Chapter 11

A Cup of Hot Tea

Around six o'clock, Jacey Liu called Wilson and asked her to meet him in House's office.

Alarmed, he asked, "Is anything wrong?"

"No, no. Not at all. According to Selma, he's been sleeping for the last couple of hours. But I think it's time to wake him up and get him home. And I think it would be good for him to have us there when he wakes up."

They met outside the door of 527 five minutes later. Wilson was carrying a cup of hot tea with honey.

Quietly, they slipped into the room, finding House still stretched out on the sofa. He was snoring lightly, his face still distorted with anxiety. Pulling up a couple of chairs next to him, they dismissed Selma and sent her back to Rainie's room.

"Dr. House?" said Jacey softly. "It's time to wake up."

House murmured in his sleep. She reached out and began gently stroking his arm.

"Come on, sleeping beauty," said Wilson, reaching around to rub the man's back.

Slowly, House opened his right eye. It glared at them.

"That's good," said Jacey. "Now the other one."

The left eye opened. It didn't look any more pleased than the right one had.

"Let's get you sitting up. Would you like some more tea?"

House nodded. His hair, never well groomed under the best of circumstances, was sticking up at odd angles. He brushed his bent fingers through it as he pulled himself into a sitting position.

Wilson handed him the cup of tea. House's hands were shaking more than usual; the tea was in danger of spilling. Jacey put her small hands around his big ones to help him steady it as he brought the cup to his mouth and took a sip.

"Jesus, Wilson! That's hot!" he yelped, rubbing his burnt tongue along the back of his front teeth.

"Well, we'll just let it cool off a minute, and then we'll try again," said Jacey, setting the cup on the floor next to her.

House looked worn out, which he undoubtedly was, and still shaken from the afternoon's events.

"Dr. House, is it okay if I talk to you a little bit about what happened?"

Looking wary, he nodded uncertainly.

"I want you to know that I've been expecting exactly what happened today."

He didn't look convinced.

"Like you, I'm a doctor. And like you, I'm very good at what I do. You brought me in on this case because you knew that. Isn't that right?"

House nodded, rolling his eyes slightly at the obviousness.

"What I do is help people who have survived traumatic experiences. I've worked with bombing victims, people who have been trapped in earthquakes and soldiers returning from Iraq, among others. Their circumstances are all different, but they have many things in common."

"Makes sense," mumbled House, his doctor's mind working on the problem.

"Yes, of course it does. Just as the human body responds the same ways to infections or injuries, the human mind responds the same ways to extreme trauma. With me so far?"

He nodded again.

"Without looking at your history, I could describe at least the general outline of what you've been going through. When the abuse first ended, you were in shock. Your body was so battered, it needed all of your strength just to survive, so the mind just went along for the ride. As your body began to heal, your mind suddenly realized how damaged it had been by your experiences.

"Once the immediate danger subsided, your mind needed to begin to heal. Just as we sometimes put the body into an induced coma to wait out the trauma to the body, the mind sometimes shuts itself down to wait out its own immediate trauma. I understand you were in a semi-catatonic state for a while—that was your mind's way of giving itself some time.

"Throughout all of this, you've probably had some dreadful nightmares—that's your subconscious trying to work on healing itself when your conscious mind just hasn't been able to deal with it. And I'm sure you still have moments of being jumpy and even frightened by loud noises or sudden movements. Again, that's your mind responding to its injury—it's trying to protect itself. These tend to be ongoing concerns, but perhaps not as often as before. Am I right?"

"Yes."

"After you came back mentally, I'm sure you were emotionally numb for a long time."

"Yes," said House again, thinking back on the weeks and weeks he spent on autopilot.

"And now it's becoming painful while you're awake. Sometimes very painful. Think about it like this. What does the body do when there's a wound—a cut or abrasion, or even a break?"

House knew this one. He wasn't a bored-certified diagnostician for nothing.

"You know the answer," he said. "I don't have to tell you."

"No, of course not. The blood rushes to the area; if the skin has been broken, it forms a protective scab, which keeps out infection and allows the area to heal. When the wound first happens, we don't always feel it immediately, do we?"

House certainly knew about wounds. "No."

"But as it begins to heal, it can sometimes be a lot more painful than the initial injury, can't it?"

Again, House had a wealth of expertise in this area. He agreed.

"Well, our minds do something very similar. When your mind was wounded, it was in shock from the injury at first. Your catatonic state was like the blood rushing to the area, and the numbness you felt afterward was the protective scab."

House saw where this was going. Although he wasn't sure he liked it, he had to admit this was the most down-to-earth approach to psychiatry he'd ever run across. He was beginning to think he hadn't made a mistake in hiring Jacey Liu.

"I see what you're getting at," he said. "If I'm going to heal, I'm going to have to deal with the pain of the healing process, yes?"

"I'm afraid so," she answered. "I'd love to spare you that pain, believe me, but sooner or later you'll have to go through it if you're ever going to get better."

Get better? If there's this much pain involved, I don't know if I want to get better, he thought. And there's been so much damage, I'm not sure it's even possible. It was kind of like Brussels sprouts. He resisted the idea that something he disliked so much could be good for him.

Jacey continued, picking up on his fear.

"You have chosen to help Rainie through her own healing. Because you've been there, you know what to expect, and you hope that because of your own history, you'll be able to help her. That's why you took on her case, isn't it?"

Still resisting where this was going, he nodded reluctantly.

"Physically, you have no problem admitting that you are still recovering and need outside medical treatment to help your body heal. What I want you to think about is doing the same thing for your mind. As it's recovering, I want you to consider me your outside medical treatment, so I can help do for your mind what the orthopedists, neurologists and plastic surgeons are doing for your body. Fair enough?"

He'd never been able to argue with logic.

"Yeah. Okay."

"Just as you need additional surgeries—which may cause more pain in the short run, in order to make you better in the long run—you also need to deal with this emotional pain so that you can function better in the long run. The sooner you deal with it, the easier it's going to be on you. This kind of emotional pain just gets worse the longer you wait. And if you're going to really help Rainie, you must do it now, so that when she gets to this point, you're there to guide her."

Damn, she was good, he thought.

"Okay, you win," he conceded. "How do we do it?"

"Unfortunately, it's not as easy to predict as a surgery and its recovery time. We're going to have to play this a little by ear. On some subconscious level, you knew you were ready for this, or you never would have taken on Rainie's case."

House had to agree. He felt as if he were getting the first clues to the Big Mystery, the mystery of how someone survives and of why he'd felt compelled to take this case.

"For the time being, Rainie isn't going to need my services a whole lot. She's still mostly in shock, punctuated by moments like today, plus the jumpiness, and I'm sure she'll have nightmares. We'll deal with those things as they come up. For right now, I want to focus on you, because there are going to be times like today, when working with Rainie is going to push your mind where you'd just as soon it didn't go.

"Here's what I want you to do. Page me, any time, day or night, when the emotions get too much for you. Try not to be afraid of them, and for god's sake, don't be embarrassed about it. You're just healing. I'll help you through it. Sometimes, I may give you some medication that can help; other times, we'll just go through it together.

"I promise I'll never leave you alone with the pain, as long as you keep me in the loop. And I promise that it will get better with time.

"Does that work for you?"

House thought for a moment, then reached out his squashed spider of a hand and gently shook hers. "Deal," he said.

She handed him his cup of tea. It was cold.

Wilson, who has sat silently listening throughout, was stunned. Jacey Liu had just done in half an hour what no one in House's entire life had been able to do.

* * * *

It was nearing eight o'clock by the time they got back to the duplex, and House was sound sleep in the passenger seat.

Wilson and Jacey had taken House out of the hospital in the wheelchair, his crutches propped up across his lap. They helped him into the car, and then Jacey asked if she could follow along to make sure he was okay once he got home. To Wilson's surprise, House agreed.

Now the two of them bundled him into the house, where Linda was dealing with dinner. When Wilson had called ahead to let her know they'd be late and bringing a guest, she ran out and picked up Chinese food. Not only was it something House really enjoyed, but it was also loaded with calories.

Still groggy from sleep and emotional exhaustion, House lay quietly on the leather sofa until dinner was ready to serve. He really wasn't hungry, but he knew Wilson would insist that he eat. He struggled into an upright position when Linda entered carrying a large tray, which she set down on the coffee table. Wilson and Jacey pulled their chairs close.

"Surprise," said Linda, bringing out the little white boxes. "Your favorite." Out of respect for the fact that House could no longer manage chopsticks, the only utensils on the tray were forks.

"Which is the most fattening?" asked House irritably, poking through some of the boxes. "Maybe if I go for that one right away, Mother Wilson will leave me alone for the rest of the night."

"Don't know, Dr. House. They're all pretty bad for you."

"Fine. I'll pick one at random." And with that he clumsily opened up the remaining boxes, shut his eyes and then stabbed at one with his fork. It turned out to be kung pao chicken, which, incidentally, was one of his favorites. After dumping some into a bowl with a bunch of rice and eating a couple of bites, he grabbed a won ton, and crunched it in half.

"There. Happy now?" he said in mock anger. He was tired and he'd had about enough for one day.

"Very," said Wilson, who was contentedly eating a vegetarian dumpling.

Linda deferred to Jacey, who picked out General Tso's chicken, and then chose for herself Mongolian beef.

When they were done—or in House's case eaten a quarter of a serving—Linda dumped the remains back on the tray and returned to the kitchen to put the leftovers away.

Wilson and Jacey chatted idly while House lay his head back on the couch, eyelids getting heavy.

After a few minutes, Linda returned with dessert: ice cream sundaes. House perked up at this, and, groaning, sat up again.

As they finished up, Jacey took a look at House. He was clearly done in, but she wanted to check in before she left.

"Feeling a little better, Greg?"

"Oh, yes indeedy," he said, sarcastically. "I think I'll have a wrenching emotional breakdown every day. It's so good for my constitution."

Wilson shrugged his shoulders at Jacey.

"Just can't take him anyplace," he said.

"Well, if you're feeling well enough to get snotty, I guess I can take my leave for the night."

"It's about time," said House. "I thought you'd never leave."

Jacey paused, smiled and looked him right in the eye. "But I'm not going to leave, Dr. House, not really. I'll never leave you. I'll always be here for you when you need me. Go ahead. Say something rude. Doesn't matter. I'll still be here."

House opened his mouth to retort, and then changed his mind. He sighed. She was going to take all the fun out of being nasty.

"Thanks," he said, unexpectedly. And he meant it.

* * * *

House sank back onto the couch and closed his eyes.

"Massage?" asked Linda.

"Massage," replied House. "Massage, Vicodin, morphine—whatever you've got."

"Okay, but first let's get you into the bedroom." She and Wilson helped him up off the couch and down the hall, where they stripped off his clothes, gave him a Vicodin and eased him onto the bed, face up.

"Were you serious about the morphine?" asked Wilson. With all the emotional turmoil of the day, he hadn't given much thought to House's physical condition.

House thought a minute, then shrugged. "Let's see how the Vicodin does. Ask me again in half an hour."

"Let's start with your legs and feet," said Linda. With Wilson and Linda sitting on either side of him, they began to gently rub his feet and ankles, eventually working their way up. Because Linda was on his right side, she had to bypass the infarction site, which she did, gingerly, massaging the aching muscles and lessening the tender knots without triggering a pain spasm.

House lay passively on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He hadn't wasted much time resenting what had happened to him in the previous six years. There was no point; it wouldn't change the day-to-day aspects of his life.

But the events of the past few days were forcing him to examine just how much his life had changed. Odd how when his leg had been injured, he'd had plenty of anger against Stacy for overriding his wishes. Only now, when he met another body as catastrophically damaged as his own, caused by a clear-cut evil force, was he able to work up a case of righteous anger, as justifiable as it would be.

He was beginning to think of his life as Before Thompson—B.T.—and After Thompson—A.T. B.T., he groused about the pain and his diminished capacity on a fairly regular basis. Now, A.T., he rarely said a word about how much it hurt or how difficult his life had become, unless prompted by Wilson. He had railed against pity for the leg, getting nasty and sarcastic if anyone dared feel sorry for him, unless he specifically complained about it himself. Now, he knew the pity was there no matter what he did or how he behaved, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

Why was that, he wondered, puzzling over his own behavior. He already knew the answer: It was a matter of control. Not over the pity, but over the injuries themselves. The results of the leg injury had been taken out of his control—except when he took control and made cripple jokes—and he had made the choice to let Thompson continue.

His decision, his choice. He could have said no, and allowed Thompson to kill Wilson and the others. He could have killed himself to end it. But his choice was to live, to endure. There was an old House family saying: You're not allowed to complain about anything you've done to yourself. And in a sense, he'd done this to himself by allowing it to continue.

Day by day, House was fighting to regain as much of what he'd lost as possible. Although his mind knew that he would never regain what he'd had pre-Thompson, he'd never allowed himself to grieve for the loss.

Where before, he'd been in pain from the injury to his leg and its after-effects, now there wasn't an inch of him that didn't hurt at least that much… and wouldn't continue to hurt for the rest of his life.

His entire life had been sideswiped because of Thompson and his insanity. He faced a shortened lifespan, constant agonizing pain, diminished capacity and years of surgeries that would only partially repair the damage.

And then there was Rainie, facing the same bleak future, because of him.

Wilson and Linda had worked their up to his chest and forearms.

"Well, what do you think?" asked Wilson. "Is the Vicodin helping?"

"Nothing ever helps," said House simply. "But can I live with it? Yes."

* * * *

Amazingly, there were no nightmares Tuesday night. Wilson had been positive it was going to be a bad night, after all the trauma of the day, but House slept soundly. Even more amazingly, Wednesday was quiet. No drama, no setbacks, no confrontations, no nonsense. On the whole, a pretty good day.

Thursday, on the other hand, was something entirely different.