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Title: Splintered Love Summary: I am the Empress in her new clothes. Everyone's figured out I'm naked, except me. Notes: Thank you to Paige Caldwell for the insightful beta. It's on my nickel next time. My other stories can be found at https://web.archive.org/web/20010818113457/http://home.mpinet.net:80/laster/ Tonight there is tranquility, stillness so serene and so sublime that it steals up on me like a burglar stealthily lurking in the shadows. It is conscious, unfolding around me in starlight and foggy pre-dawn mist, which kisses the air, the sturdy sea grasses, and the porch hand railing. As I lightly trail my finger across the splintered, paint flecked wood, I capture silky moisture on my fingertips. I bring the condensation to my mouth and taste... lingering over salt spray that reminds me of sunflower seed kisses and the perspiration of Mulder's impassioned caress. I gather heaven's salty teardrops. But there's something metallic and warm that insinuates itself between salty tears and brackish memories -- my blood. I've snagged my finger on the rough shavings, pulling a small splinter within. Gently, I suck at the offended digit. I revel in the needlelike sting that comes from the splinter's sharp edges that have pierced the thin, unprepared skin of my finger. The pain is not severe, but acute, a welcome difference from the dull, numbing ache that's infused me for weeks. Therefore, I worry my thumb against the splintered edge, intentionally producing discomfort... anything to alleviate the chronic, throbbing pang. Finally, frustrated with my immaturity, I take my teeth and tongue, and gently nudge the sliver from my skin. Spitting out the tiny wood chip, I sigh. If only all of life's troubles were so easily managed. Leaning against the railing, I curl my toes over the edge of the porch, and rest my elbows on the banister's rough surface. I breathe deeply, filling my lungs with the lingering, smoky residue of a July 4th campfire that was doused several hours ago. The air is motionless, nothing more than a moist exhale as the evening's breezes have given way to a more stagnate humidity. My shorts and oversized T-shirt stick to my skin, the cotton clinging in patches to the beads of moisture trickling between my breasts. Reaching down, I pull the soft cloth out and away from my body, shaking it, and allowing the cool, clammy air to circulate, refreshing my fevered skin. As the air caresses me, I an aware of tiny tendrils of damp hair sticking to the back of my neck. Releasing my shirt, with one hand I gather them off my nape, pulling the sweaty hair into a haphazard ponytail. This works until my arm tires from being held aloft, and the individual strands begin to flutter away from the whole. Finally, giving in to my restless urges, I search for the flashlight I've set upon the picnic table. I grasp its cold metal surface, and flick on the tiny switch. It illuminates the night with its penetrating beam. At the top of the stairs, I see Mom's slip-ons. She took them off in order not to track sand into the house. I slide my feet inside the grungy, blue canvas, and carefully pick my way down the stairs onto the sand below. Just beyond the lamp's beam, it is pitch black. Nothing disturbs this but the luminescence from my flashlight breaking through the night like a car's high beams on a darkened country road. Gingerly, I pick my way across the uneven ground to my perch, my rock by the ocean. It is damp from dew and mist, but I don't mind as I settle myself upon it. Glancing back at the cottage, I'm pleased to see that my pre-dawn meandering has escaped detection. So far so good, I am alone. I've not been detected on mom and Bill's radar screen. It's ironic. The only reason I am here this weekend is to talk with my family. And yet, I have steadfastly avoided all opportunities for discussion. It's amazing how one can rationalize 'looking for the perfect opening' as an excuse for evasion. All day long I've feigned holiday delight and familial obligation. I've caught up with life's trivialities, and spoken of relatives that I haven't seen in ages. I've behaved as though all is well with the world. But I am the Empress in her new clothes. Everyone's figured out I'm naked, except me. I doggedly pursue the idea that I am fooling everybody with my nonchalant act, when, in truth, I fool no one at all. My garment of silence offers me nothing more than the illusion of concealment as the entire household waits for the proverbial other shoe to drop. They know something's wrong. I've had several weeks to get used to the idea that I am pregnant. Between my search for Mulder, and adjusting to this miraculous event, I've been on an emotional roller coaster. I split my moments between wanting to pick up the phone to share my shockingly good news with mom, to staring disgustedly at the receiver, knowing I can't begin to explain this. To simply say, 'Mom, I'm pregnant' is not a possibility. Ever since Emily, she's known I can't conceive. How can I hope to answer her disbelief with my own? Today, I tried several times to bring the subject up. But there never seemed to be that perfect occasion. I suppose somewhere between 'pass the potato salad', and 'how do you want your burger cooked?', I could have said, 'Oh...by the way, I have a bun in the oven.' Or, perhaps it would have been better to begin this conversation as Matthew and Bill built sandcastles. 'Bill, just thought I'd let you know. I'm carrying Mulder's child. Don't worry about beating the shit out of him; he's been abducted by aliens.' How can I explain this miracle when I don't understand it myself? Knowing this baby's been conceived in love, but created in mystery does not make gentle table conversation. 'Matty would you like a sparkler, honey, and did you know I may have become pregnant because of an evil, old man's perverse desires?' So the day has progressed with sideways glances, lingering looks, and secretive whispering. There's a friggin' two ton elephant standing in the room with us, but all we do is walk around it. Sometimes we come near to acknowledging its presence, like at the campfire tonight where the pachyderm roasted marshmallows alongside Matthew and Tara. Mom looked between the flickering flames, holding my gaze, trying to hide her despair. I know she thinks I'm here to tell the family that the cancer's returned, and her eyes challenge me to do so, even as they beg me not to. But instead of finally dispelling secrets and presumptions, we allowed our large, ironically, gray friend to come between us as we turn collective eyes to rocket's red glare. In between 'oooh' and 'ahhh' I could have said, 'Did you know this baby might be the savior of the human race? How about if we name him, Jesus?' But I didn't.... And thus, I am here, taking refuge as I did after New Year's, when the worst I had to ponder was the ramifications of Mulder's kiss. Standing, I feel the salty spray sting at my face, and I let my tears flow into the night. I hear her before she speaks. Her presence behind me invokes memories from January when it was Mulder who found me on this rock. "Dana." "Mom." "Are you going to tell me whatever it is you need to, or are we going to leave here knowing things have not been said between us?" Without preamble ... even though I've imagined this moment countless times, I say, "Mom, I'm pregnant." I continue staring straight ahead, in the direction of the ocean that I know is out there. After all, I have faith that it is. It was there earlier in the day. I can hear it, smell its salty aroma, and taste its tangy flavor. I can feel its pinpricks upon my exposed extremities. But I can't see it. I can't rest my eyes upon its vibrant colors, or its frothy waves. That with which I am so familiar is denied me by the darkness. It's withheld from me, and I must rely on faith that it will be returned to me on the hope of sunrise. As I must believe Mulder will be found, in God's due time. As my tears choke my words, I murmur, "Mulder's the baby's father, and he is missing, Mom. They've taken him, and I don't know when he'll be returned. I don't...I don't know where to search." Behind me, I hear her bite back a sob, an empathetic cry for her only remaining daughter. She steps forward, wrapping her arms around me, drawing me closely into her body, nestling me against her womb. The place she nurtured me so many years ago. Her arms circle my waist, and her hands stretch across my lower abdomen. She lifts my T-shirt edge, and lays the palms of her hands on my bare skin, just below my belly button. With quiet touch she strokes the growing swell of my belly, sharing my sorrow with the soothing balm of her touch. Finally, she clasps my hands, bringing them with hers, tangling them together, in silent prayer. A gust of wind swirls over us, whipping at my T-shirt and my mother's robe. The humidity is finally dropping, the oppressive heat is receding. And we stand there, hands clasped, encircling my child within our protective stance. ~~~ dlynn 6/11/00
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