TITLE: Yellow Dress   
AUTHOR: Em Hashimoto 
RATING: PG-13, for some naughty words 
CATEGORY: SRA 
SPOILERS: Emily 
KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully married. 
DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer, yes. Everybody else, yes, but tell me where! 
FEEDBACK: FEED ME!!!!!!!!!!!! Feedback, flames, flond......I will take anything 
you have to offer. 
DISCLAIMER: Hi my name is Bob and I'm an alcoholic....anyway, they don't belong 
to me, I'm aware! 
The basic storyline for "The Habitual Aborter" by Helen Schulman was used 
without permission. 
AUTHORS NOTE: I am NOT ignorant. No matter what anyone tells you <g>. I AM 
aware that Scully cannot have children. I am also aware that Mulder and Scully 
do not try to have children together. But humor me, okay? I got this idea while 
reading a book called _Wanting a Child: 22 Writers on Their Difficult but 
Mostly Successful Quests for Parenthood in a High-Tech Age_. It is brilliant! 
And one story I read, "The Habitual Aborter," moved me to tears. It made me 
think of Scully, and all that she would go through to have a baby. Maybe. So, 
without further ado........   
DATE: 6-10-98 
P.S. Thanx to Dasha for her considerable amount of e-mails goading me into 
writing something new. 

Summary: Maybe this time, I'll get what I need.

~*~*~*~


At night, as I sit in my Paris hotel room, I sew a yellow dress. 


Not literally, of course; I can't sew to save my life. But it keeps me 
occupied, as I have acquired my husband's insomnia. He lies sleeping, his chest 
rising and falling, dreaming of our child. I watch him. It sounds obsessive to 
listen and watch someone breathe, doesn't it. I suppose I am obsessed with 
Mulder, but I am content, for the obsession is mutual. And we both are obsessed 
with our child. 


Unborn child. This makes baby number three. 


The dress is chiffon. Or cotton. Sometimes, the dress is silk. The color is a 
bright yellow, looking like the sun. The style is empire waist and strapless. 
Sometimes it has a drop waist and it has cap sleeves. Other times, the dress 
has thin straps and a short skirt. 


I stare at my husband. My baby. I take care of him; I have to. I like to take 
care of him. 


After all, he needs me; to comfort him after he has lost his way again, 
searching for unreachable goals. To love him when he's depressed. To reassure 
that he is a valuable asset in my life when he doubts our future. 


He needs. 


My other baby kicks me. Hard. My little football player. I'm terribly glad that 
she kicks me. Sometimes, when I doubt myself, and she has not kicked for a few 
hours, I think she is gone. And that this whole process has to begin again, of 
becoming pregnant. 


I remember the sudden flow of blood that would come, and my lifeless baby would 
be no longer. I dread the thought of another doctor saying again to me, "Ms. 
Scully, I'm sorry. Your baby is gone...." 


Coming home from work, about four months ago, I started to bleed heavily. I 
called Mulder and he met me at the hospital. He sat with me for hours, waiting 
for test results. We did not move, or speak, in fear that the pregnancy would 
be over. He simply held my hand, and that was enough. 


The doctor strode in and gave us the results: Our baby was fine. The pregnancy 
was "fragile, but viable," according to the doctor. We breathed identical sighs 
of relief, but I was still troubled. 


I was in bed for four months. For that stretch of time, I watched soap operas 
and repeats of Gilligan's Island. I read Breakfast at Tiffany's five times, and 
read Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus, shooting dirty and loving looks 
at my husband every so often. I also cried and sobbed and called my mother 
every time I thought the baby was gone. 


We went to the doctor at the end of the four months. He told us it was time for 
me to be up and moving again. I argued for about a day with the doctor and my 
husband. But my husband said, "We'll go to Paris. You've always wanted to go 
there." 


I realized this was his idea of forgetting our child briefly so we could become 
close again, because this baby was making a rift between us. I agreed, and off 
we were. To go to museums and shop and eat in restaurants overlooking the 
Sienne River. 


Every night, Mulder dreamed about our baby, something new every night. Once, he 
dreamed she was dancing, like in a recital. But other nights, he dreamed she 
was dying. I did not dream, since I did not sleep. I was awake, designing that 
yellow dress. 


******* 


I smile, thinking of when we found out I could have children. That's one event 
that is clear in my mind. Instead of becoming hysterical, a smile pushed its 
way onto my face. I thanked my doctor, and called Mulder. He was elated, to say 
the least. Then I called Mom. She came right over and pounced on me. Then she 
called all of our family. I called Teena, who giggled. I can't believe I heard 
her *giggle*. 


I went out and bought nursery furniture. Crib, rocking chair, changing table, 
dresser, the works. I bought all little stretchy-things in white and yellow, 
because I had no idea who my baby was. The only knowledge I had of my baby was 
that she was healthy. 


I miscarried about three weeks later. 


Thoughts of inadequacy floated through my brain. I wanted to cry out in pain. 
My body was rebelling against me, and I couldn't do anything. 


So I sat and watched people. My doctor, who persuaded us to keep trying if I 
wanted. My husband, a reluctant father, but persistent in making me happy. My 
mother, delighted at the idea of another grandchild, but concerned nonetheless. 
My brother's, who were divided; Charlie was happy and Bill hoped the baby 
wasn't Mulder's. 


After I miscarried the second time, I stopped watching people and began looking 
inside of me, thinking about who I really was. Was I cut out to be a mother? I 
remember when I talked with my friend Ellen. I told her I didn't think I was. I 
don't know, maybe it's Emily who convinced me to be a mother. 


But all I know is that the minuted I stared at the sonogram of my tiny child, I 
fell in love. So sweet and innocent, she rested inside me. A raw, primal 
emotion that spilled through me was frightening. I found pleasure in just 
staring at a picture of a person I never met. 


Mulder was cynical. He looked at her, and he smiled. But he was not as 
transfixed as I was. However, when he felt her kick, his brown eyes opened wide 
and he slipped in love with his baby. 


I stare at her now, just a visitor in my body. She'll be out soon, and I will 
take care of her. Anxiety courses through my veins. How am I supposed to care 
for a child? What the hell do I know about babies? I calm down and smile at the 
lump on my stomach. She's kicking up a storm, my little soccer player. She and 
I will both learn. 


******* 


My first miscarriage was hell; I thought I was dying at first. In fact, I 
wished I were. When my doctor slipped into the hospital room and explained what 
had happened, I turned off my brain and stared at the wall. 


I wondered why God had given me this child, only to take it away. 


It. 


I didn't even know my child's sex. 


Of course, the scientist in me said this was not God's fault; this was the 
result of something being wrong with my child. 


I thought maybe God was punishing me for marrying an atheist. I don't know. I 
was having trouble forming intelligent thoughts while staring at that wall. 


I didn't tell anyone about the loss. My husband, the doctor, Mom and Teena were 
the only people who knew. I didn't tell anyone else for a long time. I thought 
it showed weakness if I lost my baby. I don't like showing weakness. 


Mulder just took me home and I took a sabbatical from work. I slept and stared 
at the walls in our house. It's amazing what I saw in the wall. I saw my baby, 
or what she might look like. 


Eight months later I looked into what was supposed to be the baby's room. The 
door was usually sealed. I realized inside the crib was supposed to be my baby, 
crying to be taken care of by Mommy. 


So I sat down in the rocking chair and held a big white bunny. 


And I cried. 


I sobbed for hours, until moonlight washed over my absent baby's room. 


Mulder....he was reluctant to try in vitro again, fearing I'd miscarry. He was 
so worried about my health, he wouldn't let me move. 


It was a fluke, I preached. Never will happen again. Let's try it again! 


So we went to the doctor. He told us that Metrodin shots in my ass would help 
in vitro to be successful once the egg was implanted. 


Right. 


So every morning before we went to work, Mulder gave me the shot. 


But I still miscarried. And I still felt empty. 


About a month after my second miscarriage, I became ill. Mulder sprints me to a 
doctor if I sneeze, so when I came down with a fever of 104, I was rushed to 
Georgetown. But I still had him give me the shots. 


There I was: delirious, hot as hell, dehydrated, and I begged for my shots. 
What a classic picture. But he refused, and it took four doctors to convince me 
that shots were not what I needed at all. Hell, I wasn't really convinced then 
anyway, I just wanted them to go away. 


I was put into the maternity ward. I watched all the pretty young mothers greet 
their tiny new baby and tall handsome husband, Mommy and Daddy and baby. I 
couldn't stand it, and I tried sweet-talking my husband into giving me the 
fertility drugs. 


Everyone in my family told me no, but Mulder was the loudest. He refused to 
give me anymore, even if we didn't have any children. He saw how it was hurting 
me. 


So he kissed me good-bye for the night and left me to think about it. 


So I thought. 


****** 


When Mulder came back the next morning, I told him I wanted the shot. He looked 
at me like I was crazy. 


I was. 


All he said was, no. He sat down and watched for an hour. We stared at each 
other for an hour. 


Finally, he spoke, "I want his baby, too. But if you die because of trying all 
this crazy shit, and I have no wife and no baby....I don't want to think about 
that. Just accept maybe we aren't made to be parents." 


He was right, but I chose to ignore him. No one else would understand me except 
my husband, and he was being an ass. I turned away from him in my bed. A few 
minutes later, he stood up and kissed my neck. He left, and I thought. 


I didn't want to die for my child. 


I didn't. 


So we stopped the shots and waited a little while, and tried in vitro again. 


Again, we were successful. 


Again, I bled. But my darling little baby stayed alive. Is alive. 


******** 


It never occurred to me how much distance was between me and Mulder. It was as 
if we had this mile wide gap between us, urging to be bridged, but no one would 
move. 


I was a desperate woman, that must be understood. I didn't care who was hurt, 
or who cared, just as long as I got a baby. My husband sort of became lost in 
that equation. 


I didn't know, in my haze, that he was thinking about divorce. If I had known, 
we would've discussed it. But nothing mattered to me except shots of Metrodin, 
visits to the doctor, and baby names. 


About three months after we came home from Paris, Mulder told me about the 
lawyer.  I sat there, agape. I knew we had problems, but I assumed they were 
typical. He assured me that he had stopped thinking about it, though. 


I went into labor, right there on the couch. That exact moment. I guess she 
wanted to join the excitement.   


I laid in pain for thirty-seven hours. THIRTY-SEVEN HOURS. That is more than a 
day, almost two days. But it seems much longer when there is a person coming 
out of you. 


So I yelled and hollered and screamed at Mulder. And at doctors. And at 
everyone. 


I'm glad my daughter's birth was normal. 


My daughter. Rose Margaret Scully-Mulder. 


Rose, because of the many times I'd seen Titanic, hoping she'd have Kate 
Winslet's red curls. Margaret, my mother's name, when Mulder insisted. And the 
Scully-Mulder part isn't too hard to decode. 


She rests in my arms now, her dark eyes staring at me intently. She wears a 
yellow dress. 


I am happy. I am very, very happy. But something is missing. Something that is 
very important. 


My first two babies. 


I realize that if I hadn't miscarried, then Rose wouldn't be here. I'd have 
another child. But I still wish that I didn't go through all that pain. 


I grieve for my babies who are gone. I grieve for their innocent lives, taken 
before they saw life. And before they saw two people who were prepared to love 
them more than life itself. 


I grieve for Emily, my baby who I did not know, as I did not know my others. 
That small child who knew not of what she was, but only that she was a little 
girl who had a mommy somewhere who loved her. 


I grieve for my husband, who sat back passively, watching his crazy wife flip 
out once more, because she cannot have what she desires most. 


I grieve for my mother, who sat back and watched her daughter yearn for 
something that is killing her slowly and she didn't care what is happening; all 
she wants is a baby. 


And mostly, I grieve for me. All the pain I've lived through, and I still feel 
terrible. Because I'm a bad mother to let two babies die, even though it wasn't 
my fault. 


I grieve through happiness. 


Hell, it's my specialty. 


And it makes me stronger. 


End