A/N: From the credit where credit is due department: I've borrowed two phrases in this chapter from two very talented people. A much beloved DJ on early FM radio in New York used to say "As if by wizardry" when referring to how quickly time was passing or some such thing. The gentleman's name is Jonathan Schwartz and I believe he still plays music on New York radio, on the AM side of the dial "Down, down, down the dark ladder" is a line from the Joni Mitchell song "Cold Blue Steel and Sweet Fire".
As always, thanks for reading and reviewing.
Disclaimer: House is not mine. Thank you Mr. Shore and Fox for letting him come out and play awhile.
-11-
House lifted a second forkful of Blythe's extra special, kickass scrambled eggs (this time with the strips of ham and bits of melted cheddar, although there were many other flavorful variations in her arsenal) and brought it halfway to his mouth before a tinny version of Ride Of the Valkyries blared majestically from his Levi's.
"What the hell is that?" John sputtered, nearly upending his orange juice. His accusatory glare lit briefly on his wife, before traveling across the kitchen table to settle on his son.
Setting the egg laden fork on his plate, House said, "It's my phone." He wiped his stubble with his napkin, then dug his cell out of jeans. The phone was cheap, the no frills kind offered to him gratis a few years back when he renewed his wireless contract. Nowadays the free phones flipped open, had cameras and color screens. This one came with nothing but the ability to connect to another number and a marginally interesting game called Bubble Breaker (which was handy to have around when his PSP wasn't in reach). The phone's surface was scuffed, its screen scratched, which kind of made it…cool. Last week, Wilson had gotten hold of it, and graced it with a download of the Wagner ringtone. Initially, House was pissed, but after the phone regaled him with its bombastic blare a few times, he had to laugh. You could always count on Wilson to be charmingly infuriating.
"Why can't phones just ring like they're supposed to?" John growled. "Phones were never meant to chirp or squawk or play a damn symphony."
House pressed the cell to his ear. "What."
John turned to Blythe, shaking his head in disgust. "And why do people have to carry them everywhere?"
Blythe smiled and buttered her toast. "It's a convenience, John. Don't tell me you wouldn't have wanted one when you were young."
Cameron was on the line, babbling something about Paralysis Guy and a camera.
"In the Marines we used radios to communicate." John wrinkled his nose at his oatmeal. "That was convenient enough, thank you very much."
. "Look, I can't talk now," House grumbled. "I'll call you back." He pushed the "End" button, then went back to his breakfast.
"Why can't I have eggs?" John's gaze drifted to his son's plate.
"Because Doctor Mifflin said so."
House raised his brows, downed his eggs, then speared a strip of bacon. "What else did the good doctor tell you, Dad?" he asked.
John brought his spoon to the rim of his bowl, the tremor in his fingers causing the spoon's edge to tink-a-tink,a-tink against it.
House couldn't resist. "Go on and kiss the bride, Dad." The clink of spoon against glass brought to mind an old wedding tradition. Come on, Greg, tap your glass and the bride and groom will kiss. He was nine. The wedding was in Egypt, of all places. Captain Shindell, one of Dad's cronies, was getting married on base. The wedding was boring. To liven things up, Greg sprinkled sugar in his glass and snuck outside during the dancing to catch ants. Upon his return the ants joined him at the table for dessert, which got him a stern reprimand from his mother. It also got him ousted from the festivities, which suited Greg just fine. "I'll keep tapping away for you."
John hadn't forgotten how to use a steady ice blue gaze to his advantage. But House could play that game too. He met that gaze and raised him one by slowly, deliberately tapping his own glass…tink,…tink…tink…
"I know what you're up to, but it's not going to work." With some effort, John used one hand to brace himself against the arm of his chair. He sneered at his son, while taking a moment to catch his breath,. Then, with a determined grunt, he reached across the table to grasp House's wrist. That grip was surprisingly strong, despite the tremor beneath it. Housed dropped the spoon. It clattered against the tabletop, which made John grin. "Nice try, Greg,"
"Sit down, John." Blythe said sharply, placing a hand on her husband's shoulder. "Sit down before you fall down."
He collapsed back into his chair with a satisfied smirk. But it wasn't long before that smirk dissipated. His chest heaved as he bowed his head low enough to touch the table. After a few moments he sat up again, his cheeks flushed, his expression pained. "See? Not such a weakling, after all. " he gasped.
"You're having a problem." House said. " I'd say you just spent most of this morning's energy on trying to prove a point. And it's a point that makes no sense."
"You're smart. But you're not that smart." John stirred his cereal, then brought a spoonful of it to his mouth. "Face it, Greg. You're beaten. Just…give it a rest and try to enjoy the rest of your visit. You're acting like a damn fool and upsetting your mother." He swallowed, shuddered, then pushed the bowl away. "I can't eat this."
Blythe twisted her lips in annoyance. She removed the bowl, placed it in the sink, retrieved a clean dish from the cabinet, then stomped over to the frying pan on the stove. House dipped his head, watching her with a covert smile.. She scooped up a mass of eggs and banged the spoon once, twice, three times, dumping them onto John's plate. The force of her action sent bits of the yellow-white stuff flying onto the burners, the formica counter and the floor. Blythe possessed a pretty high tolerance for John's antics. But like mercury rising to its zenith, that tolerance had reached its limit. House wasn't sure he wanted to be around when her vitriol cracked the surface and spewed her red fury everywhere. Her cheeks were crimson, her knuckles bone white as she gripped the plate. She was so incredibly P.O'ed, which didn't help the cause. But it was pretty amusing.
"Here." She dropped the plate in front of John, causing it to hit the table with a solid clank.
"Careful, you could've broken that." John looked up at her. For his trouble, He received an 'if looks could kill, you'd be worm food' glare.
House bit his lip and hid his grin behind his napkin.
John stared at his food. "What, no bacon?"
"No!" Blythe and House exclaimed in unison.
"You shouldn't even be eating that," Blythe told him as she returned to her seat. "But Greg's here, which makes it a special occasion," The color in her cheeks faded to its usual rosy pink glow as she allowed herself a small smile.. "So I guess it's okay."
"Yeah, arteries rarely harden when the progeny comes home to roost." House drained his juice, then checked his watch.
"Oh, Greg." Blythe tapped the table. " What went on with you and Gordy at the piano yesterday?"
"Nothing."
"Must have been a pretty impressive dose of nothing," she said. "More than a few people commented to me about 'the show in the parlor'."
"Nothing went on. The kid was having a good time."
"Yeah," John said. "I was on my way to the head and I heard that 'good time'. The kid was pounding away on your old upright, Blythe, playing rock and roll music." John spat out the words "rock and roll" like they were the foulest expletives in the English language. His eyes held a merry twinkle as he sat back, linked his fingers across his stomach…and waited for the fireworks.
The crimson blush returned to Blythe's cheeks as her head whipped toward her son. "You had Gordy playing rock and roll?"
"Yep," House said. "He picked it up pretty quick too."
"I'm surprised at you!"
House reared back in mock surprise. His mouth gaped open, the palm of one hand pressed flat against his chest.
"Don't give me any of that." She shook her head at him.
"Oops! Sorry. " House folded his hands in his lap and lifted his shoulders in a sheepish shrug
"Gordy was my only student who knew nothing about rock music. Did you know that?"
"I kind of suspected…"
"He had no aspiration to learn anything but the classics, which was a breath of fresh air."
"Stagnant air, if you ask me." House told her. "He's fifteen, Mom. A kid. Let him be a kid."
Bltythe shook a finger at him. "You ruined him, corrupted him.. And what are you laughing about?" Her furious gaze fixed itself on John, who was chuckling like a little kid.
"Go on, go on." He waved one hand at them. "This is better than a boxing match."
She sighed. "I'm done. I feel like I should be asking for a cover charge."
Curiouser and curiouser. Something was different in the House family homestead.. Besides the antagonistic banter, which would have never occurred years ago, something else had changed. When House lived at home, his father barely said two words during meals, even after he retired. So why was he so vocal now? His thoughts spun round and around, faster and faster, like his pet rat Steve McQueen racing to nowhere in his wheel. A moment passed, then another and suddenly the answer hit him like a blue white flash so strong he could almost smell the ozone. The newspaper. There was no newspaper. Had there ever been a time when John's nose hadn't been stuck behind the morning paper at breakfast?
"No paper today, Dad?"
John's smile faded. He studied his placemat, like he was seeing it for the first time. His brow furrowed. He carefully set his fork on his plate and looked at Blythe.
"Dad's eyes aren't what they used to be." She sighed.
"Eyesight deteriorating?" House pushed himself forward, leaning on the table, studying his father's face.
"Oh, just a little, Greg, " Blythe chirped. "You know how it is-"
"Can't he answer for himself, Mom?" House's gaze delved deep, causing John to swallow hard and straighten in his chair.
John didn't up the ante this time, Instead he fumbled with the cane, which was leaning against the table, and shifted his body sideways on the chair. House was well schooled in how to convince the gimp leg (or legs) that is no longer your pal to get you up and moving. At least House had only one appendage to convince. John was saddled with two.
"Where are you going, Dad?"
John avoided his son's eyes as he attempted to push himself to his feet.
"Getting harder everyday, isn't it?"
One hand pushed hard against the table, the other shivered on the handle of the cane.
"John," Blythe hunched slightly by his side, supporting him with an arm around his waist and a hand on his upper arm as he slowly…painfully stood
"He wants to do it all by himself, Mom." House's tone was even. " Let him."
"I am not doing anything all by myself." Dad's breath was coming in fits and starts. "I have Mifflin. I have your mother"
"Oh…yeah, and I can see how limiting your options is doing you a world of good." House stood, then grabbed his cane from where waited by the cabinet behind him. He hobbled over to his father, leaving an inch or two of space between them. "Tell me." His voice was a gruff whisper.
"Tell you what?" Shrugging away from Blythe, John plodded toward the entrance to the parlor.
Anger flicked a reptilian tail against House's innards. He closed his eyes, tamping the urge to lash out like he'd never lashed out before. His heart thudded against his ribs as he took a slow, deep, calming breath. "Never mind." He held a hand out to his mother. "Keys."
John stopped, then navigated a stiff legged, one-eighty turn. "Keys for what?"
"Mom's car."
Blythe placed a set of keys into her son's waiting palm. "I'm off to see Doc Mifflin." He paused to let this sink in before adding, "Wanna come along? We'll have ice cream on the way back. My treat."
John gave a wry laugh. "Just what the hell do you think you're going to accomplish by harassing my doctor?"
"Oh, I don't know." House tossed the keys in the air, then snatched them back. "Maybe ol' Miffy will tell me something you won't."
John's lip curled into a half smile. "You're a fool," he said. "But, hell, you're an optimistic fool. I'll give you that." Taking great care, he turned and made his unsteady way into the next room. In a few moments the murmur of the TV drifted into the kitchen.
"I'm sorry, Greg." Blythe stood in the corner by the pantry. Mouth pinched, shoulders sagging, she looked smaller and much older than she had minutes ago. "It's not going to work, is it?"
Using one hand, House fumbled through the multitude of keys on the ring, before securing the one to Blythe's Lincoln Continental between his thumb and forefinger. "I'll be back soon," he said.
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Another memory was forming, another in the multitude of recollections that had plagued him since yesterday when he left Edwin's cab. But this time something about it was different. This time the memory was not an assault. It came to him sensuously, languidly, blossoming like a flower, exposing the minutest of sensory details in a gentle, almost sympathetic way. The conductor raises his baton. And instantly he knew that the purpose of each recollection on this trip had been to lead him here. The curtain rises; the audience leans forward, entranced, waiting. Watch and learn, Gregory…
"Stop crying."
He doesn't like the light. It reflects off that crazy house mirror strapped around the doctor's forehead. The light is eerie, unnatural, so bright it makes his pupils ache as they contract.
"Stop it. Now!"
Greg is fifteen, almost a man. Yet he is weeping; sobs burst from him like loud, wet hiccups. It's as if those sobs have a life of their own, burning his esophagus, ripping at his throat. And as much as he would like to oblige the doctor and stop them, he just can't.
"You're not making this easy, Gregory."
The doctor calls him Gregory, like Dad does in times of anger, stress or annoyance. His temples pound harder as the realization hits him that… whaddya know? He's been called 'Gregory' at least once a day, most every day for…
(cheeks are burning, throat is on fire…
….can't…think).
…as far back as he can remember..
"Hurts," he manages to groan between the hiccup/sobs.
"Of course it hurts," the doctor growls somewhere beyond the light. "Your tonsils are probably infected with strep, your fever is one hundred and three…"
He is as keen on the doctor's voice as he is on the light. So…he does what he's wanted to do from the moment he entered the office and was unceremoniously pushed onto this cold observation table. He becomes incommunicado. His eyelids flicker, the white light writhes in liquid time to some alien beat. He wills the beat to sync with the insistent throbbing in his head.
"Gregory! Don't pass out on me. C'mon, act your age. Be a man..." Something (someone) smacks him. Hard. Two times on either side of his face. Then again. And again. The assaults are out of time with the rhythm he has so carefully fostered. This makes him very mad.
"Gregory…"
He takes a mental swipe at this anger and lays it flat. It's best to be calm. Rest. At least he's stopped crying. Those tears dry cool against his fevered, stinging cheeks. It feels…good. Suddenly the room is quieter. His eyes are closed. The buzz of the fluorescent light is like the song of millions of bees milling about inside the walls. Hmmm. Yeah. The doctor and Pain (which has, as if by wizardry, taken human form, and bears an uncanny resemblance to Michael Myers from the "Halloween" movies) must have left the exam room. Deep in his delirium, Greg chuckles, envisioning these real good pals skipping hand in hand down the long, narrow corridor toward the doctor's inner sanctum.
Now there is nothing to stop him from moving deeper still. So down, down, down the dark ladder he goes, keeping the tale of Exam Room One safely and securely tucked away…
"Shit!" House jerked the wheel just in time to avoid crashing his mother's Lincoln into a streetlamp. He hung a hard right into the nearest strip mall, squealing to a stop in front of a package store. The frantic beating of his heart and the sharp pain in his chest caused his eyes to widen. What the hell? Two fingers checked the pulse tickety ticking in his left wrist. The image of his supine body being discovered in the front seat of his mother's car outside Sammy's Liquor Shop forced him to…breathe. Immediately the ache in his chest eased. How long had he been holding that breath? He didn't know. He just didn't know. One shaky hand reached inside his jacket pocket for his Vicodin. He managed to flick the top off the amber vial on the third try then dry swallowed two tablets. He pressed his forehead against the steering wheel, as his heart continued its incessant, rapid fire assault on his ribs and chest. How his body was containing that frantically beating muscle he didn't know. By rights he should be dead. Hell, he probably should have died a long time ago.
After an interminable interlude, his heartbeat slowed as did his breathing . Relax. It occurred to him that the mind was an insidiously wicked wasteland. The memory of those tortuous moments in Mifflin's examination room had lain dormant in his brain for over thirty years. Thirty years! Sitting up, House winced and rubbed his neck, then, with one finger, traced the smooth outer rim of the steering wheel, moving that finger up and back, up and back. With a level of concentration generally reserved for problematical case files, House examined the once repressed memory over and over, like it was rare strain of virus. He could control it now, willing that terror to ebb and flow, watching through his fifteen year old fever addled eyes as the doctor's hand made a slow motion arc, connecting with his cheek, his head thrown back over the edge of the table from the force of the hit. Again, again, again. There were five distinct elements to the event (Pain, sobbing, white light, smack, dream). He exhaled slowly. Break it all down. Particles and pieces aren't as frightening as the big picture. It's the big picture that will make a playground of your psyche and leave you with silvery black night terrors.
It was only ten a.m. on this sunny Monday morning, but Sammy's was doing brisk business. First, three middle aged men dressed in suits entered the store, yukking it up like they were already half in the bag. Then there was the harried housewife, leaving her toddler in the SUV, so she might make her boozy transaction with a minimum of bother. A young woman clad in construction worker's garb ran in shortly thereafter. Within minutes, these good folks exited Sammy's with their hefty brown paper sacks.. And not one of them glanced at the shattered man behind the wheel of the Lincoln, who probably looked like he needed a drink a lot more than they did.
It had been the first time in his life he'd been sick enough to warrant a hospital stay. Mifflin's diagnosis was correct in that House did have strep, and the tonsils had to go. Fortunately Mifflin was not a surgeon, so did not take part in the operation. Lucky for you. House shuddered, a snakelike chill creeping across his shoulders and down his spine. By the time his recuperation was complete he had plowed through Tolkien's Ring trilogy and a Harlan Ellison anthology. His throat had been soothed by a gazillion gallons of vanilla ice cream, and he remained blissfully unaware of the physical abuse he had suffered at the hands of his physician.
"Goddamned insolent prick," House muttered, twisting the key in the ignition a little harder than was necessary, then checking the rearview before backing up and pulling out onto the road.
No, not prick. There's another word for him, much more apropos.
Controlling?
Thanks for playing. Try again.
Sadistic.
Ding,ding,ding, ding, ding!
Where was Mom when it happened? House slowed the vehicle to a crawl, then stopped at the stop sign. The memory was there, its teasing little fingers tickling the edges of his gray matter. It was like he was in jail, one arm stretching through the bars, fingers making a futile grasp at the cell key dangling just beyond his reach on the outer wall.
For some reason, Mom doesn't know what Mifflin did. You can't tell her either. If she found out, it would just about kill her.
One block up was Tonganesco Street. Take a right, go down two blocks, park at the corner Victorian, and there it is, folks: Mifflin's Chamber of Horrors. The thought of entering that office alternately creeped him out and spurred him on. But he couldn't go. Not yet.
The blare of the horn from the pickup truck behind him jolted House from his reverie. He managed to drive to the next block and jerk to a stop at the curb moments before those outstretched fingers in his head brushed the edge of the prison cell key, and the memory took hold…
He wants to die.
He has been seated next to his mother in Doctor Mifflin's waiting room for the last forty minutes, thinking of every possible way he can do himself in right here. He never dreamed his throat could hurt this bad, that his temples could pound like two great booming kettle drums. The pounding turns his stomach, bringing him that much closer to acting on his suicidal impulses. Well, looky, looky. That tasseled curtain pull dangling by the window over there would make a fine noose. Or there's always the lovely black fountain pen on the receptionist's desk. That thing is mighty sharp. If all else fails there's bound to be pharmaceuticals in the exam rooms. Greg rests his head against his mother's shoulder, closes his eyes, and dreams of pretty pink pills and tightly knotted ropes taking his pain away.
"Greg?"
His eyes pop open. For a moment he doesn't remember where he is.
"Honey?" His mother nudges him gently, causing him to sway in his chair. Standing before him, beneath the alcove leading to the corridor (which is the direct route to the exam rooms and the doctor's inner sanctum), is Doctor Mifflin.
"Come on." Doc beckons him with one finger.
Blythe moves from her seat, takes her son by the hand and helps him up. His legs feel like two metal slabs, and it takes all his strength to move one in front of the other. He stands between the doctor and his mother, fighting to keep his eyes open.
"Stay here, Blythe," Mifflin tells her gently. "There's no reason for you to go in with him." He is a little man, squat but not fat. His white coat is buttoned sharp and neat. His thinning brown hair is combed tight across his head. Greg can see a hint of pink scalp beneath the meager strands. For some reason this makes his stomach turn even more. "He's not a little boy anymore. Are you, Greg?"
He gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
"Greg?" She places two cool fingers beneath his chin. "Would you like me to stay here?"
He shrugs.
"He'll be fine, Blythe. Gotta grow up sometime, right?" Mifflin smiles his tight little grin, one arm securing Greg around the waist as he herds him into Exam Room One.
-------------------------------
He wakes to find himself lying in a hospital bed. Over in the corner by a metal tray, his mother sits next to his father. On the tray, a pitcher of water and a trio of Styrofoam cups stand at the ready. Mom's head is bowed, as if she is deep in prayer, her hands grip her knees. Dad stares vacantly at the ceiling; one leg is crossed over the other, his foot bopping to some convulsive inner beat.
Greg's throat is a pasture of thorns and grit. He tries to talk but can only manage a low grunt. It is nearly imperceptible, but it propels his mother from her chair. She is at his side in less than a millisecond. A short stifled cry escapes her as she places one cool, dry hand against Greg's burning brow, and wraps the other around his clammy fingers.
Greg grunts again.
"Ssssh," Blythe soothes. "Don't try to talk. You're going to be fine."
"Nnngh?" He points to his throat.
"Strep throat and tonsillitis." Blythe tilts her head and offers him a warm smile. "The tonsils come out tomorrow."
He looks away and nods, then winces as he runs his fingers down his right cheek. The skin is tender, sore. His fingers light on two welts, one just below his eye, the other by his upper jaw. He is curious but doesn't feel up to checking the other side of his face. "Nnnnk."
"Hurt yourself." His father has joined Blythe by the side of the bed. "Doc says you were delirious, clawing at your face, throwing yourself all over that table you were on." A shadow of disappointment crosses John's features, melding perfectly with the disparaging twist of his lips.
"Some water, honey?" Blythe is by the tray, pouring Greg a cup before he can answer.
Greg shifts his gaze again, focusing on the blue cottony fibers of his blanket, as one hand moves almost of its own volition to the left side of his face…
----------------------------------
His eyes were wet. In the rearview he was disheartened to find they were bleary and red rimmed as well. How could he present himself as a worthy adversary when he looked so…weak? This was no longer a simple case of procuring copies of John House's medical files. The situation had now become more complex and personal. The sabre had been drawn. He was here to accept the challenge. En Garde.
Leaning forward, he wrenched open the glove compartment and dug out the packet of tissues he knew would be there (Mom was always prepared). He pulled one out, pressed it against one eye, then the other, before checking himself in the mirror again. Better...but not great. You look like you've just come off of three day drunk. You probably should have shaved.
It didn't matter how he looked. It only mattered how he would handle this altercation with Mifflin to produce the desired end result. He checked his mirrors for oncoming traffic. All clear. Turning the corner, he spied the formidable Victorian on the next block. It was an expansive, intimidating, dark place. He had hated and feared the place as a kid; and didn't feel much different about it now. But he was pumped up. Ready.
House pulled into a parking spot next to a gold Mercedes. Its plate bore the legend Doc 1. The pronouncement caused his lips to twitch, his blood to rise. Reaching under his seat, he grabbed his cane, then pushed open the door. It made a satisfying bonk as it connected with the side of the Mercedes.
"Oops," House said, leaving the Lincoln, then pausing to examine the miniscule scrape on Doc 1's baby. It was tiny enough not to be noticed right away. And by the time Mifflin made the connection, if he made the connection, he would be in no mood for another meeting with John House's son. Not after the one he was about to have.
Dry eyed, House turned away from the cars and hobbled toward the front door.