TITLE: Growing Old
AUTHOR: Rachel Vagts
E-MAIL: rvagts@willinet.net
DISTRIBUTION: Yes, but please let me know.  I will submit directly to Gossamer
SPOILERS: None
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATION: Mulder POV
KEYWORDS: vignette
SUMMARY: Mulder reflects as he gets ready to help his mom move out of her
house.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on the characters and situations created by
Chris Carter, the Fox Network and Ten Thirteen Productions.  As such, the
characters named are the property of those entities and are used without
permission, although no copyright infringements are intended.

Author's notes:  This one came to me after seeing "Closure" again last
week.  Thanks to Marti and Beth for the beta and the "Party of Five" for
keeping me inspired.

Growing Old
By Rachel Vagts

Sitting here in the doctor's clinic, all I can think is that it's hell to
grow old.  The couple across from me sit and wait, him with his two canes
and what appear to be knees that will soon be replaced.  She keeps asking
him if she will have to come into the room with him, asking in a tone that
says she would rather go anywhere else.  Behind me sits a couple trying to
fill out the new patient survey form.  Do they have to include their adult
children?  I want to turn and tell them yes, because in a few months or
years those children will be sitting here waiting, thanking God or whoever
else will listen, that they didn't have to go into the room with you.

My mother is selling the houses.  All of them.  It really is time.  Dad has
been gone for four years and we haven't lived in Chilmark for almost
twenty-five years.  This family holds on to too many things.  We need to
let go.  Of all sorts of things.

She asked me to come help her pack things up.  I was caught rather
off-guard.  My mother hasn't asked me for much.  After her stroke, I tried
to get her to move down to DC, somewhere closer where I could watch over
her, but she was steadfast in her resolve to remain in Greenwich.  I'm
actually kind of surprised we ever got her off Martha's Vineyard.  We all
know the reason that house has never been sold, why it's sat empty all
these years, yet we never say it.  Never.

I wonder why she's so adamant now?  I tried to put her off, but she asked
me to come as soon as my schedule would permit.  

There is a certain burden in being the only surviving...no, the only
*available* child.  I wonder if she would have asked my father to do these
things if he was still living?  He used to come and do the strangest
things, like trim the trees and clean the gutters.  I always wondered why
she didn't hire someone to do that like she did the lawn; or why she didn't
have me do it?  They still loved each other.  Even with all the other
stuff.  They loved each other and I love her.  I can't believe the things
I've said to her over the years.  I think I do it because I know how much
she loves me and I can get away with it.  She won't turn away from me, no
matter what I do.

I check the watch on my wrist.  She's been in the doctor's office quite a
while.  She told me it was routine, something about high blood pressure.
They've watched her carefully since the stroke.

I think that was the wake-up call, for both of us.  She's not invincible.
She could...she will die someday.  I just can't imagine being alone.  I
can't imagine her not being there on Sunday when I call, not brushing my
hair back when she thinks I'm asleep when I come to stay with her.

I don't think many people would see us as close.  My mother has never given
that impression, not even before Samantha disappeared, but we always knew.
She saved it for us, so that we could see how she cared.

The apartment is small.  I'm not sure why she wouldn't get a larger place.
It's not like she has ever lacked money, and with the sales of the houses,
well, there would have to be enough for a good-sized condo.  I don't fault
her for wanting something easier to take care of, but she will have to get
rid of things that have been in her home for as long as I can remember,
familiar things, things that are comforting.

She told me to take what I want.  I don't know.  Maybe I will.  I could
load a truck and put them in storage.  I'm not ready for my entire life to
be sent to the Salvation Army or auctioned off to old men who don't need
any more junk.  Maybe a young family will buy Sam's bed, her dresser.
Maybe their little girl will use them until she grows up and goes to
college.  Maybe I should put them in the truck and save them for my daughter.

I wonder what kind of father I would be.  I don't think of it often, but as
I sit here a woman has come in with her two children.  The older sister is
helping the baby get more blocks, laughing at her when her little sister
trips over one of the blocks and plops to the ground.  I think I would like
that...if...if it didn't come with all the other problems.

Once Scully asked me if I wanted a normal life.  I'm not even sure what
that would be anymore.  I think my reality has shifted so far that
normality is something that doesn't even exist for me.  Today was normal, I
think.  The movers are doing most of the packing, but we have to tag
things.  Things that will go to the apartment marked with the red tags,
things for my truck in white, things for the sale in blue.  It should look
like the Fourth of July.

We packed up the precious things this morning, before we came to the
appointment.  My mom gave me her china.  I'm not sure what I will every do
with it...maybe make dinner for Scully.  I'll keep it though, think of the
promises my parents exchanged.  I do think they loved each other.  They
must have.  

I wrapped the photographs myself.  She wants them in the car, near her, not
in some box that the movers could drop.  They are all that remains of my
sister, of our family as it was then. 

She really tried.  After Sam was gone, we were a shell, but she tried.  My
dad disappeared right after my sister, but she tried to keep up the image
that we were doing okay.  She'd cover for him when he missed games, didn't
come to graduation.

She was the one who got me to go to Oxford.  She took me over to England,
showed me the school.  Her dad had gone there.  There wasn't really any
pressure to follow in his footsteps, but more the idea that this was a
chance to get away, to begin again.  I did.  They were pretty good years.
Except for Phoebe, but everything happens for a reason.

She will be coming out to the waiting room soon.  We'll have dinner and
then I'll drive the truck back to the shed I rented in Annandale.  My
mother will go home to her apartment with all the other old people...people
waiting for the end of their life.  I don't ever want to go there.  I lean
back against the chair and see the sisters playing again.  I hope they have
each other for a long time.  It's too hard to grow old all alone.

FINIS