Chapter 7

"Night Visitor"

There was a new moon hanging by its top corner off a low-lying cloud bank. There was a breeze that gently lifted the strands of her long, dark hair, but not enough to muss it up. She got out of her car, closed the door quietly and looked up at the sky. The Milky Way reminded her of a fragment of broken chalk scraped sideways across a blackboard, leaving a path of tiny particles scattered through the path that trailed behind. Ursa Major dominated the heavens directly overhead, and she gazed at it long and hard.

If she hadn't already decided to become a doctor, the lure of astronaut training might have tugged at her heartstrings. When she'd been a kid, the exotic Lieutenant Uhura had whispered enticingly into her ear. She had almost listened … and followed.

Now, however, a doctor she was, and she had never regretted the choice. The work was hard, and often heartbreaking, but it had its compensations. Today had been a difficult one, and had extended into a late night. She wasn't complaining. A few things had turned out a lot better than she'd expected.

Dr. Gregory House, subordinate, verbal sparring partner, brilliant diagnostician and long-respected colleague, was on the mend. She was happy about that. It would have hurt so badly to have lost him after all the struggles he'd faced so bravely for so many years.

A long-time family feud she had known about, but never witnessed first-hand, seemed on the cusp of being given a well-deserved "time-out" during the interval that House's parents were in town. He'd even offered them his apartment … and they'd accepted.

She'd witnessed something else today that she had not even considered before, but now that she thought about it, she wondered where her head had been all these years for not having noticed it before. The discovery of something very nice had pleased her more than she might have imagined.

And she suddenly realized that she had a dog staying at her house. A real dog!

Lisa Cuddy looked around at the quiet solitude of night and the peaceful suburban neighborhood, and suddenly felt very good about herself and her place in the world. She was bone tired, and the hour was late. She took a deep breath and expelled it explosively, turned away from the fancy black Pontiac Torrent and walked slowly up the sidewalk toward her house.

She gasped, startled. Someone sat stretched out in one of the chairs on her front lawn. A soft voice chuckled gently. She expelled the breath in a whoosh and found herself smiling. "Aren't you lost?"

"No, not really. I stopped by to let you know that House is sleeping comfortably … and you have a handsome stranger poking around in your back yard. I didn't want you to see him out there and get scared out of your wits." James Wilson returned the smile and rose tiredly to his feet. "His name's 'Baxter'."

"Baxter," she repeated dumbly. "There really is a dog! You and Foreman weren't kidding before!" Why did that concept seem so foreign to her when so many other revelations today had settled into her brain without a hitch.

"Uh uh. Not kidding this time. Really is a dog! Pretty animal. A little skittish, but quite friendly if you speak softly to him."

"Kinda like House, huh?" Lisa said caustically. "Yeah … right!"

"I don't think House believes me," Wilson continued, "and I don't think he even remembers ordering Foreman and me to make sure to pick him up. Should be interesting when he finds out it's true. Since you're the only staff member who even has a fenced-in back yard … I hope you don't mind keeping him until House decides what he wants to do with him."

She grinned. Wilson looked so worried. Wilson looked worried a lot, and she certainly understood the basis for those worries. She didn't want to be the one to cause him more.

"Baxter, huh? Well, okay, he can crash here awhile. Housebroken?"

"Uhh … I have no idea. Thanks." Wilson started down across her lawn on his way back to the curb.

"Where's your car?" She asked.

"A block down," he said. "The street was a little crowded with parked cars when Bax and I first got here. Most of them have left, or put their cars in their garages. Don't worry … it's not that far to walk. I'll see you in the morning. Goodnight, Lisa."

"Goodnight, Jim," she replied and stood looking after him as he disappeared down the block.

She unlocked her door, turned on the light and hung her large handbag on its regular hook in the hallway.

Let's go see this … dog!

oooooooooooooooooooo

John House pulled the big Dodge up to the curb outside their son's ordinary looking town house. He and Blythe sat tight for a moment, glancing around the ordinary looking neighborhood. Gregg's front stoop opened right onto the sidewalk without benefit of porch or accouterments or front yard. There were two cement steps up to the front door, and another half-step up to get inside. He did not even have the benefit of a railing or a banister to aid him in getting up and down the steps.

"He's hurting his leg every time he goes in or out," Blythe complained under her breath. "At least he got to ride up in an elevator at the last apartment. Why does he have to punish himself so? This place is going to be terrible for him if he has to be confined to a wheelchair."

"Now Blythe … dammit … your son is a whole other breed of cat!" John grumbled. "He never did take the easy road, sad to say, and he's not about to start now."

"My son? All of a sudden he's my son?" She did not hear any part of his statement except the "your son" part.

John laughed out loud. "That's what I said, woman. The airhead part of him is yours! When he does dumb stuff like this, he's all yours! The idiot part of him that goes out and buys a crotch rocket and then parks it a 'handicap' parking space is just wrong! The brilliant, famous doctor part with a mind like a steel trap is mine!"

"John, there you go again … belittling him when you know he's in so much pain most of the time … that nasty motorcycle is a distraction for him."

"Whoa there, little lady! Company halt … about face … 'ten hut …parade rest! I am not belittling my son! I was making an observation, and you know as well as I do that he has a damn penchant for putting himself into situations that cause him pain. If he had only let them amputate his leg back when he was so deathly sick … and then fit him with a prosthesis, he could be so close to normal by now, that you'd never guess there was anything wrong. He wouldn't be in pain, wouldn't be crippled, probably wouldn't be using a 'handicapped' parking space to park a freakin' motorcycle … and he wouldn't be limping around on a cane!"

"That's not fair!"

"What's not fair about it? It's true. Gregg managed to inherit all the damned House- stubbornness DNA that got handed down from the dawn of time. Only thing is, he's taken it all to a new level. Ever hear the old saw about biting off your nose to spite your face? Well, our son has it in spades! He's turned it into an art form, and I don't see him slacking off anytime soon."

Blythe stared at her husband, angered by his harsh words, even though he'd done what he could to insert a humorous slant into it. She knew a lot of what he'd said was true, but his rigid attitude stemmed directly from his long-time military attitude, and to her, that was unacceptable. "John, I understand what you're telling me … 'suck it up' and all that gobbledygook … but I know there's more to it than that. He has some deep-seated fear of losing his leg that we don't even know about, and I'm not so certain that he does!

"When Stacy first suggested that he allow them to do the amputation, we all saw his face turn white as a sheet at the mention of it. I've never seen him so frightened of anything before in his life. If she'd have insisted they go through with it after they put him into the coma, I'm afraid I would have ripped her face off right then and there!"

John stared at his wife, a bit startled. "You never told me that."

"No … well … I never told a lot of people a lot of things. He's my son, and I love him beyond all reason. As an adult, he has every right to choose his own destiny. He chose to keep his leg, and I respect that. It made him a cripple, and I still love him beyond all reason! To me, he's perfect just the way he is. And he knows I feel that way, because I told him." Blythe felt herself beginning to cry, in spite of all her efforts not to.

Blackjack House backed down from every vestige of military bearing at that moment. He slid across the center console and put a burly arm around his wife's bent shoulders. "I'm sorry, Blythe. I guess you think I'm an insensitive bastard sometimes."

"No," she sighed. "Not really. I never thought that. I know how difficult it was for you to see Gregg after they removed all that dead muscle … and how hard it was for you to see him again today, even more hurt than before. But he's strong, John. Strong and intelligent and very determined. Even though it pisses him off most of the time, I think he realizes that the reason the two of you can't get along for five minutes, is because you are so damn much alike! And that pisses him off even more! The more he tries to be not like you, the more like you he gets. Ironic, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess." He sat back and looked at her, smiled a tad. "You know what?"

"What?"

"I love you, woman."

"I know …"

"Let's go inside and take a look at this dump of his. Actually, I'm surprised he offered to let us stay here. Let's go in and see if he's got anything to eat in there besides peanut butter and beer …"

"Okay. He said we'd need to change the bed linens. I'm so glad he has Jimmy right there for him. I wonder how long he'll be in the hospital this time …"

"I don't know, dear. He's so goddamned skinny …"

oooooooooooooooooooo

Midnight:

James Wilson stood in the doorway of the dim hospital room, gazing at the still figure stretched out on the bed. Across the room, a TV mounted high on the wall threw a flickering light outward. The sound was muted. "House?" He called softly. "You awake?"

Gregg's head turned on the pillow and squinted to the right where his friend stood with his hands in his trouser pockets. "Wilson? What the hell are you doing back here?" The cuts on House's face didn't pull quite so much now, and it was easier for him to take in the scope of things going on around him. The light from the television cast an eerie glow across his sunken cheeks.

"I dropped Baxter off at Cuddy's place, and I wasn't tired enough to go home. I thought I'd stop by and check on you."

"Checking up on the cripple again, huh?" Gregg's voice had an edge to it; perhaps a bit annoyed at being babysat.

Wilson shrugged a little and crossed the floor to the bed in a few easy steps. "Yeah … whatever floats your boat. Would you rather I stayed away? I figured you wouldn't be asleep, and infomercials are always entertaining this time of night …"

As he spoke, Wilson checked the monitors, the IV lines, the pulse ox and the Foley. Everything looked okay. The BP and respiratory rate were up a tad and he touched the backs of his fingers to House's cheek. "Pain?"

"Some. Goes with the territory. Thought you knew that. And if you want to prowl around this place half the night, that's your prerogative. About the most you'll get to do is hang around and watch me sleep."

"… and stare at the TV."

"Yeah, that too. You took the mutt to Cuddy's?"

Wilson was surprised that his friend was even interested enough to ask. "Yeah. She says he can crash there until you decide what you want to do about him."

House frowned; glowered up into Wilson's face. "Why would I want to do anything about him? I don't want a damn dog. Don't have time for one … or space. What's he gonna do … hook up to my freakin' wheelchair and pull me around town? 'Awww … look at the cripple and his helper dog!' Poor me!"

"Oh, you're in a good mood tonight, aren't you?" Wilson said calmly. This was the House he knew; the House he was used to, even if it wasn't quite the House he loved like a brother.

"I feel like I've been pulled through a knothole backwards …"

"I'm not surprised. You're going to hurt for awhile …"

"Like that's a brand new experience for me. Jesus, Wilson! Where you been for the past seven years?"

"Now you're whining. I like you better when you're pissed off."

"I am pissed off!"

"I would never have guessed." He pulled the visitor's chair up to the bedside, sat down and took House's broken hand carefully between both of his own while House continued to glower. "Give me a number on the pain scale for this!" He said. He ran experienced fingers up House's forearm to the elbow, checking for heat and swelling. "Skin feel tight? Any prickling sensation? Knuckles thumping? Come on, House. You may as well tell me. If you don't, I'll call one of the nurses …"

"You wouldn't!" House drew his hand away just as carefully as Wilson had picked it up. It was out of the sling again and he'd started to cradle it gingerly in the bend of his opposite elbow.

"Watch me!" Wilson made to get out of the chair and aim in the direction of the telephone.

"Jesus! You are a bothersome son of a bitch!"

"Yeah, I know. I learned the knack from this big jerk that I have to deal with every day of my damned life. Now give me a number!"

"Six, dammit! It hurts, but if an infection was starting, I'd know it."

Wilson nodded and sat down again. "That's better. I have no doubt it hurts like hell, and I'm sorry, okay? Tell me about your leg."

A glare: he was still suspicious of being patronized. Deathly afraid of it … even from his best friend. "The usual … times two."

"I can massage the adductors if you like … and the hamstrings … might help with your pain a little."

"You looking to get into my pants, Jimmy?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Oh sure! Here in the hospital … in the dead of night. Guy-porn in the glare of late-night TV!" The sarcasm was total and blatant.

House grinned smugly; flinched away from another stab of pain. "Fuck!" He grunted as it let go again, and expelled a breath through puffed cheeks. "Was there a yes-or-no answer in there somewhere?"

"Would you like me to help you try to get rid of some of your pain? Or not?"

"Yeah. Hurts like hell …"

"I know it does." The deep brown eyes softened.

Wilson removed the pillow from beneath House's bandaged leg and extended his hands with extreme care, palms upward, in the place where the pillow had been. Gently he massaged the cramped adductors and hamstrings, working from the center outward. The comparison between muscle structures of both his friend's legs was striking now. Even with the new bandages in place, he could see the discrepancy above and below the right knee in the flickering light. He stared sadly. The hollow in the flesh where the large quadriceps muscle had been stood out like a moon crater, with only the swelling from the most recent injury rounding the edges.

House's head pressed hard into the pillow, eyes clenched shut, half in pain, half in tortured relief. He knew James was staring at the leg and accepted it as payment for the massage. Or maybe he simply didn't give a shit. He couldn't decide.

Wilson backed off the pressure and eased out from under, returned the pillow to its place beneath House's knee. "Any better?"

House's left fist was still clenched at his side. Consciously he released it, relaxed, and opened his eyes. "Oh yeah …" He couldn't go on.

"You're welcome."

Wilson brushed his hand affectionately across House's shoulder before backing off and returning to the chair. "I talked to your folks just before they left to go to your place. They were surprised you suggested they stay there. You're probably going to find your pantry fully stocked with groceries and supplies when you get discharged and go home. I'm telling you now, in case you get back there and decide to go off on them for interfering …"

"Yeah … well … they won't get any argument from me for bringing in the food. But if I go home and find everything polished to a high sheen that hurts my eyes, then you'll hear me all the way to Hoboken!"

oooooooooooooooooooo

12:30 A. M.

The night was too warm for a sweater, so she sat on the top step of her back porch in just the sleeveless sun dress she had worn to work. She'd kicked her shoes off in the kitchen awhile ago and padded around in stocking feet while digging around in the cupboard for something salty. She finally settled on a bag of stale Doritos and pulled off the snap clothes pin she used to seal the bag.

A tall green bottle of Heinekin clinked against a line of others just like it on the top shelf of the fridge. She snicked off the top and tossed it in the trash, then picked up the Doritos and the beer and pushed open the screen door.

"You know, if you'd move over a little, there'd be room for both of us down here," she said softly, taking her first pull from the Heinekin.

The soft body beside her looked pointedly at the bottle of beer and then transferred his interest to the bag of corn chips in her lap. He moved a few inches to his right and resettled himself with a quiet grunt. His attention never wavered from the chip bag.

Lisa reached in for a fistful of the chips and tossed one into her mouth; crunched on it. Placed a small pile on the porch floor between herself and the dog, and it disappeared in a flash of canines and a pink tongue. "You like those, huh?"

The soft brown eyes looked at her with avid interest. His attention snapped between her hand and the bag like a camera in stop-motion.

I'll take more of those … if you're giving them away …

Cuddy laughed softly. "Too much people-food isn't good for dogs," she said. "Didn't your Mama teach you anything?"

I dunno what a "mama" is …but can't I have some more of those? Huh? Huh?

Cuddy took another swig on the beer, then dug back into the chip bag. She munched on one and placed the second pile in the same spot on the porch floor.

Slurrp … Crunch-crunch … Thanks! More?

His ears were working back and forth eagerly. He licked his chops and extended a bewhiskered muzzle toward the bag she'd already begun to roll up.

Awww … Jeeez!

He reminded her a little of Gregory House when the goody bag was empty, and she laughed to herself at that thought.

"You don't need anymore, Bax. So stick your bristly face over in the other direction. Boy! You are some greedy little grizzly bear, aren't you? You and House should get along just fine … that is after someone convinces him he wants you. The two of you look a little alike … you know? Of course his eyes are blue … and yours are … what? Black? Brown? But you do have a face full of white whiskers. Some of his are white too … and getting whiter all the time."

She sighed, smiling slightly. She was rambling on in idle fashion, giving voice to random thoughts she'd been burying lately. Gregg was looking older and more pained as the years went by. She wondered vaguely what might be in store for him now. "He's becoming so … fragile …"

Are you talking to me? Who are you talking about? Why'd you put the food away?

Baxter shoved his cold wet nose under the crook of her elbow and nudged upward, but she lifted her arm higher than he could reach, and the bag with it. He looked away, blinking, obviously disappointed.

"He really could use a friend to talk to … bitch at … someone like you, who wouldn't talk back to him … would accept him for who he is and love him unconditionally without trying to change him. Wilson is good at that … he has something deep inside that absorbs all House's meanness and then chews it up and spits it out. Wilson throws all of House's sarcastic remarks right back in his face, but he doesn't try to change him. But Wilson has a job to do and can't be with him every minute.

"You don't have a job though, do you, Bax? You could be at his side twenty-four hours a day. Yeah, House could really use someone like you. Do you think you could convince him you're indispensable? Dr. Wilson thinks you could. He told me!

"I feel a little sad for Dr. Wilson sometimes. He tries so hard. It's a difficult job being Gregory House's best friend. Thankless. House tries to push him away just as he pushes everyone else away. House doesn't trust people anymore. Stacy ruined that for him, I think. He was very much in love with her once. Now he can't love anyone. Well … guess I shouldn't say 'anyone' … not after what I saw today. Maybe nothing will ever come of it … I don't know. It would be wonderful for both of them if it did …

"Oh shut up, Lisa! You're babbling! Right, Bax?"

Who? Me? Oh yeah, I can be everybody's buddy … I can I can I can! Want me to bark? I can. Want me to whine? Look cute or pathetic? I can do that too. Want me to lick your face? Oh … I can! And I can listen and listen and listen to anything you want to say …

Baxter's eyes were bright, glistening like dark coals in the quiet night. His ears flicked back and forth and his head tilted from side to side. His tongue lolled and he looked as though he was hanging on her every word and forming thoughts of his own.

Lisa put her arm lightly across Baxter's shoulders and sat there with him on the top step of her back porch, as though they were dear friends catching up on old times.

Presently she upturned the green Heinekin bottle to let the last few drops spill out on the ground.

They went inside together, and when Lisa Cuddy went to bed at last, Baxter laid down with a contented grunt, right beside her bed.

oooooooooooooooooooo

Gregg's shower had "handicap" support bars built into it. The bathtub had an EZ-Access door. His bathroom was clean and clear of all obstructions, but when Blythe stood beneath the hot water of the huge shower head, she wept silently at all the room's implications. All the special installations were subtle. No one who visited this bathroom for a few minutes would realize, on the surface, that the room was designed to accommodate someone who had full use of only one leg.

To Blythe, however, it blared "CRIPPLE!"

She and John had taken the fifty-cent tour of the apartment when they'd dropped their luggage inside the front door. It was Spartan in décor; Earth tones and heavy leather and distinctly male accoutrements. Decorated with a flair for the artistic element, and crammed with books of all descriptions, it spoke of organized chaos and a flair for the dramatic.

The baby grand in the corner was polished to a high sheen and meticulously maintained.

It was obviously the focal point of the room, and announced proudly that Gregory House was still much more than a cripple!

There were a few small stacks of sheet music scattered about, but they both knew Gregg played mostly by ear, and had a fondness for adding his own embellishments to any piece of music that happened to fall beneath his talented fingers. His piano style was playfully distinctive and soothing to the ear. Or raucous and lively as the artist at the keyboard!

Even now, Blythe could hear him and see him in her mind, although she hadn't heard him play in years … and the image comforted her. He was so talented. So accomplished. So beautiful.

So tortured.

The compact kitchen crammed a lot of state-of-the-art equipment into a relatively small space. The one thing they noticed right away, and commented upon, was the fact that almost everything was installed within arms reach of the butcher-block table in the center of the room. The small table by the window had seats for two; four if you pulled it away from the wall a tad.

On the rare occasions when Gregg chose to prepare a meal, he could reach almost everything he needed by moving only a few steps in either direction. When they came across a wheeled stool pushed discreetly beneath the counter in one corner, they realized he didn't even have to do that.

A small utility room off the kitchen held a stacked washer and dryer, a folding table and a deep mop sink. The place wasn't big, but it was certainly well-contained.

The only mess they found was in the bedroom. Clothing was piled haphazardly on every surface. Even atop the TV, and a loose shirtsleeve hung down across the screen. The bed was in wild disarray, blankets and sheets twisted; pillows many and scattered. There were as many at the foot of the bed as there were at the head. Blythe and John looked at each other sadly. The two huge goose-down pillows at the foot of the bed were there, obviously, to cushion his leg. In that instant, his disability slammed back to rock them both and remove any illusions of normality they might have hoped for.

In the cluttered closet, a pair of tall aluminum crutches hung readily accessible on a hook on the back of the open door. Just in case.

John and Blythe did the "military" thing. They policed the area. In a half hour, the dirty clothing had been placed in a hamper and carted to the utility room. The bed had been made up with fresh sheets they found on the closet shelf, and a half dozen pairs of gaudy running shoes were placed neatly on the closet floor. They took care not to touch any of Gregg's personal items. They only cleaned up the mess.

Before they snapped off the bedside light, John turned to his wife and said to her softly: "If I had one wish that I knew would be granted …"

"What, dear?"

"I'd ask that he be healthy again …"

oooooooooooooooooooo

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