Nine Years Later
Kara was kind of an enigma, even to Poppy, who was probably her closest friend. The girls were roommates all throughout undergrad and had moved to Pennsylvania together for medical school where they were sharing a cramped apartment in the Oakland section of Pittsburgh. Poppy got the sole bedroom because she had a boyfriend and Buffy slept on a futon in what could generously be called their living room. It was basically a faux, wood-paneled hallway leading to the galley kitchen and bathroom.
Living in such tight quarters fostered a type of closeness. Poppy knew Kara used pads instead of tampons and that she had a soy allergy which almost killed her when she was ten. Kara's brand of eyeliner was Urban Decay and her shade was Smokey Camel. Kara slept with a stuffed pig named Mr. Gordo. Poppy knew embarrassing, inconsequential details that clutter up a life, but she didn't know the big stuff, like if Kara was straight or gay and whose name she muttered under her breath when she thrashed within her chronic nightmares.
Even though Kara was very pretty, with her long, bottle-blonde hair, her hourglass figure and her flawless skin, she never dated. Ever. Kara spent most of her time on homework, working at the University library or volunteering. After a night of drinking Poppy had asked Kara point blank if she was a virgin. Kara had tilted her head and for a second Poppy thought her friend was going to throw up. Instead, she said:
"I think, technically I still might be, but I don't really feel like I am."
"Did you have sex, then?"
"Kind of; no. No I haven't," Kara said.
Kara loved dancing, but she only went out with a few of their male friends to the local gay bar where she didn't drink or flirt with the random lesbian who might find herself there. The few times Poppy came along, Kara danced alone the entire time, a rapturous expression on her face as she moved to the music with her eyes gently closed.
The gay bar thing spurred much speculation among Poppy's friends about Kara's perpetual singlehood. The talk irritated Poppy, because it was no one's business. Besides, Poppy had her own theories about Kara's sexuality. Poppy was pretty sure her friend was interested in guys, from the way she'd get nervous around cute boys. Kara had single-handedly founded the University's suicide hotline and also started teaching a rape prevention class that eventually reduced sexual assaults on campus by half. Poppy thought her friend might have been working through her own issues by helping other people. She said as much when another girl basically trashed Kara at the sorority open house sophomore year.
“I think she's uber-prudish or maybe one of those born again virgins. She wears that fucking cross around her neck all the time. She probably slutted it up in high school and now she wants everybody to think she's miss pure and good,” the girl said, much to the discomfort of everyone around her. The other girls were quiet, hoping the subject would change when Poppy spoke up.
“Shut your poisonous mouth you pit viper!” Poppy shouted. She wasn't sure why she'd gone for all the snake imagery.
“What?”
“She's concerned about rape victims and helping suicidal kids, plus she never dates. You do the math you insensitive twit!”
Poppy had stormed out, not waiting for a reply.
That turned out to be a positive thing. She would've moved into the sorority housing and Poppy would have missed out on living with Kara. Poppy was fairly certain she wouldn't have had the confidence to take the advanced science classes which led her to switch her major from communications to pre-med. Kara helped her with her studies, too. Kara would always put her own needs on hold to help another person. Still, no one ever really seemed to get too close. After four years of school, practically everyone on the UB campus knew Kara, they all liked and admired her, but no one was compelled to keep in touch even three months later.
Since they'd been living in Pittsburgh, Poppy had discovered a new bend in the labyrinth that was Kara Cales. Poppy had never known Kara to engage pop culture; her roommate would watch movies in passing to be part of a group, but was hard pressed to name a favorite. Her musical tastes were completely outdated—Poppy teased that she wouldn't listen to anything recorded after two thousand and ten. The books she read were school related, aside for a penchant for trashy romances and goofy fantasy stories about telepathic unicorns.
Flying in the face of all this, Poppy had deduced that culturally-clueless Kara was obsessed with an English artist and graphic novelist. It wouldn't have been so strange, but he was the type of character the word "zeitgeist" had been tacked onto; a darling of intellectuals and the ineffably cool. Kara was all bright, former-cheerleader smiles while Will McClay wrote about dark subjects like death and pain. His artwork had a dramatic palate of reds, grays and black. Poppy was pretty sure Kara didn't own anything that wasn't primary colored or pastel with sparkles.
Kara had gone so far as to buy paper copies of his books; she stashed them under the futon mattress like she didn't want anyone to know she had them. It would have been kind of sweet if it weren't so sad that Kara was ashamed to care about something personal. Poppy walked in on her roommate reading his live feed once and Kara hid her laptop like she'd been caught downloading porn.
This fascination hinted at depths Kara was determined to conceal and Poppy was equally determined to exhume. Poppy felt like solving the secret of Will McClay would finally open Kara to the wider world, or at least, to her.
For Kara's twenty-first birthday, Poppy's friend had shyly suggested they go to see an exhibit of some of Will McClay's work. Poppy had readily agreed, hoping to gather more insight. They were going with Poppy's boyfriend, Constantine.
Connie hadn't stopped gushing since they'd boarded the light rail about the other artist at the exhibit.
"He's appropriated the technological trappings of the turn of the century and made these exquisite objects out of outmoded machines. The one with the iPhones is kind of kitschy, but it's still pretty clever. I can't believe they're pairing someone so innovative with Will McClay. Maybe they're supposed to comment on one another but it's still baffling—"
Kara perked up at the mention of her favorite artist and she shifted in her seat, her large eyes glowing in the dim interior.
"I love Will's work,” Kara said.
Poppy looked up at her boyfriend, adjusting her engineered-fur shawl. Even though it was August, the air was chilly enough for a coat. It wasn't cold enough for fur, but Poppy couldn't resist the snowy-colored, genetically-simulated polar bear wrap. She'd chosen to wear all white, heightening the shawl's visual impact and to contrast pleasantly with Kara's red, satin dress.
“That's why we're going tonight, honey,” Poppy said, looking at her refection in the dark window and running her fingers through her short, black curls.
Constantine wrinkled his nose, making his gold-framed eyeglasses bounce.
"You really like him? I mean you must if you're on a first name basis. Granted, I did, before he got popular, but then his work dropped off. I mean how many portraits of your mom should you paint? Granted, she's lovely, but Christenson did the Oedipal fascination thing to death, didn't he? I mean that literally, too, but who wants to think about that, right? Anyway, his books are better, but still kind of pedestrian. I mean naked women, how pedestrian can you get? It's nothing compared to Sauranson's satirical potato chip bags—"
"Hold on, there, sex partner, you think naked women are kind of ho-hum?" Poppy asked, halting her boyfriend's list of rhetorical questions.
"Pedestrian, yeah, but only in an artistic sense. The male form isn't any less pedestrian, if that's what you're implying," he said.
"I really wasn't, but now that you mention it—"
"I don't think the male form is pedestrian, unless it's a naked guy walking," Kara said, raising her eyebrows.
"So when it comes to naked forms you're more interested in the male ones?" Poppy asked.
Kara ducked her head down and then looked out the window.
"How can you make something so normal sound so weird?" Kara asked.
"Actually, being turned on by nude men is sort of weird. Women are much less visual than their male counterparts," Constantine said, knowingly.
"Shut up," Poppy said.
They finished the ride in tense silence.
***
The gallery was in Bloomfield at one of the sleek new rococo-style buildings with the white, porcelain facades. The neighborhood was on a recent upswing after nearly twenty years of decline following a fire that destroyed a corridor of historic structures. It had been a horrific tragedy that occurred in the winter of two-thousand eight. One of the apartment complexes had been set on fire and then occupants fleeing the building had been murdered, picked off one by one. None of the attackers had ever been apprehended. The lone survivor, a guy named Daveon Plissey, said the killers' faces were disfigured and they were talking about a slayer. Plissey's statement led to several rumors: one involving vampires, the other one was about drugged bikers into Satan worship and the heavy metal band Slayer.
About sixteen years later, with the help of a government grant, several local developers bought up the property and transformed the area. Gone were the few, remaining Italian-American businesses, replaced with posh stores selling luxury goods like jewelry and designer clothing. In a misguided bid to thwart some of the local uproar against the dramatic change in the neighborhood, the unofficial nickname for the area was adopted. The gallery they were going to was on Blood Street. People who'd been opposed to the gentrification were doubly offended by the glib nomenclature. Despite all the public grumbling, though, the place was thriving. There was so much new money infused into the city because of the cybernetics boom. The technology was supposed to do everything from cure cancer to reverse aging, but mostly people used it to download porn, listen to dubious, politically charged opinion and trade creepy fanfic about CSI:Miami.
Kara wondered if Billy knew his work was showing on the very first place they met, and how much he really remembered about what they'd been to each other in that other life. Kara hadn't seen Billy since the day after their twelfth birthday party. He'd reiterated his promise to write every day, but he didn't. She sent e-mail after e-mail and got one sentence responses until after a few months, Kara gave up. She'd send birthday cards that were not reciprocated, until the time when she didn't.
Once she reached high school, Kara hadn't actually forgotten Billy, but he wasn't in the forefront of her thoughts every day. Missing him was something she'd grown used to, like a person who learns to ignore nagging pain until it's just the background noise of life. She started participating in extracurricular activities to cope with her loneliness, but soon her interest became something else. Kara found she loved a challenge and she hated passing up the opportunity to do fun, regular kid stuff. Kara was a cheerleader, a mathlete, class president, head of the chess club and the homecoming committee. She kept up on her boxing and martial arts training, too. Her mom joked she was happy when summer rolled around because she finally got to see her daughter.
In Kara's still moments she would think of her old friend. Perhaps that was why she allotted herself so few still moments. Kara would imagine what he was doing, or rather, the images of him would come unbidden into her mind. Usually they were mundane things; Billy having tea with Tara or reading a book or drawing. His sketch book was ever-present and he'd draw in the middle of class or while watching television. Before she'd drift off she'd see him, usually sprawled out on his bed, face pressed against his drawings.
Billy ushered her to sleep but her dreams belonged to someone else. They belonged to Spike. When she closed her eyes, Kara saw a man dressed in outdated clothes, shaking out his umbrella. He looked through her like she was invisible and Kara knew his name was Spike. His blue eyes reminded her of the sky after a rainstorm, the way the world felt vulnerable and new, though it was neither. The umbrella dream started when she was about thirteen, and it continued, every night for years.
As she got older, the Spike dreams began to change. Most were flashes of his face or little scenes from a shared life, like him standing over a stove cooking or working over a punching bag or laughing. Kara loved the ones when he'd laugh. She understood in a vague way that they were really about Billy, but she wasn't sure why. The knowledge seemed to be just beyond her understanding, like brushing straining fingers against something unseen in the dark. More vexing was the conviction she had known, once, exactly what it all meant.
The truth didn't reveal itself until junior prom.
Kara had gone to the dance with her friend Josh. They went as friends—he'd been very clear on that point. Later she'd realize he'd been afraid she'd turn him down point blank if they went as anything else. It wasn't that she didn't like Josh; in fact if she'd been inclined to date anyone it would have been him. He was funny, smart and really cute; Josh was about her height with dark eyes and hair. The idea of dating anybody made her feel really, really uncomfortable though; like hyperventilating and throwing up uncomfortable. Kara was fairly certain there was something wrong with her but didn't want to tell anyone. The last time she got all expressive about her fears, the state tried to take her away from her parents.
Kara welcomed the chance to experience a rite of passage without having the pressure to get groiny by the end of the evening. Both Kara and Josh had been having fun treating their night out as a joke. They got goofy outfits at Goodwill a week before the big dance. Kara wore a crazy, ankle-length brown and white giraffe-print dress and Josh had a shiny, gold suit. They patted themselves on the back for spending less than fifty dollars total. Her mom got a huge kick out of their costumes, conceding she'd done something similar for her prom.
They'd forgone the ritual of corsages and boutonnieres then went to the banquet hall where their prom was held, in all their finery. Once they'd met up with their friends, Josh asked Kara to dance. He looked so nervous, she couldn't say no. Kara was surprised how unselfconscious she felt on the dance floor, even though she'd never really done it before. As she moved to the music, Kara became aware of her body in an entirely different way. When she looked into Josh's face, Kara wanted him to be someone else.
They danced and talked. It was the most fun Kara had had in a long time, but she still felt something fundamental was missing. After the prom king and queen were crowned, the students were handed their commemorative water goblets, then shown the door. Josh got quiet on the ride home, which was fine by Kara as she was utterly exhausted. They pulled up to the house and she said a quick good night. Josh put his hand on her arm when she started to step out of the car.
“Wait, did you have fun tonight?” he asked.
Kara smiled to cover her confusion.
“It was great. I always have fun with you, Josh. What about you?” she asked.
“Yeah, I always have fun with you, too. You're my favorite person in the whole world, did you know that?”
“Huh?”
Josh dipped his head down and set his lips against hers. Kara didn't move, not an eyelash, not a breath. Her first kiss came back to her in vivid detail; Billy tasting like Pepsodent and the gritty feel of his thumb stroking her sweaty neck. Kara remembered more than that, too. She realized Billy was the same person as Spike.
She remembered her first death.
Josh pulled away and saw her pained expression.
“I'm sorry, I thought you...can we still be friends?”
Her eyes swung away from the distant point at which she'd been staring and swiveled to his. She couldn't speak or stop trembling and was panting very hard. Josh fumbled through his pockets until he found his emergency inhaler because he thought she was having an asthma attack. When he pressed the plastic stem against her mouth, Kara shook herself out of her stasis. She moved the inhaler away.
“I don't have asthma.”
“It looked like you could use it. Are you O.K.?”
“Yeah, I'm so sorry,” she said, a brief smile bowing on her face before it made a hasty exit.
“Can I walk you to your door?”
“Yeah, that's fine, thank you,” Kara said.
He escorted her along the short path from the driveway to the front steps. They stopped there and Kara searched for some explanation, finding none that would make any kind of sense.
“I”m sorry...could you maybe not tell anybody about my weirdness?”
“Sure, as long as you don't tell anyone about the paralyzing power of my lips. It's kind of a trade secret seeing as I'm in the spy game,” Josh said.
“I'll take it to the grave,” she said with a relieved smile.
Kara gave him a quick hug and thanked him again. After Josh left, instead of walking in through the front door, she ran around the back and climbed the tree leading up to her window. She couldn't bear speaking to her parents just then. They were downstairs watching a movie on the couch and didn't hear her slip inside. She changed out of her ridiculous dress and put on a pair of pajamas, then crept into bed.
Kara's thoughts were roiling and she figured it would be hours before she fell asleep. However, within a few minutes, Kara was out and dreaming.
She was lying on a bed in a chilly room and staring out an ice-glazed window. There were no curtains on the window, only venetian blinds and the bed had plain, white sheets. On the marble windowsill were seven white candles melting into puddles.
She'd lit them for Christmas, one for each person who'd died. It was supposed to make her feel better; it had on other Christmases, when there were fewer candles. She lifted her hand and looked at the short, neat nails. There was a ring on nearly every one of Kara's fingers, a ring for every candle, every person. They were just lights glittering in the dim room now. It was New Year's Eve and she hadn't heard from anyone. The year before her friend, Wesley, had shown her how to bake fruit cake and let her have a glass of eggnog spiked with blackberry brandy, even though she wasn't yet twenty-one.
She'd thought he'd at least send a card this year, but he hadn't. There were only her candles, her rings and the photographs on the wall. She sat up in bed and then stood examining her body critically as teenage girls are apt to do. Kara's dream legs were slimmer, too and she was much less hippy, but her breasts were a cup size smaller. All in all, a trade off, she guessed and wondered which version Billy would find more appealing. Kara looked up from her self-appraisal and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
She was overall shorter, thinner and blonder than in her waking life. Her dream self's lips were fuller and her nose was more narrow, but those details faded in the background quickly when Kara noticed the scar across her face. For an instant she wondered where it came from when suddenly, she remembered.
Angel, the boy she'd loved, the boy who was turned into a vampire had sliced her face the night he murdered her mom. Buffy's mother had invited him in, not knowing he'd been changed. Buffy hadn't told her she was the slayer; her mother didn't understand such things could exist. He drained her mom and tied Dawn to a chair. Then he made Dawn call Buffy to tell her their mom was missing. When Buffy walked into the house she saw Joyce's corpse splayed out on the floor and was rooted to the spot. That's when Angel grabbed her; that's when he did it, while Dawn sat helpless in the corner.
“Now no man will ever touch you, but don't worry. I'll make sure you don't die a virgin,” he said.
Kara covered the strange face with a jeweled hand. She turned and saw a flash of pink out of the corner of her eye.
Mr. Gordo was there in the dream, as always. Whenever her nightmares got too intense, he would appear and save the day. Kara could hug Mr Gordo and the badness would stop. Even though the dream made her feel like her world was ending, Kara didn't want to opt out yet. She knew this was something which had happened in her other life, and desperately wanted to figure out what it all meant.
Kara went to the window and extinguished the flames before exiting the sparse bedroom. She walked through the living room to the small bathroom, knowing all the while which way to go. She opened the medicine cabinet, took the toothpaste out and brushed her teeth, then swept on some perfume. It smelled sweet, like cotton candy. She traced her lips with some shiny, pink gloss and looked at herself in the mirror.
There wasn't a reason not to talk to Spike any more. Kara's dream self, Buffy, knew she had nothing left to lose. Buffy had trouble remembering the last time someone touched her without using their fists. She needed to feel something other than dread. Buffy gave her reflection one more cursory glance and fluffed her hair. She slipped on her pink flip flops and walked out of the bathroom then ran through the rest of her apartment and out into the hall. She locked up the place and whispered a spell under her breath, feeling the air thicken slightly around her. She made the trek to Spike's place and knocked on his door.
Spike answered and she nearly lost her nerve. She was really going to do this, perform oral sex on a perfect stranger? She'd only seen it done in movies and wasn't sure if she could even do it right. But she had to be near him, she had to get close to someone or she was going to go crazy.
If he pushed her out of the room, if he said no, Buffy would let the next vampire win, because she couldn't live like this anymore.
“Hi,” she said.
Suddenly, Kara was jarred out of the dream by the sound of her cell phone going off. She groped in the dark until she found the mobile in her purse. Kara put the cellular to her ear.
“Hel—“
“It's midnight, young lady. Where on earth are you?”
“In bed, upstairs in bed,” Kara mumbled.
A few seconds later, her mother opened her door and barged into the room holding her mobile in her palm.
“What's up?”
“Tired, super-tired,” Kara said, crawling to the edge of the mattress and setting her phone down on the nightstand. She dragged herself into a sitting position as her mom walked closer. Emily stopped just short of the bed, glaring sternly and tapping her foot.
Kara looked at her mom, overwhelmed with gratitude that her mother was safe and her dad was downstairs. They were healthy and alive and Kara didn't have to kill any monsters. She wasn't all alone in the world.
Kara wrapped her arms around her mom's waist. Emily's fury subsided, slightly and she returned the embrace.
“What happened, did Josh do something? Were you drinking?”
“No, Josh was a perfect gentleman and the only thing we drank was a bottle of warm Gatorade he had in the back seat of his car. I think it might have made me a little light headed, but other than that, we're clean,” Kara said, her voice muffled.
Emily pulled away and looked directly into Kara's eyes.
“Don't you ever scare me like that again,” Emily said before leaving.
After her ill-fated prom night Kara began having more detailed dreams about Spike.
As the years went by, the story of her former life slowly unfolded. Sometimes the nightmares became too terrifying and she would be compelled to grab onto Mr. Gordo, but as she got older Kara withstood more. Kara fully comprehended why Billy cut off contact with her. They'd hurt each other so much, all because she couldn't bear to stay away from him. She couldn't blame him for not wanting to repeat all that misery in his new life. She was still drawn to him, anyway, like planets lining up around a sun.
Kara wished she could stop aching for him, dreaming of him and seeing his face every time she had an unguarded moment. Her longing had destroyed him the first time around. Billy had made it plain he didn't want to give her that chance again; he'd never responded to her messages.
Still, her birthday wish was to go see his show and be close to the objects he'd labored over. These were the stories that helped him to sleep and greeted him when he awoke. These were the paintings he'd created with his own hand. At least they could share this, Kara thought, even if it was done in mutual isolation.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Thanks to the lovely Sanityfair for all her help.