TITLE: Wait Until Your Father Gets Home
AUTHOR EMAIL: firstname.lastname@example.org
ARCHIVE: Sure. Just keep my name with it and let me know where so I can visit it.
FEEDBACK: If you don't, I know where you live. If you do, I have no idea where you live and that toilet paper in your tree isn't my fault.
DISCLAIMER: Of Course I don't own them. Do I look like I could even balance on a surfboard?
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is my first story. Am I hopeless?
DEDICATION: For Robby. Does this make you my Regis?
SUMMARY: A father is missed.
Wait until your father gets home.
When I was a child that simple sentence was used sparingly and was enough to immediately stop any and all improper behavior. Naturally, when Mom turned away or left the room I would again stick my tongue out at Bill and he would pull my pigtail and the fight would begin anew.
Now I find myself as the impending mother and that line has become my mantra. Wait until your father gets home. It is said in a soft, loving tone and is usually accompanied by a gentle rub of my belly.
Mulder has been gone for three months, taken away from me without any warning.
The irony of the amount of time he has been gone is not lost on me. I too once disappeared for three months. I pray that he will be returned to me, to us, as I was to him. Every day is marked off on my calendar with a large red X, not that I need the reminder of how long he has been away. At any given time I can calculate down to the minute how long it has been since I placed my cross around his neck and sent him off with Skinner, supposedly to protect me. All the while he was the one at risk.
My doctor says my pregnancy is progressing normally. My iron level is low, but he assures me that plenty of rest and prenatal vitamins will resolve that. I've poured over my own medical records until I have each word memorized. There are no apparent abnormalities. You seem perfectly healthy. The doctor wonders about my obsessive need for reassurance on this matter, but I believe he chalks it up to the rantings of a hormonally driven woman, one to whom pregnancy was not supposed to be an option. He pats my hand and tells me not to worry.
Very few people know of you. Skinner, the Lone Gunmen and your grandmother, of course. Soon I'll no longer be able to hide behind untucked shirts and jackets. My belly is beginning to have a definite bulge. Mom says that with my height the pregnancy will show more quickly than usual since you will have no where to grow but outwards. Thankfully, the dizzy spells and nausea that accompanied me in my first trimester have eased. Last night during one of my increasingly frequent trips to the bathroom you issued your latest craving. I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and drove to the nearest convenience store for a large box of Lucky Charms and some strawberry ice cream. The cereal was a 2 a.m. snack. The ice cream was our breakfast. I swore to myself that I would have a salad for lunch. I could almost hear you whisper, "That's what you think Momma. Prepare yourself for a Big Mac attack."
For a doctor I know very little about pregnancy. I'm voraciously reading every book I can get my hand on but I still had to call Mom tonight to ask her if it was ok to take a bath or if the hot water would harm you. She laughed and told me I wouldn't boil you but to not stay in too long.
Just to be safe I showered instead. When your father gets home he can play with you while I take a long bubble bath. Just wait until your father gets home.
We are well taken care of, you and I. The Gunmen are like mother hens, almost to the point of annoyance. They make sure that our cupboards are well stocked and that the refrigerator is full of fruits and vegetables. I can do all of this, of course, but they feel helpless and taking care of us eases their frustration. I know they are working non-stop to find Mulder. Skinner is doing his share as well. He has been back to Oregon four times in the last three months, looking for anything he could have missed. I know he feels guilty for "losing" Mulder. He told me he saw things there that he can't explain. He wants to believe. I only want to believe that your daddy will come home soon. I have to believe that.
As for me, every morning the mailman delivers me a copy of "The Oregonian" alongside my bills and the occasional magazine. I study the newspaper in search of any reference to odd lights in the sky. So far nothing has been reported. Sometimes it makes me laugh, thinking what Mulder would say to all this. Sometimes it makes me cry.
My days are spent down in the basement of the Hoover building. I haven't performed an autopsy since Mulder was taken and I found out about you. For the first time in my life the sight of a corpse disturbed me. I ran to the bathroom and threw up the few saltines that I had been able to keep down. For the next 5 months of my pregnancy I am working on a consultation basis only. I don't know how Skinner explained that to the Director without disclosing my "delicate" condition, but I am grateful. I spend most of my time on the telephone or internet, searching for
anything that might help me find Mulder. I have to find him. For both of us.
I know the Gunmen worry that you are the result of alien experimentation or some kind of genetic testing, perhaps something that took place that weekend I spent on the road trip from hell with CGB Spender. I know the truth and so will your father. We weren't together in that way for very long, but I know you are the result of our joining. I wonder what Mulder will think when he gets home. He'll be happy, I know. He will love you with all his heart and protect you with all his soul. After he gets over the shock of course. I can almost see him now, amazed at my distended stomach. He'll ask me how it happened and I will raise my eyebrow at him. I shudder to think what Frohike will give him as a welcome home gift. A bright red t-shirt with the words "Super Sperm" emblazoned on it in yellow keeps popping into my head. I wonder if you will inherit your father's color blindness. I hope you don't inherit his big head. I don't want to have a cesarean section.
After you are born and all your fingers and toes are counted and re-counted, we'll tell you all about how we met. Gory details aside, of course. Your father will no doubt make it into some kind of fairy tale if you are a girl or cowboy story if you are a boy. I imagine that soon I will know your sex. It will be in my records and I will read it all, not missing a thing.
It's getting late, little one. I've changed into your dad's Knicks t-shirt and climbed into bed. The shirt is soft against my skin and even though it's been washed since he last wore it, I still smell his scent on the material. I close my eyes and stroke my belly and tell you all about sunflower seeds and iced tea. A tear leaks from my eye and I wipe it away. I can't wait until your father gets home.