SEVENTEEN
* * *
Hank Summers looked at his wife as she sat down at the table. There was a steaming plate of meat between them, some vegetables, some bread. She raised her plate, took some, and he did likewise.
Neither spoke.
He remembered, in this room, the meals with the three of them. He and his wife and his daughter. There was a lot of Joyce in Buffy, in how they looked but as well in how they were. And there, in that chair, Buffy had sat, all those years ago, when she was a bright eyed child, filled with enthusiasm and a love of life, of living. Little things that at the time had not seemed like much; moments stolen away from work to watch her junior high cheerleading squad perform, remembering how silly he had once thought the whole thing was but now being so proud, because it was her out there, his little girl.
And Hank remembered too, as the darkness descended.
Trouble in school, in adjusting to high school. Nightmares that shattered his sleep with screams. And the cross, the big cross, that she insisted on wearing because of the vampires, because they were out there, she said, and they were coming for her.
He knew the other kids teased her about the cross.
And there was no cheerleading either, after a while. She was kicked of the squad and for days would not leave her room. He remembered the sobbing, the voice of her mother, trying to console her, remembering that adolescence was hard but that it should not be this hard.
He remembered the Mayberry clinic, the face of Dr. Griffith.
He remembered the meds, making sure she took the meds.
He knew them all by heart now.
Just as he knew all the names of her imaginary friends.
"Hank?"
It was Joyce. She was offering him seconds. He shook his head.
It's wrong, he thought. I don't like it.
"Are you all right?" his wife asked.
"I don't know."
She watched him. She had a penetrating gaze, Joyce did. The room was silent for a moment. Finally he spoke.
"I don't like it, Joyce. I don't like being told to lie to her."
Joyce watched him for a moment.
"We haven't lied," she said.
"Haven't we? Garrett wants us to tell her we believe in her delusions. He wants us to tell her they are as real as we are."
"He said that to her they are."
Hank looked away. He brought his hand up, rested his chin in his palm. "But they aren't real, Joyce. How will she ever get better until she can accept that?"
Her eyes were still on him. "What if she can't?" she asked softly.
"She can. She can do it. But not if Garrett keeps encouraging her to live in a fantasy land. We need to let him go and get her grounded in the real world."
Joyce's voice rose, just a bit.
"Like last time?"
Hank looked back at her. They both remembered, there with Dr. Adams, there with Buffy, when Buffy had said she would try, that she would reject her imagination, her unreal friends. They remembered the struggle, the pain in Buffy's face as she tried.
And they remembered Adams' words.
I'm sorry, we've lost her.
"We were close," Hank said now. "The new drugs are working. She can fight her delusions now."
Joyce shook her head.
"No," she said.
"Joyce," he said, "This isn't right. She can't get better if she doesn't accept reality."
"No."
"Joyce --"
"I was there!" she snapped.
He stiffened, just a bit, at her words. And as he opened his mouth to speak again she cut him off.
"Oh, God, Hank, don't you see? We tried; Adams tried. We tried everything we could and Buffy still went away." She lowered her head into her hands as the tears came.
"Joyce, we can try again. She's strong; you know that."
His wife looked up now, at him. Her eyes were red and wet.
"No. I've watched our daughter die every day for six years, Hank. I watched her face as she said goodbye to me. I will not watch that again. If I have to share her with imaginary friends and monsters to have even a part of her in my life, I will do that. But I will not risk what we have now, what Dr. Garrett says we can have with her, just because she spends time in her dreamlands. Do you understand?"
He watched her. She watched him back.
"Joyce ...." he began.
"No! I mean it, Hank! Do you understand?"
He went silent. The ache in him didn't go away.
* * *
Hank Summers looked at his wife as she sat down at the table. There was a steaming plate of meat between them, some vegetables, some bread. She raised her plate, took some, and he did likewise.
Neither spoke.
He remembered, in this room, the meals with the three of them. He and his wife and his daughter. There was a lot of Joyce in Buffy, in how they looked but as well in how they were. And there, in that chair, Buffy had sat, all those years ago, when she was a bright eyed child, filled with enthusiasm and a love of life, of living. Little things that at the time had not seemed like much; moments stolen away from work to watch her junior high cheerleading squad perform, remembering how silly he had once thought the whole thing was but now being so proud, because it was her out there, his little girl.
And Hank remembered too, as the darkness descended.
Trouble in school, in adjusting to high school. Nightmares that shattered his sleep with screams. And the cross, the big cross, that she insisted on wearing because of the vampires, because they were out there, she said, and they were coming for her.
He knew the other kids teased her about the cross.
And there was no cheerleading either, after a while. She was kicked of the squad and for days would not leave her room. He remembered the sobbing, the voice of her mother, trying to console her, remembering that adolescence was hard but that it should not be this hard.
He remembered the Mayberry clinic, the face of Dr. Griffith.
He remembered the meds, making sure she took the meds.
He knew them all by heart now.
Just as he knew all the names of her imaginary friends.
"Hank?"
It was Joyce. She was offering him seconds. He shook his head.
It's wrong, he thought. I don't like it.
"Are you all right?" his wife asked.
"I don't know."
She watched him. She had a penetrating gaze, Joyce did. The room was silent for a moment. Finally he spoke.
"I don't like it, Joyce. I don't like being told to lie to her."
Joyce watched him for a moment.
"We haven't lied," she said.
"Haven't we? Garrett wants us to tell her we believe in her delusions. He wants us to tell her they are as real as we are."
"He said that to her they are."
Hank looked away. He brought his hand up, rested his chin in his palm. "But they aren't real, Joyce. How will she ever get better until she can accept that?"
Her eyes were still on him. "What if she can't?" she asked softly.
"She can. She can do it. But not if Garrett keeps encouraging her to live in a fantasy land. We need to let him go and get her grounded in the real world."
Joyce's voice rose, just a bit.
"Like last time?"
Hank looked back at her. They both remembered, there with Dr. Adams, there with Buffy, when Buffy had said she would try, that she would reject her imagination, her unreal friends. They remembered the struggle, the pain in Buffy's face as she tried.
And they remembered Adams' words.
I'm sorry, we've lost her.
"We were close," Hank said now. "The new drugs are working. She can fight her delusions now."
Joyce shook her head.
"No," she said.
"Joyce," he said, "This isn't right. She can't get better if she doesn't accept reality."
"No."
"Joyce --"
"I was there!" she snapped.
He stiffened, just a bit, at her words. And as he opened his mouth to speak again she cut him off.
"Oh, God, Hank, don't you see? We tried; Adams tried. We tried everything we could and Buffy still went away." She lowered her head into her hands as the tears came.
"Joyce, we can try again. She's strong; you know that."
His wife looked up now, at him. Her eyes were red and wet.
"No. I've watched our daughter die every day for six years, Hank. I watched her face as she said goodbye to me. I will not watch that again. If I have to share her with imaginary friends and monsters to have even a part of her in my life, I will do that. But I will not risk what we have now, what Dr. Garrett says we can have with her, just because she spends time in her dreamlands. Do you understand?"
He watched her. She watched him back.
"Joyce ...." he began.
"No! I mean it, Hank! Do you understand?"
He went silent. The ache in him didn't go away.
