by Ulf Wolf
Melissa feels that the house is too big for just the three of us—Melissa, me, and Ananda—and has twice thought seriously of moving. Twice, though, her parents talked her out of it, and us into staying put; at least until the real estate market comes back (is how her father put it). So we’re still here, in this rather large house with its ornate front door and marble-slabbed entryway; where my room is still called “Ruth’s Chamber,” where Melissa’s hall of a bedroom is now referred to as her “domain,” and where Ananda’s book-filled den-cum-guestroom is always called the “library.” He likes books, Ananda does.
As planned, Melissa went back to school to study philosophy and religion. She graduated with honors. She then gave some thought to teaching, and even did some post-graduate work in that direction, but in the end she changed her mind.
One day not so long ago she told me—well, us, really, for Ananda was there too—that the only reason that she went back to school was to find out what questions to ask me.
Ananda doesn’t laugh often—smiles, is what he does—but that time Melissa managed to coax a hearty laugh out of him, so surprising, and so apropos was her announcement. Then, when Melissa looked alarmed and was about to apologize, he quickly apologized instead, “No, no,” he said, “it’s not like that at all. I think you’re brilliant.”
Well, I think so, too. She’s quite brilliant.
Charles made some trouble for her at one point, and by extension, for me and Ananda as well. That was about four years ago. I had just started school. At that time he had married Sarah—Sarah Gray who insisted on keeping her own last name, not even Sarah Marten Gray, just Gray—and perhaps this trouble was her idea, I don’t know, but that fall he went to court to obtain joint custody, and that dragged on for a while. He was very remorseful in his approach, and the judge almost grated it, but in the end—and much to our, especially my, relief—turned it down.
Apparently, according to the ruling, I am well enough taken care of by Melissa and my “uncle” Ananda, and Charles did, after all, abandon his then wife, and child, for his current Gray wife, which didn’t sit too well with the judge.
This abandonment spoke volumes about Charles’s character, is how the judge put it.
There was some talk about Charles filing another motion in the matter implying (or stating) that there was something untoward going on in the house between Melissa and Ananda (which, of course, is total rubbish), but in the end he (or Sarah, or both of them—or their legal representation) thought better of it.
He (and Sara) still come around on occasion to see me—he does have visitation rights, after all—and then we all turn our very politest, and endure. I don’t care for him very much, but I do not not care for him either. He’s a large, turbulent ocean in a very confused bottle.
Sarah is a calmer sea. I think she calls most of the shots in that marriage.
And while we’re on the subject of enduring, both Melissa and Ananda insisted that I go to school. They must have plotted, because they spoke with one voice when they said that I must be raised as normally as possible, as unobtrusively as possible (is how Melissa put it—inconspicuously is the word Ananda used). The better to lay the groundwork, said Ananda and Melissa as one. Well, there was no budging them. Ananda can be very stubborn, and Melissa is not doing too badly herself in that department.
Still, I tried. I objected, argued, pleaded, but they would have none of it, so off to school I went, clear enunciation and all.
Imagine this: Being taught the alphabet (as a six-year old in first grade) while knowing English a far sight better than my teacher (an overly enthusiastic Mr. Campbell, very bubbly—but it rang false).
It was a matter of faking ignorance, a matter of not giving myself away. Singing with the rest of the class: A-A-A-A-A, B-B-B-B-B. Yes, boring. Yes, enduring. Though, I did like the little sea of voice that we lofted in praise of Alphabet, the God du jour.
Same goes for the other subjects: Mathematics. I have always had an agile mind; I have always enjoyed the abstract dance of symbol. To press this analytical freedom into the service of 2+2=4 (without noticeable objection) is no small feat. I deserve medals.
I cannot claim I that I suffered, per se, but it does wear on you. More than once that first year I asked Melissa and Ananda to please, please, please take me out of school and go with home schooling instead.
That would give Charles a reason to file some other motion, answered Melissa so right away that she must have considered this option as length. Ananda—my trusted attendant—sided with her, so what’s a six-year old to do?
Back to school, with my little lunch and my little books in my little backpack, that’s what.
I did well—and by that I mean, I did not give myself away—through third grade. Melissa was proud of me, she said, and in such a way that I was not beyond lapping it up. Ananda chimed in—proud, too. Then, last fall, enter Kristina Medina—Mrs. Medina to me—our fourth grade teacher, who proved the challenge I wasn’t quite up to.
Some people are more perceptive than others, that’s the problem, and Mrs. Medina is at the very top of that particular class.
Today, by the way, is my birthday. This little bottle is ten years old, and I know that they have something planned. I have to stop myself from peeking into heads, because I want it to be a surprise.
:: 62 :: (Pasadena)
Kristina Cortez was only sixteen years old when she eloped with a man thrice her age. She did this more to make a statement of independence from her parents than to accommodate and formalize her feelings for Cameron Phelps, her soon-to-be husband.
Unable to quite believe his luck—for, while well-to-do, he was not a balm for sore eyes—and giddy with the insanity of it all, he let her drive his Corvette all the way to Las Vegas, even though she had no license, and even after she got them a speeding ticket in Barstow.
“We’re off to get married,” she said by way of explanation to the officer who took her protestation on faith, along with a crisp hundred dollar bill, but nonetheless handed her the order to appear (unless you pay the $300 fine, of course) with the comment that “She’d better have a license next time.” Then added, with a polite nod, “Have a nice day.”
A blemish on their bliss this ticket, true, but it soon faded, along with California, into the west as they crossed into Nevada and managed to arrive in Las Vegas without further tickets.
She looked her vivacious best in that Elvis-styled Chapel, and he, grinning ear-to-ear, followed suit as far as it went (he would never look good no matter what the circumstances).
Ten minutes later they were married and headed for the casinos.
Ten hours later they finally made it up to their room.
Twenty minutes later she was thoroughly impregnated.
Four hours later she woke up into a sun-filled and worst-ever hangover (more like a still drunk but now with an absolutely first-rate headache) and knew without as much as a glance at her now snoring husband that she had made the biggest mistake of her life.
But she had made this bed and she was damned if she wouldn’t lie in it; she would not give her parents the satisfaction of her running back to them for help.
So, straight-backed and determined she spent the rest of the Las Vegas weekend and the next two Los Angeles months with Cameron Phelps, doing her best to be and feel wife-like. Not very successfully.
She also ruled out all other reasons for missing her period, twice.
She didn’t tell her husband, nor did she tell anyone else, especially not her parents. Instead, she made an even biggest mistake of her life.
The secretly spent two thousand dollars bought her a brutally terminated pregnancy and a severely damaged uterus. She would never conceive again.
Six months later and Cameron now making noises about needing “space” she called that particular spade by its proper name and suggested they get divorced. Apparently quite relieved, Cameron agreed, and Kristina took a big gulp of pride and finally called her mother.
<
br /> “I’ve really screwed up,” she said.
“I know,” her mother confirmed.
“And Dad?”
“Worried. Furious. But nothing we can’t handle.”
“Can I?” she said.
“Of course, Honey.”
The second night back home she told her mother about the botched abortion, and she took her daughter to the hospital the following morning for a full checkup.
“Oh, Honey. What on earth were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t.”
The news was not good, and never got better; her parents never longed for grandchildren within her hearing.
She met Daniel Medina in graduate school. She was working on her thesis on Philosophy vs. Religion, and he was studying law. “To be the best public defender Los Angeles has ever seen,” he told her. “And you?”
“Elementary school teacher.”
“You said your thesis was on Religion vs. Philosophy.”
“It is.”
“Why?”
“To answer some questions.”
“What questions.”
“I can’t tell you, or I’ll have to marry you.”
“So tell me.”
Kristina got her master’s degree in philosophy and then spent another year in a teacher’s college. She was overqualified to teach grades four to six, they said at Pasadena Polytechnic School, would she not rather teach in the upper school. No, she said, four to six is what she wanted to teach. The pay is less, they told her, and she, in turn, informed them that even if she tried really very hard she probably could not care much less.
She got the job she wanted in 1996, and she has been one of Polytechnic’s most beloved teachers ever since.
She and Daniel were married in 1997, and have navigated a mutually satisfying—though childless—marriage fairly successfully ever since. There was the one single mishap with Julian in 1998, just the one well-kept secret mishap.
And now she had been invited to Ruth’s tenth birthday party.
Mysterious Ruth.
:: 63 :: (Pasadena)
Kristina Medina arrived early, emanating her trademark layered multicolor as she rang the doorbell.
Still slightly uneasy: perhaps the invitation had not really been one.
One day during the last week before the holidays, Melissa Marten, picking up her daughter after school, had remarked that Ruth’s birthday fell during the Christmas break—a little unfair to children to have Christmas and their birthday so close together, don’t you think? (to which Kristina had shaken her head, no, she didn’t think so)—and, in pretty much the same breath—and most likely unintentionally, just polite chatter, really: why didn’t she drop by if she wanted to? The fourth. Two in the afternoon. Ruth would enjoy that.
Nothing further, however. Nothing written. Still, even if open to interpretation, it had been said, no doubts there; and now, here she stood, waiting for the door to open.
And she knew why:
She had something to tell Melissa Marten.
Who now swung the door open.
“Mrs. Medina,” she said, part surprise (which she had expected), part delight (which surprised and delighted her).
“Guilty as charged,” she said.
“You remembered.”
Kristina wasn’t quite sure how to take that. “Of course.”
“Ruth,” said Melissa back into the house, and quite loudly. “Look who’s here.”
Ruth came running round a corner and pulled up, skidding a little on the marble, but with a big smile, “Mrs. Medina.”
“In person,” she said.
“Come in,” said Melissa.
Kristina complied, then handed the present she had brought for Ruth, who curtsied, said “Thank you,” and then handed it to her mother, who apparently knew better what to do with it. “Thank you so much,” said Melissa.
Kristina smiled in return, then followed them into their living room.
She wasn’t sure what kind (or size) of a party she had expected, but there had not been many cars parked outside, nor were there many people inside. Three children, and their mothers by the looks of it, although one of those mothers seemed more like an older sister, or perhaps a baby sitter. She recognized Ruth’s uncle, Ananda—who wasn’t really an uncle, she was pretty sure of that, though she had yet to make the family connection, if there was one. Lastly, in the corner of the room sat a somewhat dour man, silently with a woman she pegged as a lawyer at both first, and second glance. And that was it.
The children looked a little uneasy, and uneasier still once they spotted a teacher in their midst.
The hostess did her best to engage and jolly the place up, but things felt a little strained, and Ruth, that mysterious child, seemed aware of that and a little at loss as to how to behave.
She spoke to the children, inviting them to come along, she had something to show them, apparently. Two accepted, but the third moved closer to her mother, and shook her head. A few minutes later Ruth was back, the pair in tow, no less uncertain for whatever Ruth had shown them.
A party, Kristina decided, that tried so hard to be one, but didn’t know how to.
Melissa, apparently reaching the same conclusion after a while, fell back on protocol: “Cake,” she announced cheerfully, and disappeared into the kitchen, soon to return with a gorgeous cake with ten burning candles. Someone other than Melissa started the song, and Kristina joined in, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Ru-uth, happy birthday to you.”
One deep breath and precise exhalation later, and the ten candles painted ten thin streaks of smoke into the air. “A wish,” someone said. “Yes, a wish,” someone else agreed. Ruth, obliging, closed her eyes and apparently wished for something.
Presents were opened and thanks were given. The dour man (Ruth’s father, Kristina decided), left for just a moment, then returned with a very large package, beautifully wrapped.
“Here you go, honey,” he said. “Happy birthday.” His lawyer friend (wife?) smiled and echoed the happy birthday.
Ruth did not rip the paper from the large present in expected frenzy, but somewhat expertly removed it, to expose the bicycle box. “A bicycle,” she said. “Thanks, Charles.”
“You’re welcome, honey,” said Charles’s wife (Kristina had spotted the rings). “I hope you like it,” said her husband.
“I do,” said Ruth. “I will.”
More cake was served. Soda paper cups were refilled. And then the mothers and the baby sitter realized what time it was and with best of wishes and thanks (and you’re welcomes) drifted out of the house and away.
The father and his wife also looked at their watches and decided things were over. Ruth was very polite to this couple, and thanked them again, assuring them that she would “get good use” of their present. Just the thing she would say.
And then only Kristina, the “uncle” Ananda, Melissa and Ruth remained. Melissa, discovering that Kristina had not left, seemed a little unsure as to why. Ruth seemed quite happy about it though, and Ananda smiled to himself.
“Mrs. Medina,” said Melissa. But didn’t add, “You’re still here.”
“I brought you something else,” said Kristina to Ruth, retrieved it from her handbag, and then held it out for Ruth to take.
“A Mortimer,” said Ruth, more impressed than surprised as she accepted the gift.
“Oh, my,” said Melissa. “These things are a fortune.”
“Not for teachers,” said Kristina, which was only partially true. Even with a generous educational discount, the Mortimer did not come cheap. And neither should it. Introduced in 2015 and perfected within the next two years, it was the first holographic, hand-held (it was hardly larger than paperback book) encyclopedic research tool the world had ever seen. Its content beautifully researched and presented (as well as constantly and automatically updated), the Mortimer soon became standard equipment for any serious student in just about any field, at least for those who could afford it.<
br />
“A Mortimer,” Ruth repeated.
Even her uncle stood up to get a closer look. “A Mark III,” he said. Also impressed.
“He has one,” Ruth explained to Kristina.
“A Mark I,” he said, almost apologetically.
“There is no way,” began Melissa, but a little too late. Kristina had already handed it to Ruth, who showed no signs of letting go, severing all strings. No going back on this.
“You shouldn’t have,” Melissa said again.
“A present to match the student,” said Kristina.
When Melissa didn’t seem to understand, Kristina said, “Do you have a moment?”
When Melissa didn’t understand, Kristina added, “Just a brief word.”
“Sure,” and smiled and gave Kristina her full attention. But she made no sign of moving, so Kristina said:
“Somewhere private?”
“Oh, sure,” now realizing the extent of the original request. “Of course.”
Kristina followed her host into the Kitchen, where Melissa cleared the table sufficiently for them to sit down by it. “Coffee?” she asked.
“That would be nice,” said Kristina.
It had started to rain outside. Not heavily, but hard enough that, here in the stillness of the kitchen, she noticed the soft drumming on the roof.
“Have you lived here long?” she asked.
Melissa, by the stove, arranging the coffee, turned to face her. “Yes. From before Ruth was born.”
“It’s a lovely house.”
“That it is. A bit big for us though.”
Then silence returned, a thousand rain drums in tow. Melissa brought two white coffee mugs down from a cupboard, then poured fresh coffee. “Milk? Sugar?” she asked.