"Whisper of the Wind"

Chapter 38

"Whispering to the Wind"

June 2009

Gregory House:

When I came dragging out through the living room in my scrubs Saturday morning, Jamie was already puttering around in the kitchen. He heard my crutches clumping along on the hardwood floor and poked his head around the doorway. "Morning, Dr. House. You're up early."

I leaned against the doorjamb in haphazard fashion, giving him a warning glare that told him for the thousandth time he didn't have to address me by any formal appellations or titles. He ignored me as usual, smiling like a shy teen-ager, and kept his attention focused on what he was doing.

While he busied himself stirring eggs in a bowl, the front door opened to admit Billy Travis and a man who could be no one else but his brother, Whitney.

"Peas in a pod", to coin a very old phrase. They were carbon copies of each other with about a ten-year space in between. Whit had iron-grey hair, while Billy's was still pretty black. Whit wore glasses and Billy did not. Whit wore his hair short while Billy's still "clacked". They were both wearing blue jeans, sneakers and tee shirts.

I looked across the room and grinned. My ticket to Wilson! And maybe a solution to my problem with walking. Both were pretty good reasons to smile.

While Billy introduced Whit to us, Jamie finished breakfast and brought in a huge tray heaped with mounds of bacon, scrambled eggs, hash browns and coffee and placed it all on the coffee table. We did not speak of Wilson because Jamie didn't know. None of the others caregivers did either, for that matter. Jamie believed I was simply being allowed a change of scenery at last, and he was in total agreement with that.

Whit took a deep breath and sighed. "That smells wonderful," he said. "I skipped breakfast this morning so I could get started early." He took a place at the far end of the couch, nodded minutely to his brother, and patted the seat to his left. "Come over and sit beside me, Gregg. It's important that I get to know you a bit before I can work with you. Do you mind?"

"No," I said, "I don't mind." Already I was beginning to get that nagging flutter inside me that said: "here-comes-the-catch …"

I pushed away from the doorway and started across the room. I could feel Whit's eyes on me with keen appraisal; gauging my movements, calculating the parts of me that worked, and the parts that didn't. Already I was a mosquito under a magnifying glass.

I racked the crutches and swung about, preparing to sit down beside him.

"Stand still a second, Gregg … can you?" He was off the couch, on his knees between couch and coffee table. I stiffened when his fingers went to my knee, and flinched when he touched my leg beneath the thin scrubs.

"What are you doing?" It was an effort to keep the alarm out of my voice.

"Sorry," he said, sitting back. "I just wanted to check how badly your bones are still out of alignment. "Can you place your foot flat on the floor?"

I frowned, glaring at him. "No. Can't get the heel down. Hurts too much. Why?"

"That's interesting." He hitched up and sat on the couch again. "Please. Sit down."

I did, clumsily. That tiny bit of exertion had made me shaky. I settled the crutches beside me and reached beneath my knee to settle my leg in a likewise manner. Tiny spasmodic tics were becoming visible in my thigh beneath the material of the scrubs. Whit observed them closely for a moment, and then reached for the bony ridge behind my knee where the adductor magnus branched off the femur. A quick pinch between the hamstrings with his strong thumb and third finger brought the tremors to an immediate halt.

"Kinda like a mama lion picks up her cub," he explained when I looked at him in surprise. "Really grabs on. Cub relaxes, lets go. Mama wins. Same principle. Really shocks hell out of a man's muscles and ligaments. A member of my staff taught me that move."

I frowned at him, still getting used to the sudden release of pain. Niice! Gingerly I picked up a paper plate to load it with eggs and bacon and potatoes. "Didn't know you were a doctor …"

He chuckled. "I'm not. I'm an engineer … and part-time lab rat … and don't try that yourself. You haven't the strength in your fingers."

"Huh?"

Everyone's attention had been focused on the two of us, waiting for the sparks that would ignite my temper and cause me to go off on him for touching me. But that wasn't gonna happen. I wanted more information from this "engineer-lab rat" who manipulated a damaged leg like a doctor.

Even Ingrid had never …

Whit chuckled softly and picked up his own plate to load it down. That broke the ice. Everyone else followed suit.

"You remember how you and Bill and Jimmy used to work on old cars …" Whit continued. Billy had obviously filled him in on our cruddy earthy hobby of many years ago.

"Yeah?"

"You know how it is when a rear universal joint goes bad." He took a bite and munched thoughtfully. "You have to get under there and take the rear one down and replace it. It's a nasty job for a back-yard mechanic … and if you have to replace the rear one, you should replace the front one too, so the new one doesn't rip the older one out."

"Yeah … but what's that got to do with … ?"

"Well … your universal joints are messed up. The biological ones. The ones in your knee were injured real bad in the accident. They repaired them. The one in your ankle was okay, so they let it be. But the pain later on when you started rehab caused you to favor it, and it went gradually out of line. Now your ankle has no stability and your missing thigh muscle prevents your having the strength to make the rest coordinate in unison. You're double screwed. Maybe the mechanics at Mountain View can fix the other "universal" … what your doctors had no way of knowing a year ago … kapeesh?"

"I'm not sure …"

What he was telling me was a long way from making the kind of sense I needed in order to process the similarities between car parts and human parts … apples to oranges … whatever. Like me trying to explain the blood-brain barrier to him. No comprendo!

In the meantime, we were all chowing down and enjoying it. We were also thinking about what he'd said, but were not to the point of posing any intelligent questions. Not yet. My leg didn't hurt. Wow!

By the time Carrie arrived, I was dressed in jeans, one sneaker, rag socks, and a tee shirt. Billy had my bag packed so I wouldn't have to spend the entire weekend … or however long this lasted … in scrubs. I was even rethinking the "not-a-catch" accusation.

Carrie looked me up and down with taut appraisal. "You okay, Hoss?"

"Yeah, I'm okay," I grumbled. "What the hell are you doing here on a weekend?"

"I just stopped by to say 'so long', have a good flight, a good visit with Mr. Travis … and I sincerely hope they can figure out a fix for your leg. Maybe they can attach a ratchet to your mouth too … so I can crank it shut once in awhile …"

"You are one miserable old broad, you know that?"

She smiled and touched my arm. "Yeah, I know that, House … but you love me anyway."

I did not validate that with an answer. But she knew. Damn her.

Whit Travis stood looking back and forth between us. The others were laughing.

We introduced the two of them quickly, and then we were out the door. Billy's big Denali SUV was parked tight against the curb. He and his brother walked slowly and deliberately on either side of me while I maneuvered carefully across the sidewalk.

It took two airport maintenance guys to lift my crippled ass into the cockpit of the little company jet, get my crutches and my leg positioned, and strap me in. The logo on the door consisted of a horseshoe with letters within it that read: "MVE, Ltd." I had a pretty good idea what it stood for.

Whit got pre-flight from the tower and made a few adjustments. We were in the air within minutes. Billy's SUV was speeding directly beneath us as the little jet looped around and headed west. He was on his way back to town. A long muscular arm extended out the driver's side window and waved madly. Whit waggled the wings and we were away.

We landed at Willow Run Airport, Ypsilanti. Smooth as silk, right up to the small terminal. Whit cut the engine and looked across at me. We hadn't spoken much on the flight in. I was antsy as hell, and he seemed to know. It had only taken a little over half an hour, but my leg was pounding. He seemed to know that also.

"Air pressure up there giving you a little trouble?"

I nodded. "Yeah. I thought that might be what was doing it."

"Uh huh. Quite a difference between up there and down here. Sit still for a few minutes. One of the guys will be here with the car soon. Do you want me to get your meds out of your luggage?"

I nodded again, biting my lip. "Yeah … please."

He was unassuming about it. Calm and methodical, like someone who did this kind of thing every day. Maybe he did. He reached behind our seats and lifted my overnighter up front. Settling it on the console between us, he turned away and looked at his watch.

I took the meds and rezipped the bag.

The yammer of a big diesel engine broke through our thoughts and we glanced up to see an angry looking, chrome-clad black HumVee pull up close to the side of the plane. The logo on the front door was the same as the one on the plane. I tried not to be too freakin' impressed.

"Here's your ride," Whit said unnecessarily. He jumped down from his side of the plane, slammed the door shut and walked around to my side. Opened the door. I looked down doubtfully, wondering how the hell I was supposed to get out of there.

He was grinning like a six-year-old with a secret, making fun of the way I looked at him when his two huge arms extended toward me. Was he going to carry me?

I was about to make a loud, indignant stink when he said: "Oh hush up, Gregg! Billy says he carries you around like a ventriloquist dummy all the time. So give me a break and don't start!"

" … Not all the time!"

If I was going to be likened to a ventriloquist dummy, then I guessed I should pretend like my string had been cut. I clammed up and leaned into him, humiliated by the fact that he had the strength of a healthy Grizzly bear … just like his brother. Just like I used to have …

The over-tall driver of the Hummer stood aside with the back door open, and Whit allowed me to slide out of his grip and onto the seat with as much dignity as I could muster. Actually, he had done the transfer quickly and privately, and other people moving about on the tarmac never paid any attention.

"Thanks, Whit," I said, and meant it. He met my eyes with a curt nod, and in that moment we became friends. I hadn't even done anything to earn it!

"Just a word of warning, Gregg … when we get to the mansion, you've got to use a wheelchair. I can't have you dragging your foot like that. You kind of scare me … and when you go in with Whitey, you could get tangled in his IVs and feeds. Okay?"

What he said made sense. "Agreed." But I was also puzzled. "'Whitey'?"

He smiled a little sadly. He had no time frame for how long it had been since I'd seen my best friend. "His caregivers nicknamed him that … and when you see him, you'll know why."

He winked. "Ready?"

"Yeah." I was so close now. I didn't trust myself to say any more than that. But my insides were churning. I was on my way to Wilson after all this time.

The car's driver brought my overnighter and my crutches and set them in the back seat beside me. "Buckled up, you? …Doc?" He asked.

Huh? What the hell did you just say??

He was so tall I couldn't see the top of his head from where I sat. I wondered if the guy was from around here … or what. I fumbled with the belts and clicked them into place. "I am now."

I was tired. And I hurt. My barely healed bones and muscles protested the hard ride of the Hummer and the poor condition of the road. Once we got away from the airport proper and out on the highway, the ride improved and didn't jar me like a paint shaker anymore. I took a deep breath and looked out at the scenery.

Michigan was a very green state. This part of it, at least, consisted mostly of rolling hills rather than flatland or mountains. We must have passed at least four dirt farms devoted entirely to the growing of sod plots … rolled up lengths of nothing but dark green grass intended for the landscaping trade. There were mounds and mounds of them dotting the fields as far as the eye could see. Spaced like the rounded hay bales you see on farms in New York and Pennsylvania. The sky was blue and cloudless, the sun beginning to dip to the west, and I was suddenly aware of the HumVee slowing down.

There were two lines of old oak and maple trees, or something similar, with conifers on the fringes, forming a vanguard to a private road that turned off to the right. The driver made the turn and entered slowly beneath the trees. A sign at the narrow entrance read: "Mountain View Enterprises, Ltd., est. 2000". The logo was ringed by a horseshoe.

"Limited"?

The sun shone through the branches and threw a dappling effect onto the big car's paint and chrome and windshield, almost enough to blind you. I averted my eyes for a moment before a headache added to the other small complaints that were already niggling down my spine.

Then we broke out of the trees, and directly ahead of us was this beautiful old mansion. The place was constructed of wood and cement and brick and stone, and must have been at least two hundred years old. It had a portico in front, and tall pillars supporting a roof that reminded me of southern plantations in books by Margaret Mitchell and John Jakes. Mont Royal. Tara.

Huge old elms and chestnuts spread their arms out over the roof, like a grandpa hugging a

grandchild.

You're getting maudlin again, House! Cut it out!

The Hummer pulled up directly in front of the portico and stopped. I found that I was looking directly across a wide porch and into the area behind the big front door. I could see a number of people moving about through the shadowy interior, and a few going in from the outside and a few coming out from the inside. Standing in the foyer was a tall, thin manwith skin like copper and hair a lot like sisal hemp. He walked out onto the porch to meet the Hummer, and was (of course!) pushing a sturdy wheelchair in front of him.

Wilson … this is your fault! Every time I get within fifty feet of you, you start giving me grief and throwing your damned weight around!!

I couldn't help shaking my head at the irony. I'd shucked one wheelchair in New Jersey and acquired another one upon my arrival in Michigan. Not fair! I looked at this one narrowly as it came closer to where I sat sideways in the Hummer with my single sneaker parked on the curb and the other leg resting on top of it.

Half squinting, half cringing, I watched the copper-skinned guy walk up in front of me and swing the chair around. It was heavier than the one I'd used in Jersey, and I saw that its right leg rest was already partly raised. Today was not a day I could look forward to getting away with anything. Whit and the Hummer driver stood near the car's front fender, watching closely.

"Can you do this by yourself?" Whit asked.

I nodded, doing my best to curl my lip with a touch of insolence. "Yup … no problem."

Whit snorted. "I hear ya, Doc. No hero stuff, okay?"

I nodded again. He had called me 'Doc'. My anonymity was intact. "Okay."

I pulled the crutches beneath my arms and stood slowly. By the time I had my bearings, the wheelchair had moved in behind me and I settled onto the seat. The copper-skinned guy knelt and adjusted my leg on the leg rest and raised the platform part way. He looked up at me in question. I nodded at him and settled back.

While he fiddled with the mechanics of the chair and stowed the crutches on the back, he addressed me in a stage whisper: "Hi, Dr. House. I'm Jeremy Elton. I'm a nurse. My colleague and I are Dr. Wilson's caretakers. Would you like to go to him now?"

I know my mouth dropped open again … it seemed to be doing that a lot lately. I stared at him hard and caught my breath. Lowering my voice, I motioned him down in order to whisper back. "You know who I am. Of course I want to go to him. Talk to me!"

"Five of us know who you really are: Whit and his driver, my colleague Shirley, Billy Travis, and me. That's all. Nobody will ever come here that you don't want to come here. Shall we go? He's waiting for you."

"Yes, of course. Let's go. He's … 'waiting'? … for me?"

Jeremy tilted his head. "Well, look at it this way: he's up in his room. And he certainly looks like he's waiting for someone. Who says it isn't you?"

Jeremy wheeled me through the mansion, past an open area with comfortable furniture, none of it institutional; thin carpets and jungle animal prints on the walls. The bank of elevators held six cars, one of them open and waiting for us. Jeremy popped us inside and the car closed and lifted.

There was no melodic "ping" when the doors opened again and the elevator disgorged us across from a large nurses' station. Jeremy waved to the two people working the desk, but kept on pushing me down one of the hallways that led toward the west side of the building. We were on carpet again, and there was no sound accompanying our passage other than the tick of the big wheels. I could hear soft strains of country music from one of the rooms we passed.

Then we slowed. Jeremy turned me to the left, careful to keep the footrest of the chair from scraping the doorway. It was a large room. Someone was in the bed, surrounded by IVs; ECG feeds … feeding tubes … a mechanical sling used for moving a patient; the usual accouterments in the room of a comatose human being. I strained to see, but someone was bent over the man, wiping his face gently with a damp cloth and crooning to him as though he were a child.

"Hey Shirl?" Jeremy called softly to the woman beside the bed, and she straightened swiftly, completely revealing the body and face of my dearest friend.

Oh sweet Jesus … Wilson … Wilson!

It was Wilson and it was not. He was a miracle. He really was still alive. Tom had said he was and Billy had said he was … but there was enough doubt stuck in my mind that wouldn't quite let me believe it. Not until this moment. His face was Wilson's face, and his eyes were Wilson's eyes. His hair was snow white; not a white that was laced with strands of his natural honey auburn … but fresh-snow, bleached-cotton, clouds-on-a-sunny-day … white.

I said his name. "Wilson. Ah God … Jimmy …"

He did not acknowledge me. Of course not. I was suddenly heartsick, yearning for what used to be. He sat against a mound of pillows with his head tilted slightly back against the fluffy tops. His gaze was straight ahead and slightly elevated, as though he might be captivated by something in the far distance.

I was getting maudlin again, embarrassed and humiliated by my lack of control. Great gulping sobs rose in my throat, and my body trembled trying to contain them. Tears blurred my vision to the point of forming a watery halo around him. He appeared like the ripples that spread outward in concentric circles when a pebble drops in the water. I felt isolated and abandoned. My friend had gone away somewhere and left me behind and alone.

It was more than I could stand.

The woman who had been bending over the bed, now bent over the wheelchair and touched my shoulders very lightly with both hands. Her head bent so closely over me that I could feel her warm breath in my hair. The man knelt wordlessly on the other side and placed both hands on the armrest. They said not a word, but simply encircled me.

Jeremy reached out with his foot and gently pushed the door closed.

Privacy.

No one would see me losing it except those who belonged there. I was among friends, and they were willing to wait while my despair ran its course. I had never before experienced such gentle quietude from strangers … as this. Not ever.

Thank you …

It took me awhile to pull myself together, calm down and finally look at Wilson as he was now. The reality of his devastating injury washed over me with a sense of sorrow and emptiness. And, finally, truth.

I took a deep breath and straightened. My pain was waking up and reminding me of the reality of my world.

I looked up at the woman who had stood behind me and enfolded me with compassionate concern. "Hi, Doc," she said. "I'm Shirley Appel. What just happened to you happened to Bill Travis the first time he saw Whitey after the accident. He locked himself in an empty room and cried. It affected him so profoundly that he's never been back. Whitey is a very special man …"

I looked into her eyes; sorrowful and brimming, lashes wet, surrounded by fogged black-rimmed glasses and frizzy red hair, mixed with strands of grey.

"Yes … he is. Thanks for being here for him. Thanks for being here for me …"

Both of them stood up again, knowing that I would be all right. They stood off to the side and watched as I gathered strength to look at James Wilson as the person he had become … exactly one year ago today.

Hi Wilson. You knew I'd come by eventually, didn't you?

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