From: "pmc" Date: Mon, 8 Feb 1999 11:34:45 -0800 Subject: "Letting Go" for submission Title: Letting Go (1/1) Author: Alden Scott Crow (pmc@lodinet.com) Rating: G Category: Vignette Spoilers: Christmas Carol, Emily, All Souls, One Breath Keywords: Scully angst Summary: Scully meets Nurse Owens, Ahab, and Emily; Scully realizes her feelings toward her daughter aren't as resolved as she thought. Disclaimer: Characters from the X-Files are the property of Ten Thirteen Productions and the Fox Television Network. All other characters are the author's creations. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No copyright infringement is intended. Author's Notes: This may sound trite, but most of this vignette truly started as a dream. Profuse thank yous go to my wife (and Queen Editrix) Misti, as well as SetMedic and SherryDav, for their kind help in smoothing the rough edges and helping make the dream a little clearer. The following Scully speech from Christmas Carol is a useful intro; the quotes after the story seem appropriate for the situation. "I've started to question my priorities since I was first diagnosed with cancer. And I feel like I've been given a second chance. Ever since I was a child I've never allowed myself to get too close to people. I've avoided emotional attachments. Perhaps I've been so afraid of death and dying that any connection just seemed like a bad thing . . . something that wouldn't last. But I don't feel that any more." Dana Scully, "Christmas Carol." ------------------------------------------------------------ "An angel of the Lord appeared to [Joseph] in a dream . . ." (The Gospel according to Matthew, chapter 1, verse 20) That was one long, ugly day at work. I am weary from pointless, demeaning assignments a first-year agent would laugh at. But I cannot let them crush my spirit. I must persevere. For now, though, all I want is a good night's sleep. I ease into bed only a few minutes after getting home, wondering what dreams tonight will bring. I sleep . . . I know this place. I recognize the shoreline, the simple wooden pier, the boat in which I now sit, the rope connecting the craft to the pier. The rope snaps and the boat drifts away from shore. But I feel no fear. I know where I am heading. The scene changes. I am inside a large, dimly lit room. Distance and dimensions play tricks on my mind. I cannot tell how large the room is, or if there are walls, windows, or doors. But still I am not afraid. I was here, once before. I was in a coma, drifting in and out of consciousness then. I met my father, my Ahab, in this room. He convinced me to return to life. "We'll be together again, Starbuck. Not now. Soon," he promised me. Is that time now? Are we going to meet again, here in this place? I hear footsteps drawing nearer. It is not my Ahab, however. It is a woman in a white nurse's uniform. I instantly recognize her as Nurse Owens, the woman who comforted me during my hospital visit yet then mysteriously vanished. Years have passed, but I always wonder who she was and why she helped me. Perhaps my answer is now near. "Hello again, Dana," she says kindly. "Who are you? Where am I?" I ask. Before she can respond I hear another set of footsteps. It is my Ahab. I can tell by the telltale, click-click military precision of his stride. My heart quickens in anticipation. He comes into view, wearing his pristine Navy uniform. "Ahab." "Hello again, Starbuck." I hear him, but he seems to be only half there, as if he is but a shadow of himself. "Why are you here, Dad? Why am I here?" I turn back to Nurse Owens. "What is happening?" "Ask him," she says. "Ask him what?" "You know," she replies. Do I? I pause for a moment. Yes, I do know. "Are you proud of me, Ahab?" My heart slows. I need to know, even if part of me fears his response. "I could not be prouder of you, Starbuck," he says. His smile reflects that pride. My heart melts. I smile back. I want to hear more. But Nurse Owens speaks. "Do you know where you are, Dana?" "Is this Heaven?" "No." "Hell?" I cannot believe that place could be my Ahab's eternal destination. Nurse Owens shakes her head again. "Where else could this be?" My mind flows back to my catechism classes. "Purgatory?" Nurse Owens nods "yes." "Will my father eventually go to Heaven?" Nurse Owens nods again. This warms my heart, ends my anxiety. My thoughts then instinctively turn to another. "My daughter, Emily . . . is she here?" "She is in Heaven," Nurse Owens says. As she does, I remember the priest who told me, shortly after Emily died, that God took care of all little children. Those words were not much of a comfort at the time; it turns out the priest was right. "Can I see her, too?" Nurse Owens does not respond. Her expression tells me such a request is not usually allowed. "Please? It would mean so much to me." I am surprised at my own words. Emily asked me to let her go, when she appeared to me in a vision, after her death. I thought I HAD let her go. But why do I ask to see her now? I knew Emily for such a short time . . . why would I . . . I hear footsteps again. This time they are light. I look to my left and see a small figure heading toward me. My heart slows again. Coming into sight is Emily. The hand I put to my mouth is too slow to stifle the escaping gasp. I fight back tears, struggle to maintain control. I succeed and manage to keep my emotions in check. "Oh, Emily." I say this barely audibly as I walk toward her. She is wearing a simple blue dress, just over knee length, with lace on the collar and long sleeves. Her face is peaceful, contented, happy. I approach her and drop to one knee, only a few feet away. I am a scientist who uses words to define life around me. But I am speechless here, now. For what seems like an eternity, I simply stare at my daughter. Looking back at Nurse Owens, I ask, "Can I touch her?" Nurse Owens appears to shake her head, and my heart drops. But then she looks away. I take this as permission. I reach my hand toward Emily. She is solid, real. I touch her cheek, ever so gently, then her hair. Her eyes are warm, welcoming. She gives me a little smile. "Oh, Emily." Again I successfully fight back tears. I lean forward and gently drape my arms around Emily. It is a polite embrace, something reserved for an acquaintance or casual friend. Not a hug between mother and daughter. But I am afraid to be too close. I pull back and look at her again. Words come from within me, and I am helpless to stop them. "Sweetie, I never had a chance with you. I wanted to do so much, feel so much . . . but we never had any time . . . we never had a chance." These are words I have been afraid to say, words I have not allowed myself to say. But here, with her only inches away, my heart cannot stand to hold them in any longer. I stare at Emily lovingly, gazing upon the daughter I had too little time to know. "I have to go now," Emily says softly. "I'll see you soon, okay?" She kisses me on the lips and gives me another little smile. Then she vanishes before my eyes. I do not have time to prepare or respond. One moment she is there; the next she is gone. "NO!" I cry out. My guard comes crashing down. I don't care any more. "Emily? Emily!" But she is gone. I look around, but there is no sign of her. Only Nurse Owens and an empty space. I feel angry, raw, confused. I again struggle to contain my emotions. "Why did you do this to me?" I beg Nurse Owens. "How can you be so cruel?" "You wanted to see Emily, touch her." "I did . . . or I thought it did. I didn't think it would hurt so much. I didn't think . . ." "You were ready to change your life for her, give up your career, your work, to protect her. You were willing to set aside your fears and make a connection with her." "I was. I was ready. Then she was taken from me, before I had a chance to . . . to protect her. But I accepted her death. I let her go." "Letting someone go is not always the right thing to do, Dana. Maybe it's not time for you to let Emily go." "But that's crazy. She's gone. I can't . . . I have to move on, get on with my life." "Sometimes you need to cling to the ones you love, Dana." "I can't . . ." My words trail off, as I cannot shake the image of my daughter, standing before me, my heart aching to hold her. "Dana, you are a strong person. You have suffered many losses, losses others would not be able to bear. But you must not be afraid to be weak. We are strongest when we allow ourselves to be weak." "Why was Emily brought into my life? I need to know." "I don't know. I'm sorry, Dana. You will have to find the answers for yourself." I feel drained. This is too much for me. But I realize I am not done here. There is one other I must know about. "Is my sister Melissa here? "No." "Is she in Heaven?" "No." Oh God, no. "Is she . . . in Hell?" Nurse Owens does not respond. She starts to fade from my view. Before I can ask another question, I am back in the boat, drifting toward the pier. Just as I reach the shore, I awake . . . to more questions without answers. END OF STORY "How fading are the joys we dote upon! Like apparitions seen and gone. But those which soonest take their flight Are the most exquisite and strong, Like angels' visits, short and bright; Mortality's too weak to bear them long." The Parting, John Norris (1657-1711) "They sin who tell us love can die; With life all other passions fly, All others are but vanity. . . . Love is indestructible, Its holy flame forever burneth; From heaven it came, to heaven returneth. . . . It soweth here with toil and care, But the harvest-time of love is there. "Oh, when a mother meets on high The babe she lost in infancy, Hath she not then for pains and fears, The day of woe, the watchful night, For all her sorrow, all her tears, An over-payment of delight?" The Curse of Kehama, Robert Southey (1774-1843) Thank you for reading. Feedback and discussion are welcome and appreciated.