Chapter One: The Collision

With only thirty minutes to get to the funeral, I hurried to change from my shit-covered work khakis into my funeral suit. However, I couldn't find my funeral jacket; I suspected it was in my van, but my seventeen-year-old twin nephews were playing soccer on the lawn, effectively blocking my way. Nonetheless, I exited my ranch-style house and was striding purposefully toward the van when a muddy soccer ball nailed me squarely on my right hip.

"Sam, Seb!" I yelled as I tried, unsuccessfully, to brush off the dirt.

The boys bounded up, identically long-limbed and puppyish. "Sorry, Aunt Michaela," Sam apologized while Seb said, "Damn lucky shot. My bad."

I stopped. "Seb, if your mother heard you swear . . ."

He nodded contritely. "You're right. Don't tell her."

I glanced inside the van but no jacket. "I've got to go change again. Are you two going with me?"

They exchanged looks. "Who?" Sam asked his brother.

"Alex. You remember." Seb extended his arm and bent his elbow to mimic the ninety degree curvature of Alex's spine.

"Oh, yeah," Sam responded. "The kid in the hospital bed. Gotcha. Yeah, let's go."

As I rushed back inside, I called, "You two aren't dressed appropriately. It's graveside, so stay in the back. And don't bring the soccer ball."

I searched my closet for something dark and seasonal. I found a navy wrap dress, but I must have last worn it when I was incredibly young and excruciatingly thin. I pulled and tugged until it covered most of my ass.

Through fifteen years as a special education teacher of severely developmentally impaired, multi-disabled, and medically fragile adolescents, I had attended my share of funerals, but the loss of Alex was particularly bittersweet. Truthfully, he had been in pain for the entire sixteen years of his life; he was blind, nonverbal, incontinent, tube fed, and confined to a hospital bed. At the time of his death, he weighed all of fifty-two pounds. In the classroom, I played CDs Sam and Seb made for him to keep him entertained and alert. Because he was so awkwardly contracted, I was the only person who would even attempt to change his diaper. His mother, alone and not the brightest beam of light, tried her best, but I always worried about him whenever school was on a break. At the beginning of the semester this fall, he had failed to return. I was consumed with the fear Alex had died alone.

"In the van," I yelled as I left the house, keeping my legs as close together as I could so the skirt wouldn't part and show the world my business.

The twins scuffled briefly, fighting over the passenger seat, then wrestled their way into the vehicle.

The gathering at the cemetery was small and diverse, including Alex's unemployed mother, a couple of siblings, and the principal of the high school where I taught, Cynthia Winchester. I greeted Cynthia and thanked her for attending while I kept a watchful eye on the boys.

Cynthia pulled me aside. "They're not doing an autopsy, but . . ." she whispered.

I placed my hand on her arm. "I know, Cynthia. But he's at peace now," I reassured her in my most respectable, teacher voice.

She nodded, and we rejoined the few mourners. A minister I didn't recognize bemoaned the tortured existence of a child whom I knew to, on occasion, lift his head when he heard an especial song. Alex's life had not been without value or merit. I wanted to stand up and tell them how he smiled whenever he heard the nurse's voice because it meant he would be fed and how he actually laughed at times when he heard my voice chastising someone else, but my protestations would have been for naught. I kept my own counsel.

"Mrs. Brown," I said to the boy's mother after the service, "I can't tell you how much Alex will be missed. I won't have an excuse to play music during the day without him."

She nodded numbly. "It was just his time. His time. He was meant to go. It was just his time."

"Of course," I mumbled as she continued her near-incoherent litany, and I went off to collect my nephews.

"Where are your parents?" I asked them as they fastened their seatbelts.

"Aunt Michaela," Sam whined, "you know it's Wednesday night. Mom's at bible study. And you have to drop us off for choir practice."

"Hey, how did you manage to cut bible study?" Seb asked me.

"Funerals trump bible study every time. Is your dad at church, too?"

Sam chuckled. "Hell, no. He's making his hospital visitations."

Seb continued his brother's train of thought. "Says he can't take another Wednesday night trapped in a small room with Ruth Spooner, the New Testament Nazi."

"Seb, for heaven's sake!"

"Hey, his words, not mine," he answered defensively.

When I looked at the boys, their brown hair and their pale, luminescent gray eyes reminded me of both my brothers. Their dad, my older brother, Wynn, was the minister at Nassau Street Presbyterian Church. My younger brother, Ty, also had the same hair and eyes. I felt a momentary twinge, loving these boys who weren't my sons while I felt so much sorrow for the student I had lost. My prayer had always been for Alex, when it was his time, to die at school so I would know he had been loved during his last moments of life. As I drove toward the church, I recited the Lord's Prayer silently and threw in the Twenty-third Psalm for good measure.

Dusk was in control and visibility was low. And I was certainly distracted between my own praying and the natural bickering between the boys. However, I never anticipated the accident. I meant to turn right, but the street crept up on me. I had neglected to turn on my blinker and almost drove on past the corner when I cut the van sharply into the perpendicular street. The van rocked with the force of the impact; I felt the crash before I heard the clashing of metals. The steering wheel airbag exploded into my face as the dashboard airbag shoved Sam into his window, causing his forehead to split open. Frightened, I slammed on my brakes while trying to breathe around the inflated face pillow. Seb, staring out his window, shouted, "You've run over a motorcycle!"

"Surely there was a person on the motorcycle," Sam sniped while holding a hand to his head. "Did she run over him, too? I can't fucking see."

"There's a man on the street," Seb answered. "His bike looks fucked."

Sam tried to look around the airbag. "Any blood? Shit, I wish this airbag would fucking deflate."

"Are you two okay? Oh, hell, you're both talking. Of course you're fine. Just stay here – don't move," I ordered. I climbed out of my seat and hobbled, unsteadily, around the front of the vehicle. There, on the street, was a mangled motorcycle and a man splayed out on the concrete, but I could find no pools of blood or dismembered limbs. He was beginning to move as I squatted down beside him. "Are you okay?" I asked.

"Of course I'm not okay," he growled back. "You fucking ran over me."

"I'm terribly sorry," I apologized, although he looked at me with the hardest, coldest blue eyes I had ever encountered. He appeared to be in his late forties although the multi-colored leather jacket he sported befitted a much younger man. "I'll call an ambulance."

"Tell them Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital. Tell them Dr. House," he ordered. He reached out his hand. I took it with my right hand and pulled him to his feet. "Look under the bike. There should be a cane," he told me.

I reached up under the mangled motorcycle and felt the cane. I pulled it out and handed it to him. He appeared to have an injured right leg.

"Who's in the van?" he asked.

"My nephews."

He limped to the car and opened Sam's door. He looked at Sam's head, then asked him rudimentary questions about the rest of his body and the date and time. He performed the same routine with Seb.

"The boy in the front needs about five stitches; the boy in the back has injured his wrist. May be just a sprain. We'll need an x-ray to make sure. You seem to be favoring your left shoulder. Are you in pain?"

I couldn't even feel my left arm. "What, are you some kind of doctor?"

"Yeah," he muttered, limping over to me. "Did you bang it against the door? Your arm?"

"I don't know."

He hesitated briefly. "You don't even know if you hurt your own arm? You shouldn't be driving. Jesus."

The police swarmed around us as if we were terrorists. While they interviewed the injured man and the boys, I wandered past the debris of both vehicles and sat on the corner. I tried to move my left arm and realized it wasn't cooperating. The ambulance loaded up the boys and screamed away with them. I gave the police the name of the repair shop to have my van towed to, but when they asked the man about his bike, I intervened.

"Listen, there's no question this was my fault. My brother owns a bike shop. He'll do a good job working on it. Have them tow it there, okay?" I said, then I stopped. I was begging this disgruntled victim to let me fix his bike.

He looked at me like I was an idiot as well as dangerous. "What bike shop?" he asked skeptically.

"He mainly deals in vintage and high-end bikes, but he's really good." I nodded to one of the policemen I knew. "Roy, you know Ty. Tell this man he'll take good care of his bike."

Roy smiled at me before turning to the man. "She's right. Her brother's a pro. We'll have it towed there."

The man nodded uneasily. "Do you think one of your policemen could drive us to the hospital?" he asked Roy. "I have some scrapes, and I think this lady may have injured her shoulder."

"Of course," Roy answered him, then he addressed me. "Michaela, do you want me to call Ty or Wynn for you?"

"No, but thanks, Roy. Wynn should be at the hospital making his rounds."

Once the injured man and I were in the back of a police car and heading for the ER, he asked me, "Your husband's making rounds? A doctor?"

"Huh? Oh, no. Not my husband -- my brother. And he's a Presbyterian minister," I answered.

"Just my luck," he muttered under his breath.

"I am sorry. I hope your leg isn't too badly injured," I said.

"Just scraped. You do have insurance?"

"Of course – I gave the info to Roy. By the way, my name is Michaela McInnis," I offered, although he ignored my hand.

We were deposited at the ER entrance. As we walked in, I could hear Sam and Seb bickering.

"Mom's going to kill us," one was saying while the other one said, "Mrs. Terry won't let us sing in Sunday's contemp service if we miss tonight's practice."

"Oh, Christ, I forgot about that," the first responded.

I walked into their cubicle, and they both silenced their arguing. The injured man limped over and looked, again, at Sam's head.

"Nurse," he bellowed. "Sutures. And get this other boy to x-ray. Now."

A short-haired, squat nurse approached, none too happy. "You don't mind if we x-ray the flail chest in the trauma bay first, do you?"

"There's more than one x-ray machine in this hospital, isn't there?" His voice was as hard as his eyes.

The nurse turned away in disgust. "Robert! Transport!" She looked back over her shoulder and yelled even louder, "Now!"

He stared evilly at her, then turned to me. "Your brother, the minister, is he here? Now?"

I nodded. He grabbed a phone and said, "Have Reverend . . ."

"Wynn McInnis," I said.

"Have Reverend Wynn McInnis summoned to the ER." He hung up the phone.

"Are you a doctor?" I asked again. I felt even more idiotic.

"Yeah. Dr. House."

A nurse brought him a tray of utensils. He set about cleaning Sam's forehead and addressed him, "After this, everyone will be able to tell you two apart – you'll have a tiny scar. Not quite up to Harry Potter standards, unless you want me to extend it?"

"Uh, no," Sam answered nervously.

The ER tech wheeled Seb off to have his wrist x-rayed. I sat down, but Dr. House immediately turned to me. "We need to get you x-rayed, too. Can you move your arm?"

I tried swinging it although I winced with the discomfort. However, my injury was quickly forgotten as a familiar voice echoed through the cavernous emergency room.

"My sons are here. I had a phone call . . . Just tell me where to find them. Sam and Seb McInnis."

Sam looked at me and rolled his eyes. "Mom," he whispered.

"It was inevitable, you know," I whispered back.

Dr. House finished the stitches just as Hilary, a nervously thin woman with hair the color of bleached bones, flew into the cubicle.

"Michaela, what have you done to my sons?" she screeched.

"We had a slight accident," I tried to say, but Dr. House snickered loudly. I cut my eyes at him. "We were heading to the church after the funeral, and I almost missed my turn. Unfortunately, when I did go right, I ran into Dr. House."

Dr. House waved sarcastically at Hilary. "But I will live. Now, this young man just needed a few stitches. I've sent his brother to have his wrist x-rayed, but it's probably just a sprain."

Hilary flew to Sam's bedside, fawning obnoxiously over him. I saw Sam wincing with embarrassment and tried not to say anything, but my mouth opened involuntarily, "He's fine, Hilary. Don't emasculate the boy."

Before Hilary could respond, a nurse carrying an x-ray escorted Seb back into the area. Hilary shifted her mothering to Seb while Dr. House held the x-ray to the light.

"A sprain. You'll need to keep it in a sling for a couple of weeks. No sports," he told the boy.

"Oh, goddamn. I'm reffing for the kid's league – that's not a sport, is it?" he asked hopefully.

"Sebastian Ewan McInnis, I do not believe you're unwise enough to take the Lord's name in vain," Hilary yelled righteously.

"No, sorry, Mom," Seb answered contritely.

As if the cubicle were not crowded already, Wynn entered closely followed by Dr. Wilson.

"Wynn, your sister nearly killed our boys," Hilary complained hysterically while gesturing violently. She looked not unlike a bloodless stork.

I leaned over to Dr. House and asked, "Do you have a tranquilizer gun for pests like her?"

He raised one eyebrow at me and said, "If I had a gun, I'd be tempted to use it on you first, although I can see your point."

"Hilary," Wynn snapped in his ministerial voice, which magically silenced her. "Michaela, are you and the boys all right?"

"Wynn, this is Dr. House. I'm afraid I ran into him," I said.

"Literally," Dr. House interjected. "The boys will be fine. Bring the one with stitches back in next week and I'll remove them. Make the boy with the sprained wrist keep it in a sling, and he really shouldn't be refereeing for at least a week." Dr. House looked apologetically at Seb. "You should be able to ref after a week of resting. A solid week, though. Seven days."

Both boys nodded dutifully.

"Hilary," Wynn said, "why don't you take the boys on home. I'm sure choir is finished by now."

"Mrs. Terry won't let us sing on Sunday," Sam whined as Seb said, "Dad, please talk to her so she'll let us sing. We'll get there early on Sunday. Please?"

Wynn nodded at the boys. "I'll talk to her."

"But," Hilary began.

Wynn stared sternly at his wife. "Hilary, you take the boys home. I'll be there after I finish my rounds and stop by the church."

Hilary shepherded the boys from the ER, scolding and sympathizing in the same breath.

Dr. Wilson was examining Dr. House's wounds. "We need to get those scrapes cleaned up, House."

"Hello, again, Dr. Wilson," I said. "I'm sorry to meet you again in unpleasant circumstances."

Dr. House's head riveted like it was on a stick. "You know each other?"

Wynn extended his hand to Dr. House. "I'm Wynn McInnis, the unfortunate older brother of your assailant. Although, having seen quite a few of her accidents and their victims, I'd say you came out pretty well. What were you driving?"

"Dr. Wilson was our sister-in-law's doctor," I said, completely ignoring Wynn's bullshit. "Claire died about five months ago. Breast cancer."

"Yeah, that would be Wilson's patient," Dr. House commented. "The vicious female driver here needs her arm and shoulder x-rayed." He looked at Wynn. "2005 Honda CBR1000RR Repsol, Limited Edition. You ride?"

Wynn walked over to me. "You're hurt? You idiot – why didn't you say something?"

I stuttered, "The boys . . . seemed more important . . . and your wife was screaming so ferociously I forgot my pain."

Wynn laughed. "Yeah, my wife distracted you, and pigs are flying out of my butt. Give me a break." As Dr. Wilson attempted to clean Dr. House's scrapes, Wynn told Dr. House, "Sweet bike. Did she hurt it much?"

"Enough. Ow," Dr. House complained.

"Baby," Dr. Wilson muttered.

Wynn said, "Our brother can repair it for you. He's a master with bikes. A real magician."

Dr. Wilson paused. "He's right, House. Ty McInnis is the guru of midlife crisis motorcycles."

"I had them tow it to Ty's," I said. "Too bad he can't do anything with vans."

"If you weren't such a reckless driver," Dr. House began.

Dr. Wilson interrupted, "Michaela, let me get a nurse to take you to x-ray. No reason for you to sit around in pain watching me bandage House."

As I was wheeled out of the cubicle, Wynn said, "Do you want me to wait, or should I call Brian?"

"I'd rather you wait, Wynn, if you can."

He answered, "I'll be around."

The nurse made me undress and put on a flimsy gown. I worked hard to tie it around my waist, but the neck gaped open a bit. As I was positioned for the x-rays, I was more concerned about keeping my behind covered than my neck. The nurse wheeled me and my x-ray back to the emergency room cubicle. Dr. House, now bandaged, waited alone.

"Did you chase the other boys off?" I asked.

He glanced at me quickly before he stared at the x-ray. "You've dislocated your shoulder." He pulled a straight chair over, positioning it close to the examining table. He waved his hand, indicating he wanted me to sit in it.

"So, what do you do to fix it?" I asked as I moved into the chair.

He stepped in front of me, facing me with his left leg next to my left leg. "I'm going to force the ball of your humerus back into its socket," he said in a measured voice as he lifted his long, left leg and swung it over the back of the chair. He moved my left arm over his knee; he reached out with his right hand, making sure he could grab the examining table.

"Wait," I said a bit urgently. "It looks like you're about to use your knee as some sort of leverage."

He placed both of his hands on the top of my arm, tentatively applying pressure, then he swayed as if checking his balance. "This might hurt for an instant."

"Hurt? Isn't this a hospital? Don't you have drugs here?"

He pulled a medicine bottle out of his pocket, tossing back two of the pills and swallowing them in one gulp. "Thanks for reminding me. Now . . ."

"Wait," I screeched. "What about drugs for me?"

"Just recite the books of the bible. I'll be done before you get through the Old Testament. Oh, and do it loudly so I can make sure you don't skip any," he said as he began tightening his hands on my arm and staring fixedly at my shoulder.

I closed my eyes. "Genesis. Exodus. Motherfucker!"

When I opened my tear-filled eyes, he was hopping away, but his left leg was hung on the chair. Two hops and he landed on his ass, his heel caught underneath my useless left arm.

"That was rad," he sad gleefully from the floor. "I saw a picture of that procedure in a textbook back in med school, but my professor said he didn't think it could be done."

"I'm so glad I could help you explore a new technique," I said as I shoved his foot from the chair back.

"You'll have to keep your arm completely at rest, in a sling, for three weeks. After that, you should be ready for physical therapy."

"No," I interrupted.

"No? What do you mean, 'no'?"

"I mean," I answered, "I can't go around with my arm in a sling. I change adult diapers."

"Then you'll have to start doing it one-handed."

I shook my head. "You don't understand. My students are mostly in wheelchairs. I have to lift them, change them – they aren't able to help with the transfers."

"Students?" he asked.

"Special ed. High school," I answered.

He struggled up from the floor, leaning heavily on his cane. "You're going to have to get some help with the lifting for awhile." He noticed the gap at the back of my gown and moved the neck a bit. "Proverbs 3:5-6?"

He was reading the tattoo on my left shoulder. I recited, "Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding."

"In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths. King James Version," he finished the passage.

I turned to look at him. "Most people I've known who were trained in the sciences didn't know many bible verses."

"Most Presbyterians I've known didn't have chapters and verses tattooed on them. A new trend?"

"A youthful expression of faith," I answered.

"Any other literature tattooed on you? Something from the Koran, perhaps?"

I smiled slyly. "I was considering one of the Beatitudes in the original Greek: makarioi oi kaqaroi th kardia, oti autoi ton qeon oyontai. However, it's so hard to find a tattoo artist who can be trusted with an accurate representation. You, however, appear to be quite knowledgeable and, I'm sure, very handy with needles. Perhaps you'd like to give it a try."

"Hey, you ran over me with your van, and you destroyed my bike. I'd think twice, if I were you, before I'd let me anywhere near you with a sharp object." He tied the strings to hold the neck of my gown together and limped to the examining table. "I can write you an excuse for work, but it's critical you do no lifting for at least three weeks. Your shoulder is actually more seriously injured than your nephew's wrist." I opened my mouth to protest again, but he raised his hand. "I'm sure you're big, bad, and invincible, but your body isn't." He paused to give me a cold glare. "Your fucking quest for sainthood would be seriously derailed if you were unable to use your left arm for the rest of your life. Capiche?"

I nodded resignedly.

"Robert!" he bellowed. When the tech appeared, Dr. House barked, "Get this woman a sling from the supply room. Hurry."

The frightened tech scurried off.

"Now," he said with more animation, "about your brother and his bike shop, Wilson couldn't remember the name of it but said it was out in the Princeton Junction area. Can you give me the name?"

"Ty McInnis is his name, and his shop is Not Your Mother's Bike. I'll call him in the morning and explain to him about your bike. Honda you said? If you think you'd be free tomorrow around three-thirty, we could meet there. I'll introduce you two, and he can give your bike a preliminary examination. Wait, you might want to give me a way to reach you in case, for some reason, that time doesn't work for Ty."

Dr. House tore off a piece of the paper covering the exam table and scribbled on it. "Here," he said, handing me the scrap. "Call me some time before three and let me know. Wilson seemed to have nothing but good things to say about both your brothers and the sister-in-law who died."

I nodded. "Yeah. Ty and Claire had two daughters, one nineteen months and one six-months-old when she was diagnosed. Ty's trying, but raising two baby girls alone would be a bitch for anyone. He's still grieving."

"You sure do swear a lot for a minister's sister."

I looked at him, blinking in surprise. "I'm a minister's sister, not a fucking saint. Yet."

His irascible face almost smiled. "I bet those heathen nephews adore you."

"Of course. Compared to their sanctimonious mother, I'm the best thing that ever happened to them. Plus, I'm not their mother." I tore off another piece of the examining table paper and wrote my contact info on it and handed it to him. "So you can reach me," I said.

"You know, I already have this from your health insurance information."

"I thought you were waiting on it since you hadn't let me change clothes. I was hoping I could get Wynn to take me home."

An uncomfortable look passed over his face. "I'll have him paged while you change. The tech will bring you the sling. You can figure out how to wear it, can't you?Let me know tomorrow about a definite time to meet with your brother. And if either of your nephews, or you, have any problems . . ." He left the cubicle then, pulling the curtain around me.

My arm was beginning to stiffen; I had a devil of a time changing out of the flimsy gown and back into the wrap dress. When my brother showed up, he had to tie the bow for me. He looked at me with a cross expression. Robert delivered the sling; between Wynn and me, we managed to get it around me with my arm hanging lifeless in it.

I moaned, "This is going to be a major bitch."

"Michaela, I think we need to contact this doctor and get you some pain medication," he said.

I opened my mouth to protest, but he was already consulting one of the nurses. Before I could pull myself, one-handed, out of my chair, the nurse was paging Dr. House.

"Just sit back down, Michaela," he ordered. "We're waiting for word from him."

"Oh, hell," I muttered under my breath.

"I heard that," he responded.

I studied him. "You're beginning to sound like your wife," I retorted.

After about a twenty minute wait, Dr. House phoned a prescription for Vicodin to my pharmacy. Finally, Wynn and I headed to his car. On the way to the pharmacy, he asked, "Why didn't you want anyone to call Brian?"

"He has to deal with enough emergencies as it is. I just didn't see any sense in adding me to his list of pains in the ass," I answered.

Wynn was watching me from the corners of his eyes. "You're assuming he doesn't already consider you a pain in his ass. And, of course, that he doesn't enjoy some pain in his ass."

I gave him a curious look, but then snickered. "Reverend Wynn, I surely hope your wife doesn't learn you've been swearing," I said in a mock plantation accent.

"Ms. McInnis," he answered, "I surely hope you stop running into things."

I laughed. "It is getting a bit ridiculous, isn't it? I'm a fucking menace. Hilary isn't going to want to let the boys get in a moving vehicle with me ever again."

"Hilary doesn't want to let them get in a moving vehicle with me. She's a tough sell, that one. Oh, and that reminds me. The band has a gig next Saturday night."

"What? Oh, hell's bells, Wynn. Seb can't play keyboards, and how will I ever manage the bass? Damn. Who is it for?"

He chuckled. "You're gonna find a way to play your bass when you hear this. The Breast Cancer fundraiser needed a last minute replacement band. Lisa Cuddy remembered Ty and Claire, so she called me begging. Well, what could I say."

"Oh my word, Wynn, you're joking? Holy shit. Does Ty know? You'll play for this one, won't you? Surely it would be seemly for a minister. Oh, we've got to find a way to make it work. We can survive without a bass, but not without the keyboards. You know, in a pinch, you could do it." I was prattling along at a million miles a minute. Wynn just maintained his brilliant smile. Goodness radiated from that smile. Angels ascended straight to heaven on the sheer force of his shining teeth. He could, better than anyone I had ever met, light a room with the mere evidence of his peacefulness. The power of his faith alone was, at times, enough to sustain me.