It seems to me boy 36 hours but my mind is fresh
That you're doing all right
I don't know what I
I don't know where I
Long way to go now
Keep it all inside
Live for the moment then I'm gone
Suck on that sympathy and feel the rush
Go on my blue eyed son
Knowhere
David Gray
Chapter 11: A Father's Son
John House loved his son. Ever since he'd seen him, just a month after his birth, John was unerringly devoted to Greg's happiness. John had been on TDY in Korea when Greg had been born. He got the news from the Ombudsman just two days afterwards and he got to go home a month early. Seeing his son for the first time, cradled against his wife's breast, had actually brought tears to the Marine pilot's eyes. Just nine months had created the miracle. Nine months had passed too quickly- and the rest would go just as fast.
John hadn't been around much when Greg was growing up. A Marine pilot goes where he's needed, when he's needed to serve his country (and therefore his family). There were always deployments- one month, three months. John came and went and always something was changing. John was at home reading the newspaper when Greg took his first step. And his first word was spoken just moments from John's departure for a two-week trip to Hawaii. But then Greg went from speaking in single words to sentences in a matter of months.
They made a short move to San Diego the following year- Greg was three. He started preschool before they left again: this time a move across country to North Carolina. The government shipped everything they had to Camp Lejeune and even put it into the house that John had bought in Jacksonville. But John decided that five years old was a great time to see the country- so John took leave and they made the long drive. It took close to three weeks and they saw everything: the Grand Canyon, Mesa Verde, Pike's Peak, the Mississippi River, the open plains of Kansas, the bunched cities and roads of the East Coast. Greg seemed to love it. He didn't ask when they'd get there and the only time John saw him sleep in the car was Kansas. He stared out the window, eyes wide to the passing world. John answered every question he could- often giving Greg the guidebook to read for himself and point out the next place to stop. Those were the good times, John thought. The best times he had had with his son.
Camp Lejeune was much the same as San Diego or Camp Pendleton. The weather was different, certainly, and the beaches were different. But a base is a base- designed to be the same in every location so that the youthful Marines and their families could better adjust to the change. The Relocation Office to let you know all about your current or next assignment, Pass and ID for your Identification, MWR for your entertainment. John and Blythe put Greg into one of the local public schools and the teachers seemed to love him for his academic prowess- commenting on how inquisitive he was, how smart he became. They said he had a bit of an ego- that sometimes he started fights. But boys will be boys.
Just after Greg's 10th birthday, John left for Vietnam. John wrote religiously. He'd send two letters- one especially for Greg, writing in words he'd understand, telling him about what he was seeing (as much as he could say), but especially what he felt, how much he missed him. Greg, you wouldn't believe the place we went to today. It's an ancient temple- they say it used to be the capital of the Kingdom that we're in. The buildings are amazing and they're all made out of smooth red brick that they made by hand. They didn't use mud or concrete to bind them together. They used some kind of vegetable so it looks like the bricks are holding themselves together. I sure hope this place makes it through the war- I want you to see this one day. Maybe when things calm down. I'll bring you here and we can spend hours looking around and maybe find something new that no one else has seen. I have to go- we're heading out soon. Take care of your mother. I miss you. Love, Dad. And then there were the souvenirs- trinkets he picked up on a weekend shore leave, photos that both him and his buddies took.
And then John's tour was finished- at least temporarily. John came back to Quantico, where he'd left Blythe and Greg. Blythe was ecstatic, but Greg, then 12 and already tall and lanky, looked at him suspiciously. He just didn't feel like throwing the ball around, he'd said. He was watching tv, couldn't John see that? Every time John at been at home before, Greg was always eager to be around him. Greg would ask about everything- about people in different places, about flying planes, about the military, about life. But John had been gone for almost two years and now Greg seemed different, quieter. The only questions now: What was for dinner? Where's the next PCS? Would John be leaving again soon?
John asked Blythe, late at night and alone in their bed, why Greg had changed. She didn't think that he had. "He's grown up a little, I suppose," she'd said. "He's not a naïve little boy anymore, John."
"But he seems unhappy, Blythe. I just want him to be happy."
Blythe hadn't said much else- just to give Greg some time. It had been hard on him- not having him around for two years. They were important years. She'd talked to Marsha across the street. Their son Mike had hit his dad when he first saw him and he'd only been gone for a year. Plus, being a 12 year old boy was an awkward stage. Didn't John remember? Of course he did.
But Greg didn't seem happy the whole time John was home. He rarely smiled; never seemed excited. John pulled him, complaining, outside on the weekends. They went camping, fishing- just father and son in the wilderness. They'd drive out two or three hours, camp in state parks, fish from the shore in streams and from the boat on the lakes. "The fresh air will be good for you, Greg. You're getting pale." Greg grumbled, but went along with it.
They didn't talk much on the trips. What was for dinner? Would the weather hold? Which lure should they use to catch a bass and which cove would likely be the jackpot. Once, John tried to tell Greg the facts of life, as he liked to call them. The birds and the bees, how to be a man. Greg had turned to him from the bow of the skiff, rolled his eyes and said "Dad, you don't have to explain it to me. I know."
"But son, there's some things that you'll be going thr…"
Greg turned again, slapping his hand on the side of the boat. "Dad!" Greg started. "I know!"
John didn't say anything more. He was a little disappointed that he'd missed out, but realized there were other things to teach his son. So what if a teacher at school had got to him before his father. A teacher at school couldn't teach him how to be happy or what kind of decisions to make.
John recalled that it was on one of those fishing trips that Greg had first brought up being a doctor. John had coaxed Greg into talking about school and Greg brought up science class. He'd liked the subject and he was doing well. Best in the class actually. The best part of the class had been dissecting a frog. It was a dead frog, of course, but Greg remarked that it would've been cooler if it had been alive somehow. If they could look at the frog and see it and bring it back, stitch it up. What if he could fix whatever had killed the frog? Wouldn't it be cool? Then Greg had brought up all the other subjects: history, English, math, music.
Music was also one of Greg's strong points. John was amazed by how talented Greg had become in the two years he'd been gone. He remembered when Blythe signed him up for piano lessons with another Marine wife. Greg had been 7 at the time, they'd been in Okinawa, and there hadn't been much else to do. Greg was reluctant at first, claiming piano was for sissies and girls. But as he'd learned, he began to get more and more interested. John bought him records- both when he was at home and when he was deployed. He bought him Oscar Peterson, Ray Charles, Thelonius Monk, and the classics like Mozart, Beethoven, Rachmaniov. At 12, Greg's skill on the keys was evident every evening when he sat down at the bench while Blythe finished dinner. John would sit in his recliner, still in his flight suit, a glass of scotch and the newspaper. He'd look at the paper, sip his scotch, but his focus was on Greg's playing. The melodies Greg played for memory seemed to enhance the warmness of the living room lights and the smells emanating from the kitchen. Greg didn't seem to mind the audience, but John could tell that he wasn't playing for them.
Often, in fact, John would like awake late at night and hear softer melodies floating up the stairs. Sometimes, he wondered halfway down, edging his bare feet around the seventh stair that he knew was creaky. Oblivious to his audience, Greg was completely immersed in his playing. John would watch as he'd read the music, sometimes marking on it, then putting the pencil back in his mouth as he continued to play. Sometimes, he'd stop abruptly after a bad note, and a quiet "dammit" could be heard floating up the stairway. John would grimace: his son seemed to enjoy playing, but John wasn't sure if it was because it was pleasurable or if Greg was addicted to it in some way. It seemed like a quest for perfection. He was perfect at everything he tried. He didn't do anything half-way. It was all or nothing and Greg never failed.
If there was something Greg was failing at, John realized when his son was 17, it was relationships with girls. Greg seemed to have friends or at least guys he hung out with. Many of them were fellow lacrosse players or bandmates. But Greg rarely had girlfriends. The only reason John even knew about them was that Greg would go out on a weekend and, trying to be a conscientious parent, John would ask who he was going with. A week or two later, at home on a Saturday night, John would ask "What happened to Annie?" And Greg, looking down at first, chewing, then pausing would say: "Didn't work out." A shrug and silence.
John had actually considered the notion that his son might be gay. The thought of it sent chills down his spine- John was a Marine, it was the 70's, and the thought that his own son might bat for the other team didn't bode well on his conscience or for his career. But John resolved, that if this was the case, he'd deal with it. If it made Greg happy… But Greg seemed to like girls, wanted to date them, and Blythe had found what she referred to as "girly" magazines under Greg's bed. So it seemed, John thought, that the girls were just put off by him for some reason- or maybe it was the other way around. Maybe it was a personality issue. Maybe he'd learn to get along better in college- where he could be around his peers all the time.
But even in college, Greg never brought anyone home, never talked about the girls he saw. All the way through medical school and beyond, Greg, as far as John knew, might have been completely alone. And then one year, when Greg was 36 and John was long retired from the Marines, they'd gone to visit over Christmas and discovered Stacy Finnan.
Noting the feminine touch around the apartment, John knew instinctively that Stacy was living with Greg. He thought it was a good thing. Stacy seemed a perfect compliment to his son. As he watched them interact over Christmas dinner it was apparent: how they seemed to communicate with their eyes, how Stacy returned all of Greg's witty remarks with one twice as sarcastic. He didn't think he'd seen his son happier in 30 years. But as John thought back to the situation, shifting in his airplane seat, maybe he should've laid off- not bugged Greg about marriage and kids. He just couldn't help himself. Every time he was on the phone or saw Greg, he'd ask, "So, pop the question yet?" And Greg would roll his eyes, just as he'd done all those years ago on the fishing trip. "Dad…" John couldn't help it. The best decision of his life had been marrying Blythe. He wanted Greg to be just as happy and he had a feeling that Stacy was the one that could achieve this seemingly insurmountable goal. But in the end, it wasn't really John's fault at all. They hadn't seen it coming. It couldn't have been helped.
John squeezed Blythe's hand, looking at her for a moment and smiling. They'd been on the plane for two hours and they were on final approach, having buckled in and raised their seats. Blythe looked up at him, squeezed his hand in return. Blythe's eyes spoke of worry. John soothed them with his own unspoken communication.
Last time had been horrible. By the time that John and Blythe had gotten to Princeton, Greg was in surgery, having part of his leg removed. They'd been called at short notice by Dr. Cuddy- something with his leg, a clot, she'd said. It didn't look good. Greg was refusing the most logical treatment. They'd gotten there to find Stacy pacing in the waiting room. John had never imagined that Stacy Finnan would cry. She was a successful lawyer, had the wit and bearing of a wolverine. But there he stood, under the fluorescent lights of a too quiet waiting room, with Stacy's face buried in his shoulder, whispering, "I'm so sorry… I'm so sorry… I had to do it…"
John had hugged her back, told her that everything would be fine. Stacy said that Greg would never forgive her- he'd been so adamant. John told her his son wouldn't be so stupid. She'd done the right thing.
John was wrong- not about Stacy's action, but about Greg.
The plane was on the ground and the seats ahead of them were clearing. John and Blythe got to their feet and began gathering their carry-on bags. Blythe was quiet- she was always quiet. But John, still worried, wouldn't have minded some conversation.
"Did Wilson say anything else?" he asked for the second time since boarding the plane in Atlanta. Dr. Wilson- James- had called them that morning before they'd left for the airport. Greg had woken up, but he'd developed a bit of an infection. Things seemed under control though, and Greg was on the mend. Irritable, James had said. But then, what was new?
John liked Dr. Wilson from the moment he'd met him. He'd shown up at the hospital not long after John and Blythe all those years ago. "Conference," he'd said. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his tie askew. He'd taken a red eye out of Seattle, and then a cab from JFK. He looked like he hadn't slept. Greg made a good choice in a friend.
"He didn't say anything else, John," Blythe responded- calm, but stern. "I'm sure everything's fine."
"I can't believe…" John started.
Blythe frowned, an unspoken: Not here…
They gathered their bags from the carousel and moved towards the exit. The airport was packed, but they easily spotted James, looking a few years older but still with the boyish face. Blythe moved towards him first, a half smile as she hugged him. John shook his hand. "Nice to see you again," John said.
"I wish it was under different circumstances," James responded. John nodded.
"How is he?" Blythe asked as Wilson picked up the larger of her bags.
"He's…" Wilson paused, searching for a word, "doing okay. They irrigated the wound on his abdomen this morning, which made him a bit uncomfortable. But his kidney seems to be picking up speed again and his fever is down." John listened closely as he followed behind his wife and Wilson. "He's scheduled for some physiotherapy this afternoon to try to get him on his feet again."
"Isn't that a little soon?" Blythe asked, concerned.
"No," Wilson responded. "Not at all. It's best if he gets on his feet as soon as possible, and we would've done it sooner, but he was unconscious for over a day. There's been some concern…"
"What kind of concern?" John interrupted.
Wilson sighed, hefting Blythe's bag into the trunk of his car. "His leg's been giving him some problems," Wilson stated. "And between that and the surgical and the gunshot wounds, it's going to be difficult for him."
John lifted his suitcase into the trunk as well, keeping an eye on Wilson as he moved to the driver's side. John went to the front passenger's side as Blythe opened the door to the rear.
"What kind of problems?" John probed.
"He's been in some pain."
"But he's on medication…" Blythe asserted.
"It… may not be enough," Wilson responded.
John's eyes squinted, looked over at Wilson, who kept his eyes on the meandering loop through the parking garage. There was something else, John could tell. Wilson was tapping his fingers, there was a sheen of sweat on his upper lip, his brows were folded.
"Uh huh," John grunted, deciding that Wilson would fold if pressed a little harder. John had retired as a Colonel. He'd had natural instincts as a supervisor and a disciplinarian. "Why don't you tell us what happened," he said, calm and collected, knowing he would get an answer.
Wilson gave, as suspected. "You might as well know…"
John listened to the story- how Greg had been in more pain, how he'd studied up on a new radical treatment, how he'd been taking morphine without anyone knowing. John sensed guilt in Wilson's voice. Wilson suspected something was wrong, but he was waiting for Greg to say something- anything. And it hadn't happened until after the shooting in the ER when Greg had requested the radical treatment approach.
John, while disappointed that his son had resorted to illegally using morphine, was glad that Greg had asked for the Ketamine. He wanted him to be happy. Ever since he'd had the infarction, Greg had stopped doing anything he enjoyed. First, there was Stacy. There was no doubt that he'd chased her away with guilt trips. John had overheard some of their conversations when Greg was still in the hospital.
Then there was Greg's self-loathing attitude towards the whole thing. It first happened two years afterwards, when Blythe and John, knowing their son was having a hard time, invited Greg on a trip to Europe. They'd invited Greg on trips before and he usually declined, giving some excuse about work or other plans he'd made. But this time, Greg didn't even go that far. He'd just muttered a snide "No thanks," and something about writing a book on cripples backpacking in the Alps. The remark didn't go unnoticed, but John had let it slide. Next time he spoke to him, John asked if he'd met anyone new. "Any hot chicks lately?" Greg held up his cane, "Oh yeah- they're all over the crippled guy." Eventually, it came up in every conversation. John would ask about Greg's life- outside work and Greg would never have much to say. What he did say usually involved the cripple card. John grew tired of it, often leaving the table whenever the situation got too tense. Last time, Greg had mentioned he'd gotten a new motorcycle. This wouldn't have bugged John much except that Greg had almost killed himself on one already. John cursed them as murder cycles after the accident- even though Greg had only had a broken leg and a few nice bruises. Greg knew John hated them. And when he mentioned the bike, he looked directly at John, throwing it in his face. It wasn't a simple, feel-good bike. It was bike built for too much speed. To John, it almost seemed like a threat of suicide and he'd left the table.
It didn't annoy him that Greg was disabled. It annoyed him that Greg flaunted it and used it as a sarcastic excuse for his misery. He didn't seem to want to be happy. "Why can't you just try?" John had asked once. "Because it hurts," Greg had replied simply. But if a radical new treatment would take away the pain, maybe Greg could try happiness again.
