Bonsai
By: Lydia
Rating: PG (a bad word or two, but otherwise
completely harmless)
Summary: Mulder, Scully, and a bonsai tree. If you
want to know more just read the story.
Classification: Scully P.O.V., and (attempted) humor
Feedback: This is so different from anything else I've
written that feedback would be more than appreciated.
It goes here: xpositions@yahoo.com
[Insert witty disclaimer here]
Author's note: First of all, 'hello' to my lovely
friend, Tara. Honey, I hope this makes you smile. I
just want to say that this was pretty experimental for
me. Not my usual style, as many of you will see.
Please forgive any egregious errors I've made, and
don't give up on me as an author. It took guts to
write this.
__________
"It's a bonsai tree."
That's what I said when my mom handed me my birthday
present. Now normally Dana Scully is very good in
these awkward situations. Dana Scully is tactful. Dana
Scully is smart and sensitive. Dana Scully can think
of something better to say than what flies out of my
mouth.
"It's a bonsai tree."
The twig of a trunk juts up from hideously smooth
rocks, and my mom adds with a gentle smile and
soothing voice how remarkable such plants are. She
tells me that such plants are not to be taken lightly.
Extra care, a calm spirit, and an east window are
required. The words "speak tree" actually surface in
our conversation, and I wonder if it isn't too late to
save for that retirement home is Greenwich. That's
fabulous. Talking to a tree is just two steps away
from having eighty cats, crocheted vests, and no life.
Which ironically isn't far from where I'm at now.
Jesus, another birthday here and gone.
No one to celebrate with but my mother. Bill left a
message on my machine this morning, accompanied by
last nights arrival of a small package. Cubic Zirconia
earrings, and freakishly unrealistic ones at that. I
can tell Tara didn't help in the selection process;
too busy mommy-ing it up probably. Bill was always a
terrible gift-giver.
"It's a bonsai tree".
This morning, on February twenty-third, at
approximately seven forty-five, Dana Katherine Scully
came into the world, kicking and screaming and as red
as the hair on her now thirty-something hair. How
she'll leave is anybody's guess, but I'm here now, and
what a strange life it's turned out to be. Few family,
no friends, no husband, no children, and one hell of a
good attitude for all the xxxx I've been through.
Happy freakin-birthday.
Here's a bonsai tree.
One twisted, garish, innocently small shrub. One shrub
my mother probably spent fifty bucks on, including the
small shears, spray bottle, and 'Loving Your Bonsai'.
Thank you mom.
The part of me that enjoys Mozart's Concerto for the
Flute and Harp along with a bottle of Merlot and a
lavender-scented bathtub is intrigued. Somewhat
flattered that such a cultured past-time would be
thought of interest to me. A great way to relieve
stress. A way to connect with nature in the midst of
the concrete and steel prison known as D.C. A way to
find inner peace and relaxation. All lovely thoughts,
but the part of me that can take down perps twice my
size is a bit embarrassed. And baffled.
Pencil thin, and strangely forlorn in it's cramped
little box. Gravel polished to an unearthly sheen
glistens around its base. The slight peach fuzz of
green just begins to bloom on the tips. I think of
Missy when I see my bonsai tree, and I wonder if
subconsciously, mom didn't buy it for her. Where such
an idea originated confounds me.
The fact is, I know precisely why a bonsai tree was
this year's gift. For a while we skirted around the
issue. Mom would subtly bring up the fact that
so-and-so whose parents live down the street was still
single. And a lawyer too. Or so-and-so.remember him?
From High School? Yes, single too. Isn't it a wonder.
Mom believed I didn't have a life. In a twisted,
unhealthy, career-centric way, I have too much of a
life. Mom knows that, and I know that. And still we
dance around the idea, in a way that would make the
waltz of a rut Mulder and I engage in look simplistic.
'How are you Dana?'
'I'm fine, Mom.' Liar. 'And how are you, Mom?'
'I'm fine, Dana.' Liar.
It's a pretty little dance. It's a comfortable,
dependable, soft-spoken ballet. But this year she gave
me a tree.
And this morning wouldn't be so bad if it was a
Saturday. Or a Sunday. Or really any other day where I
could avoid the downstairs basement of headquarters
and pretend I have something to do.someone waiting for
me.somewhere. But the lovely fact remains that
February twenty-third falls on a Wednesday, and Agent
Scully never takes a sick day. She never asks for
birthdays off. Ever.
And so I face my day. Head on, armed with more than
the Sig Sauer at my hip.
I suppose today wouldn't seem so bleak if not for two
other impending factors that have severely limited my
outlook on life. I gave up coffee last week and have
done my best to find contentment in a cup of green
tea. Pale and uninviting, it assaults my tongue each
morning in a way the curious drug of caffeine never
did. Doctor Scully knows better than that though;
dependency on a stimulant was never my intention.
Second would be my suburban envy, which arrives as a
monthly reminder of all the things I cannot have. A
deep and conceited color that seems to mock me with
any number of implications. It's like an emotional
ketchup burst, splaying the red about with a haughty
vengeance. Yes, it still hurts.
It's more than that also. I hate to face it, but the
mathematics just don't allow for denial. It's a
scientific, cold, hard fact that I'm getting older.
Dorian Graying is not my way of dealing with another
year, but this time I feel a fear creeping up. About a
year ago I joined the Cult of Aloneness. I am the sole
member of this chapter, and though I suspect my
partner ought to join me for one of our services, I
have yet to offer him the chance. Loneliness is a
choice after all. My membership card was signed the
moment I stopped trying to find normalcy. It simply
doesn't exist below the surface of Washington D.C.
This morning has left me with an acidic
xxxxed-offedness. As always I am on time, dressed and
pressed and perfect on the outside. Inside it takes me
a while to collect myself.that and a cup of coffee. I
suppose this is what they call xxxx-out-of-luck.
With a quick glance around my apartment, always left
spotless in the mornings, I notice the gift on my
dining room table. As an afterthought I return to it,
remembering mom's advice that the first days of
ownership are a time of bonding. Learn to communicate
with your plant. I blush at the thought, but on
impulse I pick it up. If anything, it may grab
Mulder's attention, high-lighting the fact that once
again the twenty-third has passed by unremarked upon.
___________
Five steps from the door that reads 'Fox
Mulder-Special Agent' and already I can hear him. A
desk drawer or shoes shuffling. In my mind I see the
lanky figure bent over, studying slides or
photographs. Folders or files. Screwing with the slide
projector or fumbling with the file cabinet? (The
middle drawer of the new one always sticks).
Individuality or insanity? Well, that's anyone's
guess.
As I arrive, the scene is mundane. The sound of a
glossy magazine stuffed away at a moment's notice is
ignored by both of us, but sends a shiver down my
spine anyways. It's tact, that's what it is. Respect
I'm not so sure about, but saving face is a top
priority under ground. Still, it bothers me.for his
sake. Porn at 8:00 a.m.? Mulder must be doing as bad
as I am.
I can still smell his stale coffee from last night,
like a sixth sense. In determined cheeriness I set my
bag and various items down on my "desk", and smile a
good morning hello at Mulder. I say "desk" because
technically it's one of those fold out tables you see
at school bake sales and office seminars, stacked with
baked goods and..coffee. Mulder's desk is simply more
permanent. It has drawers. A nameplate. It has a
computer. And Mulder sits behind it, willfully
ignorant of the temporary status I've lingered in for
the past seven years. It's like at any time I might
disappear. Like I've threatened to do so many times
before.
Mulder was never one for formalities, and he leans
forward with a file outstretched towards me. If he
gets any closer I'll be able to taste the coffee.
"Reports last night of strange lights hovering over
Point Place, Wisconsin."
That's it. No 'hello' or 'happy birthday'. Strange
lights that could have been anything from an
electrical storm to a light show announcing a blow out
sale at the Dodge dealer. Urgent. Top priority. And a
good morning to you too, Fox Mulder. He's still
holding out the file with eyebrows raised, and I
wonder how long he can hold that position. Instead I
snatch the file away, my cheeriness obviously just a
show. "Good morning."
Mulder looks at me quizzically as I begin to rummage
through our most recent x-file. I know he's watching,
and I think he knows I know, so slowly he draws out a
careful response.
"Good morning." Leaning back in his chair, he waits
while I read, but before long his excitement is too
much for this silence. "These strange lights have been
sighted for the past..."
He's rambling off like so many times before, and as I
read the various reports, I come to a slow
realization. Mulder is 'Rhapsody in Blue.'
I pause for a moment to look up. He's still talking.
Something about a farmer and his two sons.a dairy farm
roof burnt horribly.maybe a dead cow is even uttered.
But I don't hear a word. Instead, I hear Gershwin.
It's insane, I know. But the way Mulder rambles on
like this with muffled enthusiasm evokes something
else in my brain. Gershwin's 'Rhapsody in Blue'. It's
pompous. It's anti-climactic. It's over-dramatic for
the piece of music that it is. The cymbals crash.
"..also spotted by a deputy and."
The drums roll.
".no one can explain."
The horns blast.
".an airforce nearby. Locals suspect."
The cymbals crash again. The music dips and turns and
rises as his wickedly pouted lips spout off once more
our mission: to save the planet from unexplainable
lights.
The fact is, I've come to love that piece of music.
When Mulder talks, that's what I hear, and it's like
the Chinese water torture that transforms itself over
time into an entirely different feeling. Sometimes you
can't get enough of it. Yes, Mulder's rambling on
again, at a frenetically understated pace.
The music quickens, maddeningly, and today I don't
feel I can take it. One of these days my head will
explode. The thought wouldn't bother me so much, but I
don't think Mulder will clean up the mess.
Just wipe off the bake sale table and grab another
partner. No need to purge any computer files or take
down any nameplates.
".okay?"
I blink and Gershwin has gone. Mulder is staring at me
with an intensity that suddenly sets my heart beating
too fast. "Scully." He speaks slowly now as if he's a
stupid tourist trying to make the locals understand.
"..are..you..okay?"
For some reason my usual denial of 'I'm fine.' is slow
in coming, as if at long last my lips have forgotten
how to form the words they know the best. Mom would be
so proud.
I toss the file back at his desk before unpacking my
own things and sitting down at my bake sale table. The
bonsai tree that looked so detached and unwanted in my
apartment suddenly seems like a breath of fresh air
that mistakenly wandered through the venting system
and found itself trapped here. Maybe it's because
Mulder's waiting for my response, or maybe he
understands what's happening, but whatever the reason
he crosses the distance over to my desk. His eyes
locked on mine. His brows furrowing with worry. His
arms crossed determinedly. If there's anything I know
not to stand in the way of, it's this man and his
ambitions.
I look up amidst my stack of files and reports, more
than curious as to how he'll handle this awkward
morning. He's about to face our internal crisis head
on when his eyes suffer a moment of timidity and the
momentum is lost. He looks at the tree.
"What the hell is that?"
I sigh, still unready to answer. But it's a better
choice than playing emotional dodge ball with Mulder,
a game I can't walk away from without a bruise or
scratch. "It's a bonsai tree."
"I can see that. But why's it here?"
"Mom bought it for me." Hint, hint, hint, hint, hint.
"Oh." He stares at it for a moment or two, with a look
of familiarity that surprises me. As he so often does.
Mulder picks up the tree. "It's a Satzuki."
Mothmen, alien-electronic-killer-cockroaches, and now
Japanese horticulture. Jesus, is there anything this
man doesn't know? "My mom used to have one when we
lived on Martha's Vineyard."
My heart suddenly feels like it's been drop-kicked
into my stomach. So much for avoiding emotional
dodgeball. First point goes to Mulder.
I worry that the moment will pass as so many have
passed before, with too many things left unsaid and
our feet stuck in the mud of professionalism. But
instead of returning to his desk as I fear he will, a
small smile breaks out on the coffee-flavored lips.
"One day it bloomed. They only bloom for a day or two,
but when they do it's.." He shakes his head, starting
over. "I hope I'm around when this blooms."
I smile, grateful that for once Mulder let himself
enjoy a memory. He has so few to trust, and even fewer
to savor. The moment, gray and vague.that terrible
color of uncertainty and non-committal emotions.is
gone, and he sets the tree down on my desk.
Feelings are strange things, and I wonder if when we
ever find the Truth, emotions will be relegated to the
drudgery of human existence alone. My birthday seems
like a xxxx-poor reason to be crabby, and the thought
that sacrifices much larger than mine have been made
over the past seven years throttles me angrily. The
accusations 'selfish' and 'self-centered' cross my
mind, but fade again. This type of introspection will
have to wait for another time.
Mulder still stands at my desk, his hands gripping the
edges. I wonder if this won't be another one of those
moments when all he has lost returns in a flood of
anger. I lean forward, and simultaneously I reach out
to grasp a hand as he turns away. My perfect timing.
I'm left reaching out into the cold sterility of my
desk, as Mulder returns to his half of the office.
He flops back into his chair, and asks cheerfully. "So
what are you doing here, Scully? It's your birthday."
If I can handle the shock of this, maybe my head won't
explode after all.
"I."
"Why don't you take the rest of the day off?"
No, no. No, no, no, no, no. Requesting a day off from
Skinner isn't what I need right now. Today's one of
those days when authority seems to stand double tall,
and any courage held on retainer is leaked away is
small drips. But Mulder is persistent.
"C'mon, you sure look like you could use it."
I don't want to know what that means. He's probably
trying to just get rid of me already, knowing a
last-minute flight to Nowheresville, Wisconsin would
be out of the question with me around. Or maybe not.
"I don't know, Mulder." Mozart, Merlot, and lavender
sound a hell of a lot better than a moldy office and
Mulder's skanky coffee tempting me from across the
office. My determination is slipping, and I stand
without my usual confidence, wondering what I can take
home to work on.
"Look, I'm sure you have plans tonight."
How generous of him to think so.
".but I thought maybe I could treat you to a
home-cooked meal."
"I didn't know you cooked, Mulder."
"Well, pasta pretty much covers the extent of my
abilities in the kitchen."
I nod, knowingly. It's a vague response, and it suits
us.
"So, how about it? My place.six o' clock okay?"
A flash of familiarity blindsides me, and I wonder if
I shouldn't inspect Mulder for a monkey tail before
carrying this conversation any further. Instead, I
take his advice and pick up a few files before
grabbing my things and heading for the door. "You
don't think Skinner would mind?"
"Nah, we cost the bureau too much already. He'll be
giddy."
I never really thought of Skinner as 'giddy', and the
idea puts me at ease. Reimbursements, overtime,
property damage.Good God, we're awful.
"I'll see you at six. Oh, and Scully.."
I turn again, certain this conversation can't get any
better.
"Bring the bonsai." He smiles and leans back in his
chair. Welcome to the Cult, Mr. Mulder. Here's your
membership card. "They bloom in February, you know."
They most certainly do.
the end
(
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