She was going in. She knew he'd be mad, well, not mad, but flustered by her actions, but it had to be done. She grabbed the cleaning bucket and headed towards his office, glancing a t the living room clock on her way through. If her calculations were correct, she'd have a solid hour to clean before he got back from the store.
She pushed open the door and sighed. The room was more messy than truly dirty, but amidst all the papers and scattered notes she knew there were bound to be crumbs and crusts that all of the bugs in the woods behind the house would find highly attractive. She doubted he'd cleaned since their last major Spring cleaning a year ago, when she'd insisted, siting exterminator bills and unwanted strangers poking about as her primary motivators.
Staring at the cluttered desk she decided to move everything to the couch, wipe the surface, then put things back as she made her way through the piles.
She was making great progress until one of the piles teetered and tumbled to the floor and into a half open drawer. As she bent to pick up the papers her hand brushed something soft below the bottom desk drawer. Reaching down again she retrieved a small leather bound book that had somehow become wedged under the post of the desk. The volume was pocket sized and well worn, the smooth leather reminding her of a long forgotten conversation about baseball gloves needing to be broken in and oiled. She smiled thinking of Mulder and baseball, and how she'd grown to love watching games with him.
She placed the volume back on the desk with a small caress, and turned back to the couch. Not five minutes later she was once again picking up the book, having accidentally knocked it to the floor while struggling to flip the couch cushions in the small space. This time the book had landed open on the floor and as she flipped it over one word scribbled on the left page made her pause.
Her vision blurred, her eyes seared to the scrawled name as she sank to the floor. She ran her finger gently over the letters, and as the initial shock of seeing the name after so many years waned she began to take in the rest of the faded text on the page. The page was dated January 2, 1998, and the notes appeared to be Mulder's account of their attempt to save Emily. She scanned the entry , noting his worries about how quickly she'd fallen into her roll as mother, something she'd been vaguely aware of at the time. He mentioned their first meeting, rushing the child to the hospital. Scanning the page another name caught her eye. Anna Fugazzi. Emily's birth mother.
She turned the page. She knew the story all too well, but couldn't tear her eyes from the account, her heart swelling with pain as she relived the fear,doubt, and worry. But all of a sudden the account was not as she remembered, according to Mulder there had been another child. A test tube baby, but a baby none the less. At the bottom of the entry underlined with finality was a line that would haunt her for days to come.
How many more baby Scullys are hidden from us?
Her mind swirled with rage. How had he not told her? How had she not considered the possibilities?
He found her there sitting on the floor, her back t o the couch, book in her lap, with tear stained cheeks.
