Miss Buddha

by Ulf Wolf

  Finally, their eyes met, but only briefly, as if slipping off each other, twice.

  “What do you mean?” said her husband.

  “You saw me. You heard me,” she said.

  He then loaded half a French toast on his fork and transferred it to his mouth. Chewed for some time, expressionlessly. Then he said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You saw me,” she said again.

  “Saw what, Melissa?”

  Could it actually be? she wondered. Could he not have seen? No, she inwardly shook her head. He had seen, and heard. The fear in his eyes had been proof enough. And he had answered her. He had said “Long enough.” These were his words. He had definitely said them. Only he did not want to admit that, either to her, or to himself.

  “You answered me,” she said. “You said ‘Long enough.’”

  Charles carefully sliced off another generous piece of syrupy French toast, guided it to his mouth and began chewing. He did not look at Melissa, nor did he give any sign that he had heard her.

  “You answered me,” she said again, quite loudly. “Said you saw.”

  “I don’t know what I saw,” he finally answered. “I was half asleep.”

  “I am not crazy,” she said.

  “I never said you were.”

  “I am not crazy,” she said again. To which Charles did not respond. Only chewed.

  :

  Ananda answered the phone almost immediately, as if he had been expecting her call—which on reflection, he might well have been.

  “Charles saw me. He heard me talk to Ruth,” she said.

  “I know,” said Ananda. “She told me.”

  “I tried to bring this up with him at breakfast, to find out what he thought, but he doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  “Yet he is sure about what he saw?”

  “Yes, he is.” Then, after a brief pause, added, “What can I do, Ananda?”

  He deliberated for a moment. “For now, not much.”

  “I really blew it.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “What should I do? What can I do?”

  “I think you should act as normally as you can.”

  “As if nothing has happened?”

  “As if nothing has happened.”

  “You think he’d forget?”

  “No, I don’t think so. But if you don’t nourish what he saw, perhaps doubt will arise.”

  “He did not want to talk about it,” she said again.

  “He’s probably afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Of you.”

  She brought back the image of Charles standing in the doorway to Ruth’s chamber, eyes agape, fear apparent. A fear of what he had seen, or, as Ananda said, of her, if indeed there was a difference. “Of the impossible,” she said.

  “Precisely.”

  :: 46 :: (Los Angeles)

  It did not matter how important Charles told Rachel it was, his father could not see him until eleven, and then only for a few minutes. Rachel, his father’s secretary—a peerless professional when it came to managing Dexter’s time—was adamant. Impertinent, in fact, he thought.

  But when those few minutes were up, Dexter Marten called her and asked her to reschedule his eleven o’clock, with his sincere apologies, something urgent had come up.

  “Tell me again,” Dexter told his son. “From the beginning.”

  And Charles did. Melissa had been sitting by the cot talking to their baby, he said—not baby-talk, not even close. She was talking to Ruth as if she had been a grown-up, about glows and auras and about why she had chosen her, and what she was doing here.

  “Are you absolutely sure about this?”

  “Yes, Dad. Absolutely.”

  Dexter shook his head, “This is not good.”

  “I know.”

  “She sounds clearly,” he fished around for a word, “disturbed.”

  “I know.”

  “But she brought it up at breakfast?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you, how did you respond?”

  “First I tried to pretend it hadn’t happened. Then I told her I was half asleep anyway.”

  Dexter nodded his concurrence, probably the best course of action. For once his son seems to have done the right thing. Then he reached for his Rolodex—the electronic address books so in vogue, especially among the secretaries, had yet to gain his trust—and spun it around to Dr. David Evans, psychiatrist.

  He reached for the phone, punched a direct outside line, and dialed the number.

  “Who are you calling?” asked Charles.

  Dexter did not answer, intent on the wall behind Charles, listening attentively. The call was answered.

  “Dr. Evans please.” A brief pause. “Dexter Marten.” Another brief pause. “Tell Dave it’s urgent.”

  His dad continued to study something beyond his shoulder while Dave Evans apparently was persuaded to take the call.

  “David,” said his father. “Dexter here.” Yet another pause, then, “Just a second. Let me put you on the speaker phone.” His father pressed another button.

  “What can I do for you?” said a deep voice with what struck Charles as a faint Scottish accent.

  “Turns out my son’s wife is a little unbalanced,” said Dexter, “and could do with some treatment, at least in my opinion.”

  “Specifically?” asked Dr. Evans.

  Dexter supplied the specifics, asking Charles to corroborate now and then, which he did.

  “I’d need to see her,” was the expected reply.

  “Today?” asked Dexter.

  “Wednesday,” said Dr. Evans. “I’m booked solid until then.”

  “No chance of a slot?”

  “Sorry, Dexter. I really can’t.”

  “Okay, Wednesday it is. What time?”

  Evans asked his secretary. Then said, “Around two. I’ll have my nurse confirm. What’s her name, your boy’s wife?”

  “Melissa,” said Charles. “Melissa Marten.”

  “I’ll see her then,” said Dr. Evans, and hung up.

  :: 47 :: (Pasadena)

  Charles had no idea how to put it to her.

  He really should have settled all this yesterday, or even the evening after telling Dexter about it, but ever since the incident—which is how he thought of it—he found his wife if not terrifying, at least intimidating, and the right words refused to reach his lips, much less leave them.

  Now he was running out of time, and so—over breakfast—he had no option but to simply state it: “You have a doctor’s appointment at two-thirty.”

  “What?”

  “You have an appointment with Doctor Evans at two thirty.”

  “No I don’t.”

  “Yes, Honey, you do.”

  “I never made any appointment. I don’t even know a Doctor Evans.”

  “Dexter does. Dexter did.”

  Melissa seemed too stunned to answer, so Charles explained, “About the other day, the Monday morning thing.”

  “What about it?”

  “You know what happened, Melissa. And I did see, and hear.”

  “But you said.”

  “I know what I said. I spoke to Dad about it and he made an appointment for you.”

  “Why?”

  “To see what’s going on.”

  “I know what’s going on.” Melissa sounded certain.

  “You do?” Charles was genuinely surprised.

  “Nothing’s going on, Charles. Absolutely nothing.”

  “That’s not what I’d call it.”

  “Call what?”

  “You know. Talking to yourself like that, or to Ruth as if she were a grown-up.”

  Melissa was about to say something, but changed her mind. Instead she said, “I’m not going anywhere.” And meant it.

  “Yes, you are,” said Charles. And tried to mean it.

  :

  This time Dr. Evans called his father, who in turn asked R
achel to fetch Charles. Right away.

  “Where is Melissa?” said Dexter, covering the mouthpiece of the phone, as an anxious Charles arrived.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let me tell you where she’s not,” said Dexter. “She’s not seeing Doctor Evans right now.”

  “I told her,” said Charles.

  “I’m sure you did,” said Dexter, and waved for him to leave his office.

  Feeling like a ten-year old again, Charles left, tail between his legs, hating his wife.

  :: 48 :: (Pasadena)

  Two days later a large white car pulled up outside the Marten’s Pasadena residence. For a number of minutes no one emerged, then what seemed like a small crowed gradually formed on the sidewalk, consisting of Dexter, Dr. Evans, Charles, and a sizeable male nurse in jeans and tee shirt.

  Melissa, feeding Ruth at the time, was unaware of this arrival until she heard a key turn the front door lock.

  Ruth’s eyes flew wide open at the sound and she spoke urgently into their shared room: “Beware, Melissa.”

  She quickly returned Ruth to her cot, but did not even have time to tuck her in before Dexter, followed by Charles, Dr. Evan and the male nurse, entered Ruth’s little chamber.

  Melissa looked from her father-in-law to her husband and back again. “What is the matter?” she asked. “Has something happened?”

  Dr. Evans and the nurse exchanged words too softly for Melissa to hear. The nurse nodded an understanding.

  “Nothing’s the matter,” said Dexter, and so calmly that Melissa felt a tremor of warning. She looked at Charles who would not meet her eyes, then back at Dexter.

  “What are you all doing here?” She said.

  What happened next exuded efficiency. Charles, as if on cue, stepped aside to let Dr. Evans through, while the male nurse, in three quick, ballet-like steps, appeared behind Melissa and in the next moment had her arms pinned to her sides in a bear-like hug.

  The pinprick was lost in the flurry of motions, and it was not until the curtain—gray, billowy, warm, and heavy—begun descending that Melissa realized that Dr. Evans had just given her an injection.

  Ruth tried to say something—did say something—that Melissa neither heard clearly nor understood. She turned to look at her daughter, to ask her what she said—did ask her what she said, aloud, battling with words that would not arrive properly, nor in sequence, all through a mist enclosing her so fast and so thoroughly that she never got to the end of her question.

  Dr. Evans and Dexter exchanged glances. Dr. Evan’s glance said that Dexter had been right to call him, and Dexter’s glance simply confirmed this. Charles was trying to catch up with events when his eyes met Ruth’s.

  For an instant something filled the room that could not possibly be: an accusation in the eyes of a four-month old girl.

  But of course not. A trick of the light, perhaps. Or a trick of the mind. Charles tried to forget, kept trying for the rest of the day; though not successfully.

  :: 49 :: (Pasadena)

  Even if I could have done something to prevent this, I am not sure it would have been wise. In fact, I am positive it would not have been wise.

  From the moment I heard the front door open and saw Charles, his father and the two other men enter my room, I knew that they had come for Melissa, and that realistically, I could do nothing to prevent this.

  As a four-month old baby, how could I have intervened? No, as Ruth I could have done nothing. Literally. Apart from crying perhaps, and that would have achieved nothing.

  As the Buddha Gotama? Yes, I could have spoken. I could have raised my spiritual voice within these men and told them the truth: Melissa was not delusional. We had had a conversation. There is absolutely nothing the matter with her.

  But that, for these men, would have amounted to the Impossible, for—as far as modern mankind knows, and can recall—there is no such thing, there is no room for such voices, for such communication. The Impossible.

  And I know from experience that humans manage to stay rational only so long as, and only to the degree that, they are not faced with and then overwhelmed by the Impossible.

  For forced to face what he then, against his will, must concede is in fact so, Man is first blinded, then he crumbles. It is as if for him everything that has taken place since the Impossible was commonplace so many, many lifetimes ago, comes crashing down upon him. All those lives. All those deeds, done by and done to. All these eons, all this descent, all this accumulated insanity, all this lived darkness now amass against him by the Impossible once again—and here and now—proven Possible.

  This he can neither fathom nor tolerate, and so he falls apart and into madness.

  And so he burns witches, wielders of magic.

  And so he kills saints, wielders of miracles.

  That is why, even though I, easily enough, could have told them that Melissa was not crazy, that if anything, they were, for believing such a thing—that is why I said nothing, gave no sign that I was anything but Melissa’s four-month old baby, oblivious to current events.

  For had I said something, or had I done something Impossible, a damage far worse would have been done, of that I am sure.

  Next, in an organized flurry of action, Melissa was injected by the large male nurse and soon crumbled beneath chemical onslaught. I tried to reach her, but was too late: all windows closed, all curtains drawn.

  For an instant my eyes then met Charles’, and I saw rising alarm in them, his seeing in mine the accusative awareness I must learn to hide—to protect not only Melissa, but myself as well.

  As her knees buckled, the doctor caught one arm and the male nurse the other, and together they ushered her out of the room.

  Charles cast another look in my direction—as if to confirm that he had imagined things—but no such luck. He tried to rule out what he had seen in my eyes, but did not succeed. I would not let him.

  Shaken, he followed his father and my kidnapped mother out the door.

  :

  Man, long before he became Man, was well acquainted with the Impossible.

  He knew the beauty of whispering across distances and universes. He knew the magic of real dreams—not the faint shadows cast by them upon current sleepers. But he chose—and make no mistake, it was a conscious act of will—he chose to forgo such innate powers for the sake of sensation.

  And perhaps to cure boredom. Because the constantly aware is never surprised, and surprise can sometimes be desirable, is sometimes sought, and so, eons and eons later, Man has now relieved his boredom to such an extent that life is a constant battle for survival one moment to the next.

  All to have a game—though unaware of which game, or who are the players—for I believe that to have a game was his intent all along.

  Easing Man up to pre-game levels is my task. A near impossible task since you cannot tell or educate Man into rising. He must look, and see, and experience the string of ever-larger truths by himself and for himself, until finally he arrives at The Truth, and then he will—again—know all. You cannot guide, only point. This is a lesson I have learned more than once.

  That is why I am here. To point, using current sensibilities as finger.

  :: 50 :: (Glendale)

  He felt the urgency, for the Buddha Gotama not so much whispered as thundered his message, and Ananda nearly reeled from it, as if from physical impact.

  “Ananda. They have taken her.”

  “Who?”

  “Charles, his father, a doctor and a nurse. They arrived, sedated her and led her away.”

  “How?” Ananda was trying to understand what exactly had happened. “Why?”

  “Charles heard her, saw her, speak to me. You know that. He told his father. His father called the doctor.”

  “And they have taken her away?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Where are you?”

  There was a moment of silence while
Ruth considered the question. “They seem to have forgotten about me.”

  Ananda shook his head both physically and mentally. Then said:

  “What will they do?”

  “I don’t know, Ananda.”

  “This is not good.”

  “No, this is very far from good.”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “You must prevent whatever might happen to her. You must find her and keep her safe.”

  “I will.”

  :

  Easier thought than done. For try as he might, Ananda could not even discover where they had taken her, much less do anything about it. He told Ruth as much.

  Ruth in turn informed him that someone had apparently remembered that she was alone, for a nurse of some sort, nice enough woman, she said, had arrived to keep an eye on her.

  So, one less thing to worry about, said Ananda.

  The Buddha Gotama agreed.

  :: 51 :: (Pasadena)

  The descending mist thickened and darkened at a terrifying rate, and soon there was no rising surface to cling to. A disembodied voice that might have been Ruth’s, or that might have been vivid memory, muffled its way through murky waters but made no sense to her, and it, too, soon rose into some nebulous nothing far above.

  Melissa didn’t feel her knees buckle, nor did she feel supporting hands seize her and prevent her collapse onto the floor. Nor could she tell being led by these same two pairs of hands out of Ruth’s room and out of the house.

  The ride to the Greenwood Clinic took precisely twenty-three minutes. In normal traffic that ride would have taken less, but being a Friday there were more cars on the street than usual.

  Melissa noticed none of this.

  Once arrived, she was registered by Dr. Evans and wheeled to a private (and lockable) room, which the staff did indeed lock as part of clinic policy for all new admissions.

  Melissa noticed nothing for the rest of the day and for none of the night.

  :

  She was back in the maternity ward—that was her first thought on waking the following morning, Ruth nearby. It was the ambience of the room, the starchy sense of curtained cleanness that spoke of hospital to her, the heavy door, the little night table.