Transformation
Title: Transformation
Spoilers: IWTB, Requiem, Per Manum, DeadAlive
Rating: PG
Summary: Her church, the church that had protected the likes of
Father Joe for decades, that had hushed up scandal and
shuffled the guilty back and forth between parishes like an
unwanted relative, would condemn her for what she was
doing. Unless she succeeded. In which case, opinions
might be revised.
She didn't want to breathe in the air of that apartment--an
apartment too close, too intimate with its cooking smells
and its unmade sleeper sofa and Father Joe in his bathrobe,
praying in plain sight.
She didn't want to share the oxygen--inhale what he might
have exhaled. Scully knew more than she wanted to know--
what he had done to those boys. She had a son.
Mulder treated Father Joe's guilt and his open repentance
as though it were a minor imposition, but to Scully it felt
unjust that he should be here, comfortable and satiating
his needs for food and sleep and peace with God. She would
have felt better if he were suffering somewhere.
She had spent plenty of time in the company of psychopaths
and felons, but this was different. Her hardened mask of
professional indifference was not what it once was. And he
had been a priest. It was shameful. She wanted to reject
the situation entirely and never look back. If it weren't
for those young agents' lives on the line, she would have.
After they left, driving in the car, memories connected to
her faith, flashed through her brain.
She remembered a short trip to Italy during high school.
Her father was stationed in Naples--the family was
stateside. Maggie had found some cheap airline tickets,
and they stayed for one week. Bill and Charlie had their
sports games and didn't come, so it was a girl's trip.
Maggie, Melissa and Dana.
One day of sightseeing in Rome and then they caught the
train south. At St. Peter's she was struck by the
immensity of the space in the square--as if it conveyed by
its size that in comparison to every other square in
Europe, this one was God's. A cardinal strode purposefully
through the milling crowd of tourists who snapped photos or
simply gawked. There was a group of middle-aged nuns
huddled together speaking some unrecognizable Asian
language.
Inside of the basilica, the dome rose to dizzying heights--
marble, stone, light, air. Its magnificence was almost
frightening, for such beauty could not have come into
existence without a cost--and what was the cost? What
sacrifice or suffering did it impose on its makers, what
sacrifice or suffering compelled its construction? Back
then she couldn't articulate those thoughts--it was only an
overwhelming sense of awe and a kind of fear that there
were things in the world she didn't understand and couldn't
comprehend.
She had known boys and young men who had grown up to become
priests: a boy from elementary school, a second cousin on
her mother's side, a Jewish roommate's brother she had
known during freshman year who had converted and taken
orders.
Home on summer break from University, the family took a
trip to the lake. They sat on the shore eating sandwiches.
"Life begins at conception. That's what we've always
believed," said Bill in response to something Melissa was
saying.
Dana didn't respond. Just looked at him quietly.
"A baby can survive at what, thirty weeks?" asked Charlie.
"Sometimes earlier," Maggie replied.
"And what's the difference between an embryo and a fetus?
Which one has a soul?" he continued.
"Well, that depends on who you talk to," his mother said
softly. "It's one of the mysteries that only God can
answer."
"And I say if you don't know, best to respect it from the
beginning--don't mess with the man upstairs," said Bill
assuredly.
Early at the office one morning, she sat going over expense
reports when Mulder dropped the paper on her desk, pointing
wordlessly to a photo and the headline that Mother Teresa
had died. That day she thought about what she was doing
with her life and wondered if it was enough.
Her faith had waxed and waned and changed with the years.
Before and during the IVF procedure, she had been so afraid
to hope, that it was like a wall had gone up. She wouldn't
consider prayer--wouldn't ask for what she wanted--didn't
want to open up that kind of a rift with God if the answer
was going to be no.
When Mulder's disappearance coincided with her pregnancy,
it was fear and joy colliding. It was incomprehensible.
She prayed a lot. She prayed indiscriminately and without
prejudice, alone and in the presence of others, quiet
prayers and loud, reckless, I-dare-you-to-strike-me-down-
with-lightening prayers.
And then William was born.
Once she gave William up, faith and hope and trust were
still present, but always came with a bitter aftertaste.
Since Mulder had been returned, she wasn't sure whom to
give credit, and in her more generous moments wasn't
inclined to rule out God as a possible contributor.
They didn't watch the speech on TV because they didn't have
one. They were in a rented house in the middle of nowhere
still working at odd jobs. It was Mulder who brought it up
the next day. He had clipped an article out of the paper
and pushed it in front of her.
She eyed it askance, skimming while he talked.
"This guy doesn't make any sense, Bush. It's ethical to
use the stem cells that we already have, but unethical to
develop any new lines? Government funding of stem cell
research would sully the country but private businesses can
go for it? "
Scully was quiet. She hadn't gone back into medicine yet,
but had been having fantasies about work and hospitals and
making people better.
Her church, the church that had protected the likes of
Father Joe for decades, that had hushed up scandal and
shuffled the guilty back and forth between parishes like an
unwanted relative, would condemn her for what she was
doing. Unless she succeeded. In which case, opinions
might be revised.
Embryonic stem cell therapy made her think of Zeus
Genetics. Was there a way to reverse that kind of evil?
Was there a way to overcome what had been done to her? In
her quiet moments, she wondered if all of her suffering,
all those dreams shot through with images of eggs and
sperm, zygotes and embryos weren't for some reason.
If there wasn't a reason, she wanted to make one. If she
could lessen Christian's suffering, maybe there had been a
purpose to her own. Maybe it wasn't all just darkness and
evil.
Spoilers: IWTB, Requiem, Per Manum, DeadAlive
Rating: PG
Summary: Her church, the church that had protected the likes of
Father Joe for decades, that had hushed up scandal and
shuffled the guilty back and forth between parishes like an
unwanted relative, would condemn her for what she was
doing. Unless she succeeded. In which case, opinions
might be revised.
She didn't want to breathe in the air of that apartment--an
apartment too close, too intimate with its cooking smells
and its unmade sleeper sofa and Father Joe in his bathrobe,
praying in plain sight.
She didn't want to share the oxygen--inhale what he might
have exhaled. Scully knew more than she wanted to know--
what he had done to those boys. She had a son.
Mulder treated Father Joe's guilt and his open repentance
as though it were a minor imposition, but to Scully it felt
unjust that he should be here, comfortable and satiating
his needs for food and sleep and peace with God. She would
have felt better if he were suffering somewhere.
She had spent plenty of time in the company of psychopaths
and felons, but this was different. Her hardened mask of
professional indifference was not what it once was. And he
had been a priest. It was shameful. She wanted to reject
the situation entirely and never look back. If it weren't
for those young agents' lives on the line, she would have.
After they left, driving in the car, memories connected to
her faith, flashed through her brain.
She remembered a short trip to Italy during high school.
Her father was stationed in Naples--the family was
stateside. Maggie had found some cheap airline tickets,
and they stayed for one week. Bill and Charlie had their
sports games and didn't come, so it was a girl's trip.
Maggie, Melissa and Dana.
One day of sightseeing in Rome and then they caught the
train south. At St. Peter's she was struck by the
immensity of the space in the square--as if it conveyed by
its size that in comparison to every other square in
Europe, this one was God's. A cardinal strode purposefully
through the milling crowd of tourists who snapped photos or
simply gawked. There was a group of middle-aged nuns
huddled together speaking some unrecognizable Asian
language.
Inside of the basilica, the dome rose to dizzying heights--
marble, stone, light, air. Its magnificence was almost
frightening, for such beauty could not have come into
existence without a cost--and what was the cost? What
sacrifice or suffering did it impose on its makers, what
sacrifice or suffering compelled its construction? Back
then she couldn't articulate those thoughts--it was only an
overwhelming sense of awe and a kind of fear that there
were things in the world she didn't understand and couldn't
comprehend.
She had known boys and young men who had grown up to become
priests: a boy from elementary school, a second cousin on
her mother's side, a Jewish roommate's brother she had
known during freshman year who had converted and taken
orders.
Home on summer break from University, the family took a
trip to the lake. They sat on the shore eating sandwiches.
"Life begins at conception. That's what we've always
believed," said Bill in response to something Melissa was
saying.
Dana didn't respond. Just looked at him quietly.
"A baby can survive at what, thirty weeks?" asked Charlie.
"Sometimes earlier," Maggie replied.
"And what's the difference between an embryo and a fetus?
Which one has a soul?" he continued.
"Well, that depends on who you talk to," his mother said
softly. "It's one of the mysteries that only God can
answer."
"And I say if you don't know, best to respect it from the
beginning--don't mess with the man upstairs," said Bill
assuredly.
Early at the office one morning, she sat going over expense
reports when Mulder dropped the paper on her desk, pointing
wordlessly to a photo and the headline that Mother Teresa
had died. That day she thought about what she was doing
with her life and wondered if it was enough.
Her faith had waxed and waned and changed with the years.
Before and during the IVF procedure, she had been so afraid
to hope, that it was like a wall had gone up. She wouldn't
consider prayer--wouldn't ask for what she wanted--didn't
want to open up that kind of a rift with God if the answer
was going to be no.
When Mulder's disappearance coincided with her pregnancy,
it was fear and joy colliding. It was incomprehensible.
She prayed a lot. She prayed indiscriminately and without
prejudice, alone and in the presence of others, quiet
prayers and loud, reckless, I-dare-you-to-strike-me-down-
with-lightening prayers.
And then William was born.
Once she gave William up, faith and hope and trust were
still present, but always came with a bitter aftertaste.
Since Mulder had been returned, she wasn't sure whom to
give credit, and in her more generous moments wasn't
inclined to rule out God as a possible contributor.
They didn't watch the speech on TV because they didn't have
one. They were in a rented house in the middle of nowhere
still working at odd jobs. It was Mulder who brought it up
the next day. He had clipped an article out of the paper
and pushed it in front of her.
She eyed it askance, skimming while he talked.
"This guy doesn't make any sense, Bush. It's ethical to
use the stem cells that we already have, but unethical to
develop any new lines? Government funding of stem cell
research would sully the country but private businesses can
go for it? "
Scully was quiet. She hadn't gone back into medicine yet,
but had been having fantasies about work and hospitals and
making people better.
Her church, the church that had protected the likes of
Father Joe for decades, that had hushed up scandal and
shuffled the guilty back and forth between parishes like an
unwanted relative, would condemn her for what she was
doing. Unless she succeeded. In which case, opinions
might be revised.
Embryonic stem cell therapy made her think of Zeus
Genetics. Was there a way to reverse that kind of evil?
Was there a way to overcome what had been done to her? In
her quiet moments, she wondered if all of her suffering,
all those dreams shot through with images of eggs and
sperm, zygotes and embryos weren't for some reason.
If there wasn't a reason, she wanted to make one. If she
could lessen Christian's suffering, maybe there had been a
purpose to her own. Maybe it wasn't all just darkness and
evil.