Reconciliations: A House M.D. Story
Disclaimer: see beginning of Chapter One.
Author's Note: The reviews I have received so far have been very encouraging and helpful! The first three or four chapters are formative, but the action picks up quickly from there so I hope you continue to read along and my aim is to take you on a fascinating journey with our favorite characters and some new ones I hope you'll learn to appreciate as well! Please remember to comment because this is a learning process for me and your comments really help me a lot! I forgot to mention last time that the song that inspired Chapter One was "Running down a Dream." By Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Songs which contributed to the inspiration of this Chapter include "Manic Monday." By the Bangles, "Love at First Sight."By Josh Verdes, and "What if I Stumble?" by dcTalk.
Chapter Two
Chloe LaSalle hated it when she slept through her alarm. It was only her third day as the new supervisor in a new job and the last thing she wanted was to be late and set a bad example. She had an abbreviated shower and pulled her hair back instead of taking the time to blow-dry and flat-iron it as she usually did. It was fortunate that she didn't wear a lot of make-up except when dressing for an evening out or a special occasion. That alone saved her a lot of time on a daily basis. She wasn't aware of the fact that she was one of those women who looked just as stunning without make-up and wearing a sweatshirt and jeans as most other women who spent all day in a beauty salon and wore designer gowns. When she looked in the mirror, she saw a relatively attractive thirty-eight year woman in good shape and health, but nothing more.
She threw on a lavender blouse with a ruffled v-neck that complemented her olive-toned skin, chocolate-fudge colored hair and dark brown eyes, and a black pencil skirt that fell just above her knees. A pair of comfortable but pretty ballerina-style flats completed her standard no-fuss, modest and respectable look. She grabbed her ID badge from on top if her dresser and in a full-length mirror she looked for a place to clip it where it was visible but wouldn't draw open her neckline and expose too much cleavage. In her line of work, that wasn't the kind of look that would earn her points. She appraised how she looked, turning around a couple of times.
"You're hot and tasty," a flat voice told her drolly.
Chloe turned to look at her thirteen year-old daughter who stood in the doorway of her bedroom.
"What am I, Sara?" Chloe responded with a grin. "Un doeir leur? If you need me to drop you off at school today, we need to leave tout de suite."
"I decided to take the school bus today," was the response. Sara leaned against the door frame leisurely and wound a strand of caramel-colored hair around her fingers. "Around here they call them "sweet buns", Mom. Nobody will know what you're saying if you talk about everything in French."
"Outside of this house, you are right," Chloe responded with a nod, "but inside these walls I will talk in whatever language I choose. I thought you didn't want to ride the bus because you don't know anyone on there?" She brushed past her daughter and strode down the hall towards the stairwell.
Sarah followed her down the stairs and to the kitchen. She sat on a stool at the counter-height island while Chloe fixed them both a low-fat granola and yogurt parfait for breakfast. Setting one down in front of her daughter, Chloe went to the refrigerator to retrieve the orange juice.
"I know somebody now," Sara answered. "She's a girl in my science class."
Chloe removed two glasses from a cabinet and poured juice for her daughter and her. Sarah began to eat.
"Uh uh uh!" Chloe said, giving her a knowing look.
"Oh, right," Sara replied, setting her spoon down and bowing her head. Chloe followed suit. Sara continued, "For this food that we have received from Your hand, Dear Lord, we are truly grateful. Amen."
"Amen," Chloe concurred and then lifted her head. "Dig in…you're bus will be coming soon. So, what is the name of this girl? Does she live in this neighborhood?" They had just moved to Princeton for her new position three weeks before and knew next to no one there yet. They had left all their family and friends behind, which had been very difficult on both of them but especially so for Sara, who tended to have difficulty making new friends. Chloe had been praying that Sara would fit in at her new school as quickly as possible to make the transition go more smoothly.
Sara shrugged, shifting a little uncomfortably on the stool. "Her name is Burgundy and she lives a couple of blocks away. I don't know her real well yet so don't get all excited, 'kay?"
"Okay," Chloe agreed, feeling a little guilty for saying so because she was already hopeful at this news. "Burgundy…that is an unusual name, non? Pretty but unusual."
"I said that to her," Sarah nodded, smiling crookedly. "She said that she was named after her mom's favorite color, but she hates her name so everyone at school calls her Dee, even the teachers."
"I used to hate my name," Chloe confessed. "I was the only one I knew named Chloe, and I thought that it was weird to have a name that sounded like a cat coughing up a hair ball!" She paused as her daughter giggled at this and then added," But I grew to accept it over time. Still, I always wished that your grandparents had really called me Alaine or Margot." She shrugged, spooning parfait into her mouth.
"My name's not all that hot, either," Sara muttered. "Yvonne wouldn't have been so bad."
Chloe took Sara's dirty dishes along with her own and stuck them into the empty dishwasher, smiling. "Sara was your father's favorite girl name. He once dated a girl named Yvonne and it ended badly so that was not an option. So Sara it was." She glanced at the clock on the wall. Realizing what time it was she sprang to action. "It is time to go! You will miss your bus if you do not hurry!" She would be late for work, too. It was far too easy for her to lose track of time when she was enjoying these rare moments when Sara felt secure enough to actually engage in more than the most superficial conversation.
Chloe hurriedly stuck the juice back into the fridge and then shooed her daughter towards the front door. They quickly donned jackets and scarves against the damp chill of mid-November in New Jersey. She had been told that it was unusually cool for that time of year. The weather was good, as far as she was concerned. She handed Sara her book bag that rested near the door and then grabbed her own tote bag and car keys.
"Do not forget that you start you piano lessons today with Mrs. Denotti, so I will be picking you up from school this afternoon," Chloe reminded her. "Be waiting for me by the front doors because we will be rushed to get there on time."
"Okay," Sara replied flatly, and opened the door, taking two steps before Chloe grabbed her shoulder gently and pulled her back long enough to place a kiss on her cheek like she had almost every morning since her daughter's first day of Kindergarten.
Sara wiped her cheek with her sleeve, and grumbled, "Someone might see, Mom. I'm not a baby anymore!"
"You will always be my baby," Chloe reminded her, setting the security alarm before following her out the door and then pausing to lock up the house while Sara continued down the walkway on her way to the bus stop. "I love you!" She called after her with a smile.
"Yeah, yeah," Sara acknowledged without looking back. Chloe shook her head, still smiling. So much like Joseph, she thought with mixed feelings and then hurried to the detached garage. Her 2001 Grand Caravan had seen a lot of road, but dependably it started on the first try.
Thank you, Lord, Chloe thought, as she had too many times before, for another try.
As she drove past the bus stop, Chloe glanced out the window to see Sara walk up to a pretty blonde girl her same age. The girl, whom Chloe assumed was Burgundy, smiled warmly to see Sara.
Bon, Chloe said to herself, sighing in relief. Perhaps things would turn out alright for the both of them this time.
Traffic was congested, as usual, but Chloe had rushed to get ready to ensure she left plenty of time for the delay. She took the time to prepare her heart and mind for whatever God laid before her today. She needed strength beyond herself if she was to be strong enough to help others, to be a friend to people she didn't know from Adam or Eve, to stand strong against the discouragement, disappointment and overt opposition that were shot at her like flaming arrows on a daily basis. She knew she was not up to the task all on her own.
She arrived at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital with ten minutes to spare and sighed in relief. Parking in her reserved stall in the staff lot, she hurried into the hospital via the front entrance and made her way past patients, medical personnel and general public alike to the pretty sixtyish woman who sat behind the admissions desk.
"Good morning, Judy," Chloe said to her with a smile. "How are you this morning? Is your husband feeling better?"
Judy looked at her quizzically, momentarily forgetting her name before the light of recognition lit in her grey eyes. "Oh, Chloe, isn't it? I'm doing much better now that Arty's rheumatism has settled down again and he can actually sleep rather than toss and turn all night long. Thank you for asking."
"I prayed for the both of you last night and I just had to find out if things were better," Chloe told her with a satisfied grin. "I'm so glad Arty managed to get some sleep—and you too!"
The older woman shook her head in astonishment. "I don't know if it was God or not, dear, but I do appreciate your concern. I mean, you don't even really know me!"
"Well, that is a problem easily solved," Chloe told her with a wink. "We'll have to meet for lunch sometime before the weekend and talk. I have to go now, though, but I'll try to catch a moment or two later and make arrangements with you."
"Certainly," Judy responded with a smile. "I'd like that."
Chloe turned to walk away without looking first and found herself in a collision with someone walking behind her. The man she bumped into dropped his briefcase, which sprung open as soon as it hit the floor, scattering files and loose pieces of paper all around.
"I'm so sorry!" Chloe exclaimed, and immediately began to gather together his papers for him.
The man bent over and joined her in the task, "No, no, it's fine," He assured her kindly. "You don't need to bother yourself." His voice trailed off as they both stood up and looked each other in the face for the first time. He seemed to freeze in place, his eyes staring at hers for a protracted moment before smiling pleasantly. Chloe returned the smile and proffered the papers she had retrieved for him.
"Accidents…happen," he assured her, still smiling, not having looked away from her yet.
Chloe felt a little uncomfortable at being the center of his attention, but she had to admit, it was a little flattering. He was very attractive, in his mid to late forties with dark brown hair, average height and well built, wearing a designer suit underneath a long top coat.
"Well," Chloe said to end the awkward pause. "You are very gracious." She extended her hand to him. "I am Dr. Chloe LaSalle."
As if rousing himself from a stupor, the man suddenly moved again, shaking his head as if to clear it. His smile remained as he took her hand and shook it.
"I'm Dr. James Wilson," he answered. "I don't think we've met before."
"I'm new here," she admitted. "I just started on Monday."
He nodded, hanging onto her every word, or so it seemed. "So what is your specialization, Doctor?"
"I'm not an M.D.," Chloe explained. "I have my Ph.D. in Theology. I'm the new Head Chaplain. I take it you are an M.D.?"
"Yes," he answered. "I'm head of Oncology."
There was another awkward pause that Chloe felt the need to end as quickly as possible.
"Well, it's very nice to meet you, Dr. Wilson," she told him with a polite smile and nod of her head. "I really have to be going…somebody has to open the Chaplin's office…." She gently pulled her hand back from his grasp.
"Yes," he agreed, finally looking away from her face for only a moment, and nodding. "Of course. Me too. I have get going too, that is. It's great…great to meet you, too, Doctor uh—"
"Chloe," she corrected him. "Nobody calls me Dr. LaSalle."
"Everybody around here calls me Wilson," he told her. "But you can call me James, if you like."
"James it is, then," Chloe agreed warmly. "Again, I really have to go; I don't mean to be rude. Perhaps I'll see you around?"
"Count on it," he said absently and then stammered quickly, "I mean, perhaps, yes."
Chloe nodded in acknowledgement and then hurriedly walked away. She was not the type to believe that every man she encountered was instantly enamored with her but she knew when one was interested when she saw one, and Dr. Wilson was definitely interested. It made her feel both good and self-conscious at the same time, like a teenager who had just been winked at by the cute star quarterback of the high school football team. It was something she hadn't experienced in a very long time. She glanced at her watch and sighed: She was late, after all.
* * *
House's ducklings were waiting for him when he arrived at the meeting room adjacent to his office, where they sat waiting around a conference table reviewing copies of the new patient's medical file. Once again he had a new team, made up of old and not so old faces, whom he hoped to use, abuse and, perhaps, even impart to some of his knowledge and experience before completely corrupting then as responsible medical professionals. At least, that is what he had been accused of doing just the night before by his favorite former duckling before she stormed out of his office—and his life—for what , she had implied, was the last time.
At first his reaction to Dr. Allison Cameron's words had been defensive and angry, but now, after stewing about it for hours after their encounter, he wondered if she wasn't right about him after all. She usually was. Cameron had the uncanny ability to penetrate the protective wall he put up around himself and look into his mind and heart like no one else. So often had she been right about his motives that he had learned to confide in her things about himself that he never would have to another person—not even Wilson. He had used her brilliance, compassion and her professed love for him for the advancement of his selfish motives far too many times and had nearly driven her away once before. He wanted to blame that on the Vicodin and alcohol, but he knew better than that. The drugs had helped to dull his conscience while doing it, but it had been Gregory House who had been the son of a bitch committing the deeds without concern for the consequences his behavior had on her as well as himself. Why wouldn't she assume that his influence on her husband was the catalyst in the destruction of the man's conscience that had led him to commit murder?
Cameron was gone and he truly was going to miss her.
House looked over at that husband who sat at the conference table just a few feet away from him. Dr. Robert Chase looked completely forlorn as he stared at a pen that he rolled over and over again in his hands. He hadn't shaved before coming to work and his blond hair was uncharacteristically unkempt. He wore the same shirt and tie he had worn the day before and it appeared that he had slept in them—what little sleep he had managed to get, that is. Dark shadows hung below his dead-looking pale eyes. House wondered if Cameron had already left him; the older doctor knew all too well what that looked like—after Stacy had walked out him years before, House had seen it stare back at him in the mirror for a miserably long time.
The other three individuals in the room didn't exactly look like the happiest of campers, either. Dr. Chris Taub never looked entirely thrilled to be there and likely was facing flack at home from his wife for returning to a job which he had left in order to spend more time restoring their troubled marriage. House knew he had absolutely no right to judge the plastic surgeon for past dalliances with his pretty receptionist; his lack of fondness for the man was due to his tendency to brown-nose and take credit for other's accomplishments regardless the expense of doing so. Lawrence Kutner came to mind, another duckling lost. House was guilty of many things, but his accomplishments he had earned on his own.
As for Thirteen—Dr. Remy Hadley to the world outside the walls of PPTH—and Foreman, the tension between the former lovers was tangible enough to slice with a knife. She sat with her chair turned slightly away from Foreman's in an effort to avoid looking at him and to send a very clear message: she was back for the job, not for the man who, in his hubris, had fired her because he felt her "irrational" inability accept his new-found authority over her at work was going to affect his relationship with her off duty.
Oh well, House thought without compassion for Foreman. No doubt there was no more pillow talk involving her bisexual escapades which likely turned on her partner more than her naked beauty wrapped around him between the sheets. It confirmed once again House's appraisal of the man: That Foreman was a complete and utter idiot.
"How's my dream team this morning?"House asked chipperly as he removed his jacket and actually hung it up on a hook rather than tossing it into his office, missing the leather sofa. He shook his head imperceptibly; Wilson's neatness was having a bad influence on him.
"Bored of sitting here for hours waiting for our boss to bless us with his presence," Thirteen said drily, tucking a strand of her long brown hair behind an ear.
"Never fear, your savior is here," House quipped, impressed with his own rhyme. "So, tell me about our little prince and his upset tummy and why I was roused from slumber to come hold his hand." He moved to the whiteboard and picked up a pen, ready to write down symptoms as his team threw them at him. He hadn't bothered to peruse the E.R. doctor's report that sat on his desk in the other room but no matter. They had.
Taub started first, opening his copy of the report to refer to as he spoke. "Sixteen-year-old male, one Kirk Gartner, formerly of good health, brought in by ambulance after collapsing in a pool of his own bloody puke in the middle of a parking lot at about four a.m. The paramedics who brought him in said that he and a dozen other juvenile delinquents had been stunting in the lot. Gartner, who his best friend said was the best driver in the group, lost control of the car in a relatively easy maneuver and ended up crashing into a concrete barrier. Both he and his friend appeared to be unhurt by the collision. Gartner was able to get out of the car but several of the kids there said that he seemed, and I quote, "really messed up in the head", having difficulty walking, stumbling over his own feet. Before anyone could get to him and his friend to help them, Gartner collapsed, puked blood, and then passed out."
Thirteen picked up the account from there. "When he was brought in he was semi-conscious with fluctuating levels of responsiveness, his temperature was one-hundred and two point eight, heart rate fluctuating between one-forty and one ninety beats per minute and hypotensive, B.P. ninety-seven over fifty-two. He was also sweating profusely and at one point had grabbed at his abdomen as if in pain. Cursory x-rays showed no indication of significant physical trauma from the collision. Gartner's friends turned tail and ran after the ambulance arrived to avoid the police whom were on their way and his parents were notified but hadn't arrived yet when the report was written up…there was next to nothing for a history taken. Drug and tox screens are in progress, but apparently the lab is behind and the results aren't back yet. The E.R. doc acted presumptively and treated him for drug overdose right away. The usual treatments—gastric lavage followed by activated charcoal, I.V. fluids for dehydration and antipyretics for the fever. There were no undigested tablets or capsules found but his stomach contents were sent for testing as well."
House quickly wrote down the symptoms as they were being described. He had an obvious diagnosis in mind but turned around to his team and asked, "Ideas?"
"Everything adds up to aspirin poisoning," Taub answered, ticking off his points on his fingers with a pen. "Disorientation, impaired muscle coordination and weakness and vision disturbances affected his driving, causing the crash. Add to that fever, sweating, bloody vomit—likely from the irritation of the increased acidity in his stomach and the blood thinning effect aspirin has—and decreased consciousness. What else could it be?"
"Aspirin doesn't provide much of a high," Foreman pointed out, reclining in his seat. "It's hardly a drug of choice for a teenage boy to be indulging in recreationally. He would have had to have taken quite a bit to account for the severity of illness observed."
"Foreman's an expert on it," House interjected snidely. "They don't push much a.s.a. in the 'hood." He glanced over at Foreman to see a reaction from him, but Foreman ignored the bait, denying him the satisfaction. That having fallen flat, House returned his attention to the others. "It's ridiculous to think that he would have taken aspirin for, oh, say… a persistent headache or anything."
"Even if that's so," Thirteen objected, "that wouldn't explain the fact that the antipyretics haven't had any effect on his fever so far and his level of consciousness is continuing to deteriorate instead of improving."
House looked over at Chase. The Australian doctor was staring at some indiscriminate point across the room in silence.
"Do you have anything to add, Chase?" House said sharply to him to grab his attention. "Fantasize about naked frolicking nymphs on your own time. Oh, wait a minute, that's my fantasy."
The only part of Chase's body to move was his eyes, in House's direction. "I'm just wondering why we're even discussing this," he said flatly. "It's aspirin poisoning, case closed. Just because his fever hasn't dropped yet doesn't mean anything. If he still has a fever eight hours from now, sound the alarm. I say wait until he wakes up then send him home."
House nodded in agreement. "Sounds good."
"Shouldn't we at least wait for the lab results to get back and get a history from his parents before we kick him out onto the street?" Thirteen argued, frowning. "There might be something we don't know yet that will change the diagnosis."
"Fine," was House's response to her. "Go get your history and take Taub with you. Foreman, go lean on the lab techs and tell them that you and your 'peeps' are going to beat the hell out of them if they don't produce those results right away. Chase—stick around."
As the others left the room Chase rose slowly to his feet and waited for them to be gone.
"Follow me," House instructed, heading for his office and going to his desk. Chase followed as far as the doorway watching the older doctor suspiciously.
"Look, if this is about being distracted this morning, I think I have pretty good reason—"
"You're right," House interrupted quietly, catching Chase off guard.
"I am?"
House nodded once. "Have you two talked since last night?"
"I know that Allison spoke with you last night," Chase acknowledged flatly.
"Yelled at is more accurate," House agreed without the edge of anger or sarcasm in his voice that was usually there. He didn't feel angry or sarcastic. What he felt was more akin to regret, and perhaps even guilt, not that he would ever admit that to anyone.
"Well, don't worry about it," Chase told him, exhaling loudly and placing his hands on his hips. "I'm the one who killed Dibala—not you. It was my decision. I already told her that you had nothing to do with it and I made that clear to her."
Shaking his head, House reached into one of the drawers in his desk and pulled out a small piece of white paper. "Your association with me has corrupted your soul and now you are as beyond all hope of redemption as I am." Again, there was no bitterness in his voice. It was sadness. "Go home. Work things out; tell her that you'll get help and that you both will move away beyond the reach of my influence. Tell her that you promise to spend the rest of your life making this up to her. Tell her whatever it takes to keep from losing her. No job is worth that, not even this one."
Chase had a look of surprise on his face. "Why do you care whether or not my marriage survives? You made it clear many times that you believed Cameron was making a mistake being involved with me."
House avoided his gaze, looking down at the paper in his hands.
"I was wrong," he admitted quietly. It was becoming easier to admit that, House realized. He could actually get the words past his lips now without choking on them. He walked around his desk and held out the piece of paper to Chase. "It's the name of two therapists my psychiatrist recommended. One's a marriage counselor; the other is for you to see independently."
Chase made no move to take the piece of paper from him. He stared at it almost fearfully, as if it was some kind of booby trap that would go off the moment he touched it.
House nodded encouragingly, extending it even closer to him. "Don't be an idiot and let your pride get in the way of keeping the woman you love. Prove to Cameron that you're less like me than she believes. Take it."
Chase shook his head, taking a step backwards. "It's too late," he declared, sounding completely defeated. "Allison left already. She wouldn't say where she was going and asked me not to try to find her. When she's settled, she'll send for the rest of her things." He took a couple of steps towards the door before pausing long enough to say, "I appreciate your concern, House, but there's nothing left to be done."
House watched him leave and then looked at the piece of paper still in his hand. A wave of frustration hit him at the futility of it all. He crumpled the paper into a little ball and threw it in the trash can next to his desk. He had to find Wilson; he really needed to talk to someone who still had his sanity firmly intact.