Julie sat curled quietly on the couch for the better part of the evening, a study of a contemplative recluse. I knew the look in her face warned not to prod, but the silence was crushing the room like it was a piece of paper to be crinkled. With House, I'd grown used to conversation, even if it was rambling, nonsensical jargon.
I realized I missed the noise.
I offered her a drink, but she shrugged it off, saying she felt a bit nauseous. I brought back a warm towel for her head, but within minutes it was cooling to a puddle on the coffee table. She sighed, wrapping her arms around her legs as she drew her knees to her chin.
She looked like a crumpled ballerina.
"How did you know where to find me?" I asked eventually. My self-conscious fingers yearned for something to distract them, so I poured two small glasses of whiskey, though I knew only one of us would be touching it. She drank sparingly, if at all. Holidays, mostly; and then, only grape wine. We'd had that at the wedding, and near the end of the night, she'd accidentally spilled some on herself. The hem of the gown was speckled in purple, as if it were sprouting mauve forget-me-nots. We'd tried to get it dry-cleaned and remove the stain, but to no success.
She later told me it was an adornment, not a stain; it was a brilliant splash of color to the ordinary.
When had our marriage reverted back to being ordinary?
Her voice trailed off quietly, taking avenues of weariness to get there. "I figured you'd be at Greg's."
She never called him House. I guess she figured "House" would have been a term of respect. Greg was much more sharp and personal. "House" was disliking a reputation. "Greg" was having a reason to.
Through all our years together, that reason still escaped me. Well, he'd been his typical, caustic self on a few occasions, but I'd warned Julie beforehand. It amazed me how she could deal with her friends' husbands' chauvinism or dull-wittedness, but she absolutely despised House's wry humor.
There you go. Women. They hate men who are smart enough to annoy them.
"How long have you been living here?"
"Since the divorce," I replied, and was amazed at how easily the reference slid out of my mouth, bereft of sarcasm or hurt or anger. Divorce. It was another word of the English language, a simple two syllables, a negligible noun in so many respects.
I swallowed down the whiskey and poured myself another.
Julie watched me from overtop of her knees. "How much longer do you plan on being here?"
"I… I don't really plan on anything, actually."
She tilted her head back skeptically, probably remembering every overly-attentive list I'd made regarding this thing that had to be done, or that phone call that had to be made, or this specific item on that particular list.
"You don't have any idea?"
"Well, I've looked, but…" I shrugged. "House isn't kicking me out, so."
"He wants you here?"
I shrugged again and waited for the conversation to morph into something else. Maybe it could sprout wings and fly off in another whole direction. I idly studied the mellow green walls, thinking how incredibly bizarre it was to have her sitting right across from me, the unsaid betrayal between us like an old friend who kept getting in the way.
"Did you love him?" I broke in suddenly.
She stared at me with that cool composure that always left me grasping for a conversational foothold. It's easy to trap someone in a corner when they're already running around in circles, defensive. Julie never got defensive. She just said what was on her mind, what she felt, and that was it. She forced the impetus to act back at the provoker, and made the other commit the error.
She was a lot like House in that way, I realized.
"I loved how I felt," she replied shortly.
"And how did you feel?"
She gazed at me for a long time, as if she hadn't heard me. She lowered her legs and wrapped her arms securely around her middle, never breaking my gaze.
"I felt free."
"Mm. That's good." I took another sip of the whiskey and thought it strange I couldn't taste it anymore. "That's the idea of marriages, you know. That freedom."
"James. Don't be like this."
"I can't help it," I murmured. And I couldn't. It was selfish, I know. She'd come to me in time of desperation, and I'd opened the door for her; but I couldn't close the window on what she'd done, either. Her bruises may have been evident, but mine were just as painful below the surface.
"You can't tell me you weren't seeing other people, too," she retorted quietly.
"I was not."
She raised an eyebrow, just barely. "I find that hard to believe."
"Well, you never trusted me. Why should that change now?"
Julie looked away, wincing, and at first I thought it had been something I said, but she rose and went to the bathroom soon after. As I placed my empty whiskey glass in the sink and poured her untouched glass down the drain, I listened but heard no crying, only the sound of a brief cough, some water, and the toilet flushing.
She'd taken the salve from where I'd set it on the sink and was twisting around, trying to figure out how to bend her arms to reach the marks on her back. I watched from the kitchen for a while until I felt frustrated enough to offer to do it for her. She glanced at me like I was another person who'd suddenly appeared in the house, then slowly nodded.
I warmed the salve between my hands, rubbing it in my palms before I applied it to her reddened back. Her spine rippled faintly below fields of ivory skin. The hazel-colored birthmark still adorned the curve of her shoulder; I noted it significantly, as if there'd been a chance it might have disappeared.
Julie twisted her head halfway to peer over her shoulder best she could. "How's it look?"
"Good."
Strands of blonde hair wisped across her eyes as she glanced up into my face. Her nose crinkled with one of those half-smiles she's so deft at making. "You're a horrible liar."
"I'm not lying," I protested, offering a smile. I was surprised it found its way to my face, that I hadn't left it stranded. Gently, I smoothed in the lotion, which caught the gleam of the dresser lamp and made it seem as if she were doused in shimmering light. A few goosebumps pricked up along her back, and I kept the next squirt of salve in my hand longer, making sure that this time it was warm enough.
She shivered a bit anyway.
I took the couch and convinced her to take the bed. She asked if Greg had taught me to play anything on the piano, but I replied that he was far too advanced for me. She tossed back a look as if to say she doubted both our capabilities, then replaced the skepticism with a small, grateful smile as she crawled into bed.
She slept with the light on, something I couldn't ever remember her doing.
-----------------------------------------
House. House, are you up?
I'm omnipotent, remember? I don't have to sleep. And I guess you don't, either.
Julie's been up and down all night. Walking around the bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen.
She's in an unfamiliar house. She's scared. What, were you expecting her to curl up at your feet like a puppy and be fine immediately?
I don't know what I was expecting. I don't know what to do for her.
That's what Dr. Phil is for, not Dr. House. Pull yourself together, James. You're embarrassing me.
I think I'm going to go talk to her. Women like that.
You're the expert.
Thanks… I think. But usually the women I deal with weren't previously married to me.
You mean usually the women you deal with can't see through your bullshit.
It is not b.s.
Does 'DHA' ring a bell?
I mean it. I'm concerned. I used to love her, remember?
And what she feels for you… Is that past tense yet, too?
I'll talk to you later, House.
----------------------------------------------------
I sat at the end of the bed, while she stayed seated upright, House's pillow cushioning her back against the headboard. She stared emptily out into the dim light between us. I waited for her to say something, and I waited for something intelligent to float to my lips if she didn't talk first.
We waited for each other, something we hadn't done in years.
"How many women have you loved, James?" she asked abruptly.
I must have looked startled, because she relaxed, knowing she did not have to be the nervous one. That was my responsibility now.
"I don't mean how many women have you slept with. I mean how many have you cared about? That you didn't necessarily sleep with?"
"Romantically cared about?" I asked.
She waited, which I assumed constituted as a nod.
A few faces fluttered through my head, though most names evaded me. A few laughs, a couple touches, a fair share of attraction. What did she expect me to say? That she'd been the only one?
That wasn't a reasonable demand, and she knew it. Because I knew it wasn't a reasonable demand to make of her, either.
"In second grade, there was this girl with pigtails…" I started slowly.
She laughed softly, and I felt like someone who had finally managed to coax a sound out of a neglected, rusted instrument. It was if I'd resuscitated life into someone long cold.
Still, there was a tenseness to her body that indicated she was still waiting for a real answer. I shifted back so I could rest up against the headboard as well, on my usual side of House's bed, while she stayed an arm's length away on the other.
"I don't know," finally admitted. "I don't write these things down; I don't keep track. Sometimes it's a fleeting thing. Sometimes it stays with me."
"What was I?"
I stared down where the mattress cover was separating slightly from the actual mattress, exposing the off-white pattern beneath the stark blue sheets.
"Something in between."
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her nod slightly. Her fingers brushed along her abdomen absentmindedly, and she tilted her head back, letting her blonde locks fall like a river's cascade over the angular, rocky landscape of her shoulders.
"James."
"Hmm?"
"I… I haven't been honest with you."
I chuckled shortly. Sometimes, I think House's defensive sarcasm wears off on me. She kept staring off, talking aloud to herself more than me.
"He… he never hit me before."
"I figured when I saw the bruises," I conceded. "They're new."
She shook her head. "You don't understand. It was my fault. He had to hit me this time."
I leaned forward, angered at the thought. "Jules. Look at me. No one deserves to be hit. You didn't do anything to deserve this."
"No." She kept shaking her head, which struck me as maddening. Her eyes were swollen, glazed but somehow refrained from crying again. Crying was something she did at birthday parties and family get-togethers, or when I came home with long-stemmed roses just for the hell of it. Crying was something she desperately tried to avoid, associating it with weakness.
She was not weak. She was… She was beautiful. With or without me, she was.
"But I did deserve it," she whispered, almost inaudibly. "You don't know, James. You don't understand."
"Tell me," I urged. I took her hand and pressed it comfortingly between mine. "Make me understand. I want to help you."
She was seeing something pure and bright in her mind's eye, something concealed from my vantage point.
I waited. She waited. We miraculously waited for each other.
She lifted my hand to her lips and kissed my knuckles, like how the sun casts itself in ribbons of light upon each ripple of city skyscrapers as I drive into work each morning. I froze.
"I want to tell you and I don't."
I stared expectantly at her, unmoving.
"Then tell me." My voice strained with insistence.
She let my hand go, like releasing a bird from her palm, and then softly wished me goodnight only.