TWENTY-FIVE
* * *
It was quiet in the ward today.
Quiet in the room.
There was, from down the hall, the faint sound of the television in the recreation room, faint with the sound of an innocuous game show, and from time to time the quiet would be broken, just a bit, with the sound of someone talking, or with the noise of a doctor being paged, far away.
But on the whole it was quiet.
Almost restful.
Almost.
Joyce sat in Buffy's room, on a chair pulled up beside the bed. She held a brush in her hand and was gently pulling it through her daughter's hair. This had, in the past weeks, become a ritual between them, and Buffy was quiet too, now, as one stroke followed another, her face peaceful, her eyes on her mother, aware.
Joyce smiled at her. It was a natural thing, coming without thought, just something she could not help but do. Because this was Buffy, her Buffy. Joyce could not help but remember her, moving inside her womb, could not help but remember the pain of labor, the feeling of the birth, the feeling of her baby daughter at her breast. She could not help but think of how sweet Buffy was, that little girl with her dolls and her games, so inventive they were. But most of all Joyce could not help but remember the wonder of it as her daughter became a person, a real person, with likes and dislikes and habits and ways of speaking and walking and dressing and being, uniquely her own.
Her own Buffy.
No pain, no tragedy, no fantasy world of monsters could ever take that away from her.
I am so fortunate, Joyce thought, that you let me share part of who you are.
The brush stroked easily, evenly.
It was quiet in the ward.
Quiet.
How many weeks now? How much time with Dr. Garrett? The new meds?
How long since she had once again become a mother in something more than name?
You lose track of these things, she thought. You even begin to take them for granted. You even begin to think, as you pull the car into the parking lot of the hospital, that you can expect her to smile at you, to recognize you. Even when she doesn't, you think to yourself that this isn't permanent, that next time she will, because this new therapy is working, at least a little. You find that you have been reading things you didn't read before, articles not about schizophrenia but about this thing they call being fantasy prone, about these people who do know the world but who know it differently, who talk to their dolls not because they think their dolls are alive but because they are entities nonetheless, because there is no reason, really, that you can't talk to a doll any more than you can talk to your car, when it won't start.
Buffy used to talk to her dolls. Remember? Before the terror, before the nightmares and the clinic and the meds and the doctors, she would sit happily in her room with them and she would talk to them and she was no crazier then than you were when you were a little girl, because you did the same thing.
The hair was soft, somewhat flat, a bit dirty, yes, as Joyce pulled the brush through it. But it was Buffy's hair, and Buffy was here now, and Buffy was smiling at her. And it was then, at that moment, that the thoughts came to Joyce, came with a certainty she had not before considered.
I will share you with your creations, my lovely daughter. I will share you with them because I love you. More than anything in the universe I love you. And I will fight for you, for your right to them. I will fight your father if I must, will fight the world that says you are crazy for having them. I am always and forever an advocate for you.
#
It was later, that night, after Joyce had gone and the meds had been distributed and the quiet on the ward became that of sedation, that Buffy went away again.
* * *
It was quiet in the ward today.
Quiet in the room.
There was, from down the hall, the faint sound of the television in the recreation room, faint with the sound of an innocuous game show, and from time to time the quiet would be broken, just a bit, with the sound of someone talking, or with the noise of a doctor being paged, far away.
But on the whole it was quiet.
Almost restful.
Almost.
Joyce sat in Buffy's room, on a chair pulled up beside the bed. She held a brush in her hand and was gently pulling it through her daughter's hair. This had, in the past weeks, become a ritual between them, and Buffy was quiet too, now, as one stroke followed another, her face peaceful, her eyes on her mother, aware.
Joyce smiled at her. It was a natural thing, coming without thought, just something she could not help but do. Because this was Buffy, her Buffy. Joyce could not help but remember her, moving inside her womb, could not help but remember the pain of labor, the feeling of the birth, the feeling of her baby daughter at her breast. She could not help but think of how sweet Buffy was, that little girl with her dolls and her games, so inventive they were. But most of all Joyce could not help but remember the wonder of it as her daughter became a person, a real person, with likes and dislikes and habits and ways of speaking and walking and dressing and being, uniquely her own.
Her own Buffy.
No pain, no tragedy, no fantasy world of monsters could ever take that away from her.
I am so fortunate, Joyce thought, that you let me share part of who you are.
The brush stroked easily, evenly.
It was quiet in the ward.
Quiet.
How many weeks now? How much time with Dr. Garrett? The new meds?
How long since she had once again become a mother in something more than name?
You lose track of these things, she thought. You even begin to take them for granted. You even begin to think, as you pull the car into the parking lot of the hospital, that you can expect her to smile at you, to recognize you. Even when she doesn't, you think to yourself that this isn't permanent, that next time she will, because this new therapy is working, at least a little. You find that you have been reading things you didn't read before, articles not about schizophrenia but about this thing they call being fantasy prone, about these people who do know the world but who know it differently, who talk to their dolls not because they think their dolls are alive but because they are entities nonetheless, because there is no reason, really, that you can't talk to a doll any more than you can talk to your car, when it won't start.
Buffy used to talk to her dolls. Remember? Before the terror, before the nightmares and the clinic and the meds and the doctors, she would sit happily in her room with them and she would talk to them and she was no crazier then than you were when you were a little girl, because you did the same thing.
The hair was soft, somewhat flat, a bit dirty, yes, as Joyce pulled the brush through it. But it was Buffy's hair, and Buffy was here now, and Buffy was smiling at her. And it was then, at that moment, that the thoughts came to Joyce, came with a certainty she had not before considered.
I will share you with your creations, my lovely daughter. I will share you with them because I love you. More than anything in the universe I love you. And I will fight for you, for your right to them. I will fight your father if I must, will fight the world that says you are crazy for having them. I am always and forever an advocate for you.
#
It was later, that night, after Joyce had gone and the meds had been distributed and the quiet on the ward became that of sedation, that Buffy went away again.
