A/N: Thanks to everyone reading and reviewing.
Disclaimer: House belongs to David Shore and Fox. Medium's not mine either
Thanks: to Betz88 for her encouragement and help.
-25-
"Angel On My Shoulder"
Lois has a secret.
Nothing about it is sinful or shameful, at least not from her point of view. Still, she will never reveal to Stefan what she does on her walks.
Yes, stepping out for some fresh air? Filling your head and heart with Verses? Wonderful idea, Lois. It can only do you good.
How livid he would be if he knew the truth.
So off she goes, not to fill her heart with the wisdom of The Writ, but to educate herself, reorient herself with the normal everyday, to escape from the stressful demands of the church.
Each day she is surrounded by her flock-those needy, lost denizens of the streets. At one time she embraced their need, found solace and purpose in it. But lately, dealing with their skewed personalities is beginning to take a toll on whatever inner fortitude she still possesses. She is no psychologist. When she helped create this church, she set out to enlighten, which is something she hasn't done for a long, long time.
Those with emotional issues, like Greg, require more from her, more energy, more time, more nurturing. The truth is (and this is a huge part of the secret) sometimes she is repulsed by their needs, their vulnerability, their willingness to hear and obey Stefan's edicts. She is beginning to detest being in their presence. After months of being in denial, she is owning up to that fact. Not a great feeling. But at least it's the truth. Sometimes all she wants is a book, a cup of coffee, a Marlboro Light. Just...a block of time with her name on it.
The Writ does not challenge her yearning for private time. Solitary pursuits such as meditating or silently reciting the Verses are encouraged. But her walks, her hour long escapes, have nothing to do with the church. These walks are like little excursions into what the Rising Age would consider the darkest corner of hell.
She takes her time on her outings, stopping at Pascal's for an espresso and to read the papers. The espresso is a stimulant and off limits, newspapers are bad, rotten, evil. Taboo. So call her a sinner. At this point she doesn't really care. She is...hellbound.
Twisting Stefan's Verses to cover a multitude of sins is easy. 'Do for the others when your heart and mind are healthy and clear' can be taken in a variety of ways. Must the hierarchy always be pure in thought and deed? Sure, if you want to take the words at face value. But Lois has become quite the expert at molding Stefan's writings into ideas that please her, like a potter who labors over his vases and urns. The clay starts out soft and pliant and shapeless on the wheel, but under the artist's hand, a functional, attractive piece of earthenware is born. Lois uses Stefan's words. She molds them, tweaks them and makes them work for her.
Many moons ago, life was different. There was hope...and enlightenment. But as the old song says 'it's all over now'. She has become the dregs at the bottom of the cup. The notion of enlightenment is as faded and grey as her hair. But no sense brooding over her lot. Life is what it is.
Regardless, she couldn't have asked for a more beautiful afternoon to enjoy her escape. The sky is a cloudless cerulean, the warm breeze a delight, playing with her hair, caressing her cheeks. A faded sliver of moon lazes contentedly overhead. And since it is Monday, she doesn't have to fight the weekend wanderers or wonder if Pascal's will have an empty booth.
So she continues on her way, strolling past playgrounds and upscale cafes and young women pushing strollers and old couples walking dogs. It is all beauty and simplicity, life as it was meant to be. But soon a strange darkness descends, like storm clouds crowding the horizon; this is where the first sins will come into play. Here is where she veers away from innocent observations, as if the devil is on her shoulder, urging her on...
...to do wrong.
It is a sin to stand before the newsstand. It is outright sacrilege to survey this vast collection of newspapers and glossy magazines. Stefan is the sole church member permitted to read the dailies. His copy of the New York Times arrives at the door every morning. Wrapped in plastic, it is off limits. To touch it, to lay one finger on it would put you in Contemplation for two days. Not that anyone in the church would bother with the thing. The only news they need is the 'good news' brayed by Stefan in his sermons every evening.
Lois feels no guilt. This is what she does, this is what makes her feel alive, exuberant and free. Choosing reading material for her hour in Pascal's makes her feel giddy and deliciously wicked, like a schoolgirl with math test answers tucked up her sleeve.
As usual, she can't decide. But the news seller is patient. He is a smiling, burly man with a blond crew cut and a lazy eye that is perennially crossed. She likes him. He shares her secret and doesn't know it.
He greets her with a hello and a wheeze, and she nods, her gaze continuing to traverse the landscape.
Vanity Fair, GQ, Redbook, Good Housekeeping, Conde Nast...
Whatever she buys she will be forced to leave behind, which is a shame. There are times she would love to stash a few clippings away: interesting articles about people she will never meet or places in the world she will never see.
One more look, she promises herself, loath to stop the game. Starting at the far left, her eyes slowly graze the printed terrain. Later she will wonder how she almost missed it, how she nearly passed on the periodical that would seal her future.
Fate plays its hand, even for sinners
Disappearing Doc! The headline lunges at her, screams at her, its whine so high, it hurts her ears. Oh, but it's not the paper making that noise, silly, she chides herself as her mouth goes dry. It is a passing police car, its siren blaring as it chases a sinner stupid enough to get caught. One shaky hand scrabbles in the pocket of her tunic for her money.
Disappearing Doc!
The friendly news seller hands her The Ledger, happily accepts her dollar, gives her a quick farewell nod, unaware he has been the conductor on her merry junket to hell.
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The officer manning the hotline has logged fifty-seven calls over the last two hours. Most were from denizens of the Non Compos MentisHome For the Hopeless, but there were a couple of leads the cop thought might be worth following up.
A copy of his report sits on the right side of Wilson's desk, The Ledger rests by his left hand. House's drunken, 'feel no pain' look disturbs him but he has no intention of stowing the paper away.Disappearing Doc! The headline is like a stick jabbing his side, which is good. He needs to feel that sense of urgency, and remember that time is mercurial, slipping away with each breath he takes.
He is alone. He has never been more alone.
Faulkner, it seems, is going to be more trouble in more ways than Wilson had at first suspected. After informing his 'children' that their appointments would need to be postponed until tomorrow, Faulkner freed up his afternoon...
How wonderfully convenient.
...to take Cuddy to lunch. After that, he planned to deliver a copy of House's file to the police and give them a statement, with Cuddy along for the ride.
Surely he's a big boy. You would think he could manage these things on his own.
Wilson was in the middle of a consult when Cuddy called to inform him of her plans. The eager anticipation in her voice made his stomach turn. But he was good at covering up, pushing his emotions to some far off corner of his world. He strained to turn a grimace into a thin smile. He needed to prioritize. The weary, grief stricken mother of a three year old leukemia victim didn't need an oncologist with issues. A kid battling for her life trumped a sad, lost diagnostician. At least for the moment.
Cuddy's voice trembled ever so slightly in his ear, like chills were riding down her arms at the thought of spending time with the therapist.
She is a strong woman, a hospital administrator, not a fool by any means. Why would she be taken in by a man with a chip on his shoulder the size of Princeton?
That slimy, unctuous feeling just won't go away. It's like some slithery thing is gradually creeping up Wilson's inseam. Faulkner. God, there is a terrible underhanded... something about him. Wilson can't put his finger on it. It's like the guy's got the world by the balls. That little smirk, that knowing hitch of a brow. He's having the best time-at someone's expense. Wilson can't help suspect the first someone was House. Now it's Cuddy's turn.
A dot of perspiration tickles Wilson's temple. Perhaps he is making too much of this. Maybe the guy's on the level but has an attitude problem. No, Gurand thinks Faulkner is trouble too. But Gurand is busy. He will help sort this out when he can. But he is busy: a fact he mentioned to Wilson three times after Wilson informed him of this new wrinkle.
No one seems overly concerned. Life goes on. House's team has decided Foreman will be at the helm for the interim. Life goes on. House's disappearance is gradually becoming accepted. But...hell, the guy is missing. He hasn't stepped out for a soda. He is gone. Granted it hasn't been that long. But still...
(Obla di obla da)
...life goes on.
It doesn't make sense.
He doesn't recall picking up The Ledger but there it is in his hands. Gripping it at arm's length, he stares at the black and white photo on the front page. The longer he looks at it, the more the image seems not so much a photo as a mosaic comprised of tiny black and grey dots. The components band together, artfully constructing a likeness of House's with his bow tie undone, the tip of his cigar dripping ash.
"What is Faulkner hiding?" Wilson asks his friend in a hushed tone. Bowing his head, his voice cracks like the rotting wood of an old tree limb. "Tell me what's going on so I can make...things...right."
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They know her in Pascal's, but they are not aware of her secret, her sin. This makes her glad, especially today.
Easy, girl. Why is she clenching the rolled up Ledger so tightly? The way she tromps down the aisle, her head whipping this way and that, she must look like some irate pet owner on her way towhap Fido on the butt. She gets an itchy feeling on the back of her neck. Are all eyes are on her? Does everybody know?
Actually, no one cares about her or her sins. She takes a surreptitious look around. No one meets her gaze. A sigh of relief escapes her. Michele, the buxom beauty of a waitress is on the opposite side of the room, flirting with a tousled haired guy wearing an army jacket and worn mud colored cords. The owner, Jean Pascal is manning the cash register, chattering away in French on his cell.
No. No one cares about the old lady clad in the red and white church garb, seating herself in the booth way in the back. She spreads The Ledger out before her, nips her lower lip with her top teeth as she studies the photo on the front page.
Disappearing Doc!
Pascal himself brings her the usual: espresso and cheesecake slice (another sinful notch in the belt), apologizing for the Michele, who is still immersed in her flirtatious banter. Lois offers Pascal an absent grin. After assuring him it's perfectly alright, she goes back to her reading, leaving the coffee and cake to the side.
The coffee will remain untouched and eventually be poured down the sink in the back, while Pascal will serve up the dessert to the next customer who orders it. No sense wasting an excellent slice of cheesecake.
The article is two full pages, a sensational piece of tripe. But Lois drinks it all in, learning more about Greg this way than she ever would by talking to him.
He is a respected diagnostician, world renown, in fact. His ability to solve cases that have other doctors scratching their heads has put him much in demand. But he is not a people person. Some of his patients never even meet him if his team can handle the case, others are sorry when they do. He is caustic, possesses a biting wit and has no qualms about verbally abusing just about anyone. She reads on about the infarction in his thigh that crippled him, his subsequent addiction to Vicodin, being brought up as a military brat with no sense of permanence until he was well into his teenage years.
There is a telling sidebar, an interview with James Wilson, head of Oncology. He is Greg's friend, his only true friend, if what the article says can be believed. This must be the 'Wilson' Greg mentioned, the name that came into play instead of 'Bill'. She surmised Bill was Greg's loyal, true, stalwart buddy. But there is no mention in the article of anyone by that name.
Interesting.
Then there is the chilling photo of Greg's living room taken shortly after his disappearance. Books are set up on the sofa, sitting in anticipation, like guests at a Super Bowl party. According to the article they are novels by William Faulkner. What could it mean? Could this long dead author be the "Bill" Greg obsesses over?
She reaches the last paragraph of the article, then stops, unsure if she read it right. The print is tiny and her eyes are weak. So she reads it again...and again. The cheap newsprint leaps off the page at her, letters dancing and jiving in jubilant celebration.
Lois once heard that God has a plan. She never truly believed it until now.
She reads the paragraph again. A reward is being offered for information leading to the safe return of Dr. Gregory House. Twenty-thousand dollars.
Tears spring to Lois's tired eyes. She thinks of the life in Vermont she might have had. The store she would have opened. She even had a name for it: Angel On My Shoulder. The shelves would be filled with crystals, rolled up yoga mats, books on the I-Ching and astral traveling, so much more...
Twenty-thousand dollars.
Her hands clench, release, clench, release.
"Thank you," she breathes.
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"I'm sorry."
Allison sits comfortably ensconced in the easy chair by the window, her bare feet stretched out on the ottoman before her. Joe lays on the bed, attempting to read "The Spy Who Came In From the Cold" but his eyes keep drifting closed.
It has been a long day.
"Did you hear me?"
The kids are having a wonderful time playing Rainbow News on the bed where Ariel and Bridget sleep. Newspapers are scattered on the floor and the comforter as the girls chatter, read, cut and paste. The object of the game is to seek out only the good news and form a rainbow of those clippings on sheets of construction paper. The game, which was Joe's creation, has become a favorite of the girls, keeping them busy and non-argumentative for as long as the good news lasts.
After the awards ceremony, some sightseeing and an early dinner at La Mella (where Bridget had her spaghetti), Joe purchased a copy of every daily and weekly from the hotel newsstand. The girls were tired but their sense of excitement was still evident, shivering like live wires dangling from a telephone pole. The game would help to keep them out of each other's hair, while giving them something productive to do.
"Why won't you answer me?"
Allison narrows her eyes and peers at Dead Kid. He is hunkered down next to her, his green eyes mournful, as though he has lost something precious.
"You need to calm down." She keeps her voice soft and motherly, like she is gently berating one of her own. "Stop yelling at me. I can hear and understand. You don't need to get all panic stricken."
"Okay."
"Promise?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She smiles, glancing over at Joe who has given up the good fight and is now snoring as loud as a buzz saw.
At Arts and Crafts Central, Bridget glances over her shoulder and giggles. Alexandra is here, seated cross-legged behind the trio of cutters and pasters, ooh-ing and ahh-ing and pointing excitedly at the growing rainbow.
"So...what can I do for you?" Allison asks Dead Kid.
"I just came to say hello."
A slow smile forms on her lips. "No, you didn't."
"No. I didn't." His look is anxious, eager, like he is busting to reveal something but knows he must take his time.
"Then tell me." Allison places one hand on his forearm, which is surprisingly warm.
"Umm, I think there's something you're missing."
"Okay." She bites. "And what's that?"
Something sparks in his eyes, anger pulses behind the green. He is trying so hard to be good.
Hurryhurryhurry! The words hiss in her head like the susurrations of wind through a dark forest.
"Slow. Calm...down," she tells him evenly.
"They haven't gotten to it yet, lucky for you."
"Ah, ah!" Allison waves a derisive finger. "Be nice."
"Sorry."
"What is it they haven't gotten to yet?"
"Thepaper."
Allison notices the tremor in his pale hands. He is trying so hard.
"Which one?"
"The one I kicked under the bed."
"Okay." She swings her feet off the ottoman and makes her way toward the arts and crafts activity hub.
"Hi, Mom!" shouts Bridget.
"Hi, Mom!" echoes Alexandra.
"Having fun, guys?" A corner of a newspaper sticks out from under the bed. Allison stares at it for one long moment before bending over to claim it.
"Ooh, that one's next." Ariel calls, waving a frenzied finger at the newly discovered paper in her mother's hand.
"Sorry, Ariel. This one's mine...for now," Allison returns to her chair, her prize folded safely under her arm. She reclines luxuriantly.
"Look at it," Dead Kid pleads. His brow creases; he is straining at the bit.
Allison can't seem to shake his gaze. Well, maybe she doesn't really want to. With some hesitation, she pulls the paper open to the center page without looking at it. Now is when she should be fixing her eyes on the print, to see what there is to see. But something holds her back. She is fearful to even speculate about what the kid deems so vitally important.
Dead Kid takes one step forward, then stops short. "Front page."
"Front...page?" she parrots, as if in a daze.
Suddenly there is a clamor of motion, of small feet thump, thump, thumping across the floor, closing in.
"Mom!"
Absently, one hand travels to stroke the child's unruly hair. "What, Bridget?" She still can't get her eyes to move those few inches...
Bridget shakes the police sketch close to her mother's ear.
"Bridge!" The frantic rustling causes Allison to wince and rear back as if in pain. It is loud enough to go head to head with Joe's snoring.
"Mom!" Two pudgy hands grip the sketch, which is as wrinkled as an octogenarian's neckline. Two of its edges are frayed, like a mouse made a midnight snack of it. Was it tossed about, cha-cha'd on, thrown into the clothes dryer with the towels, used to wipe a mirror clean? No, it has just spent a good amount of quality time in Bridget's polka-dotted handbag. And that was explanation enough for its condition.
"Honey, I thought you guys were-"
Bridget jiggles a little in place, like she does when she has to pee. "It's him."
"Yes." Allison waves a dismissive hand. Suddenly she is very tired. "The police sketch."
"Will you please look?" Two voices plead with her in unison.
So...begrudgingly, she gives in, aware this will be the end of family time for the rest of the week. No more sightseeing, Joe will have to take the kids on that leisurely walk through Central Park by himself. Madame Tussad's, The Museum of Natural History? Those excursions will be left to Joe.
She gives a resigned look, first to Dead Kid, then to Bridget before letting the paper fall closed. Drawing a sharp breath, she steels herself before looking down...
...already knowing what she will see.