Miss Buddha (12 page)

“She, too, has a right,”
says the nurse, now raising her voice as well. “And right now,
after going through what she has, and alone at that,”
stressing
alone
,
“She has the right to rest.” There is an edge to her voice, sharp
enough to cut and do some damage.

Charles, uncertain at this point, looks
around for somewhere to toss the flowers he still holds out in from
of him like a sword. Finally, he flings them onto the chair.

“I’ll be back later,” he says to Melissa.
“Be sure to get some rest,” as if leaving had been his idea all
along.

“You okay?” asks the nurse once Charles had
left.

“Yes.”

The nurse almost says something about
Charles, but the professional in her takes over, and instead only
asks Melissa if she needs anything.

“No, I’m fine,” says Melissa, still cradling
Ruth. Then adds, “He can be a real piece of work, that one.”

::
21 :: (Pasadena)

Taking possession of a human body is not
unlike working your way into a wet suit that’s a little too small.
Every inch feels a little tight. Stretches a little. Constricts.
Does let you in, but barely. Does let me in, and I settle—filling
the little body, sort of strapping myself in. I think briefly of a
Formula One driver, slipping into his car, built to his very
dimensions and not leaving an inch to spare: all the controls
within immediate reach.

Settling, harnessing, flexing, adjusting,
and then: ready.

I find the lungs—the first thing you need to
make your very own—and the muscles I need to fill them, and I
breathe in, and I breathe out, and I breathe in, and I breathe out,
and echoes of earlier lungs arise and there is a strange comfort in
a rhythm that for me is still only two beats old, then three, then
four.

And again, five.

My little fist-like heart, fresh and eager,
rushes blood to my lungs and seizes its fill of oxygen to rush
again to everywhere delivering. The little heart is proud, it is
strong, and it knows precisely what to do.

Other parts, waking up to responsibilities
mostly worn by Melissa during gestation, rub their eyes to the new
day and get with the program: liver, thyroid, pancreas, stomach,
eyes, and ears, all stretching and flexing and synchronizing, each
taking on their role, setting out to do.

I am aware of all this, of course, for I am
aware. Period.

I am aware of the room, aware of Melissa’s
warm breast, and of the strong—still youthful—heart beneath calmly
sending her blood on its way, a lot more and a lot farther (as
hearts go) than mine.

And I am aware of Melissa
herself, of her wondering—seriously now—how to go on living with a
man who did not even keep his promise to be with her at my birth. I
see—no, it’s more than see, I
live
—I live her pictures, as she
imagines a life without him, seeing herself and me in a different,
Charles-less world. I’m four or five years old in this projection,
happily uncaring about my father. She, too, is happy. Glad she made
the decision to leave him.

Then reality—in the form of a nurse—arrives
and her dream disperses, evaporating fragments into mist into
nothing. Melissa opens her eyes and, after a moment, answers, “No,
thanks. I’m fine.”

The nurse answers, “Okay, Sweetie,” and
leaves.

Melissa is left with the dream-less fact of
Charles the promise-breaker. Her heart, besieged, finds no other
outlet than driving blood along a little harder. For she does not
know what to do about this. Dreaming will not help, she reminds
herself, dreaming is fine, but it really doesn’t accomplish
anything. She dreams too much, she tells herself, and then she
sighs so deeply my head rises as upon a cloud, and then sinks
again, against warm skin and a soft, Charles-driven despair.

::
22 :: (Pasadena)

Charles did not have the
right change for the hospital parking attendant. Or rather, he did
not have enough
change
, and the obstinate woman could not break a twenty. Who’s ever
heard of a parking lot unable to break a twenty?

“So, what do you suggest?” he said,
demanding, but not really expecting, an answer, not from these kind
of people; these are the best jobs they can get. And what money
they do make, they then money-order south of the border instead of
spending it here where it was earned and where it belongs.

At first she said nothing, just looked at
him with very dark and not exactly demure eyes, and for so long
that Charles took a deep breath as a prelude to repeating the
question.

Which apparently was her cue:

“I suggest you come up with the exact
change,” she said, brown finger pointing at the sign which spelled
out how much the company appreciated exact change, the word exact
underlined twice, and in red.

“There’s a car behind me,” said Charles.
“You had better let me through.”

“Not without paying,” said the woman. “I can
lose my job.”

“I am paying. I can give you a twenty.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “I don’t have
change for a twenty.”

“Well that’s your damn problem, isn’t
it?”

“Sir,” she began.

But Charles would have none it. “That’s your
responsibility. That’s your job. To provide change.”

“Look, sir,” she said. Loudly now. “I’ve had
a lot of customers handing me twenties. I gave them all the change
I had. Now I’m out of change.”

“Well, I’m another one,” said Charles, “and
you’d better come up with something better than that.”

The car behind him honked now, twice,
irritably. Charles looked behind him. Guy his age. None too
pleased. In a hurry, by the honk of it. Another car was pulling up
behind him, but then backed up and headed for a second payment
booth, now opening for business.

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t have the
change.”

“Why don’t you ask him,” said Charles,
meaning the second booth.

“I can’t leave here,” she said.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Charles and
scrambled out of the car. Strode over to the second booth. Waited
while the man—boy, really—inside finished handling his customer,
then broke in: “Could you split a twenty for me?” he asked.

When the boy—all pimples and grease; do
these people never shower?—looked at him blankly, Charles added,
“She doesn’t have any change.”

Without answering, or even giving any sign
that he had heard, the boy took the offered twenty and returned a
ten and two fives.

Charles, back in his car, sweating now from
the exertion and the unbelievable stupidity of some women and kids,
handed her one of the fives, expecting two dollars back.

“Sorry, sir,” she said. “I don’t have any
singles.”

It may be that for the barest moment he had
some choice, perhaps the choice not to erupt, but on some level he
took great pleasure in letting anger boil over into outrage, and
so: “Look here, you stupid, stupid cow. How stupid do you have to
be to work here, anyway? You sure as hell passed whatever test they
give you for that with flying colors. Why don’t you just go back to
where the hell you came from. Jesus.”

“I am calling security, sir.”

“Oh, forget it. Keep the goddamn
change.”

“Fine,” said the woman—and damn if he could
not detect a smile, or at least a hint of one, a smug one, in that
south-of-the-border face—and pressed whatever button they press in
these booths to raise the boom, letting him out.

He gunned the car, burning tire in an
attempt at angry smoke, and almost rear-ended a car suddenly in
front of him from the other lane. Oh, Christ, as he stepped on the
breaks, and squealed the tires again. He could see the driver stare
in his rearview mirror. Glare. Well fuck him.

Finally, out on the street. The traffic was
light this time of day. He just made the light, which always
pleased him. And the next one as well. He began to calm down, a
little.

Shook his head. Women. And Melissa, too.
Throwing him out of the hospital room. That was it, wasn’t it? She
threw him out. She and that nurse. He should file a complaint.
Really. An official complaint, on firm letterhead, that’d get their
attention. He was the father of the child for heaven’s sake. You
can’t throw a father out of his wife’s room, out of his daughter’s
room.

How was he to have known? She wasn’t due
until next week. They’d even marked it on the calendar. Well,
Melissa had marked it. She should have known. She should have told
him it was due today, before he left this morning. She was the one
having the thing—the girl, he corrected, glad Melissa hadn’t
listened in.

How was he to know, for
crying out loud? And now, this was all
his
fault, that he had to fly up to
San Francisco, and then, like an absolute idiot excuse himself to
fly back down when the call came from his firm that his wife was
having a baby, as in right now.

Talk about embarrassing. Talk about seeming
out of control. You can’t be out of control in this job—and if you
are, you sure as hell must not give that impression. He could hear
his father—the great lawyer—holding forth on the subject of control
between bites of whatever fish he was savoring that day. Always
fish. Best thing you can eat, son.

He almost missed the turn, but not quite.
Then almost ran a light.

Pulling in to his driveway he noticed he was
still sweating. The nerve of that woman. Of women.

He had remembered to buy flowers, though.
That was the right thing, the fatherly thing to do. So why was she
mad at him? How could it be his fault? Shook his head again, then
got out of the car.

He’d better check in with his office.

::
23 :: (Pasadena)

Melissa woke into a sunny, and a little
stuffy, Tuesday. For several heartbeats she had no idea where she
was.

The odd smells were unfamiliar, the
atmosphere a little too metallic.

Then she woke all the way, and looked up at
what must have stirred her. “How’re you feeling?” the nurse said
again. Melissa couldn’t quite make out her face, in shadow against
the bright window.

“Where’s Ruth?” said Melissa.

“She’s in the nursery,” said the nurse.
“Sleeping.”

“She’s fine?”

“She’s just fine.” Then, “Do you want some
breakfast?”

“What is it? The breakfast, I mean.”

“What do you want?”

“Coffee and toast.”

“Coming right up.”

“Has my husband called?”

“Twice. You were sleeping.”

“Did he leave a message?”

“No. Only that he’ll call back. You want to
speak to him when he does?”

Good question. He had brought flowers, and
he had seemed about as contrite as he’ll ever be. But he had not
kept his word, he had not been there, that was the
not-getting-away-from bottom line. Flowers don’t make up for broken
promises.

“No,” she said.

“I’ll be right back,” said the nurse.

For he had not come back. She had expected
him to. By the evening at least. What was wrong with him?

In his defense, Melissa had to concede, Ruth
had not been due for a week, and his firm does send him to San
Francisco for what seems no good reason at all, and often. Mostly
without warning. They had probably sprung it on him when he arrived
in the morning.

Oh, damn it. Even so,
he
should
have
been here. He
had
promised.

“Here you go, honey,” said the nurse,
sailing in with a tray in one hand, while swinging the little table
across with the other.

“Oh, thanks,” said Melissa.

“You’re welcome.” The nurse smiled, then
squeaked her way across the floor and out of the room. Must be very
polished, that floor, thought Melissa.

She should have asked for Ruth.

Taking a small sip of the steaming coffee,
and looking out through the window at a clear blue sky, she decided
to not stay angry with him. At the least she would talk to him when
he called back.

She buzzed for the nurse and then told her
as much.

The nurse nodded. No problem.

::
24 :: (Still River)

No, he told the switchboard, he was not
family. Bu the was a close friend.

“And your name, sir?”

“Ananda Wolf.”

“Just a second.”

A few clicks later Melissa came on the line.
“Ananda.”

“Yes.”

“I was early,” she said.

“Doctor Ross told me,”

“She called you?”

“No, I called her.”

“It just happened. Out of the blue,” she
said. Then added, “I wish you could have been here.”

“I would very much have liked to,” said
Ananda.

“Ruth was in a hurry,” she said.

“How are you? And how is Ruth?”

“I feel good. I feel more than good, I feel
blessed. But,” she added as if an afterthought. “Charles didn’t
make it.”

“What happened?”

“He was in San Francisco.”

Ananda didn’t quite know how to answer that.
He was not particularly surprised that Charles had managed to miss
the birth of his own daughter, but it was quite unpardonable.

“I’m so sorry,” is what he said.

“Well, so am I.”

“And how is Ruth?” he asked again.

“She is perfection,” said Melissa, and
Ananda could picture her smile.

“I’m sure she is,” he said.

“Are you coming down?”

“Perhaps in a few weeks,” he said.

“You have to meet,” said Melissa. “You and
your project.”

Ananda had to smile. She didn’t realize how
accurately she had put it.

“Yes, we do,” he said. “Soon.”

“She is the most perfect, most amazing, most
miraculous thing you’ve ever seen,” she said.