Letters from Home, Chapter 8
A car passes outside the doctor's apartment, breaking the late night silence. He watches as headlights slide across his bedroom wall until they fade into the night and once more the only light in the room comes from a digital alarm clock glowing 2:14 am. He's lying on his bed, stretched out on his back with one arm thrown over his head, not even close to falling asleep. His large, grey and white cat is curled up next to his hip, fast asleep and every so often he reaches down and strokes the feline's silky fur to bring about the comforting sound of purring. He doesn't think he's ever felt so lost in all his life. Even when the woman he had thought to be the love of his life had left him, he hadn't felt like this. That time there had been some warning and enough bitterness between the two of them by that point that some small measure of relief was mixed in with all his regret. This time, everything had gone to hell so fast that he hadn't seen it coming, hadn't had time to steel himself against the emptiness he was feeling now. It's as if some sadistic bastard has stolen his cane and left him with no way to walk. Perhaps ironically, the sadistic bastard in this analogy is him. He's the only one he can blame for allowing himself to get so attached to her. He'd come to rely on her letters; they're as much of a necessity to him now as his cane, as much an addiction as his painkillers, and that's no basis for a relationship. She deserves better. He tells himself again that he did the right thing, though maybe, probably, okay definitely, in the wrong way. It doesn't help. The phone conversation from hours ago replays through his mind on a never-ending loop.
"Yeah?" he says by way of a greeting, trying to decide whether to screw with the expected telemarketer or just to start yelling in order to relieve the anxiety his friend's prying had caused.
"House? It's me...Allison."
His heart leaps into his throat and he almost drops the phone. It's her. For a moment all he feels is pure, unadulterated joy at the sound of her voice. For a moment. But all too soon, he comes crashing back to earth as he remembers his thought processes from moments ago. The need to end this thing, whatever it is, in order to save her from herself and from him, begins to reassert itself. 'Do it now, get it over with' wars with 'Wait, think this through.'
"Are you there?" Her voice in his ear reminds him of the need to speak.
He coughs. "Uh, yeah. I'm here."
"So, ah...how are you?" she asks.
"Not bad." Completely fucked up, thank you for asking.
"Am I interrupting something?"
"No. Wilson was here watching hockey. He just left. I was about to go to bed. You know, work tomorrow and all that." Thinking it through wins out. Just get her off the phone. Don't do this right now.
"Yes, because I know what a stickler you are about getting to work bright and early,"
"Right."
"Right. Um, House? Is everything okay?"
"Fine. Just tired. Like I said, I was about to go to bed." Leave it, Allison. Please.
"Are you sure? You don't sound very happy to hear from me."
That one innocent accusation hits him with all the force of a sledgehammer. He has opened up to her more than he has with anyone in years…maybe ever. It was easy when she was only a piece of paper in front of him. But now she's calling, like they're old friends. Like maybe they're even more. She wants him to be happy to hear from her. It's all too much. Words erupt from his mouth of their own volition.
"Happy?" he asks sharply. "Who do you think you're talking to, Cameron? What the hell do you want from me?"
"I don't know...a conversation?"
"I don't do conversations. Figured you'd know that by now."
"But the letters..."
"Meant nothing,"
"Oh. I...ah...I'm sorry. I thought we had something." He can hear the plea in her voice.
"Well, you thought wrong." The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.
His eyes dart around the room, looking for salvation, but there is none to be found. What the fuck has he done?
As if from a million miles away he hears her speaking, apologizing for bothering him, but her words don't really even register. 'You thought wrong' and 'meant nothing' echo through his mind. He'd give anything to recall those words, but he can't. So he does the only thing he can do. He hangs up before he can do any more damage.
Setting the phone down, he picks up a beer bottle from the coffee table and lifts it to his mouth. Upon discovering that it's empty, he hurls it at the wall with a curse.
Giving up on sleep for the time being, he struggles into a seated position and stretches out his arm to switch on the lamp beside his bed. Blinking at the sudden brightness, he rubs his eyes before swinging his legs off the bed and planting his feet on the floor. He tosses back a couple of painkillers from the bottle on the nightstand and then leans over to grab his jeans off the floor. He needs a change of scenery; there must be something that needs doing at the office. There always is now that she's gone. As he dresses, he wonders if he can still fix this mess, in any way repair some of the damage his harsh words have caused. He wonders if he wants to. His cat glares at his back as he leaves the room before moving to settle into the warm spot he's left behind.
A short bike ride later and he's arriving at the office at just before 3:00 am, fully intending on catching up on his paperwork. Contrary to popular belief, he does know how to chart, he just prefers not to. But when he sits down at his desk and pulls out a drawer in search of a pen he finds himself unable to ignore the stack of letters he finds there instead. He pulls them out of the drawer, leans back in his chair putting his feet up on his desk, and starts to read. Only after he's read through them all twice does the knot in his stomach begin to loosen and finally he relaxes enough to fall asleep in his chair.
He dreams of sugar and grizzly bears and a pretty brunette in a blue shirt. There are tears in her eyes.
He wakes up knowing he has to do something.
