From xangst@frii.com Fri Apr 25 17:37:40 1997 Subject: NF> The Game (1/1) From: Myth Patrol -------- ********** Summary: A Mrs. Mulder story and my interpretation of how the 'choice' between the two children was really made. Story Conspiracy Angst Disclaimer: Not me. I didn't do it, nobody saw me do it, you can't prove anything. Not only that, but I didn't get any money for it, so who cares? In other words, no copyright infringement intended. Warnings: none. No sex, no spoilers, no Scully. Not even that much bad language. This is suitable for anyone, but I think the mothers out there will understand it most deeply. This is pure Mrs. Mulder angst. Archive as you wish. XA and EMXC Disclaimers apply. Comments welcome. The Game By Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net Rotary Park, Ball Field No. 4 Chillmark, MA June 12, 1973 4:35 pm "Strike two!" I'm still not sure why I subject myself to this. It's hot here in the sun, the ball field is too far away to get the breeze off the shore. The grass is dry weeds, the sand gets caught in the trail of the station wagons pulling into the gravel parking lot and kicks in the air, creating a fine dust that covers everything, including the picnic basket. I'm hot and sticky and very tense. Each thrown pitch brings me out of my webbed lawn chair. I look around me and notice the stares. They all think I'm overprotective. But I ignore them. I have good reason to be terrified. Bill often tells me that Fox is old enough to go by himself to his ball games. The field is only 6 blocks from our house. But I don't see it that way. He's just a little boy. He's not even twelve. And the look on his face, the grim determination in his eyes, when he's doing something he likes, no, he *loves*--he loses all sense of his own preservation. It frightens me when he gets that look. I can almost smell the danger there. He has that look now. The pitcher's face is getting red and he lets the ball go with the force of a rocket. I see it hurtling toward Fox, I hear the thud as it hits--not the crack of a bat, the thud of projectile hitting living flesh and the sickening crack of bone. A collective gasp rises around me. "Hit batter!" Oh, my God, I'm on my feet and running out onto the field before anyone can stop me. The coach gets to Fox just seconds ahead of me and Fox is lying on the ground, holding his leg. He's holding back the tears until he looks up and sees me and then they fall down his cheeks because no little boy can hold his pain back from his mother. I'm cradling him and smoothing his hair as the coach is running a hand over the leg. Fox whimpers and then cries out and I'm crying and I can't even see well enough to look for myself, but I already know it's serious. "Mrs. Mulder, I'll get my car. We'll get him to the emergency room. Don't worry." Nice platitude. A little late. I was worried before this happened, now I'm frantic. "Could someone call my husband?" I'm actually surprised that I have the presence of mind to remember to call Bill. He's at home, with Samantha. He'll meet us at the hospital. Fox is still whimpering, but is calming a little. I can tell the leg hurts him badly, but the rest of the team has gathered around us and he refuses to let them see him cry. He grits his teeth as his teammates gawk at his injured leg. "Geez, Mulder, you took that one *hard*!" "Hey, Fox, how come you never do stuff like that in the school year? That's gotta be worth a week home in bed, easy!" "Well, there goes our lead. Without you in right field, Mulder, we're creamed." It never ceases to amaze me how little boys can arrange their priorities. "Gosh, d'ya think you're out for the rest of the season?!" I notice my son flinch at that remark. It's obvious that he hadn't gotten past the pain in his leg. Once again, the consequences of his action are revealed to him far to late to affect the outcome. At least, I pray it would have affected the outcome. "Sweetheart, why did you stand so close to the plate?" I moan. A stupid question, I know. Through gritted teeth, my son answers. "I was tryin' to piss him off , Mom." At my stern glare, he amends his statement. "Oh, darn, I mean, make him mad. Sorry." He honestly thinks I'm angry at his vulgarity and not the recklessness of his actions. I shake my head and use a wet nap someone has given me to wipe the grit and dirt from his face. He's shivering and I look around frantically, trying to find where the coach has gone, where the car is to take us to the hospital. And he's there, with the car. The umpire and the coaches from each team lift Fox and carry him to the car. Our coach's wife is helping me up and steering me toward the car door, telling me that she ran home to call Bill and he'll meet us at the hospital. I sit in the back, with Fox's head on my lap. I notice not for the first time how long his legs have gotten over the past year. He's almost as tall as I am now. It's cramped in the back seat and his face is getting ashen from the pain. "It hurts bad, mommy," he whispers. I can't remember the last time he's called me 'mommy'. Far too long. I know he doesn't want his coach to hear him. This is just for my ears. He knows I'll keep his secret. "Shhhh, I know baby boy, I know," I croon, softly enough so that he can hear, but not loud enough for the person in the front seat. "Will Dad be there? At the hospital?" he asks, still quiet, but it sounds weak to my ears. He has no idea how much this is frightening me. "Yes, sweetie, I'm sure he will be. Mrs. Timons called him. He'll be there, Fox, I promise." And I know Bill is rushing to get there, even as we are rushing ourselves. It seemed that Fox is always getting taken to the emergency room or the doctors. He's not a clumsy boy. He just takes risks no other sane person would consider. Always climbing the tree with the weakest limbs, always swinging on the rope that's already old and frayed. Always seeing just how far he can push before he tumbles through the looking glass. "Mommy, I don't feel so good," he murmurs. I can see he's very pale and I know what those words mean. He's going to be sick. I search the backseat for something he can throw up into. "Mr. Timons, he's going to be sick," I warned the coach. He glances back at me over his shoulder and sighs. "Here, let him use this," Mr. Timons says, handing me a small trash can that fits over the hump in the front seat. Just in time. Fox has never had a strong stomach and pain manages to make it even more sensitive. "I'm sorry, Mr. Timons. I'm sorry," he moans when he's finished. "Nothing to be sorry for, big guy. Nothing at all. We're almost there, Fox. Just a couple more blocks. We're almost there," his coach assures him. I notice we are now exceeding the posted speed limit. I don't really mind. The screech of the tires alerts me to the fact that we are at the emergency room entrance. Mr. Timons runs in and tells the staff that we need a gurney. I sit and feel helpless as two nurses and an orderly fumble to get my son out of the back seat. He cries out as they move him and I can't stop myself from trembling. He's going to be all right, I keep repeating to myself. He's going to be all right. Bill is there now, helping me out of the back seat. I barely notice Samantha hanging on to his hand as we hurry through the double glass doors. No waiting room chairs for me this time. The staff pushes the gurney directly to the emergency room, behind white curtains. Bill nods to the door and I go through them alone. Fox is being surrounded by women in white pant suits, taking his temperature, cutting his pants leg to expose the injury. It's then that I see the white bone sticking through pale skin and almost clotted red blood that hasn't managed to soak through the rough polyester fabric of his little league uniform. The room gets incredibly cold and dark gray and I'm falling, . . . I hate the acrid smell of ammonia that greets me as I open my eyes. Bill is leaning down over me as the nurse pulls back. "I think she'll be fine, Mr. Mulder. It's pretty gruesome when you see your first compound fracture. I'd probably pass out cold if it was my kid, too." She's young, in her early twenties if she's a day. And blond. Way too blond to be natural. "Yes, I'm sure she'll be fine. Thank you. I'll take it from here." Bill, ever efficient, is handing me a glass of water and helps me to sit up on the sofa in the waiting room. Samantha is sitting there across from us, eyes wide, frightened. I smile at her and she finally smiles back. "Gosh, mama, are you OK?" she asks, getting down off the chair to come stand next to me. I pull her into my lap. "I'm fine, pumpkin. Just fine. I just got a little, ah, hot. That's all. The other room is awful hot. So people don't catch cold, probably." It's a complete fabrication, but I don't dare tell her the truth. Samantha would be beside herself if she knew the true extent of her brother's injury. "Sammi, why don't you go see if you can find something to watch on the TV over there and let Mama catch her breath, OK?" Bill guides Sam over to a chair close to the waiting room TV, far enough away from us so that she won't be party to our conversation. She obeys happily. "What happened, Sweetheart?" he asks me, taking my hand in his. I almost start crying anew at the look of concern in his eyes. "Wild pitch. Fox was crowding the plate and that made the pitcher mad. Has the doctor been out?" I ask. I need to know what is happening with Fox before I can answer any more questions. "No," Bill says, glancing at the double doors at the far end of the room. "They said they were taking him to X Ray. That was almost a half hour ago. What could be taking so long?" I can tell my husband is close to losing his patience. "It's a bad fracture, Bill. I'm sure they want to get as many X Rays as possible before they set the bone. He'll need more stitches, too, I suppose. More for his 'collection'," I add with a grim smile. Bill pats my hand. He knows how terrible this is for me. Fox is my biggest worry. I've worried about him since I first found out I was pregnant with him. He's my first born, my beautiful baby boy. He's always been so headstrong, never thinking about what could happen. So smart and yet, he has never been grounded to the realities of life. I'm always afraid for him. Worried that something awful will happen to him. Something that I can not stop. The double doors open and a man in green scrubs and a white lab coat enters the waiting room. I don't miss the smudges of blood on his coat. My baby's blood. I close my eyes again, willing my heart to calm down, my breathing to steady. Be strong, be strong. "Mr. and Mrs. Mulder? Hello. I'm Dr. Leets. I'm taking care of Fox." Dr. Leets shakes Bill's hand and nods in my direction. Samantha has come over to stare at him, her arms wrapped tightly around Bill's leg. She knows she'll be shooed back away, but for the moment, she wants to be with us, perhaps to hear how her brother is. "Dr. Leets, how is our son?" I try not to let my panic color my voice. Dr. Leets ignores my question and kneels down to Sammi's level. "Hey, young lady, why don't you go over to that door and see if a nurse with red hair can't find you a coloring book and crayons while I talk to your mommy and daddy? Does that sound good to you?" Dr. Leets speaks directly to Samantha. I feel Bill's grip on my arm. Obviously, Dr. Leets is concerned that whatever he has to say might upset Samantha. That upsets me, as well. I watch my daughter look up to her father for reassurance. Bill reluctantly nods his approval, hesitating for a split second. Almost as if having Sammi near us will make the news easier to take. Sammi gives us both one last look and goes off to find the red haired nurse. "Why don't we sit down over here," Dr. Leets says to us. We follow him over to the sofa and chairs we just vacated. "Mr. and Mrs. Mulder, your son is going to be fine. He suffered a compound fracture to the right femur. The ball had to have been traveling pretty fast to break the bone." He shakes his head and reviews the chart in his hands. "That's the simple part. Unfortunately, the break occurred very close to the growth plate near the knee. As you are well aware, your son is growing, almost before your very eyes, I'm sure. They all do at this age. So, I am particularly concerned with this fracture. I've ordered an operating room and would like to set the bone, then immobilize it with steel pins. We'll keep Fox for a couple of days and then he can go home. He should be confined to his bed for a period of two or three weeks, until we can safely remove the pins. At that time, we'll see how the leg is healing. If all is going well, we'll put him in a walking cast and he can start using crutches. The bone will take anywhere from 4 to 6 weeks to heal completely, but if we run into complications, it could take two months. A heck of a way to ruin a summer, but these things happen. Too often, I'm afraid." "Should we consider moving him to Boston? To an orthopedic surgeon?" Bill asks. I know his concern. Chillmark is a small town, the hospital is just a way station, at best. A frown crosses the doctor's eyes. "Mr. Mulder, you have a very frightened little boy in that room over there. In a lot of pain. We can take care of him, have him prepped for surgery in about 15 minutes. It's not a difficult procedure, I've done many of them before. Or, I can give him something that will probably just dampen the pain, and then shuttle him off into an ambulance for the one and half hour ride to a hospital in Boston, and that's if the Ferry is cooperative. Of course, it's your decision. But I really think the results will be the same. I did my residency at one of the larger Boston hospitals and I know all the doctors on staff. I can call in any one of them to consult on this case, if you wish. But I think for your son's sake, we should expedite this matter." I'm gripping Bill's hand so tightly that my own fingers begin to tingle. The tears are burning in the back of my throat and I'm doing everything I can to keep from screaming at Bill to give his approval, allow Dr. Leets to take care of Fox as quickly as humanly possible. I know Bill can sense what I'm feeling. "Of course," Bill says with a tired swipe at his forehead. "You're right. Please, forgive me. I'm just concerned for my son." Dr. Leets gives us both a reassuring smile. "As are we all, Mr. Mulder. He's a very brave young man. Now, I have some arrangements to make. You may go in to see him for a few minutes if you like. And, of course, I'll come talk to you again following the surgery." Fox is lying so still on the gurney. He's been dressed in a hospital gown that looks too big for him. There is an IV needle in his hand, with copious amounts of tape around it. It must be bothering him and he wants the nurses to make sure it won't move. Even as he appears to be calm, I see the tear tracks down his face. How he must have hated to have these others, these strangers, see him cry. It breaks my heart. "Hi, Buddy," Bill says to him, brushing Fox's hair off his forehead. "hi, dad," Fox says and tries to smile. Then he looks anxiously at me. "mom, you OK?" I take his hand and squeeze, nodding my assurance. "Fox, we have to talk about your stance at the plate," Bill teases mildly, and Fox's smile warms a couple of degrees. "i know, dad. but with runners on all the bases and two outs, a hit batter would have given us a run and a solid lead." Fox grimaces a little and sighs. "dumb idea, huh?" "Not one of your better decisions, son, no," Bill says to him. "But I hope it taught you a lesson." "don't piss off a guy with a mean fast ball?" Fox says through a lop-sided grin. "Always go for the hit, not the hit batter," Bill corrects him. "Deceptive plays will never win, Fox. Remember that." Fox nods and closes his eyes. When he opens them, he turns to me. "what now? when can i go home?" I recognize that voice. I know he's scared and wants me to make it all better. My eyes fill with tears and I look over to Bill to answer him. "Well, son, they have to fix that leg first. You hurt it pretty badly. They're going to have to operate. You'll be asleep and then when you wake up, you'll have a cast on it. They want to keep you here for a couple of days. Then we'll take you home." "how about the team? when can i play?" Fox asks. "There'll be other summers, son. You'll be out there next summer, I promise." Bill cups Fox's cheek in his hand and wipes the silent tears away with his thumb. "There now, it's going to be all right. We might have to move a TV into your room for awhile, right Mother? You're going to have to stay in bed a couple of weeks. But you'll do fine, I know it." I choke on my own tears as Fox swallows and nods, accepting his fate. "you'll be here when i wake up?" he asks, again turning to me for the answer. This time, I can't look away. "Of course, baby boy. I won't leave here until you do, OK? They won't be able to drag me out." I know the words are simply meant to assure him, but I mean every syllable of them. The nurse comes in with a syringe and I hold his hand as he closes his eyes against the shot. I can see the tears brimming on the edges of his eyelashes and it makes me ache inside. I hate this, every minute of it. I would trade places with him, do anything in the world to make this all a bad dream that we can both wake up from. The orderly is getting ready to take him away from me, but not before I lean over and kiss him on the cheek. "Good night, Fox. I'll see you in the morning," I whisper in his ear. It's our good night ritual, I've done this a thousand times before. I'll do it as long as he'll let me. "night, mom," he murmurs and fades into a drug induced sleep. The surgery takes longer than we expected. Sam falls asleep in her father's arms. I can't rest, I pace the waiting room, and every time I close my eyes I see my son in my arms, tears down his cheeks, in pain, looking to me to help him. And I can't. I can't help him at all. After an eternity, Dr. Leets comes out to us. He assures us that everything went well, that Fox is going to recover with full use of his leg. I'm relieved, but I only want to be with him. I promised him I would be there when he wakes up. I hurry up to the room and push open the door. Fox is still asleep and he looks so small and frail. I drop into the chair next to his bed and reach out of take his hand. Bill brings Sam up to the room for a moment, she's tired, but climbs up on the bed rails to lean over and place a kiss on her brother's forehead. Bill helps her down and tells her to wait for him in the hall. "I can't do much more of this, Bill," I say, more to myself than to him. "I can't. If anything were to happen to him, . . ." The tears I have been holding back are streaming down my face. "I couldn't live if anything happened to him, Bill. You know that. I couldn't live." My concentration is on my son, I don't notice the look on my husband's face. But I hear him sigh heavily, as if a great decision has been made, one that I am unaware of. Bill then kisses me softly on the top of my head and leaves for home. He'll be back in the morning. I'll stay with our son tonight. the end Vickie Is it May 23rd yet?? ----------------------------------------------------------- If you're going to have delusions of grandeur, you may as well go for the really satisfying ones. --Marcus (oh, *baby*!), B5 ----------------------------------------------------------- xangst@frii.com http://members.aol.com/TheDeanXF/XA.html ----------------------------------------------------------- Queen of Angst Mysterious & Suspicious EX-Smoker for Scully Extreme Possibilities Skinner Chick Genteel Ladies Writing Guild X-Patriot Defender of Moose Intubation NoRomo-and proud of it! Stubborn Millennium Fan ----------------------------------------------------------- Now I think the world is a dark place full of run-down buildings and weird people who can squeeze into small places. --A newbie X-Phile ----------------------------------------------------------- Subbasement supporter--"We're down here, and we *like* it!" *********************************************************** _ _ \ / For information \ / X A N G S T please see our website: / \ Anonymous / \ http://members.aol.com/TheDeanXF/XA.html - - ***********************************************************