From: Kel Date: Sat, 17 Jun 2000 22:19:11 -0400 Subject: NEW: The Days Between (1/2) Title: The Days Between Author: Kel Category: S, Scully's POV Spoilers: Requiem; all things. Rated: G Disclaimer: I ain't got nobody. Feedback: ckelll@hotmail.com Website: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Realm/9374/ Thanks to my readers, Emma, Porkchop, NC Writer, and Missy. Summary: Are you sick of post-Requiem stories? Oh, come on, just one more. You've never seen Frohike and the boys more noble. Skinner offered me sick leave, personal leave, maternity leave, or vacation time. But I couldn't, I wouldn't. I might need it later. "You can work from home," he told me. I suppose people have started to whisper and he is trying to protect me. So I am working from home. I'm sure the auditors are happy. When I wake up I log on to my growing global village. I cast my questions into the faceless void, seeking scraps of insight from anyone who can help me. I send dry, formal messages to police departments, the armed forces, and government agencies. My tone is less officious for MUFON chapters, astrologers, and psychics, and my probing is more free-form. Have you heard? Do you know? Please forward this message. And to everyone I send a description and a photograph. Every emergency room in the country has a picture of Mulder, and the rest of the world will be covered soon. And the morgues. When my eyes won't stay open I sleep. Sometimes in my bed, sometimes on the couch, and sometimes right in my chair. If it is dark when I wake up, I turn on the lights. If it is daylight, I turn them off. I don't like to sleep because I dream. Crazy dreams. Mulder was never taken. Mulder is still in the woods. That wasn't really Mulder. Mulder has been returned. It hurts to wake up. But I rise and go back to my computer. I log on and start my rounds. Today there's one promising bit of intelligence, but it's in German. I struggle to make sense of it; for the moment, that task is less daunting than seeking an interpreter. I recognize the words for "prisoner," "mother," and, of course "FBI," but the overall meaning eludes me. The insistent flashing of an instant message interrupts my work. KungFuGuru-Langley's screen name. I click to receive his message, feeling goose bumps rise on my arms in a mixture of fear and hope. "u r up late. Or early." That thoughtless bastard. I don't need his distraction and I certainly don't need him goading me with false hopes. I close the box on him and go back to my letter. I get up and drag out my German dictionary. I balance the huge volume on my lap, and as I struggle, wet circles blot into the tissue-thin pages. = = = = If I can't be with Mulder I prefer to be alone. I'm not alone, though. I have the fish. "Do you have any idea how heavy this is?" Frohike complained as he helped Byers carry the tank down to my car. I don't like the idea of Mulder coming home and finding that his fish are gone, but this is the only way. I can take better care of them if they are with me. Mom offered to stay with me or invited me to stay with her, but that's the last thing I want. I need to be free to do my work. I don't know what to do about his apartment. Each month I avoid a decision and find the funds to pay his rent. His paychecks continue, and he has direct deposit now. I have his power of attorney, as he has mine, but I can't make myself dig into his bank account. This month I arranged to borrow against my retirement fund. The interest is low and the payments are deducted automatically from my paycheck. = = = = Something grips my leg with angry bolts of pain and I awake with a gasp. Leg cramps. I fight my way free of the tangle of sheets and stomp on the floor until the spasm is released. Not a peep from Mulder. Somehow he has managed to sleep through this display. No, that's not it, I remember. He's gone. Mulder is gone. How odd, in fact, that I should presume his presence in my bed. Imperceptibly over the years our hearts were joined, but our bodies are still new to each other. I'm awake, so I take my place by the computer and scan the news and weather from Oregon. I don't want to overlook anything. Then my e-mail, and I'm panting with anxiety because there's something from DocBrock@OSU.edu. Jim Brock left Quantico a few months after I started working there, and now he is a medical examiner in Columbus, Ohio. His subject line reads: "Re: Your John Doe." I click and wait forever until the mail is opened. Then, finally: "Hi, Dana, got your e-mail. Haven't seen your stiff, but I'll keep my eyes open. Nice to hear from you." I'm lightheaded from hyperventilating and shaking with cold and relief. And then a knock at the door. I would like to ignore it, but I deal with it. "What do you want?" I ask. It's John Byers, looking noble and concerned. "Your appointment, remember?" he asks. Well, now I do. My obsessive obstetrician wants to see me weekly. Byers tries a small smile. "Get ready, you elderly primigravida," he says. "I'm ready," I say, but he shakes his head very slightly. I must be in some serious violation of the codes of dress and hygiene for Byers to risk hurting my feelings. I take the hint and head for the shower. Be careful what you wish for, I think as I soap and rinse this strange body. How I longed for a baby, when I thought that was impossible. And now I would give it away, hand it to the bounty hunter, if that would bring back Mulder. I pull on a sweatshirt of Mulder's over my own unsnapped jeans. I have to lower the zipper as well to get my sneakers tied, but then I nudge it up a couple of inches. "Now I'm ready," I tell Byers, but again he shakes his head. "Where's your food diary?" he asks. The doctor had asked me to keep a record of everything I ate. Apparently Byers was taking notes. "I'll just tell him what I ate," I promise Byers, who looks even sadder than usual. "Let's go," he says. I don't know how we came to the arrangement, but Byers inevitably accompanies me to the obstetrician's office, where he is known as Mr. Scully. We're late, of course. I don't feel at all apologetic. This doctor has kept us waiting often enough. I'm spared from the discomfort of a pelvic exam but submit patiently to being weighed and measured and palpated. Byers hides out in the waiting room but joins me afterwards in the doctor's office. This time we're in for a serious lecture about nutrition. Under other circumstances I'd appreciate the doctor's concern and correct him when he called me "Mrs. Scully." But I'm preoccupied with more important matters and his paternalism makes me bristle with impatience. "I understand that you don't have much appetite, Mrs. Scully. That's why I prescribed the dietary supplements," Dr. Zimmerman says. "I got them," I say. In my humble opinion, he's holding me to arbitrary standards. A little anemia during pregnancy is a normal physiological event. "But are you taking them?" He gives me a stern look, and so does Byers. "Yes, I am taking them." What do they think I'm doing with them? They both sigh. "We'll give it another week, then," Zimmerman says. "Fine." I stand up, but Byers is still sitting, and the doctor is still talking. "It's not unusual for women to feel conflicted about their pregnancies," he says. "We really don't have much time," I explain. Byers must be as dense as a doorknob, because he's not getting up to leave. "Your role is very important here," Zimmerman tells Byers. "She needs to know she can tell you what she's thinking, even when it isn't pleasant. And you need to see to it that she takes the time to rest, because fatigue will aggravate her depression." Byers nods earnestly. I am going to walk out of here, with him or without him. "I didn't realize you were also a psychiatrist!" I hiss at the doctor as I head for the door. Byers is finally on his feet. "You have to get her to eat," the doctor says in a somber tone as Byers hustles after me. Byers drives us to the White Rose Diner, as always. I would rather go home, but I know his mission isn't complete until he can report back to his cronies that I've been fed. The White Rose Diner holds two attractions for me: one, the lady's room, which is large and conveniently located. Two, I have never been here with Mulder. Byers never orders iced tea or cheeseburgers. Maybe he doesn't like them. I read over the menu again and again. Mulder rarely bothered to read menus in diners. He'd order his usual cheeseburger and then go to inspect the pies. Cheeseburger platter, usually, with lettuce and tomato and fries. But he never ate the tomato. I did. Mulder would eat pizza or marinara sauce or ketchup, but he hated unprocessed tomatoes. Or processed tomatoes, sometimes. I remember one late-night stop along some highway. Mulder was cold and frustrated, angry with the incompetent detectives who had screwed up their own investigation before calling us in as scapegoats. "Excuse me," he'd said to the bleary-eyed waitress. "Have we met? Have I ever done anything to offend you? Because clam chowder is not red. Don't you know there's a law against adulterating clam chowder with tomatoes?" And then he'd turned away from his indifferent target to address me: "At least there should be," he said. I have clam chowder at home. The white one. Maybe he'll want some hot soup when he comes back. Maybe he's cold. I want to go home and cook soup. I will be stirring a pot of soup on the stove and he will come in the door. I need to cook soup. I wonder if I can convince Byers to take me home now. "What'll it be, honey?" The waitress sounds kind but weary. "We need a few more minutes," Byers says at last, and she walks off with a shrug. "Dana, can I ask you something?" Byers says. "Of course," I tell him without meaning it. "Have you given up?" he asks in a low voice. I know he doesn't want to hurt me, but his question stings. "I have not given up. I will never give up." My voice is shaking. I'm angry and tired and I feel myself losing control. "You're not giving him much to come back to," Byers says. "It's as if you're trying to kill yourself. And the baby." "I know you're trying to help," I tell him, wishing he would shut up and take me home. I just have to order something. Otherwise we'll sit here forever. Order something, I tell myself, anything. I gained twenty pounds the first year I worked with Mulder. All those cheeseburgers and fries. "I know what it's like," Byers says quietly. "You keep remembering. It hurts to remember, but you just want to go into your memories and never come out." "Susanne." I see him flinch when I say her name. I wonder if she has managed to communicate with him, but I don't want to ask him here. "How do you do it, John? How do you keep on going?" He turns his empty palms upward. "What else can I do? What can I do besides work to uncover the truth and tell as many people as I can?" "It's so hard," I say in a whisper. "I know," says Byers. I wonder about the people who hunt down Susanne Modeski, and how they're connected to the beings that took Mulder. Do they serve the same master? Maybe they're together right now, Susanne and Mulder. Finally I order a root beer float. Byers pushes me to get something more, but really, a root beer float is what I want. = = = = Byers must have ratted me out to the boss; Skinner is sitting on my doorstep when I come back from the market. He takes the two heavy bags from me as we go inside. He sits down in my kitchen and watches as I put things away. It doesn't take long; the ice cream goes in the freezer, and the cans of clam chowder stack neatly in the cupboard. I open one can and pour it into a pot. "I'm glad you're eating," he says. I nod; it would be too hard to explain that I'm not going to eat the chowder. I really don't like shellfish. Mulder does. Lobster, and shrimp, and fried clams, and steamers, and even those raw ones that give you hepatitis. Lobsters remind me of big spiders. "Byers says you're not taking your vitamins," Skinner continues. Believe it or not, after Byers drove me home yesterday he came inside and counted out my pills. I thought I had been taking them every day, but I must have lost track somewhere along the line. "I may have skipped a day," I admit. "Scully-. What day is it?" he asks. "Sir, that's not fair. I haven't logged on yet," I say. There's a bra lying on my kitchen table, right in front of Skinner. I remember taking it off when it started to itch. He's not looking at it. We both pretend it isn't there. I turn the stove all the way down, and the clam chowder simmers as I stir it. Maybe I should offer some to Skinner. I can't. It's Mulder's soup. "Sir, would you like some ice cream?" As soon as I say it I realize how odd it must sound. I wonder what else I will do to embarrass myself today. "If you'll join me," he says. He is a kind man, I think, and it is kindness, not the formal rules of etiquette, that directs his behavior. "Vanilla or chocolate?" I ask. The pistachio is for Mulder. = = = = Alarm clock? Didn't set it. Phone, must be the phone. Answer the phone, make it stop ringing. "Scully, it's me." "Mulder, where are you?" "I'm in Montevideo, Scully. I got a chance to play pro basketball in the Argentina league, and I couldn't turn it down." I'm so relieved I forget to be angry with him. "That's wonderful, Mulder." The phone is still ringing, but I ignore it because I'm so happy to be talking to Mulder. "I'll come home as soon as I can." Mulder's voice, warm and masculine. "Are they hurting you?" I ask, but I can't hear his answer over the incessant ringing, and finally I wake up enough to grab the offensive thing and snarl "hello." "Dana, it's Mom." Her voice is strained and worried. "Mom. What is it?" I ask. "Did I wake you, dear?" she says. "No," I lie. "I'm sorry I woke you. I'll be over around noon and we can have some lunch and go shopping," she says. Whose idea was that? Mine, probably, I realize; everyone around me is so obsessed with things like food and clothing that the easiest way to appease them is to go along with what they want. "I'm really not up for that today," I tell her, but it's useless. She will not be deterred. "I understand. I'll just come over for a little visit," she says. I can implore her or abuse her, and I could easily hurt her feelings, if I were willing, but I know that she will be here. She would like to come and take care of me, and maybe I would like that too. But reveling in my helplessness will accomplish nothing. Now, of all times, I need to be strong. I log on and my resolve is rewarded: there's a bright spot in my e-mail today, a message from Manitoba: "Hi to all the wonderful people who have been so kind during this ordeal. Want to let you know that Tony is home with us again. Not much time to spend with my computer friends, but want to share our joy and thank you for your prayers. God is good." I wish they had provided more details. I draft a response full of questions, but I doubt if they will be quick to check their mail or answer it. Most people just want to put their abduction experiences behind them. I will probably have to trace them down and push to get my information. I realize I have only twenty minutes to make myself look reasonable before my mother arrives. No time for a shampoo. After a quick shower, I towel myself dry, and the misshapen woman in the mirror takes me by surprise. She has a round, bulging belly and thick blue veins on her breasts. And she should do something about her hair. I can't snap my jeans any more, but my sweat pants still fit. The pants are green, and I coordinate them with Mulder's plaid flannel shirt. Mom is at the door before I can comb out my hair, but she greets me with a big hug. We exchange glances but no words, and I go back to the bathroom to do my hair. She's stacking up pizza boxes when I rejoin her. "You don't have to do that," I say, wishing I had done it. "Sweetheart, don't worry about it. I'm just glad you're eating." She goes on with her tidying, and I sort out some papers and put them into piles. "Dana." I startle at the sound of her voice; she is right behind me. "Honey, you have to be careful. You left the stove on." "I'm sorry," I say. "That's not the point. It's dangerous." She has her hands on my shoulders and I think she wants to shake me. I notice the odor of burned food from the kitchen and I go in to inspect the damage. "Oh my God." The pot. It's scorched, all black on the inside. "Dana, it's all right. I turned it off," my mom says, but suddenly I'm crying. "Oh my God," I say again. I'm sobbing. I know I'm frightening her, but I can't stop. She puts her arms around me, rocking me, trying to soothe me. I know she doesn't understand. How could she? I burned Mulder's soup. = = = = Mom zips around the apartment trying to put things in order. I lie on the couch wrapped in an afghan and watch. My mother attacks the chaos cheerfully, but I know this is too much for her. I decide to dial up some reinforcements and get Frohike on the phone. He listens and responds without embarrassment. I wonder if Mulder ever turned to him like this. Not for help finding a ship or hacking into someone's security system, just for a personal favor. Not long ago I chided Mulder for the tone he used with Frohike and with the gunmen in general. "They're brilliant, incorruptible, and fearless," I told him. "I think you could treat them with a little less condescension." I thought he'd tease me-my earnestness so often provokes him that way--but this time he answered very seriously. "Scully, they'll live a lot longer if the world at large takes them for a joke," he said. And now I'm on the phone with Frohike, and we're not talking about conspiracy, or aliens, or even Mulder. In a quavering voice I'm begging him for help because I've turned my home into a pigpen. "Langley will be over in half an hour," he decides. Byers is out, he tells me, and he himself is at a pivotal moment in some project I've given him. I hang up the phone and get myself off the couch. I blow my nose, dry my eyes, and rehearse a smile. I find Mom leaning over the bathtub, scouring at the stubborn residue. "Want to take a break?" I've startled her, and she practically jumps in surprise. "Oh, Dana! Yes, of course." She comes into the kitchen with me and I put the kettle on the stove. I reject the idea of offering Mom ice cream with her tea and remember the package of imported Scottish shortbread on the top shelf of the cupboard. She'll probably have a stroke if I use a stepladder "in my condition," so I ask her to reach it for me. "I have a friend coming over to help," I tell her as we sip our tea. "This is too much for you." She dares to smile. "This is too much for Hercules," she says, and I actually laugh. Langley arrives, and Mom lets him have a cup of tea and some cookies before she puts him to work. "Langley, I'm sorry I blocked you." I can't remember how long ago that was, but I removed the block the same day. And now I've summoned him here to clean my house. "No sweat," says Langley. The bandana covering his hair is rattier than the rags Mom gives him for dusting. I help too, for a while. Then I log on and collect my messages, but when Langley announces that supper is ready, I join him and Mom at the table. The place really does look a lot better by the time Langley leaves. "I'm spending the night," my mother announces. "Mom, I'm fine," I say. "I'm not stupid, Dana." She's angry, I realize. "I know you're putting on a show for me. It's a good one, but it is a show." "Mom, I really am trying," I say. "I'm going to sleep more, and I'm going to eat three times a day." "Promise me," she says grimly. "I want your word." "I promise." I mean it, too. I'm not stupid either. She agrees to go home, and I work for another hour before I go to bed. And this time I remember to turn off the flame under Mulder's soup. = = = = The Days Between By Kel disclaimer, etc., with part 1 (2/2) Day becomes night, night becomes day, but now I have a schedule. I wake up around seven, make the bed, and take a shower. I eat a cup of dry cereal-good source of folic acid-with one cup of whole milk. I drink a cup of hot water with lemon juice-I've decided not to take a chance with herbal teas just now. And four ounces of orange juice, or eight, if I can handle it. Everything I eat gets entered into my food diary. Then I take a brisk walk; an hour, unless the weather is bad. When I get home I log on. After an hour I must eat a carrot. Another hour at the keyboard, and then my so-called prenatal stretching exercises. I've given up arguing the point, but of course they are not prenatal but antepartum. Then lunch. Peanut butter, usually. A good source of protein. My freezer is full of little loin lamb chops. Thank you, Mom, but they just don't appeal to me. There's a break in my routine today. Frohike, bless his pointy little head, has found me a translator. Someone fluent in German, open to new ideas, and trained in the sciences. He's arranged a meeting in a restaurant-I guess he's enlisted in the campaign to force me to eat all day. Frohike wanted to drive me, but hauling myself up into his van is becoming difficult for me. Since he insists on coming along, I agree to meet him there. I infer that Frohike has some reservations about my translator. He called her a flake, and while that's not a terribly damning epithet, it makes me wonder. The restaurant is on M Street, and I almost miss it until I realize that it is not at street level. I find the entrance next to a head shop and walk up the narrow staircase. It's called The Banquet, but perhaps Sappho's Garden would have been a better name. I have no trouble spotting Frohike. I wonder if he's done anything to earn the snooty glances that come his way. It doesn't take long before I have my answer. "I like this place," Frohike says when I join him at his table. "I don't have to take it personally when women reject me." "Frohike, really. You've been hitting on women here?" I ask him. "Not in the ordinary sense. I have offered myself as a source of genetic material," he tells me with his customary bravado. I hope he is putting me on. I suppose I now know one more piece of information about the translator. Lesbian definitely, and vegetarian probably. I watch the entrance, waiting for her to arrive. I don't know what she looks like, but she will find us easily enough. "Oh, there's someone I know," I tell Frohike as Colleen Azar glides through the door. Her smile seems over-bright and her obvious exuberance irks me, but I give her a friendly wave. I met her because Mulder asked me to pick up some information about crop circles. Or maybe I met her because I had to meet her. She credits breast cancer with bringing her out of the closet and into mysticism. She told me to slow down and pay attention and it was good advice. Nevertheless, when she comes over to greet me I feel myself sinking. I'm too exhausted to deal with her enthusiasm right now. A hug and a kiss, then I tell her that Frohike and I are here on business, waiting for someone, and she laughs. "You're waiting for me," she says. "I lived in Zurich for ten years and I studied in Vienna before that. Believe me, I can translate your document as well as anyone." "Oh, that's wonderful," I say hollowly, swinging my briefcase up onto the table. Her hundred-watt smile has vanished, and she's studying me, and then Frohike, and then me again. She accepts the printout I give her but doesn't look at it. "Carol always tells me not to butt in," she says. Carol is her lover, whom I've only met very briefly. I have a terrible feeling she's not going to take Carol's advice. Frohike puts his hand on my arm, reminding me that he's with me, here for me. "Do you know anything about auras?" she asks Frohike. "Remember, Dana, we spoke about that last time. How all of us radiate energy that exists beyond space and time." "Sure," I manage to gulp. "This man is wrapping you in his energy, do you realize that? He's sheltering you." She looks at Frohike appreciatively. I wonder if any woman has ever looked at him that way before, and suddenly, I hope so. "Dana, you remember how that healer was able to help your friend? I'm going to call him, I want you to see him right away," she says. "Colleen, maybe another time, okay? Right now I'd like to know what's in the German message." I try to look chipper, but she's giving me a look that is downright critical. "Hey, you should listen to Carol." I smile, trying to make a joke of it. "Dana, I don't know what's going on in your life-beyond the obvious. But something is terribly wrong. I've seen people with dim auras, I've seen people with tight auras, and when I see that I know something is unbalanced, wrong. But Dana, I can barely see any emanations from you, and I'd have to call that an emergency." I'm amused by a sudden vision of all the women in this restaurant ganging up on me and dragging me off to the New Age Re-Education Center. Frohike, with his sheltering energy, will be allowed to join the breeding program. "There's nothing funny about this," Colleen says. She is clearly exasperated but she doesn't raise her voice. "And Carol would agree with me in this case, because it's not only about you. There are two lives at stake." Her eyes narrow with concentration or puzzlement for a moment, and then she continues. "No. Three lives." "We'll see the healer," Frohike says. "But she has to eat something first. = = = = "I'd like to put you under a light trance," the healer says. The healer's office could easily serve as a psychiatrist's consultation room. There is a couch, and the Eastern symbols could pass for decorative touches. Frohike is with me, and Colleen too. I feel a chill of cold and fear. "A trance? Why?" Frohike asks. "There's so much pain here. She doesn't have to feel it all at once," the healer explains. "I want to know what you're planning to do to her," Frohike demands. "I'm going to release the blockages and restore her to a normal flow of energy," the healer says. "You don't lay a hand on her!" Frohike declares. "Not until you tell me in plain English what you want to do to her." He's really very valiant, this ugly little man. "Dana, you saw him work. Explain it to your friend," Colleen says. I feel as apprehensive as Frohike at this point, but I remember what I saw in Daniel's hospital room. "He's just going to move his hands around over me, I think." I look at the healer, who nods. "There may be some minimal touching," he adds. "Then why are we talking about pain?" Frohike asks. The healer purses his lips and looks at Colleen. "The pain is there right now, but she's hiding from it. Everything's twisted inside her, festering like an abscess," Colleen says. "Excellent analogy," the healer says. "I'm going to lance the abscess, so to speak. She will feel the pain that is already there." "You think I haven't felt my pain?" The words squeeze out through my tightened throat. "At this moment you are so unbalanced and constricted that I doubt if you even know when you're hungry or tired," he answers. I would have thought that a spiritual healer would have a soothing manner, but this man is downright arrogant. He speaks of balances and blockages as if he was discussing blood counts and X-rays. "But I know you're in pain because you're guarding," the healer continues. He even uses the medical lexicon. "Guarding" describes the protective maneuver that people do instinctively when something is hurting. "You're trying to protect yourself, but you've brought yourself to a critical state," he says. "You've cut yourself off from the two people who need you." Colleen nods, but Frohike looks suspicious. "You might show a little sympathy," he says. "I can see what your sympathy has done for her," the healer replies haughtily. "Perhaps you should wait outside." "No!" That's me, and now I'm holding onto Frohike's hand. The healer sighs, and he's looking at me but addressing Colleen. "We need to get started." They sit me on the couch, with Frohike next to me. I won't let go of his hand. "She'll feel much better when this is done," Colleen promises him. This will hurt. I know this will hurt. The healer brings his chair to face me. At first he's just talking to me, and it sounds like typical relaxation technique. I try to cooperate, adjusting my posture, my breathing. I see him place his hands over my head, hovering without touching, before he tells me to close my eyes. "The flow of energy begins at your head. You can feel a stream of bright, cleansing light, entering from the top of your head and flowing down." I let myself succumb to the image. Perhaps I even feel some tingling. "The energy is pouring through your body. You feel a sensation of warmth. Streams of light are flowing from you, from your feet and fingers." This is very pleasant, I think. I wonder if he would make me an audiotape so I could use it at home. "You feel peaceful and strong," he says, and I do. I wait for him to say more, and when he doesn't, I concentrate on feeling the cleansing light and the rushing stream of energy. I know that if I let my thoughts go, they will make me very sad. But my mind starts to poke around, and once it finds its focus, everything else vanishes. Mulder. There's nothing else. I'm flooded with memories and images. Mulder when we met, when he saved me, when I lost him. Mulder whom I loved before he could love me. Mulder later, whole and able to love. Mulder when he loved me. Mulder whom I thought I treasured but did not treasure enough. Mulder when I saved him, when I found him, when I doubted him. Mulder being a prick, Mulder being a hero. Mulder in the car. Me and Mulder always in the car. Why wasn't that enough? That should have been enough. That would be enough for me now. "What are you doing to her?" Frohike asks gruffly. "No!" That's Colleen. "It's all right. Let him finish." I realize I am swaying side to side and my breath is coming out in huffs and gasps. Frohike has both his hands clasped on mine but it feels as if he's very far away. "Don't be afraid," Colleen says. "Love is stronger than pain." "Mulder, Mulder, Mulder, Mulder." I love him, I want him, and he is gone, gone forever, not in Siberia, not in Montevideo, oh my God I may never see him again. "You're going to find him," Colleen says, and suddenly I have found him, and I'm silenced by the realization that I can sense him, that our energies can touch. It's a fleeting, flickering sensation. I feel him with me, then I lose the feeling, and then it is back, or perhaps I am imagining it. I feel whispers of thoughts and sensations. Mulder's thoughts. A dullness, a helplessness, and it is all so familiar to me. They can do whatever they want to you. You want so much to trust them, because you are completely powerless. You want to believe that they will not hurt you, but they do whatever they want, and sometimes it hurts very much. "Mulder, come home to me." I think the words, and I don't know if he can hear them, but surely everything I'm thinking is in his heart as well. And I hear his next words and I know they are coming from him. "Her cross." My little cross. Mulder was surprised when I let him go back to Oregon without me and didn't argue when I insisted that Skinner accompany him. Skinner didn't blink when I gave him the order. He nodded as if he was used to accepting instructions from me. I couldn't go because I was an abductee. That's who was disappearing, the people who had been abducted before. It all made sense when Mulder explained it. But when he was ready to go, leaving to catch his flight, I took off my gold cross and placed it around his neck. He adjusted the chain so that the little cross hung against his skin, hidden under his shirt. But then, very deliberately, he pulled it out, arranging it to dangle over the collar of his jacket. "See ya," he said. He must come home. He has to bring back the cross. "Scully's cross, Scully's cross." I hear the chant, or perhaps I feel it. His mantra against his misery and despair. He's fighting the despair, but then I feel something else, something I remember too well. A freezing, biting, aching chill. My hand has escaped from Frohike's grasp and I have my arms wrapped across my chest, and someone else's arms are around me too, trying to protect me, but it isn't Mulder it's Frohike. "Oh my God, oh my God!" I remember the cold. Colder than ice. Colder than death. "Scully! Scully!" Frohike sounds terrified. Small and distant and terrified. "He's so cold!" I'm raising my voice. Somehow I've known this for a long time. Mulder is cold. I'm filled with new rage because they took him and now they are making him cold. "Dana, it's all right," Colleen says. "It is not all right," I tell her. "He's cold!" I hate them for this extra pain, this casual cruelty. "Send him your warmth," the healer says. "Help me." I'm clenched inside again, but something happens and I can fill my lungs freely. "Blast it out. Blast out the cold," the healer says, and as I exhale I feel shards and splinters of ice come shooting down my arms and out through my fingertips. I don't know if that made Mulder any warmer. "I don't think he's in pain," I murmur. I've just realized that; I don't have the sense that anything is hurting him. "Oh, but he is afraid." I wonder if I can send him courage the way I sent him warmth, but suddenly he's gone. I open my eyes and see that the healer has moved his hands down to over my shoulders. "Give me back Mulder!" I demand. "Close your eyes. We have to move on," he says roughly. "Sh, Dana, you'll find him again. You know how to do it," Colleen says. Whatever the healer is doing to me now, it hurts. Not like when he let me have Mulder, this is physical pain. My shoulders hurt, my arms, and especially my back. "You're guarding again," the healer says. "You're making it worse." I don't know what he wants from me, but I unclench my fists and try to relax my lips, which have tightened into a twisted grimace. I try to stand up because I have muscle cramps running down both legs, and someone is assisting me to my feet with a helpful tug. To my surprise I realize it is the healer. My knees start to buckle, and my big belly bounces into Frohike as he grabs me. I lean against him, and I feel a hand at the base of my spine, and then warmth and relief. I'm quite astonished by the immediate effect. The spasms are gone and all I feel is a little soreness. "That's the easy part," the healer says. I'm about to sit down when he lays his palm against my shoulder blade and then my neck. "Okay, now you can sit," he says. He has me close my eyes and I try to find Mulder again. I'm happy for a moment because I think I have him, and he is beautifully warm now, full of peace and contentment, but suddenly I realize that this is not Mulder. "Scully?" Frohike touches my arm and says my name again. I am speechless with wonder and I forget to keep my eyes shut. I'm afraid I'll lose him by opening my eyes, but he is still with me. And it is a he, I'm pretty sure of that. "My God, Scully, what's the matter?" Frohike says. "My baby," I whisper. "I found my baby." = = = = "I love you, Mulder." I say it before I go to bed and I say it again the next morning. I must have slept well last night, deep and dreamless. I don't wake up until after eight, when I feel someone using my bladder for a speed bag. "Love you too," I whisper. "Love you, baby." I do the things that need to be done. Cook, eat, clean up. Stepping in and out of the bathtub requires my total concentration, but I manage to shower and make my exit without mishap. I towel myself dry as best I can and brush my hair before I get dressed, hoping that the air will finish the job. Getting into my clothes is another project. What would Frohike do if I called him to come over and put on my socks? That's a no-brainer. He'd be here. I open a can of chowder and pour it into the pot. It makes me feel better. If electrical current traveling around an iron core can induce a magnetic field . . . If a star millions of miles away can pull us with its gravity . . . Well, maybe it makes Mulder feel better too. Now it's time to log on. A slew of spam, and a couple of real messages. I open the one from Colleen first: "Here's my translation. The original was fairly rough and colloquial. I think that's why it gave you trouble. Dana, it has nothing to do with alien abduction, but you will find it interesting." I click to open the attachment, even though I'm forewarned that it won't lead me to Mulder. It's a German woman's account of conversations with her grandfather, who spent years in a Russian P.O.W. camp. It's the story of his suffering and fear, but also of his courage and hope. The letter begins with paragraphs of apologies and explanations. ("I do not know if this is appropriate to send to the FBI police. Thank you, Agent Dana Scully, for your patient indulgence.") Then I get to the heart of the story: "Opa decided that his body was in prison, but his spirit and his thoughts were free. Part of him was with his wife and children, and some of him was listening to the music that he loved, and some of him was blooming with the rosebushes and the other flowers he had planted. "He called up his memories to keep him company. Instead of the bad smells of the prison, he would imagine the clean laundry when my grandmother would hang it up to dry in the sun and the fragrance of his flowers. Also he imagined that he could hear his son say, "My papa is home." This was not a memory because my uncle Horst was an infant when my grandfather went away to fight. "The war ended and still my grandfather was held in the camp. Months went by until the prisoners were allowed to go, and more months, I think, until he could get to his home. "Uncle Horst was playing outside and he saw Opa walking up to the house. He was not afraid even though my mother says he was a timid boy, scared even of his own reflection in the mirror. Uncle Horst saw Opa and he said right away what my grandfather had imagined: "My papa is home. "Agent Dana Scully, I hope you find the tall man with the mole and the scar on his chest. I know that he might be very far away, but my grandfather said something that I never forgot. He said that you are never distant from your loved ones, but always close. "If you think it would be appropriate, please tell this story to the family of the missing man so that they may understand and perhaps be comforted." The letter makes me cry. I cry every day now. It's as much a part of my routine as my brisk walk and my three meals. I don't have to schedule it, but when it comes I take my time and do it right. Come home, Mulder. I have a surprise for you. end ##### Feedback to ckelll@hotmail.com. Write me and I'll tell you what an elderly primigravida is. And how do you feel about Manhattan clam chowder? Should it be outlawed?