Miss Buddha

by Ulf Wolf

  She saw all this as if through a heavy—though painless—hangover, each detail lumbering its way through to her with effort. Then something, possibly the sound of a key turning, dissolved illusion. Ruth was not nearby. Terrible memory tried to get her attention. She sat up, afraid now. The door open and someone vaguely familiar entered. And spoke:

  “Good morning, Melissa. How are you feeling?”

  A doctor, obviously. Parts of her returned to the maternity ward, but not with certainty. “Not sure,” she heard herself saying. Then she came fully awake. “Who are you?” she said.

  “My name is Doctor Evans,” said the man.

  She believed him. Or not. He was too well dressed under his loosely worn white coat to convince. “Doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  And now memory returned. “Where is Ruth?”

  “She is fine.”

  “I asked where,” she said.

  “She’s at home.”

  “And where am I?”

  “You are at the Greenwood Clinic,” said Evans.

  She knew of it, of course.

  “What the hell am I doing here?” she said. “And what did you give me?”

  “You’re upset,” he observed.

  “Damn right. Please answer my question.”

  “Your husband, and father-in-law, thought it best. Well, they thought you might need a rest. As for the second question, a mild sedative.”

  The little man seemed a congregation of contradictions. Too well-dressed for his coat; too short for his confidence; too shiny for his expertise.

  “There was nothing mild about it,” said Melissa.

  “Oh, it was mild, all right,” said Evans. “But quite a lot of it, perhaps.”

  “You’re splitting words.”

  Evans ignored that. “So how are you feeling?”

  As if he wanted to know, or actually did. “Tired,” she answered. “Hung over.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “I need to go home.”

  “I’m afraid you can’t leave right now.”

  “And why is that?”

  “It’s called a seventy-two-hour hold.”

  “What?”

  “Your husband requested a seventy-two-hour hold.”

  “Charles requested a seventy-two-hour hold? That I be held here?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is ridiculous. Illegal and ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculous, perhaps, from your point of view. But quite legal I assure you. Your husband signed all the requisite paperwork, witnessed by your father-in-law.”

  “And the reason?”

  “Delusional behavior.”

  “As in?”

  Here the little man hesitated, not sure how to answer.

  “What am I being delusional about, Doctor Evans?”

  Reluctant to plunge: “Let’s discuss that later.”

  “No, let’s discuss this now,” she said. “I want out of here.”

  “I’ve explained,” began Evans.

  “Seventy-two-hour hold, so you’ve said. I would call it kidnapping.”

  “Please, Melissa.”

  “Mrs. Marten, to you Doctor.”

  Getting flustered, edged slightly out of his (rather large) comfort zone, the doctor said, “Really, Mrs. Marten. There’s no need for this.”

  “I want to call my lawyer.”

  “I’m afraid that is not possible.”

  “I am of legal age. Charles has no business signing papers on my behalf, I am not incompetent.”

  “That’s precisely what we want to determine,” interrupted Evans.

  “What?”

  “That’s why the hold. To determine competency.”

  “You have one hell of a nerve, Doctor.”

  Sliding a little father out of his comfort zone, hands seemingly rising of their own volition in defense: “Don’t get upset, please.”

  “And why the hell not? I am here against my will.”

  “For your own good.”

  “Jesus.”

  “No, really.”

  Melissa made to slide out of bed, but on discovering that the flimsy gown barely covered her, she changed her mind. She sat straight up, however. All alert now, and quite aware of the reason, she asked, “Why, Doctor, why am I here. Precisely? What is my delusion? And I don’t want to talk about it later, I want to talk about it now.”

  The little man debated internally for a brief moment. Then reached for his cellphone and selected a speed dial. “Reschedule my morning,” he said. “Yes,” he said after some apparent consternation the other end of the line, “all morning.” He listened for another short while. Then said, “Thanks,” and disconnected.

  “Let’s get you dressed,” he said to Melissa.

  “I’m not a kid,” she answered. “And I’m not incompetent.”

  It actually seemed that Doctor Evans might agree. “I’ll have a nurse bring your things,” he said. “I’ll see you in my office in a few minutes. She’ll take you.” Then, as if an afterthought, “Are you hungry?”

  :

  In her own clothes again, Melissa was—well, perhaps not enjoying, but at least not disliking her breakfast. She did however dislike the rather large woman who brought the food and then stayed to watch her eat. Obviously her keeper, lest she made a break for it.

  “Relax,” she told her between bites. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  The large woman did not answer, apparently not amused. Once Melissa had finished her meal, she took the tray and placed it by the door. Then said, “Follow me.”

  Doctor Evans’s office was what Melissa thought of as well-appointed. It had built-in bookshelves, a beautiful desk, several tasteful paintings (a horse in each one), and a nice view of the clinic lawns, which seemed extensive—knowing only the street-side of the facility, she would not have guessed.

  Doctor Evans rose as the nurse ushered her in. “All breakfasted?” he asked.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “Sit, please.” Indicating a large leather armchair.

  She did.

  “Coffee?”

  “Thanks, I just had some.”

  “Do you mind if I?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You sure you don’t want some?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Doctor Evans stabbed an intercom button and ordered his “usual” from what must have been his secretary, for a well-dressed young woman (who could easily qualify as a secretary poster-girl) soon brought coffee in a silver pot, on a silver tray which also held—Melissa would wager—a bone china cup.

  “I feel a little awkward drinking alone,” he said, again inviting Melissa to join him.

  “That’s perfectly fine with me,” she said. She didn’t smile, but could have.

  Evans, however, shot her a quick glance, and did smile. He added two bits of sugar using a silver tong, and then began stirring with a silver spoon. All very silvery, she thought. Then, when Evans maintained his silence, she said: “You first.”

  Again, the doctor smiled, as if at some private joke. Then he made a decision and finally spoke:

  “Your husband saw, and heard, you speak to your baby.”

  “And?”

  “And, it wasn’t baby talk, exactly.”

  “What was it then?”

  Evans replaced his bone china cup, opened up a folder, and referred to his notes: “You were asking your daughter why she had chosen you, and from where she had seen you. And, yes, you mentioned auras and glows.” Then added, as if by protocol, “according to Charles.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Melissa.

  “Ridiculous or not, that’s what he told me.”

  Melissa shook her head slowly, then leaned back into the chair, which moaned a leathery moan. Then she said: “Perhaps you are evaluating the wrong person.”

  The doctor looked up, mildly startled. Then, by the expression on his face, it struck Melissa that he might agree. “What exactly did you say?” he asked.r />
  “When?” said Melissa, though she knew perfectly well.

  “When he walked in on you and your daughter,” said Evans. “What were you telling her?”

  “I wasn’t telling her anything. I was speaking to her, mothers do that, you know. She’s a baby, Doctor Evans. Four, going on five, months old.”

  “I know that.”

  “I don’t remember precisely what I said.” Then she paused, considered things. “Charles has been under a lot of stress lately,” she said. “Working in a firm where your father is a managing partner is not a formula for peace of mind.”

  Evans made another note.

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” asked Evans.

  “What do you think I’m saying?”

  “That Charles,” he was casting about for the right word, “imagined this.”

  “He did not imagine me speaking, no. But as for what I said to my daughter, yes, I guess that’s what I’m saying.”

  Evans made another note. Sipped his coffee. Made one more note.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” said Melissa.

  Evans looked up at her, surprised, almost suspiciously.

  “About the coffee,” she said.

  “Ah,” Evans said, seemingly relieved.

  “It does smell very good,” she said. “Even from here.”

  “It is good,” he said, and ordered a cup for Melissa as well.

  Another silver tray, bone china, silver spoon. Amazing. The well-dressed woman poured for her, and Melissa thanked her very much. Then took a sip. “Agreed.”

  “What?” said the secretary.

  “It is very good,” said Melissa, addressing Evans but including the secretary as well with her praise.

  “Thanks,” said the secretary.

  “I told you,” said Evans, then went back to study the papers on his desk. He shuffled through several sheets of them, then stacked them and replaced them neatly into a folder, which he slowly closed.

  Then he said, looking directly at her, “You are telling me the truth, are you not?”

  “Why would I lie?” said Melissa.

  “Well, that’s sort of obvious, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I guess it is.” Then added, “But no, I am not lying. And no, I am not delusional. And yes, I’m competent. Very, in fact.”

  Doctor Evans sat back in his chair, which creaked a little from old age. Then he asked Melissa’s question for her: “So, why are you here?”

  “Beats me,” said Melissa.

  “Me, too,” said Evans.

  :

  In the taxi home (which Evans actually offered to pay for, though Melissa declined), her feelings were gravely mixed.

  She was deeply relieved at escaping (and she did think of it as an escape), but stronger than that was her remorse at lying and essentially shifting the delusion Charles’s way, when, indeed, he had seen and heard things just fine, and correctly—just has he had reported. The mistake had been all hers, along with the prevarication; and so, now, the delusion was all Charles’.

  The fact that her lie was the greater good—her reasoning easily navigated its way to that destination, for her freedom was not the only one at stake—this fact did, however, not go very far toward absolving her from the outright lie. Charles was an idiot at times, and lately more than usually so. Still, whether he had acted out of concern for her health, or from some other, darker motive, he did not deserve the implication she had made, and she hoped she had not made trouble for him.

  Or none too serious, anyway.

  Then she thought of Ruth, and of seeing her soon. And she smiled.

  “Good job,” Ruth said.

  :: 52 :: (Pasadena)

  Melissa let herself in, much to the consternation of Sylvia, her mother-in-law, who was holding Ruth in her arms and was trying, though not very successfully, to make her drink something from a bottle.

  And much to the wide-eyed paleness of Charles.

  Ruth looked up, too, and not so much smiled as beamed her welcome.

  “What on earth?” said Sylvia.

  Charles said nothing, too bewildered to find words, much less form them. Melissa shot him a glance that she initially had meant as rebuke, but which, once it left her, held concern more than anything.

  “Shouldn’t you…?” said Sylvia, then lost the thread of it.

  “Shouldn’t I what, Sylvia?” said Melissa, then took Ruth from her mother-in-law, and cradled her daughter against her chest.

  “Shouldn’t you be…?” and again Sylvia lost her mental footing.

  “Be incarcerated?” said Melissa.

  “Yes. No, I mean no, not incarcerated.”

  “What then?” asked Melissa, looking directly at Charles. “Detained?”

  Finally, Charles came to, all husbandy. “How did it go?” Adding, by some protocol, “Honey.”

  Melissa could not help herself. “The kidnapping, you mean?”

  “Well, I’ve never…” said Sylvia, still struggling to complete sentences.

  “I’m fine, Charles. I’m not crazy. Clean bill of health. You can relax.”

  Charles swallowed. Looked at his mother, then back at Melissa. Cleared his throat, twice. Sweating now, “You saw Doctor Evans?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Melissa. “Though not by choice, as you know.”

  “What does she mean?” said Sylvia.

  Charles cleared his throat a third time, looked at his mother, looked for words.

  “What?” said Melissa. “You haven’t told her?”

  “Haven’t told me what, Charles?” said Sylvia, now facing his son. Charles either didn’t, or couldn’t, answer. “Haven’t told me what?” his mother repeated, louder this time and with an edge.

  Still, Charles did not, could not, answer.

  “Charles and Dexter had me committed,” said Melissa. Well, there was no other way to put it. No way to sugarcoat it. It was exactly what had happened.

  Obviously news to Sylvia.

  “We were concerned, Mom,” Charles finally managed.

  “About what?”

  “She was. Well, I heard her,” began Charles while looking from mother to wife back to mother.

  “She was what? Heard what?” asked Sylvia.

  “She was talking to the baby.”

  “She has a name,” said Melissa.

  “She was talking to Ruth.”

  “And?” said his mother.

  “I mean, really talking. Like Ruth was a grown-up, about glows and I don’t remember what exactly.”

  Melissa, shifting Ruth from one arm to the other, looked at Charles with renewed concern, though mostly for Sylvia’s benefit.

  Her mother-in-law said nothing.

  “So?” said Melissa. “I’ve heard you talk to flowers, Charles.”

  “That’s right,” said Sylvia. “I’ve heard that, too.”

  “That doesn’t make you crazy,” said Melissa.

  “It wasn’t like that,” said Charles, though uncertain now of the ground he stood on.

  “I used to talk to you when you were a baby,” said Sylvia.

  “It wasn’t like that,” said Charles.

  “How do you know?” said Melissa.

  Again, Charles looked from his mother to his wife and back to his mother. A not-so-long-ago certainty was packing its things and heading out the door, leaving nothing but confusion behind. Melissa saw this, and did feel sorry for him, compassion.

  “He suffers,” whispered Ruth, “though not too much.”

  “A bed he’s made,” Melissa whispered back, without so much as a twitch of her lips.

  “A bed he’s made,” confirmed Ruth.

  “I cannot believe that you and Dexter,” began Sylvia.

  “It wasn’t like that,” said Charles for the third time.

  Again, Melissa felt more compassion for her husband than anger. After all, he had seen and heard precisely what he believed he had. And it had certainly been out of the ordinary.
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br />   “I am sorry,” said Melissa, looking directly at Charles.

  “For what?” said Sylvia, not about to forgive her son, nor her husband.

  “He was worried,” said Melissa.

  “He shouldn’t have,” said Sylvia.

  Charles said nothing. Still looking from wife to mother: two closed doors.

  :

  Ananda answered right away.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  “Where were you?”

  “At a clinic.”

  “What happened?”

  “Charles told his dad. Who called a doctor.”

  “I know they came.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did they,” he hesitated. “Mistreat you?”

  “No.”

  The silence seemed relieved.

  “I’ve learned my lesson,” said Melissa.

  The silence nodded.

  :: 53 :: (Los Angeles)

  “Yes,” Dexter told his secretary, “I’ll take it.”

  Doctor Evans came on the line.

  “David,” said Dexter, “Charles tells me you’ve release her. What happened?”

  “Nothing happened, Dexter. And that about sums it up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your daughter-in-law is about as sane as you or me. Perhaps saner,” he added.

  “Explain. Please.”

  “Your son has a vivid imagination,” said the doctor.

  “He made this up?”

  “She was speaking to her daughter, yes. Mothers do that. But she never said what Charles claims he heard.”

  “She’s lying.” It was a reflex answer, perhaps to protect his son, and perhaps in some measure to protect himself. Still, it felt true.

  “No, Dexter. She is not lying.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know. It’s my job to know.”

  Dexter said nothing for quite a while. Then, bowing to an authority greater than his own in the matter, “I’ll be damned.”

  “Honest mistake,” said Evans. Then, “Do you want me to see him?”

  “Who? Charles?”

  “Yes.”

  “No,” said Dexter. “I’ll see him myself.”