From: "Jim & Carol Gritton" Date: Wed, 16 Sep 1998 15:44:29 +0100 Subject: NEW: Paris 1/1 by Carol Gritton TITLE: Paris 1/1 AUTHOR: Carol Gritton EMAIL ADDRESS: jimcaz@dircon.co.uk DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Fox TV. They are used without permission and no infringement of copyright is intended. ARCHIVING: Please archive at Gossamer; anywhere else please ask first. Thank you! RATING: G CLASSIFICATION: V SUMMARY: Sometimes sacrifices have to be made to help the ones we love. Comments gratefully received at the above address. Paris 1/1 by Carol Gritton (jimcaz@dircon.co.uk) I'm vaguely aware of someone reading me my rights, but I'm too busy watching as the body is carefully placed in a bag, zipped up and loaded onto a gurney. I asked that he be treated with respect, I couldn't do any more than that. It's what he deserves. The young police officer has his cuffs in his hand and is just about to snap them onto my wrists, when another voice says, "There's no need for that." Someone takes me gently by the arm and leads me out of the house to a patrol car. They seat me in the back and I stare out at the inquisitive crowd that has gathered. This is a small town and news travels fast; soon it will be abuzz with what I've done. The good citizens will be shocked when they find out, for I am well respected here. But all that is of no consequence right now; all I can think of is the person in that body bag and the circumstances that brought us to this point. *********** He sits in his usual spot – the high backed chair by the window – and stares out at the bay beyond. He likes to watch the sail boats as they bob about on the ocean, their colourful sails like vibrant splashes of paint against the pure azure background. He sits there for hours, lost in his own private world. I watch my father from the doorway, and fight back the tears. It breaks my heart to see him like this. Mustering a smile, I enter the room carrying the tray of tea and biscuits, and place it on the low table beside him. "Dad? I've brought you a cup of tea." Fox Mulder turns and gives me a dazzling smile. I feel the tears well up again, for I'm a stranger to him – he can't remember my name. His mind is gone – that once brilliant mind, the best in the Bureau, has been taken from him by a cruel twist of fate. The smile turns to a frown, and I can see him struggling to place me. "Who are you?" he asks eventually, giving up the fight. "I'm your daughter, Paris," I reply patiently, as I hand him his tea. Paris Mulder McKenzie, divorcee of this parish, to be precise. The frown comes back again as he tries to remember some vital piece of the past, and then he smiles, his eyes lighting up. "I went to Paris once." "I know you did. It's where you took Mom on your honeymoon." And where I was conceived, hence my name. The Mulders have always been ones for giving their children odd names. I take a sip of my tea and watch him. "Where's Scully?" he asks brightly. I've lost count of the number of times that he's asked me that question over the years, and the number of times I've had to remind him gently that she is dead. She died seven years ago, and I thank God that she never had to see her husband like this. The man who had captured her heart all those years ago, with his irreverent, quirky humour and his dry wit no longer exists. Only the shell of that once gifted, intelligent and loving man remains, cut down by the cruellest of diseases. It has robbed him of everything, including his dignity. I think her death hastened his decline. Mom had remarked on his forgetfulness a few times before she died, but put it down to a consequence of getting old. I knew it was serious when I received a call from the local police to say that they had found Dad wandering along the highway at four o'clock in the morning. Although I had my suspicions about his condition, it was still devastating to be told that he had Alzheimer's. Eventually, his condition deteriorated so much that it wasn't safe for him to live on his own any more. Dad came to live with me and my husband and our two daughters. It was hard for all of us, especially for my daughters. They couldn't bear to see their darling Gramps suffering so much. The strain of caring for Dad created tension in my marriage and eventually my husband and I parted. The girls went to live with their father, and they visit regularly. I take his hands in mine and gently remind him yet again of my mother's whereabouts. "Dad, Scully's dead." His brows knit together and I see him struggling desperately to remember this vital fact, then the anguish in his eyes when he can't. "What's wrong with me?" he asks in a rare moment of lucidity, his voice small and frightened. "Why can't I remember anything?" His lucid moments are becoming fewer and far between. I can recall the last one as if it were yesterday. He pinned me with that penetrating gaze of old and said, "I'm going to die, aren't I?" I didn't know what to say, and he took my hands in his, and smiled that smile. "You don't have to say anything – I can see it in your eyes," he said softly. "You never could lie to me, could you? Even when you were a little girl." I shook my head, dislodging the tears that were brimming in my eyes. "Paris?" Oh, it was so good to hear him say my name once more! "? I might not get the chance again, so I want to tell you that I love you – I always have and I always will." Then he drew me to him and kissed me so gently in the middle of my forehead. When I looked up into his eyes, he was gone again. I look out of the window. It's a beautiful day; one of those late Indian summer days that precede the chill mists of Autumn. "We'll go for a walk later, Dad. Would you like that?" His eyes come alive at the prospect of this outing. It's one of the few pleasures left to him. This house has become his prison - I keep the doors and windows locked for fear that he might wander off. Our walks usually consist of a stroll along the beach, or sometimes we go into town for a spot of window shopping and a coffee. I often think that we must make a comical sight, wandering along, Dad holding onto my hand like a child. We never stay out too long; Dad gets agitated and confused if he's away from the house for any length of time. It's almost as if he's become institutionalised and can't function outside of familiar surroundings and routines. He's tired when we come back from our little outing. He sits in the recliner and I crouch down by his knees, reaching up and pushing his thick white hair back off his brow. He smiles at me, his hazel eyes so trusting. "I love you, Dad," I tell him softly. "Who are you?" he asks, his expression puzzled. "Are you Scully?" I close my eyes briefly. "No, Dad, I'm?" What is the point in telling him? In five minutes he will have forgotten. I squeeze his hand. "Try to rest now." "It's time for your medication, Dad." Like my mother before me, I'm a doctor. She, unlike me, would never have contemplated doing what I'm about to do. My father takes his medication like a good little boy and I sit down beside him and hold his hand. I know he likes that – it reassures him. Silent tears course down my cheeks and drip to the floor, splashing onto the oriental rug beneath his feet. Like my father, I have never been one to pray, but I am praying now. I'm praying for forgiveness; from God, from my mother and my family. I don't ask for my father's forgiveness – I already have it. After a while, I look up. His expression is serene, at last he is at peace. I lean over and kiss him. "I love you, Dad," I whisper softly for the last time. We sit together for a little longer, and I feel an odd calm wash over me, despite the magnitude of what I've done. Just one last kiss, then I reach for the phone and dial the local police. "This is Dr McKenzie. I want to confess to killing my father?" The End