Disclaimers: The characters in this story belong to Fox, 
1013 and Chris Carter. No money is being made from 
the use of these characters and no infringement is 
intended. Any other references to any other work of 
poetry or cinema belong to who ever they belong to, 
but not to me.

Summary: Reunited, Mulder and Samantha pursue the 
truth, hoping to find a cure for Scully along the way, 
but find there are dangerous consequences to the 
pursuit of truth. Follow up story to "Diary".

Thanks to Renee, Jenn and Sally for their enthusiasm 
and to Bob (LOML) for all the encouragement, time off, 
patience, input, and editing. A special nod to Nick for a 
great idea.

Rating is PG-13.
Spoilers range from the 1st through the 4th Season 
including Demons.  
Category: XA
lizmcrae@aol.com

For the purposes of this story, assume that 
Gethsamane has not happened. 

This is a follow up to "The Diary" which I strongly 
suggest you read first so you have a point of reference 
for this story. This is the second story in a series titled 
Duplicity.


Duplicity: I am I

by Liz McRae
5/17/97


Maryland State Penitentiary, 
Women's  Facility
April, 1986


	"The soul takes flight to the world that is 
invisible, 
and upon arriving, is assured of bliss."

	Where had she heard that before? Read it in a book, 
heard it in a movie, from a priest? It didn't matter 
now. It would all be over soon, and like the small 
black birds racing across the gray sky outside her 
window, she would know bliss. And if not bliss, then at 
least no more regret. 

	She turns her head to feel the cool of the smooth-
painted cinder block against her bruised cheek. Once 
more she is aware of the smell of too many women 
confined to too small a space, the sounds of their 
frustration, anger, pleasure and sadness swirling 
around the cellblocks up through the atrium like some 
communal heart beat.

	Two guards arrive at the gate to her cell.

	"Visitor," the taller one informs her.

	"Who?" she asks, making no move to rise from her 
seat on the cement floor beside the narrow bed. She 
knows no one.

	"Get up." She struggles, feeling dizzy. A hand 
circles 
around her upper arm, pulling her up. She stands and 
sways. The other guard takes hold of her other arm. 
The floor seems to shift planes and alternately feels 
solid or soft like a sponge.

	They lead her into one of the tiny visitor rooms 
usually reserved for prisoners and attorneys. It is 
furnished with a white enameled metal table and two 
old-fashioned metal office chairs. 

	An older man stands by the door leading to the 
administrative end of the prison. The guards seat her 
at the table. She spreads her hands across the table 
top, wanting to put her face down too. 

	Only after the guards leave does the older man 
approach the table. He regards her for some time. She 
doesn't flinch under his scrutiny until his eyes lock 
with hers and hold them. Then she looks away, down 
at the table, shame spreading across her face, tears 
welling in her eyes.

	"You're not my father, are you?" she whispers, 
every muscle taught with fear.

	"No," he says and she relaxes enough to chew her 
numb lip before asking, "Who then?"

	"A friend."

	"I don't have any friends." 

	"What do you think you're doing?" he asks pulling 
out the chair and sliding into it. She shakes her head, 
unsure how to answer, not even understanding the 
question.

	"Don't you see, you've been given a chance here," he 
continues, "This is your opportunity to put the past 
behind you. This is the first step on the road to finding 
your truth."

	"I don't...who are you? Why?" She is even more 
confused.
	
	"You must not continue your present course. There 
are people out there hoping you will fail, maybe even 
plotting to ensure your failure. But you can use this 
time wisely. Gather your strength, make use of the 
tools here. Don't give up."

	"I don't understand," the tears that had welled for a 
moment and then stilled, now slip over her lower 
lashes and stream down her cheeks. Her fingers clench 
in anger. Who is this man to make her come unglued 
like this? 

	"You want to know, don't you? The truth?" he asks 
and she hates him.  "Don't let them beat you. Fight 
them. Fight them by educating yourself, making 
yourself healthy." 

	"Why do you care?" she spits at him.

	"Because, Miss Fox. I care about the truth."


****************************
Present Day

	He has three photos of me in his living room. One of 
me standing on a jungle gym sits on his desk. Two 
more, of both of us, on the bookshelf. They mock me 
with smiling faces of times I can't remember and 
places I can't name. But there are no pictures of them. 

	 It is strange to me, how I feel about my father's 
death. My brother told me carefully, gently.  I stared 
at him incredulous. Why would he think it would 
upset me? I hated our father. I hated what he did to 
Fox. Later, that night lying in my bed, I cried. Actually, 
I sobbed. 

	I regret the timing of his death, because I'll never 
have the chance to tell him how I've hated him. But 
honestly, more than that, I regret that I'll never feel 
that power one more time. The rush I got from his 
love for me, because he loved me more than Fox. 
Never laid a dangerous hand on me. Never raised his 
voice in anger or contempt to me. 

	And I could still his violence against Fox, with just 
the touch of my hand. 

	I shake my head, banishing those sick, sick 
feelings. 
Of course my brother wouldn't have a framed snap 
shot of the man that tortured him. And just the same, 
I'd have liked to have seen how he looked later in life. 

	"Here," he says, returning from the kitchen, 
extending an iced tea bottle to me. I watch as he 
thumbs through his CDs. I had thought I looked much 
older than he when we first met again, but now I can 
see the lines in his forehead, the crows feet, and 
wariness in his eyes. Perhaps we look about the same 
age.

	"How was school today?" he asks. I nod my head, 
"My Oral is Wednesday," I tell him.

	"And then?" he sits beside me, dragging a wedge of 
pita bread through the humus. 

	"Then I get my Masters and I'm qualified to rule 
the world, or assist current world rulers," I try to be 
funny and he plops the heavy pita-humus combination 
in his mouth.

	"Do you have any plans?" I feel like I'm being 
grilled so I get up and move around the room. 

	"I've applied for a translator-assistant position at 
the UN," I know it doesn't sound like much, and he 
seems underwhelmed, so I add,  "Despite my high 
marks and the degree, I'm still a convicted felon. It 
does limit career opportunities." 

	I go to the window. I'm embarrassed. He's 
embarrassed. I should have taken the train back to 
Baltimore this evening. He comes up behind me and 
puts his hand on my shoulder,

	"Sam..." his voice is sad but soothing,  "No one is 
judging. You don't have to worry about any 
expectations." I whip around, feeling my cheeks flush.

	"Yes I do. There are plenty of expectations. Not just 
hers, not just yours, but mine too. I have expectations; 
had expectations," I correct myself.

	"I spent years dreaming of some sort or reunion. 
Now it's happened. And you are the only pleasant 
surprise. The only part that turned out better than I 
imagined. Better than I could have hoped for. You 
don't know how many kids I met..." I don't want to get 
into that, so I let it go. Besides, he's a forensic 
psychologist, he knows.

	"Dad is dead. I'll never get to confront him, never 
get to say good-bye. And her..." I feel the rage moving 
up my spine, making me shake, remembering our 
reunion of only a few days ago, "I spent a long time 
talking to professionals about Mother. I thought I'd be 
able to take seeing her again as a matter of course, 
with little emotional investment. And in just a few 
minutes, she, she..."  the hot tears well and begin to 
roll, I press my head against the window, "she broke 
your heart and made me feel so dirty." I push away 
from the window, away from Fox, and pace his living 
room. There isn't enough air. 

	"I've spent half a lifetime looking for the person I 
was. Well now I've found Sam, but I can't just pretend 
that Kathy never existed, as happy as that would make 
everyone. I'm not proud of the road I took Fox, but I 
survived the journey and I think that's something to 
be proud of." 

	He moves quickly toward me. For an instant I'm 
afraid, because I know he is going to hold me. He does, 
in strong arms, his hand strokes my hair, he whispers 
reassurances in my ear and I realize it has been three 
years since anyone has done that. I bury my face in 
his shoulder and pretend.

	"I'm stronger than this. I'm sorry," I tell him, afraid 
he will find me lacking.

	"Don't be ridiculous. This is a roller coaster for all 
of 
us, particularly for you because of the memory issues. 
I think you may be among the strongest people I've 
ever met. I don't think I would have survived what 
you did Sam." My eyes well up again, but not because 
he's saying something nice to me. It's because he 
wants me to believe his life has been easier than mine 
and I see little evidence of that.

	As we pull away, a few minutes and a few tears 
later, he points toward the desk, "Kleenex." I pull at 
the tissue, but it doesn't come right out. The box sort 
of skips over the desk top and knocks a file folder. A 
handful of pictures slide out, your face right on top. 
Something closes tight around my chest. Three years. I 
thought I remembered your face perfectly, but I see 
I've lost some of the details.

	I turn around, holding your picture, my mouth 
forming the word Ôwhy'. Fox is immediately anxious, 
he sets the food back down on the coffee table. 

	"You know that man?" he asks.

	"Yes!" I shouldn't have been surprised. There is a 
reason for everything with you. There is no random 
chance. 

	"How?" he asks, reasonably enough, but I don't 
want to start. I want him to tell me first. It's safer that 
way.  

	"Why do you have his photograph?" my voice 
cracks. 

	"He was an informant, sort of. He provided me with 
information, so long as it was in his best interest. 
That's what he used to say," he shrugs as he says it. 
"He saved my life, at the cost of his own."  I can see 
he's afraid to say more about you, until he knows 
about me. "How do you know him?" he asks then.

	My eyes travel around the room quickly. How do I 
know you? How can I sum up what you were to me, 
what you still are? 

	"He saved my life too," I say it warmly, feeling the 
wonder of it again. I tell him how you came to me in 
prison. You made me feel valuable; worth something 
for the first time in so very many years. Because of 
you, I explain,  I completed two sessions of rehab, 
spent years with the counselors, took the high school 
equivalency. I tell him about the curriculum you made 
me study for college; how you tested me, grilled me, 
pushed me, yelled at me, taught me. Four years out of 
prison, and I'll be getting an MA in International 
Relations from Johns Hopkins. I'm fluent in two 
languages, proficient in a third, and Chinese...well, 
Chinese is just really hard for me.

	My brother smiles in a way that says ÔIsn't that 
nice', but I sense he has become uneasy again.  I have 
failed to make him understand how important you 
were to me. "If he knew about you, why wouldn't he 
tell me. Or why didn't he tell you about me?" 

	"It is possible that he didn't know it was me," he 
shakes his head, violently no. "Ok, I agree that seems 
unlikely. But Fox, he never did anything without 
thinking it through first, and without a damn good 
reason," he scoffs at me in a typical older brother way. 
ÔWhat could you know?' I let him, because there is no 
way I can tell him why you didn't bring us together 
before you died.

	I ask him how you died - I have already guessed 
why you died. You gave Scully the same advice you 
were always giving me. Trust no one. I don't, except 
my brother, and only so far. You taught me well. 

	We continue to talk and it becomes apparent that 
the biggest obstacle before us is my memory, or lack 
of it. 
	
	"I'll call Werber," he says.

	"The hypnosis guy?" I'm uneasy and it shows.

	"Sam, it's ok. Really. Do you want to hear my tape?" 
Yes. Yes I do want to hear his tape. And maybe he'll 
forget about the whole thing if I listen to his tape and 
remember something.

	"You're frightened," he says, because I shiver.  You 
know me, temperature regulation is not one of my 
strengths and then I realize I am shivering because I 
am frightened. Whatever happened that night, he 
blocked from his memory and I blocked from mine. 
I'm not sure I want to know, but I know that I will 
submit to his Dr. Werber because this man has spent 
his whole life preparing to solve this mystery. It 
seems the least I can do.

	"It's ok, I'll be right there with you. You won't be 
alone, Sam."

	My brother is either very important or very pushy 
because he gets Werber to agree to see us tomorrow 
morning. Since it's midnight, I guess he must be both 
pushy and important. 

	He starts to close the door of his bedroom after 
getting me something to sleep in and a fresh towel, 
"What did you call him?" I ask.

	"Deep Throat," he replies, "You?"

	"Friend." Maybe he does understand, just a little, I 
decide as his eyes smile back at me. 

	"Sweet dreams Sam."

****************************

	I sit in the flickering silence of the TV feeling all-
over tired but afraid to sleep. There was a time I 
might have grudgingly acknowledged I was overly 
paranoid. Not any more, not after tonight. 

	What a brilliant mindfuck he was. He knew where 
Samantha was all along. How many others knew? I 
can't help but wonder if the great secret of the 
universe isn't fucking the Mulders.

	She's just as blind to him as I used to be. Scully is 
the only one that saw him clearly. I look at her face 
when she talks about him, how wonderful she thinks 
he was, how he saved her life, and I can't miss the 
love she still feels for him. I recognize the debt I owe 
him for turning her life around, for saving her and me, 
but I'm so disappointed to find yet another lie.

	I have to wonder for the millionth time, who left 
Sam's diary on my doorstep, and why now.

	Maybe somehow, if this can ever be all over, if we 
can find a way to make Scully well, I'll walk away. The 
prospect of a remote cabin or island appeals to my 
exhausted self. If we can make Scully well. We must 
make Scully well.

****************************

	I walk down Werber's long stair case as he 
instructs. I pause at the door he describes, and when I 
push it open my breath catches. Jesus, here we are in 
the past. It's my front yard. There's a blue car, a 
Chrysler, in the driveway.  

	Grandfather is about to get into it, but he stops and  
pushes the door closed again before he squats down in 
front on me.  He takes my hands in his. They are thick, 
warm. When he speaks it is with an accent.

	ÔYou will take very good care of your brother, won't 
you? He's been so ill, forgotten so many things. But 
you'll help him, won't you? You'll keep him safe, yes?' 
I nod. He smiles and pulls a fresh pack of Fruit Stripe 
gum out of his pocket.

	ÔGood girl.' he says and kisses my forehead.

	I sense more than I actually hear voices whispering 
near me, up the staircase. I don't try to listen. 
Grandfather's come back. He's talking with Dad and 
Mom. School starts again tomorrow. Fox is going to go 
with a cast on his arm. Dad broke it last night.

	When he goes to get in his car, I run after him. I am 
trying to tell him that I've been trying to keep him 
safe, but he won't listen to me. His face is red. He looks 
angry, like Dad does with Fox. I back away because 
now I am afraid.

	That afternoon I sit in Fox's room. We are very 
quiet because Mom and Dad are yelling downstairs. 
About Fox. We are drawing pictures of places we'd like 
to live. Places we'd rather live. Fox draws the moon 
and I draw a castle that flies so I can visit him on the 
moon. My picture is better because my hand isn't in a 
cast.

	"Samantha, can you remember the night you were 
taken?" Werber's voice isn't far away up the stairs 
anymore, it's down here with me. 

	The noise is shaking the house. The lights are so 
bright my eyes burn when I look at them. Fox is 
calling me. Someone grabs me around the middle. It's 
so tight, I can't wiggle out. I'm crying and I can't make 
a sound because he's squeezing so tight, I can't catch 
my breath. He's taking me outside, toward the light 
and the noise. I can see Fox, he's kneeling on the 
floor...the man holding me turns and the bright light in 
is my face again. He throws me into the big car. It's 
tall. I smell Mom. Someone else grabs me, they pull a 
pillow case over my face. There is a sharp stinging on 
my arm.  I feel so heavy.

	"Is there any more? What about later?"

	I am always cold, except in my belly, between my 
hips. It burns there. When I try to roll over to my side, 
I can't. It is white everywhere. I can't really see 
anything. They keep pulling at me. Pulling from the 
inside. I have a picture in my mind of scraping out a 
pumpkin, just before you carve it. My teeth hurt 
because I clench them so tight. I'm throwing up. 
Throwing up makes me cry. I'm choking and I can't 
turn over.

	I hear them whispering on the stairs again and I 
remember waking up later, wearing a diaper. It makes 
me angry so I take it off. It is filled with blood and I 
get dizzy. 

	Sometime later,when I don't have to wear the 
diapers anymore, a man comes for me. We drive a long 
way. He calls me Kathy and he smokes cigarettes, one 
after the other. 

	ÔI meet Howard and...'

	"Wake her up!"  It's his voice, Fox's, I hear it on the 
stairs, behind me. Then Dr. Werber tells me to follow 
him back up the stairs. 

	I open my eyes and look at my brother. He looks 
like shit. I feel a little sick to my stomach. 
	
	"Ladies room?" I ask and as soon as I step inside I 
lock the door and slide down the cool tile wall, 
wrapping my arms around myself. I will not lose it. I 
will keep it together. I need you. I want to feel your 
arms around me. I close my eyes tight and I see and 
feel you hug me the day I got equivalency certificate. 
Good, but I've got a better one now. A year or so later. 
You came to pick up the essay on how the closed 
European state system of the 19th century evolved 
into the international system by the early 20th 
century. I was so nervous, chewing on my lip, on the 
inside of my cheeks. You were completely silent, 
completely expressionless. Page one, page two, page 
three. No clues through eight pages of neat cursive on 
college ruled notebook paper. Then you set it down 
and looked at me. I was about to crumble when your 
face broke into such a wide, warm smile. You started 
to laugh and got up from your chair, holding your 
arms out to me. I felt your pride in me and later, when 
I walked back down the corridor through one gate and 
another, metal slamming against metal, I had a sense 
of future. And even though I was heading back to my 
cell, I took a new feeling of freedom with me. 

	Now I take a deep breath and I can feel that same 
strength again. I'm ten feet tall when I stand back up 
in that shrink's bathroom. 

****************************

	"I recognized that man that took me to Howard and 
Carol's. I met him again, years later."

	"I recognized him from the description in your 
diary." Oh God, the diary. How can I keep forgetting 
about that. He's read it. I can't even look at it. When he 
tried to give it back to me... 

	"When I think that sick bastard named me Kathy 
*Fox*. Fox! I know I've said it was sick before, a sick 
joke, but now that I know who was behind it..."

	"We should go to Connecticut right now," he says, 
drumming his fingers on the steering wheel while we 
wait at a red light.
	
	"No. I'm not going to Connecticut. I'm going back to 
Baltimore." 

	"We have to. You said you smelled Mom when you 
were taken," he insists, while accelerating quickly.

	"Yeah, well I also told you all about a Grandfather 
you say we didn't have. How do you know me smelling 
Mom is reliable? Besides, she's only going to work me 
up and I have my Oral tomorrow. 

	"I'm not going to Connecticut. If you don't want to 
take me to Baltimore, pull over right here and I'll get 
the train."

	"Sam..."

	"You are the most annoying... You don't take no for 
an answer do you? I said no and I meant it. Scully 
must be dying to be rid of you," I don't know what it is 
I've said, but everything about him is changing. Where 
he was rigid and excited, bright and alert, he's become 
tired, weary, collapsed and dull. It makes me think 
someone let the air out of him.

	"What did I say?" he's massaging his temple lightly. 
He draws in a deep breath and lets it out very slowly.

	"Scully is dying." 

	I feel like I've been hit. I don't really know her. 
I've only met her once, talked to her on the phone 
another time. But I do know that they are a team, 
partners. I know she's shared in his search for me, 
supported him, doctored and nursed him. 

	"I don't...I'm sorry, why?" it's the best English I can 
speak. Strangely, I form a perfect Russian sentence in 
my head.

	"Brain tumor. Inoperable, fatal, unless... there have 
been other cases like hers, Sam. Women that were 
abducted... as she was... as you were,"  he says, 
becoming more animated again, "Things were done to 
them. I think similar things were done to you too," the 
gravity of what he is saying begins to pull me back 
down. I had thought he was awfully tenacious about 
discovering the truth behind my abduction and what 
went on. I understand the reason behind his tenacity 
now. 

	"Let's go to Connecticut then," I say. What else can I 
say? But he doesn't want me to.

	"No, you're right. Your memory may be playing 
tricks on you. You have your Oral tomorrow and that's 
too important. Besides, Mom might react better if it's 
just me." That's probably the truth. 

	"Are you sure?"

	"Completely."

****************************

	It's only after I get home and lock the door behind 
me that I can let my mind go. Holy Shit!

	I think of how many years I spent thinking Kathy 
Fox's life was a disaster between the drugs, 
prostitution, disease, murder, and prison. It seems 
strangely dull, stereotypical even, compared to the life 
of Samantha Mulder. Child abuse, abduction, 
reproductive mutilation, genetic tampering, white 
slavery... 

	I have to remind myself again, I am Kathy. I am 
Sam. I am I.

	Fox says we didn't have a Grandfather. Well maybe 
we didn't, but there was still an old man with an 
accent. And my mother was there the night they took 
me away. And I think my brother and I both know 
who was with her.

****************************

	I burned with bright indignation on the way up to 
Connecticut. Driving home now, I am just ashamed of 
myself.  

	The last time I confronted her and demanded 
answers to my questions, she slapped my face hard 
and stormed up the stairs. Not this time.

	Why was I asking her these questions? What did I 
want her to tell me? The truth I said. Just tell the 
truth. She started to cry. Whatever happened it was 
my father's fault. It was him. She couldn't remember.

	In the end, I packed her off to bed with a cup of 
soup and her Brahms tape.

	Now I drive along wishing I'd never gone in the 
first place. I can save the image of her frightened face 
right next to the look on Sam's face when Werber 
woke her up. The path on my road to truth is littered 
with so many broken hearts and bodies. What a fuck I 
am.

	
****************************

	When the call comes I am strangely not surprised. 
Scully and I are on our way to lunch. I have to pull the 
car over.
	
	"Mulder, what is it? What's happened?" I see the 
fear in her face and it distresses me. Don't be afraid 
Scully.

	"Can you drop me at home? I was supposed to meet 
Sam after her Oral." She looks at me like I'm out of 
mind. Of course, I am.

*******************************

	The old elevator gently knocks back and forth 
climbing toward my brother's floor, I am happy and 
ready to celebrate. The exam went exceptionally well, 
but then, you began preparing me ten years ago. I 
knock on his door, trying to be patient. Finally he 
opens the door. Oh fuck.

	"Scully?" I say. His eyes are red-rimmed and 
bloodshot. His hair is standing up a little on one side, 
as if he's been dragging fingers through it. 

	"Mom," he says quietly, putting his gun back in the 
shoulder holster, picking up his jacket from the chair 
in front of the desk. 
	
	"Another stroke?" I follow him, trying to get in 
front of him. I want to see his face.

	"No. She's dead," he looks at me for an instant, but 
then he moves his eyes to the empty fish tank. "She 
killed herself." I follow his gaze to the tank, gulping at 
the air like the fish.

	"What? When?" everything is happening in slow 
motion, except that I can't think fast enough to keep 
up. 

	"She killed herself. Swallowed a fucking bottle of 
sleeping pills with half a bottle of vodka. Because I..." 
his voice cracks and his face scrunches up. His head 
tilts back, his arms hang long, dangling at his sides, 
and he sobs, "Because I grilled her, interrogated her 
the way I questions serial killers," his voice is 
disgusted, dripping with self-hatred.

	We ride in silence through Maryland and New 
Jersey. In New York I tell him it wasn't his fault. His 
reaction is swift and violent. He slams the steering 
wheel hard. Very hard.

	"What do you know?" he yells, slamming the wheel 
some more. The car swerves into the next lane. As he 
moves to correct, he over-corrects because we're going 
80 mph. We swerve back across the two right lanes.

	"Pull over Fox. Stop the car. Now!" I thunder at him. 
Amazingly, he does pull the car off to the shoulder. For 
a few minutes, neither of us speak. The only sound 
comes from the other cars streaking past us rocking 
our car gently with the air's displacement. 

	"She was a little old lady, confused and frightened, 
and I needled, accused, circled..." he is saying it slowly. 
His arms cross over the steering wheel and he brings 
his head down to lean on them. I see his shoulders 
shake and I know he is crying. I feel my nose itch and 
tears well in my eyes. I don't cry for my mother, I cry 
for my brother. I lean toward him, putting my hand on 
his back, lightly stroking. In a moment he turns his 
head to look at me. When he sees the tears on my face, 
he misunderstands and sits up, pulling me close.

	"Oh Sam, I'm so sorry. You never got the chance to 
work it out with her." I think to myself in a strangely 
detached way that we Mulder children have a very 
serious problem with guilt. I doubt that I would ever 
have worked it out with my mother. He'll never 
understand why I have to keep hating her, even dead. 
But because of my memory he confronted her, and 
now she is dead and he thinks it was his fault. I feel 
awful.

****************************

	Arriving in Greenwich, CT, I marvel at my brother. 
The house is still swarming with police and he moves 
about them in a practiced grace. He commands respect 
not just because he is the victim's son, but because he 
is an FBI agent, the cream of the crop. He moves 
around the house, looking at everything. And then he 
does it again and again. I can see the wheels in his 
mind working as he pieces together the events that led 
to this tragedy.

	It seems neither the time or place, but I feel 
ridiculously proud of him. I want to take all the cops 
aside and be sure they know he's my brother. This is 
why I never forgot him in all those years. He is 
brilliant, he is special. He catches killers. He solves the 
unsolvable crimes.

	I move around the house by myself now and pause, 
finally, in what would have been my room. It's next to 
Fox's room. Some of the furniture I recognize from my 
room long, long ago. I sit down in the old rocking chair.  
Did she ever rock us as babies in this chair? Perhaps. 
Have I been wrong about my mother? 

	I hadn't wanted to come up here last week. In fact 
I'd been dreading it since that first day. I didn't have 
the courage to talk to Fox about it. The psychologist in 
him would have understood, but not the brother, I 
think. I have come to terms with the fact that the 
mother I killed in the convenience store was a 
substitute for the mother I wanted to kill. 

	I have a very strict idea of what a mother's job is. 
She is to protect her children from all harm, raising 
them in a safe and secure environment. My mother 
failed miserably at that. In not standing up to my 
father when he abused Fox, she left the job to me, a six 
year old child.  I don't have a good picture of what 
happened after I was taken, but I can't believe things 
got better for him.

	But because I thought I owed him, and because I 
thought I was emotionally detached enough, had 
analyzed these feelings of hatred enough, and had in 
fact already killed a mother to satisfy my blood lust, I 
agreed to meet with my mother again.

	It was a disaster from the first moment. The house 
smelled just like our old house in Chilmark.  I was on 
edge immediately, the haze lifting from the memories, 
bringing clarity to things that would have been better 
left blurry. 

	She approached me slowly. She put her hand to my 
hair, fingertips just barely touching the gray streak 
over my right ear. It scared me a little. I didn't know 
why at the time, though I do now. I looked to my 
brother for reassurance and the look on his face broke 
my heart. The look was unmistakable.  The love she 
showed my brother had always been conditional. Here 
he was, thirty six years old, having spent the last 
twenty four years working toward bringing me home 
to fulfill the condition. He just wanted her to love him, 
but I could see, this wasn't the condition. 

	The day went downhill from there. She became 
even more aloof. Any attempt my brother made to 
discuss what had happen was dismissed.

	As I think back on that moment now, I realize 
something. She was afraid of me. She was afraid I 
would remember her being there when I was taken. 
Not just the night they came for me, but later, in the 
bloody diaper days. She'd touched my hair the same 
way, but it was falling out then. 

	It makes her motive for suicide more plausible. She 
didn't tell my brother anything, but how long could 
she stall him? How long did she have before we found 
the truth? In trying to understand the motive for her 
silence and her fear of discovery, I am forced to 
wonder just who she was protecting.

	"Here you are," Fox says coming in to sit on the bed. 
"Are you ok?" He is a well-trained observer isn't he. I 
nod at him, because I don't want to get into it just yet.

	"Scully's here. She's going to do the autopsy."

	"You don't think it was suicide?"
	
	"I don't know. It might have been assisted." I frown 
at this.

	"The neighbor across the street says I was the only 
person he saw leaving last night, but the time doesn't 
jive. I left by seven, he thought it was ten. He is quite 
elderly," he concludes, but absently. Then, with greater 
animation he pulls his hand out of his pocket.

	"I found these." I stare at the miniature electronic 
listening devices. 

	"Bugs?" I ask, he nods affirmatively. "How would 
you know where to look? Why would you look?" 

	"The lamp in the living room. I was looking for 
something else. When I found one, I kept looking."

	"What were you looking for in the lamp?"

	"An ice pick."

	"What?"

	"It's a long story. I think we should get some sleep. 
We can talk more in the morning."


****************************

	I lie here waiting to sleep. I am exhausted, but 
there is so much going through my mind. Of course, 
sleeping in this room that might have been mine is a 
little weird. I can hear the muffled sounds of my 
brother and Scully talking in the living room. 

	I tried not to stare at her, but I caught myself 
looking for some trace, some sign of her cancer. Fox 
says she gets nose bleeds, that the frequency has 
increased significantly in the last few weeks. I could 
see the fear in his eyes as he told me.

	I remember seeing something like it in your eyes. 
You held my hand in the ambulance as they 
transferred me from the prison. You were just as 
stubborn as he seems to be. You guys just don't take 
death sentences well, do you?

	An ice pick?

****************************

	I know the minute I step into my house that 
someone has been here or is still here. I set my bag 
down on the floor and slip out of my shoes. Creeping 
silently across the hall into the living room, nothing 
seems out of place, but there is a small package on the 
kitchen table. A gift wrapped package, like a large 
jewelry box. A graduation present. I open the broom 
closest. Nothing. Upstairs, nothing. 

	I sit down in front of the package. A gold cloth bow 
wrapped around a gold box. There is no store name on 
it, no card. 

	I rattle it. Something shifts slightly from side to 
side. I take a deep breath and pull the bow open. 
Inside I find a piece of paper with an address  and a 
number on it. The piece of paper is wrapped around a 
key. I recognize the kind of key, and my heart pounds 
hard in my chest. 

	It's a safe deposit key. This one to a bank I've 
never been to before.  I close my eyes, fighting back 
tears. I'm not sure if I'm happy or sad. 

****************************

	I am remembering the end of May, 1993. You didn't 
call, didn't come by. I followed your procedure and 
waited another week, not eating or sleeping. Just 
watching, listening. Trying not to chew my nails past 
the quick. And then, still following your instructions, I 
took the key to the bank and found my name and 
signature on their safe deposit records, though I had 
never set foot in the bank before.   

	The young teller showed me into a tiny room with 
that large box. There were several envelopes, marked 
in the order you wanted me to read them.

	I stepped out of the room an hour later, shell-
shocked. I don't remember getting home.

	What will I find in this box? Is it from you? Who is 
pulling these strings now? Who put my diary on Fox's 
doorstep? Who bugged Mom's house? 

	It seems so hard. I want to curl up some place and 
sleep. I'm afraid of what I'll find. I'm afraid to do this 
anymore without you. Without someone. I want to 
trust my brother. I need to trust him.  

****************************

	We're sitting in his living room, ostensibly planning 
her funeral. He's looking for a Wordsworth poem Mom 
used to liked. I steal glimpses of him, trying to decide. 
I have two equally convincing scenarios mapped out. 
Two equally fantastic, yet still plausible explanations. 
What am I waiting for?

	"Fox..." I begin, but the phone cuts me off.

	"Mulder," he continues after a minute, "No, you 
have the wrong number....Yes, I'm sure it's not... who is 
this?" his brows are knitted. He hits three keys on the 
phone, the call back feature. I ask him what the call 
was about. A recording tells him the number is not in 
his service area.

	"Gemini Biological Labs," he says, as if that should 
be a sufficient explanation. He's pulls Metro, Suburban 
Maryland, and Virginia phone books off the shelf onto 
the desk and he's pawing through the G-section.

	"Millbrook." 

	"Just a second, Sam."

	"Millbrook, New York."

	"What?" he turns around.

	"Gemini Biological is in Millbrook. New York State." 
I 
tell him as I slip the photos out of the envelope I 
found in the safe deposit box. Our eyes hold for a brief, 
very awkward moment. 

	"Where did you get these?"

	"Just look at them," I ask.

	I watch his face intently as he reviews them. He 
looks, closely, at every detail of each of the three 
photos. Then he crosses back to the desk, sits down, 
removes a magnifying glass from the top drawer and 
goes over them again. I lean against the window sill, 
watching him, waiting.

	"As far as I can tell, these are genuine. But I have 
no memory of this meeting, nor do I recall the name 
Gemini Biological Supply. I can take them to the lab for 
analysis... where did you get these Sam?"

	I turn around and rest my arms against the cross 
bar of the window pane, watching the street below. 

	"There was a package on my kitchen table when 
you dropped me off. All wrapped up like a graduation 
present. A key inside, a safe deposit key. Just like the 
ones he left me when he died." My nose is itching 
again. There is just no way this is going to end 
happily-ever-after I think to myself as I blink back 
the tears I can't afford.

	"What do you think this is about?" he asks me, his 
voice sounding as tired as mine. 

	"Hybrids, clones, one or both," I say. 

	"You think..."

	"Yeah, I do." I understand, probably better than 
most, that it's a sobering proposition. "Think we should 
take a drive up there?"

	"I think I should."

	"We, Fox. We. I'm in this," I insist, motioning to the 
photos still before him on the desk.

	"It might be dangerous."

	"I can handle it," I say and he actually snorts! I pull 
one last item from the envelope, a photo ID, and throw 
it on the desk. He looks at me murderously.


****************************

	Heading north on 95, just past the beltway, he says:

	"Time to explain," he is curt, angry. The vein is still 
standing up on his forehead. I think he probably still 
gets monster headaches.

	"It's not that I deceived you," I begin, "I haven't. I 
simply wasn't in a position to trust you before." He 
whips around and gives me the dirtiest of looks. "Come 
on, you know the message he gave Scully. Trust no 
one. It wasn't a hard lesson for me to learn. But he 
taught it like a parent teaches bed-time prayers. Say it 
every night before you go to sleep. Believe it, live it." I 
pause, "I had to be sure about you." Now he is 
indignant, bordering on furious.

	"Hey, forgive me ok? We're talking about trust here 
and I can't think of one lesson we learned growing up 
that would inspire us to trust, can you? I didn't think 
so." I don't even wait for him to reply, I don't need to.

	"He came after me in prison because he thought I 
might be useful. That was the reason, initially. But he 
did a little digging, and he developed some different 
ideas. The way this has happened, how he 
orchestrated it, even from beyond the grave, it's 
amazing, brilliant. He was a master strategist. The 
greatest chess player." I think that I will always pale 
beside my memory of you. I'll never be as good as it 
takes. As good as you were.

	I want to know the truth, but I am afraid of the 
consequences.

	"What is this? Le Femme Nikkita?" he is still very 
angry and it takes only a nanosecond for my self pity 
to turn white hot.

	"Le Femme Nikkita? Is that what you think? That 
he turned me into a god-damned assassin? Thanks a 
lot. Give me a little credit, will you? No, Fox, I'm not 
some blow Ôem and blow Ôem away bitch. I'm a 
planner, like him. Ask me what happens if an IRA 
bomb explodes in Heathrow Airport on Sunday 
morning or on a Tuesday evening. Ask me what 
happens in Moscow if that happens, or Tel Aviv or in 
Silverplume, Colorado. I can tell you, and I can tell you 
why it makes a bigger difference in Silverplume if it 
happens on a Tuesday evening.

	"And the rice crops in North Korea. Do you have any 
idea what's about to happen. I'll tell you this much, it's 
not what you think.
	
	"Le Femme Nikkita. Jesus Christ. It was a hell of a 
lot closer to My Fair Lady if you must know." Arrogant 
SOB, literally! Asshole. Butt-Munch! All of these words 
sail through my head and then I realize he's beginning 
to laugh. It starts small, but it's building to a real belly 
shaker.

	"What is so funny?" I ask him, finding it difficult to 
keep the edge of irritation in my voice.
	
	"Just you wait Henry Higgins, just you wait!" he's 
singing to me. I shake my head. Fine. I start singing 
along with him. If you can't beat them...


****************************

	It's dark when we arrive at Gemini Biological 
Supply. We pull up to the guard station, ready to show 
our IDs, but the guard waves us through after a 
cursory glance. He does it with a smile and a nod.

	We park in front of the three story glass building 
pictured in the photos I shared with my brother. As 
we do, we hear a car door close behind us. I smell it 
almost right away. What a keen nose I have. We turn 
toward the noise and a cigarette glows in the night. I 
wonder absently where the camera is now.

	"Agent Mulder. Ms. Fox," he says stepping past us, 
and holding the door for us. I can tell that my brother 
is just barely containing his anger. For my part, I 
swallow hard at the bile that rises in my throat 
thinking about our last encounter. I squeeze my eyes 
tight for a moment, blocking out the vision of the 
sweat gathered on his twitching upper lip as he 
becomes aroused, ÔTell me again about your 
childhood...about your brother.' His breathing ragged. 
He's a pain junkie. I can't stop the shiver on this warm 
August evening.

	"Won't you follow me?" he says as we step past the 
security desk to the elevators. We ride to the third 
floor in silence. He lights another cigarette and smiles. 
Fox and I only make eye contact a few times. He is 
seething. 

	The elevator doors open onto a plush executive 
level. The receptionist's desk is vacant now, but the 
door going to the big office is ajar. Our cigarette 
smoking guide pushes it open, allowing us to pass 
before him. The executive chair swivels around and I 
hear my brother gasp. 

	"You don't fucking let up do you? She's dead, 
because of you. Because of you and your pathetic 
search for the truth." He stands and moves around the 
desk, coming to stop in front my brother. This is the 
man that my mother has been protecting all this time. 
At my brother's expense, at my expense. It starts to 
happen so fast... This is the man that ordered your 
death, I realize.  

	"Well here's your truth, you asshole," he says, 
pointing to his own face. My brother's eyes run over 
him, head to foot. He searches the other's face. I know 
he looking for some trace of alien DNA. Perhaps he 
thinks he's found it, in the eyes. I notice something in 
the eyes. 

	"A hybrid," my brother says, finally able to speak. 
The man laughs heartily and then just as quickly, he 
sneers, and shakes his head from side to side, and then 
looks at me.

	"You know, don't you?" My brother follows his gaze 
to me. I have to nod my head. My brother looks 
confused.  When he returns his attention to the figure 
standing before him, he repeats, "You're a hybrid," his 
hands open in a gesture of reasonableness. 

	"No, I am Fox William Mulder. You are the hybrid, 
Agent Mulder," he insists, reaching for my brother's 
hand as if he could prove it, but my brother yanks it 
away, clutching both hands close to his body as he 
takes a step back, away from him.

	"No. I refuse to accept... my blood... Scully's never 
found..." he stammers. I can almost see the images that 
must be flooding his mind. 

	"Of course not!" The original Fox cuts him off. He 
leans against the desk. I hear a lighter click. "She'd 
only find it if she knew where to look for it. You're the 
first, an early generation. An inferior generation. 
There have been two more since." he says with 
growing pride. Dread creeps up my spine.
	
	"You're too human, not enough alien. You're 
weak...you can't breathe under water," he says, and it's 
spoken like an accusation,  "although you are a better 
swimmer than I am. But that's the only thing I can say 
for you. 

	"How do you think you survived that retro-virus? 
It wasn't just your partner's medical skill. And the 
black cancer? You may be immune to that too. But 
other than that, a complete failure. You don't have the 
increased strength or stamina or the heightened 
sensory perceptions, your brain power is good, but not 
as good as mine."

	"But, I don't understand," there is an edge in his 
voice. He reels around to look at me, his look pleading 
with me. If this is true, his eyes tell me, then 
everything he knows, everything he believes, is a lie. 

	"You were living a wonderfully fulfilling and 
nurtured life here in the lab." Fox's voice draws my 
brother back, "We played together. Did you know that? 
Klemper liked observing us, so Mother used to bring 
me over to play with you, and I didn't mind. I was 
your teacher. My life became your life. My memories, 
your memories. We still use similar patterning today. 
Drugging the subjects makes them susceptible to 
suggestion. The suggestion becomes memory. Memory 
becomes history.

	Bear this is mind, my inferior second, if we can 
wipe a memory, why couldn't we create one?" he 
starts to laugh at this. Something strikes him as just 
hilarious, and then he is suddenly serious again.

	"I have to give you this. You have always been, at 
the very least, amusing. I have really enjoyed 
watching you work over the years. Some of the leaps 
you've made... I used to worry you'd get yourself 
killed. Strange, isn't it? I suppose I thought of you like 
some sort of brother, or maybe even a son."

	As I look at my brother I see he has heard little of 
this. He's pale and shocky. Finally he says, in a voice 
that sounds far away, "When?" 

	It takes us all a moment to realize what he's 
asking. 
How much of his life was spent in the laboratory, how 
much of his past is manufactured?

	"Things were coming along fine until my father 
started having some problems with his conscience," 
Fox tells him.  "Of course, they already knew you 
weren't the end result they were looking for, but you 
were just what they needed to keep him in line. An 
everyday reminder for dear old Dad. Tow the project 
line, maybe get your real son back.

	"Do you remember when they brought him, 
Samantha?"

	I step forward, closer to my brother. Scully calls 
him Mulder. I'm training myself to call him Mulder.

	"I thought he was our Grandfather," I say to him, 
Mulder, "but it must have been Klemper." It seems to 
relieve him just a bit, but it's breaking my heart to see 
him like this, to have him find out like this. I had to 
consider this as a possibility after I received the 
pictures. It was really the only conclusion that I could 
draw based on all the facts. If I had thought I could 
tell him and have him believe me...

	I understand the difference in their eyes. My 
brother's eyes reflect compassion and a great depth of 
character. Fox's eyes... Fox's eyes are an illustration of 
madness.

	"You know, of course that he hated you," Fox taunts 
my brother, "He never beat me. Never beat 
Samantha..." I see my brother's hands clenching and 
realize my own are doing the same thing. I hear your 
voice telling me not to be rash. Weight the situation. 
Evaluate your options. Follow the scenarios. Pick the 
best path. I say them over and over again to myself, 
like mantra.  

	I don't know what possesses me to look behind me, 
but I do. He's puffing away on the cancer stick with 
the outline of an erection in his pants. I knew it would 
be there. 

	The hate wells up in me. They are not worthy of 
life. They took your life. They are out to destroy what 
is left of my life and my brother's. 

	I move to stand in front of my brother. I reach for 
his hand pulling the fist into my palm and stroking it, 
never taking my eyes from his. Finally his eyes shift 
from Fox's to mine and his hand relaxes.

	"You are my brother," I whisper to him, "You are 
my brother."

	"Oh Samantha, for God's sake!" Fox says to me, his 
hand now on my shoulder, pulling me around to face 
him.

	"He's a copy. A faulty copy. But you should see what 
we're doing now. Come look," he motions to the glass 
behind his desk excitedly. We can see that it looks out 
on some factory floor. But somehow we missed the 
tanks until now. At least I did. We don't move to join 
him at the glass though.

	He addresses my brother again and his demeanor 
has changed from convivial to inimical, "As soon as 
you brought Samantha home to Mother you be came a 
liability. You actually interrogated her! My Mother, not 
yours! You were not born of her womb. You were 
conceived in a fucking petri dish, gestated in a 25 
gallon fish tank, a combination of my cells and some 
alien DNA for parents. You never traveled down any 
birth canal, nor nursed at a mother's breast.  

	You are the reason she's dead, you freak," he roars.

	"No," I yell at him, "You are. You are the reason 
she's dead.  She sacrificed herself for you. You showed 
up at her house after my brother left. You heard what 
went on and you went down to silence her. What did 
you say to her last night to make her drink half a 
bottle of vodka with a handful of sleeping pills? Did 
you shame her into it? Did you stand over her, drink 
this, eat another?" I step behind the desk, leaning 
close to him as I continue my assault. "She didn't act 
on his words, she acted on your words, didn't she? You 
take the blame for this and you take the blame for 
Dad. He was going to tell Mulder everything, wasn't 
he? 

	"The program may have been amoral to begin with, 
but now it's a perversion of that twisted morality, light 
years from the original goal. He was going to tell 
Mulder that the man running the program was mad, a 
crazed Dr. Frankenstein. He was going to tell Mulder 
the truth, that his son was a madman.

	"Well I've got news for you Doctor, just like the 
story, your monsters are rebelling and they're coming 
for your head..." the vein in his forehead is standing up 
a good quarter of an inch or more and he tries to grab 
me around the throat. He's got the strength of a 
madman alright, but I'm sliding in his grip, separating 
his hands, spinning him around so I can stand behind 
him and drop him to the floor. I see my brother 
moving toward me. I push Fox towards the floor, arm 
twisted behind him. The Cigarette Man pulls his gun 
and aims for me, but he never gets a chance to fire. 
My brother has seen him. In less than the blink of an 
eye, I have brought Fox to his knees, face in the 
carpet, and my brother's gun has the Cancerman 
sliding down the wall leaving a bright red streak of 
blood.

	A minute? Five minutes? pass without a word 
between us. Finally, my brother replaces his gun in the 
holster and pulls a cell phone from his pocket. The 
first call is to Scully. 

****************************

	The three of us are sitting on a too-soft double bed 
at a motel in Clinton Corners, just off the Taconic 
Parkway. Fox has been sedated and lies hog-tied on 
the bed in the adjoining room. We have finally agreed 
that we will hide him in an institution under an 
assumed name until things at Gemini can be sorted 
out. Scully goes to lie down, but not before laying a 
gentle hand on my brother's shoulder. She doesn't 
need to say anything, he knows. 

	"Hey Scully, leave the door open. I'm paranoid 
about leaving you alone with my look-alikes," he tells 
her holding her hand to his shoulder for a brief 
moment. She rolls her eyes but obliges him. 

	After she's left and I hear water running in the 
bathroom next door, I take his hand in mine and scoot 
closer to him so I can whisper, "There is a way to save 
her, I think." He cocks his head to the side, his brows 
drawn together. He looks completely wiped out. Who 
wouldn't be? I am too. 
	
	"The rebelling hybrids," I say. "Remember, you told 
me about the hybrids you found at the Research 
Facility where they were storing Scully's eggs? You 
said they were trying to sabotage the project." He's 
nodding. "I think they would know what to do with 
this." I hand him a tape. A  DAT tape. He looks like he's 
going to freak on me. 

	"What is this?" it comes out as a harsh, between 
his 
normal voice and a whisper.

	"Medical records..." He's shaking his head, he doesn't 
follow again. "And notes from Dr. Berube on the 
procedure." His eyebrows shoot up at mention of this 
name.
	
	"The hybrids would have access to what you need 
to save her life," I continue,  "What did you tell me you 
were working on when Deep Throat was killed? Purity 
Control, right?" I see his eyes lighten. He's got it.

	"The subject, Dr. Secare, he had cancer. They all had 
cancer! But wait, he's the only one that survived..." I'm 
shaking my head no. He looks at the DAT tape in his 
hand and then back at me. The clouds are back in his 
eyes.

	"I told you he saved my life. He didn't just educate 
me and provide for me financially. We didn't discover 
I had AIDs until late 1992, and by then it was full 
blown. Prison health care is inconsistent. Anyway, it's 
not surprising, given my previous lifestyle. 

	"It took him another few months to arrange his 
Ôtreatment'. But when he came for me, I thought he 
was taking me someplace to die. I had had a series of 
infections, all were treated, but not without some 
profound weight loss. And then they diagnosed PCP, 
AIDs pneumonia. Having lost most of my left lung to a 
different pneumonia seven years earlier, there was no 
way I was going to survive.

	"I don't remember much of the treatment. I was 
pretty out of it at first. There was pain. A piece of you 
has to die in order to be reborn. A few months later 
there was no sign of AIDs, HIV or any of the secondary 
infections."
 
		"I don't know what to say. There's so much I 
don't understand," he says.

	"We'll have the time one of these days. In the 
meantime, we could both use some sleep. I know I'll 
have my hands full tomorrow."

	"You're sure you can manage him?" Now it's my 
turn to roll my eyes at him.

	"I just told you - I have superior strength, can 
breath under water and I could probably 
photosynthesize if I ate a better diet. I can handle 
him."

	"I can't do any of those things," he says, sadly.

	"No, but every day you go out and make the world 
a better place to live," I pull him in for a hug, "It feels 
so good to have you back."

	"You too, Sam. You too."

****************************

	I lie awake listening to the people sleeping around 
me. Sam is silent. Scully occasionally snorts softly from 
the room adjoining ours. He.... God, I don't even know 
what to call him, what to call myself. He doesn't snore, 
probably because of the drugs. 

	A first generation hybrid.  Something less alien and 
more human. Something to remind the man I thought 
of as my father that he'd made a deal with the devil. 

	That night in Quonochontaug. No wonder Mother 
was screaming about her babies. No wonder she didn't 
want that black-lunged monster taking Sam, leaving 
her alone with it, with me. The freak.

	I roll over, pulling my knees into my chest. Holding 
it all in hurts. The look in his eye as my arm twisted 
away from my body. Hate. The look on her face when 
I'd call her. Happiness for split second, replaced by 
sadness. She could never love me.  

	The mattress shifts and I feel Sam's body next to 
mine, pulling me into her embrace.

	"You are my brother," she whispers, my eyes burn.

****************************

	I checked Fox into the sanatorium without incident. 
I don't think they'll be able to find him. 
	
	I feel sorry for him. How can I not? He mocked my 
brother for having gestated in a fish tank, but in the 
end, he found a life outside the lab. Fox never did. 

	I think about my brother now and hope that he will 
eventually find peace with himself. He has a tough 
decision to make, but in making it, he will define 
himself. I had to give him a way to save Scully. I owed 
him that. Whether he chooses to use it or not... If he 
does, he risks becoming what they were, what you 
were. And if he doesn't, and Scully dies... I hope he'll 
appreciate the strength of what he believes in, and 
allow that to ease his guilt. 

	I have emailed him the poem you gave me the day 
I completed my conversion. I hope he'll find some 
truth in it.

	I love Russia, but I miss you terribly. I had a silly 
dream that I would be with you when I saw it for the 
first time. I am excited to begin this new job and I will 
endeavor to make you proud of me.

	This tea room is something else. It looks as if it 
started out as stark and austere as the Soviet Union, 
and in those heady first days after the fall of 
communism, somebody over-dressed it in cheap 
velvet curtains and flocked wallpaper. But like Russia 
today, the wall paper is peeling and the curtains are 
frayed, bits of the Soviet Union are showing 
themselves again.

	The bells by the door chime as a man enters. I 
think he must be the one I'm waiting for, your golden 
boy. He strips off his sunglasses like a model and 
moves toward my table. He sets a prosthetic hand on 
the back of the chair.
	
		"I'm Alex," he says.

		"Call me Kathy," I tell him.

****************************


They say that Hope is happiness;
	But genuine Love must prize the past,
And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless:
	They rose the first Ñthey set the last;

And all that Memory loves the most
	Was once our only Hope to be,
And all that Hope adored and lost
	Hath melted into Memory.

Alas! it is delusion all;
	The future cheats us from afar,
Nor can we be what we recall,
	Nor dare we think on what we are.

ÑGeorge Gordon, Lord Byron, 1816


End... of this episode anyway.

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