Miss Buddha by Ulf Wolf Page A

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