Summary: Two women await the birth of a baby.

From: lhoward388@aol.com
Date: Tue, 5 Jun 2001 11:43:17 EDT
Subject: xfc: Musings of a Cigarette-Smoking Woman (1 of 1)
Source: xfc

Title: Musings of a Cigarette-Smoking Woman
Author: Agent L
Classification: V
Rating: G
Spoilers: Essence/Existence
Distribution: Anywhere, as long as my name is attached.
Disclaimer: To Chris Carter, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, Fox,
and now Robert Patrick: I know they're not mine, and no money, gifts or
even chocolate would be expected or accepted for this.
Summary: Two women await the birth of a baby.
Author's Notes: I would like to think Monica Reyes is more
intelligent than 1013 has portrayed her so far.
Feedback: Yes, please! LHoward388@aol.com


Whale songs.

I can't believe I just sang whale songs to Agent Scully, who is now
looking at me as if she's considering taking her chances with Billy Miles.

How can she sit there so calm and composed when she's about to have
a baby -- her first baby, no less -- in the middle of nowhere? I assumed
when John told me about this place that there would at least be electricity
and indoor plumbing. Instead, we walked into a dark, dusty shack, barely
fit for a cat to have kittens. I felt like screaming, "I don't know nothin'
'bout birthin' no babies!" as I turned to Dana, expecting to see my own
fear reflected in her eyes. Instead, I saw clarity and determination, and
while I stood staring, she grabbed a rusty bucket and headed for the
water pump.

Of course her burst of energy didn't last long. After about twenty minutes
she was curled up in the corner, exhausted by the emotional and physical
stress of the past few hours. I just kept cleaning, propelled by my own
anxiety, doing the best I could with icy water, a few smelly rags and a
sparsely bristled broom. Some old sheets and candles lay like hidden
treasure in the bottom of one of the cobwebbed cabinets. Thank heaven
this wasn't one of the weeks I'd decided to quit smoking, and my lighter
rested snugly in my jacket pocket.

Dana was impressed with my meager efforts, or perhaps just desperate
to make the best of a bad situation. I felt like we were both smiling so
hard our jaws would crack as she looked around the dingy room as if it
were the Beverly Hills Hotel. But despite her outward calm, I could feel
the fear humming just below the surface and in an attempt to keep her
distracted I started to babble about the whale songs.

She mentioned her sister and I hoped we had found a safe topic to
discuss -- growing up together, wearing hand-me-downs, sibling rivalry,
perhaps -- but then I found out her sister had died.

"It was a terrible time."

The simple statement held layers of unhealed pain, regret and guilt. But I
feel that Dana has seen more than her share of terrible times, and perhaps
the accumulated learning will bring her through this. After all, birth is
perfectly natural, a part of the endless cycle of life, a knowledge deeper
than our own memories, as ancient as the whale songs. Perhaps the
process is a genetic memory, instinctive in all of us -- the body takes
over and performs the ritual whether the mother is in a nice, safe hospital
or crouched down in a rice field.

Then I see a flash of color outside the grimy window and the fear
comes back, choking me even as I move toward the door and pull
out my gun. This is no ordinary birth. I had forgotten for the moment
that there are those who do not value this life-to-be, who see a threat
in the simple fact of its existence. Perhaps we have not advanced that
far from the birth of another special child 2,000 years ago. We still fear
the very heavens we are supposed to have explored and conquered.
We still would rather destroy what we cannot understand than try to
learn from it.

And as I stand here in this dusty square, my heart threatening to leap
out of my throat, I feel sorry not just for the child about to be born
here, but for the millions of lives coming into this world at this
very moment.

It is a terrible time.

The End