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“It’s me,” she says softly.
“Scully? Is everything okay? What time is it?” He props himself up on his elbow and grabs his wristwatch on the bedside table, switching the lamp on.
“It’s … um, 2:15. No, I’m fine. I, um, I just remembered something from the Bible, and I thought maybe it can help me understand why Mom had that quarter.”
“What is it?”
“It’s from Jeremiah and it says — hold on a second.” He hears her shifting on her bed, and pictures her wearing her reading glasses and opening the holy book. “And I will bring upon Elam the four winds from the four quarters of heaven. And I will scatter them to all those winds, and there shall be no nation to which those driven out of Elam shall not come.” There is a soft sound of a book closing as she continues, “Do you think Mom … blamed me? For giving up on William?”
“You didn’t give up on him. You protected him. And no,” he answers resolutely, “she didn’t. She was a beautiful woman with a heart that had no dark place, Scully. You are jumping into conclusions, although I don’t see exactly where you’re going with these biblical writings.”
“The quarter refers to the fourth wind. And when the phrase “four winds” is mentioned, it’s usually in reference to some remarkable, unusual, or devastating event.”
“Then it must be remarkable. Your mother loved you with all her heart. She didn’t hold anything against you, I’m sure of it, and she didn’t have anything to forgive you for. She loved you entirely,” he repeats.
“But why didn’t she look at me? Why did she only talk to you?”
He’s silent for a moment. Then he says, “Scully, do you want me to come over?”
“No, no, I’m … fine, Mulder. I was just wondering if —” Her voice dies away as she struggles to keep her emotions at bay.
“Let me put it differently. Can I come over? So we can talk.” She’s sobbing now, quietly. “Scully, I’m coming over,” he informs her, calm and unrushed. He waits a moment to see if there’s an answer. “I’ll be right there.”
Later that night, Mulder quietly knocks at Scully’s door. There is no answer; therefore, he uses his spare key to let himself in.
The apartment is dark, and he calls her name in a whisper only to find her asleep in her bed. Her nightstand lamp is on. He gazes at her. He wants to stroke her face softly or gently tuck the comforter up to her chin but he’s also afraid that if he does, she’s going to wake, and she needs her rest. His eyes are fixed on her face in a soft stare, as if he expects her to wake up, as if she’ll open her beautiful sapphire eyes, recovering from a serious injury, and he will be the first thing she’ll see. I’m here, he remembers he said. But she doesn’t wake up. And eventually he switches the lamp off and quietly walks out of her room.
He takes off his jacket and folds himself onto her couch. It has been a long day and a long process to finally find sleep earlier at home, and now he doesn’t have the strength try again. He feels bruised and numb, but it’s nothing compared to what Scully must be going through. Yet, Margaret’s funeral left him almost as wretched as it left Scully. He is hurting, in despair, both for her death and for knowing Scully is alone now. But he had to hold back what he felt, what he feels, for Scully. To be strong for her, to be her rock if she needs it. Margaret was her mother, not his, in spite of how he felt about her more than once. A part of him is still out there, at her funeral.
Mulder is still awake when later he hears muffled sobs and sees a light being turned on at the end of the small hallway. He gets to his feet and quietly walks to Scully’s bedroom.
She stops and jumps a little, startled, when she sees him in the middle of the hallway.
“It’s just me,” he whispers, raising his hands. “I got here and you were sleeping. I used the key you gave me. I’m sorry.”
She sighs with relief. “It’s okay, Mulder,” she says as she enters the bathroom.
She doesn’t bother to close the door. She doesn’t switch the light on either. She’s probably aware of how tired she looks, if not a complete mess. No reminder required. Her shoulders and chin are drooping and her hands are slightly trembling. He can see it from where he stands when she combs her hair with them. Even her hair seems to have lost its sheen today.
Mulder leans with his shoulder against the threshold, his hands in the pockets of his pants. “Do you want me to make you tea? Or do you want to go back to sleep?”
“I can’t sleep …” She answers, looking at his reflection in the mirror before pouring water into her hands and washing it over her face.
“I’ll make some tea then,” he says and goes.
Lost in his thoughts, Mulder stares absently at the water warming up in a pot. He wonders what he could do to help her cope. Is his presence enough? Will it ever be? He wishes he could rewind time to simpler, happier moments of her life. But he would have to go so far back. Every ounce of himself wishes he could just take her pain away. How many times has he had that very same wish over the years?
“Back in the day, did we ever come across the ability to just wish someone back to life?”
“I invented it. When you were in the hospital, like this.”
“I don’t know if my being here … will help … bring you back. But I’m here.”
“It will take a minute,” she says softly and lightly at his back to announce her presence. She sits at the table across from him.
He turns around, braces his butt and hands against the counter and gives her a soft smile. “I know. Nothing beats the universal laws of physics. It’s got to be 212 degrees.”
“We don’t have to wait till it boils, though.”
“That’s right. Where are your tea bags?”
“Upper cupboard to your right,” she points.
He opens it and looks up. He has to fully outstretch his arm to grab the small package hidden behind a pile of dishes. Then he turns around to Scully and looks at her with questioning eyes, frowning a little. But he keeps his mouth shut and turns around.
“What is it?” She asks.
He faces her. “Nothing. It’s just … I thought you loved tea. Why do you store it up there? Can you even reach it?”
She smiles back, and then she says, “I don’t drink it so much lately.”
“Would you rather have coffee?”
“Either one is fine.”
He looks at her silently, studying her. He doesn’t get it. “I don’t understand, but okay. Tea, then?”
“Yes, tea’s great.” She pauses as he nods. “I stopped drinking tea or coffee (outside of the office anyway) when we stopped … seeing each other,” she admits.
“Why?”
She shrugs her shoulders. “What I liked about it was gone. Us just hanging around, talking about everything and nothing, reinventing the world …”
“Oh.” He stands still, pondering the weight of her words.
She points her chin to the pot. “You should take it off now.”
“Right, right.”
Scully grabs two mugs and opens one bag in each one while Mulder turns around with the steaming pot. He pours water into them. Then he sits down facing her at the table and pushes one mug to her.
“Thanks,” she says with a weak smile.
“My pleasure.”
They fall silent. Her hands circle the smoking mug and she hums with closed eyes. He gazes at her. She’s lost some weight recently, and with her hair thus tucked up with a claw clip, her neck seems longer than usual, her jaw sharper too. Her eyes look tired even as they’re closed.
“What are you thinking?” He asks after a long silence. She lifts her face to him. “Do you want to talk?”
She stares at him a moment before whispering, “I was wondering what was Mom’s greatest regret.”
“What makes you think she had any?”
“Who doesn’t? She was estranged from my brother Charlie, and she didn’t … get to see much of William. I don’t know which one is worse. My parents always asked us as kids, ‘What are your hopes? What are your dreams? What do you want to do with your life?’ But you very rarely stop and actually ask your parents these questions.”
Mulder nods. His parents didn’t even ask these questions to begin with. Scully was raised in a family filled with love and care. That’s not news to him but he suddenly feels a tightness in his throat and a violent heaviness across his chest. Margaret is a great loss, even for him. She’s been the one who kept calling him on a regular basis when he and Scully were going through difficult times, a way for her to reaffirm that, no matter what, she loved him as one of her own sons. He absentmindedly stares at Margaret’s quarter around Scully’s neck.
“I miss her. I can’t believe she’s gone,” she says in a voice so low he barely hears her.
“Yeah,” he whispers. He lays his hand on her forearm reassuringly and strokes it with his thumb.
“Who am I going to call every other night?” She asks more to herself than to Mulder. A tear rolls down her face.
He wipes it away and she leans into his hand, looking back at him with saddened eyes. “I know it’s not the same,” he says truthfully, “and it’s never going to be, but you can call me. You can always call me.” She nods. “I’d like it if you did.”
“Thank you.”
“I wish I could do more.” He takes his hand off of her face.
“I know. And I know what she meant to you too.” He nods and grits his teeth, struggling hard to swallow without her seeing his lump. “I’m glad her last words were for you. If anyone …”
Maybe he shouldn’t, but he feels really uncomfortable with this. Margaret’s last words should have been to Scully, not to him. She wanted them. She needed them. And she still does. He’ll never be as close or as comforting as her mother was to her. The two Scully women had always been so close, so connected, so caring toward each other. Not that he hasn’t been himself, but a mother-daughter relationship is evidently a different precious level of love and understanding.
She pulls her mother’s quarter over her head and looks at it, holding it between delicate fingers. She observes it and strokes it with her thumbs. She is silent. He would like her to speak her thoughts but he can’t push her. He has to be patient, present and caring to help her through the grieving process. The last thing he wants is her feeling isolated or alone right now. He would just like her to know that she isn’t and that he’ll always be there for her if she needs him, if she lets him. Any time of day or night. Always.
“Have you ever noticed the coins on tombstones in military cemeteries?” He asks.
“Coins?”
“Yes. Pennies, dimes and quarters.” She shakes her head no. “They each have a different meaning. The penny is a message for the soldier’s family to let them know that someone stopped by and paid their respect. A nickel means that you and the deceased soldier trained at boot camp together. If you served with the soldier, you leave a dime. A quarter is very significant though; it means that you were there when that soldier was killed.”
“I didn’t know that.” She studies her coin. “You believe this coin was a way for my mom to connect with my father?”
“I don’t know what to think really, Scully. I just recalled that at your mother’s funeral.” Her eyebrows furrows and she closes her eyes a few minutes. “Scully?” He calls softly, his hand finding her forearm again.
“I’m sorry, I um, I just remembered the night my father died.”
“Are you gonna leave this up all year?” Ahab asked, inspecting the angel atop her Christmas tree.
“Yup. All year. Since you always made us take the tree down the day after Christmas, I’m making up for lost time.”
“If your idea of a good time is to pick up dried pine needles, treat yourself.”
“My father insisted on putting the angel on top of the family Christmas tree himself every year,” she explains. He nods and silence settles again. He lets her travel through her memories. After a while, she speaks again. “I guess, in a way, your quarter story fits; Mom was there when Ahab passed.”
Mulder nods. “Your mother is with your father again now.”
She stares into his eyes. Her gaze is warm, not only because of the leftover tears but also like a blessing. A peaceful bliss. “Yes,” she murmurs.
He lets her take in that idea and feeling, then a few moments later he asks her, “What did you mean earlier about the four winds?”
“Hand me your phone,” she says, holding out her hand. He looks surprised. “Internet, Mulder.”
“Oh yeah, that weird thing from the twenty-first century,” he humors, tucking in his pocket and giving her his phone.
She smiles and then she taps something out before reading, “And after these things I saw four angels standing on the four corners of the earth, holding the four winds of the earth, that the wind should not blow on the earth, nor on the sea, nor on any tree. Revelation 7:1. The quarter is the fourth wind.”
“What does it mean?”
“I believe it’s about the spiritual characteristics of the wind. One spiritual characteristic is that it represents God’s judgment.” Mulder shakes his head, not sure how to understand her point. “These spiritual winds of judgment are being held back from blowing on the earth, and Matthew speaks of God gathering his people after the wind of judgment blows upon the earth: And He shall send His angels with a great sound of a trumpet, and they shall gather together His elect from the four winds, from one end of heaven to the other.”
“Like your father’s Christmas angels?”
“Maybe. It’s all very confusing. It’s hard to connect the dots, but it could be something. I just wish I knew what this quarter meant to her. I had not thought about my dad until you mentioned those tombstones coins.” He nods. “And I like that.” She thinks. “I like that this quarter leads to Dad.”
He wait a bit, thinking about it all too. “I gather these four winds have different significances?”
She searches the Internet again. “North is the direction of God’s throne. It is the symbol of power, majesty, and authority. South is the direction of comfort, refreshment, and quietness. The East Wind is the wind of judgment that will blow before the New Day. The West Wind blows from the setting of the sun; it reveals the end of the day, or the end of the age, and the restoration of all things.”
“Which one is the fourth?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she murmurs. She reads: “As God’s Word reveals its mysteries and the secrets of the four winds, we can begin to understand where we are in God’s time table of endtime events. God determines when and which of the four winds will blow upon mankind.”
“Judgment day?”
“What does it mean?” She pleads. She sighs and hides her face in her hands.
All of a sudden, Scully falls apart. She bursts into heavy, body-shaking, wretched sobs, taking Mulder by surprise. He hastily goes around the table. He grabs her arms and pulls her into a tight hug. His hands are flat on her back and press her against him. He feels like he’s being ripped apart by her pain. But all he can do is hold her tight and let her soak his tee. Tears break free from his own eyes and he squeezes his eyes shut. He struggles to keep his composure. He puts one hand behind her head and strokes her hair tenderly while she grabs and pulls at his shirt as if she’s drowning in her own tears. He feels her other hand kneading his back with her fingernails. He can almost feel her heart breaking as she clings to him. He can almost hear her inwardly screaming at her mother’s death and suffocating with each breath she mechanically and painfully takes. There isn’t anything worse, any heavier or more savage pain than feeling hers. He leans his cheek on the top of her head, trying to embrace her as fully as possible, to reconnect his soul to hers although the connection was never really lost, only became sort of a long-distance call.
“You’re shaking,” he says softly, “come on, let’s sit down.”
He presses her shoulder against his rib cage and takes her to the couch. When they sit on the edge of the sofa, he soothingly embraces her again. He squeezes her shoulder. I’m here, this means. Her weeps soften as she buries her face in his chest.
Mulder lies back down against the cushions at the end of the couch, and she leans up against him, still tightly wrapped in his protective, caring and loving embrace. He runs his hand through her hair from time to time to calm and soothe her silent tempest.
After a long moment, when most of her sobs and panting have lessened to a quiet mourning, he speaks again. “A tired bird was resting on a branch for support. It enjoyed the view from the branch and the safety it offered from dangerous animals. A strong wind started blowing and the branch started swaying back and forth, with such great intensity, that it seemed that it was going to break. But the bird was not in the least worried for it knew two important truths. One was that even without the branch it was able to fly and thus remain safe through the power of its own two wings. The second is that there are many other branches upon which it can temporarily rest.”
She pulls back a little and lays her cheek on his shoulder. He tilts his face, just inches away from eyes, and looks at her crimson-flushed face and her consumed-by-pain bloodshot eyes.
“Your real strength does not lie in those external ephemeral things,” he continues, “but rather on your two internal wings of love and wisdom. These must become your security base, your source of enjoyment and happiness.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Mulder, the philosopher.” Tears threaten at the corners of her eyes again, but she smiles at him. “Thank you for coming over, Mulder,” she says with a cracking voice. He cups her face with one hand and wipes her face. “Can you stay a while longer?”
“Of course.” He presses his lips to her forehead and she closes her eyes.
She pillows her head on his chest again, folding her legs onto the couch. He gently strokes her back. Moments later, they both sleep, loosely wrapped around each other’s arms.
When he puts on his jacket in the morning, ready to say goodbye and leave, he asks her, “Can I come for tea and hang around with you for an hour or two tonight or tomorrow?”
She lifts her chin to him and smiles softly. “I’d like that.”