The envelope was a simple letter-sized white one, not noticeable at all in the stack of mail this time. Nothing remarkable about it except the return address. House limped back to the desk and tossed the rest of the mail onto it, ignoring the few envelopes which had been on top of this one and were now littering the floor. He slipped a finger behind the flap and tore it open eagerly.

The contents consisted of a letter, and he would have known the handwriting anywhere as his mother's. This was actually the original of the letter, decades old and the paper a little faded, but it was still quite legible. Thornton must have made himself a copy before mailing this one. House sat back into his chair and started reading, holding it out a little because he didn't take time to put on his reading glasses.

Dear Thomas,

It's here! The piano arrived two days ago. Linda found a very good deal on one in the city, she said, although it still seems like a lot of money to me. She arranged to ship it, so there's nobody around the base area locally who knows any different on the cover story. John thinks it cost $50, and he's in a good mood at the deal he got. It's beautiful. I really have always wanted one, even if I can't do much more than pick out tunes.

And Greg is fascinated. I'll catch him sometimes just looking at it when he thinks nobody's around, and yesterday, he was just standing there playing one note, just one over and over. Linda thinks that we need to delay any mention of lessons for him for a month or two to distance it from the piano itself, so John won't get suspicious about the timing. That's what I meant about her and all those mystery books. She understands how to plot things a lot better than I do. So poor Greg will have to wait for just a little longer. I did ask him yesterday afternoon if he would like lessons, just couldn't resist that, and he said he would but that we didn't have the money. I told him maybe something eventually can be worked out so he can take them. I did remind him not to mention it to John, of course, but really, he's amazingly quiet at times. He knows how to keep a secret, same as Linda. I think it's probably safe with him, and it will give him something to look forward to. Not that I told him everything, of course. He has no idea who you are, who you really are, I mean, and he thinks John really did get the piano for $50. But he does seem very interested in it.

Linda says there's enough of your money left for about a year worth of lessons. Of course, we'll probably be reposted then, anyway. This is a grasshopper life, not that I have to tell you that. I do wish sometimes that we could simply STAY somewhere, but John loves the service. I doubt he'll retire until he ages out.

Linda also said that she just got the schedule for the upcoming concert season of the closest orchestra, and in about 6 months, they're doing some piano piece. She did give the name, but I couldn't pronounce it. Something Russian, she said. She wanted to know if you would mind if two tickets to that for Greg and me came out of the remainder of the money. She said if he has a benefactor who is trying to give him a musical education, he ought to hear some of the real thing at least once as well as taking lessons. I told her I was sure that's fine. From the date, it looks like John will probably be off on maneuvers then, a couple of weeks training, so that will make it easy. I'll just have to make sure that Greg doesn't tell John. John would wonder about where the money came from.

Anyway, the lessons are in the works. I'll update you after Greg starts.

Thank you so much, Thomas. This is the best birthday present I've ever had, even though I know it's really for Greg, not me. And thank you again for staying in the background and not making waves when you could have. I can't even think of that night as a mistake now, though. It was that that finally completed the family I've always wanted.

Blythe

House finished the letter and sat there for a minute, digesting it as if a meal. This was indeed unquestionable proof regarding the music, although he hadn't needed it after last night. So Thornton had also paid for the concert, the night when he himself had first seen a world of possibility.

He tried to reread it, but the words on the paper were shimmering. He finally realized that his hands were trembling faintly, agitating the letter, and he put it down in annoyance and gripped his thinking ball to steady himself, not tossing it, simply holding. It wasn't the musical proof that held the strongest impact this morning. Blythe's everything-fine-here perception of their home life permeated that letter, almost like a perfume, the scent lingering and identifying this unmistakably as hers even years later. There was a difference between knowing that Blythe had written Thornton - something he'd only known very recently - and actually reading one.

How much of this had the absent Thornton been spoon fed over the years?

Not that that was an excuse, of course. Thornton had a sharp intelligence and an analysis that Blythe lacked. He also had visited every year or two. House paused to count them up. Ten visits between age 3 and age 18. After leaving home, House then hadn't seen the man for decades until briefly at John's funeral. Thornton had been based with John for two years covering the pregnancy and House's first year, and then he had moved. After that, there were ten times in House's life Thornton had visited him. On none of those had the two of them ever been alone, not that House would have said anything anyway, especially after he tried once at age six, but Thornton had been there seeing the family interact for a day ten times, and the man had eyes. Still . . .

House pulled the laptop over and logged on, going to email, sending one quick line.

How often did she write to you? How many letters?

Thornton was there, he was sure, wondering if the letter would draw any sort of reaction. The other man could have worked out from Tuesday minus CD time about when the mail run was made. He would be waiting. Sure enough, the reply landed in only a minute.

Blythe wrote me roughly every month or two while you were a kid, maybe every year or two after you left home, although I also tracked you myself once you started your career up until my wife got sick. There are 129 letters. 113 of those are from before you left.

Thomas

House read it three times, and the figure remained the same. 129 letters, 113 from childhood. Each of them full of this sort of family update, no doubt, another chapter of Blythe in Oblivionland. In fact, he was sure that most of the letters would be much worse than this one, chronicles of little moments of life with John that looked so different with the details filled in. This one was about the piano, which was even in childhood purely a good thing. Almost every other incident he could think of that might have been newsworthy was double-edged.

129 letters. He now had one. Part of him considered asking Thornton to mail the lot; if anybody had a right to this stuff, he did. The larger part of him knew that he couldn't handle it. He pictured them arriving, each one a nightmare - at least one nightmare if not more - as bad as Tuesday night's, each reminding him all the more of what his past really had consisted of. Even just reading Blythe's therapy notes last year had reduced him to a trembling, teary-eyed lump, and those were written in detached, professional psych-speak and covered issues where Blythe realized at last how completely wrong she had been. But all those letters, written from the middle of it, with no insight, just the same overwhelming good family life that Blythe thought at the time they had had.

He couldn't do it. A bulk delivery like that would go beyond his limits. He was so certain of that that the fact even outweighed his annoyance at his weakness.

129 letters. Put together, it would deserve an ISBN number. He wondered if it would be filed under plain fiction or fantasy.

Slowly, he picked up the one again from his desk and methodically ripped it up until only tiny confetti remained.

He was grateful suddenly that Thornton hadn't asked if he wanted the whole box shipped out today. It saved him having to say no.

(H/C)

Thomas Thornton sat on the edge of his office chair, waiting, hoping. For once, he was hoping not to get a reply, at least not quickly. "Take a few minutes to think about it, Greg," he urged the monitor. If Greg asked for the whole letter collection, he knew he would have to send it, and he knew what a mistake that would be. He had read them. He had reread the whole collection just recently, and it gave even him a few nightmares, just guessing what was behind each paragraph. For Greg, it would be infinitely worse.

Thornton had been hoping for the last two days that sending the piano letter hadn't been a mistake. That one was as innocent as any of them, and he had read it over several times before mailing it, hoping it wouldn't be too much. It did say they were a happy family, but all of the letters said that, most of them more in-depth than that one. He wasn't trying to use Blythe's letters as an excuse, because he did think he should have noticed what was going on. He had visited Greg ten times in childhood and once since, not counting the funeral. Those ten from childhood haunted him. However, he had wanted to prove beyond a doubt that he had given the music to his son, sensing music as the first fragile thread of connection between them, something that could be built upon. Blythe's own testimony was the best he had. But he recognized even Tuesday the dangers of redefining the past too quickly. He recognized it even more after Greg's email on Wednesday morning, saying that just Thornton's mention of that birthday dinner (far less detailed than most episodes in the Blythe Chronicle) had given him a nightmare. By that point, the letter was gone and couldn't be called back.

If just Thornton's email had given him a nightmare, the whole box at once would knock him into overload. Yet Thomas could not possibly refuse to send them if asked. That would only get Greg's back up. Nor could he refuse to answer a direct question about them.

He sat there for several minutes, waiting, then finally relaxed a little. He couldn't avoid stirring up his son's memories again, unfortunately, as they got to know each other, and the past did need to be redefined for both of them. But he could at least try to walk even more carefully from here on.

His inbox remained silent. Thornton tossed a mental salute to his son and to Jensen, his son's psychiatrist. "Well done, Greg," he said.

He wondered how his son had slept last night.

(H/C)

Cuddy hung up the phone from her scheduled conference call with an insurance company. She neatly drew a line - a satisfied line - through that mark on her agenda, then frowned slightly at the next added-in note. Her secretary had reported that Wilson wanted to see her for just a few minutes. Well, she wouldn't have long to wait to find out what was going on with him; he was due in five minutes and would no doubt be prompt. She wondered if this was personal related to last night or work.

Her cell phone rang, House's ring tone, and she smiled as she answered. "Hi, Greg."

"What say we escape from this medical rat race for an hour or so at lunch? I know a great Chinese place. They even have approved Chinese vegetables for the few non-carnivores among us."

Even as she replied, she was trying to sort through his tone. There was something there. It was too bright, too joking. "Kind of busy today, but . . . let's see, I could adjust an appointment with the head of pediatrics first thing this afternoon. He can go at 3:00 instead. That would give me a better lunch slot."

"Great. He probably just wants to complain anyway. I swear, I haven't even been near peds lately."

"I'm sure he wants to complain. He never gets enough money. At least he thinks he doesn't. He doesn't realize that there are several other departments in this hospital."

"Imagine that. What a selfish, narrow-minded jerk to think the whole hospital revolves around him. Okay, Lisa. 12:00?"

"That will work." She looked up at Wilson's tap on the door. "Got to go now, but I'll see you then. I love you."

"Love you, too. Bye."

She hung up, wondering what was up with him. He didn't just want her company for an hour; he needed it. On the other hand, he hadn't walked down to the office, and he was quite capable of interrupting her both personally and professionally. If it were too urgent, he wouldn't have bothered to schedule himself.

Wilson knocked again patiently, and she refocused her thoughts. "Come in." The oncologist entered tentatively. "Come on in and sit down, Wilson. What's wrong in Oncology?"

"Nothing." He walked over and took the chair in front of her desk. "It's not about work."

"Is something wrong with you? Are Sandra and Daniel okay?"

Wilson realized again that House really hadn't told Cuddy he thought Wilson had the subject of cheating on his mind this week. He would have to buy his friend a special lunch for that one. Cuddy probably wouldn't have given him the room to explain himself that House had. "They're fine. I'm fine, too. It's . . . it's personal but not about me."

He hesitated again, and Cuddy sighed. "Go ahead and say it, Wilson, whatever it is. I won't bite you. I know I wasn't reacting straight to things a few months ago, but I'm doing better now."

He took a deep breath. "We need to talk about Thomas Thornton."

She tightened up. No anger, just firm dismissal. "No. That's Greg's subject, and we don't need to do a differential on it without him. Or with him, actually. Leave it alone, Wilson."

"But it was actually Jensen's idea," Wilson protested.

That got her attention. "Jensen thinks we need to talk about Thornton?"

"Yes. He told me to bring it up with you." She looked dubious. "He said to ask you how you're dealing with talking about it with House."

The light dawned. "Oh. That's not quite the same thing, you know."

"What isn't?"

"Telling you the conversational rules that seem to apply here isn't the same thing as talking about Thornton. Talking about him implies that we're going to be dissecting the whole situation and deciding what Greg ought to be doing. Which we aren't. I'm not discussing Thornton or how Greg's handling this or what's going on. But I'd be glad to tell you what I'm doing myself if Jensen thinks it would help."

Wilson was still sorting that out. "So what are you doing?"

"First, if you don't mind, could I ask why you're asking?" She wanted to see if Wilson was coming to her out of realization or simply out of frustration.

"He never talks to me about it. I realized yesterday with Jensen, though, that I haven't really handled that subject as well as I could have."

"No, you haven't," she agreed. She had had the report from him of his comment in the court bathroom that day. "But I'm glad you're trying to change that." She leaned forward a little. "I know this is difficult, Wilson. I've talked about it a lot with my own therapist. Keep talking to Jensen; he's safe. But as for what I'm doing with Greg, I never bring it up at all, not unless he does first."

Wilson shook his head. "Like that would ever happen. He's as locked up on this as I've ever seen him. I apologized to him a little while ago, really sincerely apologized - I'd practiced that this morning in the shower. He just acknowledged it and bolted."

Cuddy wondered if that was what had him a bit edgy in his phone call. No, she thought there was more. "Remember back when we first found out about his background? How we had to let him set the pace on sharing it?"

"You really think he will set the pace on this and not just run?"

A little irritation crept into her voice there. "Yes, I do. And if you give him space, let the trust build slowly, he does talk about it in very small bites. But you can't ever push him on it. Patterson gave me some wonderful advice just this week. She reminded me to let Jensen be the psychiatrist and not try myself to be anything besides his wife. Trust Jensen, Wilson. All you have to be with this is his friend."

"But I've been trying." He stopped suddenly. "Maybe that's the trouble. Maybe I need to quit trying so hard and just let us be us."

"That sounds like a great plan to me. You're a good friend, Wilson, just a little interfering at times. But I understand the impulse sometimes, believe me." Thinking of the girls, of time ticking down on the clock given Thornton's age, and of all the wasted time he could have spent with Greg in the past, she more than understood the impulse. There were times she had to hold herself back with both hands. How hard must going slowly be on Thornton himself? She wished she could encourage him somehow, tell him he was making progress, but she couldn't possibly contact him behind House's back. No, that, too, would have to wait. "Like I said, I had to talk about it a lot with Patterson. I know we managed him in the past at times, but we can't do it anymore. Not ever. This is his issue."

Wilson fingered his tie thoughtfully. He suddenly realized why Jensen had referred him to Cuddy. Not only had Jensen been saving time for the major issue of Sandra that critically needed attention yesterday, but it also helped to hear the same advice from two different people, especially when one had a personal stake in the issue. "All right. I'll try. Thanks for talking to me."

"You're welcome."

Wilson was unable to resist pushing the curiosity just slightly, testing her. "Have you actually talked to him since that first night? Thornton, I mean? What's he like?"

She gave him a firm smile. "Let Greg tell you what he's like. When he decides to." After he decides what Thornton is like himself, she added mentally.

"Can't blame me for trying." He stood up. "Okay, I'll work on leaving it alone. We're going out for a guy's night tonight, by the way. Now that we've each had our planned subject crossed off the list, that ought to be interesting."

"So what was his planned subject?" she asked.

He grinned at her. "Ask him yourself sometime. Thanks, Cuddy." He turned and left the office.