One & Only, First & Last
one
It was so stupid.
So fucking stupid, so incredibly stupid, they had never done anything dumber, and never would, and they’d collectively done a lot of dumb things in their time.
But he had only held his son twice, once at night and once in the morning. And she was forgetting his sack of flour weight in her arms, his sleepy powdered sugar skin, his father’s curling mouth.
She did not want to forget.
And for all the years he had spent searching, full of wanting and empty of satisfaction, he had never wanted anything like this. If he could just see. Once.
He repeats to himself, I have a son. In case he should forget.
They both thumbed the picture dozens of times every day. He had stretched his long arm out with the camera turned back on them, leaning on pillows, the camera handbook long lost, that wasn’t like her, I’m not wasting time trying to rig up a tripod. The baby’s face is in profile, soft and quiet, asleep. Mulder’s dark and spiky head tucked toward the baby, the flash going off too close to his eyes. He’s laughing, squinty. Scully is smiling, in awe, but her hand is twisting at Mulder’s shirt, anchoring him to her. Like her hand knows what’s going to happen. The one and only, first and last, Scully-Mulder family portrait.
It would be better to forget, oh God, she prays, erase my memory. Don’t think, feet to the ground, head to the wind. He is not yours.
two
Oh, they had each other, of course, clung to each other. Scully sometimes felt selfish, guilty, for that. For enjoying him so much, for loving him so much. Was it fair? She was not doing her penance, neither of them were, but if they could create a small happiness to put into the world, that couldn’t be wrong. Could it?
After a while, they thought about it relentlessly. After a while, they began to broach it in quiet ways with one another, letting it become real, what if? escaping from his mouth as he presses it against her shoulder in the steaming bath, what if? she whispers as they play cards in the dwindling twilight after dinner, what if what it what if. They plot in the margins of newspapers, memorize the details, then use it for kindling.
He wondered sometimes, when they made love, could it happen again? That tiny miracle? Or would it be the same horror, once more? Yet something in him trembled, yes-yes-yes. He placed his hand on her stomach. They could not bear it. No, that would be-- How could they love a child now? He knew what it was to be the child left behind, chosen and not chosen, and he wouldn’t wish that for anyone, especially not someone he loved.
That was love, though, a miracle. But they didn’t happen twice. She quietly thought the same thing. She was only allowed a certain amount of happiness, she was sure of that now, and it was a brutal exchange. If she were given that happiness again, surely Mulder would be the collateral, same as before.
They were not always sad. They laughed. Weren’t they allowed?
three
That morning, that morning of tense phone calls and packing, pretending it was just a trip, he picked the baby up when she got in the shower and refused to let him go until they made a jostled, wet-faced threshold exchange.
He says to him, I don’t want to leave you, Be nice to your mother (your mother, your mother), Free throws are important, I’m going to teach you how to shoot a perfect free throw. Bounce, bounce, bounce, spin, bounce-bounce. While she presses her forehead against the tile and sobs openmouthed, silent. He says, I’m your dad.
four
He was scared at first, when he came back, even though he wouldn’t say it. She was scared, too, so she couldn’t really blame him. But when he was scared, he became defensive, insecure. Careless and casual with his words. She needed him and he failed her in little ways.
When he was feeling better, growing back into himself, he started asking her questions. He was finally getting over his martyrish guilt over not having been there, piecing it together like the investigator he was. Hungry for the answers, like someone recovering from the flu might ask for mashed potatoes, for buttered noodles.
She told him about the look on her brother’s face when he found out. It seemed funny, they laughed, a family joke, they were family now--but at the time, she had felt nothing but panicky hatred for Bill, his pink face and narrowing blue eyes. Saying, where IS he, Dana? Where is he NOW?
He wanted to see ultrasound pictures. He pressed his ear to her stomach, very seriously, as if he could glean something from the person inside, whispered secrets between father and son. Here is what you have missed while you were gone. He found it utterly astounding, and she could not disagree.
Her mother insisted on giving her a proper baby shower, which seemed nothing short of ridiculous, but she humored her. You are my only daughter now.
Who are all these people? Mulder whispered to her, palming a pink balloon, hanging around, waiting to be kicked out for his maleness. She flushed as she looked at these well-coiffed women leaving well-wrapped presents on the table, taking the snacks her mother offered. I have no idea, she whispered back to him.
Her mother, with her sixth sense for cliquishness, broke it up, asking him to help her move a cooler before he left, calling him Fox.
Sure, he said. He still called her Mrs. Scully, like they were in high school. He handed Scully the balloon and leaned over and kissed her, right there in her kitchen, like a regular person at a regular person’s baby shower, carrying coolers, being shuffled out the door.
five
They act like they’re going on a daytrip, like they’re the sort of people who might drive to a winery on a Sunday afternoon. They were never the sort of people who would drive to a winery on a Sunday afternoon, unless, maybe, a dead body had been found jammed in a vat of merlot. Their guns are tucked in their waistbands, twin pressures against the smalls of their backs.
This is the right thing, she says, but it’s a question.
I need to see him, he says.
She nods and they get in the car.
It takes them four days to cover one day’s distance. They backtrack and check into motels under assumed names.
She slumps in the passenger seat, eyes trained on the scrubby horizon. She bites at her cuticles, which she never does, a ragamuffin remnant of a younger self. Only stops to place a quiet hand on Mulder’s leg, which is jiggling up and down, knocking into his keys. He sandwiches her hand with his.
Our last stakeout, he says, and cracks open a sunflower seed.
They follow the navy Volvo station wagon at a respectable distance. Do not alert the subject to your presence. It has those aerated screens stuck to the back windows. To keep the sun out of the baby’s eyes.
They would never hang anything in the window of any car, ever.
six
After, they are silent for a long time.
At home, they crawl into bed. In the dark, they allow themselves to speak.
Are you happy we did it? he whispers. Yes. God, yes, she says. Are you?
He can walk. I wanted to teach him how to walk. He’s a little person. Yes.
He snakes one arm around her back and pulls her close. They stay that way, breathing. He puts his other arm around her, completing the circle, and she rolls halfway on top of him, her left leg tangling between his. She plants her face in his chest, her breath warm through his shirt.
His hair was brown and his shirt had frogs on it. They wanted to steal him, but it’s not stealing if something belongs to you.
William, he says. Out loud.
She reaches up and puts her arms around his neck, pulls him over to her, covering her body. Are you happy?
Yes, he says, God, yes.
I’m happy, she says. I’m happy.
[post-truth, kinda-on-the-lam, msr, william]