"Whisper of the Wind"
Chapter 37
"Serendipity"
June, 2009
Gregory House:
It's June.
June, for Chrissakes! I'm coming up on another birthday. My fiftieth. I have no damn intention of mentioning it. Not to anyone! As far as I'm concerned, birthdays have gone the way of the dinosaur. Any celebration will be inside my own head … a miracle that I managed to get this freakin' old … and nothing's fallen off yet!
The accident happened a full year ago, and I still haven't seen Wilson. I'm about ready to climb the walls like I predicted a long time ago. I need to go to Wilson. I've been denied the right to go there … to touch him … see for myself that he's still alive, still breathing, even without a mind. If I don't soon get out of here, his mind won't be the only one doing a disappearing act!
Carrie and Billy keep telling me that my bones are "too fragile", but I'm sick of being protected. Sick of being treated with kid gloves. Weary of being warned not to push too hard. Sick and tired of being sick and tired. Everything is healed now, except for the damned leg, which is the only thing holding me back.
I know it's because I spent so long in the damn hospital, and much of that time I was told the doctors feared I would never leave. I knew I would leave … eventually … but try convincing some starched, lab-coated Ben Casey of that! What happened to the clout of the "notorious" Gregory House?
Six months of organ failure, plaster casts and twilight-zone awareness didn't give them much hope for my re-entry to the real world. But I did come out of it and went on the mend. I'm still mending. I've been home for three months. Hah! Two-dimensional thinking! Three months is still a freakin' long time to sit around and stare at the same four walls.
Me and Wilson! Both staring at walls because we have no choice … but for vastly differing reasons. Pathetic!
Carrie keeps yammering about the fragility. I know she's right. I can't walk. The leg folds beneath me with even a small amount of pressure, making me howl in pain … and that does nothing at all for my disposition.
Today is another Friday … piled on top of a dozen others … and I'm restless and angry, and it's getting worse. I'm foul-mouthed to everyone around me; everyone trying to help me … and I can't control my temper. I dumped the damned wheelchair two weeks ago. Rammed it into the wall and bent a wheel. Carrie Nation called me a spoiled teenager. That's a new one! I'm moving around just fine on crutches, except that the foot drags. I have no strength in what's left of my thigh muscle to hold it off the floor.
I need to get the hell out of this apartment by myself and get to Michigan and Mountain View and Wilson. I need to disappear into the woodwork and get away from people!
I pleaded with Carrie and Billy and Ingrid today, to find a leg brace that would allow me some freedom without putting me in danger of breaking my freaking neck from dragging my foot behind me like a broken tree limb. They looked at me with blank faces tinged with hints of sorrow … and a small amount of fear that I might be getting ready to throw another destructive tantrum.
Only Billy had anything to say. "Let me call Whit," he suggested. "Give me some time to see what he and his staff can come up with …"
Whit is Billy's brother … the guy who owns Mountain View; the guy I called after Tom Wilson told me the world thought his brother was dead. Whit took care of all the vital arrangements and had Wilson flown in on a plane from some other hole-in-the-wall dump where Tom kept him hidden. Before then, I never even knew Billy had a brother! Billy told me Whit would do right by Wilson … and I trust Billy.
I think Billy is a little leery of Whit though. Turns out, the guy is a millionaire … used to work for the government, but decided to "retire" and become an entrepreneur. Whatever that means in his case. I wondered what the hell he could possibly do to make my leg any more stable … or do something to make me less of a prisoner of my own disability.
Whit isn't a doctor. What "staff"? What's Billy talking about?
Again I'm frustrated by circumstances. Again I have to wait. I tend to equate "waiting" with "constipation". Nothing ever seems to come out right.
I paced around the apartment all morning, angry as always, hobbling about like a three-legged dog, dragging the toe of my sock across the polished floor. Carrie stays away from me, attending to chores in the kitchen, knowing I seldom go out there because it's just too damn difficult to maneuver in those close quarters. I've stopped yelling at her, because she yells back.
And sometimes I yell just to yell … to hear the sound of my own voice bounce off the walls so I don't take it out on the walls by bouncing off them with my fists. The wheelchair I ruined because of my temper, kind of scared me. I don't want to hit a person!
When I'm not yelling, I keep the television close to full volume just so there is enough noise coming in from the outside world … keep me believing that the real world still exists out there somewhere!
Fuck! I hate this!
Again, I spent the day being babysat. Ingrid got here about noon. She manipulated my leg, guiding me while I worked the knee joint slowly. We finally broke down the scar tissue that formed while I was in a cast all those months, but the pain that resulted from the movement was so bad that it made me nauseous.
Sometimes I hate seeing her arrive. She's a beautiful woman with a warm and loving heart, gentle hands and a surprisingly calm nature. She never raises her voice, never admonishes me for the way I carry on beneath her touch.
But when the sessions end, I'm so weak with pain that I just lie here like a rag doll while tears of anger and frustration run down my face. Ingrid elevates my leg and lays a heating pad across it. She wipes my skin with a cool cloth and assures me that I have done well … and I always lash out with some stupid remark in an attempt to save face.
I know she understands, but she's probably getting sick of it … and me.
Macho Man needs to cry like a baby … but won't. Pride rules!
Billy Travis came back that evening with a question that almost caused me to have a heart attack on the spot:
His brother, Whit, was flying in to Princeton the next day … and how would I like to spend the remainder of the weekend with Wilson?
I'm not often rendered speechless by anything or anybody.
But this … this did it. I was aware of my mouth dropping open. And I remember saying something like … "Whaa … ?"
Total disbelief. Or else my hearing had stopped working too.
"Say again??"
"My brother," he repeated with a huge grin on his face, "is going to fly in to Princeton airport tomorrow … the same plane he used to fly Wilson to Mountain View …" Billy paused and waited patiently for my brain to catch up.
"He said he would fly you back to Mountain View with him so you can consult with his staff on Monday. They may be able to fabricate a brace for your leg. They have some rather fancy technology there.
"In the meantime, you can spend the weekend with Wilson … sit with him, meet his caregivers, learn how they take care of him … and just let yourself relax someplace that isn't … here! Sound good to you?"
"Oh God! Oh God! What's the catch?"
"No catch. You might be able to help them with a few new experiments though …"
"And this is considered … 'not-a-catch' … how?"
"They have to take precision measurements of your leg … and your thigh … and your foot and ankle … and it would be best if you were actually there while they did that. It's that kind of 'not-a-catch'. Okay? "
Billy was still grinning, and I wasn't sure I even wanted to know what the hell that meant, or whether the grin was diabolical or not. In the meantime, I didn't care. I was being offered the opportunity to be reunited with Wilson. For that, they could exchange my blood for transmission fluid and use it to lubricate the lawn mower … I didn't give a shit!
"Sold!"
That night I won two hundred bucks from him and Carrie, playing stud poker. And when I went to bed, I slept like a baby.
Aint it amazing what a little good news can do for an angry man … ?
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