Chapter 3
“Xander thinks I’m feeling guilty because I didn’t call.”
“Call whom?” Giles looks up from his paperwork, annoyance gradually fading on his face. He’s annoyed at the bureaucracy, not at me. He’s got all these forms to fill out before the slayerette can come here– forms making me her temporary guardian, forms enrolling her in summer school, forms so her FICA gets paid to the right account (yeah, they even pay slayers-in-training now… and I think of those years when I did it all for free– of course, the $100,000 lump sum I got last year kind of compensated). It sure was easier to be a Watcher when there was only one slayer, and you didn’t have to educate her, because she wouldn’t live long enough to need learning. “Call Dawn?”
“No. I call Dawn every week.”
“Who then?”
I still can’t say his name. “You know. Last year. After you told me Andrew had seen him.”
“Oh.” Giles knows what I mean. He gets up to pull the drapes shut. The late afternoon sun is streaming in from the west, yeah, but I can tell mostly he wants to turn his back so he can take off his glasses and rub the lenses without me making fun of him. “Yes. Well. I thought you’d want to know. Or that you’d blame me if I knew and didn’t tell you, anyway.”
“I thought he should call me. Since he was the one who came back from the dead. It was his responsibility.” It sounds awfully lame when I say it like that.
“He did come to see you when he was in Rome, Andrew said.”
I brood on this for awhile. “I don’t know why he didn’t just stay a few hours. Wait for me to come back.”
“Perhaps staying wasn’t an option. Angel was with him, I recall.”
Yeah. And I can just imagine how quick Angel would make his exit. I can just imagine what he’d say– She’s with someone else now. She doesn’t care about you. She doesn’t care about the past. Let her go and be happy and normal. Don’t be selfish. Be selfless like I was. I let her go. You should too. Only he’d probably put in some insults, like you moron and you idiot .
Angel would make it seem like what I felt for Spike wasn’t worth reviving. And I suppose Spike wouldn’t have much evidence to prove him wrong, would he?
“I was going to call him after that. But–”
But I wanted to break up with the Immortal before I did. And you don’t break up with the Immortal, see. You get him to break up with you. It took several weeks of being mildly obnoxious and boring before he gave me the sapphire bracelet goodbye gift that meant it was now safe not to be the Immortal’s inamorata.
And by that time, Giles was back on the phone to me, with the news of that last battle. Spike was gone again. Died again in an alley. I guess no one even saw. No one swept up the dust. No one had a memorial service. No one cared, from what I could tell. If Giles hadn’t called trying to find Wesley, Angel wouldn’t even have bothered to tell us that they were both dead.
No one saw.
Maybe he didn’t –
Now Giles is talking like Xander. Talking about moving on, starting over. About what Spike would have wanted for me. Happiness. All that. About the garden maybe being an omen of some kind, an omen of the bright future I have ahead. I nod and smile and all the time I’m thinking– no one saw?
I wait until Giles leaves to file the guardianship papers at the courthouse. And then I go to my laptop and boot it up and open my email program. And there in a folder of saved mail I find it, a year-old note from that girl Anne, the one in LA, the one who ended up running a teen shelter– just a quick note saying that Charles Gunn had survived the last battle and was staying with her until he recovered. In case, I guess, I wanted to send a get-well card to this guy I barely knew. My mother brought me up to do things like that. But I didn’t. Like I didn’t call Spike when I heard he was alive. Mom would be so disappointed in me…..
Underneath Anne’s name was her title (Director) and the shelter’s address and phone number. Before I can change my mind, I dial the number, and when a woman answers, I say, “I’m trying to track down Charles Gunn.”
And just like that, she says, “Hang on.” And I hear her yelling, “Charles! Phone!”
Then he’s on, and it takes me a minute to regroup. “Charles,” I finally say. “This is Buffy Summers.”
“Oh. Hi.” He sounds confused. “Good to hear from you.”
“I didn’t realize you were there. At the shelter.”
“Yeah. I work here now.” Now he’s abrupt. “What can I do for you?”
I did this too quick. I don’t have anything planned. Finally I just blurt out. “Look. About that last battle. I just wanted to know about–” And then I say the name I haven’t said in a year. “Spike.”
“Spike.” And there’s something in his voice. Sorrow, maybe? And for a second I feel better about something I haven’t let myself feel bad about– about Spike being friendless there in LA. Stuck there with Angel who hated him, because he didn’t have anywhere else to go. But Charles Gunn says his name with something that sounds like – affection. Like he sort of misses him. So maybe Spike wasn’t so alone those last days– “Yeah. Well. What did you want to know?”
I take a deep breath. “When he died. Uh, was he alone?”
Charles was silent for a moment. Finally he said, “No. I was there. And Angel.”
My chest starts hurting with the loss of a hope I should never have had. “You saw him die.”
“Yeah. Dusted.” He pauses again, and says, “I saw it. Sorry.”
“No. No.” I try to keep the quaver out of my voice. “I’m just glad he wasn’t…. wasn’t alone. That you and Angel were there for him.”
He echoes, “There for him.” He makes some noise that almost sounds like a laugh. But it can’t be a laugh. “Right. That we were.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I have to get off before I start blubbering. “Uh, well, say hi to Angel for me.”
Another moment. And then, “I don’t see Angel anymore. So I can’t.”
“Oh.” I understand. For a long time after the Hellmouth was closed, Xander and I couldn’t see each other either. Now we were friends again, but it took awhile before we could look at each other and not see the ending. So I say, all in a rush, “Well, then, give my best to Anne.” And then I hang up before I say any more stupid things.
In the evening, I have another date with Josh. I wait till he orders dessert before I tell him I can’t see him anymore.
He’s confused. I don’t blame him. I mean, just a couple days ago, we were holding hands and talking – in a theoretical way– about which Cleveland neighborhoods had the best schools. “But I thought we were–” He stops and puts on his concerned face, the one he uses when he’s interviewing a laid-off worker. “What’s wrong, Buffy?”
I stick a fork into my chocolate mousse cake and break off a triangle. Then I squash it with the fork tines. “I really like you.” I lift the fork and squash it down again. “But I realized today that I was…” Using you. I don’t want to say that. “I wasn’t really ready for this. I’m… I’m sort of still in recovery. And– and you deserve better than just a rebound.”
“Rebound?” He reaches over and takes my hand, and I have to drop the fork. “Buffy, I know you were badly hurt, but you know, high school was a long time ago.”
“High–” He’s talking about Angel. My high-school boyfriend. The one who broke my heart. I did tell him about Angel, not the vampire/curse/Angelus thing of course, but about the dark and dangerous man who loved me and left me.
I never told him about Spike. I wouldn’t even know what to tell him. There was this guy, see, and he loved me a lot, and then he died. And then he died again. So naturally he thinks that I’m still mooning over some guy in high school, because that’s the only guy he knows about. I clear my throat. “There was someone else. But he died. It’s been a year, and I thought I was over it, but something happened today and I realized I’m… not. Over it.”
Josh squeezes my hand. “That’s okay. That’s what I’m here for. To support you. It won’t make me jealous or anything if you talk about him.”
“I don’t want to talk about him!” That came out too vehement. I dial down the intensity. “All I mean is, I can’t really be a good girlfriend yet. And you deserve that. But I can’t….” I can’t love you. That’s what I mean. But when I say that, I hear myself saying it to Spike. Only it was I can’t love you because you’re an evil soulless thing. I can’t love you because you’re a monster. Ask me again why I can’t love you.
I’d never say anything like that to Josh. I say it the other way, the kind way. “I can’t love you the way you deserve. It’s not you. It’s me. I just don’t have it in me.”
He still has hold of my hand. He says, “This reminds me of that old song. That old Meatloaf song.” And very softly, he sings, ” I want you, I need you. But there ain’t no way I’m ever going to love you. But don’t be sad. ‘Cause two out of three ain’t bad. ”
I just stare at him. I can’t believe he’s singing here in the middle of a restaurant when I’m trying to break up with him. Finally he lets go of my hand. “Couple years ago, when I was about to graduate, I bought that CD and played that song for my girlfriend. I wanted to break up with her, but I didn’t want to hurt her, you know? So I played that song and I said, that’s the way I feel.” He shakes his head. “It still hurt her.”
I don’t know what to make of this. Finally I say, “So you know what I mean.”
“Sure, Buffy. I know what you mean.” He calls for the check and gets out his wallet. “Most relationships don’t work out. No big deal. Still friends, all that.”
And that’s it. He takes me home, gives me a chaste cheek-kiss, and says with a grin, “Call me if you hear of any news.” Then he drives away.
He took it well. It’s a relief. Really.
All of a sudden it hits me. That’s what love is like, out here in the real world. You don’t get in too deep, because you have to be able to get out again.
No one is ever going to love me like Spike did.
Boy, that sounds selfish. Like I deserve to be loved that much again. Like I merit that sort of sacrifice. Like I’m due some unconditional love.
That’s not what I mean. But… but I realize that it was pretty rare, Spike’s kind of love. Not many people love that way. I don’t know anyone else that does. Most people are more sensible than that. They know better than to love that hard and give that much. Hurt that much.
I know better. Knew better.
Maybe only demons love that way.
No wonder he didn’t believe me. That last minute, when he was about to die at the Hellmouth, I tried to say what he wanted to hear– “I love you”– but turns out he didn’t want to hear it after all. He wanted to know it without hearing it. He wanted to know it in every fiber like he knew I knew he loved me.
In the end, I think, he didn’t even want that. It hurt too much to want that. So he just gave up wanting.
I don’t think he ever gave up loving.
It’s June, and sunset comes later and later. Most evenings, I get to watch the news and Wheel of Fortune before I go out to patrol. This evening, I tell Giles I have to stop at the library, and I’ll meet him at the cemetery. But I go out the back way, so he doesn’t see me carrying a thermos and a mug along with my weapons bag.
The sun is just a red ball over the west wall as I enter my garden. Now I feel him all around me– his passion is there in the colorful flowers, and his devotion there in the sturdy cherry tree, and his voice is there in the waterfall.
I have to work quickly. I don’t want to spook him. Whoever he is.
I spread out the white linen napkin on the bench. On it I set the thermos and the NPR mug. Mom donated to the local NPR every year, so we always had NPR mugs in the cabinet on Revello Drive. I had to stop by the local station earlier today to exchange a check for a mug. I want … to see. To see if he understands. To see if it’s still him.
As soon as I get it all set up, I make a quick exit. Ten minutes later, I’m meeting Giles at the gates of another cemetery, just as the sun slips down under the horizon.
I skip history class in the morning and go right to the garden. And there on the bench is the thermos. All the hot chocolate is gone, and it’s been rinsed. The NPR mug is right next to it, filled with pink flowers. And then I remember. Mom loved camellias. We had three bushes around the back porch, and they’d bloom in March or April– big pink flowers like the ones in the mug.
It’s him. Only he would know–
I don’t tell anyone. Of course not. They already think I’m a little crazy. And anyway, some rational part of my brain tells me that I’m being just like Xander when he thought Anya’s ghost came to him every night. Grief is a funny thing. Delayed grief is even odder. But… but….
A nor’easter blows in the next day. That’s a big storm that locals say ruins every weekend in late spring. Arctic winds come down over Lake Erie, and suddenly spring turns back into winter. The wind is harsh and cold, and strong enough to blow people right off porches. I stay indoors and watch videos while Giles monopolizes the phone, making last-minute assurances to the slayerette’s parents that I really am a suitable guardian, even if I’m hardly more than a girl myself. Even if it’s only for a month. Even if their sweet little girl is stronger than Andre the Giant.
I lie there watching Princess Bride – he and Dawn loved that film– and worrying about him. I worry that he might try to work in the garden and get all wet. Maybe get struck by lightning. Maybe get impaled by a falling tree branch.
Sunday night, the storm blows out, and I set my alarm for 4 am. I sneak out of the house when it’s still dark, carrying my bag. A power outage has hit Bellwood Avenue, so all the streetlights are out, and it takes me a minute to find the keyhole in the old wooden door. As I start to turn it, I hear something inside– movement.
He’s in there. I can hear him. I can feel him. I can sense him. I close my eyes for a second, just feeling him. I know I’m crazy. I know it can’t be true. But just for the moment, I close my eyes and feel him.
Then I open my eyes and push through the doorway and rush in like this is a demon lair.
And he’s not there.
But he was, I tell myself, in a panic. I know he was. I flick on my keychain penlight and look for evidence. I find it right away. There by the path is a pot of red geraniums, a hole already readied. He must have been digging when he heard me–
And got away how?
It’s only when I’ve found the door in the east wall, the door that leads into the cemetery, that I think of the other question. And got away why? Why would he run from me? If it was really him?
I prowl the cemetery for a half an hour, but I never find him. So I go back to my plan. It seems so stupid now, when I’ve come so close to seeing him. But it’s all I got. I return to the garden and set up the boombox on the bench, sliding in the Ramones CD. I check to make sure the battery power is working. Then– remembering how often it rains here– I cover it with a clear plastic tarp. I glance over at that east door, the dawn light haloing above it, and finally go home.
When I return on Tuesday morning, the boombox is still under the tarp. Disappointed, I sit down beside it on the bench, and look for signs of life. There’s a new narrow bachelor button border around the pond (I know they’re bachelor buttons because I got a book of flowers from the library)– pretty blue flowers. Blue like his eyes. I never told him, not in all that time, that he had beautiful eyes.
I’m being sentimental. I feel him here. I feel his love here. And the peace settles over me. Now that I know he’s here, in whatever way he’s here, I can see so many bits of him– the crooked rows of lavender, and the splashes of red everywhere, and the candles set around the pond.
He can’t even see this, you know. Not as I see it. Not in the sun. The colors, so bright and varied for me, are muted for him. Moonlight might dapple the garden floor, but it will be milky and not bright like the sunlight.
I have to see it for him. Love it for him.
I feel him close, in every bloom. But I want to feel him closer. I want to feel all of him, not just his tenderness. The anger, the violence, the desire, the laughter. I look down at the boombox, and punch the play button through the clear plastic, expecting to hear that dumb Ramones song he loved, the one about being sedated.
But something moody and familiar starts up instead– a song on the jukebox at the Bronze, one I played when I had a few extra quarters.
Come up to meet you, tell you I’m sorry
You don’t know how lovely you are
I don’t even want to wonder– how he found the CD, why he remembers. Where he is now. I just listen and wait. I can wait. I can wait for him.