Amber Reflections

I’m still sleeping on the couch. I’ve been doing that every night since she left, hoping that she’ll come home. I don’t know why, it just makes it easier, somehow. Just like waiting for her to come home from a date, or wherever the hell she was on all those nights. And, it’s closer to the phone.

I grab the nearest glass and gulp down its contents. Yep, good old Jack Daniels. Just what a woman needs to get the morning started. I look around the living room, wanting more of the liquor.

The bottle of Jack Daniels is empty. I don’t even remember drinking it, or when I bought it. I stumble around the living room, trying not to look at all the mail that has piled up. I don’t think I’ve opened any of it for a week. I really don’t give a shit.

My daughter is gone. She left me a note, and that was it. She didn’t take much, because most of her clothes are still in her closet. I would know, because I look at them every day. And then I try to keep from crying as I think about all the things that we said to each other that night. Why did I tell her not to come back? What the fuck was I thinking?

Hank has called at least twice every day. He has filed a missing person’s report with the LAPD. He told me that he has a lawyer on retainer, if Buffy ever comes home. Hank left the attorney’s phone number with me, and she’ll call me once she sees the police report.

I talked to the Sunnydale Police Chief and asked him to contact me if they find her. He was nice enough, but he still wants to talk to Buffy about that poor girl’s death. He told me there was an APB out on my daughter. I practically screamed at him that Buffy was not a murderer! Why won’t anybody listen? I don’t think I’ll be welcome at the Police Station anytime soon.

I check the answering machine for messages, hoping, praying that she called last night while I was asleep. No messages, nothing. The little counter isn’t flashing. I take my anger out on the nearest wall.

‘Face it, Joyce,’ I tell myself. ‘You were bombed out of your mind last night.’ I felt butterflies in my stomach as I thought about last evening’s events, and I resolved to call Mr. Giles and apologize. He was just trying to help.

He had come over to see if I had heard from Buffy. I hadn’t, and of course I was drinking. He managed to get the glass away from me for a short time, and was trying to explain what he did as a Watcher. He was going on about his duty to Buffy, and how he wouldn’t stop looking for her. He was asking if I needed anything when I went off.

I screamed at him, threw things at him, and was a raving bitch. He just stood there, with a calm look on his face, and waited for me to settle down. When I stopped, he merely grasped my arm, and told me softly to call him if I wanted to talk, or needed anything. Then he left, and I was alone again. And now, I can’t get the sight of his face out of my head. How could he have stayed so collected? Most men would have decked me, or called the police. He just stood there. Why? I hoped that I hadn’t hit Mr. Giles with anything.

The pictures were still on the floor. The frames and glass had shattered on hitting the wall, and the pieces were everywhere. I step over them, trying not to get a sliver of glass in my foot. Tears sting my eyes as I notice one of the photos. Buffy had it taken for me last May. She was wearing the dress I had surprised her with for the Spring Fling. Funny, I hadn’t noticed the haunted, strained look in her eyes before. What else have I missed?

And this – this Vampire Slayer – why can’t she quit? I can’t believe what I saw, but it happened. A man turned to dust right in front of me. It was no illusion, no trick. She killed that man, or vampire, without a second thought. Could the police be right?

No! What the hell is the matter with me? She is not a killer! Buffy wouldn’t do that to a person. I trust my daughter, even if I don’t understand her, or this Slayer duty she told me about.

The phone starts ringing. I practically knock the furniture over trying to reach the phone before the answering machine kicks in. Please, please, let it be her!

DAMN IT!! It was only Hank, calling to say that none of her old friends has seen her. She hasn’t called him, or any other family members. He doesn’t stay on the line long – he’s at work, and I can hear the reproach in his voice. He has already berated me once, and I can hear the words echoing in my head after I put the phone down.

“At least I’m not the bad guy this time! How in the hell could you tell her to not come home? What were you thinking? After last summer, you should know better, damnit!” He was upset, angry, and taking it out on me. I can’t really blame him, but it hurts just the same. Some Prince he was. If he had bothered to pay attention to her, too, maybe this would be different.

I used to say those same words to Buffy. I wouldn’t admit it to her, but I had the same problem when I was her age. I was too impulsive, too quick to jump in, and always thinking of myself. I guess I can admit that she got her selfish side from me. Like mother, like daughter.

My mind wanders back to the conversation with Hank. Actually, he just ranted, and I took it. He wanted to know whom she had been hanging out with. He kept firing questions at me. Why didn’t I pay more attention? Was I working too much again? What kind of mother are you? Are you drinking again? That last question had me screaming at him. We both hung up, disgusted with the other.

I manage to get some coffee started. I’ll need to clean up before I go to the Gallery. It’ll be another long day, then a long night. The phone company has the phone set up so I can forward it to my office, bless them. Now if only she’d call…

The water in the shower feels good. I make sure to keep my appearance up for the customers. I still have a business to run, and it helps the day go by. When I open the medicine cabinet, I get another reminder of Buffy. All her hair products are still there. I haven’t touched them, and I won’t until she comes home.

I check her room just before I leave. Her diary is where she left it, on the bedside table. Even after the past week, I still will not read it. I take a moment to sit on the bed, stroking her stuffed pig as I look around the room. Mr. Gordo, I think she calls him.

It still looks like a young girl’s room. The pictures of her friends hang on one wall; some others of Buffy ice-skating on another. I keep it clean, and dust it every few days. Would things be different, I wonder, if I had encouraged her to keep skating? Of course, Hank and I had both been busy then. Too busy trying to get our careers going, and not noticing how it affected our daughter. And I was too busy drinking, especially after the fights with Hank.

I wipe a tear away as I recall our last conversation. Buffy, will you ever forgive me? Those words I said that night - I didn’t mean it honey. Please come home. Are you hungry? Scared? Somehow I know you are okay, you always made me so proud because you could take care of yourself. Is that because you are this Slayer, or because of what it was like around your father and I?

The phone is ringing again. I lean over her bed, and pick it up on the second ring.

“Hello?” For a few seconds, I can’t hear anything. Then a sound comes across the line – a muffled sob, I think. “Buffy? Honey, talk to me!” It’s her, and I can feel my heart rise in my throat. There is silence on the other end of the line. “Are you okay?” Before I can say anything else, I hear the click on the other end, and then a dial tone.

I put the phone back in its cradle. The numb feeling is back, but the pain is still there, too. I know of one way to stop it.

Before I go to work, I pour myself another drink. It won’t be the last one I have today.

End