March 18th
All in all, Eric had to admit it was a pretty sweet setup.
The Goldman house itself was amazing. He'd never seen anything quite like it—organic, homey, charming, he'd felt at ease almost immediately despite the unfamiliar surroundings. His room was small but warm and comfortable, with a fire in the little woodstove and a thick comforter on the bed; there was even a crystal water carafe and a stack of books on the nightstand. He'd fallen asleep easily.
Eric had ventured downstairs early that morning to find the coffee already on and Doctor Goldman—"Call me Sarah, please," she'd said with a smile—at work on breakfast for her adopted son, Jason. The boy had watched him with a wary gaze, his dark eyes shuttered; Eric was reminded strongly of House, possessed of the same cautious curiosity about everything and everyone.
"If you want to head over to the clinic, McMurphy will be there," Sarah said after the boy had headed off to school. She sat across from him at the dining room table with a mug of tea in hand. "I'd say don't bother waiting for Greg to ask you down, but you know him well enough."
Eric half-smiled. "Interesting assumption on your part," he said. Sarah sipped her tea.
"Which one? That you know him well, or that you're here to scope things out?" she said, but there was no sarcasm in her quiet voice. "It's a hell of a drive just to deliver news about the case he helped you with. You could've just called, of course. That pretty much leaves investigation." He nodded. A simple deduction, but most people wouldn't bother to think things out even to that degree; he began to understand why House liked her. She was honest but didn't reveal every thought. "You can follow me in if you like," she said. "I'm taking supplies before I go to work."
"You have a practice here?" Eric couldn't believe she'd find enough patients in this small village to sustain an office.
"Not yet." She offered him a wry smile. "I'm required to take CE first."
"Ah." He went to the coffeemaker. "You don't sound too pleased."
"I'm . . . reconciled to it now," she said. "The class sounds interesting, anyway."
He was about to ask her what she'd chosen when a door banged shut in what looked like a back porch area. A moment later House came in. He paused when he saw Eric, but continued into the room.
"Hey," Sarah said. The change in her voice was marked; she sounded happy. "Want some breakfast or did your wife feed you sufficiently?"
"I could do a muffin or two," House said. He eyed Eric with the same kind of caution Sarah's son had shown earlier, but tinged with a familiar mockery. "Bet you slept like shit last night."
Eric fought a defiant first response. That was exactly what House wanted, so he wouldn't give it to him. "I slept okay, once I got used to the quiet," he said with a slight smile. Sarah chuckled.
"It's quiet now," she said, but didn't explain her rather enigmatic remark. "Okay, I'll warm up some muffins for you both."
Ten minutes later a basket of hot muffins sat on the table, along with some butter and what looked like homemade strawberry jam. House didn't bother with a plate; he grabbed a muffin, broke it in half and ate a chunk without ceremony. Sarah didn't even blink. Instead she said "How is it?"
"More blueberries," House said through a mouthful of food. He took a mug from the dishrack, filled it with coffee and dumped in some creamer, gave it a perfunctory stir, swallowed some and ate the other chunk of muffin as if he'd never seen food before.
"You know, you're gonna kill yourself eatin' that way," Sarah said in resignation, but her eyes twinkled with quiet amusement. This was an old game between the two of them, Eric realized. And he also understood that they were more mother and son than analyst and patient. It was something of a shock. He'd never thought House would allow anyone that close, or even submit to such a lengthy analysis in the first place.
"Have a muffin," Sarah said. Eric glanced at her and saw that amusement directed at him now, but without malice.
The muffins were excellent despite House's criticism. Eric had two, as well as some eggs and hash browns. It was the biggest breakfast he'd eaten in years; a good thing he didn't have this temptation in front of him every morning, or he'd never fit into his clothes.
"You'd probably work most of it off out back with the wood pile," Sarah replied when he said so aloud.
"Or going out on the town," House said, and gave him an exaggerated wink.
"I doubt any available women would be interested in me," Eric said dryly. "Looks lily white up here."
"Don't be so sure," Sarah said, and got up to rinse out her mug. "Ten minutes and I'm on my way, okay?"
"I'll be in at my usual hour," House said. Eric chuckled.
"Same old same old," he said, and took a last swallow of coffee. "You don't have Cuddy to annoy here, so why not come in on time? You're just spiting yourself now."
House gave him a steady look. "Maybe I just like coming in late," he said. Eric sat back, surprised. It was the truth, or as much of it as House cared to divulge.
"So pissing off Cuddy was just a little something extra?" he asked.
"Of course," House said, and reached for another muffin.
"It did get you out of clinic hours," Eric prompted.
"If you're expecting a tutorial on how to get away with murder, you're better off talking to Wilson." House took a chunk off the muffin and munched it. "The fact that you think I'm the master manipulator is an excellent example of the Great Self-Sacrificer's mad skillz."
"At least he comes in on time," Eric said. House nodded.
"Which just proves my point." He glanced at his watch. "Better get going." The mockery in his words stung, just as it always had.
They left House at the table with a mug of coffee in hand, apparently entranced by the news report at the top of the hour on the NPR station. "He does like to jerk people's chains," Sarah said mildly. "When we get to the clinic I'll give you the directions to get back. GPS likes to take you all over the county."
The drive was a short one, past dilapidated old farmhouses and snow-covered fields, with mountains nearly everywhere he looked. There was no comparison to the tree-lined, orderly streets of Princeton, but this place had a sort of peacefulness that he thought might be enjoyable, once you got used to it.
When they pulled into a modest parking lot next to an older frame house, Eric looked around for the clinic. But Sarah parked, got out and gestured him to the spot next to hers, then began to walk toward the house. Eric parked the car and sat for a moment, conscious of several emotions: confusion, comprehension, a sort of weird amusement. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but this . . . It's not much more than a street clinic, he thought. With a wry smile he exited his car and followed Sarah into the building.
The interior was fully as charming as the Goldmans home; renovated in pleasant colors, comfortable chairs grouped by a fireplace with a nice blaze to warm the room. The receptionist wore dark blue scrubs; she was an older woman with an air of authority—"Colleen McMurphy," she said with a slight smile. "Good to meet you, Doctor Foreman."
"I suppose you've heard all kinds of things about me from House," he said wryly.
"Doctor Chase, actually," she said. "Want a quick tour of the facilities?"
He half-expected her to just turn in place and point things out, but she guided him to a set of exam rooms that were amply stocked. There was even a basic lab, cramped but well planned, and a kitchen with a break area that looked inviting. He could hear music too—Motown, he noted with resignation. "That's in my honor, I suppose," he said. McMurphy chuckled.
"Possibly," she said. "There's a ddx going on right now. I'll see if Doctor House says it's all right for you to sit in."
He waited in the reception area, and felt distinctly out of place as he walked around the room. One wall held a number of pictures. It was a bit of shock to see they were photos from former patients, as well as thank-you notes House and the team for their help. Of all the things he thought he'd find, this certainly wasn't on the list.
"Boss man says it's okay," McMurphy said. She glanced at the photos. "Happy customers."
A woman of few words, Eric thought. He liked her for it; she was another good match to House. He suspected they harassed each other on a regular basis, something his former mentor would consider standard operating procedure and part of his daily mental workout.
The group around the table looked familiar, though he only knew two of the participants. House leaned back in his Eames chair. Chase chewed a pen and gave him a nod. One of the doctors stood up and offered his hand. "Sandesh Singh," he said with a slight smile. "My colleague, Doctor Joy Chandler." He indicated the woman next to him. She got to her feet and shook his hand too, her expression impassive.
"Gonna shmooze or work?" House wanted to know. Singh chuckled. He gestured at an empty chair and waited until Eric was seated before he resumed his own spot.
"Presence of angiokeratomas suggests Fabry disease," Chandler said. Her tone was no-nonsense; Eric was reminded strongly of Cameron in the early days, when she fought hard to make her presence count. "We should do a biopsy—"
"The patient's twenty-five," Chase says. "If it was Fabry she'd have shown more symptoms earlier."
"Maybe something's delayed the onset," Singh said. "Could be another disease, could be an external factor. She's skinny as a rail."
"Any other symptoms reported?" Chase asked, and flipped a page in the file.
"Mild burning in the extremities," Chandler said. She didn't even bother to look. "Corneas are normal but she's got persistent back pain."
"Let's ask the visitor," House said. All of them looked at Eric with various degrees of expectation. Chase removed the pen from his mouth and offered a grin that brought back many a memory.
"External factor, maybe plural," Eric said. "I can't think of anything off the top of my head that would mitigate the progression of Fabry."
"External it is then," House said cheerfully. "Go. Do."
"Her home is five hundred miles away," Chandler said with dogged patience.
"You'd better get moving." House looked at Chase and Singh. "Get started on the tests and have them ready when little Miss Roadtrip gets back."
Chandler got to her feet, the file clutched in her hands. "I'm keeping my receipts," she said, and stalked out of the conference room.
"They do make great souvenirs!" House called after her.
To Eric's mild surprise, he was invited into House's office. It was much the same as his digs in Princeton, with bits and pieces everywhere, clutter on every available surface. But the chairs at least were as good as the ones in the waiting room—Eric suspected McMurphy had a lot to do with that—and the music added to the lived-in atmosphere.
"Impressions," House said.
"You don't really care what I think." Eric settled back and tilted his head. "But I'll tell you anyway. You have a good place here. Your people are excellent. Facilities are decent, all things considered. And you're operating at maybe a tenth of your capacity."
"Here it comes," House said, more to himself than Eric. He folded his hands across his middle. "Do go on."
"Cuddy and I have a proposal—"
"I'm already shacked up." Those ice-blue eyes glinted. "Proposals are out of the question."
Eric leaned forward. "We both know what you have here isn't anything close to what you deserve. We'd give you enough seed money to build a clinic worth your time. Bigger lab, more beds, more staff."
"And in exchange?"
"You link with PPTH. Name only. This would still be your clinic, run your way."
House didn't move. "Until you or She Who Must Be Obeyed decided otherwise."
"It wouldn't be . . . you'd retain sole authority," Eric said. "I have Cuddy's assurance on that."
"But you don't have the board's, or you would have touted it first." House twiddled his index fingers. "Think we're done here."
"That's your paranoia talking," Eric said, exasperated. "If you'd just—"
House lifted his right leg, then his left and propped his feet on the desk blotter, ankles crossed. He didn't use his hands to ease his bad thigh into place. Eric paused, momentarily diverted from his train of thought. "Your quad muscle," he said, astonished. "The clinical trial was successful?"
"Very." House moved his feet in time to the music.
"You're off the Vicodin?"
House turned his gaze to the ceiling. "Like I said, done here."
"Well, if you're more active and potentially drug-free it stands to reason that you'd want to take on—"
House waggled his feet. "If you leave now, you can get home at rush hour."
Eric stared at him. "You're not even gonna consider this." Cuddy had warned him this would happen, but he still couldn't help a strong sense of disappointment. "You're that invested in gamesmanship that you'd pass on a way to make what you do even more effective."
"I'm invested in doing what I do best," House said. He looked down, straight at Eric. "One patient, two at the most. Value-size diagnoses gets you crap results. Take a look at my stats, then yours. They tell the real story." He freed one hand to make a shooing motion. "Fly home, little worker bee. The queen's waiting for you."
"Workers are females." Eric got to his feet. "If you change your mind, give me a call."
"I don't think we have phones here yet." House's landline rang. "Oops." He glanced at the door. "McMurphy!" he bellowed. "Answer that newfangled contraption!"
"I'm picking up a batch of mail from the Pony Express rider, get it yourself," she yelled back. House eyed the phone and grabbed the receiver.
"I said no," he said, and raised his brows as a querulous voice on the other end rattled off a string of words. It sounded vaguely like Chandler. "Sorry, wrong number." He hung up. Eric shook his head.
"You never did have a problem cutting off your nose to spite your face." He picked up his coat. "Cuddy says you're welcome anytime. I can't say I'm thrilled, but I can live with it."
"Foreman." He turned. House stared at him for a few moments, then nodded. "You're doing fine without me. Let's keep it that way."
Sarah guided him on the return trip to her home. It was the work of a few minutes to gather up his odds and ends. When he came downstairs it was to find a canvas lunch sack packed with food and something to drink.
"I can see why he likes you," Eric said, and offered a smile. Sarah returned it and tilted her head a bit.
"Whatever it is you came here for, you can take some comfort in the fact that he didn't prank you from start to finish and humiliate you in front of his team," she said quietly. "You and I both know he's perfectly capable of it. He does respect you. He just likes to pair equal amounts of ridicule along with it." She reached out to shake his hand. "Nice to meet you, Doctor Foreman. You're always welcome here."
He was an hour out before he realized not only had he been summarily dismissed in the kindest of ways by House's foster mom, the Motown music House played had been backing tracks only—no main vocals. The musicians who played those tracks were some of the finest of their time, but without the melody and words, their work was incomplete.
"Son of a bitch," Eric said softly, torn between laughter and anger. He pulled a cookie out of the sack, looked it over, shrugged and took a bite. Some hours from now he'd be back in Princeton, and all this would be another incident in his dealings with House. At least that was how he planned to view it. Anyone else's take was strictly their own business.