One sentence echoed inside Cuddy's brain, ricocheting like a tiny pin ball.
"It's possible that the vision loss will be permanent, but it's too early to tell."
Cuddy struggled to focus on the voice of Dr. Greene, one of the hospital's counselors for the disabled, who was delivering a crash course on caring for the blind. Dr. Greene lounged in a leather armchair, legs crossed and hands folded. A pair of large, round glasses magnified her eyes, which glanced between Cuddy and Wilson as she spoke. Cuddy could hardly bear to maintain eye contact. Beside her, Wilson had dropped his chin to his chest and failed to lift his head once, focusing instead on his lap full of literature-Sighted Guide Tips; Promises to Keep for Family and Friends of the Newly Blinded Person; Living with Vision Loss: Everyday Skills.
Cuddy let her gaze wander the room. It came to rest on the name plate at the edge of Dr. Greene's desk. Dr. Greene. Green. House may never see green again.
She had taken House to meet with the staff ophthalmologist, where House had maintained an eerie, uncharacteristic silence. She'd stood beside him, expecting impatient retorts, rebuttals, insults, but his mouth had stayed shut, his lips set in a tight line. Instead, she had spoken for him, scheduling a follow-up and accepting a prescription for broad-spectrum antibiotic drops and a supply of pressure patches.
She'd demanded that he stay at the hospital, hoping to draw an emotional reaction-anger, frustration, grief, something. When she'd held his wrist to fasten his hospital bracelet, he'd finally resisted, slamming his fist against the arm of the wheelchair and growling at her to stop, to take him home. Jolts of pain and bittersweet relief had jarred her heart, and she'd shut her eyes as she'd snapped the bracelet closed.
Cuddy shook her head against the memory and forced herself to focus on Dr. Greene's words.
"When you're speaking to him," said Dr. Greene, "look directly at him. The lack of eye contact will make it difficult, but it will be easier for him to track your voice if you face him when you speak."
Cuddy frowned at one of the open pamphlets on her thigh and slapped it shut.
"Did you have a question, Dr. Cuddy?"
She kept her eyes downcast as she shook her head. "No. I'm sorry. I was just..." She gestured to her lap.
"I know it's a lot of information. It can be overwhelming."
Cuddy could detect her sympathetic smile, and her stomach twisted.
An uncomfortable pause filled the room. Beside her, Wilson shifted in his seat.
Dr. Greene continued in a cool, professional rhythm. "You should also remember to refrain from taking care of tasks that he would normally do. Cutting his food. Changing a radio station. If you see him struggling, ask him if he needs help. He'll probably tell you if he wants it."
Wilson snorted. "You don't know House, do you?" His voice was strained with forced politeness. "He would rather slice his arm to ribbons before he admitted that he needed help."
Cuddy chanced a glance at Dr. Greene's bulging insect-eyes. She sighed. "It's true."
Dr. Greene raised her eyebrows. "Well, some patients are especially resistant to help. Unfortunately, it's unwise to force assistance on him. Only encourage rehabilitation if he expresses any interest."
Cuddy cleared her throat. "Without a rehabilitation program, how long will it take for him to adjust to all of this?"
"It always varies, but with a good network of support, he may begin to accept his condition and regain some of his independence within six months."
A heavy weight settled in Cuddy's chest. She nodded mutely, forcing a half-hearted smile. She heard the flutter of papers as Wilson's foot bounced against the carpet. Recognizing his unspoken distress and thankful for an excuse to leave, she stood and extended her hand toward Dr. Greene. "Thank you, Dr. Greene. You've been very helpful."
Wilson followed her out of Dr. Greene's office, his posture unnaturally stiff. He shook his handful of papers. "None of this is going to work. You know House. He won't want help. He-"
"I know," she said, stopping beside the elevators and pressing the down arrow. "But he'll need our help whether he wants it or not."
Wilson sighed and stumbled over his words. "It's just-House can't-trying to help him is like trying to give an angry cat a bath."
Cuddy nodded and glanced toward the elevator as the door slid open. Before she could step inside, a nurse barreled out of the car, nearly trampling her.
"Oh! Dr. Cuddy!" The nurse struggled to catch her breath. "We tried your pager, but you didn't respond."
Cuddy had thrown it in her purse before she had chased House out of the building. She had planned to corner House then escape for the evening. Plans had changed.
Cuddy raised her eyebrows and motioned for the nurse to continue.
"There's been an emergency," she said. "It's Dr. House."
Cuddy met Wilson's worried eyes.
"He's missing."
