Alone.
Achingly, bitingly, pervasively alone... she was, and had been, and would
be... and at the present moment, darkness just beginning to paint the
windowpanes a translucent purple, "would be" felt like forever, and she
believed it.
It's your own damned fault, you know.
Dana Scully let the curtain fall against the coming springtime dusk...
shedding the light jacket, letting it drop over a chair, then stopping in
place, in the middle of her living room. April in DC... just now cherry
blossom time. She'd avoided the office, claiming this one Saturday for
herself, despite the fact that she knew Mulder would be pushing paperwork
around his basement den... the Fox gone to ground, as he always did after a
case that had unsettled him. She'd been glad of that. Not that Mulder
ever imposed on her personal time... they saw very little of each other, in
fact, outside of the office... but something in her had wanted the day for
herself.
She'd walked the Mall, past the Smithsonians with their imposing stone
faces, past the open grass, as yet still muddy with the last snow-melt, the
trees just beginning to bud and leaf. The sky, swirled with high white
cirrus clouds over a blue canvas, was warm on her back... and she'd stopped
to watch children play on the life-sized Triceratops statue, clambering
over the huge, still creature's nose and horns, sitting behind the bony
crest like a mahout of old India astride his pachyderm mount, kicking their
heels and squealing while mothers looked on, indulgent, enjoying the spring
air with maternal calm.
The case echoed back to her... if Mulder had been unsettled by the ghost of
Samantha he saw in every small girl's face, children as a collective tugged
at her insides, more and more frequently now. What a pair they were, she'd
thought... like two starving people standing outside the glass-fronted
restaurant. At times like this she felt in her core that Mulder would
never find his sister... that he would remain incomplete, a part of him
forever missing. And herself...
He promised he'd be there when I needed to talk. Well, that was the
truth, but even now, with the emptiness inside her amplified by the looming
cancerous shadows, she was not prepared to broach that subject with her
partner. Mulder would listen... and he'd offer what solace he could... but
his words still came back to her, soft, sincere, wondering.
"I never saw you as a mother, Scully..."
Of course he hadn't. And he couldn't, even now. Even after... she shook
her head.
It's not about that, and you know it.
She hadn't turned on the lights in her apartment... so often, the dusk of
springtime was soothing, calling back to her older times, softer evenings,
evenings when being by herself didn't mean being alone. It hadn't been so
very long ago, either. Shades of past twilights crept into the room along
with the deepending shadows... echoes of voices long past.
Melissa... her sister, Missy... reading the poem "The Children's Hour"
aloud. Claiming that hour for them, for brothers and sisters together, and
as long as there was light in the sky, Mom wouldn't call them in from the
back yard, from the rude fort they'd constructed out of leaveaway timber
and discarded domestic scraps.
Laughter in the streets of the Navy Housing complex... there were always
children there, always playmates. Being a Navy family wasn't so bad...
what one lacked in continuance, in lasting friendships, was made up for in
the constant stream of new friendships a-bourning. Chinaberry fights in
the Georgia ports. Romping through the woods in Newport. Discovering the
malls in California, and realizing that it was good to be young, and in the
company of other young people...
And always, always, having home to return to. In the dusky twilight, from
whatever activity she'd found herself embroiled in, there was always the
songlike call of her mother at the kitchen door... and leaving the cool
dampness of gathering shadows to scurry, scamper, skip towards the
welcoming light of the kitchen, and dinner on the table...
She wanted that for herself, now.
Dropping into a chair, the creamy manilla folder, her own casenotes, caught
her eye... she'd wanted that, been thinking of that, as soon as the file
first crossed her desk. The vanished children. Then going to the small
town... a suburb of Hartford, really, but with the feel of a small town.
Seeing the faces of parents, searching for answers in the calm, detached
faces of two FBI agents. Watching the wider eyes of small siblings, gazing
up at the new grownups... assured in the power of adults to restore what
was missing to their families.
Mulder had buried himself in the paranormal, clinging to his extreme
possibilities as though they could draw him through scenarios
all-too-familiar, too close to his inner self. She'd seen him close off,
studying the scenes, questioning witnesses, picking up the scent and
trailing like a hound... the odd music. The strange man. The rats... a
children's story come to life, it seemed, and she had no place in that.
She, belonging to the everyday world, found herself once more trailing
along behind... Mulder's sidekick, Sancho Panza to his Don Quixote. And
she resented him for that.
Didn't he think the case had affected her, as well? For all his
perceptions, for all his ability to sense the slightest shift in stance and
facial posturing, her partner could be remarkably dense sometimes. In that
town were families with one empty chair at the dinner table... one bedroom
ever empty. In her heart was a small house in the suburbs... a family
home... but no man shared the large bed with her. No children came running
to her calls. The bedrooms she had planned for them... baby's rooms,
little children's rooms, rooms of growing teens... were empty and lifeless
in the ghost-home of her mind.
Empty... and as lifeless as her own apartment, in the blues and dusky grays
of past twilight, and she could only just make out the silhouettes of the
sofa, the couches.
At least when she'd had Queequeg, there had been a small body about the
place... someone to greet after work, and the sound of small feet in the
hallway. The faces of the children, playing on and around the dinosaur,
were fresh in her mind.
"Watch the children." And she was back in the small town again, with the
old woman's eyes glinting on her. She hadn't wanted to go see "the
neighborhood witch," but Mulder had been insistant. So had the children
who remained. And so there they were, in the shadows of another dusk...
watching out another window, and the old woman seemed pleased. "Look thou
to the children. Yes. Children know the darkness... know to fear it when
it comes. But..." And here she waggled a gnarled finger, gap-toothed
smile parting weathered lips. "Children, the children... they always know
the way home. Children know where to go when the darkness comes... and
as the shadows come creeping, and the light fades between the tree
branches, you may watch as they turn, unerringly, to the place in their
heart where they know... they know... they will be safe."
Mulder had listened with the respect of one attending a mage, or holy
person... Scully had found herself utterly nonplussed. A lonely old
woman... revelling in the attention of company her own family ought to
provide her. But then, eyes that were gray with age, but bright as
sun-touched ice, turned to her, as though catching that very thought, and
the old woman stepped close.
"The children know..." she intoned, beckoning the younger woman close. "Do
you?"
She hadn't known what to say... had wanted to poke Mulder, standing behind
the "witch's" shoulder, fighting his own smirk drawn by the skeptic, now
caught in her own skepticism. The old woman had not noticed.
"Dana." Why was it that strangers felt compelled to call her by her first
name, when her own partner refused that intimacy? "Dana, child. Look to
the children in *you.* You've let them wander, and they are afraid of the
dark. What will they do, when the shadows come walking? Where will they
go, to seek shelter from the night? Follow your children, child. Who do
you turn to, Dana Katherine Scully, when darkness comes?"
Mulder had, sensibly, left that subject untouched as they'd left the house,
not furthered in their case... though he had turned up at her hotel room
door just before bed... with a night light.
"For the kids." he'd smirked... and closed the door.
Now, in the darkness, the words returned... and the quiet, peaceful time
she'd grown to appreciate as an adult shifted... and she was aware,
achingly aware, of her own solitude.
Look to the children in you. Children unborn. Children who might never
be born. She had cancer... she hadn't spoken to Mulder about what that
meant. They'd spoken of possibilities, so long ago... and a promise had
been made in a rental car, leaving Home, Pennsylvania. Mulder would help
her, if she asked him... she was as sure of that now as she was sure of
anything.
She could not ask him, though. Not now.
She would leave this world as she'd entered it... alone. It would be
cruel, ultimately cruel, to bring a child into the world knowing, in her
soul, that she would leave it alone... motherless.
Mulder would take care of the baby. So would Mom, if you asked her.
But you don't want other people raising your child, Dana... you want that
for yourself.
Selfish.
The nameless, faceless, unborn infants cried in the void. You've let your
children wander, the old woman had said... and they're afraid of the dark.
Well, who in their right mind wouldn't be? It's damned scary... being
alone, lost, in the dark...
An old saying came to mind, her father's intonation... "It's not the dark
itself I fear, but what I fear may be lurking in the dark."
Did she fear the dark coming upon her, closer with each sunset? She did
not fear death itself... she knew that there was more to life than it
cessation. But... still, the coldness took her insides when she thought of
it, of that leaving, of the eternal closing of the eyes. Is this why
children fear the dark? Because they fear to die? Because each night, to
a child, is a little death? Not that they could see it that abstractly...
children were afraid of the dark for itself. But she, now facing the
darkness, could see that... and it was true. Each day died with the
setting of the sun. Each day's memories faded that much more as night took
the sleeper. Each nightfall was a premonition of the eternal night.
Who wouldn't be frightened, then? It would be sensible.
And suddenly, Dana Katherine Scully was very, very cold.
It's your own damned fault. If you'd been a doctor... none of this would
have happened. You wouldn't have cancer. You wouldn't be alone. You'd be
engaged, or married, to a handsome fellow from medical school... settled in
that house in the suburbs. Mom would be on her way to becoming a
grandmother. If you never have any of that... it's your own fault, Dana,
and you know it.
FBI agents don't marry often... or easily. When they do... you've heard
the office gossip. Seems someone else gets divorced every day. A woman in
the Bureau can't date casually among the men most readily availible... date
above your rank, and you're sleeping your way to the top. Date below your
rank, and they say you can't get laid any other way. Date one of your
colleagues, God help you, and you're the office slut before you've gotten
the popcorn away from the concession stand.
So where does that leave you? Alone. She closed her eyes, then opened
them, realizing that the action made little difference, visibly. Alone in
the dark.
The street-sounds filtered into the shadows of her interior, the glow of
the streetlamps flickering on, lighting her curtains from outside, casting
a small, filtered parallelogram of orange light onto her carpeted floor.
She was grateful for it... as she'd been grateful for the nightlight, in
her motel room, that night.
And then the streetlamp flickered, and went out.
Again, the voice of the old woman... a voice not unkind, in a sudden,
blinding darkness that was.
"Who do you turn to, Dana Katherine Scully, when darkness comes?"
With a small, strangled cry, Dana Scully drew up her knees to her chest,
hugging them close, and wept, as a child lost in the night.