By Polly
Polly122456@yahoo.com
 

Rating: PG-13
Feedback:  Welcome and appreciated
Category: Post-Ep, Mulder POV, Angst, MSR
Spoilers:  Closure; other small ones
Disclaimer:  These characters belong to Chris Carter
and 1013 productions.
Archive:  If you want it, it's yours; just let me
know.
Notes: Thanks to all those who continue to challenge
me to try harder.
Summary:  Mulder tries to leave nothing left unsaid.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

Dear Mom
By Polly
 

Dear Mom,

I'm not really sure why I'm writing this, when I know
you'll never read it.  I suppose it's because things
were unfinished between us, and I need a sense of
closure before I can move on with my life.  I found
it with Samantha, and now I need to do the same with
you.

It was always my dream to bring Samantha home to you;
I'm sorry that I wasn't able to do that until it was
too late for all of us.

I'm trying to come to terms with the fact that you
obviously knew more about what happened to Samantha
than you ever let on.  All those times I asked you,
and you never said a word, yet you go to all the
trouble of making a visit from beyond the grave -
twice - to lead me to her.

I wish I understood why.  Were you still afraid of
them after all these years?  Why did you burn all our
pictures?  Were you trying to protect yourself?  Were
you trying to protect me? I wish I knew why you kept
silent.  I wish I knew what you were trying to tell
me when you called.

I wish I had called you back.

But then, you and I spent a lifetime avoiding the
things we should have said to each other, didn't we?
We were so much alike.  After Samantha was taken, I
don't remember us ever having what most families
would consider a "regular" conversation - not about
school, relationships, careers, or even the weather.

I never told you that I have always divided my life
into two segments:  Before and After.  I remember
before Samantha was taken you and I talked about
everything.  In the summertime when Dad was away a
lot, you would take Samantha and me down to the beach
and while she played in the surf, we'd talk.  About
books, movies, faraway places, sports - you knew more
about baseball than any woman I've ever known.  You
told me how Grandpa Kuipers lived and died by the Red
Sox, and how he would be crushed that I liked the
Yankees.

After Samantha, we hardly talked at all.  And when we
did, it was usually with disastrous results.

It surprised me that you made arrangements to be
buried in North Carolina, next to your parents.  Of
course, it always surprised me (even though I don't
remember that much about him) that Grandpa Kuipers -
the staunch New Englander - agreed to spend eternity
planted in the native soil of his southern belle
wife.  I always thought that you perfectly embodied
the combination of your lineage - often genteel and
fragile; more often tough as nails.  Both cultures
were notorious, in different ways, for keeping their
emotions under wraps, so I suppose you came by that
naturally.  Your cool exterior never betrayed what
was going on just below the surface, not even to
those closest to you.

It *didn't* surprise me that you had already taken
care of all of your funeral arrangements, down to the
tiniest detail.  I'm not sure whether you were just
trying to spare me the anguish, or that you thought
I'd do a piss-poor job of it.

We did stray from your agenda slightly, though.  We
had a small memorial service for you in Greenwich.
Scully suggested it.  She thought your friends should
have an opportunity to pay their respects and say
goodbye.  While none of them were shocked to learn
that you had a terminal disease, some of them were
surprised to learn that you had a child.  I guess I
deserved that.  In all the times I was blaming you
for not being a better mother, I never stopped to
consider that I could have been a better son.

I'm sorry that we let each other down.

I'm sorry that I've learned more about you in death
than I ever did in life.  Last night, I went through
some of your belongings and found out things about
you that I never knew. I learned you were active in
the garden club in Greenwich and had organized a
fundraiser for the local library.  I discovered you
were a championship swimmer in high school, that you
wrote poetry, and that you loved Frank Sinatra.  I
learned you dropped out of college after your
sophomore year.  And I learned that you were three
months pregnant with me when you got married.

I learned that you were sentimental, hanging onto old
love letters tied with a gold ribbon.  I read them,
and through the hand that wrote them I discovered
that you were once a young woman filled with passion
and desire, a woman very much in love.

But not with my father.

At least, not with the man I thought was my father.

So I finally have the answer to the question I asked
you three years ago.  I guess I knew the minute you
slapped my face, but I didn't want to believe it.  I
still don't.

And when did Dad know that I wasn't his?

Did he marry you - do the right thing - believing
that he was my father only to find out later that he
wasn't?

Or did he marry you because he felt sorry for you,
knowing the man who got you knocked up - his friend -
refused to leave *his* wife and unborn child for his
mistress and bastard child?

Was he a chump or a stand-up guy? I guess it really
doesn't matter, but for some reason I'd like to know.
Maybe it would help me feel better about the
relationship we had - or didn't have.

Maybe it wouldn't.

While I was looking through your things I found
Samantha's christening gown wrapped in tissue paper
in your cedar chest.  Before your burial tomorrow,
I'm having it placed in the casket with you, along
with this letter to you, one I wrote to Samantha, and
a copy of Samantha's diary that I found at April
Base.  The diary you led me to.  I'm laying her to
rest with you; I hope that both your souls will now
be at peace.

I'm sorry that I can't bear to part with the original
diary.  Holding it and reading it is a great source
of comfort that I just can't let go.  I hope you'll
forgive me for being selfish one more time.

I hope you'll also forgive me for this - I'm planning
to have Dad's remains moved to the cemetery here in
North Carolina.  I can't explain to you why it's
important to me for all of you to be together, it
just is; and I hope you'll understand.

Your burial tomorrow is private.  Just me.  And
Scully.  I know you only met her a few times; the
first time at Dad's funeral, ironically enough.  I
wish you could have known her better.  She has been
my rock through all of this, kept me from falling
apart.  I owe her my life; I owe her everything.  I
love her.  Someday I might tell her that.

Why is it so easy to know that you love someone but
so hard to say the words?  I can count on two hands
the number of times you said 'I love you' to me in my
entire life.  And I said it to you even less.  But I
do remember the last time you said it.  I lay dying
in the hospital, but you believed that I could hear
you.  And I could.  You called me your darling boy,
and you told me you loved me.

I knew that you did.  I always knew.  But it was nice
to hear it anyway.  I'm sorry I didn't say it for you
to hear more often.

I'm sorry for so much where you and I are concerned,
but mostly that both of us left so many things unsaid
for so long.  And I guess that's why I wrote this, to
try and leave nothing else unsaid.  Mostly for my
sake, but for yours too.

Because I do believe that you'll hear these words and
that you'll understand.

I'll miss you, Mom.  You and Dad and Samantha will
continue to live in my heart.  I love you.

Fox

THE END

*   *   *   *   *   *   *