Miss Buddha (21 page)

“You answered me,” she said. “You said ‘Long
enough.’”

Charles carefully sliced off another
generous piece of syrupy French toast, guided it to his mouth and
began chewing. He did not look at Melissa, nor did he give any sign
that he had heard her.

“You answered me,” she said again, quite
loudly. “Said you saw.”

“I don’t know what I saw,” he finally
answered. “I was half asleep.”

“I am not crazy,” she said.

“I never said you were.”

“I am not crazy,” she said again. To which
Charles did not respond. Only chewed.

:

Ananda answered the phone almost
immediately, as if he had been expecting her call—which on
reflection, he might well have been.

“Charles saw me. He heard me talk to Ruth,”
she said.

“I know,” said Ananda. “She told me.”

“I tried to bring this up with him at
breakfast, to find out what he thought, but he doesn’t want to talk
about it.”

“Yet he is sure about what he saw?”

“Yes, he is.” Then, after a brief pause,
added, “What can I do, Ananda?”

He deliberated for a moment. “For now, not
much.”

“I really blew it.”

“Perhaps.”

“What should I do? What can I do?”

“I think you should act as normally as you
can.”

“As if nothing has happened?”

“As if nothing has happened.”

“You think he’d forget?”

“No, I don’t think so. But if you don’t
nourish what he saw, perhaps doubt will arise.”

“He did not want to talk about it,” she said
again.

“He’s probably afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Of you.”

She brought back the image of Charles
standing in the doorway to Ruth’s chamber, eyes agape, fear
apparent. A fear of what he had seen, or, as Ananda said, of her,
if indeed there was a difference. “Of the impossible,” she
said.

“Precisely.”

::
46 :: (Los Angeles)

It did not matter how important Charles told
Rachel it was, his father could not see him until eleven, and then
only for a few minutes. Rachel, his father’s secretary—a peerless
professional when it came to managing Dexter’s time—was adamant.
Impertinent, in fact, he thought.

But when those few minutes were up, Dexter
Marten called her and asked her to reschedule his eleven o’clock,
with his sincere apologies, something urgent had come up.

“Tell me again,” Dexter told his son. “From
the beginning.”

And Charles did. Melissa had been sitting by
the cot talking to their baby, he said—not baby-talk, not even
close. She was talking to Ruth as if she had been a grown-up, about
glows and auras and about why she had chosen her, and what she was
doing here.

“Are you absolutely sure about this?”

“Yes, Dad. Absolutely.”

Dexter shook his head, “This is not
good.”

“I know.”

“She sounds clearly,” he fished around for a
word, “disturbed.”

“I know.”

“But she brought it up at breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“And you, how did you respond?”

“First I tried to pretend it hadn’t
happened. Then I told her I was half asleep anyway.”

Dexter nodded his concurrence, probably the
best course of action. For once his son seems to have done the
right thing. Then he reached for his Rolodex—the electronic address
books so in vogue, especially among the secretaries, had yet to
gain his trust—and spun it around to Dr. David Evans,
psychiatrist.

He reached for the phone, punched a direct
outside line, and dialed the number.

“Who are you calling?” asked Charles.

Dexter did not answer, intent on the wall
behind Charles, listening attentively. The call was answered.

“Dr. Evans please.” A brief pause. “Dexter
Marten.” Another brief pause. “Tell Dave it’s urgent.”

His dad continued to study something beyond
his shoulder while Dave Evans apparently was persuaded to take the
call.

“David,” said his father. “Dexter here.” Yet
another pause, then, “Just a second. Let me put you on the speaker
phone.” His father pressed another button.

“What can I do for you?” said a deep voice
with what struck Charles as a faint Scottish accent.

“Turns out my son’s wife is a little
unbalanced,” said Dexter, “and could do with some treatment, at
least in my opinion.”

“Specifically?” asked Dr. Evans.

Dexter supplied the specifics, asking
Charles to corroborate now and then, which he did.

“I’d need to see her,” was the expected
reply.

“Today?” asked Dexter.

“Wednesday,” said Dr. Evans. “I’m booked
solid until then.”

“No chance of a slot?”

“Sorry, Dexter. I really can’t.”

“Okay, Wednesday it is. What time?”

Evans asked his secretary. Then said,
“Around two. I’ll have my nurse confirm. What’s her name, your
boy’s wife?”

“Melissa,” said Charles. “Melissa
Marten.”

“I’ll see her then,” said Dr. Evans, and
hung up.

::
47 :: (Pasadena)

Charles had no idea how to put it to her.

He really should have settled all this
yesterday, or even the evening after telling Dexter about it, but
ever since the incident—which is how he thought of it—he found his
wife if not terrifying, at least intimidating, and the right words
refused to reach his lips, much less leave them.

Now he was running out of time, and so—over
breakfast—he had no option but to simply state it: “You have a
doctor’s appointment at two-thirty.”

“What?”

“You have an appointment with Doctor Evans
at two thirty.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes, Honey, you do.”

“I never made any appointment. I don’t even
know a Doctor Evans.”

“Dexter does. Dexter did.”

Melissa seemed too stunned to answer, so
Charles explained, “About the other day, the Monday morning
thing.”

“What about it?”

“You know what happened, Melissa. And I did
see, and hear.”

“But you said.”

“I know what I said. I spoke to Dad about it
and he made an appointment for you.”

“Why?”

“To see what’s going on.”

“I know what’s going on.” Melissa sounded
certain.

“You do?” Charles was genuinely
surprised.

“Nothing’s going on, Charles. Absolutely
nothing.”

“That’s not what I’d call it.”

“Call what?”

“You know. Talking to yourself like that, or
to Ruth as if she were a grown-up.”

Melissa was about to say something, but
changed her mind. Instead she said, “I’m not going anywhere.” And
meant it.

“Yes, you are,” said Charles. And tried to
mean it.

:

This time Dr. Evans called his father, who
in turn asked Rachel to fetch Charles. Right away.

“Where is Melissa?” said Dexter, covering
the mouthpiece of the phone, as an anxious Charles arrived.

“I don’t know.”

“Let me tell you where she’s not,” said
Dexter. “She’s not seeing Doctor Evans right now.”

“I told her,” said Charles.

“I’m sure you did,” said Dexter, and waved
for him to leave his office.

Feeling like a ten-year old again, Charles
left, tail between his legs, hating his wife.

::
48 :: (Pasadena)

Two days later a large white car pulled up
outside the Marten’s Pasadena residence. For a number of minutes no
one emerged, then what seemed like a small crowed gradually formed
on the sidewalk, consisting of Dexter, Dr. Evans, Charles, and a
sizeable male nurse in jeans and tee shirt.

Melissa, feeding Ruth at the time, was
unaware of this arrival until she heard a key turn the front door
lock.

Ruth’s eyes flew wide open at the sound and
she spoke urgently into their shared room: “Beware, Melissa.”

She quickly returned Ruth to her cot, but
did not even have time to tuck her in before Dexter, followed by
Charles, Dr. Evan and the male nurse, entered Ruth’s little
chamber.

Melissa looked from her father-in-law to her
husband and back again. “What is the matter?” she asked. “Has
something happened?”

Dr. Evans and the nurse exchanged words too
softly for Melissa to hear. The nurse nodded an understanding.

“Nothing’s the matter,” said Dexter, and so
calmly that Melissa felt a tremor of warning. She looked at Charles
who would not meet her eyes, then back at Dexter.

“What are you all doing here?” She said.

What happened next exuded efficiency.
Charles, as if on cue, stepped aside to let Dr. Evans through,
while the male nurse, in three quick, ballet-like steps, appeared
behind Melissa and in the next moment had her arms pinned to her
sides in a bear-like hug.

The pinprick was lost in the flurry of
motions, and it was not until the curtain—gray, billowy, warm, and
heavy—begun descending that Melissa realized that Dr. Evans had
just given her an injection.

Ruth tried to say something—did say
something—that Melissa neither heard clearly nor understood. She
turned to look at her daughter, to ask her what she said—did ask
her what she said, aloud, battling with words that would not arrive
properly, nor in sequence, all through a mist enclosing her so fast
and so thoroughly that she never got to the end of her
question.

Dr. Evans and Dexter exchanged glances. Dr.
Evan’s glance said that Dexter had been right to call him, and
Dexter’s glance simply confirmed this. Charles was trying to catch
up with events when his eyes met Ruth’s.

For an instant something filled the room
that could not possibly be: an accusation in the eyes of a
four-month old girl.

But of course not. A trick of the light,
perhaps. Or a trick of the mind. Charles tried to forget, kept
trying for the rest of the day; though not successfully.

::
49 :: (Pasadena)

Even if I could have done something to
prevent this, I am not sure it would have been wise. In fact, I am
positive it would not have been wise.

From the moment I heard the front door open
and saw Charles, his father and the two other men enter my room, I
knew that they had come for Melissa, and that realistically, I
could do nothing to prevent this.

As a four-month old baby, how could I have
intervened? No, as Ruth I could have done nothing. Literally. Apart
from crying perhaps, and that would have achieved nothing.

As the Buddha Gotama? Yes, I could have
spoken. I could have raised my spiritual voice within these men and
told them the truth: Melissa was not delusional. We had had a
conversation. There is absolutely nothing the matter with her.

But that, for these men, would have amounted
to the Impossible, for—as far as modern mankind knows, and can
recall—there is no such thing, there is no room for such voices,
for such communication. The Impossible.

And I know from experience that humans
manage to stay rational only so long as, and only to the degree
that, they are not faced with and then overwhelmed by the
Impossible.

For forced to face what he then, against his
will, must concede is in fact so, Man is first blinded, then he
crumbles. It is as if for him everything that has taken place since
the Impossible was commonplace so many, many lifetimes ago, comes
crashing down upon him. All those lives. All those deeds, done by
and done to. All these eons, all this descent, all this accumulated
insanity, all this lived darkness now amass against him by the
Impossible once again—and here and now—proven Possible.

This he can neither fathom nor tolerate, and
so he falls apart and into madness.

And so he burns witches, wielders of
magic.

And so he kills saints, wielders of
miracles.

That is why, even though I, easily enough,
could have told them that Melissa was not crazy, that if anything,
they were, for believing such a thing—that is why I said nothing,
gave no sign that I was anything but Melissa’s four-month old baby,
oblivious to current events.

For had I said something, or had I done
something Impossible, a damage far worse would have been done, of
that I am sure.

Next, in an organized flurry of action,
Melissa was injected by the large male nurse and soon crumbled
beneath chemical onslaught. I tried to reach her, but was too late:
all windows closed, all curtains drawn.

For an instant my eyes then met Charles’,
and I saw rising alarm in them, his seeing in mine the accusative
awareness I must learn to hide—to protect not only Melissa, but
myself as well.

As her knees buckled, the doctor caught one
arm and the male nurse the other, and together they ushered her out
of the room.

Charles cast another look in my direction—as
if to confirm that he had imagined things—but no such luck. He
tried to rule out what he had seen in my eyes, but did not succeed.
I would not let him.

Shaken, he followed his father and my
kidnapped mother out the door.

:

Man, long before he became Man, was well
acquainted with the Impossible.

He knew the beauty of whispering across
distances and universes. He knew the magic of real dreams—not the
faint shadows cast by them upon current sleepers. But he chose—and
make no mistake, it was a conscious act of will—he chose to forgo
such innate powers for the sake of sensation.

And perhaps to cure boredom. Because the
constantly aware is never surprised, and surprise can sometimes be
desirable, is sometimes sought, and so, eons and eons later, Man
has now relieved his boredom to such an extent that life is a
constant battle for survival one moment to the next.

All to have a game—though unaware of which
game, or who are the players—for I believe that to have a game was
his intent all along.