Maggie Scully, 2 a. m.
by Merri-Todd Webster
(1998)


He's not good for her.  I know that.  Yet he's a good
 person, in spite of everything.  And he loves her.  
I know that, too, even if he doesn't know it.  Even if 
she doesn't.  I wonder, does she know?

Dana has always been so... independent.  When she 
was little, she wanted to do everything that Missy
and the boys could do.  She wanted to read her sister's 
books, solve her math problems, play with her curlers.  
And she wanted just as much to climb trees with Billy
and Charlie, beat them at races, play cowboys or space 
invaders.

And she did.  She did all of those things, and she did 
them brilliantly.  She did them better than Missy or 
Billy or Charlie, better than anyone else, just as she 
does her job now.  She will always do it better, and 
she will never ask anyone for help, my stubborn 
daughter, although she'll accept it if it's offered.  If 
she has no choice.  If she can't survive without it.

I lie in bed at night and think, Fox Mulder will be 
the death of you,  Dana.  He came within a hair's 
breadth of being exactly that, and I thought I would 
never forgive him.  He also saved her.  I know about
the implant, the chip, the deceptions they carried out.  
I also know that if she had died, he would have killed
 himself.  Nothing could have held him back.

He's her salvation, and she is his.  How can anybody 
or anything else compete with that?  What's an ordinary 
marriage with children beside a partnership that takes
 on all the evils of the world every day, beside a love 
that is salvation or despair?

I'm a middle-aged Catholic woman.  Unlikely as it is, 
I can't help but yearn for a grandchild borne by my 
beloved daughter.  Whenever I see her and Fox together, 
I can't help imagining a child with reddish-brown hair 
and a full, rosy mouth, a tall slim child, boy or girl, 
with Fox Mulder's changeful hazel eyes in my Dana's 
beautiful face.  That child runs through my dreams, 
half a memory of the past, half a premonition of the 
future.  But she can't have children, so why do I think 
I could be dreaming true?

I pray for both of them, every day.  All day.  And for 
their boss, Walter Skinner.  Skinner is a hard man, but 
I know he's made sacrifices and taken risks to protect
them and help them.  I know he's lost things in the 
struggle, just as they have.  I pray for Walter and 
occasionally indulge in wondering if he's as passionate 
as he seems to be.  Well, it's been years since I've 
been with a man, and my marriage was a loving one 
in every way....

I lie awake at night and worry.  Once you have a child, 
you never sleep too deeply again.  Maybe fathers do, 
but not mothers.  Even when they have children of their
own, you have one ear cocked for the sound of midnight 
vomiting in the bathroom, crying that could mean a fever, 
a wayward teenager carefully closing the front door, long 
after curfew.  These days I keep my ears tuned for the sound 
of a knock on the door, a phone call, a bulletin on the news 
which wouldn't mean anything to a casual listener, but
might bring tears to my eyes.

And when I can't sleep, like tonight, I wrap my arms 
around my pillow and hope that Dana is sleeping.  
That she's curled up in the arms of Fox Mulder, her
head on his chest, and he's snoring in her ear the way 
Bill used to snore when he was home.  I missed that
 sound when he was at sea.  I hope my daughter knows 
the comfort of a beloved man snoring, only inches 
away.  I hope she knows the comfort only a lover's 
arms can give.

I don't know if they're lovers.  I only know how much 
they love each other.  The Pope would condemn me, 
but I hope they're finding as much joy in bed as they've 
found challenges and pains on the job.  I can't see Dana 
in a marriage like mine, in a house with a lawn and a 
collection of aprons to protect her grubby clothes from 
the endless messes that come with running a household 
and raising a family, but I'd like to see her go home at 
night with Fox and be happy about it.  I'd like to think 
that she need not be alone just because she's afraid to 
need and want anyone, anything, as much as she needs
 and wants her partner, his love.  But I know Dana.  I 
know she hates to ask for help.  He knows that, too, 
and that's why he helps without asking, and turns 
away when she won't let him help.

I love that boy.  He's not a boy, of course, but he seems 
to crave my love as much as Dana's.  He can have it, any 
time, and all the milk and cookies he can handle.  I've 
room for another little boy, and I'll admit, it's one of the 
reasons I dream of their getting married, so that I can take 
care of Fox.  He needs me, and I miss being needed.  He 
needs Dana, too, so badly, and she needs to be needed as 
much as I do, though she'd never admit it.

Oh, Dana.  I hope you're sleeping soundly right now.  I 
hope Mulder is, too.  I hope you're sleeping together.  
And I hope I'll get back to sleep, stop worrying--

Oh, Lord.  The phone is ringing.

********

end