TITLE:  Christmas in California
AUTHOR: Michelle Kiefer 
E-MAIL ADDRESS: MSK1024@AOL.COM 
DISTRIBUTION: Archive if you like, just tell me where.
DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully belong to 1013, 
Chris Carter, and to the X-Files. 
SPOILER WARNING: Extremely vague season 9.  You don't need
to be watching the season to read this. 
CONTENT: Story
RATING: PG-13
CLASSIFICATION: Implied MSR, Maggie fic
SUMMARY:  "Get her to come to San Diego, Mom.  Christmas in
          California is just what Dana needs to cheer her up."
COMMENTS: Please visit my other stories at: 
          http://members.aol.com/msrsmut/MichelleKiefer.htm 
          Maintained by the wonderful Jennifer
          This story wouldn't have been possible without the
          beta talents of Tippi and Dawn.

Christmas in California 
by Michelle Kiefer


San Diego International Airport
December 22, 2001  4:20 PM

"Oh my, what a beautiful baby!" the woman says. "You 
must be a very proud Grandma." 

With her tweed jacket and sensible shoes, I peg her as
a retired teacher, but perhaps that is stereotypical
thinking on my part.  She coos over William as he sits 
on my lap; I can smell White Shoulders perfume and the 
hint of peppermint on her breath.  She's standing a 
little too close for my taste, but William is such a 
little charmer--I can certainly understand her interest.  
He chortles as she tickles his bootied foot.

"Mom! Mom, we better find our bags," Dana calls out as she 
exits the lady's room and rushes over to the bench where 
I've been waiting with William.  She looks positively 
panic-stricken as she eyes her son's admirer.  The woman 
releases William's foot and smiles at Dana before walking 
off in the direction of the food court, probably chuckling 
over nervous new mothers.

"Dana, she didn't mean any harm.  You have to get used to 
people paying attention to this little guy--he's just 
too adorable to resist."

My daughter's face is far too pale, her mouth a tense straight 
line as she hoists the diaper bag and my tote bag onto her 
shoulder and picks up William's car seat.  She nods in the 
direction of the baggage claim where her brother will be 
meeting us. 

"Mom, I know you think I'm being over-protective, but it's 
important not to let people get too close to the baby."  
Dana's words seem carefully chosen, as if there is a lot
she doesn't feel she can share with me.  

I wish she understood that I'm far more frightened at being 
kept in the dark over her life than I ever would be of the 
truth from which she works so hard to shield me.  But it seems 
there is much we don't understand about each other.

Dana has been so withdrawn since Fox Mulder left.  Yet another 
thing I don't understand.  I was stunned when she told me he was 
gone.  In all the time I'd known him, I would never have pegged 
Fox as someone who would run out on his family.  

Dana puzzles me these days.  She won't hear a negative word 
about Fox but offers no information about him. She was reluctant 
to come to California at all, knowing her brother would have 
plenty to say on the subject.  After all, there was never any 
love lost between Bill and Fox Mulder.

I could never tell her, but in the most secret corner of my 
heart, for just a moment, I was glad when I heard Fox had left.  
Don't get me wrong, he's a good man.  Well, up to the time he 
left my daughter, I'd always thought he was a good man, but 
danger trailed him like a hungry dog following the butcher.  
And my daughter always seemed to be front and center when
bad things happened. 

I'd grown to dread hearing his voice on the phone, always it 
seemed bringing frightening news.  Over the years, I'd become 
torn, hating him for nearly killing her, only to find myself 
wanting to fold him in my arms when I saw the pain in his eyes.  
The mothering instinct is hard to ignore, and even now, I 
remember Fox in my prayers every night along with my children 
and grandchildren.  He always seemed like a man who needed 
more prayers than he got.

We make our way down the escalator, past the airport shops 
with their Christmas displays, finally arriving at the baggage 
carousels.  Prompt as usual, Bill stands as if at attention by 
the information desk.  He's not in uniform, but his stance and 
bearing say Navy, loud and clear. When he spots us, he smiles 
broadly and strides over. 

"Bill, sweetheart.  It's been such a long time."  

He kisses my cheek, and makes an avuncular fuss over William.
"No doubt about it, this one's a Scully," Bill says, taking the 
baby out of my arms.  "Day, he's just beautiful."

"Bill, you didn't need to come all the way down here; we could 
have taken a cab."  There is an edge to Dana's voice, though 
she smiles and kisses her brother's cheek when he leans over. 

"Don't be ridiculous, Dana.  I bet you have more luggage than'll 
fit in the van.  No other way to travel with a baby--I can attest 
to that."

I smile at the truth in Bill's statement. Dana and I could have 
managed with a small suitcase apiece, but a fifteen pound baby 
requires more luggage than a Hollywood starlet. 

"You're right about that, dear. Good thing I shipped the Christmas 
presents ahead or the plane wouldn't have been able to get off 
the ground. Oh, I see one of the bags now."

"I'll get them," Dana says as she puts the car seat down.  
Bill places William in my arms and sets off after Dana.

"Day, let me help you with those," he says as he follows Dana 
into the throng at the carousel.

I think back to Bill's phone call a few weeks ago.  "Get her 
to come to San Diego, Mom.  Christmas in California is just what 
Dana needs to cheer her up."

I pray that Bill is right, but I'm afraid Dana's sadness is just 
too deep to be cured by a mere change of scenery.  She tries to 
hide it, but I recognize the signs of depression.  Dana's thinner 
now than she was before her pregnancy, almost as thin as in the 
days she battled cancer. 

I don't think a new baby is the only thing causing her to lose 
sleep, either.  There are shadows under her eyes and a weariness 
in her every step that worries me.   

The crowd thins as passengers retrieve their luggage and move out 
of the area.  Finally, I catch sight of Dana's bright hair from 
my vantage point.  She and Bill pull the last suitcase off the 
conveyer belt and make their way back to William and me.

Insisting on carrying the lion's share of luggage, Bill is out of 
breath by the time we arrive at his minivan.  My arms are 
beginning to ache a bit with the weight of my grandson.  Dana must 
be tired, too, her arms full of bags and baby gear, but she keeps 
her eyes forward and her shoulders back, as her father taught her 
long ago.

"Looks like your mom packed your favorite rocks, Buddy," Bill says 
to William.  "Let's see if we can get your car seat rigged up here."

I watch my children fuss at each other as they load the luggage 
into the van and secure the car seat.  Dana reminds Bill that an 
inadequately anchored seat is useless, while Bill insists he's 
certainly experienced with car seat installation and would she 
please give him a little room.
  
I shade William's eyes against the sun and wonder if all siblings 
revert to adolescence or if my children are unique.  

The car seat is finally installed to Dana's satisfaction, and 
we make our way from the airport to my son's new house.  Bill 
and Tara moved to off base housing last year after Tara inherited
a small estate from her grandmother.  Better schools, they told 
me, and more room for Matthew to play.

If they had asked me, I would have advised they save the 
windfall for Matthew's college education, but Tara felt 
cramped in base housing.  Cramped.  Try base housing with 
four children under seven years old after a week of rainy 
days and you understand the real meaning of cramped.  

We drive through a neighborhood of lovely homes, pulling into 
the long driveway of a large Spanish style home.  How on earth 
does Bill keep up with the yard work and maintenance?  We 
drive into the attached garage where Tara waits in the doorway
to the house.

"Dana! Mom! I'm so glad you're here.  Oh my, let me see that 
baby."  Tara lifts a sleeping William out of my arms, resting 
her face against his head. "I miss that baby smell.  Matt is
such a big boy these days."

The big boy himself appears at the kitchen door, launching 
himself into my arms.  "Gramma! I missed you so much."

"I missed you too, Sweetie.  Say, doesn't somebody have 
a birthday coming up?  Is it Daddy?  Is it Mommy?"

"No, Gramma.  It's me!  Don't you remember?"

"Why, yes. My big boy is almost four, isn't he?"

Dana's expression clouds over, and my memory flies back to 
Matthew's birth.  I'd felt powerless to do more than watch my 
daughter's heart break as she mourned a child she barely knew.

When they are small, your children come to you with scrapes and 
hurt feelings and you kiss the boo-boo and make it all better.  
When they grow up, you can only stand by and witness their pain.  

"Why don't we all go into the house.  You both must be exhausted,"  
Tara says, and I wonder if she, too, is remembering.  

Hours later, having retired early out of deference to our east 
coast internal clocks, Dana sits in bed and nurses William.  
His satisfied little grunts bring a smile to Dana's face, and, 
once again, I thank God for this sweet, miracle child.  His fist
curls against his mother's breast, and his eyes are closed in 
baby bliss.

"He's quite a little piggy, isn't he?" I ask, as I stroke William's 
leg.  "Dana, you didn't eat much at dinner.  Why don't I fix you 
a sandwich?"

"I'm fine, Mom.  I think I was more tired than hungry."

William's suckling slows to intermittent bursts, finally ceasing 
when his slack mouth falls away from the nipple.  I lift him 
from his mother's arms, kissing his sweet, peachfuzz head before 
laying him in the porta-crib at the foot of the bed.

"Cup of cocoa?" I ask.  "Pie?"

"Mom, please.  I don't want anything, okay?"

"Honey, I'm worried about you. You look so tired these days."  I 
choose my words carefully, wanting to say so much more.  

"I'm fine.  All new mothers are tired.  Doesn't that come with the 
territory? I'm sure you were tired, too, when we were babies."

"I wasn't trying to hold down a demanding job and care for a baby 
all alone."

I know instantly that I've overstepped.  The look on Dana's face 
is more than I can bear.

"I was waiting for someone to bring that up.  I expected it 
from Bill. It's amazing that he kept quiet during dinner.  
He must be elated that Mulder is gone."

"Your brother only wants what is best for you. That's
all I want for you, too."   

"Mom, you don't understand."

"Honey, how can I understand, when you won't share anything  
with me?"  I sit on the bed and cover her hand with mine.

"I know.  I'm sorry I haven't been able to explain things.  
It's safer for you not to know more.  But please understand that
Mulder didn't abandon us.  He's only doing what is necessary to 
protect William and me."

"Is he alright?" She nods carefully. "Have you been in contact 
with him?" I probe further and wonder if she can even tell me 
that much.

"Yes, but unfortunately, it's been pretty sporadic.  It's 
killing him to be away from us.  Mom, this is just as hard on 
him as it is on me," she says with a bitter little laugh.  

"What's so funny?"

"I'm just thinking back. When I was a kid, I watched you and 
the other women on the base. I saw you all struggle to be both 
mother and father, to handle the home repairs and keep up everyone's 
spirits.  That wasn't going to be my life. I was going to be the one 
that went off and did things.  I vowed that when I grew up, I would
never be a Navy wife."

William stirs in his crib, making little mewling sounds.  Dana 
lowers her voice so as not to wake him.  "But that's exactly what 
I've become.  Mulder's out there, somewhere. I don't know where he 
is or if he's safe.  My heart stops every time the phone rings. 
Here I am, unable to do anything but worry and hold down the fort.  
Ironic, huh?"

"I guess it is," I say, sliding back next to Dana, my back to the 
headboard.  "May I offer you some advice, from an old Navy wife?"

Dana nods, her eyes brimming with tears.

"When I was a little girl, my father was away in the Pacific during
World War Two.  My mother took care of my sisters and I and babysat 
the children of women who worked in the factories.  But every Friday 
night, no matter how tired she was, no matter how tight the budget was,
we went to the movies.  She said she could get through the whole dreary
week, if she could have those two hours of magic on a Friday night."

"Mom, I don't think a movie night is going to do the trick for me,"
Dana says, her voice rough with emotion.

"Well, movies may have been better in those days," I say, stroking
her hair. "Honey, you need to take care of yourself.  Fox needs you 
to be strong.  William needs you and you need yourself.  Working 
half to death, not eating, not sleeping...what happens if you 
become run down and get sick? I know it isn't easy being left 
behind, but the best thing you can do is be good to yourself and let 
others help you."

The tears slip past her lashes to slide down her cheeks, and Dana 
brushes them away. She leans into my arms. 

"Thanks, Mom," she says against my shoulder.  "Um...Do you think 
you could make me that sandwich?" 

* * *

15827 Amanecer Circle, San Diego, CA
December 23, 2001  11:30 AM
 
"Run, run as fast as you can," I sing as I guide Matthew's hand 
on the cookie cutter.

"You can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man." Matthew finishes, 
his voice full of two-days-before Christmas excitement, amplified 
by too many cookies before lunch.  Lifting the tan-colored dough 
body off the table, I deposit him onto the cookie sheet.

The kitchen is spice-scented, warm and snug.  I enjoy the giggly
child at my side and the sight of my daughter, her cheeks pink
with the heat of the oven.  Dana slides a pan of toasty brown 
little men out of the oven, pausing briefly to inhale their aroma.  

We've spent the morning busy with holiday baking, holly jolly 
music drifting from the stereo in the next room.  Dana seems 
lighter this morning, more present among us.  Only occasionally do 
I catch her gazing out the kitchen window, a flicker of sadness 
crossing her features.

A series of thumps and the rattle of the kitchen doorknob signal
Bill's return from the market. He elbows his way through the 
kitchen door, a grocery bag in each arm.

"I got the two pounds of walnuts you asked for, and the eggnog,
but I couldn't find any nutmeg."

"Bill, how could they be out of nutmeg?" Tara asks, her voice 
rather shrill.  "You bought whole walnuts, honey.  I wrote down 
shelled nuts."

"So, shell the nuts for Pete's sake.  What's the big deal?" Bill
asks, annoyance creeping into his voice.

"It'll be fine, dear.  Tara, I'll get started on these, if you
can find me a nutcracker," I say, trying to smooth things over.  
No point in falling apart over silly things like nutmeg.

William wakes from his nap in the living room, drawing Dana
to his side with his cries.  The squall stills in an instant,
and I picture Dana putting the baby to breast.  If only all 
life's problems could be solved as easily.

I put the last batch of cookies into the oven while Dana nurses
William.  The walnuts will have to wait until later after all, if
we are to have lunch and get to the mall this afternoon.   

Tara fixes a simple meal of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato
soup.  The five of us sit at the kitchen table, the smell of the
soup competing with the scent of gingerbread.   William on her 
lap, Dana eats her sandwich with one hand.

"'Mato soup is my favorite, Gramma." Matthew says, a red drip 
clinging to his chin.  

"I can tell.  Eat your sandwich, Honey."  He's lost interest 
in the grilled cheese after two bites.  I'm not surprised,
after the cookies Tara let him eat this morning.

Bill and I clean the kitchen while Dana and Tara get the boys
ready for the mall.  Matthew and William have new holiday
outfits to wear for a special Christmas photograph together, 
a special gift for me.

The mall is the madhouse one would expect so close to Christmas.
Holiday music plays in the background, and shoppers rush all
around us.  Dana seems very nervous, her eyes darting around 
the crowd, William clutched in her arms.  Bill offers to carry
him, but Dana insists on keeping her arms around her child.

"Dana, your back is going to kill you later.  Why the heck 
didn't you use the stroller?" Exasperation is clear in Bill's 
voice.

"It's too crowded in here, Bill.  I don't mind carrying him,
really," she says, shifting William's position in her arms.

The photographers are earning their money today, the studio
crawling with small children.  We have to wait forty-five 
minutes, during which Matthew squabbles with another child 
over a toy truck, and William falls asleep.  Both children 
have flushed faces in the overheated studio.  Finally, it
is our turn.

Our photographer, an animated young woman, has her hands full
trying to get a fidgety Matthew to sit still.  William is 
cranky after being awakened from his unplanned nap.  
Many toys are waved in the air, and many silly noises made 
before both children are calm and smiling at the same time.  
 
By the time we get back to the house, adults and children
need a little down time.  We retreat, like boxers, to our
separate corners, coming together again for supper.  
Unfortunately, the air of tension continues through the
meal.

Bill seems strangely jittery at dinner, dropping his fork
and nearly knocking over his water.  He's been exceptionally 
patient in his dealings with Dana, and I wonder if keeping 
his opinions to himself is a strain for him.  He barely 
finishes his meal, sneaking repeated glances at the clock 
on the wall.

Matthew eyes are drowsy as he picks at his dinner.  He
wavers in his chair before falling face forward onto his 
plate.  Bill chuckles, picking his limp child up.  
"Just like Charlie, huh?" 

"Charlie fell asleep in his dinner plate at least once
a week when he was Matthew's age," I explain to a 
puzzled Tara.  Bill carries his sleeping son out of the
kitchen.

"Ah, so that's where it comes from," she says as she clears
Matthew's plate from the table.

"Bill used to count down while Charlie swayed in his chair,
trying to hit blastoff just as Charlie's face hit the 
plate," Dana says.  "It was funny, in a kind of mean way."

Half an hour later, Bill returns to the kitchen.  

"Well, I got him washed up and into his pajamas.  I think he's 
down for the count tonight. Day, I checked on the baby, and
he's still asleep."  Bill leans over and kisses Tara on the 
cheek. "Hey, babe, I'm going to the store.  I want to get 
a couple more strings of Christmas lights for the porch."

"Bill, you've got to be crazy.  We have more than enough lights
out there now.  Besides which, tomorrow's Christmas Eve. 
I doubt there is a light set to be found in the stores."

"Well, then I'll drive around until I find a store that
has them."  Bill has his coat on, and is out the door before
Tara has a chance to respond.  Puzzled, I look at Dana,
who shrugs in confusion.

Tara's eyes remain on her plate for long seconds, and I 
wonder for a moment if she is fighting back tears.

"Mom, why don't we clear the table?" Dana asks.  I pop
up to help her, as she begins to scrape plates and stack
them.  Tara rises with a sigh and starts to cover the
leftovers.  We don't speak while we work.

Two hours later, Tara and I sit at the kitchen table 
over mugs of tea.  "Honey, I'm sure he's okay," I say
as I cover her hand with mine.  "I think he just needed 
a little time away from all this togetherness."

"He's just never acted like this before.  He insisted
that you and Dana had to come out this year.  Not that
I wasn't happy to have you visit, of course, but he was so 
emphatic." With a glance at the next room, Tara lowers 
her voice.  "I knew he was worried about her, 
after...well, after Mulder left."   

Music drifts in from the living room, "I'll Be Home
For Christmas," always such a sad song, so damn 
ironic tonight.  I'm pretty sure Dana can't hear our 
conversation as she wraps presents in the living room. 

The sound of the garage door opener grinds through
the kitchen, and both of us sit up a bit straighter in 
our seats, listening hard.  A car door slams, followed 
by perhaps the trunk.  I wonder if Bill found his 
Christmas lights.

The kitchen door opens, and Bill enters, his hands 
empty.  He rubs his palms along his thighs.

"Where's Dana?" he asks, eyes searching the room.

"She's wrapping presents in the living room," Tara
says.  "What's going on, Bill?"  

"Just get her.  Okay, Honey?" 

Tara backs her way to the living room door, puzzlement
showing on her face.  "Dana, can you come in here?"

Under the sound of the music, we listen to the rustle
of wrapping paper. A moment later, Dana enters the kitchen,
a question in her eyes.  Bill steps further into the
room, opening the door wider behind him.

Fox Mulder steps into the kitchen, and time stops.  No 
one moves, no one speaks.  As if made of stone, Dana stands
with one hand covering her mouth.  She makes the tiniest 
of sounds at the back of her throat.

Fox is thinner than when I saw him last, deeply tanned as
if he's been working in the sun a lot.  His hair is mussed
and his clothes are a little bit rumpled.  It's the look
in his eyes that breaks my heart.  It is the look of a 
starving child.

The only sound is the music playing in the living room: 
*I'll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.* I watch
my daughter tremble, her eyes swimming with tears.

In an instant, Dana breaks out of her frozen state flying
across the room and into Fox's arms.  Her arms are 
around his neck, her feet inches off the floor as he 
clutches her to him.  Dana's face is buried in the 
curve of his neck, and I can hear muffled sobbing.  Fox's
eyes are squeezed shut, his face turned into her hair.

For just a moment, we all stare, as if our eyes had never
seen anything so sad or beautiful.  Tara recovers first,
touching Bill gently on the arm.  I follow Bill and Tara
into the living room.

"Bill, I don't understand," I say, as I watch my son run
a shaky hand through his hair. 

"I couldn't say no.  He called and said he needed to see
them, and I couldn't say no.  I picked him up in Tijuana
and drove him here in the trunk of the car.  I still 
don't know if I did the right thing."

"So what made you do it?" I ask, reaching up to cup his
cheek.

"I kept thinking that a guy should be there for his kid's 
first Christmas. No matter how I tried to tell myself 
not to get involved, I just couldn't get past that."

I've always been proud of my son.  I felt pride when he took
first place in the county-wide spelling bee and I was proud
when he joined the Navy like his father and prouder even
when he got his first command.  But all that pales next
to my what I feel for my son right now.

Later that night, I lay awake in Matthew's room, on the cot
that we moved here to give Fox and Dana some time alone.
I listen to my grandson move restlessly in his sleep and 
to the voices in the next room.

I can make out Dana's soft voice, not the words she says,
but the sound of happiness.  Fox's melodious drone answers 
her, warm and hypnotic.  They talk late into the night 
until finally they fall quiet, and only the occasional moan 
drifts through the wall.  

Too soon, Fox's brief liberty will be over and he will 
leave, smuggled out of the house in the trunk of Bill's 
car.  Too soon, Dana will feel the pain of another goodbye 
and the knowledge that she may never again see the man she 
loves.   I know this all too well.

But I know something else.  Dana will find the core of
strength that she needs to wait for the man she loves.
After all, she comes from a long line of Navy wives.

End 


I hope you all have a wonderful holiday season.  Best
wishes  -  Michelle Kiefer