My Life as a Puzzle (2 of 2)
Title: My Life as a Puzzle (part 2 of 2)
Author: msk
Email: msk1024@yahoo.com
Rating: PG
Keyword: M/S,
Spoilers: None.
Summary: It's 11 years after the events of the Fringe
Series and 13 year old Kate has a lot of questions
about her parents, her life and the secrets that
surround her.
I wake in the morning to the smell of bacon and wonder
immediately if I'm in the wrong house. Mom never cooks
bacon. We eat stuff like oatmeal and granola for
breakfast around here. And fresh fruit.
I'm so tired. I lay awake a long time last night. I
couldn't stop thinking about Dad and his scars and the
bad person that hurt him. I was restless, even after I
slept. I burrow down in the covers and try to fall
back to sleep, but the smell of bacon won't let me.
I get dressed and go downstairs.
I almost trip over Mr. Skinner's suitcase by the front
door as I come down the stairs. In the kitchen, Mom
is just sitting down at the table. Dad and Mr. Skinner
are filling their plates with eggs and bacon and toast.
"Good morning, Kate," Mom says as I take my seat at
the table. "I didn't know if you were going to sleep in."
"Couldn't go back to sleep," I say, as Mom hands me a
glass of orange juice.
After last night, this feels weird. How can they all act like
nothing is wrong? I fill my plate and settle back to watch
Dad. He seems better than he did last night.
He and Skinner are talking about the FBI and Dad looks
pretty relaxed.
"You remember Patterson?" Skinner asks.
"I'd pay a million dollars to be able to forget Patterson," Dad
laughs. "Unfortunately, he's seared into memory."
"His parole appeal was turned down."
"Thank God," Mom says. "He's deeply disturbed and
should never be released."
"I worked for him for two of the longest years of my life,
Dad says. "But I learned a lot from him."
"I thought you worked for Mr. Skinner," I say. "On the
weird cases."
"That was later. I started out as a profiler, working for
Patterson in the Investigative Science Unit."
"Your dad was probably the finest criminal profiler the
bureau ever had," Skinner says.
"Wow," I say.
After breakfast, Skinner shakes Dad's hand and gives
Mom a huge hug. I watch Dad, but he seems okay
with it. Skinner drives away while Mom and Dad
stand in the yard and wave.
My mind keeps coming back to Dad as a profiler. I've
never been particularly interested in crime shows on
TV, but I know that profilers investigate serial killers.
And I know that serial murders are often horrible and
gruesome. Like the guy they found in Lakeville.
Later that morning, Dad goes out to his workshop to
finish sanding the dresser. Mom gets called into the
morgue after a possible suicide in Bridgewater.
As soon as I hear Mom's car drive off, I head down
to their office and poke around the bookshelves. Mom
and Dad have quite a collection--everything from
books on ghost ships, paranormal activity and even
some on UFOs. But the books I'm looking for are
in their own section.
Psychopathology, forensic psychology. Big heavy
books that have bookmarks and notes in Dad's
handwriting. In among these works are some smaller
books with titles like "Mindhunter" and "Inside the
Minds of Serial Killers."
Serial killers. I never realized how many books Dad had
on serial killers. I guess I never paid much attention.
I flip through a bunch of them, taking some to read in
my room. I rearrange the remaining books on the
shelves so no one will notice some are gone.
I spend most of the weekend holed up in my room
with the serial killer books. I tell Mom and Dad that
I have a big project for school. Mom seems so happy
that I'm applying myself to my schoolwork. I feel a
tiny sting of guilt at my lie.
It's tough going with the big books which are dry and
technical and not exciting at all. I'm used to reading
hard books, but these are hard even for me. The
smaller books are more interesting and easier to read.
Some of the stuff is really gross, though.
I read about the disgusting murders--the creepy
old guy who skinned his victims and cut up their bodies
and totally repulsive Jeffrey Dahmer who did worse
than that. It doesn't take more than that to convince
me that whoever hurt Dad and those people was one
of these monsters.
Whoever did this must have left Dad for dead, not
realizing how really strong he is. Dad never gives up.
As near as I can tell, the kind of big gap between
Dad being found years ago and the bodies that have
turned up recently is usually due to the killer being out
of commission for a while. Usually, the guy is in jail,
but sometimes they're in a mental hospital.
I want to ask Mom if the police are investigating the
case, but I'd have to tell her that I was listening to
her conversation with Skinner. I try the indirect
approach when Dad is in the shower on Monday
morning.
"Mom," I start. "When Dad was hurt, back when I
was a baby. . .did they look for the guy that did it?"
"Sweetheart," she says, taking my hand. She looks
surprised and worried all at once. "To be honest, we're
really not sure what happened to your dad back then. He
was obviously hurt very badly, but he doesn't have any
memory of those injuries. Of course there was an
investigation, but we never found out what was done
to him. I don't want you to worry about Dad. He's
healed and well now."
"But what if the person that did it and comes back?" I ask.
"That's not going to happen," Mom says, releasing my
hand with a squeeze. "Please don't worry about this."
I don't even get a chance to push her further because Dad
comes into the kitchen. I wonder if Mom ever told him
about the body they found with the same cuts. He doesn't
seem edgy or worried or anything like that, but he's so hard
to read. I'm not sure how he'd act if he thought something
bad might happen.
Mom slings her laptop case over one shoulder and heads
off for work. I watch Dad as he pours a bowl of cereal
and douses it with milk. I know Dad isn't weak, but he
seems so defenseless as he eats breakfast.
"Hey Dad, why don't I stay home today and help you
with that dresser? The customer was really hoping to
get that soon."
Dad chokes on his cereal. "Let you cut school? You're
kidding right?"
"I'm serious," I say. "I'm so bored, Dad. The other kids
take so long to catch up to me. I don't have any tests
today, so it won't matter if I'm there or not."
Dad's smiles and gives me a hug. "It's frustrating when
you have to wait for everyone else to get to where you
were last week. But, no. You will not be cutting school.
My customer can wait a couple more days."
I argue a little more, but I can tell that Dad isn't going to
budge. I get on the school bus, my head still back in the
workshop with Dad. I worry that the murderer might
come back for Dad and there won't be anybody to help him.
Mr. Giotto springs a pop quiz on us and my mind goes
blank on which Punic War was called "The War Against
Hannibal." All I can think of is Hannibal Lector.
"What's up?" Haystack asks at lunch, when I barely
touch my mystery nuggets. "You're acting all weird."
"You're weird," I shoot back. I give up on the nuggets.
"You want these?" He nods and I pass him my plate.
It's a dumb question, really. Haystack never passes up
food. He hates being on the free lunch list, but it doesn't
stop him from loading his tray every day. We usually
sit together at lunch, since we're both kind of outsiders
at Mohawk Regional High.
"I mean it, Beanpole. Something's up with you."
The weight of worry about Dad is so heavy, I can't
carry it alone one more second. All it takes, apparently,
is for Haystack to look at me with those damn cow
eyes of his and it's like someone turned on a faucet.
The story pours out of me like a gush of water.
"Why don't you ask your Mom," Haystack says.
"She'd know whether the police are looking for a
Y-incision-making serial killer."
"I tried. I asked her if whoever hurt Dad might
try to come back. She completely blew me off. She
still thinks I'm a kid."
"Technically speaking, you are a kid."
"Thank you for that vote of confidence. Hey...what
if we went to the police?"
"They're gonna laugh at you," Haystack says with a hoot.
I can't think of anything else to do, so after school,
I call home and tell Dad that I'm staying late for
debate club and that I'll get a ride home. Haystack
doesn't call home. Nobody there cares what time he
gets home.
We board the school bus, but get off at the stop that's
near the center of Sachem. There's not much to the
town: the library, a gas station, a convenience store, a
couple of churches and the town hall. The police station
is located in the basement of town hall.
Haystack and I walk over to the town hall, but he
hangs back when we come to the police office door.
All of a sudden, I remember his father in prison.
"You can wait for me," I say. I want him to come
with me so much, but it's a lot to ask of anybody.
"No," he says. "I want to be there when they
crack up."
"Thanks," I say, hitting him in the arm. We open
the door and go in.
Picture the Mayberry sheriff's office from the Andy
Griffith Show, and you pretty much have Sachem's
set up. The jail cells aren't right out front, and the
chief's office is off the main room, but the sleepy,
boring feeling is right there.
When I was in the fourth grade, we came to the
police station on a class trip. They let us go in the
empty cells and then they clanged the doors shut
for a couple of minutes. That and getting finger-
printed were the highlights of the trip.
I ask the officer at the desk if we can talk to someone
about a serial murderer. The cop can barely stifle a
laugh before he tells us to wait and goes into the
other room. I hear him say something about "kids
who watch too much CSI." A second later, he comes
out and sends us back to Chief Putnam.
"Have a seat," Chief Putnam says, indicating two
wooden chairs opposite his desk. "Why don't you
all tell me your names?"
My hands are sweating as I grip the arms of the
chair and sit down. I glance over at Haystack and
he looks scared.
"I'm Katherine Mulder," I say.
"Kevin Haystrup." Haystack's voice cracks on his
last name.
"Haystrup...name's familiar," Putnam says, then
he looks at me. "And you. Your mother is Dr.
Scully, isn't she."
I nod, swallowing hard. I felt a lot braver before
he mentioned Mom.
"Why don't you tell me what brings you here."
"Um...I was wondering if there was any kind
of investigation going on."
"What kind of investigation, Miss Mulder?"
"Like of a serial killer."
Chief Putnam sits back in his chair and smiles
at me like I'm a dumb kid.
"Is this about the article in the newspaper?
Your mother can probably tell you more about
that than I can, honey."
"What...what article in the newspaper?" I stammer.
Chief Putnam reaches down into his wastepaper
basket and pulls out the newspaper. He shuffles
through a couple of pages before flattening the
paper on his desk and smoothing it flat.
"This--right here," he says, handing me the
paper. My hands shake as I take it from him.
It's the Sachem Sentinel, our weekly paper.
*Autopsy Results Inconclusive on Mutilated Body*
It isn't the big headline, but it's on the front page.
My mind races as I scan the article that talks
about the body found at Wononskopomuc Lake
and mentions Mom as having performed the autopsy.
And it gave details about the pattern of cuts on the
body. It identifies the victim as a local man, Joseph
LaValley, who went missing from a fishing trip in
the summer.
At least this hadn't made the Hartford Courant, thank
goodness. At least it hadn't yet. We get that paper
delivered and Dad reads it every morning. They'd
had something about the guy found at the lake, but
no details of what was done to him.
Maybe Dad hasn't seen the Sentinel.
"I don't know where you got the idea that this was
a serial killing, but we don't have any evidence of that.
Not that I should be even talking about the case with
you," he says. "You go ask your mother if you have
questions, young lady."
It's pretty clear that this visit is over when Chief Putnam
stands up. We do the same and he guides us out the
door. He asks the officer out in the main office to
drive us home and I figure he doesn't want Mom to
yell at him for letting us walk home.
We ride in the back of the police cruiser, behind the
bulletproof glass. I don't try the doors, but I'm pretty
sure they don't open from the inside. I tell the officer
that he doesn't need to pull all the way up to the
house when we get to the end of my driveway.
Thank God, he doesn't insist. He just gets out and
opens the door for me. I guess it's true--it wouldn't
open from the inside. I say goodbye to the officer and
to Haystack, who looks as miserable as I've ever seen
him as he sits alone in the back of the police car.
I walk up our driveway, praying hard that Dad didn't
go into town today. Some days, he drives to the Bluebird
Cafe to have lunch or to the hardware store for supplies.
As I climb the back steps, I hear loud voices.
"You think I'm a head case, Scully. Why don't you admit
it?"
"Mulder, please. I didn't want to worry you."
"Bodies are turning up and you don't want to worry me?
Give me a little credit here."
Despite my recent career as an eavesdropper, I would
rather be anywhere--even in health class--than here,
listening to these angry words.
"We're not even sure these bodies are related to what
happened to you," Mom says, her voice shaking.
"What was the point of upsetting you?"
"Not sure they're related? You've got to be kidding,
Scully. We both know what the bodies mean. That's
why you called Skinner isn't it?"
"I was upset, Mulder. I needed to talk to someone."
"And you couldn't talk to me. I get it, Scully. You don't
see me as functional. I'm a freak to you."
"No," Mom says. "God, no, Mulder."
I can't stand out here listening to this, but busting
in on them in the middle would be even worse. I make
as much noise as I can out on the steps.
The commotion works, because they get quiet as I
open the door. They both look at me when I walk in.
Mom brushes tears from her eyes and stands up
real straight.
"Kate," she says. "You're very late."
I'd kind of hoped that she'd be too distracted to notice.
"I stayed after for debate club."
"When did you join debate club?" Mom asks. "You
never mentioned it before."
"I called and told Dad," I say.
"She did." Dad's arms are folded across his chest, as
if for protection, or to hold himself together. He looks
so broken, I want to cry when I look at him. I think
Mom wants to cry too. She reaches out her hand but
pulls it back. He's all closed up.
The awkwardness is broken only when Dad says he
has some work to do in the barn. Mom's eyes follow
him as he heads out the door.
"Are you hungry?" she asks. "We have leftovers."
I nod and Mom heats up chicken and rice in the microwave.
Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she sits opposite me at
the kitchen table.
I look up from my plate to find Mom's eyes are on me.
They're shiny with tears. It seems like she wants
to say something, but can't make the words come out.
"What was Dad upset about?" I ask.
"Dad wasn't upset," Mom says. "He's just tired."
"I'm not a little kid, Mom. Tell me what's wrong," I say.
"Nothing," she says, shaking her head. "Everything is fine."
I look at her in disbelief. "Mom, everything is not fine."
"You sound just like your father." She dabs at her eyes
with a napkin, a sad smile on her face. "Really, Kate--
this isn't anything for you to worry about. Dad and I
have some things to work out."
It's clear that the subject is closed. Mom's face is
gentle but shuttered.
Dad doesn't come in the house until after I've
gone to bed and Mom has settled in her office
to work.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next few days are hard for all of us. It's
windy and rainy, the weather echoing the way
things feel inside the house.
Mom and Dad walk around like wounded animals.
I want to be mad at Mom for hurting Dad, but I can't.
I know exactly why she didn't tell him. I feel that
same need to protect him. It's not like he's weak.
He's not. He's strong and brave. But he's been
hurt so much, it's easy to believe he's broken.
Dad throws himself into his work. He's out in the
workshop or driving around looking for pieces. I
figure his muscles must ache a lot from all the
sanding because the bottle of ibuprofen lives on
his workbench these days.
Mom takes time off work. She says she has "things"
she needs to attend to, one of which is the house which
needs a good cleaning. This is bogus, since Mom calls
a cleaning service a couple of times a year. Personally,
I think she doesn't want to leave Dad alone.
So, since I'm home because of teacher development
day, Mom decides it's a great time to wash the windows
on the second floor. The weather has finally turned--
the wind calmed and the rain stopped. Whether I
want to help or not, doesn't matter. I'm drafted.
Mom tells me how much fun she and her sister had
helping Grandma with the spring and fall cleaning. I
think grownups make this stuff up about their
childhoods. I mean, it was either ten times harder
or all golden with wonderfulness.
I'm not having much fun as I wash the white-painted
woodwork on the window. I promise my future kids
that I won't make up stories about how great this was.
Mom sprays Windex on the little panes of glass and
wipes it away with paper towels. She has a little frown
line between her eyes. I think she's worrying about
Dad.
I try and distract myself from how much I hate swishing
the rag in the soapy water by looking out the window at
our property stretching back to the woods. The
grass is overgrown out there and it's turning brown as
the fall moves into winter.
There's a little flash of orange among the bushes at the
edge of our yard and it catches my eye. I think maybe
it's a candy wrapper but then it moves and I realize
there's someone out there.
"Mom," I say. "I think there's a man in the bushes out
there."
Mom stops her circular wiping motion as she looks down
at the wood. The man moves forward, and we see him
clearly now.
He's not wearing a coat, even though it's only around
40 degrees today. His clothes are rumpled and dirty,
and he holds his arms around his middle as he stumbles
across the grass.
Mom puts down the Windex and wipes her hands on
her jeans. The front door makes a very distinctive
ker-thunk when it shuts and it sounds very loud in
our ears as we stand in the spare bedroom.
Picking up the phone by the bed, she puts the receiver
to her ear and grimaces. Mom flicks the button a few
times. "Damn it. The phone line is dead and I left my
cell in my office."
Bad weather always screws up our phone service.
I don't know if the man is responsible for the phone
not working or if it's just a horrible coincidence.
I don't know which idea upsets me more.
"I'm scared," I say.
"Kate, listen to me very carefully," Mom says, her voice
is calm, but her hands are shaking. "I'm going to go
downstairs. I want you to wait 10 minutes and then go
down the back stairs and out that door. Get your dad
and get away from here and call the police."
"I don't want to leave you alone," I say. We can hear
the man moving around downstairs.
"Do exactly what I tell you," she says, gripping my arm
hard enough to leave a bruise. Mom stares into my eyes
until, my mouth dry as dust, I nod okay.
She hugs me so hard I can't breathe and then pushes me
away. Mom gives me one last look before she heads
downstairs. I move to the doorway, listening to Mom's
footsteps.
I try and wait as long as Mom said, watching the alarm
clock on the night table. It's so quiet downstairs and I'm
so frightened. The blood pounds in my ears.
I lose track of the minutes, and finally, can't wait any
longer. I tiptoe through the upstairs until I get to the
back steps. I keep a death grip on the banister and
inch my way down the steps. They're really creaky,
so I try and keep my feet on the sides of the steps
where the wood isn't as worn.
As I reach the bottom of the stairs, I hear voices
from the front of the house. One of the voices belongs
to Mom. I can't hear what she's saying, but I can
hear the tone in her voice, like she's trying to
sound calm and strong. The other voice is a man's
and he sounds really upset.
"What happened to me?" he shouts.
Mom says something that I can't make out.
"Tell me! You know what they did. You have to
tell me!"
I reach the back door, and just as I'm about
to turn the knob, I hear Mom cry out in pain.
All rational thought goes out of my mind in that
moment and I have to get to my mom.
I find Mom and the man in the living room. He
has a knife in one hand and a grip on Mom's
arm with the other one.
"Leave my mom alone!" I shout. They both turn
to look at me. Mom looks worried; the man looks
confused.
"Get over there," he says, waving the knife to indicate
the area behind Mom. He comes awfully close to her
face with the knife and she gasps. I move closer
to Mom and he lets go of her arm. Mom's arm is
all red where he was gripping it. She rubs it for a
few seconds and then lets it fall to her side.
"Tell me what they did," the man says. He sounds
so tired. Up close, I see that he has dark circles
under his eyes and his face is dirty.
"I don't know you," Mom says. "And I don't know
what happened to you."
"You cut up Joe. I read it in the paper. He was
there and they....they did stuff to him. "
"Joseph LaValley."
"Yeah. Tell me what they did to him." His face
contorts into a grimace as he pulls open his dingy
white shirt. "They did the same thing to me."
His chest is covered with the same network of
scars that my dad has. But while Dad's are now
puckered pink lines, these marks are angry,
purplish red.
"Listen," Mom says, her tone soft with sympathy.
"I'll tell you everything I can, but please let my
daughter go."
"I can't do that," he says. "Not before you tell
me what I want to know."
"What's your name?" Mom asks.
"I'm the one who's asking the questions," the man
says. It sounds like he's trying to be tough, but
I don't think it's natural to him.
"You want me to help you, don't you? Tell
me your name."
"Chris...Chris Tarpley," the man says after a moment
of hesitation.
"Thank you, Chris. You already know that I'm Dr.
Scully, from reading the newspaper. This is my
daughter, Kate."
I have no idea why Mom is doing the formal introduction
thing. I can't see the point in knowing the name of the
guy who might kill me. But maybe it's more about his
knowing our names.
"Chris, I want to help you. Unfortunately, the autopsy
of Mr. LaValley didn't give us any information about how
he died."
"But you could tell what they did to him," he says,
desperation clear in his voice. "You have to know
something."
At the sound of the back door opening, we all freeze in
place. Mom goes real white and the guy jerks like he
touched an electric wire. He pushes Mom out of the
way and in an instant grabs me and holds me in
front of him. He smells really bad and I fight to keep
from gagging. I can feel the cold metal of the knife as
it rests under my chin.
We hear noises from the kitchen, cabinet doors, the
fridge opening and closing.
"Kate! Scully!"
Dad repeats our names as he walks through the house,
his voice getting louder and louder. The man's
arm tightens around my neck as Dad gets closer.
Finally, Dad is in the doorway. I feel my knees go weak.
If it wasn't for the arm under my neck, I'd probably be
on the floor.
About seventy emotions cross Dad's face in a flash as
he takes in the scene before him. "I didn't know we
had company," he says calmly.
"This is Chris Tarpley, Mulder," Mom says, her voice
trembling. "Chris was hoping I could tell him what
happened to the man that was found by the lake."
"Where are you from, Chris?" Dad asks. I can't
believe how relaxed he sounds. I've got a knife at
my throat and Dad's making small talk. Whatever
Dad's trying, I don't think it's working because I
feel Tarpley's body go all rigid behind me.
"Wh....what does it matter."
"I'm always curious about where people are from,
where they're going. Humor me," Dad says, softly.
I'm terrified. Tarpley's arm is like a piece of wood
under my chin. Finally, he relaxes the littlest bit.
"Wisconsin. Eau Claire, Wisconsin."
"Wisconsin," Dad says. "I haven't been there in
years. We had some great barbecue there, didn't
we, Scully?"
"I think so," Mom says. She doesn't sound casual
like Dad. She sounds scared.
"So, what brought you all the way to Connecticut?"
"I came here to find Joe. I was hoping he knew what
happened to us. But I get here and find out he's
dead. The paper said she examined him." Tarpley
looks over at Mom like she let him down.
"You're frustrated and confused," Dad says. "You're
in agony wondering what happened to you, and you
came here hoping for answers."
"Yes," Tarpley says, his voice sounding ragged.
"Believe me, Chris, I want to help you. But I need
you to let go of my daughter."
It takes a few minutes, but Tarpley's arm loosens
around my neck. I test it, pushing it away a little bit
and he doesn't fight me. I finally make enough room
to slip out of his grasp. Dad's eyes narrow a tiny bit
as he's notices the scars on Tarpley's chest.
I run to Mom, who holds me way tighter than Tarpley,
but it couldn't be tight enough. I can't seem to stop
shaking.
"Did he hurt you?" She asks softly as she loosens her
grip enough to tip my head back and examine my
neck.
"I'm all right," I reply. Dad lets out a long breath and
nods.
"Thank you," he says to Tarpley "Do you want
something to eat? Maybe some water?"
Dad extends his hand, and I realize that he's been
holding a bottle of water. Tarpley nods slowly and Dad
gives him the bottle. He stares at the bottle for what
seems like a long time before opening it and downing
all the water.
"It's hard to have gaps in your memory," Dad says.
"Hard?" Tarpley snorts. "Try impossible. You
have no idea."
"You'd be surprised," Dad says. "Listen, maybe I
could help. Why don't you tell me what you remember?"
"What good would it do?"
"Won't know until you try it. You know more than you
realize. I used to be pretty good at finding things out."
The man wipes a dirty hand over his mouth and stares
at Dad. Finally, he starts to talk.
"I wanted a cigarette," Tarpley says. "Just a lousy
cigarette. My wife doesn't like me to stink up the house,
so after dinner, I'd take the dog for a walk and smoke.
I remember walking down the road. There must have
been a squirrel or something in the woods, because
before I know it, Astro is off and running and I'm
chasing after him, wheezing like a freight train."
"And then?" Dad asks, sounding calm and relaxed.
"What is he doing?" I whisper to Mom. She shushes
me and holds me a little bit tighter.
"The light looked funny, like it shimmers on a really
hot day at the beach. And there was a sound--or maybe
it was my ears ringing. Then...everything goes blank."
Dad nods. "Do you want to sit down?" he asks.
"You must be so tired."
Tarpley looks up at Dad, and I see what Dad
saw--he has purple shadows under his eyes and
looks like there is nothing holding him up but
air. Dad gestures to the sofa behind Tarpley. The
man's legs shake as he drops onto it.
I try and process what Tarpley is saying and
what it means. Funny light, funny sounds. That
doesn't sound like a serial killer.
"What else do you remember?" Dad asks.
"Nothing...nothing concrete. Just flashes
and images that don't make sense. Hard
surfaces, pain...cold...nothing else is clear."
"You remember Joe LaValley," Mom says.
"The man that was found by the lake."
A look passes between Mom and Dad--like
their signals are tuned together. "Tell me
what you remember about Joe."
"Joe's the only person I ever saw. Sometimes
I heard voices--people crying, whispering, but I
never saw anybody except Joe. We were in a
white room and it was so cold there. Joe would
be gone for days sometimes, and when he would
come back, he'd be sick and marked with cuts."
"They weren't hurting you then?" Dad's voice is
gentle, unthreatening. I'm amazed again, not at the
tone which is pure Dad, but at his persistence in
asking questions of someone who clearly wants to
jump out a window and run away.
"In the beginning it was only Joe--they didn't
touch me. Not then, at least."
"It must have been terrifying," Dad offers.
"Watching Joe suffer and wondering when that
was going to happen to you."
"What are you, some kind of shrink?" Tarpley
asks.
"Not anymore," Dad says. "Right now, all I want
is to help you, Chris. You came here for answers,
but I think maybe the answers are inside you."
"There's nothing inside me," Tarpley says, opening
his shirt wider to show his scars. "They hollowed
me out."
"It feels like that," Dad says. "But you're still you.
Different, but still you."
"What the hell do you know about it?" Tarpley
shouts.
"I know," Dad says. "I *know*."
"You know shit," Tarpley says, shaking his head.
"I'm like you," Dad says, softly. He slowly unbuttons
his flannel shirt and slips out of it. Then he draws his
tee shirt up and over his head.
"Wh...what is this?" Tarpley stammers. "How
many people are there?"
"I don't know how many. I think there are a lot
of us, but nobody talks about it. All I know is,
thirteen years ago, I was walking in the woods in
Oregon and something happened to me--something
I still don't completely understand."
"Oh God," Tarpley says. "You mean you still don't
know?"
"I have amnesia for the period before and after I was
taken. I had to come to grips with that fact.
There were terrible things that happened to me, but
I have no clear memory of them. When I was returned
I was confused, in terrible pain. Every siren, every
car alarm sent me into a panic attack."
"I can't stand being around people," Tarpley says.
"They make too much noise and if somebody bumps
into me, I feel like I'm going to jump out of my skin."
"I know what you're feeling, Chris. My fears kept me
away from my family for years. It's the biggest regret
of my life."
Tarpley looks down at his shaking hands. His mouth
is set in a grimace, and I think he's going to cry.
"Have you gone home to see your wife?" Dad asks,
pulling a chair opposite Tarpley.
Tarpley shakes his bowed head. "Look at me," Tarpley
says, raising his eyes to meet Dad's kind gaze. "I'm a freak.
She's better off without me."
"I thought that, too," Dad says. "I was wrong, wasn't
I, Scully?"
"Completely," Mom answers, and I realize she's crying.
"I wanted you back. I worried that something would
happen to you and I'd never see you again."
"After they returned me, my mind was clouded for a
long time. I thought I might hurt Scully or Kate--
she was just a tiny baby. I stayed away, living on the
street. Even when I began to think straight, I couldn't
go back. I didn't want to be a burden to them. But, I
was wrong, Chris."
"What happened after that?" I ask. Mom and Dad
both turn my way.
"I used to stand across the street from your apartment
and look up at your window. Your mom never closed
the blinds. She knew I was out there and she would
stand and hold you up for me to see. I guess I realized
she still wanted me, no matter what."
"I did," Mom says.
"Your wife needs you, Chris. She wants you to come
home. Scully and I know about this stuff. We can
help you."
Tarpley drops his head into his hands, his shoulders
shaking. It seems like a long time before he raises
his head and nods.
"I'm so tired," he says. "So tired."
"How long has it been since you slept, Chris?" Dad
asks. His voice is gentle, soothing.
Tarpley's head is bowed again and I can barely hear
his reply. "I don't remember. A long time."
"Why don't you lie down?" Dad suggests. "Rest.
It'll all be clearer after you have some rest."
Tarpley shakes his head, but stretches out after
Dad stacks a couple of throw pillows on the end
of the sofa.
His eyes are closed almost immediately and we watch
him breathe for a few minutes. Soon he's so still, it's
as if he's dead.
Mom walks over and bends to take his pulse. "He's
asleep," she says with a wry expression and wrinkles
her nose. "I think the sofa's going to need a good
cleaning."
"Scully," Dad says, jerking his head so she'll follow him
away from Tarpley. "We can't call the sheriff."
Mom looks over at the sleeping man and sighs. "We
should," she says. "But, you're right. We can't.
So...what do we do?"
"We need to call Paul," Dad says. "He's the only one
I trust. Otherwise, this poor guy is going to get lost
down the rabbit hole of the mental health system."
"Who's Paul?" I ask.
Dad looks at me and smiles. "He's a therapist who
specializes in post traumatic stress syndrome."
It shouldn't surprise me that Mom and Dad are on a
first name basis with this guy, but in a way it does.
They've always been so isolated. Up until a
few weeks ago, I had no idea Mr. Skinner existed
much less was important to them.
"He helped me a lot," Dad says. "I wouldn't be here
now without that help."
"I'll make the call," Mom says. She gives my hand
a squeeze as she leaves the room.
"You sure you're okay, Kate?" Dad asks as he settles
in a chair next to the sofa where Tarpley sleeps.
"I'm fine."
Dad runs a hand over his face, his expression soft and kind
as he watches the sleeping man.
I drift over to the doorway. In the next room, Mom is on
the phone with the therapist. She uses a lot of medical
language, but I understand most of what she's saying.
She tells Paul that Mr. Tarpley needs in-patient therapy,
but from someone who has experience with "this type
of trauma." Apparently Paul knew what she was talking
about because he recommended a clinic in Massachusetts.
Mom comes back into the living room.
As Mom and Dad work out the details of how to get Tarpley
to the clinic, I head outside to sit on the back steps.
My brain is crowded with thoughts. Such a short time ago,
I thought I knew my parents. Now, I realize I had no idea
who they really were. I wonder if I'll ever really understand
who they are and what their lives were like before I was born.
I guess people are always changing. The two people in the FBI
photo on Mom's desk are not the same people who looked at
each other through that window when I was a baby and they're
not the same people who are quietly arranging for Mr. Tarpley
to get help.
I always knew my parents loved each other, but sometimes it
was hard to figure out. They're like the two most different
people on the whole planet. But somehow they fit together
like puzzle pieces--filling each other's empty spaces. I think
they've always fit like that--no matter who they were during
their lives.
The other thing I know is that they love me. And that's something
I knew all along.
End.
Author's note: Thank you so much for reading along. I've had
this story in my head for such a long time--I'm glad it's finally
out there. Every time I took a ride in rural areas, I pictured
Mulder and Scully and Kate and their lives. When I saw the
stills from the movie--with Scully and her long hair and Mulder
with a beard--the story just bubbled back up to the surface.
Many, many, many thanks to Syntax6 and MaybeAmanda
for the very best advice and beta and to my wonderful Kel for
her unfailing support and fantastic ideas. I am one lucky girl
for having such wonderful friends.