Hypothetical
By gwinne
gwinne@yahoo.com
Date: 4 Jan 2003
ARCHIVE: Ephemeral, Gossamer; otherwise, please ask
KEYWORDS: angst-o-rama
SPOILERS: from beginning to end; post-ep for "William"
DISCLAIMER: I claim only to love these characters.
HYPOTHETICAL
Life, she's decided, is a series of moments that you never thought
it possible to imagine.
Eight years ago, she attended her godson's birthday party and
decided she'd never be a mother. She tried to picture herself
holding an infant and a diaper bag with a cell phone to her ear.
One of the three always dropped. Even a hypothetical baby wasn't
safe in her arms.
Eight years have brought her here, standing guard at her small
son's crib, watching him suck a pacifier and wave his chubby arms.
Her son. She never imagined she'd be a mother and she certainly
never imagined that she would contemplate giving him up.
* * *
"Boys or girls?" Mulder asks, shoveling another French fry in his
mouth.
"Excuse me?" There are conversations with vague referents and there
are conversations with no referents. Recently, Mulder's been
choosing the latter more than usual. It throws her off. These
days everything about him throws her off.
"For the uber-Scullies," he says. "You've obviously thought about
having kids. So what do you want, boys or girls?"
A week ago, in a place called Home, they sat on a park bench
talking about deformed children and the biological impetus to
reproduce. That was hypothetical. This is personal.
"I haven't really given it a lot of thought. Our jobs aren't
exactly conducive to settling down and raising a family."
"You've never thought about it?" Honest-to-goodness shock
registers in his voice.
"Boys, I guess," she says, just because this is not a conversation
she ever imagined having and she's not sure she wants to have it
now. "I mean, I'm not exactly the type of woman who'd teach a
daughter to put on nail polish and bake chocolate chip cookies."
"No, but you could tell her the best outfits to wear with Kevlar
and a holster."
"True." She takes a sip of Diet Coke. "I just think I'd know how
to relate to a son better. When I was growing up I hung out with
my brothers more than with Melissa."
He nods.
"How about you? Sons or daughters?" She already knows the answer.
A flash of Mulder with a pink-swaddled newborn in the crook of his
arm. How small she is against his tanned forearm. The baby stirs
and he sways softly in the dimmed room. She doesn't know how it
will happen, what events will occur that will allow him to have
this child, just that he will.
"One of each, I think. A boy and then a girl."
She raises the corners of her mouth in what she hopes comes across
as a smile. "I suppose we're either bound to reproduce our
families or to reject them."
"So you're saying you don't picture yourself as a stay-at-home mom
with a brood of four trampling through a two-story suburban house?"
He swipes a fry through a puddle of ketchup. This time she
snatches it from his hand.
"Something like that, yeah."
* * *
William is almost asleep, sucking contentedly. She debates whether
or not to wake him for a last feeding for the night. When they got
home from the hospital, she'd taken him into the nursery and given
him a bottle while Monica and John spoke in hushed tones in the
kitchen. The baby shouldn't be hungry, not with a bellyful of
milk, but she needs to feel his warmth against her skin. She'd
never imagined that holding a child to her breast would be the best
part of her day, her life.
"Wake up, little guy," she says, stroking the baby-fine hair over
his ear. Blue eyes flutter open, and she picks him up. Nine
months of midnight feedings rush back and she feels the first drops
of milk wet the cups of her bra. They've begun the slow process of
weaning, but she only needs to think of her son for her breasts to
fill. She wonders how long she'll remember the tug of his mouth on
her nipples.
They settle into the rocking chair and her son begins to drink.
Down the hall, Monica talks on the phone to Skinner.
* * *
Not possible, she thinks, staring at the checkout forms for the
clinic. This is not possible. She'd gone to her ob/gyn for a
routine checkup and ended up with this: diagnosis 628.0:
infertility, female (anovulation).
At first the doctor said sometimes it takes a little while for a
cycle to regulate itself after cancer, after substantial weight
loss. But when she went back through three years of calendars she
realized something she hadn't allowed herself to contemplate. She
hasn't had a regular period since they returned her. Her once
predictable 28.5 day cycles had turned into something else
entirely. 14 days, 63 days, 22 days, 91 days. Periods that aren't
periods in the clinical sense. The truth calculated in used
tampons and sanitary pads: she hasn't ovulated in over three
years.
And that son she told Mulder she hadn't really thought about waves
to her from a distant shoreline. An infertility diagnosis
shouldn't matter to a woman who never imagined herself as a mother;
now having a child is all she thinks about. In grocery store
checkout lines, on airplanes, in doctor's cramped offices. She
hasn't just lost a child, she's lost a lifetime of possibilities.
* * *
She tells herself she believes in a woman's right to choose. She
knows no woman should be saddled with a child she doesn't want, not
after what they did to her. And she knows no woman should be
denied the right to have the child she wants, not after what they
did to her. And here she is with a nine-month-old miraculous
conception in her arms trying to choose his fate. Their fate.
Here she is with the child she never thought she wanted, the child
she never thought she could have, the child she wanted more than
anything in the world, the child she knows she needs to give up to
protect. She sobs so fiercely William wakes howling, and she
clutches him tighter against her chest.
* * *
This has to be the strangest conversation she and Mulder have ever
had. One minute he's in a hallway saying that he pocketed a vial
of her ova and the next she's asking him to father her child. How
quickly an infertility diagnosis vanishes when months worth of
potential children roll in metal tube. Already she's halfway
there.
"Remember that day we were in the diner and you asked me if I
wanted boys or girls?" They're on the couch in her apartment,
talking over a bottle of shiraz.
"Sure."
"Once I met Emily, I knew for sure."
"Knew what?"
"That my life would not be complete without a child."
"I'm so sorry, Scully. If I could give you that. . . if I could
take back what they did to you. . ."
"What if you could?" If this were a game of chess, she thinks, I'd
have him in two moves.
"You know I can't, Scully."
"But what if you could. I mean, hypothetically."
"I would do anything to let you be a mother. Even if it means
letting you go."
"Thank you," she says softly. "You can't know what that means to
me, to hear you say that." She unclasps her hands and taps one
against his knee. "I was given a chance today, Mulder. A chance I
never thought I'd have."
"What kind of chance?" he swallows hard, and she knows the moment
he understands where this conversation is headed. And she knows
what he will say.
"A chance to have a child. To have *my* child. And that's a
chance I'd like to share with you."
* * *
Giving birth in the backwoods of Georgia was never an option when
she asked Mulder to help her conceive. But there she was in a
brass bed covered in blood and sweat and tears while Mulder palmed
the top of their son's head. "He's mine," she said, "he's mine."
"No one," Mulder whispered, nuzzling her cheek, "no one will take
him from you. I promise."
But in their son's short life he has been abducted and worshipped
and feared, hated and injected and used. Why, she imagines his
adoptive mother saying, why would anyone want to give this child
up? What's wrong with him? What's wrong with her?
She refuses to spend their last moments together grieving.
Instead, she holds William on her lap reading him a book about
families. There are all kinds of families in this neighborhood--
single moms and stepparents and adopted kids. It was the first
book she'd ever read to him, when she wondered if her son would
ever know his father. Now she wonders if he will remember his
mother, what he will think of her decision.
The baby is fussy and he slaps the cardboard pages and shifts in
her lap. She turns him toward her and stands him up on her thighs,
supporting his weight with her hands. He'll be standing in a
matter of weeks and she won't be there to see it. She stifles a
sob in her throat. William opens his mouth wide and smiles. He
places his fat hand against her cheek.
This is the only choice she's ever had. The only choice she can
make.
* * *
END
Acknowledgments: to Bonetree, for making me sit down to write, and
for being there. And to Ellen, for more than choice.