THIRTY-FOUR
* * *
Both men turned. Joyce was sitting, still sitting, quiet, her gaze focused straight ahead, neither on her husband or on Garrett. They too went silent, as again she spoke.
"No."
Hank now.
"Joyce --"
She turned her head and looked at him, at Hank, and her eyes were red and wet with tears. And as she spoke again her voice firmed.
"No. She stays here."
"Joyce," Hank said, "you're not yourself. I know it's hard. We're going to get her help, going to get her out of here." His voice trailed off and he looked over at Garrett, his eyes still hard in anger.
"No," Joyce said. "Buffy stays here. She gets her chance."
Hank shook his head. "I'm her father, Joyce. I'm not letting this quack hurt her any more. I'm taking her out of here, and that's all there is to it."
He moved toward the door, his shoulders hunched, arms stiff at his sides, his hands in fists. And as he passed her chair, Joyce reached out, her own hand open, and just touched his wrist.
The touch stopped him short. As he turned Joyce had risen, and now she faced him.
"Buffy stays," she said. "We let her try."
Hank's voice grew low.
"Don't cross me, Joyce. Don't."
Her hand was still touching his wrist. It almost seemed to hold him there, as though it anchored him in place.
"I am her mother," Joyce said. "She stays."
Hank was silent for a moment. The explosion that followed came like a point of staccato.
"And what the hell am I? You think I'm nothing, Joyce? You think I don't love her?"
Joyce's voice was soft, almost calm, and it trembled a bit as she spoke. "I know you do, Hank. I know you love her. But I think Dr. Garrett is right. She's fighting, don't you see? For the first time in years she's actually fighting. We can't give up on her now. She stays."
Now Hank snapped his arm away. "No! I will not let this bastard kill her, do you understand? He is going to sign the goddamn papers, and we are going to take her somewhere where she gets better, and that's it! If you don't love her enough to do it, then I will! Do you understand me?"
The next seconds happened quickly. Hank, moving for the door, Garrett just watching, saying nothing, wondering perhaps what he should do.
And Joyce, reaching out, her hand not gentle this time, gripping her husband's arm just below the shoulder and pulling him back, off balance and almost off his feet, throwing him down and into his chair. And Joyce, her eyes wide with rage and fear and love, over him, towering, and screaming.
"God damn you! God damn you! Don't you dare! Don't you dare tell me I don't love her! Don't you dare tell me I'm not looking out for her! So help me God if you ever say I don't love her again I will rip your goddamn head off! Do you understand me, Hank Summers?"
Hank was suddenly white, his hands gripping the arms of the chair in terror. Garrett moved forward then, stood close to her. He tried, with limited success, to keep his voice calm.
"It's all right, Joyce. You're both her legal guardians. We can't release her if you say we can't. All right?"
She turned, slowly, to him. Garrett suddenly felt very small, facing this formidable woman, and he thought without intending to of her daughter, of the strength he sensed in Buffy, and he understood. He tensed a bit as she spoke.
But the voice of Joyce Summers was now a whisper, almost like a that of a child.
"Please," she said to him. "Help her."
* * *
Both men turned. Joyce was sitting, still sitting, quiet, her gaze focused straight ahead, neither on her husband or on Garrett. They too went silent, as again she spoke.
"No."
Hank now.
"Joyce --"
She turned her head and looked at him, at Hank, and her eyes were red and wet with tears. And as she spoke again her voice firmed.
"No. She stays here."
"Joyce," Hank said, "you're not yourself. I know it's hard. We're going to get her help, going to get her out of here." His voice trailed off and he looked over at Garrett, his eyes still hard in anger.
"No," Joyce said. "Buffy stays here. She gets her chance."
Hank shook his head. "I'm her father, Joyce. I'm not letting this quack hurt her any more. I'm taking her out of here, and that's all there is to it."
He moved toward the door, his shoulders hunched, arms stiff at his sides, his hands in fists. And as he passed her chair, Joyce reached out, her own hand open, and just touched his wrist.
The touch stopped him short. As he turned Joyce had risen, and now she faced him.
"Buffy stays," she said. "We let her try."
Hank's voice grew low.
"Don't cross me, Joyce. Don't."
Her hand was still touching his wrist. It almost seemed to hold him there, as though it anchored him in place.
"I am her mother," Joyce said. "She stays."
Hank was silent for a moment. The explosion that followed came like a point of staccato.
"And what the hell am I? You think I'm nothing, Joyce? You think I don't love her?"
Joyce's voice was soft, almost calm, and it trembled a bit as she spoke. "I know you do, Hank. I know you love her. But I think Dr. Garrett is right. She's fighting, don't you see? For the first time in years she's actually fighting. We can't give up on her now. She stays."
Now Hank snapped his arm away. "No! I will not let this bastard kill her, do you understand? He is going to sign the goddamn papers, and we are going to take her somewhere where she gets better, and that's it! If you don't love her enough to do it, then I will! Do you understand me?"
The next seconds happened quickly. Hank, moving for the door, Garrett just watching, saying nothing, wondering perhaps what he should do.
And Joyce, reaching out, her hand not gentle this time, gripping her husband's arm just below the shoulder and pulling him back, off balance and almost off his feet, throwing him down and into his chair. And Joyce, her eyes wide with rage and fear and love, over him, towering, and screaming.
"God damn you! God damn you! Don't you dare! Don't you dare tell me I don't love her! Don't you dare tell me I'm not looking out for her! So help me God if you ever say I don't love her again I will rip your goddamn head off! Do you understand me, Hank Summers?"
Hank was suddenly white, his hands gripping the arms of the chair in terror. Garrett moved forward then, stood close to her. He tried, with limited success, to keep his voice calm.
"It's all right, Joyce. You're both her legal guardians. We can't release her if you say we can't. All right?"
She turned, slowly, to him. Garrett suddenly felt very small, facing this formidable woman, and he thought without intending to of her daughter, of the strength he sensed in Buffy, and he understood. He tensed a bit as she spoke.
But the voice of Joyce Summers was now a whisper, almost like a that of a child.
"Please," she said to him. "Help her."
