Miss Buddha (22 page)

Easing Man up to pre-game levels is my task.
A near impossible task since you cannot tell or educate Man into
rising. He must look, and see, and experience the string of
ever-larger truths by himself and for himself, until finally he
arrives at The Truth, and then he will—again—know all. You cannot
guide, only point. This is a lesson I have learned more than
once.

That is why I am here. To point, using
current sensibilities as finger.

::
50 :: (Glendale)

He felt the urgency, for the Buddha Gotama
not so much whispered as thundered his message, and Ananda nearly
reeled from it, as if from physical impact.

“Ananda. They have taken her.”

“Who?”

“Charles, his father, a doctor and a nurse.
They arrived, sedated her and led her away.”

“How?” Ananda was trying to understand what
exactly had happened. “Why?”

“Charles heard her, saw her, speak to me.
You know that. He told his father. His father called the
doctor.”

“And they have taken her away?”

“Yes.”

“And you?”

“What about me?”

“Where are you?”

There was a moment of silence while Ruth
considered the question. “They seem to have forgotten about
me.”

Ananda shook his head both physically and
mentally. Then said:

“What will they do?”

“I don’t know, Ananda.”

“This is not good.”

“No, this is very far from good.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“You must prevent whatever might happen to
her. You must find her and keep her safe.”

“I will.”

:

Easier thought than done. For try as he
might, Ananda could not even discover where they had taken her,
much less do anything about it. He told Ruth as much.

Ruth in turn informed him that someone had
apparently remembered that she was alone, for a nurse of some sort,
nice enough woman, she said, had arrived to keep an eye on her.

So, one less thing to worry about, said
Ananda.

The Buddha Gotama agreed.

::
51 :: (Pasadena)

The descending mist thickened and darkened at
a terrifying rate, and soon there was no rising surface to cling
to. A disembodied voice that might have been Ruth’s, or that might
have been vivid memory, muffled its way through murky waters but
made no sense to her, and it, too, soon rose into some nebulous
nothing far above.

Melissa didn’t feel her knees buckle, nor
did she feel supporting hands seize her and prevent her collapse
onto the floor. Nor could she tell being led by these same two
pairs of hands out of Ruth’s room and out of the house.

The ride to the Greenwood Clinic took
precisely twenty-three minutes. In normal traffic that ride would
have taken less, but being a Friday there were more cars on the
street than usual.

Melissa noticed none of this.

Once arrived, she was registered by Dr.
Evans and wheeled to a private (and lockable) room, which the staff
did indeed lock as part of clinic policy for all new
admissions.

Melissa noticed nothing for the rest of the
day and for none of the night.

:

She was back in the maternity ward—that was
her first thought on waking the following morning, Ruth nearby. It
was the ambience of the room, the starchy sense of curtained
cleanness that spoke of hospital to her, the heavy door, the little
night table.

She saw all this as if
through a heavy—though painless—hangover, each detail lumbering its
way through to her with effort. Then something, possibly the sound
of a key turning, dissolved illusion. Ruth was
not
nearby. Terrible memory tried to
get her attention. She sat up, afraid now. The door open and
someone vaguely familiar entered. And spoke:

“Good morning, Melissa. How are you
feeling?”

A doctor, obviously. Parts of her returned
to the maternity ward, but not with certainty. “Not sure,” she
heard herself saying. Then she came fully awake. “Who are you?” she
said.

“My name is Doctor Evans,” said the man.

She believed him. Or not. He was too well
dressed under his loosely worn white coat to convince.
“Doctor?”

“Yes.”

And now memory returned. “Where is
Ruth?”

“She is fine.”

“I asked
where
,” she
said.

“She’s at home.”

“And where am I?”

“You are at the Greenwood Clinic,” said
Evans.

She knew of it, of course.

“What the hell am I doing here?” she said.
“And what did you give me?”

“You’re upset,” he observed.

“Damn right. Please answer my question.”

“Your husband, and father-in-law, thought it
best. Well, they thought you might need a rest. As for the second
question, a mild sedative.”

The little man seemed a congregation of
contradictions. Too well-dressed for his coat; too short for his
confidence; too shiny for his expertise.

“There was nothing mild about it,” said
Melissa.

“Oh, it was mild, all right,” said Evans.
“But quite a lot of it, perhaps.”

“You’re splitting words.”

Evans ignored that. “So
how
are
you
feeling?”

As if he wanted to know, or actually did.
“Tired,” she answered. “Hung over.”

“Sorry about that.”

“I need to go home.”

“I’m afraid you can’t leave right now.”

“And why is that?”

“It’s called a seventy-two-hour hold.”

“What?”

“Your husband requested a seventy-two-hour
hold.”

“Charles requested a seventy-two-hour hold?
That I be held here?”

“Yes.”

“That is ridiculous. Illegal and
ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous, perhaps, from your point of
view. But quite legal I assure you. Your husband signed all the
requisite paperwork, witnessed by your father-in-law.”

“And the reason?”

“Delusional behavior.”

“As in?”

Here the little man hesitated, not sure how
to answer.

“What am I being delusional about, Doctor
Evans?”

Reluctant to plunge: “Let’s discuss that
later.”

“No, let’s discuss this now,” she said. “I
want out of here.”

“I’ve explained,” began Evans.

“Seventy-two-hour hold, so you’ve said. I
would call it kidnapping.”

“Please, Melissa.”

“Mrs. Marten, to you Doctor.”

Getting flustered, edged slightly out of his
(rather large) comfort zone, the doctor said, “Really, Mrs. Marten.
There’s no need for this.”

“I want to call my lawyer.”

“I’m afraid that is not possible.”

“I am of legal age. Charles has no business
signing papers on my behalf, I am not incompetent.”

“That’s precisely what we want to
determine,” interrupted Evans.

“What?”

“That’s why the hold. To determine
competency.”

“You have one hell of a nerve, Doctor.”

Sliding a little father out of his comfort
zone, hands seemingly rising of their own volition in defense:
“Don’t get upset, please.”

“And why the hell not? I am here against my
will.”

“For your own good.”

“Jesus.”

“No, really.”

Melissa made to slide out of bed, but on
discovering that the flimsy gown barely covered her, she changed
her mind. She sat straight up, however. All alert now, and quite
aware of the reason, she asked, “Why, Doctor, why am I here.
Precisely? What is my delusion? And I don’t want to talk about it
later, I want to talk about it now.”

The little man debated internally for a
brief moment. Then reached for his cellphone and selected a speed
dial. “Reschedule my morning,” he said. “Yes,” he said after some
apparent consternation the other end of the line, “all morning.” He
listened for another short while. Then said, “Thanks,” and
disconnected.

“Let’s get you dressed,” he said to
Melissa.

“I’m not a kid,” she answered. “And I’m not
incompetent.”

It actually seemed that Doctor Evans might
agree. “I’ll have a nurse bring your things,” he said. “I’ll see
you in my office in a few minutes. She’ll take you.” Then, as if an
afterthought, “Are you hungry?”

:

In her own clothes again, Melissa was—well,
perhaps not enjoying, but at least not disliking her breakfast. She
did however dislike the rather large woman who brought the food and
then stayed to watch her eat. Obviously her keeper, lest she made a
break for it.

“Relax,” she told her between bites. “I’m
not going anywhere.”

The large woman did not answer, apparently
not amused. Once Melissa had finished her meal, she took the tray
and placed it by the door. Then said, “Follow me.”

Doctor Evans’s office was what Melissa
thought of as well-appointed. It had built-in bookshelves, a
beautiful desk, several tasteful paintings (a horse in each one),
and a nice view of the clinic lawns, which seemed extensive—knowing
only the street-side of the facility, she would not have
guessed.

Doctor Evans rose as the nurse ushered her
in. “All breakfasted?” he asked.

“Yes, thanks.”

“Sit, please.” Indicating a large leather
armchair.

She did.

“Coffee?”

“Thanks, I just had some.”

“Do you mind if I?”

“Not at all.”

“You sure you don’t want some?”

“I’m fine.”

Doctor Evans stabbed an intercom button and
ordered his “usual” from what must have been his secretary, for a
well-dressed young woman (who could easily qualify as a secretary
poster-girl) soon brought coffee in a silver pot, on a silver tray
which also held—Melissa would wager—a bone china cup.

“I feel a little awkward drinking alone,” he
said, again inviting Melissa to join him.

“That’s perfectly fine with me,” she said.
She didn’t smile, but could have.

Evans, however, shot her a quick glance, and
did smile. He added two bits of sugar using a silver tong, and then
began stirring with a silver spoon. All very silvery, she thought.
Then, when Evans maintained his silence, she said: “You first.”

Again, the doctor smiled, as if at some
private joke. Then he made a decision and finally spoke:

“Your husband saw, and heard, you speak to
your baby.”

“And?”

“And, it wasn’t baby talk, exactly.”

“What was it then?”

Evans replaced his bone china cup, opened up
a folder, and referred to his notes: “You were asking your daughter
why she had chosen you, and from where she had seen you. And, yes,
you mentioned auras and glows.” Then added, as if by protocol,
“according to Charles.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Melissa.

“Ridiculous or not, that’s what he told
me.”

Melissa shook her head slowly, then leaned
back into the chair, which moaned a leathery moan. Then she said:
“Perhaps you are evaluating the wrong person.”

The doctor looked up,
mildly startled. Then, by the expression on his face, it struck
Melissa that he might agree. “What exactly
did
you say?” he asked.

“When?” said Melissa, though she knew
perfectly well.

“When he walked in on you
and your daughter,” said Evans. “What
were
you telling her?”

“I wasn’t
telling
her anything. I
was speaking to her, mothers do that, you know. She’s a baby,
Doctor Evans. Four, going on five, months old.”

“I know that.”

“I don’t remember precisely what I said.”
Then she paused, considered things. “Charles has been under a lot
of stress lately,” she said. “Working in a firm where your father
is a managing partner is not a formula for peace of mind.”

Evans made another note.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
asked Evans.

“What do you think I’m saying?”

“That Charles,” he was casting about for the
right word, “imagined this.”

“He did not imagine me speaking, no. But as
for what I said to my daughter, yes, I guess that’s what I’m
saying.”

Evans made another note. Sipped his coffee.
Made one more note.

“I’ve changed my mind,” said Melissa.

Evans looked up at her, surprised, almost
suspiciously.

“About the coffee,” she said.

“Ah,” Evans said, seemingly relieved.

“It does smell very good,” she said. “Even
from here.”

“It
is
good,” he said, and ordered a cup
for Melissa as well.

Another silver tray, bone china, silver
spoon. Amazing. The well-dressed woman poured for her, and Melissa
thanked her very much. Then took a sip. “Agreed.”

“What?” said the secretary.

“It is very good,” said Melissa, addressing
Evans but including the secretary as well with her praise.

“Thanks,” said the secretary.

“I told you,” said Evans, then went back to
study the papers on his desk. He shuffled through several sheets of
them, then stacked them and replaced them neatly into a folder,
which he slowly closed.

Then he said, looking directly at her, “You
are telling me the truth, are you not?”

“Why would I lie?” said Melissa.

“Well, that’s sort of obvious, isn’t
it?”

“Yes,” she said. “I guess it is.” Then
added, “But no, I am not lying. And no, I am not delusional. And
yes, I’m competent. Very, in fact.”

Doctor Evans sat back in his chair, which
creaked a little from old age. Then he asked Melissa’s question for
her: “So, why are you here?”

“Beats me,” said Melissa.

“Me, too,” said Evans.

:

In the taxi home (which Evans actually
offered to pay for, though Melissa declined), her feelings were
gravely mixed.