TITLE: A Gauntlet and a Gift
AUTHOR: Leslie Sholly
E-MAIL: PennySyc@aol.com
DISTRIBUTION: Spookys, Ephemeral, Xemplary, and Gossamer, yes. Anywhere else, with my name
and address attached. And please let me know so I can visit.
SPOILER WARNING: Through Arcadia is fair game.
RATING: R (language)
CLASSIFICATION: SRA
KEYWORDS: MSR, Mulder-Angst, Character Death (prior to story)
SUMMARY: Mulder is managing to keep the promise he made to Scully before her death but
only barely. Will a new and unexpected challenge help?
DISCLAIMER: Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox own the X-Files and most of the characters herein.
I mean no infringement or disrespect.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This story is a sequel to And I Rise, originally posted in November 1999.
I am very grateful to everyone who took a chance on a character death story. Again, I am
attempting to find hope and healing for Mulder in the wake of his loss.
FEEDBACK: I respond to and save every note, no matter how brief. Please write me at
PennySyc@aol.com (Leslie)
Subj: Last story part 2
Date: 10/17/00 9:23:35 AM Eastern Daylight Time
From: PennySyc
To: NeverAgain4X13
***********************
A Gauntlet and A Gift
by Leslie Sholly
***********************
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Who would have thought my shrivel'd heart could
have recovered greenness?
George Herbert
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
9 May 2000
Margaret Scully's Residence
Arlington, Virginia
I haven't seen Margaret Scully in eighteen
months, since that cold grey day when I looked at
her across her daughter's coffin as Father McCue
offered his final blessing.
When I looked at her, my eyes full of tears and
contrition, she looked away.
I vowed then and there that I would quietly
remove myself from the Scullys' lives. I had caused
them enough pain.
I sent Margaret white roses on her daughter's
36th birthday and again on the anniversary of her
death. But I never expected to see her again.
And now I am on her doorstep, ringing her bell,
wondering for perhaps the thousandth time whether
I am doing the right thing.
It is early May and Margaret's yard is full of
color. Multi-colored irises and other flowers I don't
recognize are blooming everywhere--circling
trees, climbing trellises, lining the street, flanking the
foundation. The air is warm and rife with promise.
I fervently hope this is a good omen as the door
swings open and Margaret stands there, staring at
me.
Given the slightest encouragement, I would
embrace her, but none is forthcoming. Instead, she
regards me blankly for a moment before speaking.
"Fox--I--you're looking well."
I can't deny it. I look rested, younger, well-fed.
I'm even sporting a tan. I know this and I know the
reason, but it's bound to look bad to Margaret, who
never saw the gaunt, desperate shadow of a man I
was only six months ago.
"I--thank you," I say formally. "I'm feeling
well."
Maggie herself doesn't look half bad. A little
older, maybe, and with a few new lines etched into
her face by grief, but the woman has apparently
bounced back in her usual amazing way.
"I--I'm sorry," I say. "Maybe I shouldn't have
come, but . . ."
"No," she says decisively. "No. I'm glad you
did. I've--I've wanted to talk to you, Fox, but I
haven't been able to bring myself to call you.
"Will you--can you sit down with me for a
moment?" she asks, gesturing toward a bench under
a flowering tree of some kind.
"Of course."
We make our way toward the bench. Maggie is
petite, like her daughter, and without thinking I
place my hand in the usual spot at the small of her
back. My heart constricts with pain when I
recognize the gesture, but I suppress my tears--I've
gotten quite good at that.
When we're seated, she says, "I need to
apologize to you, Fox."
I open my mouth to protest but she silences me
with a look I know well.
"I was unkind to you in the hospital when Dana
was ill. I wasn't at my best. I was upset, and I
needed someone to blame. I took the easy way and
fell in with the rest of my family in blaming you.
"It wasn't your fault, Fox. Dana didn't blame you
and I don't either. I have confessed this sin to my
priest, but I need to ask your forgiveness too."
"Mrs. Scully," I say, wiping away the tears that
her unexpected apology has prompted, "I'll say I
forgive you if it will make you feel better, but I've
never held it against you. I blame myself for what
happened to Dana and I always will."
Maggie is immediately distressed. "She wouldn't
want you to."
"I know that, so I try not to dwell on it."
Maggie looks at me sympathetically and lays a
gentle hand on my arm. "I should have called you a
long time ago, Fox, and I have to apologize for that
too. I haven't been angry at you for a long time, but
I was afraid to talk to you. You were so dear to
Dana, Fox. I knew that seeing you without her
would make me feel her loss all the more."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Scully. I hope that what I have
to tell you will help you heal."
"What's that, dear?" she asks, suddenly,
comfortably, the Maggie I remember.
"It would be easier to show you," I tell
her. "Would you excuse me for a moment?"
"Of course," she answers, a puzzled look on her
face.
My heart pounds as I walk the few steps to my
car. Will this news cause Maggie pleasure or pain?
And what will telling her mean for me? Will it
shatter the fragile equilibrium I've built over the past
few months, open wounds that are finally beginning
to scab over?
I return to Maggie, the object of my conjecture
cuddled close in my arms. She wakes just as we
reach the bench, yawning hugely before turning to
look at her surroundings with interest.
Maggie has gone white in an instant. Wordlessly
she takes in the sight before her--the blue eyes, the
wisps of red hair, the familiar features. Finally, she
manages, "She . . . she really should have socks on."
"She pulls them off," I explain easily. "Would
you like to hold her?"
Maggie reaches out and I pass the baby to her. I
relish the look on her face, knowing well myself how
it feels to have achingly empty arms suddenly filled
again.
"Hello, sweetheart," Maggie says softly, in the
voice women use to talk to babies. "What's your
name?"
Presumably she doesn't expect a response from
the baby, so I answer for her. "Her name is
Mary, but I call her Molly."
"That's a sweet, old-fashioned nickname for
Mary. Did you . . ."
"Yeah, I named her. It was my grandmother's
name. I--I thought maybe I should call her Dana,
but--" I can't continue but Maggie seems to
understand.
"No, I agree. She should have her own name."
"Her middle name is for her mother, though," I
offer.
"Mary Dana?"
"No," I say sheepishly. "Mary *Scully.*"
Maggie smiles a tiny smile. "Of course." She
turns her attention to the baby again. Molly is too
young to fear strangers yet, and I'm grateful that she
rewards her grandmother's smiles and caresses with
babbling and grins of her own. Eventually, though,
she begins to fuss.
"It's her lunchtime," I explain. "Just let me get
her bottle from the car."
I return with the insulated carrying case that
keeps Molly's meals safe when we're out and
about.
"Do you need me to heat that up?" she asks as I
take the bottle out of the case.
"No, she doesn't mind drinking it cold."
"Do you mind--may I feed her?"
"Sure," I answer, handing her the bottle, which
Molly accepts enthusiastically.
"Am I doing this right?" Maggie asks. "I don't
have a lot of experience with bottles--my children
were all breast-fed."
"You're doing fine," I assure her. "And you'll be
pleased to know that there's breastmilk in that bottle,
courtesy of the D.C. milk bank."
Maggie looks impressed. I'm batting 1.000 so
far. "I didn't realize there was such a thing."
"Yeah, the milk is available by prescription only.
Mostly it's for babies who have a severe allergic
reaction to formula. In Molly's case, given the
circumstances, her doctors and I were concerned
about possible immune disorders, and decided we
shouldn't take any chances."
Maggie's eyes widen. "Is she all right, Fox? Is
she healthy? She's not--not like Emily?"
"No, no," I reassure her. "She's perfectly
healthy. She's never been sick a day. All the tests
indicate that she's a normal baby." The words sound
ridiculous to me as I speak them--a normal baby,
except for having been conceived in a test tube three
months after her mother died.
"How old is she?"
"Six months."
"She's a big girl," Maggie observes, looking
approvingly at the several rolls of fat that make up
Molly's chunky legs.
"She's in the 90th percentile," I say proudly,
imagining how Scully would laugh if she could hear
me.
"How long have you had her, Fox?" Maggie
asks suddenly, and I brace myself.
"Six months," I say quietly.
"Six months! Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
"I'm sorry. At first, of course, I was kinda
overwhelmed, you know? And then I wasn't sure
how you'd take it. I didn't think you wanted to see
me again. And I was afraid seeing Molly would
only remind you of Dana and upset you."
Maggie holds the baby close and glares at me
indignantly.
"I see I shouldn't have worried," I say.
Molly has tired of her bottle and holds out her
arms to me to be picked up. I take her from her
grandmother and she pats me lovingly on the cheek.
I kiss her hair and see that Maggie is staring at me
speculatively.
"Fox," she begins, "I can see you've taken very
good care of the baby. And I know what Dana's will
said. But when she explained it to me, I had the
impression that she didn't expect you to adopt and
care for her children. She expected them all to be
sick, dying like Emily."
I was waiting for this, but I still have to try hard
to control my rage and hurt. So Maggie thinks
Scully thought I'd be fit for easing her dying children
out of life, but not for caring for a living one.
"It's a moot point," I say finally.
"Don't be offended, Fox," she begins. "I don't
mean to challenge your right to her. I just want to
be part of her life--and haven't you thought Dana
would have wanted her raised by her family?"
"I agree, Mrs. Scully, that this isn't the situation
Dana was envisioning when she gave me custody of
her children. In more ways than one. You see,
Dana's will wasn't even an issue in Molly's
custody."
"What do you mean?"
"She's *mine,* Mrs. Scully, as well as Dana's.
I'm Molly's biological father."
Subj: Last Story part 3
Date: 10/17/00 9:27:56 AM Eastern Daylight Time
From: PennySyc
To: NeverAgain4X13
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Music I heard with you was more than music
And bread I broke with you was more than bread.
Now that I am without you, all is desolate;
All that was once so beautiful is dead.
--Conrad Aiken
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
23 November 1998
The J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington, D.C.
It was my first day back in the office, just ten days
after Scully's funeral. Skinner protested
half-heartedly that it was too soon, but I was so
persistent that he allowed it in the end.
"Office work only for now, Agent. I don't want
you in the field."
I nodded. Both of us avoided the real issue like
an elephant in the living room. The FBI frowns on
lone agents in the field for obvious safety reasons,
and there was no way I was going to accept a new
partner.
Someone had cleaned the blood off the floor but
the office was otherwise unchanged. Scully's coat
hung on its hook; the files she'd been looking at lay
open on the table. I sat down at the desk and stared
around blankly, trying to take in the enormity of my
loss.
Finally I picked up the first file on my desk and
began to plow through it, trying my best to ignore
the stabs of pain that shot through me each time I
came across a notation in Scully's handwriting.
The click of heels in the hallway broke my
concentration and caused my breath to catch in my
throat. I barely managed to squeak, "Come in," at
the soft knock.
Unreasonable disappointment filled me when
Skinner's assistant entered.
She smiled at me uncertainly, hesitantly, and
approached the desk, holding out a file folder box.
"Agent Mulder, I--I thought you might like to have
these," she said.
I took the box and lifted the lid and found that it
was full of pictures of Scully, camera-shy Scully
whose printed image I did not possess. Here was a
younger Scully in her badge photo, a serious Scully
captured in the periphery of crime scene photos, a
smiling Scully in a photo for the Bureau newsletter,
even a few of a slightly tipsy and flushed Scully at a
long-ago office Christmas party.
Rendered speechless by the gift and the sympathy
it implied, I looked up at Kim, and then surprised
us both by breaking into a storm of weeping, my
head pillowed on a red and white file folder.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear as remember'd kisses after death
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as First Love, and wild with all regret,
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
--Alfred, Lord Tennyson
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
20 December 1998
Fox Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia
Ever since my sister's disappearance, I had been
plagued by insomnia and nightmares. Sleep had
never been the refuge for me that it is for most
people.
But now that my life was a waking nightmare,
things changed. The worst had happened to me and
there was nothing to fear in sleep.
And my dreams were finally worthy of the name.
Tonight I was dreaming that Scully was missing--in
some kind of vague peril. I was sitting in the back
seat of a big black Cadillac--on stakeout, I guess. I
was looking out the window when Scully just
walked up to the car. I threw open the door and
pulled her inside.
She fell right across my lap, small and solid and
so real. Her hair fell back from her face and she
looked up at me in surprise. I felt my face break
into an expression I never showed her in real life--a
big, happy smile, my eyes tender and full of love.
Overcome by gratitude that she was safe, I bent
over and kissed her, and felt her kissing back . . .
Then my alarm clock rang and I grabbed it and
hurled it across the room with such force that it put
a dent in the drywall.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Short arm needs man to reach to Heaven
So ready is Heaven to stoop to him.
--Francis Thompson
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
9 January 1999
Fox Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia
My gun lay on the table and I stared at it. "Help
me, Scully, help me," I pleaded under my breath.
I had fair days and bad days. This was a bad day.
Most of the time, I felt safe in my apartment.
This was my alone place. Scully's ghost didn't haunt
its rooms. I could easily pretend she was alive, just
elsewhere.
So much so, that just moments before, engrossed
in a case file, I had absently picked up my phone and
hit speed dial #1. When I heard, "The number you
have dialed has been disconnected," it was my cell
phone's turn to bite the dust.
Two months since Scully left me. Damn it, how
could she have left me? As a psychologist, I
understood my unreasonable anger at her, but that
didn't make it go away. Scully had left me, and
before she left she extracted a promise that I
wouldn't immediately follow after her.
In a burst of rage I had whipped out my gun,
pointed it at my temple--and stopped. "Put it down,
Mulder," I seemed to hear her whispering. "Put the
gun down. Put it down."
Slowly, I lowered the gun, and as my anger
ebbed, grief took its place. Sobbing, I lay the gun
on the table. I was working on the praying thing,
but asking Scully for help was still more natural than
turning to God. "Help me," I repeated, fingering the
cross on its chain around my neck. "If you don't
want me to do this, help me."
The telephone rang.
I picked up the receiver. "Mulder."
"Hey, man." It was Frohike. Angel unaware
indeed. "Haven't seen you in awhile. I'm coming
over with beer and a pizza and I'm not taking no for
an answer."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To live in hearts we leave behind, is not to die.
--Thomas Campbell
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
23 February 1999
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
I never could remember Scully's birthday when it
mattered, but now that she was gone I couldn't
forget. I would have liked to have taken some
flowers to her grave but I couldn't bear the thought
of running into her family.
Instead I took the day off and went for a run. I
ran along the Potomac path, past the first brave
daffodils, all the way to Georgetown. And I stood
outside Scully's apartment building and mourned for
her there. I stood for a long time staring up at the
empty window. When an unfamiliar face appeared, I
was shocked. No one else should be living in Scully's
apartment. The incontrovertible proof that the world
continued to move without her was too much for me
and I turned and jogged toward the university,
ignoring the burning in my lungs and the tears on my
cheeks.
I found my way into Dahlgren Chapel and knelt
at the back. The chapel was dim and empty. It's
hard to find an unlocked church these days and I
was grateful for the sanctuary. I buried my head in
my arms and tried to catch my breath and regain my
composure.
"Happy Birthday, Scully," I whispered. "One
thing I'm sure of, you're in a better place. You're
happy, I know that.
"I'm keeping my promises, Scully. I'm working
hard, searching for answers, and making progress,
finally. I'm trying to take care of myself. And I'm
still here, Scully, I'm still here, and I'll keep trying.
Please help me to keep that promise."
As I walked out of the chapel and into the
sunshine, I saw a young priest walking past the
fountain. When he looked up to greet me,
recognition was mutual.
"Mr.--Mulder, isn't that right?"
"I'm impressed, Father."
"Bob, please. I'm good with names. How are
you?"
"Fine, thanks," I lied cheerfully, eager to be on
my way.
"Mr. Mulder--" he began.
"Just Mulder is fine," I said.
"Mulder, I just thought about you the other day."
I looked at him in surprise.
"Yes, I was saying Mass at Holy Trinity and the
Mass was being offered for the soul of your friend."
"She's the last person who would need a Mass
said for her soul," I said scornfully.
It was Bob Callahan's turn to look surprised.
"Uh, sorry, Father--Bob. It's just--if I believed,
I'd put Scully up for sainthood. If there is a Heaven,
she got a one-way express ticket, I'm sure of it."
"I'm sure she was a lovely person," he said
sympathetically.
"Today is her birthday," I said bleakly.
Bob touched my arm briefly, compassion in his
eyes. "How about some lunch, Mulder?" he
suggested. "I missed lunch at the Jes Res--sorry, the
Jesuit Residence. We could walk down to
Booeymongers, get some sandwiches, and you could
tell me more about your friend if you want."
I surprised myself by agreeing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on
thee;
Nor untwist--slack they may be--these last strands of
man
In me or, most weary cry, *I can no more*, I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose
not to be.
--Gerard Manly Hopkins
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
10 October 1999
Fox Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia
Within two months of Scully's death, I was back
in the field, trying to dull my pain with the pursuit of
the phenomena that had once enthralled me. But
pursuing paranormal cases without Scully was
torture. Without her by my side, I felt as if I had
lost a limb. How I missed her cool logic, her calm
voice. At times I was sure I heard it when my
theories grew too outlandish. But more and more I
found myself passing up monster-chasing to
concentrate on tracking down the remains of the
Consortium. I would not let Scully's sacrifice be in
vain.
I refused to work with a steady partner, instead
allowing Skinner to assign the occasional backup
here and there as needed. I kept the Lone Gunmen
hopping. I called on every contact I had made. I
threw myself at the problem with everything I had.
For months I slept only when I was dead on my
feet, ate only when I felt myself growing faint from
lack of sustenance. By filling my time and my
thoughts with my quest, I was able, for the most
part, to push thoughts of Scully out. When her
voice intruded: "Mulder, take care of yourself," I
ate a sandwich or took a catnap.
When, eleven months after her death, it was over,
the alien threat neutralized, the Consortium
disbanded, I was suddenly emptier than ever. I
looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and was
shocked at what I saw. There were dark circles
around my eyes, grey in my hair, and age and grief
lines etched into my skin. I was pale and many
pounds thinner. Scully wouldn't have recognized
me. I hardly recognized myself.
And the despair I had kept at bay was back to hit
me full force.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
God answers sharp and sudden on some prayers,
And thrusts the thing we have prayed for in our
face--
A gauntlet with a gift in it.
--Elizabeth Barrett Browning
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
9 November 1999
Fox Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia
I was freezing, even though it was unseasonably
warm for November. Wrapped in my favorite
afghan, an old one crocheted by Scully's
grandmother that had somehow made its way to my
apartment in days gone by, I shivered. The mug of
coffee in my hands did nothing to warm me. This
cold came from within.
Scully was always the cold one; in that way alone
the Ice Queen moniker did fit. We bickered about
the level of air conditioning or heat in our office and
in rental cars. I used to tease her about how icy her
fingers were. Meanwhile I generated enough heat to
warm a room on my own, or so Scully claimed,
snuggling up against me in an unguarded moment
when we were eating lunch on our bench by the
Tidal Basin on a brisk spring morning so that we
could admire the cherry blossoms.
In "The Sixth Sense," the little boy always felt
the chill when the ghosts came around. Not so for
me. The only time I felt warm these days was when
I felt Scully's presence near. Truly I felt her at
times--I even spoke to her and felt--no, *knew*--she
was listening. I could feel her love and the strength
of her belief in me, and it had kept me going through
many dark days, kept my hands away from that
tempting gun.
Yes, feeling Scully's presence was a wonderful
gift. But sometimes, I just wanted someone to hold.
I downed the last of my coffee and pulled the
afghan more tightly around me and shifted on the
couch. Sightlessly, I stared at the blank television
set. I never turned it on anymore.
The knock at the door was almost immediately
followed by Frohike's voice. "Mulder! Hey, man,
it's me. Let me in."
I went to the door with a bit of my former
alacrity, pleased by the unexpected interruption of
my grim solitude. "What's up, Frohike?" I asked
with a trace of enthusiasm, feeling a rush of affection
for this man, who since Scully's death had proven
himself not just a paranoid techno-geek but a true
friend.
"We've had a strange call," he said without
preliminaries. "It was too short to trace and we
didn't recognize the voice, but the message was for
you."
"And it was?"
"Get Agent Mulder, go to Georgetown Medical
Center's main information desk immediately, and
await further instructions."
I frowned. "Why call you?"
He shrugged. "Maybe under the circumstances
they thought you might refuse to go there without
prodding from my insatiable curiosity."
Tomorrow was the first anniversary of Scully's
death. Georgetown University Medical Center was
certainly not on my short list of favorite places to
spend the eve of that event.
I looked around my living room, cluttered with
belongings and yet empty of all that makes a house a
home. Whether I sat here brooding or went to
Georgetown, my loss would be uppermost in my
mind. I made my decision quickly.
"Anything's better than sitting here," I said. "Just
let me change."
It was nine o'clock on a Tuesday night and traffic
was minimal as we drove through Georgetown. I
tried to put all prior visits to this hospital out of my
mind as we parked, entered the lobby, and headed
for the information desk. We waited in its vicinity
for a few minutes, expecting a shadowy figure to
approach. When that didn't happen, I approached
the girl behind the counter and said, "Hello. I'm Fox
Mulder. Is there a message for me?"
"Mr. Mulder! Yes, just a moment, let me call
Mrs. Dellacasa."
A petite, dark-haired woman appeared within
moments. "Mr. Mulder, hello. I'm Rosa Dellacasa,
the social worker for the hospital. I'm afraid we
have a rather delicate situation here."
"Could you tell me what this is all about?"
"Let's go in my office, where we can have
privacy," she said, looking pointedly at Frohike.
"Mrs. Dellacasa, I'm confused. Is this a criminal
matter?"
"No, no--a personal one."
"In that case, I'd like my friend to stay."
"Very well." She ushered us down the hall to her
office and offered us each a seat before sitting down
at her desk.
"Early this morning, a young woman in labor
checked herself into the hospital. She delivered a
baby girl this evening at 6 p.m. Our mothers remain
in the same room throughout their stay. At 6:45, the
nurse left her and the baby to rest. At 7:30, she
heard the baby crying and returned. The mother had
disappeared, but she left a note saying that you were
the baby's father and would be coming to pick her
up soon."
I frowned. This was an unexpected twist.
During the past year, I had found 13 children the
Consortium had made with Scully's stolen ova. As
the last vestiges of the Consortium collapsed, these
innocent "experiments" were abandoned, and turned
up dying in hospitals across the country.
The progress of the anemia was so swift without
the medication that even though the Gunmen had
hacked into every major hospital database in the
country and had a network in place that alerted us
almost instantly to any cases of that type, I never
had to exercise my guardianship of Scully's progeny;
each of the children had died before I could arrive
on the scene. And as part of my cooperation in the
unholy alliance of the X-Files division, Krycek, and
the Consortium that had recently ended the alien
threat, I had been given the records of the
hybridization experiments, had been assured there
were no others out there.
I gathered my thoughts, and asked Mrs.
Dellacasa, "Is the baby healthy?"
"She's fine, as far as we can tell. Is there
something we should be worried about?"
"May I step outside and speak to my friend a
moment?"
"You're not going to leave, are you?" she asked
suspiciously.
"I'm not going anywhere," I assured her. "I'll
stand right outside the window here if it'll make you
feel any better."
"Well," Frohike said to me outside. "This is an
unexpected development."
"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that the
bastards were holding out on us," I sighed.
"Still, it's strange," Frohike mused. "Not their
usual M.O. Why notify you? Why name you as the
father?"
"Because they know we're not looking anymore."
"I still keep my eyes out, for what it's worth,
Mulder. But why would they want to notify you
anyway?"
"It doesn't make much sense," I agreed.
"Mulder," Frohike hesitated. "I don't suppose
there's any possibility that--that this baby isn't a
product of the Consortium at all?"
I turned on him, shaking with barely suppressed
rage. "Frohike, nine months ago, if I wasn't
working, I was drinking myself into a stupor or
trying to keep from blowing my brains out most of
the time. Getting laid was not one of my priorities."
"I'm sorry, Mulder." Frohike was immediately
contrite. "Grief can make people do funny things."
I thought back to the last time I'd had sex, with
the vampire girl when Scully was missing and I'd
been half-crazed with guilt and fear. "You're right.
It wasn't an off-base question. Forget about it. The
real question is what we should do now."
Frohike took charge. "First things first. Let's
take a look at the kid and see what shape she's in.
I've got some doctors I trust we can call in to do
tests--we'll give them the files so they know what to
look for."
"And I'll have DNA tests run at the FBI lab."
It was arranged that Frohike would call his
doctors while I went to try to explain things to Mrs.
Dellacasa. Without further preliminaries, I showed
her my badge. "This is a complicated situation," I
said. "We have reason to believe that this baby is
part of an experiment that I've been investigating.
That may be why the . . . mother left you my name.
We're going to have to run some tests on the baby--
DNA, naturally, and some others. We're bringing in
doctors who will know what to look for. In the
meantime, I'll probably need to speak with the
pediatrician on call."
"What about custody issues?" she asked,
confusion spreading over her classic features.
"What would you normally do in a similar
situation?"
"We've never had a baby abandoned so soon
after its birth before. Normally, the first thing we do
is call in DHS, and they find a foster home for the
child. If we know the mother's name, we notify
relatives and give them a chance to petition for
custody. In this case, the name the mother gave
when she was admitted was apparently a false one."
"Well, this baby needs to stay in the hospital for
a while. If it's a question of legal custody, if she is
who I think she is, I'll be petitioning for custody
myself."
"I'll have to go ahead and notify the authorities,"
she told me.
"Of course." I wasn't concerned. With Scully's
will to back me up and my current popularity with
Congress, I didn't doubt my ability to get custody.
In any case, if this was Scully's baby, chances were
she wouldn't be around for long.
I stepped outside Mrs. Dellacasa's office while
she made her calls, and placed one myself to
Skinner. He said he'd come right away. Although I
had confidence in my own clout with the authorities,
it couldn't hurt my credibility to bring in the big guy
for backup.
Mrs. Dellacasa came out. "I'd like to talk to the
pediatrician now if I could," I told her.
"I've had him paged. He'll meet us upstairs."
"Upstairs?"
"In the nursery. You do want to see the baby,
don't you?"
I froze. The thought of seeing--of touching--a
little living, breathing part of Scully was too much to
contemplate. Whether the idea intoxicated me or
terrified me was unclear. Either way, it was another
thing I had to do for Scully, just as I had laid
bouquets on 13 graves across the country.
I followed Mrs. Dellacasa to the elevator like a
zombie. I felt cold again all of a sudden as the
reality of the situation hit. I started shaking and
knew that if Scully had been there she would have
said I was shocky and tried to get a blanket for me.
But she wasn't there--at least not bodily--so I took a
few deep breaths and tried to say a prayer for
strength instead.
Only one bed in the nursery was occupied when
we entered, and one nurse was in attendance.
"Where are all the other babies?" I asked her.
"Honey, we don't keep the babies in the nursery
anymore. They're all rooming in with their
mommies."
I conquered the urge to cry, knowing that if I fell
apart now it would all be over, and walked to the
bassinet. The baby was sleeping, blue-veined eyelids
fluttering as she dreamed. Her head was covered
with a stocking cap, but even without the clues that
hair and eyes might have provided, I recognized her
as Scully's, and my eyes began to water despite my
best intentions.
"You wanna hold her?" the nurse asked kindly.
"I--I never held a baby before," I admitted.
"There's nothing to it. She's not breakable. Just
be sure to support her head. Babies have big heads
and weak neck muscles. She won't have good head
control for a while."
"Shouldn't I wash my hands first?"
The nurse smiled. "Good idea. You can use that
sink over there."
I scrubbed as though I were getting ready to
perform surgery and then returned and held out my
arms. The nurse settled the baby into them.
Someone to hold, I thought, feeling the warmth and
weight of her. "She's so tiny."
"Tiny!" The nurse snorted. "That baby's a
moose. She weighed in at 10 pounds and two
ounces."
"That's big?"
"Average is about seven and a half pounds."
"That seems like she's healthy, then," I said,
memorizing her features and wishing it could be
true.
I was still holding her when the pediatrician
arrived. I explained what we needed to do and he
frowned. "I've examined this baby already and in my
professional opinion she is perfectly healthy."
Though I was thrilled to hear it, I knew I
shouldn't rejoice prematurely. "This is an unusual
blood disorder that wouldn't appear on the usual
tests, Doctor. I'd appreciate it if you'd work with
the other doctors on this and continue to keep a
close eye on her."
* * * * * * * * * * *
Miracle worker that he is, Frohike managed to
have his two doctors at the hospital early the next
morning. Incredibly, unbelievably, their tests on
the baby's blood were all negative. She was, in fact,
exactly as she appeared--a perfectly healthy
baby--and as I awaited the results of the DNA tests,
I began to doubt she could really be Scully's.
The guys at the FBI lab had run these same tests
for me 13 times before--they knew the drill. Check
for a match with Scully's DNA, look for the markers
that signified alien genetic matter in the mix, run a
check on the database to look for a paternal match.
Scully's previous children had all had some alien
genes. The male genetic material was different for
each, and there were no matches in the database.
I was sitting in a rocking chair in the nursery
holding the baby when they called me to the phone
at the nurses' station. It was Mike at the lab.
"You got those results, Mike?" I asked him,
heart hammering in my chest.
"Yeah, but Mulder . . . "
"What? What's wrong?"
"We were just wondering--I mean, is this the
same kind of thing you've been investigating before?
Because it looks different."
"As far as I know, it's related. Why? Isn't
she--you mean she's not Scully's?" Disappointment
made me cold inside and out.
"No, no, she's definitely Scully's. But she's
missing all those wonky alien markers in her profile.
She's 100% human."
"Well, that's great news!" I beamed. "You had
me going for a minute."
"There's something else."
"What?"
"Are you sitting down?"
"Mike, what is it?"
"We found a paternal match, Mulder."
This was an unwelcome development. I was
already becoming attached to the baby. Although I
planned to give her to her grandmother, I had hoped
to play some small part in her life. If she had a living
father, this would present complications. I tried to
keep my voice light. "So, who's the lucky guy?"
"You are."
"What?" My knees gave way and I had to grip
the counter for support.
"I said, you are."
"Are you sure?"
"95% match."
"Is that a definite match?"
"Mulder, that O.J. Simpson stuff was bullshit. If
the DNA test says you're the father, you're the
father."
I hung up in a daze and on unsteady legs
staggered back to the nursery. The baby was in a
nurse's arms now, just finishing a bottle of breast
milk. The nurse handed her to me and I sat back in
the rocker I had recently vacated. The baby startled
in her sleep and I wrapped her blanket more tightly
around her. Gently I ran one finger across her
satin cheek. You're mine, I thought, looking down
at her in all her tiny perfection. Oh, Scully, I
thought, I wish you were here to see this. But for
the very first time since Scully's death, my sorrow
was tempered by joy.
* * * * * * * * * * *
An emergency hearing was held to settle the
issue of the baby's custody. Between Scully's will,
the DNA evidence, and my rather impressive cadre
of supporters, the judge was easily persuaded to
grant me physical custody of the baby. All our
doctors having granted her a clean bill of health,
nothing stood in the way of my taking her home.
"Nothing," I said to Frohike, "except the fact
that I have absolutely nothing that a baby needs."
"Let me take care of it," he offered, "Take her on
home, and I'll be by in a couple of hours with
everything that you need for the time being."
"There's no denying you're a man of many
talents, Frohike, but I wouldn't have counted
shopping for a layette among them."
"O ye of little faith! You just take her home.
One thing, though--what kind of diapers do you
want me to get?"
"How many kinds are there?"
"Mulder, I mean do you want cloth or
disposables?"
"Cloth?" I asked him in horror. "Do people still
use those?"
"Cloth diapers are cheaper and better for the
environment," he informed me.
"Cloth?" I said again in disbelief.
"Some people say they are better at preventing
diaper rash, too."
As much as I hated the thought of anything
marring the pink perfection of the baby's bottom, I
shook my head at Frohike regretfully. "I'm still
trying to get used to the idea of changing diapers at
all, Frohike. Gotta go with disposables."
"All right, man. Whatever you say."
"Wait a sec, Frohike. I want--thanks." I looked
him in the eye and reached out to squeeze his arm.
"You've been here for me to hell and back over the
past year--all you guys have, but especially you--and
I want you to know how much I appreciate it."
Frohike's eyes were suspiciously moist behind his
glasses. "Just keeping a promise, my friend." I
looked at him questioningly. He cleared his throat.
"Um--when I was with Scully--when she was saying
good-bye to everyone . . ." I nodded,
remembering how bravely, how gracefully she
had faced her death. "The last thing that Scully said
to me was, 'Please take care of Mulder for me.'"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There is strong shadow where there is much light.
--Goethe
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
14 November 1999
Fox Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia
Fumbling, I managed to unlock my apartment
door while holding both the swaddled baby and the
overstuffed diaper bag and dropping neither. With a
sigh I dropped the bag inside the door and headed
for the couch.
My heart almost stopped when I heard the voice
from the corner of the room. "Good evening, Agent
Mulder."
Inanely, I stammered, "You--you're not
smoking."
"Second-hand smoke is bad for babies," C.G.B.
Spender said reasonably.
I had not seen my former nemesis since our joint
statement to Congress. I had never expected to see him
again. Recovering my equilibrium and remembering all the
reasons I had to be angry at him, I raised my voice.
"What are you doing here? What the fuck do you want?"
"Such language, Agent Mulder!" he chided me.
"Little ears are listening."
I did lower my voice, terrified the baby would
wake. "Cut the crap, Spender."
"I wanted to see her--to admire the results of my
final project."
"Why? Why did you do it?"
He smiled. "Because I could."
I glared at him, waiting.
"Just consider her a gift."
"God damn it! She's a baby, Spender! A human
being, not a thing! You can't just create human
beings and give them out as gifts!"
Spender shook his head. "You are so
predictable, Agent Mulder. Must we continue this
song and dance? Next you will call me a
black-lunged son of a bitch, I believe. Then you'll
likely hold your gun to my head. But we both know
you won't pull the trigger. You're an honorable
man, and murder in cold blood is beneath you."
"Are you finished yet?"
"This will be our last meeting, Agent Mulder. So
indulge me for a moment."
I shifted the baby into a more comfortable
position in my arms.
"I had this baby made for you because I could. I
had the means, and I lack your conscience. I am
aware that you have some of Agent Scully's eggs in
your possession and access, of course, to the other
raw material necessary. You could have had this
done yourself."
"I would never, ever have considered such a
thing. I would have had no right, and neither did
you."
"Shall I take her back then?"
"*NO!*" I felt a wave of terror pass over me and
I realized then that I already loved this baby with
everything I had.
"I thought as much." Spender paused to cough
into a handkerchief. "I know what it is like to spend
a life alone, Agent Mulder. I was always glad you
had Agent Scully. I told you before I was sorry
about what had happened to her. Let's just call this
my attempt at righting that wrong."
"You can't replace people as though they were
pets."
"Perhaps not. Anyway, that was not my
intention. Had Agent Scully not been damaged by
our experiments, in time you and she might have had
a child. Giving you this baby is my effort to bring
about what might have been."
"You're not God, to play games with people's
lives this way."
"No?"
"This isn't right. It isn't moral. It's not the way
it's meant to happen," I protested, all the while
rubbing my cheek against the soft fuzz of the baby's
hair.
"Waxing philosophical, are you? Perhaps being
friends with that Jesuit is having an effect on you."
"Is there nothing you don't see or know?"
"I've been your guardian angel for years now, but
I'm afraid I'll be hanging up my halo shortly. I'm
dying, Agent Mulder. I've got terminal lung cancer-
-it's in the final stages." As if to punctuate his
words, Spender began to cough again. Finished, he
smiled slightly and said, "I agree there's a certain
poetic justice at work here. But I'm thankful that I
made it long enough to see the alien threat ended,
and to see this baby safely born."
As he stepped from the shadows to make his way
to the door--bent, I saw now, and frailer than I
remembered him from our Congressional appearance--I
asked, "Why do you care?"
"I've always cared, Fox." He smiled at me, the
most genuine smile I'd ever seen on his face. "We
won't speak again. Take care of the baby. Neither
Bill Mulder nor myself would ever have won any
parenting awards. But something tells me you'll be
good at it." He lit a cigarette and walked out of my
life.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I applied my heart to what I observed and learned a
lesson from what I saw.
--Proverbs 24:32
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
14 November 1999
Fox Mulder's Apartment
Alexandria, Virginia
Most people have nine months, give or take, to
get used to the idea of becoming parents, to learn
about baby care and to make plans for their future.
I, on the other hand, had five days from the time I
found Molly at the hospital until I brought her
home to a bachelor apartment that was sorely
equipped to welcome her.
True to his word, Frohike brought me the
necessities--diapers, wipes, bottles, blankets, and
sleepers. Every single one of the latter was pink.
Frohike beamed at me sheepishly when I commented
on this.
We'd been in the apartment just over an hour and
the baby chose this moment to open her sky-blue
eyes and begin to fuss. Frohike must have noticed
the panic-stricken look on my face because he took
charge, rummaging through the diaper bag until he
came up with an insulated bottle of milk the hospital
had sent with me. He handed it to me and I clumsily
stuck it in the baby's mouth.
"Shouldn't I heat it up or something?"
"I'll let you in on a secret that'll save you a lot of
time, Mulder. She doesn't know the difference.
She'll drink it cold if you don't get her used to
drinking it warm."
He began removing the rest of the purchases
from the bags and stacking them neatly on one end
of the couch. "The boys and I will be over in the
morning to straighten this place up for you. We can
figure out what else you need then."
"Thanks, Frohike."
"My pleasure. The bottles I bought are much
better than the ones from the hospital. I got the kind
with the bend in them to keep air from getting in her
stomach. And I got the nipples that are more like
the real thing, y'know?"
"The extent of your knowledge continues to
amaze me," I told him. "How do you know so
much about babies?"
"I had a kid once," he admitted quietly,
continuing to unearth purchases from his shopping
bag.
"Frohike I--I had no idea."
"There's a lot you don't know about me, Mulder.
It was all a long time ago--some time I'll tell you
about it. Tommy was just five months old when he
died--crib death, what they call SIDS these days."
"I'm sorry."
His voice was thick. "Even in just five months,
you can really get attached, y'know? I can still see
his cute little face, remember his smile and his laugh.
He'd just gotten his first tooth." He removed his
glasses and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.
"It gets better, though, eventually, doesn't it?"
"Of course it does, Mulder. You know that
yourself. Didn't you tell me you were catatonic
after Samantha went missing? But you got over it,
you survived, you went on. After awhile, you start
enjoying life again. And there's nothing wrong with
that."
"Hasn't happened yet," I said, setting the bottle
down. "She feels wet."
"Next time, you should change her before you
feed her. Then you don't have to wake her
afterwards. You want help with that?" he asked as
I laid the baby on the couch and began fumbling
with the diaper.
"No, thanks. Now's as good a time as any for
me to start learning how to do this stuff."
"I brought you some research material." Frohike
rummaged through the bag again and came up with
several books. "Had to get you Dr. Spock for the
basic info. Then here's "What to Expect in the First
Year." That's the bible for today's parents, or at
least that's what it said on the 'Net. And the
alternative types swear by this one," he said,
brandishing a volume entitled "Attachment
Parenting."
"I appreciate all you've done, Frohike. But who
are we trying to kid here? I'm not fit to take care of
a newborn baby. Shit, I've barely taken care of
myself for the past year. Best thing I could do for
her, probably, is to turn her over to Mrs. Scully right
now."
He looked at me seriously. "Is that what you
want to do, Mulder?"
"No! No, I want her. I want to take care of her.
I just don't know if I can."
"Look at it this way, Mulder. This baby is a gift
from God. He must think you're capable."
I laughed harshly. "Oh, come on, Frohike. We
both know that God had nothing to do with making
this baby."
"I don't believe that, Mulder. God's ways are
not ours. Who are we to question His methods?
He's used stranger instruments before."
"I'm new to all this God stuff, Frohike, but you
now me well enough by now to realize that I
question everything."
"So you do. But look, you've been floundering
here. Your quest has been your lifeline. You've
devoted your life to it. If Scully had been here when
it ended, I think you would have been O.K. But
without her, you've had no direction. They never
talk about what happens to the Seekers when the
*find* the Holy Grail."
The baby whimpered and I stood and began
walking around the room with her.
"This baby can be your new reason to go on,
Mulder. You've got to get back on track, you've
got to take care of yourself, so you can take care of
her. Remember that it's what Scully wanted."
"She didn't mean this, Frohike. You know she
didn't expect this."
"If she'd wanted to, she could have written joint
custody with her mom into the will, Mulder. She
didn't. She trusted you. If you give this baby to
the Scullys now, they'll take her over and you won't
be a big part of her life. I *know* that's not what
Scully would have wanted. I know it's not what
*you* want."
I yawned suddenly and Frohike rose to leave.
"I'll be back with Byers and Langly in the morning,
my friend. You know you'll have our help on this.
Byers comes from a big family--he knows all about
kids. And we'll just have to educate Langly."
At the thought of this unlikely trio of nursemaids,
I grinned genuinely for the first time in months.
Frohike grinned back. "See you in the morning,
Dad."
* * * * * * * * * * *
So I accepted the challenge and became a Daddy
in name as well as in biology. I took a six-month
leave from the Bureau--not difficult considering my
current VIP status--and devoted myself heart and
soul to this new endeavor, as I had to anything else
I'd ever undertaken.
I never did have time to read any of Frohike's
parenting books. Molly absorbed my attention
night and day. My empty arms were literally full
now; I never put her down and she slept with me
at night.
In some ways I missed Scully now more than
ever because I was constantly thinking of how
wonderful it would have been to stare the adventure
of parenting Molly with her: to marvel together over
her beauty, to show her off to friends and family, to
argue over whose features she had inherited. But I
didn't have the time to mourn that I once had. Molly
liked to keep moving, so I bought a sling and a
jogging stroller. My underused muscles reasserted
themselves and my unhealthy pallor disappeared.
All that exercise made me hungry again and I
regained the pounds I had lost.
Normally it's the parents who coax smiles and
laughter from the baby, but in my case it was
Molly's sunny disposition, her coos and squeals
and open-mouthed smiles that got me smiling and
laughing again.
Scully and I talked once about the love of
God how I couldn't feel that love or believe in its
existence because I had known so little
unconditional love in my life. Scully's love had led
me closer to a belief in a Higher Power, a God of
Love. Molly's helped me to complete that journey.
When she smiled in delight at the sight of me, when
she planted wet kisses on my nose or my cheek, it
was easy to see that she loved me. And as her love
brought healing to my lacerated heart, it was easy to
see the hand of a loving God at work.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Joy is not the absence of pain. Peace is not the
absence of turmoil. Love is not the absence of anger
and hurt.
--Matthew Kelly
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
20 May 2000
Margaret Scully's Residence
Arlington, Virginia
"What the *fuck* is *he* doing here?"
It's my reunion with Bill Scully, whom I have not
seen since his sister's funeral. Now I remember why
I loathe the bastard. But I'm not here to pick a fight,
so I say nothing and enjoy watching Maggie light
into Junior.
"Billy, I know you're a sailor, but you're
supposed to be an officer and a gentleman. I will
not tolerate that kind of language in my home."
Charlie lays a hand on his big brother's arm.
"Hey, buddy, cut him some slack, O.K.? Dana did
ask you to lay off him, remember?" I think I like this
guy after all.
"Of course I remember." All of a sudden the big
bully is close to tears and I can find it in my heart to
feel for him. But only for a minute. "Do you think I
could ever forget what Dana said to me when she
was dying?" Bill's voice grows louder. " Do you
think I could ever forget that she wasted her last
words to me talking about this bastard?"
"Bill!" Maggie is getting upset now and I feel
the need to intervene.
"Look, I didn't come here to start a problem," I
begin.
"Why did you come here, then?" Bill demands,
glaring at me truculently with bulging blue eyes.
"For one thing," I say patiently, willing myself to
keep my voice calm and slow, "I hoped it might give
the family some closure to know that the man who
was primarily responsible for what happened to your
sister is dead."
"How can that be, when he's standing here in
front of me?"
That's it. I've had enough. I thought this was a
bad idea to begin with, bringing everyone together
to meet Molly without any warning, but Maggie
insisted. She didn't say so, but I'm sure she was
afraid Bill would never agree to occupy the same
space as me voluntarily. I'm trying to stay cool here
but Bill is obviously not going to meet me half-way.
"I don't have to be here. I could just take--I
could just leave right now. But I think Dana would
want this."
Bill opens his mouth to spew some more
invective at me but Maggie has her own ideas.
Smoothly she interrupts, and her eyes plead with me
as she says aloud, "Why don't you go get Molly, Fox?
She's just playing in the crib."
I go along with Maggie's suggestion. Maybe the
sight of his niece will be enough to defuse Bill's
temper. I know he likes kids and that for all his
gruffness Scully thought he was a good Dad to
Matthew. And who could resist Molly's charm
anyway? So I scoop her out of the crib that all the
Scully kids once slept in and head back down to the
living room, where ominous silence awaits me.
It doesn't last long. Bill gets one quick look at
Molly and says in a soft voice that is almost more
menacing than a yell, "You sick fuck. What the hell
have you done? How did you--how dare you do
this?"
"Fox didn't *do* anything," Maggie protests,
going up to bat for me once more. I appreciate it,
but I know that her patronage only damns me
further in Bill's eyes. "Molly just appeared at
Georgetown six months ago."
"And she's Dana's." It's not really a question, but
Maggie responds anyway.
"You know she is, Billy. She looks just like her
mother. And Fox has had all the tests run."
"You've had her six months and haven't turned
her over to her rightful family in all that time?" Bill
challenges me.
I know I shouldn't be sarcastic, but it's such a
natural response when dealing with Bill. "I can't
imagine why I was putting off this joyful reunion."
Bill's voice rises again. "I intend to start legal
proceedings immediately, Mulder. Don't even think
you'll get away with keeping her. That provision in
Dana's will wasn't meant for this kind of situation
and you know it. And when we tell the court about
you they'll laugh at the very idea of a psycho like
you raising a child."
"You'll have to do better than that, *Billy*," I tell
him, white-hot rage burning inside me. "It would
take evidence of physical abuse or severe neglect to
convince the court to take a motherless child away
from her devoted father."
"Her *father?*"
"Her father." I try not to look smug and I think
I mostly succeed.
"Jesus." Bill is vanquished. He's related to Fox
Mulder for life now and it's hard to take in.
"Look, I know how utterly crazy this all is." I tell
him." I can barely understand it myself. I didn't plan
this, or ask for it, and it hasn't been easy. But this is
the hand I've been dealt and I intend to play it. I love
this child more than you can possibly comprehend,
and I'm going to be the best god-damned father there
ever was. I thought part of doing that was giving
Molly the benefit of an extended family, helping
her to form a connection with her mother. Maybe I
was wrong."
Molly has never heard voices raised in anger
before, and she's frightened. Her mouth quivers and
she buries her little face in my shoulder. "This is
upsetting the baby, Bill, not to mention what it's
doing to your mother," I say, looking pointedly at
Maggie, who has tears in her eyes. "Maybe I need
to leave and give you all some time alone. I know
this has been a shock."
"Please don't go," Tara says, casting a pleading
look at Bill. "We've come all the way from San
Diego, and Matthew hasn't even gotten to meet his
cousin yet."
"Our kids will want to see her too," Kristin
agrees. "At least come out in the back yard and see
them."
"Please stay, Fox," Maggie says quietly, wiping
her eyes. "Have some spaghetti with us, at least."
"I'd like to stay, Mrs. Scully, but I won't have
Molly frightened." I look at Bill. The fight seems
to have gone out of him for the time being, and he
only looks sad.
"It'll be all right, Mulder," Charlie assures me.
"We all want to get to know Molly. I'll keep the big
guy in line." Bill grimaces but says nothing, so I
allow myself to be led out into the back yard.
The place is swarming with children of all sizes,
from a ten-year-old girl who looks like a young
Melissa to the baby younger than Molly in her arms.
Scullys all, with freckles and blonde or red hair, they
pause in their play to look me over.
"Jesus, Charlie, how many kids do you have?"
"Six," he announces proudly. "And with
Matthew and now Molly, it's quite a crew of
cousins. This is Meghan," he says, pointing at the
oldest girl, "and she's a big help with the baby--that's
Daniel; he's three months old. Patrick's eight and
Will is six," he says, indicating two grubby boys who
had been wrestling in the grass when we came out.
"Katie's four, and Chris is two." Those two--Katie
looks disconcertingly like Emily--are in the sandbox,
along with a boy with a head full of blonde ringlets.
"That's Matthew--you've met him before, I think?"
"Well, he's grown quite a bit since then," I direct
this remark towards Tara, who smiles
encouragingly.
"He's three and a half now," she responds. "And
he's so excited to be here with his cousins."
Kristin smiles at me too. "We all love kids,
obviously. I can't tell you how happy we are about
Molly."
"I think she's happy too," I say, somewhat
surprised. Molly's never been around other children,
and she's looking around with interest and kicking her
chunky legs energetically. Meghan chooses this
moment to approach and hand off her own squalling
baby brother to their mother.
"Oh, she's so sweet! Can I hold her?" Soon
Molly is being paraded around the back yard, being
entertained by the antics of her cousins, while I sit in
an Adirondack chair with a glass of iced tea next to
Bill and Charlie Scully, wondering how this ever
came to pass.
Watching the kids play in the warm evening air, I
can't help but reflect that this is that elusive normal
life that Scully and I discussed once upon a time, the
life I never thought of wanting and that death
cheated her out of experiencing. And here I am, in
the midst of it all. It's what I wanted for Molly, it's
why I took the chance and embraced the pain of
contacting Maggie in the first place. But Scully
should be here too. I should have told her I loved
her years ago. We should have had a wedding and a
honeymoon and made a baby the regular way. We
should be sitting here watching the kids together and
making plans for our future. She should be alive,
and I shouldn't be alone.
These are pointless thoughts and I banish them
from my mind successfully most of the time. Tonight,
though, with her family around me, I am keenly
aware of Scully's absence from my side. And even
though I feel Bill's hostile gaze upon me, I cannot
stop the tears from rolling down my face.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The infinite Goodness has such wide arms that it
takes whatever turns to it.
Dante
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
25 May 2000
Holy Trinity Catholic Church
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
Since our chance meeting on Scully's birthday
last year, a friendship of sorts has sprung up
between Bob Callahan, the young Jesuit I met in the
hospital chapel, and me. We shoot hoops
occasionally and go out afterwards for a beer or
two. I've met him for lunch a few times--I even
went to one of his masses at Holy Trinity when he
told me he thought the homily would interest me.
Still, this is the first time I've sought his counsel
on a spiritual matter, the first time I've set foot in his
small office.
I sit down in a comfortable, if battered, leather
chair and set Molly at my feet with some toys. My
eyes alight on a green marble Celtic cross near me
on the desk, and I pick it up to examine it, grateful
for something to occupy my eyes and my hands.
I told Bob on the phone I needed to talk, so he
doesn't screw around with the pleasantries. "What's
bugging you, Mulder?"
"I feel guilty," I say.
"Guilty? Mulder, we'll make a Catholic of you
yet!" Bob smiles, but seeing that his quip has failed
to lighten my mood, he grows serious again. "What
are you feeling guilty about?"
"For being alive when Scully's not," I blurt
quickly, before I can lose my nerve. A good
listener, Bob waits for me to tell him more. "For
months after she died, I didn't consider being alive
such a prize. I was on the cusp of suicide for a long
time. I told you that before. And if Scully hadn't
made me promise not to, I would have killed myself
the night she died.
"I've always felt responsible for what happened
to Scully. In a way, staying alive has seemed like a
punishment, a penance for what I did to her, because
life meant separation from her."
"What's changed?"
"I--I'm happy," I admit miserably. "I never
thought I'd be happy again, but I am."
"Because of Molly."
"Yeah. I still miss Scully," I say swiftly. "Every
single day. And it still hurts. But I'm not drowning
in despair every second like I was. I smile--I laugh--
I enjoy my life. To be completely honest, when I'm
not thinking about Scully, I'm *happier* now than I
used to be."
"And that's a bad thing?"
"It's not right, Bob! It sounds so trite to ask why
bad things happen to good people, but I can't help it.
Here's Scully--and she was a good person, Bob, a
really good person--and she's dead, before her time.
She'll never know Molly--"
"Hold on, Mulder. That's not what Scully
believed. Or what I believe. Or even what I thought
*you* believed."
"O.K., O.K., you're right. I've come to believe in
an afterlife. I do believe we'll all be together again
eventually. But I'm talking about the here and now.
"And there's more. I've explained to you about
how Molly was conceived. The man who made her-
-he did it *because* Scully was dead. If Scully
hadn't died, Molly wouldn't be here at all. I want to
believe that Molly's a child of God, not just an
advanced science experiment. But I don't want to
believe God planned it to be this way."
Bob leans back in his chair and nods
thoughtfully. "So you're wondering about the
degree of control God exercises in our lives, what
kind of influence He has over events?"
"Yeah."
"You don't ever ask *small* questions, do you,
Mulder? What did Scully think about that?"
"I don't know. It wasn't the sort of thing we
discussed."
"Come on, Mulder. Put that famous memory of
yours to good use."
I thought hard, remembering conversations I'd
had with Scully, chance remarks I'd heard her make.
"Well, I know she prayed, so she must have thought
God answers prayers. And she told me once that
she believed God was involved in our lives. But she
didn't believe in destiny. She said we choose our
own path in life. When she was dying she told me it
wasn't my fault--that she'd made her own choices
and she wouldn't change them."
Bob leans forward, pinning me with his gaze.
"What about you, Mulder? What do you
believe?"
"I've always made a lot of noise about Fate with
a capital F. I know I talked a lot about destiny and
events being set in a preordained way. On the other
hand, I've always been big on blaming myself for
everything that happened to anyone I cared about.
Maybe all my talk of Fate was a cop out--because if
I could believe that all the things that happened
around me were fated, I could escape the guilt, and I
could believe it would all work itself out in the end.
I don't think that kind of Fate is compatible with a
belief in a loving and personal God. But none of this
answers any of the questions I'm having."
"Free Will is my answer, Mulder, the only one I
have to offer. And from what I know of Scully, it
sounds like it was her answer as well. What
happened to her had to do to a degree with free
choices you made and that she made, but more than
that with the free choices of other people--people
who exercised their gift of freedom poorly."
"So you're saying that there is no overriding plan
for the universe, and that God doesn't intervene?"
"No, I'm not. I think God inspires us to make the
right choices, to exercise our freedom responsibly. I
believe He gives us strength when we ask Him for it.
And I believe He helps us to find the good that can
arise from the ashes of evil. I think, for example,
that He gave you the strength to take Molly and love
her instead of passing her on to Scully's family. You
could have rejected the responsibility but you chose
to accept that gift and you're reaping the benefits
now."
"I don't know--"
"I don't *know* either, Mulder. God's ways are
largely mysterious, you know."
"People keep telling me that," I say ruefully, "But
that's not something that's easy for me to accept."
"Oh, Mulder. You and your search for the
ultimate Truth. You want things to be black and
white. You've been given a gift of great
understanding and I think that in some ways it's
spoiled you. You understand so many things that
you think you should be able to understand
everything. Well, God is my Truth, and that He is
unknowable mystery is part of that Truth. My Faith
is my Truth."
"Once, I told Scully that the Truth is my faith."
"I'm sorry I never met Scully, but I do feel like I
know her through what you've shared with me.
I may not know the answer to every mystery, but
there are some things I'm absolutely sure of, and one
of them is that she would be happy that you are
happy. She would not blame you or want you to
feel guilty for going on with your life. And she
would be thrilled that you are trying to put a face on
God.
"You can't be a good father to Molly if you're
eaten up with guilt. Scully knows you'll always love
her. She knows you'll never forget her. It's all right
not to suffer constantly anymore."
Molly has been playing placidly on the threadbare
carpet all this time, but her patience has worn thin.
"Da-da, Da-da," she calls, and I look down to see
her gazing up at me with Scully's blue eyes,
extending dimpled arms to be picked up. She smiles
at me, and it's almost as if Scully is smiling at me,
encouraging me to embrace happiness.
As I reach for the baby, I feel love for both her
and her mother, and I promise God silently to try to
be worthy of this second chance at joy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Knowledge by suffering entereth, and life is
perfected by Death.
--Elizabeth Barrett Browning
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
29 May 2000
Calvary Catholic Cemetery
Arlington, Virginia
On a sunny morning late in May, I stand by
Scully's grave, our daughter in my arms.
A warm breeze caresses us, blowing the skirts of
Molly's elaborate christening gown in swirls around
her ankles.
In less than an hour, we are to meet the Scully
clan at the church they attend to have Molly
baptized. Frohike and Scully's friend Ellen have
agreed to serve as godparents, and Bob will perform
the ceremony. All the Scullys will be present--even
Bill, who seems to have decided that playing a part
in his niece's life is worth being courteous to her
father.
Molly's never been to the cemetery before--and I
haven't been here since Scully was buried. I don't
really need to come here to feel close to her. I know
it's only her body that's here in the ground. I carry
her in my heart and always will.
But I'm looking on this special day as a new
beginning for Molly and me. And just as Molly is
undergoing a ceremony of rebirth today, I feel the
need for a ceremony of my own.
Gently, I lay a large bouquet of blush roses on
the grave. Molly has a rose of her own to put down,
but it takes some work to convince her that she
should release it instead of chewing on it. Finally,
she trades it for a new teething toy I bought to keep
her quiet during the baptism.
Her family purchased a simple headstone marked
with Scully's full name and the dates of her birth and
death. It's probably just as well I wasn't consulted.
I would have wanted to erect an enormous
monument. Now with the perspective a year and a
half brings I can realize that the mark Scully left on
the hearts of those who loved her is all the
monument she needs.
Her living legacy warm in my arms, I sit on the
stone bench beside the headstone. "This is where
your mommy is buried," I tell Molly. "She was
beautiful and smart and loving, just like you are.
She's watching over you all the time, and I know
that she thinks you're wonderful."
Molly waves her new toy in the air and babbles
enthusiastically. "Scully," I say softly. "I wanted to
tell you that Molly is being baptized today. It's what
you would have wanted, I know, but it's also what I
want for her. Your family will be there. We're all
getting along--well, Bill's Bill, but he's trying. And I'll
make sure they're an important part of Molly's life."
Molly is struggling to get down and I realize I'm
going to have to hurry things up. No way can I let
her get grass stains on this christening gown.
"Scully, I've kept the promise I made to you.
And now I want to say thank you for asking me to
make it. I'm glad I'm here, and I'm happy, and I
wanted you to know that I think I've decided it's
O.K. to be happy.
"I will always love you, Scully. And I'll make
sure Molly knows all about you. I will always
remember you."
I rise to leave, but turn to whisper one last
"Good-bye" towards the grave. My heart stops as a
gentle breeze ruffles the roses I have placed there as
if in a silent response. The sun shining brightly on us
is like a blessing, and my daughter and I head for the
church and the waters of rebirth.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Remember
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
--Christina Rossetti
THE END