Miss Buddha (26 page)

Ears to hear words slung back across air
from other lungs, other tongues. Language. This jumble of many
strains that calls itself English.

To be honest, I prefer Pali, where by long
and deep agreement words rise out of and mean things more essential
to life. It was (and to some extent still is) a language where
nuances were spiritual and aesthetic rather than material and
economic.

Still, English is a bountiful garden,
replete, wild and untamed, and often profound enough to serve quite
well. And if individual words do not burrow as deeply as those of
Pali, they easily and nimbly, and willingly—I have come to
discover—combine to metaphor to take you deeper, as deep even as
Pali, and sometimes even deeper still, as the target image forms
just beyond their borders.

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
suff
ered, 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.

“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.