This morning, while we lie in bed watching the sun peek through the curtains, Megan asks me what season I like best.
It used to be autumn. I can still smell the untouched crayons and freshly-sharpened pencils that signaled the beginning of a new school year. The crispness of the air...cool sunshine...leaves crackling beneath my feet as I trotted off to school. The worn baseball glove I carried as my talisman in the final weeks leading up to a World Series...
I took the job at the batting cages, in part, just to get that feeling back. Even the cold specter of almighty SUVs dropping off kids at the cages couldn't distract from the romance of their innocent excitement. I loved swapping heated game predictions with them as I set them up to play; baseball is one of those languages that transcends age, and we spoke as equals then. I watched them swing and swing again, some good, some not, but all carried away by the joy of the contest. Sometimes I felt my own eyes shine as I watched, remembering summers and autumns long since passed and beginning to taste my own mortality in the absence of theirs.
She began coming in October. Only a few weeks before we shut down for the season, but she came every Sunday, taking a seat on the bench outside the cages and watching the kids with me.
She was alone; none of these happy-faced children were hers, but sometimes an indulgent smile would lightly touch her sad face as she watched them swing, only to disappear in the space of a remembered pain. She was pale and she wore black; her heavy-lidded eyes sometimes grew glassy as she stared at the shooting balls, and she seemed transported to another place and time. Only the fire of her hair and the sea in her eyes hinted at unseen depths, and the contrast between the life within and her sober veneer suggested struggles that no one could understand.
I began watching her, venturing the occasional observation as we admired the kids together. She graced me with soft smiles and murmured syllables; but each time we met the increasing cold of the season seemed to encroach on her a little more, and she grew withdrawn as the cold autumn winds began to moan and the wintry skies turned gray.
The last time I saw her that autumn was the weekend we closed up. She sat down on her bench as always, looking out at the deserted cages with icy eyes.
"They're gone."
I barely heard her whispered observation.
"It's...we're closing for the season, ma'am."
A wry smile flitted over her face as she mouthed the word "ma'am."
She sat in silence while I cleaned up balls and bats, swept and washed, and began locking up gates and shutters. Then she stood, her dark silhouette small against the backdrop of leafless trees and steely sky.
She looked back out over the barren grounds, and all the desolation of the season seemed to fill her. Then she turned and walked away.
She returned in the spring, but I barely knew her.
We had just re-opened, and the air was still cool. Kids, tired of their winter confinement, roamed the grounds; lined up at the cages, running on the nearby grass. Their enthusiasm was infectious, and I felt myself giving in to the sensations of the new season.
It was early afternoon when she came. Her hair, longer now, was pulled away from her face, but soft curls framed her pink cheeks. Her eyes, which had once seemed to reflect the ice of gray skies, sparkled as they followed the bursts of excitement dancing before her.
She was pregnant, her own child large in her swollen belly. I think I lost my breath for a moment; this wasn't the same dark soul who had seemed so forlorn here in the autumn. She had traded in black for softer hues, and the pastels breathed fresh spring into her face.
She sat on her old bench, watching the children until, a voice capturing her attention, she turned. I found myself craning my neck to see what she saw, and my eyes were met by the figure of a tall, lanky man. He seemed young, but his features were worn and he walked slowly with the aid of a cane. His hands were juggling two cups of coffee, and she tried to spring to his aid; but the child inside made this difficult, and the man paused to watch her, his eyes smiling at the spectacle.
"Shut up, Mulder," she scowled, but the laughter was in her eyes, too.
She gave up the effort and he approached slowly, handing her the cups. She watched as he eased himself onto the bench, wrinkles of worry written across her forehead. But her smile returned when she peered into the cups she now held.
"Mulder," she began. "There's almost nothing in here."
He grinned. "Ingrate. That's the last time I do anything nice for you."
He spoke lightly, but the tears rose to her eyes anyway. I saw them spill over as she looked up at him, her gaze reflecting the strain of some untold pain. He cradled her cheek with his hand, and I barely heard him murmur, "Scully, don't...I'm here...we're here, now. It's okay..." She nodded and smiled through her tears, taking his hand in hers and bringing it to her pink lips. His eyes closed at this benediction, and I felt like the witness to an answered prayer.
They turned towards the cages and sat watching the children play. Long moments passed before he spoke. He didn't turn to face her, but simply squeezed the hand he held.
"Scully...do you remember?" he said softly.
She also continued to watch, bringing her other hand to cover his as she said, "Yes, Mulder. I'll never forget."
When it was time to go, they helped each other up.
I turn my face to Megan's. She is so beautiful in the dawn.
"This season is my favorite. The one that I spend with you."
~finis~