I See
You PART II
All
night you dreamed about dreaming. About waking up from wonderful dreams that turned
out not to be true. So when you opened your eyes there on your couch, you
thought that, perhaps, I too was a dream. I'm already awake, watching you from
the chair as you stretch plaintively, moaning slightly at your discomfort and
burying your face in the dusty cushions of the couch, your red hair rumpled and
tangled around your head. When you turn back towards me again you expect to see
an empty chair, but I am still there. Slowly, you blinking, not believing,
expecting the dream to end again, just another dream within a dream.
Even
when I reach out and touch your face and whisper, "Good morning, Scully," you
still doubt the reality. Blue eyes wide open you reach up and take my hand,
stroking the back gently with your fingertips. It is not until you feel the
warmth of my skin as you caress my hand that you know you aren't dreaming and a
slow, curious smile spreads across your face, first on you lips, then in your
ever changing blue eyes, where there is joy, but that bit of sorrow hangs
around, lingering just behind the grin.
"It's
really you isn't it. I wasn't dreaming."
"You
dreamed, but this isn't a dream."
You
laugh a little, very weakly, but it's there, just as you remembered it as you
smile widens and your cheeks raise, causing your eyes to squint slightly.
Stiffly, you sit up, supporting your upper body with your arms as you go, still
not sure you're not going to pass out. You're shaky and can't seem to stop
smiling. Shifting, you sit completely upright, facing me, cross-legged on the
couch. I watch your manicured but unpainted toes wiggle under your knees in
excitement as you wait for me to speak.
"You
said you'd tell me in the morning."
I had
hoped that you would forget, but it had remained in your mind through every
dream. You wanted to know if he was all right. What happened to him? Did he
remember anything? Did the scars still hurt? Did he blame you? I should have
known that you would remember.
"There's
not much more to tell, Scully. I don't remember much of anything, except pain,
and dreams about you searching for me."
"Do
you… Does it still hurt? I mean, are you still in any kind of pain?"
"Not
much, Scully, nothing a little Tylenol won't fix."
But it
was much more. I wanted to tell you about the fear that enveloped me. About the
fact that I was afraid to leave you. About the constant throb of my insides.
About the daggers that shot through me with nearly every step. About wanting to
crawl out my skin that screamed out every time it touched anything. About all
the nightmares that had filled those terrifying months. About the dreams of you
and a baby and a normal happy life that we could never have because of this.
Never.
But you
know me to well to believe my lie and I tremble as your clinical eye examines
my wounds in the daylight. You can see that it goes far beyond the wonders of
Tylenol, but you know I won't listen anyway.
So you
look away, first at the ceiling, then at the rug, and then towards the
kitchen. You chastise yourself for
thinking of food at a time like this. But inside you the baby and your stomach
is growling and snarling at your, threatening to heighten their protests if you
don't obey their every whim. You eyes return to me as I stare at your swollen
stomach, and together we laugh as a low gurgling emanates from it.
"Mulder,
are you hungry?"
"I
think I could eat something."
You
lead me into your kitchen, lovingly forcing me down into a chair when I attempt
to take over and make breakfast for you. You shake your head vehemently and ask
me what I want for breakfast.
"Just
some cereal will be fine."
I watch
as you reach up in the cupboard to pull out a box of health-food type cereal.
You have to rise up on your toes to reach the cereal, and when you reach
upward, your shirt lifts slightly, baring the thinnest strip of pale smooth
skin just above your pants line. You can just barely grab the box with your
fingertips and let out a little sigh as you bring it down to the counter.
Reaching to the left, into another cupboard you quickly pull out two bowl and
set them down on the counter with a little ding.
Using your pink-polished, manicured nails, you quickly break the seal on the
box of cereal and open it, and pour some in each bowl.
The
delicate fingers quickly move up to your face to tuck a lock of your fiery red
hair behind your ear when you turn to ask me if I want milk in my cereal, and
then after I say yes they reach towards the fridge as you approach it. Next one
slides down your thigh to your knee as you bend over to examine the contents of
the fridge, while the other curves around behind you to rest on your lower
back, which has been sore ever since you began to show. Your body strains
against your clothes, which are pulled tight because of your crouch. Your white
dress shirt is pure white at the seems, but a pale beige where it is stretched
tightly over your skin, and fully pressed, probably starched.
At last you spot the milk, way
back at the back behind the orange juice and the left over spaghetti and a bowl
of salad. Now you squat down further, your low-riding pants slipping down to
reveal an expanse of white creamy skin above the dark gray fabric. You take the
orange juice carton out and set it on the floor next to you and then reach in
for your original objective. There is a shuffle of plastic and glass and then
the half-gallon carton appears. With you other hand you pick up the orange
juice and rise up, struggling slightly.
Once
you are upright, you stand still for a moment to regain your balance. Tucking
the carton of milk against your body with the arm that's holding the orange
juice, you are free to use your other hand to rub your forehead. When you
realize that I'm watching you very closely you turn your eyes to me and grin
widely, trying to allay my fears. After all, I'm the one who bore all the scars,
wasn't I?
"Scully,
let me help you with that," I prompt, not sure what is was I was going to help
you with.
"I'm
fine, I just stood up a little too fast. My head just wasn't ready for all this
excitement in one day, I guess."
This
mundane activity is helping. Diffusing the shock. Get the cereal, the bowls,
the milk. Pour the cereal and milk and take them to the table. All so normal.
Not part of your life at all. You allow yourself to detach as you go through
the normal breakfast-making (in this case cereal-pouring) tasks. There was no
history behind us being here. Just you and me having breakfast together.
"Scully."
"Hmmm…
Yes?"
You
turn from the counter where you're pouring tall glasses of orange juice for us
to look at me. Without realizing it, as you turn, your arm sweeps across the
counter, sending the two glasses shattering to the floor. Your bright blue eyes
widen with shock and surprise, but for a moment you are still, staring at me.
But then you jump slightly to the side and let our a little scream. Together,
we look quietly down at the broken glasses and yellow-orange liquid. You draw
in a very deep breath and then sigh quietly as you move instinctively for the
cupboard by the fridge where the broom is kept.
Silently,
you are again criticizing your behavior. When he called your name, a shiver ran
up your spine and you turned expecting to see a white-sheet ghost and a
prankster with a voice-duplication device laughing at you hysterically. So
often in the recent past you had turned, thinking that you heard his voice,
only to find empty space. Those moments had brought on hours of tears and pain.
That
was why you believed it this time. You saw his ghost. He sat with you at dinner
and breakfast, and sometimes at lunch if you were having a particularly hard
day. He hid in the shadows in the your bedroom, and then in the unfamiliar ones
here in your bosses summer home. He stood behind you and whispered in your ear,
offering suggestions and criticism as you went about your work. But whenever
you turned to confront him, he faded away, in voice and spirit, body and soul.
How could he be alive? How could he live in his body when he came to visit you
several times daily?
And
now, here I was sitting in the kitchen. Grinning and joking, being stubborn as
usual, and remembering everything I should, and nothing you didn't want me to.
I was everything you remembered and everything you wished you didn't and I was
really here. In the flesh, living, breathing, moving. Blood flowing through my
veins under my scared tissues. I was sitting in the kitchen watching you make
breakfast and smash glasses of orange juice on the floor.
You
pull the broom out of the closet without glancing in. The coming and going of
his voice and spirit kept you edgy and the broom had become almost as present
in your life as he was. All too often he appeared when you were holding a glass or a plate, or were standing next
to some pottery piece. And whenever they feel with a resounding smash, you
could hear him laughing, knowing that was his full intention all along. To make
you laugh too.
I had
come up behind you and you never noticed until I gently take the broom and the
dustpan from your hands and then guide you to the table. Gratefully you sit
down and breath a tiny sigh as you place your hand on your stomach and watch me
clean up the little disaster. The little clear, blue-tinted shards were fairly
small and were quickly brushed into the dustpan and disposed of in the garbage
bin in the cupboard where the broom was. I returned the broom and dustpan and
then went to the counter for some paper towels.
Your
eyes follow me as I kneel down to dry up the orange juice. The cups had been
full and the liquid quickly saturates the paper towels that I had taken from
the roll on the counter. Without standing, I reach a long arm up to grab the
roll and tear off a few more sheets to absorb the remainder of the juice. I
ball up the wet, soggy, sticky rags and carry them to the garbage can. I cross
the room to the sink and retrieve the damp washcloth that hangs on the tap. I
use it to clean up the last of the stickiness that remains from the juice. I
stand and return to the sink to wring out the rag and then rinse it out.
"Thanks,
Mulder."
"It was
nothing, Scully."
Wiping
my damp hands on my pant legs, I walk back over and sit down at the table with
you. You glance at me expectantly and for a moment, I'm puzzled as you raise an
eyebrow, wondering if I will ever learn.
"The
cereal, Mulder?"
"Oh, oh
yeah. I completely forgot. That baby getting a little impatient in there?"
"Fine
I'll just—"
"No,
I'll get them, just kidding."
I get
up quickly before you can and take a single step over to the counter and grab
the blue ceramic bowls full of granola-something cereal.
"You
got sugar, Scully?"
"Same
cupboard where I got the cereal, second shelf from the bottom."
I
opened the oak cabinet and pulled out the Tupperware that was full of sugar. Tucking
it under one arm and carry the bowls with my other hand, I go to the table,
carefully setting down each item before sitting down in my seat.
"Mulder,
about—"
You are
interrupted by a loud knocking at the front door. Startled, you look first at
me, then rise, looking questioningly from me to the door.
"Wait
here, Mulder. If it's…"
"I
know."
You
move quickly towards the door and then peak out through the window next it. I
try to read your expression, but you hair falls over your face and I can't see
how your face is curving as you take hold of the handle and open the door.
The
person at the door remains on the other side of it, standing just inside the
door. For a few moments you and the visitor talk in hushed tones before you
reach over and take the person by the hand. A male hand.
The man who appears from behind the door is unfamiliar,
dressed professionally in a suit and a long, matching trench coat, with blue
eyes I can see from the kitchen. He face is creased with furrows and wrinkles
and worry lines and is deeply tanned, with lips set in a concerned frown. His
hand hold yours as the two of you continue to talk, one of his fingers gently
caressing the smooth white skin on the back of your hand. He can feel the
strong muscles and tendons that run through your hand, the veins that stick up
just slightly from under the skin, the skin smoothed by apple-scented hand
lotion.
Something
you say causes him to turn his head and he sees me. The emotion in his eyes is
a mixture of confusion and awe and disbelief. For a few moments the two of you
continue to talk, the stern, concerned frown still remaining, before you
gesture for him to follow you.
You flutter with nervous tension. With me and this
visitor standing in the same room, you feel like two worlds are colliding. You
expect an explosion, like two opposing universes meeting for a battle to the
death. Two stern frowns of concern, two hands that stroke her gently and
tenderly. Letting go of the man's hand, you gesture to me as you tell him,
"Agent Doggett, this is Agent Mulder. Mulder, this is Agent Doggett, the man
who was assigned to the X-files during your absence."
END
PART II
**************I
really appreciate any feedback. I know there may be a few inaccuracies, so try
not to butcher me over them, K?