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She hesitated a moment in the hall, then pushed open the door to her daughter's room. Sunlight flooded the wood floor, and a breeze from the open window stirred the curtain. Although the rule was, "If it's not in the hamper it doesn't get washed," she couldn't help scanning the floor, and the closet floor, for the odd sock. She resisted flipping up the bedskirt, though. If any dirty clothes were lurking there, they'd just have to stay till their owner retrieved them. Finding nothing to add to the load, she pulled the door shut behind her and, basket on one hip, with her other hand she scooped up the pillowcase full of sheets she'd just stripped off her own bed.
The basement was a gloomy place. She'd have liked to have the washer and drier upstairs, in the kitchen, or even on the second floor. But the house was the first one she'd seen that had a layout she liked, and the Craftsman details that had survived previous owners' remodelings had appealed to her. Plus, her bedroom was spacious, and Buffy's was flooded with daylight. And she could afford it. So, she'd bought it, and accepted the basement laundry as part of the price. So far, it had been acceptable. She hoped Sunnydale wasn't prone to seasonal flooding, as LA had been. A pool in the basement didn't bear thinking about, so she'd dismissed the thought and had carefully avoided it since.
Sorting darks from lights and pretreating stains, she unfolded a wadded-up blouse to find a sticky patch of something that smelled vile, and was an unhealthy green, now faded nearly black. Ew. Why couldn't Buffy deal with stains like this when they happened, rather than throwing the garment into the hamper untreated? And what on earth--? Never mind, she didn't think she wanted to know.
But Buffy had never been a clumsy child, even when puberty overtook her and she shot up in height, and was for a few months all coltish arms and legs. She'd always had a catlike sense of balance, and an unconscious grace. How could she be having these--accidents, that left her clothes with peculiar stains, and some of them, even the expensive things her mother was sometimes able to rationalize buying, torn? That designer blouse Buffy had worn exactly once, for instance. Joyce had found it, when sorting out recyclables, buried at the bottom of the kitchen trash, shredded and covered in what looked like...blood.
She rubbed the viscous stain-treater into the sticky patch and dropped it into the washer. We'll just hope for the best, she said cheerfully to herself as she finished loading the washer, clunked down the lid and set the timer.
As she finished the sorting, she catalogued the tasks before her tomorrow at the gallery, a sense of accomplishment and one of overwhelm all mixed in together. Exhilarating, that's what it was, not entirely pleasant, but oh so much better than the gnawing tedium and anxiety of her life in LA. Filling her days with tennis and bridge and volunteer charity work, the undercurrent of worry about Buffy and the unacknowledged but increasing distance from Hank. Their never talking because it always led to an argument, mostly, but not always, about Buffy. This new uncertainty was better. And she had only herself and her daughter to consider.
The washer churned and the piles were ready to load, so she went up to inventory the fridge and cupboards. The list so far contained every snack food known to teenager, in Buffy's still-childish scrawl. Knowing her daughter rationed her junk-food calories, Joyce recognised the eventual consumer of the crunchy, salty, empty calories on the list, and smiled. The boy seemed like a nice, decent sort of person, but there was something....
He wasn't the buff, All-American jock types Buffy used to bring home in LA. He had a quick wit, with a sometimes sharp edge to it, a sarcastic edge. As though he'd seen more in his life than his age would suggest. She blushed to remember how she'd had to stop her hand from reaching to brush his overlong hair from his face. But there was something in him that yearned for a gentle touch--
Oh, hello, Mrs. Robinson, she snorted. That's all we need. Your daughter picking fights at school and you with an itch for teenaged boys. The overstatement was enough to make her laugh at herself, and she wrote, "broccoli, kale, acorn squash" on the list before laying down the pencil. The little redheaded girl, though, Willow? Who names their child for a tree? She was obviously an intelligent child, again, not Buffy's default choice of friend. But although Willow seemed shy, she also seemed to be very loyal to what friends she had, and Joyce decided she was pleased, and even sort of relieved, that her daughter had found a staunch friend.
To tell the truth, she had worried about Buffy's friends in LA. They were nice enough, from the same sorts of families as Buffy's own. But Joyce had always found them a bit...shallow. From the few bits of conversation she'd had with Willow, Joyce realized shallow could not be used to describe Willow. Her mouth widened in a half-smile. Maybe some of that would rub off on Buffy.
Not that her daughter wasn't bright, by any means. But like most girls her age, Buffy's preoccupations had always been rather, well, if she had to define it, superficial. Until the--incident--last year, and the divorce, and the move to Sunnydale. Suddenly, this year, Joyce sensed in her daughter a reservoir of awareness and opinion, and even a certain strength of will, that Buffy had never seemed to possess before. Growing up, Joyce thought, catching a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror as she passed.
Light from the front window struck at an angle and she leaned closer. Oh, yes, those were definite lines at her eye corners, and there was a tiny looseness beneath her chin. Joyce raised said chin and the jawline tautened. She smiled at herself, and the lines became laugh lines. Not ready for this, the girl behind the hazel eyes said stubbornly, and the woman in the mirror nodded in agreement. Time for a haircut. Her bangs were touching her eyebrows, and the curls were beginning to riot just a bit.
She heard the lid of the mailbox fall. And the washer began to buzz. She ignored it for the moment. Mail first.
The basement was a gloomy place. She'd have liked to have the washer and drier upstairs, in the kitchen, or even on the second floor. But the house was the first one she'd seen that had a layout she liked, and the Craftsman details that had survived previous owners' remodelings had appealed to her. Plus, her bedroom was spacious, and Buffy's was flooded with daylight. And she could afford it. So, she'd bought it, and accepted the basement laundry as part of the price. So far, it had been acceptable. She hoped Sunnydale wasn't prone to seasonal flooding, as LA had been. A pool in the basement didn't bear thinking about, so she'd dismissed the thought and had carefully avoided it since.
Sorting darks from lights and pretreating stains, she unfolded a wadded-up blouse to find a sticky patch of something that smelled vile, and was an unhealthy green, now faded nearly black. Ew. Why couldn't Buffy deal with stains like this when they happened, rather than throwing the garment into the hamper untreated? And what on earth--? Never mind, she didn't think she wanted to know.
But Buffy had never been a clumsy child, even when puberty overtook her and she shot up in height, and was for a few months all coltish arms and legs. She'd always had a catlike sense of balance, and an unconscious grace. How could she be having these--accidents, that left her clothes with peculiar stains, and some of them, even the expensive things her mother was sometimes able to rationalize buying, torn? That designer blouse Buffy had worn exactly once, for instance. Joyce had found it, when sorting out recyclables, buried at the bottom of the kitchen trash, shredded and covered in what looked like...blood.
She rubbed the viscous stain-treater into the sticky patch and dropped it into the washer. We'll just hope for the best, she said cheerfully to herself as she finished loading the washer, clunked down the lid and set the timer.
As she finished the sorting, she catalogued the tasks before her tomorrow at the gallery, a sense of accomplishment and one of overwhelm all mixed in together. Exhilarating, that's what it was, not entirely pleasant, but oh so much better than the gnawing tedium and anxiety of her life in LA. Filling her days with tennis and bridge and volunteer charity work, the undercurrent of worry about Buffy and the unacknowledged but increasing distance from Hank. Their never talking because it always led to an argument, mostly, but not always, about Buffy. This new uncertainty was better. And she had only herself and her daughter to consider.
The washer churned and the piles were ready to load, so she went up to inventory the fridge and cupboards. The list so far contained every snack food known to teenager, in Buffy's still-childish scrawl. Knowing her daughter rationed her junk-food calories, Joyce recognised the eventual consumer of the crunchy, salty, empty calories on the list, and smiled. The boy seemed like a nice, decent sort of person, but there was something....
He wasn't the buff, All-American jock types Buffy used to bring home in LA. He had a quick wit, with a sometimes sharp edge to it, a sarcastic edge. As though he'd seen more in his life than his age would suggest. She blushed to remember how she'd had to stop her hand from reaching to brush his overlong hair from his face. But there was something in him that yearned for a gentle touch--
Oh, hello, Mrs. Robinson, she snorted. That's all we need. Your daughter picking fights at school and you with an itch for teenaged boys. The overstatement was enough to make her laugh at herself, and she wrote, "broccoli, kale, acorn squash" on the list before laying down the pencil. The little redheaded girl, though, Willow? Who names their child for a tree? She was obviously an intelligent child, again, not Buffy's default choice of friend. But although Willow seemed shy, she also seemed to be very loyal to what friends she had, and Joyce decided she was pleased, and even sort of relieved, that her daughter had found a staunch friend.
To tell the truth, she had worried about Buffy's friends in LA. They were nice enough, from the same sorts of families as Buffy's own. But Joyce had always found them a bit...shallow. From the few bits of conversation she'd had with Willow, Joyce realized shallow could not be used to describe Willow. Her mouth widened in a half-smile. Maybe some of that would rub off on Buffy.
Not that her daughter wasn't bright, by any means. But like most girls her age, Buffy's preoccupations had always been rather, well, if she had to define it, superficial. Until the--incident--last year, and the divorce, and the move to Sunnydale. Suddenly, this year, Joyce sensed in her daughter a reservoir of awareness and opinion, and even a certain strength of will, that Buffy had never seemed to possess before. Growing up, Joyce thought, catching a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror as she passed.
Light from the front window struck at an angle and she leaned closer. Oh, yes, those were definite lines at her eye corners, and there was a tiny looseness beneath her chin. Joyce raised said chin and the jawline tautened. She smiled at herself, and the lines became laugh lines. Not ready for this, the girl behind the hazel eyes said stubbornly, and the woman in the mirror nodded in agreement. Time for a haircut. Her bangs were touching her eyebrows, and the curls were beginning to riot just a bit.
She heard the lid of the mailbox fall. And the washer began to buzz. She ignored it for the moment. Mail first.