Miss Buddha (23 page)

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.

“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.”

Evans didn’t reply.

“Thanks, David,” said Dexter. “Thanks for
your help, and sorry for the trouble.”

“Not at all.”

Dexter stabbed at the intercom button. Hit
it on the second try. “Get me Charles,” he said.

“Will do,” said Rachel.

:

Charles was sweating. He hated that, he
really hated that. He would have given almost anything to appear
cool and calm, to not have this carpet of beads sprout on his
forehead to then gather and course down, some onto his nose, others
onto cheeks.

He pulled a paper napkin out of his drawer
and dabbed his forehead with it. Then his cheeks. Tossed it,
reached for another, and again wished for his nerves to settle
down. They didn’t even listen. He was on his own, seemed to be
their message.

“Now,” Rachel had said. He wants to see you
now. It really was embarrassing, treated like this, like a
five-year old. “Now.” She had seemed a little embarrassed at
telling him, but not much.

And a Dexter-Now meant precisely that: Now.
He had to comply. No choice in the matter.

He dabbed his forehead again, rose,
straightened his back and then his tie.

Made his way. Knocked. Entered. Closed the
heavy door behind him.

“Sit. Son.”

Sat.

“You’ve made me look a bloody fool.”

Charles did not track. Just knew something
bad was coming, and he repressed the urge to shield his head with
his arms and hands. Said nothing. Waiting for more.

“Like an utter idiot.”

And for more.

His father picked up a pencil and looked at
it, studied it, spoke to it: “An absolute fool.”

“What, Dad?”

“What?”

“Yes.”

“Melissa.”

“What about her?”

“Evans just called me.”

Charles didn’t answer.

“He thinks
you’re
bloody
delusional.”

“What?”

“Perhaps not in so many words, but reading
between the lines.”

A bead on his nose tickled. He dried his
palms on his trousers. “I heard her,” he said.

“So you keep telling me.”

“I know what I heard.”

“Apparently.”

“I know what I heard, Dad.”

“So you say.”

“I am not crazy.”

“I sure as hell hope not.”

“Dad. What are you saying?”

“Evans gives your wife a clean bill of
mental health. Nothing wrong at all. Not in the least. He did,
however, suggest having a chat with you.”

“Why?”

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?”

“I am not crazy, Dad. I know what I
heard.”

“Well, that story doesn’t seem to fly. I
don’t know. No, I really don’t know what the hell you heard her
say. But you’ve made a mess of it. She could sue you for this, you
know.”

“She wouldn’t.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

He dried his palms again. “That’s
ridiculous.”

“Precisely.”

“What do you mean?”

“The whole thing, you included.”

“I know what I heard, Dad.” Sticking to his
guns.

“If I were you, I’d apologize. To her. And
you’d better make it sound good. And to Evans, for wasting his
time.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can.”

“But you were the one,” he began.

“I know what happened,
Charles.
I’m
not
the idiot.”

“You called him.”

“I know I called him.”

“So?”

“So, apologize to your wife and Doctor
Evans, and get on with it.”

His father took a closer look at the pencil
he had yet to let go of. Then swiveled his chair to face the
windows. Audience over.

Charles rose. Left. Hated.

Wasn’t about to apologize to anyone.

::
54 :: (Pasadena)

Melissa startled a little at the key in the
front door. She heard him enter the house. He was home early. She
glanced at the kitchen clock. Very early.

She listened for—was in
some way hoping for—the normal
I’m
home
, but it never came. Instead the front
door shut softly and he entered the kitchen without a
greeting.

She turned to face him, but he didn’t seem
to notice. Instead he went to the refrigerator, took a long look
inside as if looking for some answer, or something he had lost,
then closed it again without helping himself to anything. Finally,
he looked at Melissa. A dark, unfriendly look which seemed to not
quite recognize her, as if trying to place her face among a host of
unremembered ones of his past.

“Charles,” she said. “Are you all
right?”

“No,” he said after a moment. “I don’t think
I am.”

She was going to ask why, but he did not
stay. Instead, he left the kitchen and after many slow steps
Melissa heard him close the bedroom door behind him.

:

That night was the first time in their
marriage that, while both at home, they slept in separate beds.
Charles emerged from their bedroom toward evening, and went
straight to the garage, where he unearthed a camping bed, which he
brought to the den. Moments later he closed the den door behind him
and did not come out again until morning—before Melissa was
awake.

Strained days and evenings turned into
strained weeks, as Charles grew increasingly sullen. He rarely
spoke. Some nights he did not come home. Other nights Melissa could
smell alcohol in his wake.

She tried to approach him several times, but
each time he faced her with dark, unfriendly silence. There was
nothing to talk about, it said. Sometimes he said this aloud.

Several times she was about to tell
him—though, tell him what, precisely, she asked herself. Tell him
that he had not been mistaken, had indeed heard her address Ruth as
an adult, she answered. But she never did. Not that Ruth—nor
Ananda, for that matter—ever told her not to, but she knew that
telling him would, or at least could, endanger much. And so she
lived with her lie, while Charles settled deeper into his gloomy
silence.

::
55 :: (Los Angeles)

Sarah Gray owned the Los Angeles apartment
she lived in. The correct word would be condominium. Three years
back, with money garnered and saved over several frugal years, she
had bought it outright at an estates auction and had since
renovated it to her precise, and well-documented image of good
living. It was now worth three times what she had paid for it, and
this fact lit up many of her long days.

She was a fourth-year
associate at
Nesbit, Kuugler, and Stroan,
heading up her own team of hospital law specialists, and rumored to
be on the fast track for partnership. The firm—recognizing
talent—had recruited her at a UCLA campus event during her final
year in law school, which she graduated
summa cum laude
.