"Small Things"
by Marie Endres
joemimi@prodigy.net
Classification: Scully Angst
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: "Requiem", "All Things"
Summary: A book title turns Scully's thoughts
toward small things.
Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully aren't mine. They
belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and
Fox Broadcasting.
Author's notes: While I have not yet read
Arundhati Roy's book, "The God of Small
Things," I was nonetheless greatly inspired by
its title. For that, I am immensely grateful.
"Small Things"
Bill, bill, credit card offer, sales
circular, small box. This summarizes the
content of my mail today. I turn over the
cardboard parcel to see what it could be. The
return address reads, "Book of the Month Club."
Why I have kept my membership current for so
long, I am not sure. Perhaps it represents a
part of my life that never was, a normal part.
This mundane subscription showed that I somehow
still maintained a tie to a world of reading
before bedtime and a life outside of a car—even
if I never read the books.
Like a child eagerly opening a package
from a far-away aunt, I pry apart the cardboard
that surrounds the book. The cover shows dark
brown and green lily pads surrounding a single,
small, pink, water flower. It looks like a
picture of my life right now—darkness all
around a perfect, tiny, budding life. The white
letters of the title read, "The God of Small
Things." Thinking of the million small things
to which I need to attend, I toss the book on
my kitchen table. I know it will probably
remain there until I relegate it to my bookcase
to join the other un-read selections.
The title stays with me as I walk to
my bedroom to change. It has been a long day
spent at my desk, checking and re-checking
every lead imaginable. I prayed often today to
the God of everything that one of these blind
alleys would lead me somewhere closer to
Mulder.
It has been weeks since I saw him,
held him last. I promised him that I would not
let him go alone. I reach instinctively to
touch the cross around my neck, trying to make
a connection with Something bigger than myself.
Before my fingers make contact with bare skin,
I remember. I gave him this small part of me to
go with him when I could not. As my hand skims
across my abdomen, I realize it is now I who
does not go on alone.
Longing for comfort, I pull open the
bottom drawer of my dresser, searching for my
most wellworn pair of jeans. Yes, jeans and a
familiar gray T-shirt left here not-so-long ago
will feel good, secure. I peel off my armor of
work clothes and try to mentally shed the
layers of stress as well. I live in a constant
state of vigilance now, always wondering if I
missed something, anything which could be the
clue, the lead to end this madness. As my
fingers hold the shirt, I know that I have
washed it. It no longer retains his scent, yet
I breathe deeply as I slip it over my head,
hoping for just a fleeting whisper of him to
remain with me.
I reach for my jeans and pull them up.
As I begin to ponder what I could eat tonight
that would not make me queasy, I realize
something. I cannot button them. It is as
though my waist has disappeared. There is no
more roundness to my belly than before. Yet,
the button will not find its familiar hole.
This is real, I think to myself. My body is
changing daily. This I cannot deny. I begin to
wonder if this God of small things is concerned
with how small my clothes seem, how ever-
expanding my body appears.
I look in the mirror and know that His
concern is real. I see a woman looking back at
me who was formed with this very purpose in
mind: to give and sustain life. How could I
have ever doubted?
++++
I am meeting Kimberly for lunch. I
think these weekly luncheons are Skinner's not-
so-covert attempts at surveillance of his only
pregnant agent.
She walks up to my table in the
commissary with a book tucked under her arm.
"Hi, Dana! How are you feeling?" she
asks with that concerned tone that everyone who
speaks to me lately seems to have.
"Fine," I quickly attempt to change
the subject. "What are you reading?" I gesture
toward her book.
"Oh, I haven't even started it
yet," she responds. She turns the book over as
if looking at it for the first time and says,
"The God of Small Things."
Like a blond with a pony tail,
this book title keeps popping up, trying to get
my attention. I am reminded again of small
things, like Mulder's soft sighs as we made
love, how he sounded, how he tasted. I recall
the softness of his earlobe as I would gently
take it between my teeth. His light touch
behind my knee, on my thighs would drive me to
distraction. The sound of our easy laughter
even while in bed is replayed for me. I
remember the vague scent of Ivory soap on his
skin as I would hold him afterward, how he
liked to settle his head on my breast just
before falling off to sleep.
I cannot clearly recall any big
moments, bold declarations of love and forever.
Yet the God of small things has reassured me
that I will never forget the minutiae of our
time together. My intimate memories fill me
with both longing and comfort.
"Dana? Dana? Are you sure you're OK?"
Kimberly asks.
Regaining my composure I answer,
"Yes, just a little distracted, I guess."
"I'm sure you are," she replies,
adding a comforting pat on my shoulder to her
words. "If you're up for something spicy, I
hear they have a nice taco salad today. C'mon."
Against my better judgement, I
follow her to the line.
+++++++
As I sit at my desk later in the
afternoon, I try to force myself to
concentrate. I've heard women say that
pregnancy plays upon your thought processes. I
never believed them until now.
And then I feel it. At first, I think
it is a moment of revenge for daring to eat
something less than bland at lunch. This
sensation is different than simple heartburn,
however. It is the smallest of things that
somehow means everything.
This tiny movement within me, feeling
like the small, bubble breath of fish, can be
only one thing. I have felt the first stirring
of the life of my child, our child. I reach for
the phone to call my mother to confirm my
experience, and then I stop. I decide to savor
this moment. Alone, yet not. I will spend it in
quietness before the God of small things, with
a prayer on my lips for one more miracle.
END
Feedback: Your kind words are not just small
things- joemimi@prodigy.net
Thanks you's as always to Georgia, your
friendship as well as your beta help are
special treasures. Also, much gratitude to the
XScenes group, you make me smile each day!
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