When James Wilson remembers the Bicentennial, he doesn't remember the bell ringing, or the tall ships, or the fireworks – though even as an adult an unexpected firecracker makes him start like a shell-shocked soldier. He remembers the sound of his mother gasping in pain, the smell of antiseptic, and hard plastic chairs. He remembers his father crying, his older brother glaring at him, and Danny running away for the first time, even if it was only down the hall.
He remembers why he became a doctor.
"When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?"
After nearly two decades of friendship, Wilson had learned that innocent questions from House were anything but. He could choose to be mocked for the truth or an interesting lie. He chose the truth this time. "A doctor."
"I mean when you were little."
"A doctor."
"Oh, come on. You weren't born wanting to be a doctor. You must have wanted to be other things. Like a cowboy. Every American boy wants to be a cowboy."
"Not me. I grew up in New Jersey. Cowboy wasn't exactly a realistic career goal."
House rolled his eyes. "Apparently you were born uptight and overly literal. What about astronaut? Being born in Jersey doesn't preclude that."
"No, but the lazy eye does." Wilson crossed his eyes, and House had to purse his lips to hide a grin.
"Again with the overly literal. Childhood dreams are meant to end in disappointment. Surely you had grandiose and completely unrealistic plans for your life." He paused. "Oh, wait. You did. You thought you'd be able to stay married for longer than a Presidential term."
Anger made Wilson say foolish things, so he kept his mouth closed.
"Aw, did I hurt little Jimmy's feelings?" House didn't waste effort on remorse. "Why a doctor?"
It was too late to lie now. "Because it seemed like a good way to help people."
House made a series of gagging noises. "Do you listen to yourself? This isn't the Miss Universe pageant. Though I guess you could be the contestant from Mars."
"Why do you find it so hard to believe? You told Vegetative State Guy that you decided to become a doctor when you were 14." By unspoken agreement, neither of them ever said his real name. Some ghosts didn't need to be conjured. They were there always.
House grimaced at even the vague reminder. "Fourteen. After I'd run through a long list of options, including jungle explorer, archaeologist, mad scientist, and porn star."
"You wanted to be a porn star before you were 14?"
"That was how I planned to work my way through college."
Wilson smirked. "Thank God for scholarships, or you would have starved to death."
House glared to remind him that they were making fun of Wilson. "How old were you when you decided to become a doctor?"
"Seven."
That shut up House for a moment. But only for a moment. "You've wanted to be a doctor since you were seven years old? Nothing else?"
"I didn't decide on a specialty until I was in high school," Wilson protested.
House ignored the supplementary information, though Wilson was under no illusions that he'd forget it. "What happened when you were seven?"
"Nothing that I'm going to tell you." As soon as he said the words, though, Wilson knew they guaranteed that House wouldn't rest until he'd ferreted out the entire story. And some traitorous part of his subconscious must have wanted House to know, or it would have provided him with a plausible lie.
"I know you had your tonsils out when you were eight." House was fishing, but this was just a preliminary cast to test the waters.
"Did you think I decided to become a doctor after undergoing painful and traumatic surgery?" He'd almost changed his mind after spending the weekend in the hospital with a post-operative fever. He had come out of it with a great admiration for nurses and what he hoped was empathy for his younger patients, neither of which were concepts that House normally endorsed.
"Aw, did Mommy and Daddy leave you all alone in the scary hospital?" House mocked, and Wilson remembered again why he didn't tell House things.
He decided to take the opening House had given him. "As a matter of fact, they did. Mom had gone with Dad to a conference and we were staying with my grandparents when I got sick. They didn't get home until it was all over."
"Now you're just lying to me," House said, sounding disappointed, even though evasions, half-truths, and exaggerations made up most of their casual conversations. "I know your parents. Your mother never would have gone out of town if you had recurring or chronic infections that required a tonsillectomy. And your father's name is on the admission form."
Wilson didn't bother to ask how House had found that out. He knew House had pilfered his personnel file years ago, and god knows what Lucas had dug up on him. "Then you know nothing happened to me when I was seven."
"I know nothing medically happened to you when you were seven. But it's never been just about you, has it? Not even when you were seven and the world was supposed to revolve around you." House stared at him, tapping his index finger against his lips as he evaluated the data. "Something happened to somebody else, and in your twisted little mind you decided that if you were a doctor, you could have changed things. Am I warm?"
He was red-hot, but Wilson wasn't going to stroke his ego by admitting that. "Is that what you learned in group therapy?" he deflected.
"It's what I've learned through extensive exposure to your pathologies," House retorted. "I bet you even remember the exact day you decided to become a doctor."
Right again. Sometimes Wilson wondered why House even bothered asking questions. "It was a landmark day. Everybody remembers that day."
"The day John Lennon died?"
Wilson rolled his eyes. "For a genius, you have a pretty tenuous grasp of addition. Foreman was seven when John Lennon died. The Bicentennial. July 4, 1976."
House squinted up the ceiling. "Hmm. I got drunk on Coke and grain alcohol and started my own fireworks display outside the munitions depot. Half the base thought we were being bombed. Good times."
Wilson smiled. "I'm sorry I missed that."
"Why? If you'd been there, you might have decided to become a fireman instead, and then all those dying children would have given their tacky little toys to someone else." He held up a stuffed penguin as illustration.
It was said mockingly, but Wilson had learned to hear past the tone, something he wished he could teach House's fellows. "But think of how many calendars I would have sold," he parried, pleased when House sputtered with laughter. He smiled, though there was little about that day to smile about. Or perhaps not, he thought, looking at the penguin.
July 4, 1976
The Bicentennial was the biggest thing ever. Everybody said so, even his father, and his father knew everything. America was 200 years old and that was older than his parents and his brothers and James combined. Twice. James could count to two hundred, but it took a long time and sometimes he lost his place in the middle.
The real birthday was the Fourth of July, but the Bicentennial was so special people celebrated all year long. James saved bicentennial coins and stamps and learned all the words to all the songs in Schoolhouse Rock. The fire hydrants in town were painted red, white, and blue, and at school they drew pictures of the special new flag. James wished they could celebrate his birthday all year long.
On the Fourth of July, the whole family woke up early - even Michael who hated mornings - and took the train into the city, because only an idiot would drive in New York on the biggest holiday ever. Or at least that's what his father said when his mother complained that the train was too crowded and the smell and motion made her sick. James's mother was sick a lot because of the baby in her tummy. It was going to be a Bicentennial baby, she told James, born in November. James hoped it would be a little sister. Willie Cramer told him he was stupid. Little sisters were a pain. But James already had a big brother and a little brother and he didn't think a sister could be more of a pain than them.
James knelt on the seat and pressed his face against the window, watching the buildings flicker by like the pictures in Danny's flip books. "How long until we get there?" he asked his mother.
"We just left, sweetheart," she replied patiently, but it was the patient voice that meant don't ask again. "How long did Daddy say the train ride was?"
"Forty-five minutes." It was forever.
"Can you show me how long that is on your watch?" she asked.
James rolled his eyes. That was a baby question. He traced his finger along the numbers, counting back three like his father had taught him. "There," he said. "When the big hand gets there."
She kissed the top of his head. "Very good. And when we get to the station we'll take the PATH across the Hudson River. Won't that be fun?"
Danny's eyes widened. "A path?" he cried, bouncing on his seat. "We're going to walk across the water?"
"Not a walking path, stupid," Michael said scornfully. "A train. Through a tunnel."
"Don't call your brother 'stupid,' Michael," his father scolded, looking up from his newspaper. It was the fat paper he got every Sunday. He didn't like being interrupted when he was reading it. "We can get off at the next station and go home if you're not going to behave."
James didn't see how that was fair. He was behaving. And Danny didn't mind being called stupid. He was too little to know that it was mean. But it would be better if his father thought about something else. "Daddy, how fast are we going?"
His father put down the newspaper and patted the seat beside him. James hopped down and scrambled up, leaning into his father's side.
"How fast do you think we're going?" His father liked asking questions more than answering them.
"Faster than I can run," James ventured cautiously.
Michael snorted, but didn't say anything. James frowned at him anyway and shook his head, because snorting wasn't good behaviour either.
"Faster than you can run," James added quickly, grinning gap-toothed at his father. "Faster than you can drive," he suggested, a little less confidently. His father could drive pretty fast, especially when his mother wasn't in the car.
"That's right. The speed limit on the Turnpike is 65 miles per hour. But this train can go nearly 80 miles per hour. We're not going that fast now, though, because we're nearly at the next station."
James jumped down and looked out the window again. The outside was moving slower. "Are we there already?" He looked at his watch, but the big hand wasn't at the right place yet. He pressed the watch to his ear, wondering if he'd forgotten to wind it up again, but he could hear the second hand tick, tick, tick.
"This isn't our stop," his father said. "We have eight more stops before our station, and then we take a different train."
James tried to imagine how long it would take to go eight more stops. "We'll never get there," he cried. "It will be all over."
"No it won't," Michael said. "We'll still have all day to go to the park and see the tall ships and watch the fireworks."
That was all right then. Michael never lied to make him feel better. James counted each station on his fingers and when it got to eight, he jumped off the seat and waited for everybody else to get up. "Hurry! We're going to miss the station," he said, tugging at Danny's hand.
"Hold your horses, cowboy," his father teased, helping his mother stand up. "This is the last stop. We've got plenty of time to get off."
"I don't want to hold any horses," James replied, somewhat alarmed at the notion.
"Jimmy's afraid of horses," Michael said, sticking his tongue out at James.
"I am not," James protested. But the pony at the school fair had tried to bite him and horses were even bigger. He wouldn't be able to duck away as easily. He held onto Danny's hand a little tighter. "Horses might trample Danny," he pointed out. "Especially if I can't hold them."
His father laughed, though James didn't think Danny getting trampled was very funny. Sometimes his father laughed at strange things.
"Don't forget your backpack, James," his mother warned, and he grabbed the strap and slid it over his shoulder. His K-Way was clipped around his waist in case it rained, but he was carrying long shirts for both him and Danny in case it got cold, and juice packs in case it got hot, and a book in case he got bored. He was almost carrying as much as Michael.
"Michael, stay with your mother when we get off the train. I'm counting on you to make sure she doesn't get jostled in the crowd. James, make sure Danny doesn't run off."
James knew that meant he wasn't supposed to run off either. "Don't let go of my hand, Danny," he said, swinging their arms back and forth.
Danny grinned up at him and pretended to pull away. "If I run away will you catch me?" he asked.
"If you run away, Daddy will spank both of us for being bad. Is that what you want?"
Danny shook his head, his lower lip quivering. "No. I just want you to chase me."
"I'll chase you when we get to the park. But only if you promise to hold tight to my hand and not run away."
Danny nodded and squeezed James's hand as hard as he could. "I promise." He picked up his Flintstones lunch pail in his other hand and bounced up and down. "I'm really fast," he boasted. "Faster than the Flash."
"That's pretty fast," James admitted. "Are you faster than Speedy Gonzales?" He followed his father down the corridor to the exit and watched Michael hover about their mother, letting her lean on him when she stepped down onto the platform. He looked at the stairs and frowned. It was a really big last step. He thought he could jump down by himself, but he didn't think he could jump and hold onto Danny at the same time.
But his father turned around and held out his arms. "Jump and I'll catch you," he said. "Daniel first and then James, because you're too big for me to catch all in a bundle."
James held Danny's hand as he hopped down to the last step and then watched his younger brother launch himself into his father's arms. His father laughed and tickled Danny on the tummy before setting him down on the ground.
"Your turn now, Jimbo. Big jump."
James made sure his backpack was securely over his shoulders, looked to see that his father was ready, and then sprung up into the air. For an instant he was flying, arms spread-eagled, laughing from fear and excitement, and then he landed safely in his father's arms. He wrapped his arms around his father's neck, just for a moment. When his father hugged back, he didn't think the day could get any better.
"It's funny," Wilson said later, after a beer had loosened his tongue and his memory. "I remember the day, but most of the memories are just outlines and shades of what we did. Until the end. But it's always the last thing that you remember best." He took another deep drink. He didn't know why he was telling House this story in public. The anonymity of the bar was comforting, though. Amber's apartment and his office were too personal. "It should have been the fireworks. I loved fireworks when I was a kid. One of the neighbours did a display every Halloween in a field near our house until the developers got hold of it."
He saw House signal for another round. "And the Fourth of July. Can't celebrate without fireworks. There was a big display over the Statue of Liberty, but we never got to see them." He remembered waking up in the back seat of his uncle's car and looking out the window in time to see a final burst of lights fade in the distance. Even now, more than thirty years later, the memory brought back a sense of loss, a never-forgotten ache.
"We took the train to the city," he said, shifting to a better memory. "It was the first time I'd been to New York. First time I'd been on a train. We got off at Christopher Street, and I remember walking up the spiral staircase, thinking that we'd never make it out of the tunnel, that we'd just climb up and up forever."
House didn't say anything and Wilson glanced over to see if he was still listening. House was relentless when it came to ferreting out personal information, but he wasn't usually interested in mundane details, much less wandering memories. But House was watching him, his own beer mostly untouched, so Wilson took advantage of the rare opportunity to tell a story uninterrupted.
"I remember we went to Washington Square Park first. There was a puppet show, I think, and jugglers and a giant pirate on stilts. I chased Danny around the fountain while Mom rested and Dad and Michael played chess. Then we took the bus uptown to Riverside Park. Dad thought it would be a good way for us to see New York. We had a picnic on the grass and watched the tall ships sail past. It was a perfect day." Even now, he could recapture the awe he'd felt the first time he'd seen those massive, elegant ships sail up the river. He'd stood there with his mouth agape, eyes wide with wonder. Even Michael had been stunned into silence.
"If it was so perfect, why are you gripping your glass like you're afraid someone will steal it away?" House asked, his tone unusually mild.
"Because the odds are you'll do just that?" Wilson relaxed his grip, only now noticing that his fingers were stiff and cramped. He picked up the stray threads of memory. "We were supposed to go to my aunt and uncle's place in Newark for dinner, and then watch the fireworks."
He stopped talking. He was straying into territory where even words were dangerous. Already he could feel himself becoming a frightened seven-year-old again and he hated that feeling. Oddly, he wasn't worried about House making fun of him. House had an empathy for frightened children that Wilson tried not to examine too closely. Wilson understood the power and danger of secrets.
So did House, because he let them drink in silence for a moment before asking a quiet question. "Your mother needed to rest. Was she sick?"
"She was pregnant. Second trimester. Probably 22 weeks." He'd worked it out years later, calculating the number of weeks between July and November. A couple of more weeks and things might have been different. House, he knew, would cycle through a set of possible complications. He was grateful for the conversational shortcut. "We shouldn't have gone into New York." Three decades later, Wilson was still haunted by hindsight.
July 4, 1976
The ships weren't just tall, they were giant, their masts stretching up into the sky so high James thought he could climb into the clouds. "That one's from Argentina," his father said, pointing to a ship with dark sails that was approaching. "It's as long as a football field." He handed James the binoculars and showed him how to adjust them so that everything was up close.
He could see the sailors, pulling on ropes and waving to people in the smaller boats buzzing alongside. "I wish I could be a sailor," he said, handing the binoculars back to his father. "I'd sail around the world and visit lots of big cities and climb to the top of the tallest sail and wave at everybody."
"I don't think I'd like it if you sailed around the world," his mother said seriously. "I'd never get to see you."
James hadn't thought about that. Being a sailor would be a lot of fun, but he would miss his mother an awful lot. "You could come with me," he suggested. "We could all go. Like the Swiss Family Robinson."
"That's stupid," Michael said. "They got shipwrecked and had to live on a deserted island."
"Michael, what did I tell you about calling your brother stupid?"
"You said that about Danny," Michael pointed out. "And it is stupid. You wouldn't be able to watch TV, or go to the movies, or ride your bicycle. And you know Dad would still make us do school stuff."
James frowned. Maybe being a sailor wasn't such a good idea after all. At least not all the time. "Maybe I could just sail up the river with one of those ships. Just for the day."
"I have a better idea," his father said. "How about we drive up to Nyack next weekend and rent a boat. We can sail up the river ourselves."
"Weren't you planning on cleaning the gutters next weekend?" James could tell his mother was just pretending to disapprove, not like when she asked him if he'd finished his homework before he turned on the television
"The gutters will be clean," his father promised. "Which deserves a reward, I think." He ruffled James's hair. "Don't you think that's a good reward?"
James thought that was the best reward in the whole world. He glanced at Michael, who nodded vigorously. Maybe they could play pirates and search for buried treasure. He was sure there was lots of buried treasure along the river.
"You take the boys," his mother replied. "I've had enough nausea without adding seasickness into the mix." She stretched and pressed a hand against her lower back. She'd been doing that a lot recently. James could see the bump the baby made when she arched her back. "I'm going to go lie down for a bit on the picnic blanket," she said. "You boys mind your father. And don't wander away."
James watched her walk away. She stumbled slightly and James saw her close her eyes and wrap her arms around her stomach. Suddenly the tall ships didn't seem interesting any more. He ran to catch up to her. "I need to lie down, too," he said, yawning widely to show how tired he was. The blanket was on a hill, so he could still watch the ships and make sure no one accidentally stepped on his mother when she was taking a nap. He stood guard until she was lying on the blanket and then sat cross-legged next to her. "I think I'll just read until I get really sleepy," he told her, pulling his new book out of his backpack.
"Why don't you read it to me and then I'll get sleepy, too," his mother suggested, smiling at him. It was her special smile, the one that made her eyes go all crinkly at the corners. It always made James smile back, even when he felt like crying.
James loved reading aloud. It was fun to act out the different characters. Danny always asked him to read at least one story before he went to bed and his mother said he was the best reader she knew. He was on the second chapter when his mother suddenly gasped and rolled onto her side. "Mom?" When she didn't answer, he touched her arm. She cried out and curled into a ball and he scrambled back, terrified that he'd hurt her.
"Jimmy?" she said, and her voice sounded like Michael's did when Jeffrey Mathers kicked him in the bad place. "Jimmy, go get your father."
James knew he needed to run and find his father, but he didn't want to leave his mother all alone. He looked around for a policeman, because his father always said that's who he should find when he needed help, but all he could see were strangers, and he wasn't supposed to talk to strangers.
His mother whimpered again and pressed her hands to her stomach. "Tell him the baby's coming. It's too soon," she cried, and now she sounded scared, which made James scared.
James didn't know what that meant, but it sounded bad. He knew the baby was in his mother's stomach, and he knew it was supposed to be there until November, and that was one, two, three, four months away. He knew he needed to be brave, though, so he took a deep breath and ran as fast as he could down to the river. It was hard to keep his balance going downhill, and he tripped over his feet and tumbled to the ground. It hurt a little bit, because the grass was dry and scratchy, but his mother was scared, and he was too slow and clumsy, and it would all be his fault. He got back on his feet and started running again, and it was easier now that it wasn't downhill, but he still wasn't fast enough.
And then when he got to the river, he couldn't see his father. He remembered the garbage can and the bench on the other side of the path, so he was in the right place, but they were gone. He ran along the path, just in case there was another garbage can and another bench, but they hadn't walked that far from the blanket and now he couldn't see his mother either. He ran the other direction, even though he was crying now and it was hard to run and breathe at the same time.
"Daddy!" he screamed, finally spotting his father by an ice cream truck. Michael would laugh at him for talking like a baby, but he didn't care. He ran harder than he'd ever run before and threw himself at his father, wrapping his arms around his waist. "Daddy, come quick." It was even harder to talk and breathe when he was crying, so he tugged at his father's arm, pulling him away from the truck.
"James? What's wrong?" his father asked, frowning. "Where's your mother?"
James took a deep breath and kept pulling at his father's arm. "You need to come now. She says it's too soon. Hurry," he cried, when his father just stood there. "The baby's coming."
His father stared at him, the way he looked at Danny when he babbled in his made-up language, but James knew he was talking in English, and his father still acted like he didn't understand. James hopped from one foot to the other wondering why his father didn't move, when the baby was coming and his mother was scared. He thought maybe if he ran to the blanket, his father would follow, but he was all turned around and he couldn't remember the way. "Daddy," he cried. "We have to go!"
"Oh, Jesus," his father said, finally. That was one of the bad words that made his mother's face scrunch up, even when his father said it. "Oh, god." He covered his face with his hands and made a noise like he swallowed something the wrong way. Then he dropped his hands. "Get on my back, Danny," he said bending down. "We're going to go see Mommy."
"But I want an ice cream," Danny protested.
"We'll get ice cream later," his father said. "You can have a piggyback ride now."
Danny pouted, but climbed on his father's back, wrapping arms around his neck.
"Michael, hold onto Jimmy's hand and stay close to me. Can you do that?"
Michael nodded. His hand was cold, and he squeezed James's hand so hard it hurt. "This is your fault," he said, so quietly that James had to lean forward to hear him. "You wanted to see the tall ships." He waited until their father was nearly out of sight and then let go and ran after him.
James told himself that Michael was just being mean, but he remembered how his mother said the train made her sick and they had to go on the train to see the ships. He ran after Michael, because his father would get mad if he got lost, but his legs were too short, and his eyes were blurry, and he didn't think he could keep up.
"Stop being such a baby," Michael said, stopping just long enough for James to catch up and rub his eyes, before he grabbed James's hand and dragged him up the hill.
When they got to the blanket, there were people all around and James couldn't see his mother, and they couldn't get to his father. A woman with a nice smile gave them a hug and said everything would be all right, but James could hear his mother crying, and he knew that wasn't true.
The baby was too early, but he hadn't run fast enough and now it was too late. Michael was right. It was all his fault.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, but nobody heard him.
"Stillbirth?" House asked. "Or premature?"
"Premature," Wilson replied, his throat tight. "The doctors tried to stop the labour, but by the time she got to the hospital, it was too late. The baby lived for nearly half an hour. They called her Elizabeth. I'd wanted a baby sister so badly, but I never even got to see her."
House looked away so that Wilson could rub his eyes without embarrassing himself. "My father called my aunt and uncle, but they didn't get the message right away, and then they got caught in traffic, so we waited a long time at the hospital before they came to pick us up. The nurses got us books and toys from the children's ward, but Danny kept trying to wander away, and Michael wouldn't talk to anyone, and Dad was a wreck. It was the first time I'd ever seen him cry. I didn't know what to do."
"It wasn't your job to do anything," House retorted. "Seven years old and you're already trying to be something that's impossible. You're pathological."
"I was a little kid who saw his father crying. I think I was allowed to feel helpless." Some nights he woke gasping for breath, and he knew - without remembering the exact details - that he'd been wandering around Riverside Park, lost and looking for his family. Sometimes he found his mother just as the paramedics covered her face with the blanket. Sometimes it was Danny, who screamed and screamed for Wilson to come, his voice fading in the distance until it disappeared altogether. After Amber died, he spent his dreams wandering through the wreckage of accidents. Every broken body that he passed had either House or Amber's face. One night, not long before he resigned from the hospital, he dreamed that he was reading to his mother on the blanket, but when he looked up from the book, Amber was lying beside him, blood pooling between her legs.
His hand trembled as he lifted his glass to drink, and beer sloshed over the rim, trailing down the side like tears. He drained half the glass and then pushed it away, gagging slightly.
"Take it easy, chief," House said, signalling the waitress to bring them some water. "The point is to get drunk, not sick." He drained his own beer and confiscated Wilson's glass.
"I was going to finish that," Wilson protested, more from principle than actual thirst. Not that he expected either to sway House.
"Drink this instead," House said when the waitress dropped a pitcher of water at their table. He filled a plastic cup with water. "You'll thank me in the morning."
Wilson grimaced, but took a sip. The water was ice cold and he drank more, wishing he could wash away grief and loss as easily as he washed away the taste of beer and bile.
"You were seven years old," House said. "There wasn't anything you could have done. It wasn't your fault."
Wilson looked away. He hadn't told House that part of the story, but House was a master at hearing the words unspoken. "That's not what Michael said," Wilson said. He'd been trying for ironic, or at least rueful, but the words came out bitter and defensive.
"Michael is an asshole." House had never bothered to hide his dislike of Wilson's older brother, a sentiment that was fully returned. Avoiding a disastrous bachelor party wasn't the only reason Wilson had convinced Julie to elope. "And you're an idiot for believing him."
"Seven years old, remember," Wilson retorted. "What was I supposed to believe? I wanted to see the tall ships and my mother got sick. I couldn't find my father in time and the baby died. Cause and effect."
"That's logical when you're seven. But you still believe it's true." House shook his head slightly, his expression almost indulgent. "Are you sure the goyside of your family isn't Catholic? Because you're like some end result of a genetic experiment in guilt."
"I know it wasn't my fault," Wilson protested. "I don't feel guilty." But they both knew only one of the statements was true. Wilson looked longingly at the remains of his beer, but he was already too light-headed and loose-lipped to survive a serious conversation with House. He poured himself more water.
House watched him drink. "Your problem is that you think you have to fix everything that's broken, solve every problem. You're not responsible for everyone and everything in your life." It was one of House's favourite refrains, but this time it had a different melody, one that was affectionate, not accusing, and more soothing than the water. "You couldn't help your mother. You couldn't save the baby. Neither could anyone else."
Wilson knew that, had known it for years, but it was a long way between knowing something and believing it. Hearing it from House, however, narrowed the gap. He took a deep breath and released it slowly. "Not even you?"
"Too busy blowing up the munitions depot." He pushed the glass of beer back towards Wilson. "Drink up. You've got a long day of lost causes tomorrow."
Wilson tried not to think about all the patients he couldn't save. He'd known from the first that too often all he could give them was a few more weeks, or months, or years. That had to be enough. "Not entirely lost," he said. The baby had died, but others had lived and more still might be born in those extra weeks, months, or years.
"No," House agreed. "Nothing ever is."