Peripheral Vision, Part Two of Four
"Ashley!"
I don't recognize the voice that's saying my name, but it's the first thing my ears detect as the effects of Willow's spell dissipate. Other sounds come back in rapid succession like machine gun fire, identified as the distant roll of car engines, the intimacy of quiet chatter, and the hiss of some sort of machine.
My other senses return when I open my eyes, and I'm assaulted with the intoxicating scent of warm coffee grounds tempered by the cozy elegance of a quaint little coffee shop with walls the color of mahogany and tables and chairs the color of pine trees. A handful of customers litter the chairs, engrossed in the newspaper, a game of chess, or each other. A large picture window next to the glass door provides a glowing, effervescent light to the surroundings.
"Ashley! Aren't you going to bring that coffee out to the customers before it gets cold?" My eyes fall on the woman standing next to me with her hands on her hips. Her face is painted with a scowl, and her long curly dark hair is pulled up in an attractive bun. Her nametag reads, "Rhonda's Coffee Spot: Rhonda." She must be. . . my boss?
"R-right, right." I pause and stare down at the two cups on the counter. Then, I glance around at the customers. There are two tables with more than one person. Now which do these belong to? "Um. W-where do I bring them?"
Rhonda rolls her eyes at me, but her tone tells me she's genuinely concerned about me. "The group by the window. Are you going to be okay? I need to run to the store for more milk."
Not trusting my tongue further, I nod. My hands find and grasp the mug handles to prove that I'm fine. A tiny bell tinkles in the background.
"Okay. I'll be back in fifteen minutes. And get this customer, would you?" Then, she exits through the back room.
The bell I heard was the signal of another person to serve. Shaking, I toddle with hesitation to my target table. After delivering the goods, I hurry back to the front counter and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the large mirror that hangs over the shop equipment.
As I peer at myself, I realize that I'm still me. Only where has Willow sent me? And is this all a dream? I spy the telephone and consider calling her.
"Miss?"
Startled, I whirl to face the new customer I've forgotten. I snatch up a pen and the pad of paper next to the register. "Yes?"
The man flashes me with his perfect teeth. "I'd like a cappuccino, with non-fat milk, a double shot of expresso, hazelnut, and whipped cream."
Jotting everything down hurriedly, I mutter, "I'll have that right out."
He opens his wallet, and we exchange stares. "How much?" he asks.
"Um." My eyes scan the cash register and blur up over the number of buttons. Giving up, I say with a confidence I don't feel, "Two dollars and seventy-six cents." There. . . that sounds good.
He gives me a strange look and deposits the money on the counter. I smile and thank him.
Then, I face my doom. Bloody hell. What now?
Several minutes pass as I fumble with the coffee machinery. When tears threaten to course down my face, a hand touches my forearm.
"Need some help?" Something tugs at my memories.
Sniffing, I say, "No, no, I got it." I pull on a lever, and the equipment screeches at me.
"Let me." And a small form pushes past me before I can protest.
Golden hair cascades past her shoulders, and the sun has kissed her skin in a way that mine will never be. Her frame is slighter in her white sundress than I recall her being. I guess everyone appears bigger when you're a child. She winks a green eye at me in the mirror, and my heart almost stops.
I swallow hard as she makes the man's drink with ease.
Grinning, she presents me the finished product. "I worked for a while as a waitress here in L.A."
"Thank you," I say with awe more at who she is rather than what she's done.
My own mother stands before me, and she can't be much older than me.
"You're welcome. Mind if I get a cup of coffee?"
I nod in assent. As she pours herself a cup of some sort of Jamaican blend, I manage, "Where are you from?"
I hold my breath as she answers, "Sunnydale. You've probably heard of it on the news lately. You know, the city that was sucked into the ground?"
"Uh huh." What is going on? Willow, what have you done to me? And when am I?
xxxxx
Days pass.
I discover several things. One is that I have my own apartment near the coffee shop. The other is that Rhonda is my best friend, and I've been working for her for two years. And the third is that it's 2003, and in Willow's little universe, time moves differently. On some mornings, I wake up to discover that I've skipped several days over night. Who knows, I might wake up tomorrow in the year 2020.
The first couple of "days," I tried to figure out a way home. I even considered paying a visit to Dad, but I wasn't sure what to say to them or how they would take my presence in the past. Most likely, they wouldn't even know me, and I wasn't sure I could face that. Plus, I remembered the stories about the early days at Wolfram and Hart, and those days weren't pretty. I certainly didn't need to be caught up in more confusion.
And in the end, I decided to trust Auntie Willow.
After all, I am having more contact with my mother than I've ever had. She comes to the coffee shop every day, and I work every day. When she's here, I find myself paying attention to the minutest details as if I can burn them on my brain.
I do a lot of listening. What is it about a coffee shop that makes people spill their life stories? It's worse than paying a visit to the hairdresser. People talk to you about the most random. . . and most personal. . . details without filling you in on the missing pieces. Usually, I can figure them out. . . although the random day skipping may contribute to me being at a loss sometimes.
That said, I'm very grateful for the stories she tells me about Dawn, Xander, and the others I've heard so little about growing up. The stories are just snippets, but I hold onto them.
"You ever notice how our regulars almost seem like family?" Rhonda whispers in my ear as she brushes by me to clean the tables. I lift an eyebrow at her. Rhonda is one of the kindest people I know. She's also one of the most honest. . . which is a nice way of saying that she's blunt.
My mother breezes in the door in that exact instant. "Uh huh," I reply, snagging a mug and pouring my mother's usual cup of coffee.
She's different today. . . my mother. She has worry lines around her eyes that weren't there yesterday. She slides onto the stool across from me at the front counter. Granting me a forced smile, she says, "Thanks, Ashley."
I can't resist. "Something wrong?"
She's a bit distracted by my question. "Huh? Oh. . . no. . . well, yes."
"Can't make up your mind? I have that problem sometimes."
For a moment, she stares at me as if she recognizes something in me. Then, she glances down. "Yeah. Someone I know. . . I care about. . . is very sick."
"Oh? What's wrong?" I hope I don't appear too eager to hear her answer.
She chews her lower lip. "Well, I haven't seen him in a while. . . and I thought he was out of my life. You know how that is?"
I say nothing. I can't believe how effective silence is sometimes. Silence helps me find out things I never would have known.
She continues in attempt to explain herself, "You know how you think someone is out of your life, and then, suddenly, they aren't?"
I nod. I can relate. How about the situation I'm in right now?
"Well, there's this 'someone' who is back. He's really sick."
I hope she doesn't hear my heart skipping double time in my chest. I thought I had prepared myself for this moment.
"What's wrong with him?" I ask.
So, it isn't the best question, but I'm not thinking straight.
Before I get an answer, Rhonda rounds the end of the counter, takes one look at Buffy's face, and reaches for a hug. "Oh, hun, what's wrong?"
Tears spill over my mother's lashes at Rhonda's caring gesture. "Someone I. . . really care about came back and is ill."
What a way to say it. Came back? That conveys so little. . . and so much.
"Oh, sweetie, that's not good." Rhonda pours herself a cup of coffee and takes a seat next to Buffy.
"We're not s-sure what's wrong with him. But, he has a fever, and he's kind of delirious."
"Delirious? Is he in the hospital?" I'm grateful for Rhonda's interference.
"No. Well. Where my good friends. . . family. . . work. . . there's a place to care for him. . . with the supplies and equipment and medicine."
Rhonda gives a nod of understanding. "So, what do the people caring for him say?"
"They don't have a clue." Tears pose a threat to Buffy's cheeks again.
Blinking rapidly, she sighs and stares into her coffee cup. Rhonda pats her on the arm and hands her a tissue from the box under the counter. My mom accepts the fragile bit of paper and crumples it into her hand without using it.
My heart contracts, and I'm not sure how to feel about seeing my mother so vulnerable. In my memories, a Slayer is an impenetrable force.
She can't have cracks. . . even if I did read about enough of them in Uncle Giles's diaries.
Maybe all four-year-olds who lose their mothers view them as flawless in their dreams of reunion and numerous moments of "I wish my mom was here."
Before anyone can say anything else, a loud beeping fills my ears. Three heads shoot up as one. My mom catches a stray tear with her hands and fumbles for her pocket. Slayers don't generally carry handbags; at least, none of the one's I know do. They're kind of inconvenient for patrolling.
Buffy finds her target and produces it with a watery grin, clicking the off button. "Pager. Lost my cell and now I have a pager. The thing never goes off; I didn't even know if it worked 'til now." She slid off the stool. "I better get going. I think it's something with Spike."
I almost jump as my mom says his name for the first time. I've never heard her call him by his name. . . always "Daddy" or "him" from the fraction I recall. Rhonda gives me a funny look. I shrug at her. I can't even begin to explain my reactions to her. She would never believe me.
In that brief space where I'm distracted by my feelings, Buffy is out the door without a backward glance.
Rhonda catches my pained expression and does something that surprises me.
Placing her hand on the small of my back, she whispers, "You want to see him, don't you?"
"W-who?" I gape at Rhonda; the sun is glinting off her curly dark hair, giving her a sort of golden glow.
"Spike." I'm mute with shock, and she spells it out for me, "You know, your dad."
I stumble over my words as I have all day, "W-what are you. . . I mean. . . how. . . ." I clear my throat to gain some semblance of control and prop my hands on my hips. "Who are you?"
One corner of Rhonda's lips rises in a quirky manner that makes me frown harder. "Who do you think I am?"
Indirectness is not something I've learned to expect from Rhonda. And more unanswered questions aren't helping my temper. I'm bloody sick of people's evasiveness.
Some therapist I'll make. . . not that I've gone to graduate school yet.
Still, I go with my instincts. "What do you mean? I'm asking you!"
An old man reading his newspaper near the picture window regards us over the tops of his bifocals and rattles his paper to indicate his annoyance. The young couple remains engrossed in one another and ignores everything. Not that I can blame them.
I lower my voice, spelling it out, "Who are you and how do you know who my parents are. . . who my father is?" Searching the depths of her eyes, I ask with suspicion, "Willow?"
Rhonda's mirth bubbles forth, and an unfettered bout of laughter escapes her lips. She takes a glance at the seriousness of my expression and laughs harder.
Now I'm really getting pissed, and suddenly, I can't look at her anymore. I stomp behind the counter and start slamming things around.
She doesn't stop me until I break a coffee mug. . . what's become my favorite coffee mug because it's the one my mother always uses. "Ashley."
She reaches for me, but I step away without thinking. A flicker of hurt crosses her face. I feel guilty and pause, crossing my arms. No way I'm letting her through.
"What you see in me is what you see in Willow."
"What's that?" I grumble.
"The roots of the magicks that embody our soul." Her tone and expression are even and soft as if I'm a wild horse that needs taming.
"So, you're a witch?"
She smiles. "Something like that."
Now we are getting somewhere. "How do you know who I am?"
"I am one who. . ." She changes track in mid-sentence when she catches my defeat. "I know your Willow."
"You know Auntie Willow? How?"
"I'm a member of a group of witches that your Au. . . Willow started when she moved to England."
"When I was ten." I bend to pick up the shards of the broken mug.
"Right." Rhonda follows my lead, standing by with the broom and dustpan. For a second, I half expect her to jump on the broom and fly around the room. "And the purpose of our group is to ensure that registered witches practice the magicks in a way that does not significantly change our dimension's timeline."
Things are clicking in place as I scoop the last of the ceramic into the dustpan. "Like Cordy did with Anya that time? And like Jonathan did. . ." And we only know about those times because of records at Wolfram and Hart. Just how many times had people close to my mother's group almost destroyed the. . . my timeline?
Rhonda confirms my thoughts by not saying anything. When my eyes refocus, she continues, "And I'm here to watch you."
"So, why didn't you explain that from the beginning?"
"Because Willow didn't plan for you to be here this long. The trigger for your return is having your questions about your parents answered, and she asked me to step in, reveal myself, and facilitate your contact with them so that you can return home." Rhonda dumps the broken cup into the garbage can.
"Oh." The possibilities roll in my head, and I can't think of any way to get closer to my parents other than striding boldly into Wolfram and Hart and announcing my identity. That's probably not such a good idea. "How?"
"I'll work on it from the magicks end, and you'll take this to Wolfram and Hart." With a grin, she holds a large object up.
TBC. . .Thanks for all the sweet reviews so far:o)
