Miss Buddha by Ulf Wolf Page B

‘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 .”
    “She, too, has a right,”
says the nurse, now raising her voice as well. “And right now,
after going through what she has, and alone at that,”
stressing alone ,
“She has the right to rest.” There is an edge to her voice, sharp
enough to cut and do some damage.
    Charles, uncertain at this point, looks
around for somewhere to toss the flowers he still holds out in from
of him like a sword. Finally, he flings them onto the chair.
    “I’ll be back later,” he says to Melissa.
“Be sure to get some rest,” as if leaving had been his idea all
along.
    “You okay?” asks the nurse once Charles had
left.
    “Yes.”
    The nurse almost says something about
Charles, but the professional in her takes over, and instead only
asks Melissa if she needs anything.
    “No, I’m fine,” says Melissa, still cradling
Ruth. Then adds, “He can be a real piece of work, that one.”

:: 21 :: (Pasadena)
     
    Taking possession of a human body is not
unlike working your way into a wet suit that’s a little too small.
Every inch feels a little tight. Stretches a little. Constricts.
Does let you in, but barely. Does let me in, and I settle—filling
the little body, sort of strapping myself in. I think briefly of a
Formula One driver, slipping into his car, built to his very
dimensions and not leaving an inch to spare: all the controls
within immediate reach.
    Settling, harnessing, flexing, adjusting,
and then: ready.
    I find the lungs—the first thing you need to
make your very own—and the muscles I need to fill them, and I
breathe in, and I breathe out, and I breathe in, and I breathe out,
and echoes of earlier lungs arise and there is a strange comfort in
a rhythm that for me is still only two beats old, then three, then
four.
    And again, five.
    My little fist-like heart, fresh and eager,
rushes blood to my lungs and seizes its fill of oxygen to rush
again to everywhere delivering. The little heart is proud, it is
strong, and it knows precisely what to do.
    Other parts, waking up to responsibilities
mostly worn by Melissa during gestation, rub their eyes to the new
day and get with the program: liver, thyroid, pancreas, stomach,
eyes, and ears, all stretching and flexing and synchronizing, each
taking on their role, setting out to do.
    I am aware of all this, of course, for I am
aware. Period.
    I am aware of the room, aware of Melissa’s
warm breast, and of the strong—still youthful—heart beneath calmly
sending her blood on its way, a lot more and a lot farther (as
hearts go) than mine.
    And I am aware of Melissa
herself, of her wondering—seriously now—how to go on living with a
man who did not even keep his promise to be with her at my birth. I
see—no, it’s more than see, I live —I live her pictures, as she
imagines a life without him, seeing herself and me in a different,
Charles-less world. I’m four or five years old in this projection,
happily uncaring about my father. She, too, is happy. Glad she made
the decision to leave him.
    Then reality—in the form of a nurse—arrives
and her dream disperses, evaporating fragments into mist into
nothing. Melissa opens her eyes and, after a moment, answers, “No,
thanks. I’m fine.”
    The nurse answers, “Okay, Sweetie,” and
leaves.
    Melissa is left with the dream-less fact of
Charles the promise-breaker. Her heart, besieged, finds no other
outlet than driving blood along a little harder. For she does not
know what to do about this. Dreaming will not help, she reminds
herself, dreaming is fine, but it really doesn’t accomplish
anything. She dreams too much, she tells herself, and then