(Doctor Gregory House and other canon characters featured in this work of fiction belong to NBC/Universal and David Shore. Original characters are my creation. I make no money from writing these stories, it's done for pure enjoyment. All literary passages, quotes and song lyrics are used without permission; I do not own them or make money from using them.)
Of autumn's wine, now drink your fill; the frost's on the pumpkin, and snow's on the hill.
- The Old Farmer's Almanac, 1993
October 1st
"Would you please teach me how to sew?"
Sarah gave the bread dough a final pat, draped a tea towel over it and looked at Roz, who stood in the kitchen doorway. "Come in and sit down, you have a few minutes before Hazel gets things started."
Roz came in slowly and perched on a stool at the island. Sarah handed her a scone and a napkin. "Here, taste-test this for me. I tried a new recipe." While the younger woman did as she asked, Sarah wiped her hands on her apron and leaned against the counter. "You know how to sew, I taught you myself."
Roz swallowed and brushed a crumb from the corner of her mouth. "Yeah, true. But I can only do basic sewing." She took another bite of the scone, a bigger one this time. "This is really good. What's in it?"
"Pumpkin and pie spice, brown sugar with vanilla Greek yogurt," Sarah said. "The school's having a bake sale contest and I want to beat Rick's lemon bars this year." She took a teabag from the jar on the counter and put it in a mug, poured hot water from the kettle over it and set it aside to steep. "What kind of project do you have in mind that's so complicated you need my help?"
Roz looked behind her, then leaned forward. "A bathrobe for Greg," she said softly.
"You mean his old flannel plaid one finally died?" Sarah shook her head. "I think the only reason it held together this long was sheer force of will on Greg's part."
"No, he's still wearing it, but it's—" Roz waved the scone, clearly bereft of words. Sarah nodded. She was well acquainted with the garment in question. Ragged sleeves, holes under the arms, torn hem; she'd patched it several times while he was in residence, but any suggestion of buying something new was always met with a growl and a few pithy words of refusal.
"So . . . what? You want to make him something like what he has now?" She stirred her tea, took out the teabag and added some sugar.
"Yes. I'd like to make him a plaid flannel robe. I found the pattern," Roz said. "But it's more complicated than just making an A-line skirt or a vest."
"A robe made with pattern cloth is a fairly ambitious project," Sarah said, and thought of the intricacies involved. "It'll take more material. And flannel can be tricky if it's thick with a nappy surface."
"See, I need you." Roz put down the scone. "Please, Sare. I don't think anyone has ever made anything for him before. It would be the perfect Christmas gift, and it could be from both of us."
Sarah chuckled. "Emotional blackmailer," she said with a smile. "You don't have to work so hard to convince me, I'll be happy to help."
Roz got up and came to her for a hug. "Thanks," she said. Sarah kissed her cheek and held her close for a moment.
"You're welcome," she said. "Let's plan a day trip to Calico Corners next weekend. We can visit the farmer's market and do lunch at the café too, it'll be fun."
"What are you two plotting?" Greg hovered in the doorway and glowered at them. "Isn't it enough that we're here to get our heads shrunk without me living in fear for my life from whatever diabolical scheme you're hatching?"
Sarah put an arm around Roz's shoulders. "Never you mind," she said, her tone tart. "Don't be such a grouch and have a scone, I need another taste-tester."
Greg entered the kitchen with caution. He took a scone from the baking sheet and bit into it. His vivid gaze pinned Sarah as his jaws worked.
"Well?" she said, impatient. "How is it?"
"'sokay," he mumbled, and swallowed noisily. With the scone in one hand he went to the coffeemaker and poured a mug, dumped in some sugar, stirred and took a large sip. "Dry though."
"Damn." Sarah closed her eyes for a moment. "I knew it, just knew it."
"He's teasing you," Roz said on a laugh. "They're perfect."
"Dry," Greg insisted. He stuffed the other half into his mouth and reached for a second scone.
"If they're so inedible, why take another one? Anyway, you ate breakfast once already this morning," Roz pointed out. Greg raised his brows and shrugged, as he was momentarily incapable of speech. He snagged the second scone and left the kitchen, mug in hand. Sarah saw then he didn't use a cane. His limp was still pronounced, but he didn't lurch or need to hold onto counters or chairs to move forward. Her preoccupation with the bake sale fell away, replaced by delight. He's healing, she thought, really healing. I'm so glad.
"So we're on for next weekend?" she said aloud, but kept her voice down.
"We're on," Roz said, and gave her a conspiratorial smile just as Hazel said from the doorway,
"We can begin now."
[H]
Doctor House folded his arms and gave a defiant glare. "I refuse to participate."
Hazel didn't respond to the provocation. She observed both parties, noted body language and respiration, eye shifts and lip-licks, among other signs of stress or discomfort. Mrs. House—Roz—was a little nervous, but the dominant emotion was concern, not fear. Hazel was quite sure the younger woman was much as she appeared to be: straightforward and rational, likely to express herself in a quiet or simple way without exaggeration or overt emotion. She sat close to her husband but didn't crowd him; she understood his need for distance, both physically and emotionally, but stayed by him as well.
Doctor House was a different kettle of fish, however. His entire persona screamed defiance, distrust and outright hostility: his left leg bounced up and down in a rapid tattoo. The action spoke of deep-seated anxiety as well as impatience. She would have to go carefully with him.
"May I ask why?" Hazel kept her tone neutral.
"You know damn well why!" He glared at her.
"I doubt your wife does," she said. "Maybe if you explain to her, I'll have a reference point and we can start the session."
That shut him up, as she knew it would. Roz leaned forward slightly.
"You know each other?" It was a question, but her confusion was plain. "Greg's never mentioned you."
"I'm sure he wouldn't." Hazel smiled a little. "It was two years ago on Halloween. Doctor House was in the hospital and I came to visit him at Sarah's request."
Roz looked even more confused. "Halloween?"
"She showed up in my room as a gypsy fortune-teller," Doctor House said, his contempt plain. "A so-called doctor read my tarot cards."
"Well of course I did," Hazel said with some asperity. "You don't have to act like it's a capital crime to do a three-card spread."
"It's worse than that—it's garbage," House snapped. "Complete tripe, and you know it."
"And yet somehow I believe you've looked over a tarot deck or two in your time, even if it was just to figure out the symbolism," Hazel said softly. "I think you're fully aware of its use as an ancient psychological tool employing archetypes common in Western and to some extent, Eastern cultures."
"The fact that you felt and still feel that reading imparted any kind of knowledge or wisdom to me tells me all I need to know about you," House said.
"No it doesn't," Hazel said. House tilted his head.
"Vorobyov," he said. "It means 'of the sparrow'. You haven't Anglicized it so you're proud of the name even though your parents resented it, which means you're second generation Russian-American. You mentioned your grandmother taught you to cut the cards toward your heart, so you were close to her. She probably taught you how to read tarot, maybe even gave you the deck. You consider the act of reading an homage to her."
"Well done," Hazel said, impressed and amused. "Please continue."
"You're the first in your family to go to college. You chose a middle ground between what your parents wanted—medical school—and what you felt drawn to, psychology, hence your degree in psychiatry—classic overachiever goal. Your guilt drove you to a summa cum laude standing and a doctorate with a thesis they're still talking about today."
"The internet is a wonderful thing, isn't it?" House acknowledged her point with a slight nod. "Right on almost all counts. I can see why you've attained such legendary status in the medical world." Hazel offered a slight smile.
"Almost all." House leaned forward a little.
"I never felt guilty about wanting to become a psychiatrist. Once my mother and father realized it was what I really wanted, they supported me all the way." She glanced at Roz. "Do you also object to working with me for the same reason your husband does?"
Roz shook her head. "I bust ghosts on the side. Who am I to point a finger at someone else's beliefs?"
"Do you really?" Hazel asked, delighted. "Extraordinary. What methods do you use?"
"Jesus, here we go," House groaned. "We're supposed to be fighting you for attempting to enact the live version of 'Can This Marriage Be Saved.'"
Hazel saw Roz flinch—just a slight flicker of the eyes, but it was there. "If we're to work together I'd like to get to know you both," she said easily. "That includes outside interests."
"See, here's the thing," House said. "We're not going to work together."
"I have a say in this too," Roz said. "If you remember, you agreed to one session."
"I didn't say how long that session would be," House said. "Five minutes is more than enough."
"We need help." She said it simply, but with an intensity that sharpened Hazel's interest. "But it wouldn't matter who came in here to work with us, you'd find a way to dismiss them because you're scared."
"When did you get your psych degree?" It was a nasty jab, but Roz didn't flinch.
"I'm just an electrician, but I know what I know."
"No one is just an electrician," Hazel said, more impressed by the moment with this quiet young woman. "It happens I agree with your assessment."
"Oh, great," House said with immense sarcasm. "Ganging up, the latest technique in counseling. I remember that one from school. You know, when the bully and his minions beat you up and take your lunch money."
"I'm not here to gang up on you, assault you in any way or extort answers," Hazel said. "But your wife is right. You are scared. What I'd like to know is why?"
"I don't think 'scared' is the right word," House said. "Try 'contemptuous'. Or 'skeptical', if you want something a little more politically correct." He smirked at her. "Very skeptical."
"Skeptics need empirical evidence to change their minds," Hazel said, amused. "In order to obtain that evidence you'll need several sessions to decide whether or not your skepticism is warranted. Do you agree?"
"Ah ah, nice try," House said. "Clever trap. If I agree, I'm stuck sitting here for x number of hours enduring whatever mumbo-jumbo you decide to spew my way. If I don't then I'm not skeptical, just a stubborn asshole."
"That second option sure seems accurate from where I'm sitting," Roz said. She looked upset now, her expression one of disquiet. "I thought you were willing to try this."
The expression on House's face changed instantly, from amused scorn to the fear that had been hidden all along under the mask he held up. Hazel drew in a breath. He was terrified of losing his wife, and yet he couldn't seem to help but push her away. Good lord. Poor Sarah, she thought. Work with him must be like two long-distance marathons run back to back.
"Fine," House muttered, and hunched down in his chair. Roz looked away, but Hazel saw the helplessness in her dark eyes.
"All right then. Why don't we agree to four sessions, one every two weeks. After that time, if you feel I'm not what you need, we'll part company and that's that," Hazel said. Roz nodded. House glowered at her but dipped his head slightly once. "Okay. Now that's settled, I'd like to hear about how you two met . . ."
[H]
Sarah took the loaves out of the oven, set them on the bread board to cool with a towel over them, and went out to the garden. It was an overcast day, chilly and gloomy. Dark clouds raced overhead, and a cold breeze brought out goosebumps on her exposed skin. She sat in the windsor chair and looked over what was left of the garden. The empty chair at her side reminded her of Gene's absence; he was in Philadelphia until the weekend, attending a conference. The garlic had been planted, three beds for three varieties, and the kale and broccoli had come along nicely. Everything else—tomatoes, squash, cucumbers, zucchini, carrots, even the onions—were harvested and the raised beds mulched, ready for next spring's planting.
Sarah sighed. While she loved fall, it brought with it a certain melancholy, a knowledge of the cold and dark to come, as inevitable as the first hard frost, the first snow, the first down comforter on the bed. And yet there would also be the first bottle of wine from Annie's orchard, as well as bushels of apples to make into sauce and pies. Samhain, Thanksgiving and Yule would come in their turn, to offer light and warmth, and celebration.
To everything there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven, Sarah heard her grandmother say. It was one of the few times they'd ever agreed on anything. She smiled and stood, picked up both chairs and went to the shed to store them away until next year. As she did so she thought of clothing patterns and fabric yardage, and whether she needed new needles for her sewing machine.