===============
The Emilys
On the Way Home
===============

I tuck another strand of faded blonde hair behind my ear, then check
my mirrors before switching to the right hand lane. My blinker clicks
on and then off and I'm smoothly navigating through traffic before I
even realize I left the church parking lot.

My skirt is hitched around my knees so that I could climb into the
big blue truck, my baby, and it makes for great air conditioning
after the interior is baked from sitting out in the sun for three
hours.

The day is dazzling, I feel good finally about the things happening
in my life, and I maybe know where I'm headed after these three years
of college.

Maybe.

I thought I wanted to be a social worker, or maybe a case worker,
something where you had to comfort people, be there for them.

It sounded just like the ideal for me.

I sigh and try to forget about it. 

Much like Scarlett in "Gone With the Wind," (a movie I personally
have never seen and never want to see), I always put off what I don't
want to even think about until tomorrow.

It's not that I procrastinate, it's just that I tend to worry over
much about everything. I've found the best way not to get an ulcer
is not to worry.

Not to think.

Just enjoy that wonderful California sunshine, unmercifully hot
though it may be.

Whatever happened to that infamous bay breeze that always used to
cool us off?

The green grows stale and switches, and I slow the truck down, coming
to a halt at the stoplight.

On the left, I immediately notice the wonderful blue truck coming
down the street perpindicular to mine, Hallowel, and the beautiful
rugged look it has. I have this thing for trucks.

It's cutting through traffic, in the right lane, a woman at the wheel
with a faded look of sadness.

Why's she so sad if she's driving such a wonderful --

Oh my God.

It's an immediate prayer as the truck swerves, fishtails out of the
way as an idiot tries turning left in front of the woman in blue.

She swings across the intersection, going remarkably slow for such a
thing, my mind giving me simple flashes as I try to process.

I have never seen an accident, not right in front of me like this.

Not heading straight for me.

Running straight, straight, oh God, don't let her hit me --

My body slams hard into the seatbelt, knocking around my insides good
and hard.

And then silence.

I hear the roaring of my blood.

The panic of my heart.

The slow trickle of traffic starting up again.

I lift my eyes, feel breath explode from me.

The beautiful truck managed to just skim my front bumper.

She hit the curb, jumped it, and ran smack into an old, concrete wall
constructed for privacy.

She's not moving, even I can see that through the windshield.

Shaky legs push me from the truck, sliding to the pavement without
collapsing, but only barely.

The car that turned left in front of her is no where to be seen.

I take a breath, pressing my fists to my face to steel myself.

She could be bleeding.

She could be dead.

Oh God, let her be okay.

I use the hood of the truck to steady me as I make my way to her
door, gulping back hot saliva and the urge to throw-up all on the
street.

I hear crying inside the truck and it makes me stop short.

A little girl.

There's a little girl in there.

I don't have any energy or strength, my adrenaline maxed out when I
pushed myself from the truck, but somehow, I manage to run to the
truck.

I see a tangled mess of hair and blood at first and the vomit rises
in me, but I shove it down hard, swallowing acid.

I see a little girl in the front passenger seat, her eyes red from
crying, her beautifully blonde hair wet with tears and sweat.

"It's okay, sweetheart. Your Mommy's going to be just fine, okay?"

She looks up at me with such abject fear that I step back, stunned.

I hear a slight moan from the woman, whose head is lolled back in the
seat, her mouth parted slightly, and red hair framing her face
disheveledly.

"Ma'am, please don't try to move. Do you have a cell phone where I
can call an ambulance?"

She looks young, older than me, but still maybe thirty or so. Young
to have such fear in her eyes looking back at me.

"You're going to be okay-"

"I'm a ... a ... doctor." she murmurs.

"Okay, okay. I need to call the paramedics. Do you have a phone?"

I can't believe that's my ultra-calm voice coming out.

She nods and winces, her face already purple and bruised.

"Okay, let me get it. I don't want your little girl to move around
much either."

Her hand raises, fumbles with something.

I run around to the side, pull open the back door of the truck; she's
got one of those four door things that have a surprising amount of
room.

I see her hands clutching a bag, and gently I take it from her.

She makes a muffled noise that sounds like she's going into shock and
I paw through the black bag until I find her phone.

It takes me a moment to figure out how to place the call, but it
lights up and I'm connected to the 911 operator and I feel immensely
better.

Little hands clutch at me, and I take one, holding to the daughter
tightly as I explain what happened.

It's oddly quiet and the little girl reaches out and unstraps her
seatbelt.

"No! Wait!"

But she's already slithering down to the floor, then touching her
mother, tears sharp and fresh in her eyes.

The woman knows she's not supposed to move, knows her daughter
shouldn't be either, and casts panicked eyes to me, seeking help.

"Come here, darling. Let's lie down back here really still, all
right?"

The girl buries her head into her mother's lap and stays there,
eyeing me.

"Trust her, baby." 

I hear her words like soft silk and I reach a hand, palm out, to her
daughter's shaking body.

"My name's Ashley. What's yours?"

She shakes a bit and then whispers, making me duck down closer to her
to hear.

"Libby."

"Hey, Libby. I bet you're scared right now, huh? That's okay to be
afraid. It's a little scary to have an accident. But you're going to
be just fine and so's your momma. Okay?"

She doesn't nod or shake her head or even cry, just looks at me, her
hands circling her mother's waist and head digging deeper into her
stomach.

I look to the woman. "Is there someone I need to call?"

"Mul- ... My husband."

I nod. "Here, I'll call. Explain things. You want to tell me the
number?"

She looks hesitant, as if she's spent a lifetime not trusting anyone.

"Look. You're going to need him. But if you don't want to call him,
I'll look after Libby."

"No, no. Not that."

She sighs, runs her fingers along her little girl's face.

Then she rattles off the San Francisco number and I punch it in as
fast as possible.

I whisper as the phone rings. "What's his name? Yours too?"

She glances to her daughter, then closes her eyes as if thinking.

"Mulder. I'm Dana."

Mulder? Odd name.

The phone is picked up at the other end and a warm voice answers.

"Uh ... hello?"

"Who's this?!"

Man, these guys are nervous as anything.

"Uh, my name's Ashley Wilkes. Are you Mulder?"

He hisses in his breath and I see Dana close her eyes with something
akin to regret.

"Sir, your wife was in an accident --"

"What! Where is she? What happened? Is Libby --"

"Sir. They're both right here. We're waiting for the ambulance. I --"

"Give me the location. I'm coming right now."

I sigh and look to the woman, knowing and understanding why she'd
been reluctant to call him.

He's a little hyper about their health and safety, to put it mildly.

I give him the address and he sighs. "That's right by the church,
right?"

I affirm that and he hangs up.

"Thank you," she whispers, her eyes closing again.

"Yeah. But don't fall asleep, okay? I need for you to stay awake."

I realize she's probably going into shock; I glance around for a
blanket.

There's a towel in the floor, and hastily, I shake it out.

I pull it around her, rubbing her arms to keep her warm as she
shivers.

"Libby, you want to help me look out for your Daddy and the
ambulance?"

Libby looks up to her mother with a solemn face, and recieves a nod
of encouragement and a brave smile.

The girl reluctantly lets me lead her out of the truck and into the
sunlight.

Our emergency lights are both on and I can hear the ambulance
rounding the corner even as Libby scuffs her shoe on the sidewalk.

It pulls up and a man comes walking up, official looking, and tired
too.

He checks Libby and me out, giving us a thorough once over, then
turns to the truck as I explain.

He motions to the driver of the ambulance and it pulls up close to
their blue truck.

I hear another siren and this time, the traffic cop shows up and I'm
distracted from the ambulance by the woman coming up to me with the
first friendly smile I've seen.

It makes me feel a lot more calm.

As I detail the accident and fish out my driver's license, then run
back to their truck for Dana's, I miss the details of the ambulance,
but soon I realize that the little girl is bawling and getting shoved
aside.

I run to her and scoop her up, letting her see over the paramedics'
towering forms to the face of her mother.

"Baby ... all right. Daddy will be here."

She mumbles something else and then gets pushed into the back of the
ambulance. I see IV's running into her arm, and it kind of scares me.

Libby holds to me tightly, evidently trusting that her mother would
only leaver her in good hands, and therefore, I have quickly become
her only ally.

I finish filling out the accident report, noticing that it looks
oddly like the fliers we handed out at church announcing special
events.

Cheap photocopies that are a silent testament to just how often this
happens.

The woman sheriff comes up to me again, takes the report and then
drills me for any kind of possible clue.

"I think I might have the license number, or part of it."

"Do you know the make?"

"Oh yeah. Crown Victoria. Navy blue, real rich. I always notice blue
cars."

"Just blue?"

I blush and shift Libby around on my hip. "I like blue."

She nods, glances over at my dusky grey truck, then the wonderful
blue truck that Dana and Libby were in.

"So that's how come you noticed the truck too right?"

"Yeah. The license for that car was something like QXJ. I'm
definitely sure it had those letters, I'm just fuzzy on the order."

She nods, writes it down, then looks up again.

"When the husband gets here, you'll be able to go."

I shrug. "I think I might go down to the hospital, see how she's
doing. Do you know what hospital?"

"St. Francis. It's closest."

I wonder how long it will take for the man to get here.

"Libby, what kind of car does your Daddy drive so we can look out for
it?"

"He doesn't have a car."

I raise an eyebrow and look to the officer. "I guess I might be
giving them a ride there."

She shrugs. "If that's what it takes."

The woman leaves, walks to her patrol car, and begins writing up her
report.

I sink to the curb, tired from holding Libby, but not wanting to let her
go either.

She begins to cry again, soft little tears that dig into me.

"It's okay darlin', it's okay. Your momma's all right and your Daddy
will be here as soon as he can."

She sits back in my arms, head tucked under my chin.

Her hair is soft and blonde like corn silk, her eyes large and an
almost grey, almost blue color that ricochets off my heart.

"It'll be okay."

==========

The man comes running, his mouth open and wide for breath, jogging
pants and a grey tight T-shirt on that shows off his chest and biceps
very well.

Libby's asleep in my truck, her head resting on the door.

I know it's Mulder, simply by the shake in him as he slows.

"My wife? Is she here?"

"She's gone on to the hospital. I have Libby here with me and the
sheriff is still here too. I can give you a ride, sir."

He glances to me, stiffening.

I want to scream at them that I'm freaking all right; I'm not out to
get them.

"Look, trust me. Your wife did. I'll give you a ride. Libby's asleep
in my truck."

He glances up, pants a bit, then leans over and puts his hands on his
knees. His face goes pale and he turns from me, running to the lawn
we stand in front of and vomiting hard.

I see him wipe his mouth on his soaked shirt, and I realize he ran
the entire way here. Hard, non-stop.

That's dedication.

Or blind fear.

He's got to be ready to drop.

I walk over to him, take his arm as he raises up.

He glances at me with confusion.

"Look, I want to help."

After a moment, he follows me to the truck, getting in and placing
Libby in his lap.

I want to tell him that's a dangerous place for her to be, but I shut up
and start to drive.

==========

I hate hospitals.

With an intense passion that makes me wonder what exactly happened to
me as a child that makes me detest them so much.

It could have been the time I ran into the doorframe at the age of
three and had to wait in the emergency room for an hour while my head
continued to bleed and my mother panicked and my father swore
nervously.

It could be that.

Or maybe even the time my mom got cancer when I was six, and we had
to come up every day, every long hard day, and watch as she smiled
thin ghost smiles and pretended she'd be all right, when all she
really did was end up dying.

I bet it was more of that.

But being here now, it doesn't hold the same kind of hatred.

More of a fear. 

I like these people. As odd and crazy and paranoid as they are,
they're fun.

Libby is a doll, her father is gorgeous, and her mother is calmly
reassuring.

It's been three hours since the accident, three hours since Mulder
came running up, shaking, throwing up into the yard, and then asking
nothing as we squealed into the parking lot of St. Francis.

Libby stays in his lap, and he stays right there in the chair.

Me ... well, I'm going crazy with worry.

Doesn't he even care? He's sitting there, not drawing any attention
to himself, not even looking at people, not letting Libby even whine
or complain at all, and it's like he wants it that way.

Like he's hiding from something.

Well, I'm going to see how she is, even if he doesn't care.

Which is unfair, because I can clearly see how much he does care.

The doctor is just inside those doors; I bet I could sneak in and ask
her.

It's a cinch. Mulder's eyes widen as he watches me and he
emphatically shakes his head, but I shrug him off and slip inside.

The doctor glances up at me immediately, frowning.

"Hold on. I've been out there waiting for two hours. I'd like
someone to tell me something about her."

"Who?"

"Dana ... uh, Mulder?"

The doctor frowns, looks at me strangely.

"There are no patients by that name here."

I gape at her. "You're her doctor!"

"I'm sorry miss. I don't have --"

She's cut off as Mulder barrels through the doors, knocking into me
and grabbing my arm with a fierceness that makes me wince.

Mulder shakes his head. "I'm sorry Dr. Whitfield. This won't happen
again."

"It's all right. I can tell she's worried about her mother."

Mulder says nothing, lets the woman think he's my father, and yanks
me back outside.

"Do not ask for her by name! Do not call her by name. Understand me?"

I glare at him. "No."

It's sass and he's not used to it from a college kid, but I don't
really care at this point.

He guides me to the chair where he left Libby, then sits me down
forcefully.

"She told you her name ... I guess she wasn't thinking, or maybe she
wanted to get my attention. Let me know it was for real."

"What was for real? Why can't I ask for her by name?"

He shakes his head, runs long fingers through thick, sleepy looking
hair.

"You better tell me a good reason why you hauled me out of there like
I was a child!"

"Because that's not our names anymore."

I stare at him with an open mouth, shock filtering into my features.

"Oh my gosh. What are you telling me? Are you running from the law?"

He shakes his head, eyes darting around quickly. "We're, ah, in the
witness protection program."

The look on his face, combined with the way his eyes seem to not be
able to follow mine, makes me think not.

"Yeah right. What'd you really do? Hold up a bank, firebomb a
building in the sixties?"

He glares at me. "We were born in the sixties, child."

I blush. "Sorry."

He shakes his head. "I hope I don't look that old."

I look once again to his nicely fit body. No ... not so old at all.

"We really are in hiding for protection, Ashley. That's not a joke.
It's life and death. There are people who want us dead, want us dead
if only because of what we have."

His eyes slide to Libby then back, clearly indicating what it is they
have that will cause them their deaths if caught.

Only he can't very well say it around her.

"So what's your names? Names I can use?"

"Kate and Chris Williams."

"Still Libby?"

He nods, a small smile coming to his face. "Yeah. Look. It's evident
I have to trust you. She kind of forced me into it, telling you our
names. But let me tell you this, if something happens, if we're even
recognized over here, followed or --"

I stare at him, my anger rising.

"Are you threatening me? Is that what you're doing? That's
ridiculous. This is America, you idiot. If you so much as touch me,
I'll have you thrown in jail."

Libby's eyes are huge, her face shocked and horrified. I grimace and
lower my voice.

"You've got to be kidding me, thinking that kind of cloak and dagger
stuff can be used here. You're nuts."

He shakes his head. "No. If you've seen what we've seen, you wouldn't
think so. It happens every day, all the time. And they keep getting
away with it."

I want to not believe him; I want to forget what he's telling me, go
back to my safe world where the only thing of immediate fear is what
I'm going to major in this semester.

But I can't.

His words have forever plunged me into something else. I decide to go
another way with him.

"I swear. Whatever happens. I won't say a word. Even if it turns out
that you've actually murdered someone."

He slumps in relief.

"Mind you, not because I like you or anything. Only because I like
your little girl and your wife."

He grins at me, sees the humor I'm trying to rally myself with.

"Of course."

I shake his hand.

"Let's go see D ... ah, Kate, okay?"

==========

She looks pretty good to me, smiling and laughing and holding her
little girl tightly.

Just a sprain in her neck, no broken bones thank goodness.

She'll have to stay for the night, to make sure, but she's looking
good and acting impatient to get out of this place.

I wonder if she's got the same bad memories, of cancer and blood and
waiting too long.

I should leave now.

"Hey, Ashley?"

I look back from the doorway, where I had tried to make a hasty exit.

"Do you baby-sit?"

I smile. "No. But I will if you need me to."

She smiles. "Maybe sometime. Thanks for everything."

I want to say that I'll see them again, that I'll keep in touch, look
out for Libby sometime.

But I have college in a few weeks, and they really look like they
don't need anything else to hang over their heads.

"If you get a note from me later, blackmailing you, it means I've
flunked out of college and I'm broke, so just ignore my quiet
desperation."

Mulder chuckles softly, looking over to his wife again.

Then his face turns serious and he glances to me. "I really
appreciate your understanding."

I can't stand this. Too much emotion, too much potency here.

"I still don't understand. But if I see on television where you're
actually on the run for murder, I'll be pretty pissed."

His face sort of pales. "I wouldn't be surprised if they did try
something like that."

The way he says it, I just know.

He's no murderer, no ex-con out to get revenge or something. He's a
guy with a family, with a little girl who's in trouble and he's
trying to keep her safe.

I shake my head. "Whatever. Don't attract too much attention to
yourself."

Saying this, I leave.

Walking from the door, back into the smells of Vaseline Intensive
Care Lotion and bedsores, mixed with Clorox Bleach and antiseptic, I
feel somehow chained up.

It's a hellish smell, and it's poignant, and I'm in a hurry to get
out of here.

Out of the memories, and out of their little dangerous world.

I'm amazed they're still sane, still able to laugh at all.

I sincerely hope I never run into them again.

Literally.


==========END==========