Miss Buddha

by Ulf Wolf

  And then, it was just past a town called Ontario, Gotama spoke again.

  “You are on your way, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long before you arrive?”

  “Two days.”

  “This is good, Ananda.” Then his friend said, “I have given this some thought.”

  “About how we do this?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “You are a writer, Ananda.” Not really a question.

  “Yes.”

  “Mainly fiction, but some non-fiction?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. This book will be non-fiction. It is about first-time mothers.”

  Although Gotama said no more for a while, Ananda didn’t answer, waiting for more.

  So Gotama elaborated. “A book like this requires research. You would need to follow, and chronicle, several first-time mothers from the inception of their child to its birth. Melissa is one of them.”

  Ananda mulled this a little while, nodding to himself as Ontario disappeared behind him, replaced by undulating forest. Yes, that would work. As always when Gotama spoke like this, not only did his words arrive, but with them the full meaning, the full scenario of what he meant, as if the words were only underpinnings to the full event, detailed and complete.

  “That will give me a good reason to stay in touch with her,” said Ananda.

  “Precisely.”

  “Where are you now, Gotama?”

  “I am still in Tusita.”

  “The sweet light,” said Ananda, remembering.

  “Yes,” said the Buddha. Then, “Drive carefully.”

  “I always do,” said Ananda.

  :: 15 :: (Pasadena)

  Ananda checked the address Gotama Buddha had given him against the well-polished brass numbers beside the large oak door, and satisfied that he indeed had the right house, he rang the equally well-polished brass doorbell.

  He could hear a gong sound deep within the house. Then silence. Then more silence. He pressed the doorbell again, and again heard the gong.

  Steps approached. The latch unlocked. The door swung open to reveal a tall, quite bulky man, like something very well-packed with dark complexion and black, shiny hair, slickly combed back.

  “Yes?” He took Ananda in with not friendly eyes; irritated would be the best description.

  By the size of the man, Ananda had expected a deeper voice, and one that didn’t seem to complain. He could hear a television set broadcasting some sports event—most likely a football game—from within the house, and now sounding as if someone just scored. The tall man looked at Ananda for an answer, turned to the inside of the house on hearing the commotion from the game, then back to Ananda.

  “My name is Ananda Wolf,” he said. “I am a writer. I am working on a book about first time-mothers, and I wonder if I could have a word with your wife?”

  Something else just occurred in the football broadcast, and the man turned again, anxious to get back to the game. He looked back at Ananda.

  “Amanda?” he asked. Trying to make things add up.

  “No, Ananda, with an n.”

  “Wait here.”

  The man thought of closing the door, but didn’t. Then he vanished. Ananda could hear him call out: “Melissa. Someone here to see you.” Then again, and louder this time, “Melissa.”

  Ananda heard fragments of a conversation in among the replay of the recent game commotion, and then she came to the door. Melissa Marten, Gotama Buddha’s mother-to-be.

  Blond and pleasant, was Ananda’s first impression. Quite tall—as women go, not thin, but not large either. Very blue eyes, as blue as Ananda had ever seen. Startlingly so. And not pregnant that he—or anyone else for that matter—could tell.

  Those startlingly blue eyes looked him over, trying to place him among memories, but without success. With a slight frown.

  “How can I help you?” she said.

  “My name is Ananda Wolf,” he said again. Then smiled, and added, “That’s Ananda with an n. I am a writer.”

  Those very blue eyes were taking this in, intent on his reason for being there. Expecting more.

  “I am writing a book about first-time mothers,” he continued. “And part of my research is to interview, and follow the progress of, so to speak, well, first-time mothers.”

  Listening to himself stumble over his less than graceful introduction, Ananda swallowed, then drew breath to re-phrase that. But he did not get the opportunity to.

  “How do you know that I am pregnant?” she said. Surprised. And there was an edge to that question.

  Luckily, they had thought of this.

  “You are, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am as a matter of fact. But how do you know that?”

  Something else of note happened in the game her husband had now returned to, for he loudly commanded someone to “Get with it, for Christ’s sake” and yelled at what must have been the officials. Quite loudly, as if they could hear. Melissa hesitated for a moment, then stepped out on the front porch, pulling the door shut behind her, dampening the noise.

  Ananda said, “Your obstetrician.”

  “You know Doctor Ross?” Another surprise, but with less of an edge.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

  “Ah. That explains it.”

  “Yes,” agreed Ananda.

  The silence that ensued filled with chirping birds and a lawnmower not far away. A large Toyota van with many children inside rolled by, as if looking for somewhere to deposit its cargo. Melissa pointed to a pair of wicker chairs to their right, a small—very clean—glass table between them. “Have a seat Mister, Wolf, was it?”

  “Yes, Wolf,” said Ananda. “Ananda Wolf.”

  “With an n,” she said, and smiled for the first time. “What sort of name is that?”

  They both sat down. His wicker groaned a little.

  “It is an Indian name. Ananda was the first cousin of the Buddha.”

  “You are from India? I would not have guessed.”

  “No, no. I was born in Sweden.”

  “And named Ananda?” Curious.

  “No, I was named Ulf. Which, by the way, means Wolf in archaic Swedish.”

  “Wolf Wolf,” suggested Melissa.

  “Precisely. I came across the name Ananda studying Buddhism, and I liked it so much I eventually adopted it.”

  “Ananda Wolf,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “People mistake that for Amanda, I bet.”

  “As a rule.”

  She smiled again. Then asked, “So, what kind of book are you writing? Is it scholarly, or popular, or what? A suspense novel?”

  “I guess it’s more scholarly than anything else. We’re doing a study of first-time pregnancies, first-time mothers, which we’ll then compile into a book.”

  “We?”

  “Me and my publisher. It was really his idea. He feels it will be a helpful book for young mothers.”

  “Has it got a title?”

  “Not as yet, I’m afraid.”

  “I see.”

  “Probably ‘Young Mothers’ or ‘First Time Mothers.’ Something along those lines.”

  “Neophyte Motherhood,” suggested Melissa.

  “Sorry?”

  “Neophyte Motherhood.”

  “Ah. Yes, I see. That’s not bad.”

  “I take it there is interest in that.”

  “According to my publisher, yes. Or at least according to his guess, or hopes.”

  “Well, it certainly is of interest to me,” said Melissa, with a glance down at her belly—though it still concealed its secret well.

  “I can imagine.” Then Ananda asked, “How far along are you?”

  “How many mothers will be part of this book?” she said. “And will they be named?”

  “Oh, four or five. And yes, if that’s okay, we’d like to name you. Like a documentary on paper.”

  She thought about that. Th
en said, “I’m not so sure Charles would go along.”

  “Your husband.”

  “My football crazy husband.”

  “He wouldn’t have to,” said Ananda.

  Surprised again. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, I mean, of course, he should agree, yes, of course, that would be best. What I meant is that, legally, he doesn’t have to.”

  She took that in as well. Mulled it. “I see. So he doesn’t have to agree?”

  “Not legally.”

  “He’s a lawyer, you know.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “He is, yes.” She nodded her emphasis. “He’s a second year associate. His father is a managing partner in his firm. Has been for years.”

  Ananda wasn’t sure what to answer, so he said nothing.

  Melissa said, “How would this work? Would you visit regularly, or what?”

  “Now and then, yes, I would visit,” said Ananda. “But the day-to-day, or week-to-week more likely, we can do over the phone.”

  “I see.”

  “I don’t live in California,” Ananda added.

  “Where do you live?”

  “I live in Idaho.”

  “Boise?”

  “No, further north.”

  “Up by Washington State?”

  “Yes, just next door.”

  “The finger.”

  “Yes. The finger.”

  “I see,” she said again. Thought some more. Looked out at the nicely manicured lawn and the several well-tended flower beds, all in bloom. Yellows, reds, purples. Ananda wasn’t very good with flower names. Colors he knew and appreciated. Then delivered her verdict:

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes. Fine with me. I’d enjoy that.” Then, “Do I need to sign anything?”

  “Yes. I’ll mail that to you.”

  “How many other mothers have you spoken to?”

  “You’re the first.”

  “I’m not very far gone,” she said. “In fact, I just found out for sure last Wednesday.”

  “I know,” lied Ananda. “The idea is to get in on the ground floor, so to speak.”

  “Odd expression,” said Melissa. “In this case.”

  “Yes, not the best,” said Ananda. “But you know what I mean?”

  “Yes,” she said. “You want to cover the whole event.”

  “Precisely.”

  “And that would include the birth?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you be there?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Well, that wouldn’t be proper, would it?” she said, almost reminding herself.

  “So I can call you weekly, or more often if needed?”

  “I don’t see why not.” Then said, “Do you have a card.”

  Yes, he did have a card, and he handed it to her. Blue with white lettering.

  “Ananda Wolf,” she read. “Writer.”

  “That’s what I do.”

  “Yes, I gathered.” Then, suddenly the hostess, “Well, where are my manners? Would you like something to drink, tea? Coffee?

  “No, thanks. I’m fine,” he said.

  “Sure?”

  “Yes. Sure.”

  She smiled again, then rose and offered her hand, as if to seal the deal.

  He rose, too, and took it—it was warm, and, yes, friendly—shook it, and felt very good about things.

  Mission accomplished—he had made contact, and had gotten along well with her—Ananda set out on his long return trip.

  Melissa waited for the game to finish to tell Charles (who by now had forgotten about the visit).

  :: 16 :: (Pasadena)

  “I’m going to be in a book,” said Melissa once she judged she could wrestle his attention away from the television long enough to actually have a conversation.

  “What?” said Charles.

  “A book.”

  “What book?”

  “Mr. Wolf,” she said.

  Charles didn’t seem to understand, or remember.

  “The man who came to see me,” she added.

  “Ah. Ananda Wolf,” he accurately remembered and then declared, for he did meet the lawyer requirement of a good and precise memory for names.

  “Yes,” she said.” That’s his name. A little odd.”

  “A little weird,” said Charles. “I thought he said Amanda.”

  “Yes, so did I,” said Melissa. “But it’s Ananda,” stressing it: An-anda.

  “What did he want?” asked Charles, while also now working the remote control, changing the set to display the schedule of other college games.

  “He is writing a book about first-time mothers.”

  Charles stopped fiddling with the remote to look over at Melissa. All alert now. “How does he know you are pregnant?”

  “Apparently, he knows Doctor Ross.”

  “What business is it of hers to speak to writers about her patients?”

  “That I could not tell you.”

  “You should ask her.”

  She had thought of that. “I plan to.”

  When Charles didn’t answer, Melissa said, “But I think it’s a great idea.”

  “What is?” Charles now back at working the remote and checking scores on the screen.

  “The book, Charles. That’s what we’re talking about. Could you please put that thing down for a second?”

  “Sorry.” He flipped the channel again, then said to the screen, “Is he paying you anything for it?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

  Which earned Melissa another husbandy glance. “You didn’t ask?”

  “No. It didn’t cross my mind.”

  Charles shook his head in that when-will-you-ever-grow-up way he deployed when frustrated or confused.

  “Did you sign anything?”

  “No. He’s sending me paperwork later.”

  “Let me see it before you sign.”

  It was now Melissa’s turn to not respond. Charles didn’t have to agree, that’s what Ananda Wolf had said. And Charles, from what she could tell, could not care less one way or the other about this book.

  Instead she rose and left Charles to his games.

  Leaving the living room Melissa made a mental note not to forget to ask Doctor Ross about Ananda Wolf, and why she would have told him that she was pregnant.

  And she had meant to ask her, she had in fact remembered to do so even as she stepped into her office, but at this appointment she had the first ultrasound, and the detection of that new little life which flooded her with she could not describe precisely what, joy perhaps, though more than that, something deeper; in the wash of that she just plain forgot.

  She found Mr. Wolf, who had already called her twice to see how she was doing, to be a very nice man. She enjoyed talking to him. He was comforting. Very supportive. So different from Charles.

  :: 17 :: (Still River)

  Doctor Ross answered the phone herself.

  “Good morning,” said Ananda, and introduced himself.

  “How can I help you?” she asked in a pleasant but professional voice.

  “I am writing a book on first-time pregnancies, first-time motherhood, and Melissa Marten is one of my research subjects.”

  “Yes?”

  “I believe she is your patient.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “How is she doing? Are things going as expected?”

  “Who did you say you were?” No longer quite so pleasant.

  “Ananda Wolf. I’m a writer.”

  “And you are doing research?”

  “Yes.”

  “As a researcher you should know that I cannot discuss any of my patients without a signed release.”

  Ananda grew very alert, almost painfully so. He found himself on very thin ice, and it was cracking—cold, threatening water below.

  But there’s nothing like necessity to sharpen the senses, and in this case the intellect. “You have not received it?” Ananda heard hims
elf say.

  “No,” said Doctor Ross.

  “Oh, I apologize. I’ll make sure it gets to you, and then perhaps we can talk.”

  “That would be fine.”

  Ananda noticed his hand shake a little as he ended the call.

  :

  It rang so many times before Melissa answered the phone that Ananda was about to hang up, to call back later.

  “Hello.” She seemed a little out of breath.

  “Melissa?”

  “Yes.” Panting still. She had definitely been running.

  “This is Ananda Wolf.”

  “Yes. I can tell.”

  “Of course.” Then, “Have you been running?”

  “Exercising,” she said. “The treadmill.”

  “Should you? I mean, considering.” Ananda honestly did not know.

  “Oh, sure. Yeah, no problem.”

  “Well, that’s all right then. So, how are you feeling today, other than out of breath?”

  “I was sick this morning,” she said. “Not much fun.”

  “But you’re feeling fine now?”

  “No,” she said. “Not really. Better, but not fine.”

  Ananda, who knew next to nothing about motherhood or morning sickness, didn’t know what to say. So what he came up with was, “One of the perks, I guess.”

  Melissa laughed at that, a short giggle that struck him as happy. He could almost see her eyes sparkle. “At least there’s no mistake about it,” she said.

  Again, Ananda didn’t quite know what to say. He was, after all, not writing a book about first-time mothers, and he did not enjoy the deception, not in the least.

  “Are you eating well?”

  “You bet. Better than ever. More than ever. I must be gaining a pound a day.”

  Ananda decided then and there to do some serious catching up on pregnancies—especially first-time ones—what to expect and do; at least to the point of sounding borderline intelligent on the subject. He owed her that much.

  “When is your next checkup?” he asked.

  “Tuesday.”

  And here Ananda sets out on his well-rehearsed reason for calling: “Which reminds me,” he said. “I’ve sent you a release for your signature, that is, if it’s okay with you. Something Doctor Ross needs in order to share your progress with me. Only if it’s okay with you, of course.”