The Irrelevant Bug, Chapter 14
Wilson stands shoulder to shoulder with House on the porch of the funeral home. He nods and smiles politely as man after woman after man clutch at House's free hand and tell him how sorry they are.
House is on autopilot. Wilson hears him mutter socially acceptable stock phrases as he thanks people for coming and can't help but think what great bribery material this would all be; if it weren't so damned inappropriate.
When it seems like there can't possibly be any more guests, Wilson and House go inside and try to ignore the biting cold numbing their extremities. House pauses when it comes to pushing open the double doors leading into the room where gathered mourners await his arrival. Swiping at his runny nose and watery eyes, Wilson can see his friend is in shock, that this whole day isn't going to hit him for some time to come. There's a desperate look in his eyes, like every inch of him wants to run but he is bound to the inescapable, locked into a process that isn't going to end with anything positive.
Wilson pats his shoulder and nods, hoping this will give him enough encouragement to move into the main room.
House clings to Wilson's gaze and looks like a deer in the road, knowing at once that the inevitable is about to occur matter what he does or says.
In a bizarre parody of a wedding march, Wilson stays one pace behind as House lurches up the aisle between the seats laid out uniformly. People turn trying to conceal their prying eyes, and Wilson feels vulnerable, exposed and embarrassed. He briefly wonders whether anybody here actually knows who House is.
They take their seats at the front of the room and the service begins. A hushed silence falls across the room and the prerequisite number of people cough politely waiting for the master of ceremonies to speak.
When just the right amount of time has passed to become uncomfortable, House's cane falls from its position and the clang it makes echoes around the room. House scrambles to pick it up and places it on his lap, gripping it tightly, his only defence against the gathered crowd.
The man from the funeral home works his way through the 'right' words for the occasion and Wilson winces at how House has been right; none of this is helpful in any way. What you need to hear at a time like this is how damn unfair it is, how it's ok to let go and scream about how horrible this all feels.
He has spent so much time convincing his patients of the need for a 'good' death with everything arranged so that knowing you are going to die feels easier. He wonders why nobody has told him to shut the hell up yet, how nobody has just outright punched him in the face for daring to know how best to deal with the impending end of your life. He had always thought it would be better to be hit by a bus and that would be the end of that. Now he's not so sure and he can't work out which way is up. Like a death sentence, this is all so much harder on those left to carry on and try to figure out some new version of their life, albeit with a gaping maw sucking at your very life-blood.
Lost in maudlin thoughts, Wilson is shocked when House brushes past him and takes a minute to convince himself that he's not making a limp for it. It feels like a dream watching House climb up the couple of steps to the lectern to say a goodbye to his mother, to honour her death according to ritual and tradition. House shuffles his notes and Wilson has no doubt in his mind that they are already in absolute perfect order.
"So… " House coughs and Wilson thinks for a nano-second that he won't be able to see this through. He has become a bit too used to thinking that House is about to fail, to let everybody down. The truth is, he hasn't yet and he won't now. Wilson knows this. "This is uh… this is supposed to be the time when we let my mother go and hold her closer to us all at the same time. I'm supposed to tell you some amusing anecdote from my childhood and you're all supposed to laugh and enjoy it and take something of my mother away with you that you didn't have before. I have lots of wonderful memories of my mother but… they're mine."
Wilson isn't sure whether House has the strength to see this through, but he knows he is no judge of the man anymore.
There's a pause, House coughs then carries on, duty-bound. "We're all here because my mother was a part of your life; be it as a member of our family, as a friend or as your teacher. You will all have your own memories of her, and want to remember her in your own way. That is the right way, the way you remember her, for good, or for bad.
I'm not going to try and immortalize her. My mother was a wonderful woman. If you knew her at all, then you know that as well as I do. So… I owe her… she supported me through a lot of stuff and I wouldn't be the man I am today if it weren't for her. Most of all, she loved me. That's all."
Struggling to follow House's words, once again Wilson's thoughts turn to his own mother, as they have so many times this last week. He swallows hard against the flood of tears threatening to pour down from his eyes and can't bear to look at House when he comes back to his seat for fear of destabilizing whatever fragile structure he is using to get through. Bowing his head, all he can do is lamely pat his friend on the shoulder. It's a poor imitation of support, comfort whatever, but he is bound by the complicated rules of masculinity and friendship. He really wants to hug House and tell him everything will be okay, but this isn't allowed and he knows it isn't going to be alright any time soon.
When it's all over, and Wilson feels strong enough to lift his head, to face House, he stands up and begins the next phase of the mourning farce. He mills about, not too far from House and shakes some more hands agreeing endlessly that it was a lovely service and that Blythe's son had done very well to deliver such a eulogy.
The congregation drift out to the snow and their cars, ready to drink and eat in Blythe's memory and Wilson wonders when he got so jaded. He doesn't let himself dwell on his friendship with House being to blame; he had always been an ass, just one good at hiding it.
Eventually, Wilson and House find themselves to be the last two in the room with the casket braced on its stand behind them, waiting to meet its grizzly end in the furnace.
"So… lots of people are going to a restaurant down town. Something your uncle has put together I think."
"No."
"But, I think you need to be there, it might be… helpful?" He feels like a tool before he's even finished saying the words.
"No."
"Okay…" he replies demanding some further explanation through a particularly expressive lift of the eyebrow.
"I don't need to."
"But…" there wasn't much point in trying to dissuade him, Wilson knew that. Still,
"All these people trying to tell me about my mom, shoving photographs of her with their spawn in my face. I don't need to be part of that. That can all go on without me."
"Well… okay then." It is all Wilson can think to say.
He wonders about the logistics of actually getting back to Blythe's house and briefly about the rest of the congregation. After the years of knowing House though, he knows better than to push, and better to expect anything other than a blatantly obscure refusal to partake in the norm.
He follows House out of the funeral home trudging through the fresh snow. They leave deep footprints in their uneven wake and Wilson knows he will always remember this day. It's going to leave a deep and painful brand on House, just as fresh and raw as his for Amber. They are united then in their grief, in the terrible loneliness only a death like this can cause. Two lost shadows roaming un-tethered on their own winding paths.
Marvellous amounts of thanks to Iyimgrace as usual, she is splendid. Sorry for the delay, you can blame Ofsted (British ref, sorry). Anyway, normal service should be resumed now and a one or two or three chapters left to run. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing!