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She goes to Nordstrom proper, not the Rack, feeling that this is a shopping endeavor worthy of marble floors and piano music. She runs her fingers through racks of Donna Karan and St. John, uncertain of what exactly she requires.
She rejects black out of hand as too severe; it will wash her out completely. Pastels feel frivolous, she looks ghastly in the traditional white, and red is off the table entirely.
Scully has, at least, decided she’d like a skirt suit for the occasion. She pauses at a lovely gray Hugo Boss, but the price tag shocks her. She can’t possibly justify such an expense, not even for this.
She sees a cat-eyed sales girl watching her like she’s the slowest antelope on the savanna. The girl catches her gaze, smiling. Scully smiles back weakly, already drained, aware of her thin face and hollow eyes next to those firm cheeks and that porcelain skin.
“Can I help you?” the girl asks, and Scully nearly chokes on an absurd hiccup of laughter.
“No, I really don’t think so. But thanks.” The girl nods, deferential, and steps back, but Scully sees her circling the periphery.
Here’s one, this is lovely. A rich blue, more cobalt than navy, really. Good lines to flatter her waist, skirt just where she likes it. Elie Tahari, much more her price range. She is looking for her size when her phone rings. Scully sighs, then flinches when she sees the number. “Dana Scully,” she answers with casual indifference. Listens for a moment. “Mmmhmmm, I see. No change, then? Still in the bloodstream. No, I’m hardly surprised. I’ll make an appointment tomorrow, thanks.”
She closes her eyes, wishing she could cry about this, grateful that she can’t. Scully feels the blood come and quickly clamps a tissue against her nose.
The sales girl returns. “Everything okay? That’s a lovely suit. It’s perfect with your hair. Special occasion?”
Scully smiles, rubs the soft lining between her fingers. “Thanks,” she murmurs. “It’s for a funeral.”