DISCLAIMER: They aren't mine. I wish they were. Chris Carter et al, thank you for creating them and forgive me for having a little fun with them.

FEEDBACK: Please, please, please! Constructive criticism and praise will be accepted! PennySyc@aol.com (Leslie)

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Mother's Day
by Leslie Sholly
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          I dream about Emily often.

          Usually the dreams are good--just the two of us together, reading stories, playing games, singing songs, holding hands. They are bittersweet, of course, because I wake facing the bleak reality that Emily is dead, that I will never share such moments with her, or with any other child of my body; but still I thank God for them because they are all I have of her and they seem so real that while they last they ease the empty ache in my heart a little.

          But then there are the nightmares.

          They, thank God, are far less frequent, but, unfortunately, no less real.

          And I was having one now.

          Emily and I were walking hand in hand through the campus at College Park. She looked so sweet, dressed in white lace, and she smiled up at me as we walked along. We were at my college reunion, it seems, on the way to meet a group of my friends.

          Momentarily we encountered them; all of them were accompanied by children, too. One by one, they introduced their sons and daughters to me.

          I smiled and said, "This is my daughter, Emily."

          Their reactions puzzled me; instead of smiles I saw horror on every face.

          So I turned to look at Emily and saw that in her place was a grinning skeleton in the white lace dress. It looked up at me and said, "Mommy," in Emily's voice and gripped my hand with inhuman strength.

          I began to scream and scream and scream . . .

          A voice reached through the terror, a voice I knew, a voice I loved, a voice I could trust.

          "Scully, Scully, it's O.K., Scully, it's O.K. It's just a dream. I'm right here with you. Come on, Scully, wake up. I'm here."

          It was Mulder's voice and he was gripping my hand and at the moment I was so glad to see him that I didn't even wonder what he was doing sitting on the edge of my bed at 9 o'clock on a Sunday morning.

          He told me anyway. "I was in the neighborhood, Scully, and thought I'd drop by. I could hear you screaming all the way down the hall. So I let myself in."

          He was looking at me with gentle concern and I realized I was still gripping his hand. So I let go and pushed myself up in the bed.

          "I'm O.K., now. It was just a nightmare."

          I've wakened Mulder from plenty of nightmares and sat by his bed through countless fever dreams, so I know that most of the time when he wakes from bad dreams, he likes to talk about them, get them off his chest. It makes him feel better. But one of the many things I love about Mulder is that he realizes we are different, and accepts--even celebrates--our differences. And he knows better than to ask me about my nightmares, realizes that, for me, to vocalize my fears gives them power over me.

          So all he said was, "Bad one, huh?"

          "Yeah. Yeah, very bad, Mulder. I'm glad you woke me." Suddenly feeling self-conscious--he was sitting on my bed, after all, and I was wearing a sky-blue silk shift that left little to the imagination--I changed the subject. "What are you doing here so early on a Sunday? Is something wrong?"

          "I told you I was in the neighborhood, Scully," he said patiently.

          Yeah, right, Mulder, I thought. Play it cool. I know there's an X-File in here somewhere. Probably, I thought, he'll butter me up for a while before he finally gets around to mentioning the wild goose chase he wants to take me on *this* week.

          "Actually, Scully," Mulder interrupted my thoughts, "If you don't have any plans today, I thought we might--you know--hang out?"

          "Hang out."

          "Yeah. You know, spend a little time together outside of the office for a change. You don't have any plans, do you?"

          It's not entirely unprecedented for Mulder and me to spend some down time together. Since we've begun to bridge the gap that yawned between us after Diana disappeared, we have socialized more than ever before--a drink after work, Chinese at my place, pizza and a movie at his, the occasional baseball game--but never on a Sunday. That was church and family day for me, and Mulder knew that. Moreover, today was Mother's Day.

          "No, Mulder, I don't have plans."

          Mulder smiled at me innocently. I decided he was completely clueless. Given his relationship with his own mother, he must have completely forgotten what day it was. And I was grateful. I wouldn't have to explain to Mulder that I wasn't at Mass with my mom this morning because we went to the vigil Mass last night before I took her to the airport. I wouldn't have to tell him that I, too, had been invited to San Diego to spend Mother's Day with Bill and Tara and--wonder of wonders--Charlie and his wife. And most of all, I wouldn't have to admit that I had manufactured one of Mulder's monster chases to excuse my absence.

          I hadn't visited Tara and Bill since the awful Christmas of a year and a half ago. I love my brother and his wife and my precious nephew, and I was grateful for their frequent trips to D.C., because I simply couldn't bring myself to return to their home. And to celebrate Mother's Day of all days there would have been my own personal bit of hell.

          I didn't want to explain any of this to Mulder because doing so would have necessitated a conversation about Emily. And I don't talk about Emily. Not with Mulder, not with Mom, certainly not with Tara or Bill. I don't think Bill even believes she was mine. Probably he thinks it was all wishful thinking on the part of a barren old maid. And I haven't wanted to remind Tara that I lost my only child the same day hers was born. I think I could talk to my mom about Emily, but I can't seem to raise the topic and she never does either. Since I was a little girl, I've kept my feelings guarded. My family learned to allow me my space, to let me come to them when I needed to talk. My mom was waiting for me to come to her, but I just couldn't.

          Mulder was still sitting on my bed, waiting patiently. I had been lost is my own thoughts but when I looked up guiltily he only smiled. There was a tenderness in his manner that I couldn't explain, but I liked it.

          "Sorry, Mulder. I'd love to hang out with you today. What did you have in mind?" All of a sudden I prayed he wouldn't suggest brunch. I simply could not take eating at Houston's or Houlihan's surrounded by a herd of corsage- wearing mothers with little kids in tow.

          "Well, how about if you get up and get dressed, and I'll see what I can round up for breakfast?" he suggested.

          I applauded inwardly. "Sounds good," I said. "I went to Giant last night. There's plenty for you to work with."

          "I'll get busy, then." Mulder said, leaving to give me privacy to shower and dress.

          While I was showering I remembered that I did have plans, of a sort, for this afternoon. As I dressed, I debated whether to share them with Mulder and see if he would like to join me, or to blow off the whole thing. Probably the latter option would be easier, but I really had been looking forward to this.

          I still hadn't decided what course of action to follow when I came out of my room. Mulder had made omelets and toast, coffee and juice. "You never cease to amaze me, Mulder," I told him after I tasted the omelet and found it palatable.

          He put on a wounded look. "Scully, just because I *don't* cook doesn't mean I *can't*."

          "So I see." I debated internally whether to let Mulder in on my original plan for the afternoon. "Mulder, did you have anything in particular in mind for today?"

          "Nope, Scully. It's your call."

          I decided to take a chance. "Well, there *was* something I was planning on doing this afternoon at 12:30. I'm just not sure it's something you'd be interested in."

          "Try me."

            If there is one topic Mulder and I assiduously avoid, it is any serious discussion involving my religious beliefs. It's been a sore spot between us for years. When I believed Kevin Kryder's stigmata were genuine four years ago, during the case that really propelled me back toward my faith, before my cancer grabbed me and pulled me the rest of the way--I think Mulder saw that as a betrayal of him. I believed in something that wasn't scientifically explainable, after I had refused over and over again to believe *his* theories unless they were backed up by observable, quantifiable evidence. I think--I *know*--it really hurt him. But his dismissal of my beliefs hurt me, too. Mulder, it seems, can believe in anything, including religion, as long as it's not *my* religion. I've never bothered trying to explain the differences between religious faith and belief in the paranormal to him, because I haven't felt he'd be open to the discussion. The very fact that Mulder--*Mulder*--isn't open to a new idea says a lot to me. Anyway, while my faith has been a great comfort to me for the last couple of years, it has been an area of my life I've kept separate from my relationship with Mulder.

          And now I was getting ready to mix them.

          "I was going to a May Procession," I told him. I didn't look at him, sure he'd make a face or tease me.

          "A May Procession?"

          Mulder has to know what a May Procession is. He's got a photographic memory, and he's been researching cultural and religious practices for years, but he wasn't going to make this easy for me.

          I sighed. "A May Procession, Mulder, is a Catholic devotional in which children crown the statue of the Blessed Virgin with flowers."

          Traditions sound silly when reduced to mere words. How could I really explain it to Mulder--the colors and smells of thousands of flowers from backyard gardens, the excitement and innocence of the children in their Sunday best, the songs, the reverence, the wonderful feeling of continuity that comes from being a part of a ceremony that has been repeated annually in thousands of parishes around the globe for hundreds of years?

          Could Mulder possibly understand the comfort I found in praying to Mary, the kinship I have felt with her ever since I found out that I was a mother, too? She also had become a mother under strange circumstances, had a child not wholly her own who was lost to an untimely death. I couldn't talk to my own mother about Emily, but I could pray to Mary about her.

          When I finally looked up at Mulder, bracing myself for his jokes, not a trace of mockery was visible on his face. "O.K., Scully. I think I'd like to come with you."

          Don't question it, Dana, just enjoy it, I said to myself as I helped Mulder clear the table and do the dishes.

          "Where is this May Procession, Scully?" Mulder asked as we lingered over a last cup of coffee on the balcony.

          "Holy Trinity," I told him. "I've been going there when I don't go with Mom, since it's so close. It's a pretty day, so we can walk."

          It was a nice walk to the church. Amazingly for D.C. in May, the humidity hadn't hit yet and it was only pleasantly warm. I felt a little conspicuous carrying the large bouquet of pink peonies I had gathered from Mom's garden the previous evening.

          "Everyone brings flowers, Mulder," I explained, and soon I didn't feel so strange because as we neared the church other parishioners carrying bouquets joined us.

          I started to take a seat near the back of the church but Mulder said, "Let's sit up close. I want to see." The pews in the front of Catholic churches are always empty so we had no trouble getting a closer seat. I left Mulder momentarily and took my bouquet up front, where it joined dozens of others--roses, irises, even buttercups--brought by fellow worshippers.

          Then the music began:
"Bring flowers of the fairest
Bring flowers of the rarest
From garden and woodland and hillside and vale.
Our full hearts are swelling
Our glad voices telling
The praise of the loveliest rose of the vale."

          The children walked in two by two. All the little girls were dressed in white--using the May Procession as an excuse to recycle First Communion dresses, I surmised. I was reminded so strongly of my dream of Emily that tears came to my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.

          The lucky little girl with the crown of flowers was a red-head, and as she placed the flowers on the statue I whispered to Mulder, "I got to do that when I was in eighth grade."

          I watched Mulder through the rest of the ceremony. I had expected him to look at it like an anthropologist or something, but he appeared sincerely interested, even moved. When it was over he accompanied me while I lighted candles and offered prayers for my mother and my daughter.

          We sauntered around Georgetown for a while after that, even went down to Wisconsin to do some window shopping. Mulder followed me around all afternoon like a puppy dog. I had never seen the man so agreeable.

          Finally, tired and hungry, we returned to my apartment. Mulder told me to sit down and rest and he'd take care of dinner. He threw potatoes in the oven, tossed a steak on the grill, put together a salad, even produced a bottle of wine he'd brought along. We ate on the balcony and didn't exchange a serious word.

          After dinner, we sat on the sofa and watched movies. Mulder let me pick. I threatened to put on "Terms of Endearment" just to see how agreeable he was prepared to be and he didn't even protest. But that wasn't really where I wanted to go this evening, so in the end we put on "Airplane" and then "Monty Python and the Holy Grail."

          I sat there on the sofa with my head on Mulder's shoulder and felt so contented. It's such a strange topsy- turvy relationship that we share. We've reached that comfortable stage, that secure stage, of a long-married couple. We don't have to worry about what we look like, we don't have to watch every word, we can be in a bad mood some times, we don't have to impress each other. We can complete each other's sentences, we can read each other's minds. We don't have to worry that either of us is going to leave. We've reached this stage, all without kisses or explicit declarations of love.

          I know Mulder loves me. I take that as much for granted as the air I breathe. And I know that I love him, even though I haven't said the words.

          After the Triangle thing, when he tried to tell me how he felt and I pretended I thought he was drugged up, the ball was in my court, so to speak. Padgett's words and my desperate clutching of Mulder after that thing went for my heart tossed the ball back his way. So since then we've been kind of lobbing it back and forth--not putting any spin on it or hitting too hard, just taking it slow and easy.

          I wondered if tonight was finally the night for ending the game. Was that the point of today? Was Mulder ready to address this subject explicitly at last? Was I?

          So when the movie ended at 11:30 and Mulder sat up and stated looking serious I thought I knew for sure what he was going to say.

          "Uh, Scully, There *was* a reason I came by today."

          "Yeah, Mulder?"

          "Um, I have something to show you in the car. I'll be right back."

           My heart sank. This whole day had been nothing more than a prelude to another X-File. Any minute now Mulder was going to come back up here with a file or a piece of evidence to show me and them he was going to try to convince me of some crazy theory.

          "Sure. Fine. Whatever," I muttered under my breath as he left.

          But when Mulder returned, there was no familiar red and white folder in his hand. No, instead he held a present. The corners of the flowered wrapping paper were crinkled and the iridescent pink bow wasn't quite straight, so I knew Mulder had wrapped it himself. That was when I realized the words, "It's the thought that counts," were really true. I couldn't imagine anything going to my heart the way the obviously Mulder-wrapped box had.

          But that was before I opened the box.

          It was a picture frame, silver and ornate: that much I saw immediately. But it took a few moments for the 5 X 7 within the frame to register, and when it did, I began, at last, to sob with all the pent up grief of the past year and a half.

          It was Emily, a copy of the only picture I have ever had of her, that picture which is faded and creased from the amount of handling I've given it, that picture I hoard jealously, taking it out from time to time to remind myself that for a few short days I was a mother. This picture was much larger, of course, than my little snapshot, and also lovingly restored--hand-tinted like the old-time photos I have seen of my parents at my mom's Senior Prom. Emily's cheeks were faintly pick, her teeth like tiny pearls, her eyes the blue of a cloudless summer sky.

          This I saw through my tears, as Mulder, helpless before such a display of grief, folded me into his arms and said, "I'm sorry, Scully."

          "No, no," I told him. "I want to cry. I've *needed* to cry."

          "O.K. then. Let it out, Scully. Let it all out."

          I remained there, crying in his arms, till no more tears could come and Mulder said, "You know, Scully, you can talk to me. You can talk to me about Emily."

          "Mulder, do you know I never talk about Emily? Not to you, not to my mom. The only people I ever talk to about her are complete strangers. Standing in lines, sometimes, or sitting on airplanes. People want to make conversation, you know? So they ask if I have any children. I sometimes I tell them I had a daughter, but she died of a chronic illness when she was only three. I love telling people, Mulder. I can't talk about Emily to people I know because they can't understand. They know I was never pregnant and it's all too unbelievable to explain. So this whole thing remains undiscussed, buried."

          "Why not your mom?" he asked.

          "I think I don't talk to my mom because I feel guilty for being so grieved about this. I feel selfish."

          Mulder looked puzzled so I continued.

          "My mom lost Melissa, a child she carried in her body, whom she nursed, whom she raised, whom she knew for many years. How can I compare the grief I feel for a child conceived in a test tube, carried in the womb of a stranger, a child I knew only for a few days?"

          "Your grief is still real, Scully. You have a right to it."

          "It hurts so much, Mulder." The words were pouring out of me now that the floodgates had finally opened. "I didn't even get a chance to know her. I didn't get a chance to take care of her and love her. I didn't get a chance to prove I could be a good mother."

          "Scully, you did *everything* you could for Emily. You stopped the tests that were frightening her and hurting her. You gave up the experimental treatments that were making a lab rat out of her . You gave her up so she wouldn't have to suffer anymore and you held her in your arms while she died."

          I must have looked unconvinced because Mulder tried again.

          "Scully, if Emily had lived and you had gotten custody of her, what were your plans?"

          "What do you mean?"

          "What were you planning to do about work?"

          "I was going to take a leave of absence for as long as possible. Then if her condition improved I was going to transfer back to Quantico."

          "Giving up the X-files. Did you even give that a second thought?"

          This is one of the reasons I haven't discussed this with Mulder, I guess. I haven't wanted to go down this path. He isn't stupid; I'm sure he had deduced all this at the time and I'm equally sure that it hurt. But I wasn't going to lie to him now.

          "No, Mulder. No. I didn't. The X-files are dangerous. Emily needed me alive." I looked at him and was surprised to see that he was smiling at me.

          "See, Scully? You *are* a good mother. A good mother puts her child's needs first--ahead of herself. You were prepared to do that for Emily."

          Finally, I was able to smile at him gratefully. "Thanks for that, Mulder. I'm glad you think I was a good mother the only chance I ever had to be one."

          "There's always adoption, Scully."

          "I know. You're right. And I may to choose to go down that road one day. But it still hurts that I can never--" I decided to take the plunge. "That I can never have children with the man I love." And I looked right into Mulder's eyes.

           He returned my stare. "The man lucky enough to get you," he said seriously, "wouldn't care about that."

           "Really?" I asked.

           "Really," he assured me.

          I looked back on the beautiful day that had passed. Mulder--fixing me breakfast and dinner, going with me wherever I asked, doing whatever I wanted, taking me seriously, just being with me. "This whole day--this was all about Mother's Day, wasn't it?"

          Mulder shrugged, smiled, and finally, for the first time, kissed me. "Happy Mother's Day, Scully," he said.

"Mothers are closer to God the Creator than Any other creature.
God joins forces with mothers in performing This act of creation . . .
What on God's good earth is more Glorious that this:
To be a Mother?"

-- Cardinal Joseph Mindzenty

THE END

Happy Mother's Day to all the mothers out there! Feedback, please, to PennySyc@aol.com ----------------------------------------------