V.
Christmas is very quiet and low-key. You had expecting it to be one of your best ever, but you're reminded how things rarely turn out the way you expect. You watch Allison as she waters the tree and force yourself to remember that sometimes they turn out better than you expect. You should just be grateful that you have her. Everything else is a bonus.
The tree is set up next to the piano, and decorated with tiny colored lights and glass ornaments. Allison accidentally knocks one off and it shatters against the wood floor. She swears under her breath and then takes a deep breath. You wish that she'd stop taking those deep breaths every time she starts to get emotional. You want her to just drop her façade and finally talk to you.
On the twelfth of January you arrive home to a dark, cold house and shrug out of your coat while shuffling over to the thermostat. You pass the answering machine on the way and see a message waiting.
It's Allison's doctor. Her first ultrasound is scheduled for tomorrow and the message is her reminder. The muscles in your jaw tense and you scrub your face with one hand before running it through your hair. You don't need this now. You're just glad you heard it before Allison.
That's when you spot the envelope on the kitchen table.
It's a letter from her. A damn letter. Short and concise, it just tells you that she needs to get away for a little while. She writes that she loves you and she'll be back, but she needs space.
First she needed time and now she needs space. Your world is falling apart and it all comes back to your own greed. The two of you would still be happy if you hadn't brought children into the equation. The letter is crumpled in your fist and you hurl it to the floor and stomp down the hall to the bedroom. The closet door is open and you can see that she took her small suitcase and her overnight bag. Well, at least she didn't pack her whole wardrobe.
You look out the window where a light snow is falling and a stream of swear words falls from your mouth. She's out there alone and you don't know where she is, and you can't stand it. Pulling your cell phone out of your pocket, you push her speed-dial number automatically. Then, a split second later you cancel the call. If she sees your number you know she won't answer.
You dial Wilson instead.
"What do you mean, she's gone?" Wilson asks when you tell him that Allison has left. "What the hell did you do?"
"I got her pregnant! That's what I did!"
His question is absolutely the worst thing he could say - or maybe it's the best - because you start shouting at him. Shouting all the things you've wanted to shout for almost a month. You start with how hard it was to even convince her to try and go right on through telling your mother and then having to take it back. By the time you've finished, you're breathing hard and both hands are clenched, one around the phone and the other around your cane.
"Damn… House…" Wilson is struggling for words. "I'm - I'm sorry." He's obviously searching for something more meaningful, more helpful to say, but he's left with the trite standard.
"Yeah. Thanks," you mutter, feeling tired and drained and old.
"So… um… where do you think she's gone?"
You tell him that you have no idea and that's why you called him. You need him to call her, or better yet, have Sarah call her. She'll probably talk to her. Just find out where she's staying and make sure it's not some run-down Bates Motel. You tell Wilson not to tell Sarah anything about the baby. If he just tells her that you and Allison have had a fight, that will be good enough. Before he has a chance to ask you anything else, you hang up the phone.
A tumbler and the dusty bottle of scotch from under the kitchen counter become close acquaintances again as you sit on the sofa and stare at an episode of some simplistic police drama. The phone is beside you and you're waiting for Wilson to call.
He ends up knocking on the door instead, and he's carrying pizza and beer so you let him in.
Allison is staying at the Marriot down near the university, and she told Srah about the baby. You're surprised at how relieved you are by all of this information. You want to know how she sounded on the phone and Wilson answers with just one word: upset. You down the rest of your scotch and reach for the pizza.
There aren't many words spoken between you and Wilson. He doesn't ask any questions and you're glad because you don't know if you're ready to answer any. You're glad that Allison is in a safe place but you are angry and upset as well. She should have been able to stay home and deal with things. Yeah, things suck, but you're supposed to be going through them together. You're an idiot when it comes to relationships, and even you know that much.
Wilson stays until almost midnight and you're surprised. He's got a wife and two kids at home and carousing with you doesn't seem like his scene anymore. As he's gathering up his coat he tells you that you're invited to dinner the next day. He also tells you that Sarah's the one who insisted he come over. It's strange to have her not hate your guts, since all of Wilson's other wives have roundly despised you. She met you after you'd already been with Allison though, and although you don't think you'd changed much at that time (you still don't think you've changed much) maybe just the fact that a woman like her was willing to be around you was enough to make Sarah give you some slack.
After Wilson's gone you limp off into the bedroom and collapse on top of the covers. You toe off your shoes and get under the covers, but you're still cold. This bed used to be only yours, and you happily sprawled from edge to edge. Now you stretch your bad leg over to Allison's side but it doesn't feel right anymore and you pull it back. When morning comes you open your eyes and feel like you haven't slept at all.
Wilson doesn't come over, but he does call and ask if you need anything. You tell him you're fine and then you grab another beer out of the fridge and plant yourself on the sofa and let your mind turn to mush as you watch one B-movie after another on cable. Half a dozen times, you reach for the phone and then stop. It pisses you off that she's making you feel this way and you try to work up enough righteous anger to throw her out on her ass when she comes back, but it's impossible. She's hurt you but you don't feel bitter or vengeful about it.
You shake your head at the fact that at fifty-two years of age you have actually matured.
Sunday is a replay of Saturday, but you watch football instead of bad movies. Your diet has consisted of beer and snack foods and Allison would punch you if she knew. Of course she probably does know.
All day long you keep expecting her to come in the door. You're bound to see each other at work so it only makes sense that she return before that. And yet she doesn't. At six o'clock you call Wilson and make him call her. She's still fine. Wilson invites you over for dinner but you decline. The idea of being a visitor in their happy family doesn't appeal to you right now. Just before you hang up, you hear Nathanial crying in the background and the sound makes your stomach clench.
You're right about seeing her at work on Monday. Cuddy keeps you busy in the morning, insisting you do clinic hours and then sending you a patient who's already critical - a switch for you since usually it's your team that makes the patient critical before coming upon a cure. Wilson comes to collect you for lunch, and that's when you see her. She's sitting in the corner eating a pathetic little salad.
Walking over to her is an automatic action on your part, and you drop your tray down across from hers. She looks up, startled and almost fearful. She's probably expecting insults or yelling or public humiliation.
"Coming home anytime soon?" is all you say as you sit down, and your tone isn't the slightest bit nasty.
Now she looks surprised and she answers you with a nod.
"Tonight."
"Good," you say, and then Wilson is at the table and you pick up your tray and leave her alone.
She beats you home. The beer bottles and chip bags and jar of salsa have all been removed from the living room. The cushions are straightened and plumped, with the throw blanket draped artfully over one corner instead of tangled in a heap on the floor. The kitchen is clean, the bed is made, and the towels in the bathroom have been swapped out for fresh ones. None of those things mean a thing to you. You don't relax until you see her. She's putting her suitcase back in the closet and when she turns around the two of you just stare at one another for a good minute and a half.
"So you're back."
"Yes."
"Planning on leaving again?"
"No."
She walks over to you and rests her hand on top of yours on the handle of your cane.
"I didn't want to leave."
"And yet you did," you say, letting just a little but of your anger color those words.
She releases your hand and lets out a long breath.
"I heard the message on the machine. The one from the doctor," she amends, as if you don't know exactly which message she's talking about. "I'd thought I was doing pretty well. I mean I go to work, I don't spend my day crying, I thought I'd been doing okay…" she trails off as she starts repeating herself.
"How could you be okay if you never talked about it?" you ask.
She just shrugs.
"When I heard that message… it was like everything just swept back over me again. I felt like I was going through it again right at that moment, and all of these emotions came back. I was sitting on the kitchen floor crying and hitting the cabinets and it wasn't just that I was sad, I was angry. I was angry at you, and that's not what I wanted to feel."
She looks up at you then and her eyes are wet and pleading with you to understand and amazingly enough, you do.
"I didn't want to blame you. It's not your fault. I know that. You know that. But I just couldn't seem to let it go. I tried to start dinner, but I just kept getting more and more upset, and that's when I knew that I needed to leave. If I'd stayed we would have fought and it wouldn't have been a good fight, it would have been mean and hurtful and terrible. If I hadn't left, I think I would have driven you away."
It's easy to see how real that fear was for her. It's written all over her face. You start to tell her that there's no way she could have done that, but you stop yourself because even you aren't entirely sure if that's true. You've been right on the edge yourself, and who knows what the wrong words would have led you to do? Sure you'd have regretted it later, but by then you might have been too damn stubborn to admit you'd made a mistake.
With your free hand you reach out and pull her closer until she's snuggled against your chest. It's easier for you to talk when you can't see her face.
"I don't blame you for being pissed at me. I didn't make you lose the baby, but if it wasn't for me, you wouldn't be going through this pain now."
"But I wanted it too."
"Could you shut up while I'm baring my soul here?"
You feel a very small smile against your shoulder and a nod follows.
"Maybe I should have pushed you to open up earlier, but I've been trying my best to ignore it myself. You don't realize how much you want something until it's gone. Now I know why you didn't want to try in the first place." It's the best you can do to tell her that you're in pain too.
"It hurts," she whispers.
"I know," you say, and the words are more than just a pat response.
"I'd started thinking about how we'd decorate a nursery and what kind of stroller I wanted. I walked through the hospital nursery and imagined myself holding our baby. Maybe it's horrible to say this and maybe even thinking it is what made me miscarry, but I wanted this baby even more than…"
She stops talking and just sniffles and takes a few shuddering breaths.
"This baby was part of both of us, and that meant so much to me. So much," she whispers.
"I'd already lined up some necessary accessories for the rugrat," you say, and you think about how both of you had been keeping your excitement tamped down and how it hadn't save either of you any grief.
Allison backs up to arms' length and looks up at you. "Losing the baby made me feel like a failure, and then when I couldn't get back to feeling like myself, I felt like I could lose you too."
Staring right into her eyes with your most serious expression you tell her that there's not a chance in hell of that happening. Unlike earlier, you now feel, down in the deepest part of your being, that you are speaking the truth. If she'd tried to push you away, you'd have pushed right back and stood your ground, because you can imagine her having your child, and you can imagine being a father, but you can't imagine ever not needing her.
That night as you are lying in bed you are acutely aware of Allison's presence beside you. She has promised not to leave again, and you've told her that even if she needs to get mad at you, you won't go anywhere either. As you fall asleep, you feel her hand reach over to touch your arm and you hazily think that eventually you'll both start hurting a little bit less.