Friday, June 16, 2006
When House first woke from the induced ketamine coma, he was too groggy to notice much outside his own pain or lack thereof. He was aware of people coming and going, enough to snap at nurses and orderlies and mock his minions for their varying degrees of empathy and concern. He nodded when Cuddy filled him in on the extent of his gunshot injuries and recovery and was able to discuss the results and prognosis of the ketamine experiment, but his head felt like it was filled with cotton, and time ebbed and flowed in surreal tides. The only touchstone was Wilson, his expression of worry, exasperation, and relief all blended together a familiar feature by his bedside.
Wilson dropped by whenever he could between consults, meetings, and clinic hours, filling House in on hospital gossip and the latest developments on Prescription: Passion. For the most part the words washed over House as he dozed, but he had always loved to listen to Wilson's voice, even if he often hated the words. Still, he knew he was fine when Wilson started to lecture him about pissing off people with guns.
When he came back from his first PT session, sore, shaky, but elated, Wilson was lounging in the chair by his bed, watching golf.
"Could you be more of a cliché?" House complained. He had, before the infarction, enjoyed golf, though more for its mocking potential than as a sport. Wilson, in particular, had always been easy to taunt; serious and overcritical of himself even when playing well, he could be whipped into a frenzy of frustration when his game started to fall apart.
"It's a major. There's an addendum to the Hippocratic Oath requiring doctors to watch."
House frowned, realizing that he had no idea what day it was any more. "The U.S. Open?" he asked, calculating the days quickly. Third week of June made sense.
"Mm hmm. Looks like Tiger Woods is going to miss the cut."
That meant it was Friday. House wondered why it had taken him this long to notice or care. Then his sluggish memory kicked into gear and his frown deepened. "Shouldn't you be watching this live?" Wilson had been talking for weeks about going to the U.S. Open with his father and brother. It was some kind of family tradition that House had absolutely no interest in, beyond the inconvenience of having Wilson incommunicado for the weekend. He was certain, though, that Wilson had mentioned he had tickets for all four rounds this year.
Wilson glanced sidelong at him and then concentrated on the television set. "Something else came up," he said neutrally. He watched Steve Stricker sink a long putt. "Goosen and Campbell aren't going to make the cut either. Furyk's the only recent winner still in the field." He squinted up at the ceiling, calculating. "And Els."
It annoyed House that Wilson could keep track of a list of past champions while he was struggling to remember what day it was. But he didn't let that distract him. "Act like a department head and delegate. You can still make it to Winged Foot for the weekend." He was pleased he could at least remember the golf course — though the sheer novelty of Wilson droning on about something other than House's shortcomings had tempted him to actually listen to some of the details.
Wilson shrugged. "I told Dad to scalp my pass. It's no big deal. We'll go to Oakmont next year."
But House knew a lot could happen in a year. He also knew Wilson was too stubborn to change his mind even if House wanted him to. And he wasn't sure he did. He would never admit it to Wilson, but when he woke up groggy and confused, the one thing that could orient him instantly was Wilson's face, concentrated on him with annoyed concern. But then he watched Wilson scan the galleries for a familiar figure.
"Give me the remote," he demanded. "My room, my television." He clicked through channels until he found a show that had nothing to do with golf or family. They watched the local news in silence, and after House picked unenthusiastically through his dinner, he feigned exhaustion and pretended to doze until Wilson left quietly.
Once he was gone, House turned the television back to the Golf Channel. The second round was over; only the analysis remained. He had some phone calls to make.
Sunday, June 17, 1984
On the third Sunday of June, the Wilson brothers woke just after dawn. Or rather, James woke to his alarm clock, dragged the covers off Danny to get him up, and tickled Peter until he fled to the bathroom for respite. Then, they crept down to the kitchen, avoiding the seventh stair that creaked, Danny's hand covering Peter's mouth to smother his giggles.
Danny made coffee and toast, while James scrambled eggs and fried potatoes, and Peter cut up oranges and loaded the dishwasher. When everything was ready, James sent his youngest brother upstairs to wake their father with strict instructions not to disturb their mother. Peter's idea of quiet was running without yelling, but James knew that their mother would pretend to sleep to keep the tradition intact.
For as long as James could remember, the Wilson men had spent Father's Day in the same way: an early breakfast, a round of golf or pitch and putt, a late lunch, and then home in time to see the final group tee off in the US Open. Those years that the tournament was within driving distance, they would pile in the car and watch the final round in person. They'd seen Nicklaus win his fourth title at Baltusrol and David Graham win on the East Course at Merion. This year, the Open was at Winged Foot, just an hour's drive from their home, but they were getting an early start, because their father insisted on seeing the first group tee off. It made for a long day, but James wouldn't give up a minute of it. He wished their mother was coming with them, but she'd made it clear that she was even less interested in watching golf than she was in playing it.
Peter's return was heralded by the sound of feet pounding down the stairs. "He's coming," he announced breathlessly. "Don't forget to tell him that I did the oranges."
Their father followed at a more sedate pace, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He'd put his bathrobe on over his t-shirt and boxers, and his hair was flattened on one side and tufted at the top. Peter grabbed his arm and led him to the table.
"Black, extra strong with three sugars," Danny said, setting a mug of coffee in front of him.
"Just the way I like it," Joe Wilson replied, ruffling his Danny's hair.
"Mom says we should always have fruit for breakfast," Peter said. "So I cut up oranges for you. It's easier to eat." He'd cut up the entire bag of oranges, and James wondered if he should have been paying more attention.
"That's a great idea," their father said, eyeing the massacre of fruit. "I'll have some now, and we can pack the rest away for a snack during the day. Good thinking, Peter." He rubbed his stomach. "Coffee and oranges. It's the perfect breakfast. You boys ready to head out?"
James rolled his eyes. It was the same routine every Father's Day, and most Sundays as well. "We're not just having coffee and oranges for breakfast. It's the most important meal of the day." He brought over a plate piled high with scrambled eggs and hash browns, contained with a side of toast.
His father poked his fork in the scrambled eggs and moved them around. "Is that smoked salmon?" he asked, spearing a small portion to taste. He closed his eyes and sighed. "Have you thought about quitting school and opening a restaurant? Or a catering business? You could keep your mother and me in the style to which we'd like to become accustomed."
James assumed that meant he liked the eggs. "I thought you wanted me to become a doctor so that I could do that."
"That will take too long. I'm ready to retire and live a life of decadence now." He scooped some eggs onto a slice of toast. "Peter can be the doctor, since he's so good with a knife."
Peter grinned and attacked his own plate, only wrinkling his nose slightly when he tasted the smoked salmon. Danny ate more sedately, keeping his eggs and potatoes carefully separated, frowning slightly when a trickle of egg juice seeped across the border. James leaned across the table and balanced a triangle of toast down the centre of the plate. Danny looked up at him and smiled. It was going to be a good day.
Their father pushed his plate away and leaned back, sipping his coffee. "Eat up, boys. I want to be on the road in twenty minutes."
"You're the one who's not dressed," Danny pointed out. "I don't think they let you into country clubs in just your boxers."
"Smart ass," Joe said fondly. "It's illegal to sass your dad on Father's Day. I'll have to call the holiday police on you."
"He's kidding," James said quickly, when Danny's eyes widened. "Why don't you make sure everything's ready to go out to the car? Get Peter to help you. I'll clean up the kitchen." He gathered the plates and rinsed them in the sink, then filled the cast iron frying pan with warm water to let it soak. He could feel his father watching him, but he didn't want to leave a mess for his mother.
"Do you remember the first time we went to Winged Foot?" his father asked.
James looked up. That wasn't the conversation he was expecting. "I think so. I was pretty young." He remembered sitting on his father's shoulders to peer over the crowd. He fell asleep on the drive home and woke up in his father's arms, as he was carried up the stairs.
"You were five. Your mother was pregnant with Peter, and Daniel was too young to go, so it was just the two of us." He brought his plate over to the sink. "They called it the Massacre at Winged Foot, because the course slaughtered the players all week. Hale Irwin didn't win — he survived. It rained in the morning, but you never complained once, and I never had to tell you to be quiet when a player was about to take a stroke. I was so proud of you." He reached out and cupped James's cheeks with his hand. "I still am."
James looked back down, swallowing heavily. It was Father's Day, but he was the one who had gotten the gift.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
On Sunday, Wilson was already slouched in a chair, reading a journal article, when House woke up. "You know, sitting there staring at me while I sleep is creepy, even for you," he said, pleased when Wilson jumped in surprise.
"Don't flatter yourself," Wilson retorted, recovering quickly. "Your snoring is nowhere near as interesting as this study on combining irinotecan and cisplatin for the treatment of small-cell lung cancer." But he put the journal down anyway. "I got Cuddy to sign off on letting you out of here for the day. I thought we could maybe drive to Philadelphia and catch the Phillies game."
That sounded like the best idea Wilson had come up with since the great snow-woman competition of aught three, but it was going to wreak havoc with his own plans. "You're going to expose a recovering gut shot victim to stadium food? I thought you were a doctor." He ignored the flash of disappointment that crossed Wilson's face. "Besides, won't you get disowned if you don't watch the U.S. Open?"
Wilson shrugged and picked up the journal again. "Not if you don't squeal on me." He flipped through the journal, pretending to be engrossed in another doomed cause. "Brazil's playing Australia in the World Cup today," he offered. "We can watch it in the oncology lounge and make fun of Chase every time Brazil scores."
House could work with that. "How are you going to get Chase there for the mocking?" It wouldn't do to capitulate too quickly and make Wilson suspicious.
"He's on call. And what other lounge is going to have soccer on during the final round of the U.S. Open?"
He had a point. And Wilson was more than capable of reprogramming the other televisions to get his way. "Get me a Brazil jersey and you've got a deal." Even if everything went according to plan, he'd still have an afternoon of promising entertainment. It wasn't often he could watch someone else shatter Chase's hopes and dreams.
Wilson glanced at his watch. "Game starts at noon. The sporting goods store on Nassau Park opens at ten, I think. You want me to pick you up anything else while I'm out?"
The last thing he wanted was Wilson wandering around a sporting goods store all morning, but his first pain-free steps had woken his own long-dormant hopes and dreams. "A pair of running shorts," he said, almost hesitantly, as if speaking his wish aloud would cause it to not come true. "But I want breakfast first. Go get me one of those cinnamon buns from the cafeteria." That would get Wilson out of the room long enough to confer with his co-conspirators.
"Like that's any better than stadium food," Wilson grumbled, but he stood up, as House knew he would. Sticky pastries were one of Wilson's surest Pavlovian triggers.
By the time Wilson returned bearing buns, House was sitting up watching television, trying not to look at the clock every minute. Wilson noticed, of course. Sometimes — many times — House wished he were less observant.
"I've got plenty of time to get to the store and back," he complained. "Stop clock watching."
Fortunately, he was oblivious in so many other ways. "A normal person would have plenty of time. But I send you out for a jersey and a pair of shorts and you're likely to come back hours later with a new wardrobe and a date with one of the salesgirls."
"That only happened once," Wilson protested. "And I needed to go shopping because someone dumped chicken à la king all over me."
House shrugged. "Collateral damage. Next time you won't intervene in my bid for freedom. Or order the daily special."
"Trying to avoid Cuddy in the cafeteria doesn't make you Papillon." Wilson stood up and stretched, arching his back with a groan. "You still owe me a suit."
"Yeah, you'll be getting that the day after never." Wilson looked like he was getting ready to leave, so House changed channels until he found a tennis match. Fortunately, Wilson could always be distracted by sports, especially repetitive, non-contact ones. Unfortunately, they were already four games into the final set.
House was beginning to worry that he'd have to find a new distraction when the door slid open and an older man with familiar bushy eyebrows stuck his head in. "Is this where they keep the self-destructive cripples?" he asked. He strode into the room, followed by a younger carbon copy of Wilson.
Wilson's mouth dropped open. "Dad?" His eyes widened and then he broke into the first genuine smile House had seen since he'd woken from the coma. "What are you doing here?" He stood up and hurried over to greet his father and younger brother.
"What do you think of that?" Joe Wilson said with a shake of his head. "Not, 'Happy Father's Day, Dad' or 'Great to see you.' You'd think he didn't want to see his father."
"You're supposed to be at Mamaroneck. What about the final round?"
Joe ruffled his son's hair, smiling broadly when Wilson squirmed away and patted his hair back down. "I wanted to spend Father's Day with my sons. So here we are." Joe and Peter flanked Wilson, mock threateningly. "We've come to kidnap you. It's ten o'clock. We hit the road now and we'll get there in time for lunch."
Wilson stepped back. "I can't. I mean, I told House... You sold my pass." His hands fluttered wildly, and he glanced between House and his father, stammering. "I don't — I shouldn't..."
It was more entertaining than watching outfielders crash into stadium walls. Torturing Chase with Brazilian fight songs would pale in comparison. Unfortunately, Joe was quick to put his son out of misery.
"Don't panic, Jimmy. It was Greg's idea. He called me on Friday and told us to get a ticket for the final round for you. We thought we'd make it a surprise."
Apparently it was. And watching Wilson's mouth open and close like a dying fish was even better than the stammering. It was turning out to be a great day.
But Papa Joe was full of surprises. He reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. "The good news is, I was able to buy two tickets for what we got for the pass, even from the scalpers. I know you like to laze around all day, Greg, but we're leaving in ten minutes, so you might want to get dressed."
House narrowly managed to avoid giving his own dying fish impression by clamping his mouth shut. "No offence," he said, when he could trust himself to speak, "but hanging around a golf course all day is just slightly lower on my list of things to experience than a colonoscopy. At least on TV they switch between holes and show you all the best shots."
"It's not about the golf," Wilson replied, having recovered both his composure and his well-practiced tone of disapproval. "It's about the experience. Spending the day with family."
"And it's the final round of the U.S. Open at Winged Foot," Joe added. "The greens are like glass, you could lose a small child in the fescue, and it looks like they're on track to have the highest winning score in relation to par in a major since 1974." He clapped House on the shoulder. "Come on. Let's go watch grown men cry."
"Well, when you put it that way." House swung his legs over the side of the bed, reveling in the pain-free movement. He reached for the pair of jeans that Wilson had folded neatly at the foot of his bed, but that broke Wilson's trance.
"You can't wear denim," he said, snatching the jeans away. Wilson, of course, was already in prep school casual, even though he'd planned on going to a baseball game. It was embarrassing to be seen with him sometimes. "It's a private club. And you need a collared shirt. I have something in my locker that should fit you." He stalked away, shaking his head slightly.
"Has he always been like that?" House asked.
"Attentive to dress codes?" Peter asked, before cracking a half-smile. "Or do you mean the overbearing mothering routine? As long as I can remember."
"Peter," Joe warned. "That's insulting to mothers." But he watched his son disappear down the hallway with a fond smile on his face. "Thanks for calling me, Greg. It means a lot to spend the day with my boys."
House hated being called by his first name, especially by an older man, but he was willing to make an exception for Joe Wilson. Especially since he wouldn't be spending the day with all his boys. "It means a lot to him to spend it with you. But it wasn't necessary for you to get me a ticket. Really." But the Wilsons' enthusiasm was already starting to infect him like a new strain of a debilitating disease.
"Yes, it was." Joe leaned forward, bracing himself on the back of a chair. "When James called to tell us what had happened, I was the one who suggested that he miss the trip this year, because I knew he needed to be here with you. And even though I can see you're doing great, he wouldn't be happy leaving you here today, no matter whose idea it was. So I'm afraid you're stuck with us for the day."
House, admittedly, could think of worse fates. He could always torment Chase tomorrow. Delayed gratification was still gratification.
"Don't worry," Peter added. "I scammed a couple of hospitality tent tickets, so we can sit and drink while the old man and Jimmy follow every shot."
"How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child," Joe said mournfully. He grabbed Peter in a headlock and knuckled the top of his head. "Are you saying you don't want to hang out with your father?" Joe winked at House.
"Jesus, Dad. Isn't three days enough for you?" Peter asked.
"It's not enough you people killed him," House complained. "Do you have to take his name in vain as well?"
Wilson père et fils glared disapprovingly at House. For a moment he thought he was having a ketamine flashback and seeing double.
"I can't imagine why anyone would want to shoot you," Peter commented wryly.
Wilson chose that moment to skid into the room, out of breath and clutching a large shopping bag. "Sorry," he said. "I had to grab something from my car." He tossed a pair of walking shorts and a golf shirt to House. "If you unfold the hem, they should be long enough."
"I hope you brought a belt, Pudgy."
Wilson rolled his eyes, but he undid his belt and slapped it on the bed next to House. "Maybe I should try the coma diet. That's done wonders for you, if you're trying for concentration camp chic."
"I'm glad your mother didn't hear you say that," Joe said, but not even House was fooled by his disapproving frown. "I thought we brought you up better than that."
"Give it a rest, Dad," Wilson said, but with the same tone of voice he used when he was both amused and exasperated by House. Obviously, he'd been in training since childhood to deal with amusing and exasperating people. House was going to have step up his game.
Wilson glanced down at the shopping bag. "I'd meant to give this to you the next time I saw you," he mumbled. "I've been keeping in the trunk of my car, just in case." He shoved the bag at his father. "Happy Father's Day, Dad."
Joe raised an eyebrow as he slid a picture frame out of the bag. "What's this?" He put the bag on the ground and held the frame in both hands, staring down at it in silence. Finally, he lifted it up and showed it to Peter and House. "It's Davis Love III winning the '97 PGA Championship at Winged Foot. A rainbow came out as he walked up to the 18th green. They said it must have been his father watching over him."
House remembered. Wilson had been visiting from Philadelphia that weekend and had forced House to watch the final round. The endless tedium had been somewhat mitigated by the six-pack of beer they'd consumed and the golden opportunity to mock CBS announcers for mistaking a natural phenomenon for a sign from heaven. Wilson hadn't laughed, though, and when House pointed out that any of the golfers in contention had some dead relative or friend that the commentators would have dredged up, Wilson had retorted that it didn't make the moment mean any less to Love or normal people watching. House should have known then that Wilson would buy into the sentimental crap. Literally.
Wilson glared at House, as if reading his thoughts, before smiling hesitantly as his father. "I actually picked this up a couple of years ago, but I've been waiting to give it to you until the Open came back to Winged Foot. I remember what Davis Love's mother said — he knows his father is proud, that he's with him, and that was his rainbow. It's my rainbow, too."
For the second time that morning, House clamped his mouth shut, looking away when Joe pulled Wilson into a bear hug. It wasn't the kind of moment he'd ever shared with his own father, and something tingled in his chest like the pins and needles of a phantom limb.
"I'll always be proud of you, and I'll always be with you," Joe said gruffly. "All of you." He let his gaze include House.
House told himself that Joe was only remembering his lost son, who wouldn't understand or care that he had a family that loved and missed him, if he was even still alive. But Wilson nodded and looked at House as well, and just for a moment, House thought he finally understood the rainbow.