Classification: Post-ep for "Emily"
Summary: The long hours after the funeral.
***
I am powerless to help her. She cannot be touched now or she will
break, so I
stand at her side, looking like the Colossus of Rhodes and feeling
utterly
useless. She steps toward the altar and I follow. Oh, Scully,
don't do it.
She takes the bouquet from the lid of the coffin and prepares to lift
the lid.
I want to scream; I want to stop her. There's nothing there,
Scully--you know
that. You know what happens when the constructs die. I
am powerless to help
her.
All I can do is turn away and give her some privacy.
I stare into the sun-drenched image of the Madonna holding the baby
Jesus in her
arms. The colors had illuminated Scully's pale face as she sat
in the chapel.
That's why I had to leave. Forgive me, Scully. But I'm
back now.
There is a sudden intake of breath. I turn and see her holding
the little
cross. It, too, sparkles in the dappled jewel colors from the
window. Scully's
eyes slide shut in pain and defeat. Mine are open and I can feel
the anger
rising in me. If there's a divine plan in all of this, I cannot
fathom it.
What can it mean to take this gentle soul and torture it beyond endurance?
Is
she supposed to be learning something? Is this a punishment for
some knot in
her karmic string? If eternal justice is to be meted out today,
it should be at
my expense, not hers.
Enough, I tell myself. I take a long stride and touch her elbow.
She pulls
away from me, still staring at the sackcloth and ashes that had been
her little
girl. My hand trembles as I reach for the lid and close it slowly.
Her eyes
turn to me at last. They are aquamarine today, deep as the sea
and so lonely
that my heart breaks for her. Surely she can hear the audible
crack in my
chest. "It's time," I tell her softly.
She nods. She takes the arm I offer her and I lead her from the
chapel. The
borrowed suit hangs from her frail body. She came here to rest
and visit her
family, not to bury her last hope at having a family of her own.
How unjust to
ruin not only this Christmas but also the ones that will follow.
I am worried about what waits for her at Bill's house. Baby Matthew
was brought
to the service today in what I thought was the ultimate gesture of
insensitivity--and I should know. God, did he have to have red
hair and a
perfect little mouth? Scully fussed over him, of course, and
the sight may well
have driven the last nail into the coffin of my insanity. How
could they?
Scully won't go to the car. Instead, she inclines her head toward
the little
park next to the church. It's too cold for her to be outside,
but today Scully
will have whatever she wants. Her brisk stride is not hard for
me to overtake,
and she looks up at me in gratitude as I take off my overcoat and put
it around
her shoulders. Such a little gesture, Scully, when I'd gladly
skin myself alive
and wrap you in it to keep you warm.
The tender little bouquet is still clutched in her hand. Scully
walks up to a
statue of the Virgin and places the flowers there, an offering to another
childless mother. She takes out a sprig of baby's breath and
puts it into her
own hair, just behind her ear. It looks like snow against a sunset.
With her
thumbnail she snips off one of the carnations and turns to me.
Her lips tremble
a bit as she reaches for the lapel of my jacket and puts the carnation
into the
buttonhole. A single tear trickles down her cheek. I lean
over her, still
silent, and she gives me a wan smile when I blot the tear with my finger.
Her
eyes plead for my understanding. Once more she stands before
the statue, her
lips moving in a silent prayer. After she crosses herself she
reaches blindly
behind her.
I am there. Of course I am there, and Scully knows, as she knows
so many
things. I take her hand and walk with her to the car. Her
movements are those
of a sleepwalker; I have to fasten the seat belt for her when I get
in. We
drive to Bill's house in silence. Scully's mute grief claws at
me.
The house is dark downstairs. I fumble for the light switch just
as Mrs. Scully
finds us. Her face is worried, and she glances from Scully's
dead eyes up to my
eyes, which are stinging with tears. I give Scully's hand to
her mother, but
Mrs. Scully puts it back in mine. "Help her, Fox," she whispers
brokenly.
Suddenly her arms are around us and she kisses my cheek, then the top
of
Scully's head, and she goes back to the new life upstairs.
Scully does not want to go up those stairs. The path to new life
is not hers to
travel. I can feel her resistance as I try to lead her, so we
wander instead
into the living room and I put her on the sofa. I want to ask
her if she needs
anything, but nothing will come out of my mouth except a stifled sob.
It brings
her back to the world and her eyes soften; she pats the place at her
side. I
sit beside her.
I'm afraid.
From the second story we hear the crying of baby Matthew. Scully
listens for a
moment, then takes my hand and places it on her abdomen. It is
as empty as
Emily's coffin. Still clutching my fingers, she looks up at me
and I see the
anguish in her eyes at this ultimate desolation. I have only
seen this look
twice: once when she was rescued from Donnie Pfaster and again
in the hospital
when the priest came to give her the last rites. Both events
were because of
me. So is this one.
My eyes and throat burn. "I'm so sorry," I whisper. "It's all my fault."
She astonishes me by pulling up on her knees to bring her face level
with mine,
her smooth cheek brushing against me. "I forgive you, Mulder,"
she murmurs, her
breath warm in my ear.
It is enough for her to say that and she curls up in my arms with her
head
tucked under my chin. Somehow, miraculously, she falls asleep.
But then, her
very life is a miracle. I am glad to see her rest, but yet I
selfishly want the
opportunity to weep for her at last. My brave, valiant Scully.
"Sweet dreams,"
I tell her and her fingers squeeze mine in response.
Hours later, I startle awake. Bill is standing between us and
the embers of
last night's fire. Scully has not stirred; I still keep her within
the circle
of my arms. Her brother's face is unreadable. I make a
helpless gesture with
my hand, but he stops me and points to my face. It's still wet
with tears.
Bill's finger moves to Scully, who wears a gentle smile in her untroubled
sleep.
For the first time, I see something in Bill's eyes other than cold contempt.
There is a light of understanding there. His thin lips curl up
into as much of
a smile as I've ever seen on him and he pads to the linen closet, pulling
out an
afghan. He does not hand it to me, but instead tucks Scully and
me within its
warm folds. Tenderly he strokes his sister's hair, leaning over
to kiss her
temple. As he turns to leave he puts a hand on my shoulder.
Comrades. He
understands now.
I kiss Scully's cool forehead before settling down once more to sleep.
Her soft
breathing is my lullaby, the only one she will ever sing.
***
END
Feedback is loved, cherished, and answered at Marguerite@operamail.com.
Back to post-eps.