Wilson stopped by on his way home, letting himself in with his key. As soon as he opened the door, he saw the patients sitting at opposite ends of the living room sofa arguing over the television remote. House's right arm was propped up on the back of the sofa, and Rainie's leg was lifted high enough off the coffee table that she could barely see over the tip of her big toe.
"But I don't want to watch General Hospital," she whined as Wilson came in.
"My house. My remote. My TiVo. My rules," said House, being as infuriating as he knew how to be.
"There are two other TVs in this place. If you want to look at something I don't want to watch, go to your room." She looked at him defiantly. "You're more mobile than I am. I'm stuck here. And I'm not watching General Hospital."
He glared at her. She glared back. After a long minute, he handed her the remote.
"Fine!" he said, still glaring.
Wilson was thunderstruck. She won? She just stared him down, and he gave up?
"Hi, guys," said Wilson.
"Hi, Mom," said Rainie, turning her head to glance at him over her left shoulder. "Whadja bring us?"
House threw his head back and laughed. A deep, throaty, relaxed, unabashed chortle.
Wait a second. House laughed?
House hadn't laughed like that in years. It was the end of the universe as Wilson knew it.
Three days later, Rainie was more mobile and less tired. House's cumbersome bandage had been exchanged for a splint, and he'd started intensive hand therapy, which was proving to be both frustrating and, as predicted, painful.
House and Rainie settled into an uneasy alliance, trying to keep conversations light and their interactions detached but friendly, even though both were constantly aware of the chemistry between them and a little too observant of each other's reactions.
During her daily visit, Jacey Liu settled herself in a plush chair next to Rainie's bed.
"So tell me how you're doing," she said.
Rainie shook her head. "Physically, fine, I guess. Emotionally, this is really difficult."
"In what way? Because of Greg?"
No secrets.
Rainie sighed. "Uh-huh. I keep telling myself that what I'm feeling isn't real, that these feelings are just a reaction to what's happened. But then I see him, and my heart starts beating and I can't catch my breath. It would have been a lot easier if he didn't feel the same way, if this was a simple unrequited crush. Or if he wasn't just over there." She gestured toward the opposite wall, the one adjoining his bedroom.
Jacey said nothing, just waited.
Rainie stared out the window.
"The only other person I've ever felt this way about was Jeff. It's all so stupid. I know I'm in no condition to make intelligent decisions, and yet I can't help how I feel."
"Are you up to talking about anything else?"
She exhaled slowly.
"You mean what happened…? Thompson…? Prison?"
Jacey nodded. Sooner or later, Rainie Adler was going to have to deal with what had been done to her and to her life.
Rainie continued to stare out the window.
"I don't know. In a way, it feels safer to focus on today, on right now, on these scary feelings about Greg than to allow myself to look back at what brought me here."
"Perfectly understandable. At least your feelings for Greg have a positive side to them, and provide you with some hope." Jacey waited.
"Yes, but are they real? I keep waiting to come back to my senses, to get over it. And then I hear his voice down the hall or I see him, and I go goofy all over again."
"I don't know what to tell you, Rainie. I could say that this is a transient thing, but I don't know that it's true. I do know there's potential for you to get badly hurt—which I don't want to see happen to either one of you—but I'm not in a position to say that what you're feeling isn't real or can't last."
Rainie smiled ruefully. "I was kind of hoping you'd say it was ridiculous and to get over it."
"Of course you were. That would be easier, wouldn't it?"
"Uh-huh. I guess if there's anything I've learned it's that things are never going to be easy for me again."
Jacey smiled back. "At some point, we need to examine your other experiences. I don't know if it's time yet, but I want you to start pondering whether you're ready to talk. I understand that it's really scary, but you have to do it. I've already said this to Greg, but I'll say it to you now. If you don't deal with this soon, you will undoubtedly deal with it later. And the longer you wait, the harder it will be."
Knowing that what she said was probably true, Rainie still fought against the idea of allowing herself to revisit what had happened.
She tried to let her mind go to that dark time. Jacey saw her flinch, painful emotions trampling the other expressions on her face.
"Can't. Just can't do it," was all she said.
"Don't worry. We'll get there. I'll be right here. I'm not going anyplace. In the meantime, try to enjoy what you have now, even if that's scary, too."
"Linda! I dropped the remote," came House's voice from the other room.
With those five words, Rainie Adler was done for.
PRINCETON (AP) — Dr. Alan Pevey, who was convicted two weeks ago in a murderous assault on a colleague, was sentenced today to life in prison without the possibility of parole.
Pevey, who attacked Dr. Gregory House in his home two months ago, became violent when the sentence was announced, blaming House for his conviction. He struggled with court officers as he was taken out of the courtroom.
It was one of those hot, muggy summer days in New Jersey that air conditioning can't quite overcome, the kind that never cool off and are still miserable at midnight, which happened to be when Wilson got home. He hated to open the car door and make the short trek through the sweltering, moist air to his own front door, but it had to be done. As he grappled with his keys, sweat dripping down his neck and onto his clothes, he looked to the left, to House's place.
Get over it, he thought to himself. It's not his problem—it's yours. He's not making you feel unwelcome. You're doing that to yourself.
Wilson's guilt over butting into House's life again had continued unabated, and, in fact, has escalated. He couldn't get past it, and as a result, the pendulum of their friendship had swung far in the other direction, with Wilson stepping way back and feeling awkward every time he opened his mouth, convinced that his very presence was an intrusion into his friend's private life.
For the first time, Wilson felt uncomfortable in House's half of the duplex. The casual TV evenings were history, now that Rainie was living there. It wasn't House's fault, and it certainly wasn't Rainie's. It was just that Wilson felt clumsy and gauche, like an outsider and an intruder.
House and Rainie clearly shared a close connection, one vastly different from his own friendship with House, and he had to admit he found it disconcerting.
Wilson caught himself watching them a little too closely, listening a little too carefully. Even though it was still none of his business, he couldn't seem to help himself. He analyzed every word, every look, every gesture between them, trying to divine the subtext. He spent far too much time wondering if their attraction was leading them into a dangerous area, if perhaps they'd already started careening down that ski slope that would injure them both. Was House handling it all right? Was he going to get hurt again? Would Wilson have to pick up the pieces? Again?
Despite his qualms, he attempted to behave as if things were normal. He showed up with dinner on a regular basis, and when nightmares hit—which was often—he still grabbed his keys and ran over to help, sometimes finding Rainie in House's room comforting him, or House in Rainie's room comforting her.
On especially bad nights, he still offered to sleep in the recliner, just to make sure House was okay. But their relationship had shifted gears, and just as often, House suggested that perhaps Wilson should sleep in his own bed.
He didn't know what it was he wanted for them, what he expected or even what he feared. All he knew was that he wasn't a part of it, and he'd done that to himself.
His brain recognized that House had to move forward, that this newfound independence was a good thing, a major accomplishment, given where House had been two years ago, a year ago, six months ago, and that his openness with Rainie was an even better thing. He fought the temptation to begrudge Rainie her place in House's life, hating himself all the more for occasionally resenting her. God knows she was dealing with so much—both emotional and physical—she didn't need to be the unwitting recipient of Wilson's angst.
Mostly, Wilson needed to be needed, and simply put, House didn't need him now as much as he had. As a result, Wilson was having a hard time letting go and adjusting to the new ground rules. He'd given up a lot for his friend two years ago, and now, as House's hard-won independence enabled him to begin creating a new life for himself, he had handed Wilson his own life back. The problem was, Wilson didn't know what to do with that life now that he had it.
So he unlocked his door and went inside, alone.
House's right hand was showing marked improvement. He had regained a lot of fine motor skills, the trembling had almost disappeared and his fingers, no longer jutting out at odd angles, were beginning to reclaim their strength. The recuperation had, indeed, been painful, but given the levels of pain House had grown accustomed to, this seemed minor in comparison.
He'd had a good start, Dr. Yeung told him, adding that he might need a couple of additional surgeries on this hand. The next step would be a similar operation on his left hand, scheduled for two weeks from now.
For the most part, House still used the wheelchair, but had started using a walker now and then. Rainie, too, was graduating, in her case to crutches, at least some of the time. Her right leg had healed well, but recuperation and therapy were slow, and Karen Langley wanted to wait another month or so before operating on the left one.
One day, about six weeks after their initial surgeries, as Rainie was having her therapy, House ka-thumped to the closet door. There, in the back, was the roll-up keyboard. He stared at it for a long time before finally dragging the box out of the closet.
After struggling with the box for a good ten minutes, he finally got it into the middle of the room and opened it up. Clearing a space on the coffee table, he placed the contents on the left side and rolled out the keyboard.
No doubt about it. He was terrified. So terrified, he couldn't relate what he was feeling to anything he'd ever felt before. Being able to play again was all that mattered to him. He didn't care if he couldn't walk, probably didn't care if he never worked again, if he could just make music.
Glancing at the directions, he turned it on. Flexing the fingers of his right hand, he reached tremulously toward the keys.
He pressed middle C with his thumb. Middle C played. That was a start. Now D with his forefinger. E with his middle finger. Thumb under for F. That was tricky. And painful. But he did it. Forefinger again for G. Middle finger for A. The always weak fourth finger for B. And back to C with the pinky. A simple scale.
All the notes played, although it would take him time and practice to build up any kind of technique to be able to control how those notes sounded.
Holding his breath, he tried a simple C chord, C on the top, where his pinky still rested; the E under his thumb and the G with his forefinger.
It was music. Not good music, but it was music and he had made it. A wave of emotion swept over him. Maybe he hadn't lost everything. Maybe—just maybe—he could have something of his old life back again. Maybe Thompson hadn't stolen everything.
The emotions overwhelmed him for a moment, and he found himself sighing in relief before he crammed the feelings back inside.
Over the next month, as Rainie was sleeping or bathing or in therapy, he practiced. Certainly, he had no technique, and it would take a lot of time just to get his fingers to do what his brain instructed, but he could hear the potential. Despite everything that had happened, his playing was no worse than it had been when he was first learning. And since the real ability to create music resides for the most part in the brain, not the hands, House knew he just needed to get the muscles of his hand to obey his commands.
It was slow, and it was frustrating, but for the first time in many years, music belonged to him again.
