A/N: Ah, yes, there is a wealth of Myrna, Frannie and Georgie in this chapter. But it's necessary to get to know Myrna's family to really understand what House is in for. These guys are lots of fun, believe me. Plus, because you've all been so good, you get a sweet dollop of House and Wilson in the second half of the chapter. Happy reading.
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox.
-10-
Myrna heard them before she saw them. Despite the amount of people moving along, hurrying on their way, intent on reuniting with family and friends or making it to that special destination. she heard...them! It was not a special talent; more a burden than a gift. It was like being attuned to a brewing storm, the electricity in the air causing your nerves to rattle and the hair on your arms to stand on end.
They were here...somewhere...looking for her.
Standing a little to the left and a little to the rear of the airport waiting area, Myrna bopped up and down on her toes, eyes grazing the action. So many footsteps, so many heels clicking against the tiles. But there were no treads like Mom's treads. The insistent tick-clack of heel and toe was like a damned metronome set to andante. Moderate, never changing. Those carefully regulated footfalls were drawing nearer, growing more distinct. Myrna swallowed hard, sensing their vibrations deep inside her gut. Tick-clack, tick-clack. Frannie's on her way, Georgie right behind, tickety, tickety clack.
Georgie. Myrna could almost see her brother shuffling along, taking up the rear, digging how the soles of his Converse All-Stars squeaked against the waxed tile flooring. He was in no hurry. He would lag behind simply to irritate his mother. Myrna knew he would rather be back in Minneapolis with his boys. The only reason he agreed to make the trip was because he actually kind of liked his big sister.
Then...
Myrna heard the unmistakable sound of her mother scre-e-eching a complaint. It was horrible, like a fingernail making a slow, excruciating path down a blackboard. Even the most attention deficit youngster might have turned and gawped at this bleating woman. Myrna took one step forward, then froze. Before revealing her misfortune by association, Myrna decided to conduct a silent ten count. Hopefully she could get her cheeks to stop burning before joining the embarrassment that was her family.
The Frannie screech blared again like an emergency siren wailing in the center of town. This time there was a communal hum of laughter in response. Myrna was only up to 'eight' but she cut the count short before some Samaritan summoned security. Heart pounding, mouth going dry, she pushed and elbowed her way through the throng and, well, hello, sunshine, here's Mom.
Mom was on her hands and knees, frantically scrabbling around a small patch of floor. A plastic cosmetic bag (its merry pink floral pattern mocking Frannie's ire) lay open by her feet. Across its oblong window was a tread of a shoe, or sneaker, or maybe a ballet slipper. Who knew? Lovely lipsticks, eye shadows and other beauty paints usually lived comfortably behind that window but they were now on the ground. Somehow they'd been unceremoniously dumped. A lipstick rolled just out of Frannie's reach. She grunted and hitched her body forward, her fingers clawing...ju-st missing it. A woman with violet hair and a pantsuit to match, bent over and snagged the tube. She shoved it into her jacket pocket before disappearing into the crowd. Myrna's mouth fell open in silent protest.
Frannie was a bit more vocal.
"Hey...HEY!"
Frannie was livid. That...look, that goddamn 'mom' face struck Myrna like a fist in the breastbone. The rage that had transformed Frannie's into something alien, into this pucker faced...creature, was all too familiar. It made Myrna feel she had never left Minnesota. Never met Greg House. Her initial reaction was to do what she always did back home: turn and hightail it out of there.
"Security!" Frannie squawked. Sniggers were all she received for her trouble.
Myrna gritted her teeth and took one slow step backward...
(let's play pretend...the woman is a stranger...never saw her before...you can walk away...walk away...walk away)
...pressing against someone who wasn't in much of a hurry to move out of her path. She whipped around to meet the leer of a fiftysomething year old guy wearing a dress shirt and chinos. His hand was low, brushing her thigh. Again and again and again.
"Godammit," Myrna pressed her lips together and ground a heel into the toe of the guy's shoe. He let out a surprised yelp and melted into the throng.
Here there be monsters...
Her hands were trembling as she placed them against her face. "Oh, my god," she mumbled, peering at her mother from between her fingers.
Frannie was standing now, breathing hard, the makeup kit tucked under her arm, a carry on bag hitched over her shoulder. The kit had been restocked with its Maybelline and Clinique, everything except for that one missing lipstick (which Myrna was certain she would hear about forever and ever and always). Mom remained rooted to the spot, her jaw clenching, those eyes twitching, searching, like a bird scoping out its dinner...
"Wanna go home," Myrna's inner child whined.
Step up, young lady. You don't have a choice in the matter.
"Mom."
Her mother's eyes stopped their skittering and settled on her. They widened in surprise, the hazel darkening to a muddy green as her anger flared again. "Do you know why I never like to go anywhere with your brother?"
That voice...ugh, that voice. It was three octaves too high, drilling into Myrna's head. The too familiar sound caused Myrna lips to peel back into a grimace.
"He has absolutely no regard for other people's property."
"Where's Georgie, Mom?" Myrna asked through her teeth.
Frannie pushed the carry on bag at Myrna, who gripped it tightly, then, with some effort, slung it over her shoulder. Its weight made her stumble forward a step. It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that the entire contents of Frannie's medicine chest were inside that damn carry-on.
"I told him to stop twirling the makeup bag. Told him, pleaded with him, begged him."
They were the circus sideshow, the free entertainment before the appearance of the lions and tigers and bears appeared (oh, my). Myrna attempted to avert her gaze from the stares of the passersby but it was almost impossible. They were waiting for another blow-up, hoping and wishing for Frannie to lose it again. They jostled Myrna, brushed against her without cause. One or two hissed a disconcerting comment (wanna gun? do the world a favor...sign the commitment papers).
"Where...is...George?" Myrna asked, keeping as much of her composure as she was able.
"Fffft. He doesn't want to be seen with me. Didn't even want to get on the plane. Of course not.Anything to give his mother a hard ti-"
"WHERE IS HE?"
Someone applauded, someone else joined in. Now a small choir of well wishers was cheering her on. The slow handclaps caused Myrna's temples to throb in time with the beat. Hanging her head, she gave herself a silent reprimand for surrendering to their goading, for losing it.
When she met her mother's eyes again, they were tear filled. "You don't have to yell at me, Myrna. We came all this way to see you."
"I know, I know." She took Frannie by the arm and pulled her down the wide corridor, keeping in step with the throng, becoming part of it.
If you can't beat 'em, you gotta damn well join 'em.
"Let's go see, Georgie, okay?" Frannie was a head shorter than she, making Myrna feel like she was hauling a petulant child off for a reprimand. "Where is he?"
"I think he said he was hungry," Frannie pressed two tremulous fingers against her brow, continuing to match Myrna's steps, stride for stride. "After he twirled that bag one too many times and sent it flying."
Straight ahead...there's your signpost.
A trio of bistros was coming up hard on their right. Myrna could see the McDonald's arches, a red-yellow neon Soup To Go sign and an Au Bon Pain bakery. Giving Frannie's arm a tug, Myrna led her toward the McDonald's.
"And that horrible witch stole your lipstick," Frannie groaned. "Fffft! Fifteen bucks down the tubes. You could have used that lipstick on your wedding day."
"I have lipstick, Mom." They strode beneath the golden arches and entered the Land of Sodium and Bad Cholesterol.
"You always wear that terrible wine red color." Frannie wrinkled her nose. "It makes you look like a trollop." She glanced down at Myrna's left hand. "Where's your ring?"
Omigod, here it comes. "What ring?"
"Your engagement ring."
"I didn't want one."
Frannie's lips puckered like she had just consumed a lemon, rind and all.
Myrna explained further. "I didn't need one. By the time I got it sized I'd be married."
"You mean to say," Frannie shook a finger under Myrna's nose. "you're marrying a doctor and he didn't even bother to-"
"Don't." A single word and an intimidating arch of a brow could speak volumes. If done correctly, the unsuspecting victim might lose her nerve and just...shut...up. This was a lesson from the Greg House School of Besting the Best. And judging by the way her mother (herself an expert in the dark arts of pestering and goading) clammed up, Myrna had to say that Greg was an excellent teacher.
The place was bustling. Queues were five deep at the registers, and almost every table was occupied. To the immediate right sat two adults and two toddlers, their table rife with sippy cups and soggy remnants of burgers. Wrappers and fries were strewn everywhere. To their left was a yuppie couple, daintily downing their walnut and cranberry salads, probably proud of how health conscious they were and the wise meal choice they'd made. But really, they probably would have given their BMW for a Quarter Pounder or a mayo drenched Big Mac. Oh, yes, back in that far corner was a sweet looking elderly couple sipping coffee and eating chicken sandwiches. And beyond them, around that corner, way, way back in the very last booth...
Myrna craned her neck and spied Georgie seated across from two Hispanic girls. One possessed a wide, flat nose and thick brows, looking like the runt of the litter next to her companion. The other girl, the one with the coy smile and hair the color of chestnuts seemed to have Georgie wrapped around her pretty little pinkie.
"Mom, go snag a booth over there by the entrance," Myrna said quickly.
"Isn't that George?"
"I'm hungry, aren't you?"
"We have to go to baggage claim," Frannie whined.
"We'll do that after..."
"What the hell is he doing?" This was Frannie's specialty. The 'ominous' tone. It started out low and close to the ground, then climbed to the tippity-top of the sound spectrum. She took two steps toward that back booth but Myrna clamped a hand on one of her bony shoulders, holding her in place. Surprisingly, Frannie made no move to shrug her off.
"Get us a table, Mom. Willya?"
"You don't even know what I want to eat."
"Then tell me or... I'll surprise you."
They locked eyes. Frannie's recently plucked brows pointed south. "Quarter Pounder. No onions."
Myrna watched her mother turn, tick-clack down the aisle and claim a booth closer to the front of the restaurant. Frannie's dye job took pretty well this time: it was a burnt orange hue, which looked good even under the harsh fluorescents. Last time Myrna saw Frannie, the woman had that Lucille Ball look going on: loud, brassy and carrot topped. A new stylist must have suggested she tone it down for the wedding. And Frannie had actually listened? Maybe the old girl was mellowing...
...and maybe the world was a happy, happy place, with tangerine trees and marmalade skies...
From the back corner booth came an explosion of giggles interspersed with snatches of rhymes. Georgie was dressed to kill. A modern day lothario. baseball cap on backwards, Lakers jersey, white shorts and socks, bright white Converse sneaks. He was dazzling. His notebook was open on the table. Each girl had a large soda in front of her, most likely courtesy of the 'rap kid'. Georgie, or MC "G" as he was dubbed by his boys, must be sharing his latest rhymes. This was not good, Myrna thought, putting on some speed. He'd never want to leave now.
George was deep in rhyming mode. His words flowed off his tongue, staccato, assured, his fingers dancing, gesticulating to the rhythm. His lady friends were bobbing their heads, moving their shoulders to the beat. They were smiling, coquettish, gold earrings swinging as they swayed. It was a modern day mating ritual.
He was good. Myrna was loathe to interrupt but she had to play the adult, had to move in cold.
"Hey, Georgie."
He flicked her a half look that said 'chill', his mouth still going and going, like an Energizer bunny on speed.
She tapped her foot and exhaled softly, responding to his demand with a silent entreaty.
Soon the words slowed, the fingers drifted against his notebook, and his work was done. "Aw...fuck, Myrna." He threw her a disgruntled look. "Why'd you have to come along now?"
"Gee, Georgie. It's nice to see you too."
Chestnut Hair whispered something to her friend, then gazed at Georgie with fannish adoration. Smirking, he flipped his notebook shut. "Gotta go." He winked at the Latin beauty. "I'll text you sometime."
"Promise, Georgie?"
"Oooh, yeah, baby doll. And you know what? That last rap, the one you thought was fresh, damn, that's for you, baby. Always gonna be."
In another moment the girl would be a puddle.
"Come on, George."
"This is my sister, Myrna. She's getting married." He winked at his fans as he grabbed his notebook and slid out of the booth. "Gettin' it all the time. Doin' it well."
"George!"
"Fuck, yeah, it's true and you know it." He fell into step next to Myrna and let one arm fall over her shoulders. At sixteen, he was a six foot, stocky, sandy haired half a boy and half a man. "It's all good?"
"It's all good."
"Aw, hell...look at her."
Their mother was babbling to herself, her fingers drifting over the contents of the makeup case. She had the tubes, brushes, jars and bottles lined up end to end on the table.
Myrna rushed forward, pushing through a small pocket of incoming diners before reaching the table. Breathless, she leaned over to touch her mother's arm. "Mom..."
"Sssh! Can't you see I'm counting? ...6...7...8..."
Georgie snapped, "Everything is goddamn in there, Ma."
"Hah! How would you know? This is all your fault. ...9...10..."
"Maybe we should just go," Myrna said, moving to gather up the brushes, foundations, lipsticks and eye shadows.
Frannie slapped a hand on top of Myrna's. "I am counting. Got to make sure nothing else is missing. A single lipstick is one thing, more than that and we can get a lawyer, sue the airport." She shoved Myrna's hand away and continued.
"But mom, don't you want to go to the hotel, have a hot shower, a really nice meal...?"
"We're not going to the hotel after this, Myrna."
"Goddamn," Georgie hissed, rolling his eyes and slapping his notebook against his thigh.
"Then...where are we going...Mom?"
Frannie spread her long fingers protectively over the makeup and raised her eyes slowly to meet Myrna's. There was a light in her mother's eyes, a disturbing, vengeful light Myrna had never seen before.
"I want to meet the man, this big shot Doctor Gregory House who so wants to marry my daughter but wheedled out of getting her an engagement ring." A slow smile formed, a companion to the unforgiving glare. "He thinks he can get away with not treating you properly?" She sniffed. "Well, he hasn't met me yet."
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"What is this?"
Wilson looked up from arranging the napkins, paper plates and bottles of beer on the coffee table. "Crust, mozzarella cheese, tomato sauce, mushrooms." He placed a forefinger to his temple. "Um...pizza?"
"Why, that's amazing." House settled on the arm of the sofa, scrutinizing the half eaten slice that rested on the plate in his hand. "It has the right look and texture but one bite'll tell you..." He winced. "...it's not."
Wilson lifted a slice from the box and bit off the string cheesy end. He chewed and swallowed, throwing House an accusatory glare. "It's pizza, and it's good."
"No. Any idiot can mix dough, sauce and cheese together, shove it in an oversized oven and say they made a pizza. Self assured morons who open pizza restaurants are like sandlot ball players who get the notion they're pros. They suck and so does this crappy pie." He leaned over, dropped the plate on the table, then reached for a beer. "I know you went to that new place with the flags and streamers hanging off the awning."
"Oh, so that's it."
"That's not it."
"God forbid we shift the planets around a little, try something new."
"Hey, I'm all for trying new things." House sipped at his brew with a bit less gusto than the night before. "I am getting married, aren't I?"
"Yeah." Wilson took another bite of his slice. "I still haven't figure that out."
House had languished in the apartment most of the day, going back to bed after Myrna left. Vicodin, his stalwart friend, did the job, as always, tamping the combination head and leg throb so neither became a miserable, intolerable ache. The effect of the pills combined with the remnants of last night's stony misadventure, eased him back into sleep. Two hours later, the movers woke him, hauling in the last of Myrna's dowry, piling the cartons against the wall between the kitchen and living room. It was her stuff and House got a charge out of teasing her about it. She really seemed to treasure the mementos she'd salvaged: a bunch of knick-knacks, letters, jewelry and photos that chronicled almost every one of her twenty eight years. Nearly twice her age, House didn't possess nearly as many reminders of his past. And he considered that a good thing.
When Wilson rolled in around five o'clock, House was teetering on the narrow precipice of boredom. So the surprise visit was a welcome diversion. Of course, House didn't reveal his delight. In fact, he did his best to look annoyed. No sense in giving Wilson a swelled head.
"Face, it. I'm human after all."
"For some reason you've become curious about commitment. Again." Wilson shook his head, throwing House a dubious look. "I have to admit. This really has me stymied."
"We've been all over this too many times. It's getting old. Boring." House flopped next to Wilson on the sofa, resting his right leg on the coffee table. "I've told you everything I'm going to."
"It troubles me you haven't mentioned the most important reason for taking this huge step."
"I haven't?" House ran his hand between the sofa cushions and dug out the remote.
"You know, the reason people get together, the reason people want to stay with each other 'til death..."
"Fabulous sex?" Having a next of kin to list on employment records?" House scrolled down his Tivo list, stopped at "Rear Window" and let the movie play.
"Love."
House drew the bottle to his lips while throwing his friend a sidelong glance. "And how many times were you conned into saying the words?"
"This isn't about me."
After taking a long swig, House banged the bottle on the table then wiped his hands on his sweat pants. "I'm getting married because I want to and she wants to. That should be enough to satisfy anyone's insane curiosity."
"You know," Wilson leaned over and picked up a beer. "a real relationship with a lovely woman has not mellowed you at all."
"Just because you get married doesn't mean you change."
"Most people do."
"When have I ever been most people? House groused.
Wilson sighed.
They fell into a companionable silence, watching the wheelchair bound Jimmy Stewart peer out his bedroom window through high powered binoculars. Grace Kelly was softly smiling, sitting by his side, trading quips and kisses with that lucky guy for the camera.
Gesturing at the screen, House said, "That could be me."
"Yeah, right. The only thing you have in common with Jimmy Stewart is the gray in your hair."
With an emphatic harumph, House leaned closer to his friend. "That could be me, wheelchair bound, Myrna indulging my whims, bringing me food."
A slow smile spread across Wilson's face as he turned to his friend. "And she would do this because..." With a flourish, he gestured at House to take the floor.
"Because she wants to."
"Because..."
"I told you."
"Dammit, you're some piece of work. You can't even say the words."
"She loves me." He felt the veins in his neck strain with the force of his exclamation. "Alright? Happy now?"
"No. Now it's your turn."
House was fuming. He folded his arms, clenched his jaw and forced his gaze back on the film. No way was he going to say the words his friend wanted to hear. Myrna had heard them and that was enough. It had been difficult enough wrenching them out of himself for her...
"You were right, you know," Wilson said, reaching over and flipping the lid of the pizza box closed.
House threw him a sidelong glance. "About what?"
"The pizza," he said. "It was awful."
"You insisted it was good."
"I came clean. Now it's your turn."
Despite his annoyance, House couldn't help chuckling. "Watch the damn movie."
The apartment door rattled open just as Jimmy Stewart caught Raymond Burr doing something hinky in the front garden. Three extremely disgruntled looking folk almost fell over each other in their efforts to enter House's living room. One was lovely, familiar and very welcome. The other two?
Well, now, let's see...
The kid with the Lakers jersey and baseball cap (gotta be the brother) graced House with a look, the kind of look that usually gave House cause to let a few choice comments fly.
Yeah, old man, you're going to deal with this one later.
But the woman. Frannie. Ohhh, yeah. Now...she was really something. The kid had nothing on her. Frannie Bromfeld. Her mouth was set in a wicked, witchy pout, lips puckering like she had just kissed a frog. Eyes were hazel-green like her daughter's, which was as far as the family resemblance seemed to go.
Nothing kind or loving about this one. She is the definitive piece of work.
Myrna and baby brother froze by the door as Mommy stomped over to the coffee table. She threw House a perfunctory sneer but she seemed to be all about Wilson. Her expression softened as she met his eyes.
"Why...hello," she said.
Wilson offered a tentative smile. "Hello."
"I'm Frannie. It's nice to finally meet you," she said with an almost girlish lilt in her voice.
"Oh, well, same here, ma'am." He got to his feet, throwing House a distressed, wide eyed 'help me out here' look.
She sighed, taking the hand he offered. "Well, at least you're well mannered, even if you don't have a clue how to handle an engagement." Rubbing her chin, she allowed a smile to steal across her face. "I have to say that it's nice my daughter's finally getting a well mannered man, well groomed, handsome man."
House snorted.
"That's...good, ma'am."
"Please call me Frannie...or Mom, if you like."
"Uhhhh." He let her hand drop.
"Mom," Myrna called from the doorway. Georgie's shoulders shook from the force of his sniggering.
"Hush, Myrna," Frannie swatted the air; the action could have decimated a passel of horseflies. "Greg."
Wilson lifted a finger. "I'm not-"
"You really shouldn't let your friends come over and put their feet on your furniture." She glowered at House, who responded by wrinkling his nose, like an all pervasive stink had descended from...somewhere.
Wilson emitted a panicked croak, his eyes darting from Frannie to House to the pair standing frozen by the door. "I'll have to-"
"My feet, my table...my place." House announced loudly, wiggling his right foot, causing the beer bottles to shiver and clink against one another. "Mine, mine, MINE."
Frannie's pucker was back, her eyes wide circles of disbelief. "No." Her voice was soft, much too soft.
"How're you doin'?" He eased his leg to the floor. Leaning forward, he extended his hand, disregarding the kid guffawing by the door, Myrna's groan, Wilson's choked apology. At this moment, he only had eyes for the horrified Frannie. She reared back, away, away from the offer of House's hand. Her gaze shifted wistfully, hopefully toward Wilson, who could only shrug and jerk his thumb at her future son-in-law.
House drew back his hand and set it on his lap. "Really great to meet you." Tilting his head, he winked and donned a mischievous smirk before laying the truth on thick and strong. "I'm Myrna's fiancé, Greg."