Still six months, three weeks, three days – babytime
How many times have you been here before, Dana?
I think I've lost count. To me this is just another waiting
room, just another
hospital stay to add to the long list.
One of this days he's not going to come home.
Please don't let that be today.
I got down to the hospital as fast as an almost seven-month
pregnant woman
could. I think I sped through at least two red lights.
Now I'm sitting the surgical waiting room, a room that's
not foreign to me. It's
just another four walls, just another nervous nail biting waiting
period. It's just another
stack of insurance forms to fill out.
Or is it?
Things are different now. I move my hand down to my stomach and
absently rub
it. Things are different.
My mother joined me about an hour ago. I don't know who
called her, but I'm
glad they did. He's been in surgery for almost four hours
now.
That's a long time. But he's had longer.
I talked to the doctor. He's a mess, basically. Hit his head
on the dashboard; he's
lucky he missed the windshield. He doesn't has airbags in
his car; something that I
constantly argue with him about. We usually take my car because
of it. But today we left at different times, in different cars.
I should have made him take my car.
His other injuries include internal bleeding, broken ribs, and a
nice little
pneumothorax caused by one of the ribs that basically decided to
snap in half.
I'm calm, I'm surprisingly calm.
That is what is worrying me the most.
The police talked to me also. They had five eyewitnesses who saw
a brown van
tailgate Mulder for almost five minutes, before it suddenly
pushed itself forward, causing
Mulder to easily lose control.
The car had no license plates. And tinted windows. No one saw the
driver.
Oh and the car was abandoned less then two miles from the
hospital, wiped
completely clean of any fingerprints.
And I'm calm.
Secretly, I'm thinking about how many people I could
knockoff with my gun. I
leave my hand on my stomach. One thing I don't want to do
now is get myself so worked up that I send myself into labor.
Mulder would kill me if I had this baby without him.
I don't want to have this baby without him. I can just think
of the crib at home
he's worked so hard to put together. He finished it two days
ago and yesterday it
collapsed. I should have seen it coming.
Just like the table that collapsed in the _Joy Luck Club_. I
remember high school
English class. Didn't my English teacher say that in every
story when something fell or
collapsed that it foreshadowed a bad situation to come?
I never did like English. Science was definitely more my forte.
That way
everything always had a definite answer, there was no "it
could go either way" or "you
have to read between the lines to see the true meaning." At
least not in my schooling.
The X-Files and Mulder couldn't have proved me more wrong.
I think in the fifth hour of surgery I fell asleep because the
next thing I knew
someone was shaking my shoulder.
"Ms. Scully?" I sit up suddenly, cursing myself for
falling asleep. I find a doctor
dressed in green scrubs standing in front of me, a chart in hands.
"Mr. Mulder is out of surgery."
Out of surgery? I glance at the clock on the wall and discover I've
only been
asleep for about half an hour. I stop cursing myself.
"How is he?" I manage to mumble, my voice not
completely with it yet.
The doctor gripped the chart in his hands, something I recognized
as a I've got
bad news to tell you' grip. A girl I went to medical school
with used the tactic; I told her
that it tips off the family members immediately. She still did it.
"I'll be honest with you, Ms. Scully, he's in bad
shape. We managed to patch him
up, but he's not out of the woods. The head injury is what
we're most concerned with, so the next 24-48 hours will be
critical."
"Can I see him?" It was my first impulse, besides
wanting to go out and personally
shoot the person responsible for this accident.
The doctor nodded. "He's been taken up to ICU. I'll
let them know you're
coming."
After that, I kinda just walked up there as if on autopilot. I
knew the way; I've
walked these walls a lot more than I'd admit. Mulder tends
to go between Washington
General and Northwestern Georgetown. It mostly depends on which
one is closer at the
time of the incident.
The next hours are a blur. I sit mostly by his bedside, spending
the maximum time
that I'm allowed at his bedside. My mother forces me down
the cafeteria, I call in sick for work. Only twenty-four hours go
by, but it seems like a lifetime. Sit, get up, eat. I do eat, but
not for myself, but for the baby. I figure I might as well have
some common
sense.
Mulder's a fighter and doesn't surprise me. After
twenty-five hours he's awake.
And then goes right back to sleep after groggily acknowledging me.
It's three hours later when he awakes again wanting to know
how long he's going to be laid up here that I know he's
going to be okay.
And I can't be happier. Yet, it still bothers me.
If they wanted him dead, then why didn't they do the job
completely then?
Seven months, four days -- babytime
"I've been here for eight days, Scully. I want to go
home."
He's whining like a two year old. And I love it. He's
really making a great
recovery. Just this morning, I found him with a baby catalog in
his lap and a credit card in his hand. How he got a hold of the
catalog, I don't know, but I decided that he has to get out
of here soon before my (correction, now our')
apartment is mistake for Toys R Us.
Now he's looking at me again, with that look he's been
perfecting for the last six
years. All I can do is smile and go to find his doctor to talk
about release papers. He's
beaming and talking about a nice comforter he found for the crib
he built.
I still haven't had the heart to tell him the crib he spent
so much time putting up
collapsed. Yet, somehow, I know he won't mind putting it
back up.
Either that or he gives in and pays the extra fifteen dollars for
construction.
Seven months, 19 days
He's been home for a week and a half and things are going
back to normal, well,
what you can call normal for Mulder. He was disappointed to see
the crib back in pieces, but putting it back to together is the
least strenuous activity I find him happy with. He seems to have
forgotten how he still has another week and a half of medical
leave before he can even step foot in the FBI.
Maybe next I should buy a self-assembling high chair.
"Shit! Damn piece of-"
Then again, maybe not.
My mind has almost forgotten about the accident, but almost isn't
enough in my
book. The police found no leads; the case was going nowhere.
Mulder was alive and
almost as good as new, so I tried to concentrate on that. But I
still can't get rid of the
feeling I have in the pit of my stomach.
Neither can the baby. He or she kicks like crazy whenever I seem
to think about
it. I don't know what to make of that. Things have been too
easy. I somehow doubt that "they" would just leave us
alone. As my due date grows closer, I just get more worried.
September 14th is circled on my calendar, but all I feel is dread
about that day.
I curse myself for that feeling. A baby brings joy, but then you
throw in the last six
years of my life and . . . well, you don't exactly get the
best feeling in the world. Maybe
I'm just paranoid.
Mulder taught me well.
"Scully?"
I turn and find him holding his hand, a look of pain on his face.
I sigh and take his
palm, and look at the nice three inch gash that it now has.
"I think we should have someone come and assemble the crib,"
he says weakly and
all I can do is laugh.
"Ok, but first back to the ER. You're going to need
stitches," I answer, picking
up the car keys. He grimaces.
Yes, things are definitely getting back to normal in the Mulder
world, at least.
Eight months
August 14th has arrived. The one month countdown has continued.
My mother
told me she started packing for the hospital at eight months,
just in case. That was a good thing, too, because I was two and a
half weeks early. I decided I wasn't going to be unpacked
when this baby let me know it wanted out. Thus, at eight months,
my bag was packed and by the door. Mulder just shook his head. I
just smiled.
"Babies are like the government, Mulder. They arrive when
they want, on their
own schedule."
"Own schedule? Yeah, I guess even screwing the people has a
schedule these
days." From my position on the couch, I throw a pillow at
him. He just ducks and goes
back to the paperwork he has laid in front of him.
Mulder's gone back to work, though he has another week
before he's totally
cleared to go into the field again. He's just been catching
up on paperwork, a hell of a lot of paperwork. Yes, we're
still on background checks. And yes, Mulder's less than
enthusiastic, just as before.
My maternity leave starts in about two weeks, though I can tell
Mulder wishes I
would talk off earlier. He's lucky I'm taking off two
weeks _before_ the baby. If I really
listened to what I wanted, I'd be working until I went into
labor. But I know I need some
time off, and I have swollen ankles to prove it.
I've been getting a lot of "You still here?" and
"When is that baby due?" at work,
so I really do need to get out of there. They are driving me nuts.
Especially all the
women who I never talk to who come up to me and give me advice
that I don't want and I
don't need. Why does everybody think that just because I'm
pregnant I need every piece of child rearing advice I can get?
Plus, no one ever agrees. I've gotten more
contradictions than agreements. It's very confusing.
Mulder and I still can't agree on a name. He's still
insistent about the name
Elizabeth, and refuses to name a baby girl anything other than
that. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing if we had a boy.
I still want that girl, though.
The crib is up, thanks to my neighbor Nick upstairs who had just
finishing
assembling his niece's the week before. Mulder grumbled
throughout the whole process, but it was basically because he was
pissed he couldn't do it himself. He got over it quick, as
soon as he discovered that Nick was a Knicks fan. And thankfully
a married Knicks fan. I try to remind him that I'm eight
months pregnant, why would I go shopping now, but he doesn't
listen. That's jealousy for you. And for some reason that's
kind of nice.
Life has become what I thought I'd hate. Somewhat normal
hours, and a family. I
had always wanted a family, but somehow I had pictured it
differently. However, some
things are meant to be.
Meant to be. That statement itself gives me a shiver. I keep
thinking its just a
charade. That they're' (why do I say that I
always wonder) just waiting for Mulder's and
my guard to go down. That out baby is going to be tested and
I have an overactive imagination.
Or maybe not. It seemed I'm more paranoid then Mulder these
days. Though, I
know when he thinks I'm not looking, he's e-mailing the
guys' and putting them on the
lookout. Yeah, this is a real storybook romance, all right.
Perhaps I should start writing
children's books while I'm at it.
During my last week at work, I got an interesting proposition
offered to me by AD
Kersh. I could say good-bye to background checks and field work
until my maternity
leave and for two months after it to go back to the autopsy game.
At first, I considered it garbage and suspected something was
behind it, but in the end, Mulder got me to take it. Said it
would allow me more time with the baby for the first couple of
months.
"You can always chase a fertilizer truck, Scully," he
teased, and was in surprisingly
good spirits. For some reason I think it's the fact that
word got down that the X-Files
solving percentage is down. Way down. At this rate, though, I'm
afraid Mulder may
resort to stealing them from the filing cabinets in the basement.
If only it were basketball season
8 months, 14 days
My heart's still pounding.
Today was not a good day.
It was my last day of work before my maternity leave started. My
mother was
taking me baby item shopping the next day, excited as could be
over the fact the two week countdown was about to begin. However,
she was going to drag me past the weeding displays I knew, but I
wouldn't mind so much.
After today, I don't think I feel like shopping.
It was simple really. Some coworkers had (to my surprise) decided
to give me a
cake and a kind of baby shower. Turns out, since Mulder and I got
involved, that I
seemed a little brighter' to some people. I hadn't
noticed a change. I still don't think
there is one. The thought was nice and I was all set to leave, a
bag of baby gifts ready to take with me, when I noticed a small
white envelope next to the bag.
I had picked it up, thinking I'd neglected it before and it
went with one of the gifts.
Curious, I had opened it, reading its contents. My demeanor
changed immediately.
"No accident' is a mistake. It's only a
warning. Watch your step." The sentence
has ingrained itself in my memory. It could be prank, but the
line, typed in its simplicity
seemed like no prank to me. Mulder was the same, taking the paper
and starting his own private investigation. I'm just off on
my own, thinking of what it meant. I never saw
anyone drop the note off.
What made it even worse was the same message was in an e-mail
sent to my
mailbox, the returning address not existing. It was a warning.
What was going on here? I had two weeks until my due and now
this? Something was going to happen.
Mulder immediately asked for two weeks off, and was on the phone
at least an
hour tonight, before pulling me into the bedroom and telling me
to pack.
"What is going on?" is my immediate reaction.
"Frohike got a hold of some security tapes from the Bureau.
Someone likes us,
Scully. Just enough to tell us to get the hell out of here. At
least until you have that
baby."
"What a minute, Mulder. I'm just as worried as you are,
but where are we going
to go?"
"The guys found us a place. Upstate New York. And someone
who might be able
to help us lose the trail." He's throwing clothes into
a duffel bag and starts to open my
drawers as well. For a moment he stops and meets my eye, before
stepping toward me. "I love you, Scully. I'll explain
everything on the way, I promise. Just trust me?"
I start going through my drawers.
