Miss Buddha by Ulf Wolf

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