AUTHOR: Suture
RATING: PG-13
CATEGORY: Pre-XF, Mrs. Mulder POV
FEEDBACK: I live for it.
SPOILERS: None that I can think
of
SUMMARY: "Fox answered my
tentative questions about his final term at Oxford, and his two
weeks in France with the impatience of a tennis pro determined to
end the rally against an inept amateur. He had done well his final
term. Paris was beautiful in the early summer. Yes, Chanel was
making a comeback. When he looked at his watch and said he had to
go, I couldn't bring myself to ask him to stay longer."
DISCLAIMERS: I don't own these
characters, etc.
DISTRIBUTION: Archive as you will
and let me know if possible.
My stay of execution comes via the
telephone.
"Mom, the car got a flat right by the
Gruders'," Fox says in his customary uninflected mumble.
"I thought I'd stay with you tonight and change the tire
tomorrow morning when it's not raining so much."
I push the almost-full, yellow bottle of
Valium away from me and sit up in bed, feeling as if Fox had
caught me in the act. "I'll be right there to get you,"
I say. I hope that the two pills I've taken already won't start to
work while I'm driving. . I can hear Daniel Gruder's basso
profundo voice in the background. It's a deep, resonant, lulling
sound. If Hollywood decides to remake the Ten Commandments, Daniel
Gruder should audition for the Voice of God. "Don't worry
about it, Mom," Fox tells me. "Mr. Gruder said he'll
drive me over."
"I'll unlock the door for you." My
tongue, suddenly thick, drags a little over the word
"door."
"No," Fox says sharply. I start a
little at the sudden authority in his voice. "It's late. I'll
ring the doorbell, okay? I'll be there in about twenty
minutes."
"All right, then," I soothe him
the way I did when he was five and cried hysterically at the sight
of circus clowns. "I'll be up waiting for you. Tell Mr.
Gruder thank you," I say before I can stop myself.
"I will, Mom." This last,
delivered in the dry tone of a twenty-six year old poking gentle
fun at his mother's inability to see him as an adult, makes me
smile. Fox doesn't joke with me very often, so when he does, it
seems like the first hints of sun after too much gray. The
momentary warmth I feel tips over into a long-forgotten heat as I
remember another wry, amused voice from a summer long past. The
smell of cigarettes drifted up from rumpled sheets and I laughed
and laughed as a man with the knife-sharp profile of a young Paul
Newman drawled, bourbon-smooth and serpent-sly in the dark,
"Was it as good for you as it was for me?"
Daniel Gruder rumbles something
indistinguishable and then I hear nothing but the dial tone. Even
at twenty-six, Fox still scores on the lower end of the telephone
etiquette learning curve.
I avoid looking at the blurry woman in the
mirror as I put the Valium back in my nightstand drawer, smooth
the sheets on the bed, and find my bathrobe. My ears are ringing
slightly and I stumble a little as I walk down the stairs.
In the dining room, bowls and plates piled
high with food sit untouched, mute testimony to the awkward
domestic scene that played out a few hours ago. I find containers
for charred meatloaf, runny mashed potatoes, an indistinct green
mass of over-boiled peas. A faulty mother's offering to the
unappeasable gods of parenthood.
Three hours before Fox arrived, on his way
back from his father's house to a brand new apartment and new
beginning in Washington, comforting smells filled my kitchen. I
mixed and peeled and boiled and each action brought back memories
of warm summer evenings when I presided over a cozy dinner table
of three. Samantha would try to feed her vegetables to the dog
while Fox recounted the plot of the science fiction novel he'd
finished that afternoon. Talk and laughter flowed in Bill's
absence. Sinking my hands into the warm muck of ground meat, eggs,
and breadcrumbs, I kneaded, and imagined Fox driving back to
Washington tomorrow with a pile of Tupperware containers packed to
the brim with leftovers next to him in the passenger seat. I could
be the kind of mother Mildred Barrett next door was. Her three
strapping sons, students in Boston, came home every weekend and
filled Mildred's house with their careless, unquestioning love and
raucous male laughter. Surely, I could be like Mildred for a few
hours.
Perhaps I shouldn't have counted these
particular chickens before they hatched. The acrid stench of burnt
meat wafted through the house just as Fox rang the doorbell. Time
and nostalgia, those malicious tricksters, had let me down again.
Fox ate dutifully, chewing in that
unthinking, mechanical way I remembered from the many
indifferently prepared meals we'd eaten together during his
teenage years. Or rather, back then, we sat at opposite ends of
the too-large dining room table while Fox ate and read a book and
I nursed my nightly aperitif of anti-depressants, silence, and
guilt. Tonight, I picked at my own plate and tried to hold a
conversation with this too carefully neutral stranger. Fox
answered my tentative questions about his final term at Oxford,
and his two weeks in France with the impatience of a tennis pro
determined to end the rally against an inept amateur. He had done
well his final term. Paris was beautiful in the early summer. Yes,
Chanel was making a comeback. He started at Quantico on Tuesday.
When he looked at his watch and said he had to go, I couldn't
bring myself to ask him to stay longer.
The doorbell's harsh buzz startles me. Have
I really been standing here between the kitchen and the dining
room for the past ten minutes holding an uncovered container of
peas?
My son takes me aback when I open the door.
Fox is a man now. I hadn't realized that during dinner. He stands
under the porch-light and I can see that Nature hasn't stinted.
Somehow, growing up in the atmosphere of a house so noxious potted
plants always died in a few days, Fox managed to flourish. Not in
spirit. I know that. But, physically at least. I look at him and
see his father's lush mouth and gray-green eyes framing my
stubborn nose.
"Mom. Hi. Sorry about this," Fox
continues to stand on the porch, dripping, and waiting to be asked
in.
"Don't be silly, Fox," I say
before I realize how snappish I sound. I want to cry at the way
his face goes blank as he starts to apologize again. I cut him
off. "Come in. You're soaking wet." He stands in the
foyer, still waiting patiently. Under any other circumstances, I'd
want to make a joke about vampires, but this is my son hovering in
the foyer like a homeless ghost.
"I'll go get you something to change
into," I tell him. "I put hot water on so you can make
yourself some tea." Fox nods and walks towards the kitchen.
Nothing in Fox's old room really fits him
now. After fifteen minutes of scrounging, I find an Oxford T-shirt
Fox must have worn the last time he was here and a pair of
sweatpants Bill left behind a few years ago after a reconciliation
attempt that went nowhere. Hopefully, Fox will think the
sweatpants are his. There are some things no son needs to know.
In the kitchen, I find Fox prowling amongst
the cabinets. "Can I have hot chocolate instead?" he
asks, holding up a can of Swiss Miss hot cocoa.
"Fox, I've probably had that hot
chocolate since the Nixon administration." I want to take my
words back the moment I say them.
Either Fox doesn't make the connection, or
he chooses to ignore it. "Scientific studies have proven that
hot chocolate has a very long shelf life," he deadpans. I can
see a hint of a smile in his eyes.
"Go change and I'll put this scientific
theory to the test," I say and his smile travels down to his
mouth. We're talking to each other the way Mildred Barrett and her
sons talk. Teasing, affectionate, and unhampered by the weight of
past history.
For a moment, I swear I can smell sunshine,
brine, and the scent little boys give off after a hard day of
playing when Fox comes back into the kitchen. He sits down, long
legs jutting out of Bill's too-short sweatpants. I set his cup of
hot chocolate in front of him. The cowlick he's had ever since he
was a little boy pokes up, stubborn and unruly, and I smooth it
down gently, wondering at how soft his hair is. Fox tenses for a
moment before he leans, cat-like, into my touch. He turns and
hooks an awkward arm around my waist. We stay this way for a
minute, uncertain what to do next.
"I'm sorry about dinner," I say.
"I wanted it to be so nice and then-"
Fox shakes his head against my hip and then
lets go of me. "Don't, Mom. I know. I just--. I shouldn't act
like a little kid anymore." He looks up at me and tries to
smile again. I push his hair back from his eyes the way I did when
he was younger and needed a haircut. Such sad eyes.
"You should go to bed," I tell
him. "You're probably exhausted by all of the driving you've
done today."
He yawns as if on cue.
"I'll get you fresh sheets and a
toothbrush," I say. The ringing in my ears starts up again.
For a moment, I wonder if I'm just unused to so much domesticity
in one day.
I fight against the insistent buzzing in my
ears as I climb upstairs. It sounds like the rasping of a thousand
dry husks of grain. Fox follows me to his room and snorts at the
circa 1978 decorating scheme. "Geez, Mom," he grumbles
as he eyes a Farrah Fawcett poster uneasily sharing space with a
poster of a tuxedoed Marlon Brandon as Don Corleone in The
Godfather. "You don't have to keep the room exactly the way I
left it."
I'm having a hard time focusing on Fox. He
looks so far away.
"-teenage tastes preserved for
posterity-"
Unconsciousness, when it overtakes me, comes
so fast.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
It's the last day of our second week at
Quonochantuag. Bill and Charles play football on the beach as I
lie in the sun and wait, hand on stomach, for the baby to kick
again. A dog-eared copy of East of Eden rests face-down in the
sand next to the latest Life. The real-life Cain and Abel taunting
each other forty yards away from me are so much more interesting
than anything the Bible or Steinbeck has to offer.
As they face off, Bill stands tall and
sun-gilt. He's every inch the fortunate son. Charles, on the other
hand, has the dark, intense beauty of a seductive second son. A
Richard III minus the hunchback but possessed of the same
scorching ambition and silver tongue. My own private archetypes
taunt each other and pretend it's only a game.
Ever since Charles showed up at the summer
house last week, we've been entangled in this unconsummated
menage-a-trois. At dinner, Bill feeds me pieces of lobster from
his fork while, under the table, Charles drags his foot against my
bare shin. Bill buries his face in my hair as Charles smokes a
cigarette outside, silhouetted against the evening sky. Charles
helps me wash the dishes and steals a clandestine kiss. We can
hear the clink of glasses and bottles as Bill mixes nightcaps for
us all. If Professor Tati were here, he would smile knowingly at
me and say, "You see Teena? The French farces. Even today
they still have life."
Charles scores a touchdown and looks over in
my direction. "Some applause from the stands would be
appreciated, Teena," he tells me. I clap and avoid looking at
Bill as he frowns. Instead, I think about the taste of tobacco and
skin.
The waves suddenly crash against the shore,
loud and demanding. I see something huddled at the foot of the
beach where sand turns into water. Bill and Charles play on,
oblivious. I stand up and walk towards the sea. It's a little girl
curled up tight as a seashell. I brush her hair away from her face
and realize it's Samantha. Her eyes are closed. Her skin is a
sickly, pale gray. Snarls of seaweed cling to her like worms. I
don't think she's breathing. My little girl's returned to me and
she's not breathing.
I pull my little girl into my lap, open her
mouth, place my mouth over hers, and breathe. Inspire. From the
Latin. To give breath. To animate. She tastes of the sea and
death. I swallow against the bile that surges up in my throat.
Breathe, Samantha. Breathe. You can't come back to me to die.
Footsteps continue to pound against the
sand.
I look down and see myself lying in my own
lap. I'm a little girl. Eight years old. My eyes are shut, sealed
tight against the setting sun. Worms the color of pearls crawl out
of my mouth.
"Do you have a favorite child, Teena?"
a voice asks. I think it's Bill, but I can't be sure.
I'm lying in bed and I know I should get up,
but I can't. I'm so tired and I don't know what day it is. Time
passes the way it does in a badly filmed movie. I look out the
window one day and see that the season's changed from winter to
spring without any warning.
"Mom," I hear someone say. Fox,
maybe. I huddle deeper into the blankets. I should get up and make
dinner for my son. I should ask him how his day was and watch him
do his homework. "Mom. Are you okay?"
"Mom."
Since Fox is so insistent, I sit up. He's
standing by the foot of the bed, dressed the way he was his
freshman year of college. Artfully torn black jeans. A black
T-shirt with the words "The Clash" scrawled across the
front in white. Two silver studs in his right ear. Fox smiles and,
for a moment, I see Charles's slow, sinful smile spread across my
son's face.
"You should sit on a rock off Cornwall
and comb your hair," Fox says. Mascara-rimmed green eyes
glitter at me. "You should wear tiger pants. You should have
an affair. Don't you know, baby? Gee, you're rare."
He holds his hand out to me and I see a
wedding ring and a cake of soap. He closes his hand and opens it
again. Presto. Nothing in the palm of his hand.
"You are your opus, your valuable, your
pure gold baby," Fox bends down and kisses me on the forehead
in benediction and farewell.
There's a shriek and a burst of flame and
I'm rising and rising into the air.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
I open my eyes to find myself sitting arms
and legs akimbo on the floor of Fox's room. Fox crouches in front
of me, worried green eyes trained on my face. He gives my arm a
helpless pat. "Mom? What happened? Are you okay?"
I try to stand up, but Fox pushes me back
down onto the floor. In his anxiety, he's not as gentle as he
could be. "Don't try to get up yet, Mom. Just rest for a few
more minutes, okay?"
I close my eyes for another moment and then
open them again. "What happened?" I ask. My voice sounds
normal at least.
"I-I don't know," Fox tucks my
hair behind my ear for me, fingers fluttering against my cheek.
"I was saying something about how embarrassing it is to be
reminded that I used to be a Farrah Fawcett fan when you suddenly
sort of sat down like your legs just gave out. I think you lost
consciousness for a little bit. I kept asking you what was wrong
and you didn't answer."
I shush the perverse imp that sometimes
takes up residence in my head. He's suggesting I make a joke about
missing time.
"Could you get me a glass of water,
Fox?" I don't know if I can bear to look at my son's
frightened face any longer.
Fox nods and heads off to the bathroom after
he tells me again not to move or try to get up. I hear the tap
hiss and the medicine cabinet doors clink open and shut. I hope he
remembers I keep paper cups in the cabinet over the toilet. I'd
prefer not to drink out of my bathroom mug.
He comes back into his room carrying a Dixie
cup and wearing a studiously blank expression on his face. I take
the cup from him and sip at the tepid water. He sits down in front
of me Indian style and braces his arms against the floor behind
him. Long, slender fingers, his father's fingers, beat out an
agitated tattoo.
"So what do you think happened,
Mom?" Fox asks me. I can hear anger thrumming underneath the
surface of his casual question.
I steel myself to look into his eyes and
smile a silly, false smile that will fool no one. "It's
nothing, Fox. I didn't eat very much today and I had glass of wine
after you left. The wine probably went to my head. That's
all." Fox considers me with hard, knowing eyes. An
investigator's eyes. I want to laugh at my own absurdity. My son
has a degree in psychology from Oxford and plans to be an FBI
agent. He knows all about the evil and weaknesses that lurk in men
and women's hearts.
The silence stretches out thick and heavy. I
drink the last of my water guiltily, feeling as if our positions
have somehow been reversed and I'm the fifteen year-old caught
offering flimsy excuses to her stern, disapproving father after he
catches her kissing the neighborhood Lothario. I try again.
"And I haven't been sleeping all that well this week. The
heat. All those things combined made me dizzy for a moment."
Rage and fear flash over Fox's face, making
him look so much older than twenty-six. "Bullshit, Mom,"
he spits the words. "You could open a pharmacy with all of
the drugs you've got in your medicine cabinet. What did you take
after I left? How much?"
"Don't you dare speak to me that way,
Fox," I say, but my voice cracks mid-sentence.
"Was that what you were doing when I
called you? Were you just going to leave the door unlocked so I
could come home and find you?" He's leaning forward now,
hands gripping my arms hard. "How much did you take, Mom? How
much?" The words tumble out, but he doesn't raise his voice.
"I only took two," I tell him.
"Two Valium. That's all." I sound on the verge of
hysteria even to my own ears.
Fox takes a deep breath and lets go of my
arms. "Why did you do that?" he asks in a soothing
murmur. His eyes are soft. Green shot through with gold. His
father's eyes.
For a moment, I want to tell him the truth.
I want to tell him that there are days I'm so tired I can't get
out of bed. I simply lie in my room and watch the sun make its way
across the sky. When it's dark, I shut my eyes, but I don't go to
sleep. I needed two hours today to shower and put my clothes on.
My thoughts never leave me alone. As I look at my son, so young
and already so haunted, I know that telling him would be the most
selfish thing I could do. I've been a selfish mother. I've wronged
my son in so many ways. But this last, I cannot do.
I try to smile again and I must do something
right because Fox relaxes slightly. He's still young enough to
want to believe in his mother when she lies. "I just wasn't
sleeping very well, Fox, and I thought that maybe I would be able
to fall asleep faster if I took an extra dosage. It was a stupid
thing to do."
He pulls me into a fierce embrace. "I
was so scared, Mom," he says into my shoulder. "I was so
scared."
I stroke his hair and his back. "I
know, Fox. I know. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
I wake up in the morning and see Fox asleep
in the armchair by my bedroom window. He helped me up last night
and hovered over me as I walked to my room, knock-kneed and wobbly
as a newborn foal. He insisted on staying with me until I went to
sleep, but I was awake long enough to watch his head droop and his
eyes drift shut. Looking at him in the early morning-sun, I
realize anew that he really has grown into a startlingly beautiful
man. A boastful mother's pride surges through me and I laugh.
Fox opens his eyes and for a moment he looks
wild and confused. Then he sees me and smiles. "I haven't
fallen asleep sitting up since Medieval History with Professor
Leslie." He stretches luxuriously. "How are you feeling
this morning?" he asks.
"I'm fine, Fox," I tell him.
"Go get some real sleep in your bed. I'll have breakfast
ready when you wake up." He 's still groggy enough that he
shuffles off to his room obediently.
As I get ready to go downstairs, I almost
look directly at my own reflection in the mirror.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Fox stands on the porch holding a brown
paper bag full of French toast and sausages. "Here's lunch
and dinner for today," he teases and smiles when I look
vaguely scandalized.
"Let me drive you over to the Gruders',"
I say. "I'm perfectly fine."
"Mom," he says in a mock-haughty
voice. "I run farther than that everyday."
We both stand in front of the house trying
to think of something else to say. Fox shifts from one foot to the
other and then hugs me again. "I'll call you as soon as I get
back to Washington," he says against my ear.
"I'll be waiting," I tell him. I
take his face between my hands and kiss him on the forehead.
"Don't worry about me, Fox. Just come see me more
frequently."
He blinks back tears and gives me a quick,
abashed kiss on the cheek. "I will."
I watch my son until he becomes a tiny
figure in the distance.
I should sit on a rock in Cornwall and comb
my hair. I should wear tiger pants. I am rare.
Author's notes: Sylvia Plath
hovers over this story in ways both explicit and unobtrusive. I
basically stole wholesale from Plath's poem "Lady
Lazarus" in the Mrs. Mulder hallucination scenes. The lines
"I should sit on a rock in Cornwall and comb my hair/ I
should wear tiger pants/ I should have an affair" and
"Gee, baby you're rare" come from the poem "Lesbos."
I thought about working in a few references to The Bell Jar, but
that seemed like overkill.
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