Miss Buddha (11 page)

“But I worry about the father.”

“So do I, Ananda.”

::
18 :: (Tusita Heaven)

I had meant to wait.

I had meant to let a full five thousand
terrestrial years go by before returning. I had meant to leave the
Dhamma time to take root and sprout and grow exponentially to touch
all beings on Earth before returning. But even through the bliss of
Tusita Heaven I could sense that all was not well. The Dhamma had
not taken proper root, and it was not spreading as I had planned
and hoped, especially not into the West.

One man, a carpenter’s son
from Nazareth in Judea, had ventured East seeking the Dhamma, and
although he found much of it, what he brought back was only a
fraction, only its surface. The still and fruitful waters beneath
he left behind in India and Tibet, thinking them perhaps too
profound for his fellow countrymen. As a result, what he
did
teach—and how those
teachings were interpreted: often to suit political rather than
religious ends—seems to have brought about more misery and violence
than any treatise on the virtues of war could ever have
done.

Another man, Mohammed of Mecca, further
shallowed the Dhamma to a point where his followers finally invaded
India to destroy any trace of it.

And destroy it they did, burn every library
and monastery they did, until every single charcoaled trace was
gone, except for that one copy preserved by farseeing monks who,
sensing the threat, some years earlier had fled south and across
water to Ceylon. This far Mohammed’s minions did not rage, and so,
to this day, the Dhamma is preserved; but, alas, only used by a
few, and by almost no one in the West.

All, indeed, was not well.

That is why I returned as Bruno. I had to
see for myself, I had to verify my misgivings.

And this is what I saw:

I saw men using red-hot irons to burn faith
into limbed and tortured souls.

I saw stakes firmly rooted amidst flames,
compelling what only has meaning if freely chosen.

I saw gluttonous and priestly bellies lined
with bribes and gifts extorted by empty promises of eternal
heavenly bliss, by meaningless threats of forever fires in hells
worse than anything previously imagined by the sickest of Indian
Brahmans.

I saw the teachings of this man Jesus—my
teachings stunted and crippled—gone terribly and sickeningly
wrong.

Offended beyond tolerance, I, as Bruno,
could not hold my tongue.

And so, I paid the price as I, too, came to
know the flames before I shed the smoldering Bruno—suspended to the
post by his iron necklace—to once again return here.

Thinking all this over—spending a Tusita day
and a night in deep meditation about the fading Sangha, the
Christian Church, the many wars, the colossal suffering, the
continued and intensified agony of these poor, poor souls—I saw
this, and I saw it clearly:

I would return.

My name would be Ruth Marten.

My mother’s name would be Melissa Marten.
She shone with a light mostly hidden, but her understanding ran
deep, and she could, yes she could accept me.

Charles Marten, my father, would never
understand. But then, that was not a requirement.

And now her water has broken, and they’re
rushing her off to hospital. Melissa, my mother.

::
19 :: (Pasadena)

The trick to this—and I wonder why they never
catch on—is to not take possession until after the body is
delivered.

If you want to learn all
about
true
headache—and apparently most do—then, go ahead, take
possession pre-delivery. Take up fetus- or even embryo-residence.
Firmly entrench yourself and wrap those sensory channels around you
like you’d hug a blanket against the cold. Then go for that
head-first (hopefully) slow slide down the birth canal and
out:
squeezed
takes on a whole new meaning. Your head so vised it actually
changes shape and exits pointed. Coned. And that, believe me, that
hurts like, well, it really hurts. That’s probably why they all
cry, coned head hurts. Suffering from the first.

I have learned this lesson. That is why I
wait.

I see the car. Melissa is sprawled in the
back, uncomfortable, a little scared, hurting, sweating, asking
where they are. How far to go. How long to go. And please hurry.
Then comes another contraction and she submerges again and suffers
some more.

Charles, driving, does not answer. Nor does
he turn around.

No, I realize, this is not Charles. Someone
else is driving the car. A neighbor, perhaps, or a friend. Whoever
is driving this car does not turn around, does not answer, but
concentrates very hard on just driving, on just driving as fast as
possible. Tries to keep the car on even keel, smoothly flowing, by
will alone; as if a stash of nitroglycerin was loosely placed in
the back, not Melissa Marten. A pothole, a sudden stop, and they’d
explode. Still, they have to go fast, she knows that, the driver,
for Melissa is really worked up back there and could erupt any
moment.

The neighbor, or whoever does this driving,
must have called ahead for as they pull in to the emergency entry,
the hospital staff is waiting for her, gurney at the ready. The car
eases to an explosion-free stop and many willing hands—well
coordinated and full of “done-this-before”—ease Melissa out of the
car and onto the rolling bed.

The car moves off to the parking lot, while
I follow the birthday train in through the large sliding
(electronically, photo-sensored) doors. Melissa screams now as a
new contraction takes over. Nurses exchange words and one of them
consults a clipboard. They decide upon a room.

A doctor appears. Most likely Doctor Ross.
She takes a look at Melissa, takes her hand, touches her forehead,
says things, comforts her. Ten minutes she says to her—while for
some reason she holds up two fingers, for the nurse’s
benefit—she’ll see her in ten minutes, she says. The nurse will get
her ready.

Melissa does not answer, but she tries to
smile.

And true to her word, ten minutes later
she’s back, examining Melissa now, talking to herself or the nurse,
saying six centimeters (holding up six fingers—getting the count
right this time). It’ll be a little while yet, this to Melissa, who
does not listen so well right now.

So the doctor comes forward, takes Melissa’s
hand again and says, “You’re six centimeters dilated, honey, it’ll
be another hour, my guess, or more, before you’re ready.”

Melissa, as another contraction surges
through, almost screams, no, she does scream, “I am ready now.”

The doctor does not answer, but neither does
she let go of her hand. Nice touch, I think.

Then the contraction recedes, and Melissa
returns to a semi-sentient state. “I’ll be back soon,” says the
doctor.

The nurse stays with her, asking her if she
needs something. Water, a fruit perhaps?

Melissa looks at her as if the nurse had
spoken some alien tongue, not sure what to make of the woman. And
here—so soon?—comes a brand new contraction, trying to outdo all of
its predecessors.

Melissa screams.

This goes on for a while.

Then the doctor returns, takes another look
and says, “Oh, my,” to herself, and partially to Melissa, too. To
the nurse she says, “Okay, we’re ready.”

Birth follows. Melissa, on the crest of
another contraction (I can see my head now, crowned, as they say)
asks where the hell is Charles, and gets no reply.

And then, there I am, Ruth Marten, weighing
in at the national average of seven and a half healthy pounds and
screaming her head off. I’m going to let the head pain subside a
little before heading in (pardon the pun).

Which it does, and she no longer cries.
Another nurse hands her to Melissa who cradles her to her breast,
and Melissa looks as happy as I’ve ever seen a human being
look.

Now, I take possession.

Now I am Ruth Marten.

::
20 :: (Pasadena)

Melissa woke up from yet another brief
slumber.

First into the soft hum of hospital
equipment, and then—closer to the surface now—into the afterglow of
having brought new life to the world, new life into the
universe.

The hum, if the ear could see, would perhaps
appear like a varicolored mist, expanding from all directions and
of all sorts: rising from heart-monitors, ventilation systems,
distant elevators racing (or laboring) up and down—their doors
opening, some smoothly, some with little squeaks, and closing—to
computer and other equipment fans, capped by the
high-pitched—beyond hearing almost—frequency of various computer
screens and like instruments. An ocean of sound, as pervasive as
silence, rising and filling every crevice of her room, mixing with,
and mixed by, the light of seeing her world anew.

In truth, Melissa heard none of these
sounds—or truer still, she heard them but they did not touch her.
They were of a different dimension, one that could only partially
gain purchase in the light of her new knowing.

Her private dimension was one of expansive
joy, threatening to drown her, but she didn’t mind. She didn’t mind
one bit.

It had gone well; those were Doctor Ross’
words. Very, very well in fact, especially for a first baby. No
tearing. Hard to believe, even, she said, after such a quick birth.
The doctor was amazed, that’s the impression Melissa got, awed
almost. But always on the run, soon off to see to some other event
with a smile, a thumbs-up, and a “Good job” a turn, and then there
was only the tail of her white coat, and then it was gone, too.

Job? thought Melissa.
A
miracle
is what
it was.

And, sleeping now against her breast, this
miracle, Ruth. Her very own little life. Only the top of her head
visible to her, nestled. Separate from her now, delivered from her,
and she had a bit of trouble coming to grips with the mechanics of
that, with the event, and how things had so suddenly changed. For
when inside her, Ruth had not been separate, had been part of her—a
kicking part of her, but part of her nonetheless. No distance
between them. None.

The same ecosystem.

But no more. Not once the umbilical cord was
cut, the miracle free to breathe on her own.

The umbilical cord, which Charles was
supposed to have cut, that was how they had planned it. Talked
about often enough even for Charles to not forget.

And with that, almost
violently, the room returned, and a new mood settled heavily on her
heart: They had talked about it at length, and he had promised.
Promised, yes, absolutely, he said, promised there would be nothing
stopping him, he said, not his work, not his parents—especially not
his father, nothing. Of
course
, he would be there. They were
in this to
gether
,
holding her hand as he told her all this, a little preachy,
actually.

Melissa, stroking the little downy head of
her daughter, didn’t even know where her husband was.

:

Though not for long.

For here he comes, flurried, flustered,
flowered.

Melissa looks up, startled by the commotion.
And after him, the nurse, “Sir, sir,” which Charles, of course,
being Charles, ignores.

“Oh, honey,” he almost shouts from just
inside the door, in that voice that made it sound like: why didn’t
you tell me?—ever so subtly shifting blame her way. “I am so sorry,
so sorry.”

She doesn’t answer. She has nothing to
answer him with.

“I am so sorry,” he
repeats. “It wasn’t due until next week. I had to go to San
Francisco for the day. I
had
to.”

Still, she says nothing.

“How are you, honey? How did it go?”

Finally, she says, choosing
perhaps to misinterpret, “
It?
”

“What?”

“It?
”

“What are you talking about?”

“Ruth is not an
it
.”

“Who said she is an it?”

“You just did, Charles.”

“No, honey, I didn’t.”

Suddenly Melissa wants him out of the room,
wants his shiny face and perfect teeth and oily hair and stocky
frame as far away from her, and her daughter, as possible. He had
promised, on his bloody heart, hope to die, and, again—such bloody
par for the course—he had not kept his promise.

Had it been about something else, perhaps
she could have forgiven him, but this was different. So she says,
with a measured voice, one precise word after another:

“I want you to leave.”

“I just got here.”

“Really. I want you to leave.”

“I want to see the baby.”

“It?”

“Ruth.” He says, now getting a little
agitated.

Melissa cradles her daughter a little
tighter, as if to protect her from her father. “Later,” she says.
“I need to rest. Come back later.”

“I want to see her, now. She’s my daughter,
too. I want to hold her. I have a right to.”

“Later,” she says again. Loud enough this
time to engage the nurse, alert by the door, and now approaching
the bed:

“Look, sir. She needs to rest now.”

He turns to her. “Don’t you ‘look, sir’ me,”
he says, loudly. “I am the father.”

With observable effort, the nurse bites her
tongue. There are many things she can say at this point, but she
says none of them. Instead, she repeats, “She needs to rest now.
You will have to come back later.”

“This is my
wife
, this is my
child
,” he says, raising
his voice further. “I have a
right
.”