulty.

  “How can that be?” she finally said.

  “How can water be?” said Ananda.

  When Melissa said nothing in return, and continued to say nothing, Ananda said, “Ruth is the Buddha. The Buddha is Ruth. The Buddha has returned, and you are now his, or her, mother.”

  Ananda fanned these words with all the sincerity he could muster. He had to reach her. He had no other choice. He had to impress this truth upon her and she had to receive it. So he watched her closely as she digested their meaning, battling.

  Then she laughed, though not happily, and a little too loudly— bewilderment ripping the air in search of an outlet. “You are serious, aren’t you?” Then, when Ananda did not respond right away, and with an edge to it, “You really believe that, don’t you?”

  “It is not a matter of belief, Melissa.”

  Melissa, looking directly at Ananda now, said nothing.

  “And yes,” Ananda finally releasing her hands, placing them, first one, then the other, on the floor between them, each one softly, gently, lovingly. “And, yes,” he repeated. “I am very serious.”

  “How could you be?”

  “That is why you thought her dead,” he said.

  After several breaths: “I don’t understand.”

  “Have you heard about meditation?”

  “Yes.”

  “He, she, Ruth, was meditating. She reached a state where she could not hear you, a state where you’d barely detect her breath.” Then he added, “Isn’t that what happened?”

  “Yes,” she said. Then, after a pause that seemed to harbor her return to that moment, “Yes, that is what happened.”

  “And she is sorry to have scared you.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She told me.”

  “She told you? How did she tell you? How could she possibly tell you, Ananda?”

  “Like this,” thought Ruth. Clearly to Ananda. Indistinctly—but nonetheless perceivably—to Melissa.

  For a set of heartbeats much hung in the balance. Melissa paled, and seemed to stop breathing, perhaps she did. She looked at Ananda with wider eyes, as if shouting the question inaudibly.

  “Did you hear?” said Ananda.

  Melissa said nothing, but instead looked past Ananda to the cot where Ruth still slept peacefully.

  “That was Ruth,” he said. “That was your daughter talking to us.”

  Still, Ananda felt as if Melissa could topple either way: into the abyss, madly bewildered, or onto the shore, certain, and none the worse for the crossing.

  “How?” she managed.

  “Like this,” thought Ruth.

  “Like this?” thought Melissa, hardly believing her own thought.

  “Yes,” thought Ananda and Ruth both.

  Not sure why, Melissa began to cry.

  :

  After a while, Ananda helped Melissa to her feet. She smiled a thank you and dried her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Don’t know what came over me.”

  “Not at all,” said Ananda.

  Melissa turned at the door and looked back a Ruth, who was still sleeping. She drew breath to say something, then changed her mind. Then, as if suddenly waking, she turned to Ananda. “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  “Tea would be nice,” he said.

  Over two cups of steaming green tea, she said, addressing first her cup, then Ananda. “That, what happened back there, was real, wasn’t it? Her voice?”

  “Yes,” said Ananda.

  Then she reached for and lifted her cup, blew on the surface to cool it, and sipped it skillfully. Replaced it.

  The house was very still. Few sounds outside as well, as if the world was somehow holding its breath, curious now to see what would happen next. “How could she not hear me?” she said.

  “You’ve heard of meditation. You said so.”

  “I have.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “Honestly, not much. I know how to spell the word. I know that very thin, serious, people in India practice it while sitting very still. Some people here in California do, too. It’s calming. I’ve heard that. On television. That’s about it.”

  “Well, it is a long story,” he said. “But one that I will tell you soon, or she will.” Then added, “In meditation there are states where your concentration is so strong that you only perceive what you focus on, and nothing else.”

  Melissa took another sip of tea. Then looked out through the window, at the April sky, as if for corroboration. Then back at Ananda. “For real?”

  Ananda nodded. “Sure.”

  “But she’s so young.”

  “She is not young, Melissa. She is ancient. As am I. As are you.”

  She looked out the window again. “I don’t know about that.”

  “Well, that’s just the thing, Melissa. In your heart, you do.”

  “I don’t know about that.” This time directly to Ananda.

  Ananda smiled. Then it seemed the world outside suddenly released its breath. A car went by. Then another. Farther down the street a garbage truck now growled and grumbled. Birds were heard. Bickering, singing. The distant freeway returned as rive
r. Ananda drank his tea, and regarded Melissa.

  Who suddenly asked, “Why me?”

  “That, you would have to ask her,” he answered.

  After a pregnant silence she smiled. Then said, “I will.”

  :: 39 :: (Pasadena)

  Then she asked, “Why me?”

  “That, you would have to ask her,” said her guest.

  The suggestion was, of course, more than just a little crazy, but Melissa surprised herself by not dismissing it. Things, impossible only yesterday, were no longer undoubtedly so, and this possibly one of those things. Though, of course, it was impossible. Borderline crazy in fact. Across the border and well into la-la land crazy.

  Or not.

  For she had heard, or not really heard. It wasn’t hearing, had not been sound. But a voice nonetheless. A living presence, as if one of her own thoughts, suddenly declaring independence, had spoken out. But not with her voice, not with her familiar risings and fallings of internal inflection, but with a brightness that shone but didn’t shine, that colored and animated that other thought, the one that had not been hers. Which had been Ruth’s?

  Ananda had no doubts. And, on some terrifying level—though less scary than she would, or should, have expected—she found she could not really doubt either. That thought, “Like this” it had said, twice. And she had said it, too. Thought it, too. And had not both Ananda and Ruth said “Yes” in some very—or not so very—comforting unison.

  Either she had long since crossed the line of crazy herself, and she was now completely mad, or—and she smiled at this, for it felt the truer of the two options, and now quite comforting and not terrifying at all—this was really happening.

  “I will,” she said.

  Then she watched him closely, as if she’d never seen him before. Ancient? Yes, she could believe that.

  Her next question escaped from a place that took all this in stride, now curious. “Why did you lie?”

  “To get to know you.”

  “You knew about Ruth already? Then?”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course,” she repeated, not quite trusting her ears. “She was barely conceived.”

  “It helps,” said Ananda, “to think of the body and the person as being quite separate from each other. Ruth had not arrived yet, but she knew that she would.”

  “She picked me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Again, I don’t know. You’d have to ask her.”

  There were still two major portions to her. One, fading but still battling for survival, screamed its warning: this was insane. Utterly, totally, completely insane. Unbelievable. Ungraspable. Terrifying, really. Or certainly should be.

  The other, sheltered by direct experience which—no matter how many warnings her other part raised—could not be denied, accepted this for what it seemed, for what it undeniably was: true. For, really, she was not crazy. She was in fact quite lucid, as clear of mind as she had ever felt, and this, she knew, was no sign of madness, quite the opposite, no matter how unlikely. No matter what—and she shuddered a little at this new thought, which had arrived uninvited—no matter what Charles might say.

  “How could this be?” she asked again. More curious now than anything. Yes, she really wanted to know. Somewhere deep within her a wellspring seemed to have erupted, and now cascaded her in she-didn’t-know-which direction, but it was quite wonderful. So wonderful, in fact, that she needed something to anchor herself, something more concrete than this rushing joy—yes, it was joy, wasn’t it? That was the word. Her joy, she thought, had sprung a leak. Gushing here and there. In need of gathering.

  “How can water be?” said Ananda.

  :: 40 :: (Pasadena)

  “How can water be?” Ananda said, knowing no better, nor truer, answer.

  Melissa looked at him for a long while, then said something quite unexpected:

  “God made a song when the world was new. Water’s laughter sings it through. Oh, Wizard of Changes, teach me the lesson of flowing.”

  “What?” said Ananda.

  She said it again.

  He said it again.

  “It’s a song,” said Melissa.

  “It sounded like a poem,” said Ananda.

  “I guess it is a poem, too.”

  “Tell me again.”

  Melissa repeated the lines for a third time, almost sang them.

  “Who wrote them?” Ananda wanted to know.

  “I don’t know,” she answered. “My mother used to play this song on the stereo when I was a little girl. She would sing along with it, especially if Dad wasn’t home to tease her about it.”

  “It’s beautiful,” said Ananda.

  Melissa nodded. “Yes, it really is.”

  “Maybe you could ask your mother.”

  “She wouldn’t remember.”

  “Why?”

  “Ever since her stroke,” said Melissa.

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry,” said Ananda, remembering. Melissa had told him about her mother, not yet sixty and yet a victim of a severe stroke. By no means bedridden, she nonetheless could not remember much past the last few hours, if that.

  “Tell me again,” Ananda asked.

  “God made a song when the world was new. Water’s laughter sings it through. Wizard of Changes, teach me the lesson of flowing.”

  “Like the mystery of water,” said Ananda. “So is the mystery of life never-ending.”

  “Is that also a poem?” asked Melissa.

  “No. But nonetheless true.”

  “So how can this be?” she asked again. “I heard her speak. In my head. She spoke in my head. And I recognized her, without sound.”

  “I know,” said Ananda. “I’ve heard her many times. She’s very good at that.”

  “So how?”

  “How water?” said Ananda. “How can this liquid glass, so life giving, so always moving, so rushing, so trickling, so storming, so rising as vapor, so falling as rain, so freezing as ice. So never the same river. How can it be?”

  “God?” suggested Melissa.

  “Do you know,” said Ananda, “that all matter, I mean all matter, grows denser and heavier the colder it gets.”

  Melissa laughed. It sounded a little like morning to Ananda. “You presume I stayed awake in Physics class.”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, yes, I remember something of the sort.”

  “Except water,” said Ananda.

  “Except water?”

  “Except water. Water is at its very densest and heaviest at plus four degrees Celsius, then it gets lighter as it freezes. And a good thing that is, too.”

  “Why?” she said. “Why is that a good thing?”

  “Because if it were not so, we would have no fish in our northern lakes. Ice, as it froze, would then sink to the bottom, and so eventually fill the lake, forcing any living creatures to the top, where they no longer could breathe, or would die from exposure to the cold.”

  Melissa took this in with an almost comical expression of disbelief. “Well, I’ll be,” she said. “It’s as if it was intelligent. I mean the water. As if it had thought the whole thing through. Instead of sinking, it decided to stay afloat and keep the fishes nice and warm.” Then, after thinking about it for another little while, added, “That’s really true, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Ananda agreed.

  “I think that qualifies as a miracle, doesn’t it? When you think about it.”

  “That’s my thought, precisely,” said Ananda. “And, Melissa,” here Ananda reached for, and again took her hands in his. “You should think of Ruth as a miracle, as a natural miracle. As natural, and as miraculous, as water.”

  Then Ananda added, “And when you stop to think about it, miracles are as natural as anything, they obey laws, too, only that we are not yet privy to them.”

  To Ananda’s mild astonishment—or perhaps not so mild—Melissa seemed to understand. No, there was no seemed about it, sh
e did understand. Or, he thought, if not understand, she certainly accepted. Yes, that’s perhaps the better word. She fully accepted the miracle that was Ruth, that was water, with not even a trace of fear.

  For Melissa smiled at Ananda when she said, “Yes, she’s a miracle. all right.” Then laughed softly, “I can live with that.”

  :: 41 :: (Los Angeles)

  Melissa’s father-in-law, Dexter Marten, did cheat on his wife once, but he considers this an excellent fidelity record, all things considered. No, he never told her. Of course not. For one, it really had nothing to do with love; for two, he really did not love his wife; so, for three, it was none of her business.

  However, once was enough to open his eyes to the impracticality of the thing. Not that he had not enjoyed it, for he had, but affairs, especially with younger associates—she had been a 3rd year associate at the firm—complicate things, and for a lawyer unnecessary complications stood in the way of clear thinking and superlative court performance. Ergo, not to be engaged in.

  For Dexter Marten, first and foremost, was a lawyer, and he had never wanted to be anything but.

  His father, a son of a Scottish immigrant, had worked his way out of New York City poverty to put himself through both college and law school, and once he shared his rags-to-lawyer story with his then sixteen-year-old son, Dexter—as son with a maturity beyond his years—clearly saw his father’s sagacity and the beauty of working directly on the power-grid of the world: Money and Law. For what influences and determines lives more than law and money?

  Money and law. Congressmen and Senators, almost to a man (or woman) were lawyers, were they not? The outcome of life (and often death) in the hands of lawyers. The fate of nations, in the hands of lawyers.

  Money and law. Nothing was to stand in the way of this. Not for him.

  Not ever.

  Dexter was not a quick study, but with a near monomaniacal focus, and a determination to intimidate Calvin Coolidge he nonetheless managed to graduate in the top third bracket at Stanford, and two months later—having studied for it most nights during his final year at law school, and much to everyone’s amazement—he passed the California bar.