Four points of view on a bad January day.
JANUARY
JULIE
Julie eased the door open and listened for the warning rumbles of another fight starting in the other bedroom. It sounded quiet enough, so she stepped out and down the hall into the great room.
She poured herself a cup of coffee, then popped two slices of bread in the toaster. She heard Stacy's voice coming from the guest room and took a breath, waiting for the explosion she was sure would follow. She wondered if maybe she should take her breakfast back to her bedroom, but decided against it. It was her house, and she was getting tired of hiding out in her room.
Julie turned reached for her coffee cup and saw James' favorite mug sitting on the counter. She looked at the ring on her finger. The diamond was simple, but the setting exquisite. "Our room," she said to herself and smiled. "Our house."
"I'll tell you why!" Greg's voice blasted out from the guest room and she jumped, the smile gone now. She glanced over at the bedroom door, just off from the kitchen. It was still closed. "Because the last time I signed off on one of your legal papers didn't turn out so well for me!"
Julie gripped the edge of the counter and sighed. She had hoped this morning might be a quiet one, but no luck there. Again.
Four days of this now, Julie thought to herself, and every day it got worse. Stacy had called James for help before sunrise on Sunday, telling him that the pipes had burst at their condo. James had dressed quickly and headed out into the cold and dark. Within a few hours, he was on the phone, saying he had offered to let Greg and Stacy stay with them until repairs were finished.
"I'm sorry," James said. He was calling from the hospital, where he'd taken Greg for a quick checkup -- something to do with his knee. "I know I should have checked with you first ... "
"Don't be ridiculous," Julie told him. "This is your house too now. Besides, I would have really been upset if you'd sent them off to a hotel instead."
"Thanks," he said. "I love you."
She cleared out space in the spare bedroom. James had stashed boxes of his things there when he moved in two weeks earlier, and Julie carried some of them out to the living room and into the garage to clear an area around the bed.
James had shown up before noon with Greg. Stacy, he told her, would be heading over once she got things squared away at the condo.
Greg was hunched down on crutches, standing just inside the bedroom door, glaring at James. Julie had seen him on the crutches before, but he'd somehow seemed more confident on them just a few months ago. Now he looked tired and moved slowly. He even seemed older -- almost frail. Julie suddenly understood why it was James sometimes seemed so overly protective of him.
"I thought you were taking me home," Greg said.
James gave Julie a kiss and took a pillowcase from her hand. "That's what I like to call this place." He grabbed one of the pillows and shoved it into the pillowcase. Julie resisted the urge to straighten the pillow inside the cotton covering once he put it down.
"My home," Greg said.
"Come on, House, not again. We've been over this ..."
"A hotel then. Four stars ought to do it, and the insurance will pick up the costs."
James shook his head. He looked tired. "Stacy and I agreed this would be best ..."
"I don't care about what Stacy wants."
"House..." James rubbed one hand across his face. Julie was glad it was Sunday. She hoped his patients would all have good days and let him have the rest of the day off. She wanted to tuck him into bed and let him sleep for hours. She wished she could shield him from worries about his patients and Greg long enough to let him sleep.
"Just lie down before you fall down," James said. Julie looked at Greg again. His arms were shaking, even with the support of both crutches, rather than the cane. There was a bulge around his knee, under the jeans, that she guessed was from a brace of some kind. She realized she was staring at it and looked up to see Greg glaring at her.
"We'll argue about it later, all right?" James was saying.
Greg didn't agree, but he did move stiffly toward the bed. James helped ease him down then kneeled down to begin working at the shoe laces.
"Don't." Greg was staring at the floor, paying no attention to James. "I'll manage."
Julie saw James look at Greg, then turn to look at her. "Honey, do you think you could get me some coffee?" Julie turned her attention away from Greg and to James who was still on his knees in front of the bed. "If it's not too much trouble."
"Sure. I'll make a fresh pot." She looked at Greg again and gave him a smile. "What about you, Greg. Want some coffee?"
He didn't say anything.
"He's good, thanks." James stood and kissed her cheek. He smiled and turned back toward House as she headed into the kitchen.
"You're a pathetic liar, Wilson," she heard Greg say just before she pulled the door closed.
Now it was Thursday, and James had headed out without breakfast or coffee again. This morning the emergency call had come from the hospital, a problem with one of his patients. Julie was only half-awake as he gave her a quick kiss and was gone.
She hated seeing him work so hard, but was glad he hadn't been here for this morning's fight. The past few days had been tough on him. Sometimes they could hear the arguments start at night as they lay in bed, and James would just pull her close and hold her tightly.
"Don't you dare pull that crap on me just because I don't sympathize with whatever this insane death wish of yours is all about!" Stacy's voice this morning was nearly as loud as Greg's. Julie was surprised at the level of anger she heard, though not surprised that Greg could bring it out in her. "Why can't you just do something smart for once?"
"What, you mean do something the way you'd do it? Fine. Let me just see if I can figure out the best way to screw your life over and leave you in constant pain!"
Stacy's voice was quieter, but when she finally answered it still rang through the empty rooms. "You already have," she said.
A moment later, Julie heard the bedroom door open, then slam shut. Julie saw Stacy's shadow dart across the hall, looking up toward her just briefly before she closed herself off in the bathroom. She could hear her crying, then the sound of water rushing out of the faucet.
Julie tossed the rest of her coffee into the sink and decided to stop on the way to school for some coffee at the new Starbucks near the mall. She checked her watch. She had plenty of time. Maybe she'd grab a cup to take to James on her way in to work. She took her coat from the closet and walked into the garage, locking the door behind her.
----------------
STACY
"Damn you, Greg," Stacy whispered to herself. She had spent the past ten minutes fighting to get her emotions back under control, feeling the heat from the tears in her eyes as she lost control once more.
She ran a washcloth under the cold water and pressed it to her eyes. She tried to take comfort from the cool, thick cotton, but instead bit back another sob.
Stacy had been wondering when Greg would finally turn on her, finally turn all that rage, anger and venom in her direction. Turns out all it took was a piece of paper.
She had been after him for days to sign the affidavit so Lisa could move ahead with Nelson's disciplinary hearing. Stacy wanted to file a malpractice claim against the man for screwing up Greg's original diagnosis -- as well as the followup. She had told Greg she'd quit her work at the hospital so she could represent him, but Greg wouldn't agree to legal action. He wouldn't say why, but Stacy suspected it was because he was too damned stupid and too damned stubborn and too damned full of pride to admit that he shouldn't have paid attention to Nelson's diagnosis in the first place.
So when Lisa came up with the alternative earlier this month of at least getting Nelson before a review committee, Stacy had hoped that this, at least, would be a way to punish the man who had messed up their lives -- Greg's and hers.
Stacy had turned over Nelson's representation for the hearing to an outside counsel. Lisa and James helped her write up Greg's statement when he kept making excuses to avoid it. She presented him with a copy of it on Saturday.
Greg wouldn't even read it. "No," he said, when she asked him to sign it.
"Why not? You know he's a lousy doctor, I know he's a lousy doctor, Lisa knows he's a lousy doctor -- everyone knows. But he's got tenure, and Lisa's not going to be able to convince the board to revoke it unless she's got something from the review board -- unless you've changed your mind about the malpractice ..."
"No." Greg turned on one of his video games.
"For God's sake, Greg, just sign the damn thing. You won't have to say a thing. No testimony, nothing. Just let me take care of everything."
He stared up at her, but said nothing and then turned back to his game.
"Greg, you're the one who complains about how incompetent boobs should be taken out and shot. Why would you stop me from getting rid of this one?"
"If he hasn't figured out yet that he's useless, my saying so won't change his mind," Greg said. "And I'm sure Cuddy will find another way to get rid of him. She has ways of getting what she wants."
Stacy gave up for the time being and left the paperwork on the coffee table in front of him. "Just think about it, OK?" Greg didn't look at the papers or agree to anything, just kept playing.
On Sunday Greg woke her a little after 4 a.m. with the news that the bathroom had flooded. He was holding a flashlight and the light skittered across the walls as he stepped back to give her room. She pushed the covers back and noticed it was cold. She reached over to turn on the light.
"Power's out," Greg said.
"What did you do now?" Stacy asked. She took the flashlight from his hand. His fingers felt cold and damp.
"I didn't do anything," Greg protested. Stacy grabbed her robe from the hook on the closet door. "I woke up and heard the water."
She shone the light into the bathroom. The walls and floor were wet. She could see water dripping down from a crack in the ceiling.
"I called the emergency number for maintenance," Greg said. "Sounds like there's a problem all over the building. They were going to shut off the main lines coming in."
He walked down the hall to the closet. She could hear him rummaging through the boxes. A minute later he was back with another flashlight. The light coming from it was dim compared to the Maglite she carried and he shook it a few times. "Batteries are low. Do we have any extras?"
"Are you suggesting we just sit here in the cold and dark -- with no water?" Stacy shone the light over toward the bathroom. "Except what's on the floor, that is."
"You have any better suggestions?" Greg walked back into the bedroom and Stacy followed him after one last look at the flooded bedroom. She tied back one of the curtains while he pulled out a pair of jeans from the bottom dresser drawer.
"Oh,I don't know -- how about we find someplace warm, with power and water?"
Greg closed the drawer, then opened another and took out an old blue sweatshirt.
"There's no power," he said, and sat on the edge of the wooden chair James had placed next to the dresser.
"Yes," Stacy said. "I figured that out, what with the no heat and no lights."
"And no elevator," Greg said.
"So we take the st..." Her voice faded off as she saw the surprised look on Greg's face. He was half undressed, his pajama pants pooled at his ankles. His leg was bare, the scar white in the glare from her flashlight beam. She lowered the light to the floor.
He pushed the flannel pajamas past his feet, then grabbed the jeans, slowly guiding his right foot through the leg. He stood for a moment, pulled the denim up, then sat again.
"So you go," he said. "I'll stick around here and keep an eye on things."
"Greg, you can't stay here by yourself."
"Why not?" He pulled on the sweatshirt. The maize Michigan block M stood out bright against the darkness in the rest of the room. "You've had no problems leaving me on my own before."
"Greg..." Stacy began, but clenched her jaw and turned away. She had enough problems on her hands just now without playing into Greg's self-pity. The room seemed to be getting colder and she walked into the closet to dig out something warm. "It's freezing in here. What are you going to do, just sit in the cold and freeze to death?"
"Highly unlikely I'll freeze in 60 degrees." Greg's voice was slightly muffled by the closet walls. "In some regions, that's downright balmy."
"Not this one."
"Besides, I can start a fire."
"We're out of wood," Stacy countered. She reached up onto a shelf and found a favorite wool sweater.
"I'll wear a hat." Greg's voice had taken on that whining tone that Stacy hated. She grabbed a pair of lined nylon warm-up pants in addition to the sweater and pulled them on under her robe.
"Well, how long do they think these repairs are going to take?" She walked back into the bedroom. Greg was still sitting on the chair. He made a motion, but in the dark she couldn't make out what it was.
"Greg?" She tied back the curtain at the other window and looked outside. The street lights were out near the building, but she could see light coming from the far end of the block. The full moon added a little light to the room.
"I don't know," he said. "I don't know if they know, but how long could it take to turn one water valve to the off position?"
"That doesn't fix the walls, or the ceiling or the pipes or the heat," she said. Stacy heard the faint ring of her cell phone coming from the living room.
"I gave them your number," Greg said.
The person on the other end of the line said he was asking residents to gather in the lobby in fifteen minutes so he could provide the information to everyone at once.
"What, he's too important to come up here himself?" Greg grumbled as Stacy got dressed.
"There are twenty units in this building," Stacy said. "It's more efficient this way."
Greg just grunted.
He wasn't any happier when Stacy returned with word that the emergency repairs would take most of the day -- and that was just for the main line. Pipes like the one crossing through the bathroom could take up to a week to fix.
"And I suppose Mr. Fixit had the perfect solution to what we should do in the meantime?"
"Leave," Stacy said.
"Hate to get into the habit of repeating myself, Stacy, but, no power, no elevator. I'm not going anyplace."
"You don't have any choice."
"Sure I do," Greg said. "This is me. Making a choice."
Stacy sat down next to him on the couch. The remains of the newspaper recycling bag were burning down to embers in the fireplace.
"I talked to him about that," she said softly. "He offered to have a couple of his guys come up and ..."
"No." Greg pushed himself up and stomped back into the bedroom. "Not going to happen."
"Greg, be reasonable," Stacy said. "You can't stay here."
"And I'm not being hauled down like a piece of luggage," he said.
"They aren't going to carry you, just ... well how did you manage the stairs at my Mom's place?"
Greg turned, stared down at her. "You weren't paying attention?"
"Believe it or not, Greg, I had other things on my mind." Stacy shook her head. She'd always hated the way he thought of himself as being the center of attention -- even, apparently, during her mother's funeral.
He stared at her a moment longer, then turned away. "Wilson helped me, but that was just one level." He sat on the edge of the bed.
"And you're stronger now than you were then." She sat next to him and put her hand on his left leg. "It's only one way -- down, not up. I know you can do it."
Greg looked down at the handle of the cane under his hand, then over at her. "I think this is the point where Knute Rockne is supposed to give the 'Win one for the Gipper' speech," he said.
"Knute's not here," she said. "And you hate Notre Dame."
They made it down the first set of stairs and to the landing marking the halfway spot between the second and third floors fairly smoothly, if a bit slow, Stacy thought. She had positioned herself on Greg's left side, helping to support his arm braced on the cane, one hand under his armpit, the other in front. He leaned heavily on the banister on the right.
She remembered how Greg used to run the stairs for exercise during bad snowstorms, and how he'd sometimes race the elevator up to their floor. If it didn't make any other stops, she'd win, and stand there waiting to see the look on his face as he'd burst out the door. Those times it made a stop on the second floor, she'd emerge to see him waiting for her, breathing heavily, but claiming he'd been waiting for at least five minutes.
Now he made her stop once on the next set of stairs, saying he needed to catch his breath. The second time he made her stop because he said he felt off balance.
He said he needed another break when they finally made it to the landing. Stacy leaned back against the wall to wait for him. At least there was only one more floor to the lobby, and there were benches there. They weren't comfortable, but Greg could sit and wait there when she went down for the car.
She checked her pocket for her keys and made sure she had the right ones. She did, but then remembered she had left her purse upstairs -- along with her driver's license and money.
She had put the purse down on the table when she went back into the bedroom to get Greg's prescriptions. She had told him to hang onto the pills, then opened the door to wait for him. Crap, she thought, her phone was on the table too.
Greg moved slightly and she thought he was finally ready to go, but he just took off his sweatshirt and leaned back against the railing again. Stacy took it from him and thought about how she should have grabbed their coats on the way out too. It would be cold in the underground parking garage and the car always seemed to take so long to warm up.
Stacy looked back up the stairs. They hadn't gone too far, she considered. It would make sense to go back up now to grab some things. But then Greg pushed himself away from the wall and toward the stairs.
"Oh," she said. "You ready?"
He nodded.
Stacy stepped in next to him. She tried to give him an encouraging look. "I knew you could do it," she said. Greg didn't say anything, just nodded slightly and took a deep breath.
He steadied himself on the first step and Stacy tried to think of everything she'd need.
Another step down. She really didn't need the license just to go to the underground parking and bring the car around, Stacy considered. But it would be cold, and it'd be good to have her coat until the car warmed up.
Another step. He paused again.
The emergency lighting in the stairwell was dim, providing more light than their flashlights had given in the room, but the landing below them seemed dark gray in the distance.
Stacy felt Greg's arm shake slightly and she tried to provide a little more support under his arm.
If she went up for her coat before going out to the car, then she could at least grab her purse and phone at the same time, Stacy considered.
Greg took another step and she could feel a steady tremble building in his arm. She tried to adjust her grip on him, but was still holding the sweatshirt in one hand. She was about to toss it to the side when Greg leaned against the wall. "Give me a minute," he said.
Stacy let go of him and draped the sweatshirt across her shoulders. She flipped her hair out of the way and realized something was missing. "Wait," she said. She touched her neck. No chain. The familiar weight of the crucifix was missing.
"Dammit," she said. Greg wiped the sweat from his face with his t-shirt and looked at her. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she said. "You ready?"
He shook his head. "Not yet. Just a minute."
She looked up the landing above her her. A minute was all she needed.
"Listen, " she said. "I need to run back upstairs for something. You're good here, right?"
"What?" Greg's eyes widened, though he hadn't moved from the wall. "Can't it wait?"
"It'll be easier to head back up now," she said.
"Stacy ..." Greg said, but she was already heading up and passing the door leading to the second floor. "Stacy!"
"Be right back!" she shouted back down and reached for the door to the third floor.
Stacy unlocked the door and stepped back inside. She grabbed her purse and phone from the table, then turned the flashlight on as she made her way down the hall and to her jewelry box. The crucifix was on top and she quickly fastened the chain around her neck. As she turned to leave, the flashlight flickered across the dresser. One of the drawers was open slightly. She stopped to close it, then reconsidered, tossed her purse and phone onto the bed and opened it instead.
No telling how long they'd be gone. Might as well pack a change of clothes while she was here. Stacy grabbed one of Greg's abandoned gym bags and tossed in some underwear for him, a few t-shirts and a pair of pajama bottoms. She pushed aside an old flannel pair he liked to wear on lazy Sundays in favor of a newer pair that would be more fit for company, just in case.
Stacy moved into the closet and grabbed a few blouses and a t-shirt for herself, then a pair of jeans. She saw Greg's button-down shirts and wondered if she should pack one for him -- but that depended on where they ended up staying. She stopped and allowed the bag to drop to the floor. "Where will we stay?" she asked out loud. She froze, unable to think of what to pack or where to stay or even begin to think about how long it would take until she was back again in her own bed.
She had a sudden thought of all the nights she'd been away from home in the past few months -- at Greg's hospital bed, at her mothers, at her parents' home.
It was too much to consider all at once. She told herself they could make better plans once they got out -- but where were they going? And what the hell was going to go wrong next?
She needed to think, but she couldn't. She wondered if more pipes would break before the morning was through, and what would be ruined next. She thought of her parents' wedding photos that she had stored in the spare room, and her mother's Christmas decorations in a box under the bed. Should she be packing those up? Would they be safe here?
Too much.
Stacy allowed herself to sink down onto the floor, her back against the open door, staring at the organized line of her slacks and dresses hanging neatly in the closet.
Too many questions.
Stacy could feel the tears begin to form and she couldn't stop a sob from coming out. She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, dropping her head down onto the nylon of her track pants.
"No more," she whispered, but she knew no one was listening. "I can't take any more," she begged. "Please."
Stacy wasn't' certain how long she cried, but when she finally stopped, she noticed she was cold again. She finally caught her breath and pushed herself up onto her feet.
She felt unsteady and reached out to hang onto a shelf until it felt like the floor was back under her feet. Stacy shook her head. She looked out into the bedroom and saw her phone lying on the unmade bed.
James told her she didn't need to apologize, just as she knew he would. He told her he'd be there in just a few minutes, just as she knew he would. He told her not to worry, just as she knew he would.
She hung up, feeling better already. She walked back into the closet and picked up the bag. She checked its contents and tossed in a few more things before placing it on the bed.
Stacy stepped carefully into the bathroom to grab some toiletries for both of them, but noticed that the puddle had spread. She didn't want to think about how much more of a mess the water would make if it went out into the hallway.
She went back to the hall closet and dug out a few of the old towels, then returned to the bathroom and spread them across the floor. She took the soaked ones and squeezed them out in the tub, repeating the process until she was sure the spill was under control.
Only then did she grab toothbrushes, deodorant and a few other things for the toiletry kit. One stop in the spare room for her makeup kit and she dropped both into the gym bag and zipped it shut.
She dropped her phone in the purse, grabbed it and the gym bag and headed out. At the closet she picked up some warm coats and finally headed out again, locking the door behind her.
Stacy could hear James' voice in the stairwell as she made her way down.
"I've got you," he was saying. "Just one more."
Stacy came around the final landing and saw James guiding Greg carefully down to sit on one of the last steps.
"Wow. It didn't take you long," she said. "I'm sorry about ..."
"Where the hell have you been?" Greg's voice was strained.
James put his hand lightly on Greg's shoulder, then walked up to meet Stacy. "I'll take care of those," he said, taking the gym bag and the coats. He sounded frustrated, like he did on long nights when he'd been in a losing battle for a patient. "Could you go upstairs and get Greg's crutches? I think he's going to need them."
"I don't want those damned things," Greg said.
James ignored him. "Please?" His voice was quiet. He sounded nearly as tired as she felt. "I'll look after things down here."
Stacy nodded and headed back up again.
Greg had refused to talk to her when she made it back down, and James didn't have much to say either. He just took the crutches and helped lead Greg outside and to his car parked at the front of the building.
Once Greg was settled, James stepped back inside where Stacy was waiting with the bags. "Why'd you leave him on the steps?"
"What?" Stacy was surprised by his tone. She wondered if James was accusing her of something. "He said he was OK. He was taking a break, so I went up to grab my ... my phone and purse."
"And I guess it just took longer than you expected, right?"
Stacy stared at him. "James, what's wrong? Did I do something ... is he all right?"
James crossed his arms and looked out the windows toward his car. He looked down at the floor, then shook his head. "He fell. Not far, I think. At least he told me it was just a couple of steps."
Stacy walked toward the door, but James put a hand on her arm. "He's OK. I think he may have strained his ACL, but I don't think it's anything serious. I called Simpson's service to have him come in and double check just to make sure."
"Ill take him in," Stacy said, but James didn't move his arm.
"I'll do it. You've got enough other things to deal with here."
Stacy sighed. "How mad is he?"
James put his hands in his pockets. "I think he's mostly pissed at himself."
"But I'm usually his second favorite target." She sat on one of the padded benches and looked up at James. "He'll probably take it out on you if I'm not there."
He shrugged. "Maybe, but I doubt it. I already promised him he could yell at Simpson for a while."
Stacy smiled a little at that. "Maybe that'll satisfy him." She looked down at her hands, then up at James again. "I swear, he told me he'd be all right for a couple of minutes. I never would have ..."
He held out his hands. "I know, and you shouldn't worry. He'll probably just get a lecture to take it easy for a while." Stacy heard a car horn outside the building. James looked out at the darkness and then grabbed the gym bag. "I'd better get going. You remember how to get to the house?"
Stacy nodded.
"OK," he said. "I'll see you there."
Greg barely spoke to her the rest of the day. She finally made it to James and Julie's place early Sunday afternoon. He was stretched out top of the comforter on the bed in the spare room, pillows under his leg. He listened to what she had to say about the time expected for the repairs., but didn't bother giving any opinions about what she should do.
When she asked whether they should have the crews repaint the bathroom a different color once they finished the plaster repairs, he just growled at her that she'd just do whatever she wanted to anyway. When she mentioned she was thinking of taking advantage of having the crews doing repairs to have them install another grab bar in the shower, he just shrugged and grabbed his crutches.
"Sure, why not. It's the latest in cripple home decor." He sat up and slowly swung himself over to the edge of the bed.
She could hear him draw in a breath when he stood up. Stacy took a step forward in case he stumbled, but didn't reach out to him. She had learned by now that he hated anyone helping him, especially when he needed help the most.
"Greg ..."
"Do whatever you want," he said, and moved off into the living room.
By Monday evening, she was hoping for a return of the silent treatment. Greg yelled when she moved his crutches for him. He cursed when she asked if he wanted her to pick up anything else for him from the condo. He bitched when she told him to keep his voice down -- that James and Julie could hear him.
Stacy was relieved when she headed in to work Tuesday morning.
"Go ahead and walk out," Greg yelled after her. "You're getting pretty good at that."
When she sat next to him on the couch Tuesday evening and tried to lay her head on his shoulder, he complained that his muscles were sore and told her to move. After dinner on Wednesday he told James in a loud voice that she was so turned off by the crutches and brace that she wouldn't even touch him.
She wasn't expecting any miracles this morning, but thought she'd give one last try at getting him to sign that damned affidavit. The peer review was scheduled for that afternoon. Lisa had said she could provide the medical evidence of Nelson's mistakes, but Stacy knew the case would be stronger with Greg's statements. But as usual, Greg didn't want to fix anything -- didn't want to do anything constructive.
The only thing Greg seemed to enjoy lately was fighting, and Stacy seemed to be his favorite opponent, whether she fought back or not.
Now she looked at herself in the mirror and fixed her makeup, hoping the redness in her eyes would fade by the time she made it to the office. Her hair was fine, her suit was acceptable. She could feel the crucifix against her skin under her turtleneck sweater and she put her hand against the slight impression of it, feeling the outline of it beneath her fingers.
She eased open the door. The bedroom door across the hall was still closed. She couldn't hear any sounds coming from inside. The kitchen was dim, one light left on over the island. She stepped out, grabbed her bag from the chair where she'd put it the night before. Greg could keep the papers. He could burn them for all she cared. They were useless anyway, just like everything else in her life.
She took her coat from the closet and let herself out the front door, locking it behind her.
-------------------
HOUSE
House had expected Stacy to slam the door even harder than she did, but she still managed to give it enough force that the mirror on top of the dresser wobbled slightly and something rattled loose in one of the boxes stacked against the wall. It sounded like glass and metal and he wondered briefly what it was.
House heard the water running in the bathroom, then heard the faucet run briefly in the kitchen. The layout of this place put the guest room right in the middle of everything: four steps to the bathroom, five to the kitchen, another five and you were in the living room. Great for cripples and voyeurs alike. He heard the back door open, then close, then the faint whirr of the garage door. So that was Julie gone.
He'd already seen Wilson leave at a few minutes past 3:30 a.m., probably because of some emergency with one of his cancer kids. House had been awake for nearly an hour, driven out of sleep and out of bed by an increasing ache in his leg. He had tried reading, but couldn't seem to concentrate on the novel. It wasn't interesting anyway, he told himself. Some lightweight piece of chick lit he'd found that he was pretty sure belonged to Julie. At least it better not belong to Wilson.
Wilson hadn't seemed surprised to see him up, and had pointed toward one of the boxes that he said contained his own books.
"Anything decent or just text books and self-help guides?" House asked.
"You're so desperate you're reading 'Bridget Jones' Diary' and yet you want to rag on me for my reading selections?"
"I don't expect much from Julie, but I've been holding out hope your brains haven't turned to mush," House said. "I'd hate to have another illusion shattered this week."
"I'm not making any promises, just offering alternatives," Wilson said and took his coat from the closet. He gave a brief wave as he walked out the back door. "See you later."
House had ended up going back to bed an hour or so later, managing to fall into a light sleep briefly before Stacy's alarm sounded. He laid there while she showered and dressed. He had nearly dozed off when she shook his shoulder and held the papers out at him and asked him again to sign.
Now she was hiding out in the bathroom. He knew how much she wanted to think that signing off on the review would somehow put an end to all the turmoil. Nelson would be gone, and she seemed to think it would give them all some kind of "closure." But there it was no good expecting anything to come to a close. Nothing had ended. Nothing would end. Signing a paper, firing a doctor -- none of it mattered.
House sat on the edge of the bed. His leg ached and his knee was stiff. He hadn't put on the brace when he first got up, and he knew that was something else Simpson would yell at him about, another example of how he failed to follow orders, how he failed to "appreciate" everything the glorious Simpson had done for him.
He reached over to the bedside table and shook out two Vicodin, swallowed them down with the last few gulps of water in the glass Stacy had placed there before she went to bed. He lifted his leg up onto the bed and lay down, listening to the sounds coming from the bathroom and waiting for the pain to ease. Gilmour was wrong, House thought -- or maybe it was Roger Waters -- the drugs may make you numb, but they were no comfort.
Sometimes it seemed like pain and drugs were becoming the only things he could rely on. During the past few months he'd grown accustomed to a steady ache coming from the remains of his thigh muscles. On good nights, it was no more than a dull murmur, something he could ignore if he woke up in the early morning hours and could even fall back asleep as long as he was tired enough. Other nights he was forced to shake out another Vicodin to settle the nerves and muscles.
The past few weeks had been even worse as the temperatures tumbled into a deep January freeze, and neither the pills nor the warm bed seemed to help. Most nights House ended up out in the living room where he could turn on the lights without bothering Stacy. Sometimes he'd pace, circling the couch as he tried to work the muscles loose. If that failed, he'd settle down in front of the TV and look for anything that could distract him. He'd tried playing the piano one time, but Stacy had come out with a bad case of bed head and nearly slammed the lid shut on his fingers.
It had been the pain that woke him on Sunday. He knew it was early, but the bedside clock was dark. The room seemed colder than normal too . He stepped carefully out into the hall and first heard the hiss of water from inside the bathroom. House took the Maglite from its spot in the hall closet and turned it on. There was water pooling on the tile floor.
He took a step into the bathroom and swung the light around, trying to find the source of the leak. There was water rolling down the walls. He could see a crack in the plaster, and when he shone the beam up at the ceiling there was another crack and a damp spot there.
He wondered if he should call the maintenance number. He wondered if there was even anyone there to take the call. If his father were there, House knew he'd be on his knees, pipe wrench in hand, bitching about how a real man knows how to fix things himself.
House had a few tools in the closet, but most of them were downstairs in the storage area in the garage, where he'd stashed them after changing the oil in Stacy's car during the summer, before everything changed.
He took another step into the bathroom. His bare foot touched cold water and he stepped back.
"Damn." House knew how slick the tile could be when it was wet. He gripped his cane tighter and stared down at the puddle again. It seemed to be growing. He took a towel off the towel bar and tossed it down. It landed with a plop and was quickly soaked through. "Damn."
He backed out of the bathroom, into the hall. He stood there staring at the floor, then turned and went into the living room, grabbing the phone from the charger. Nothing. He shook his head. Of course not. The cordless wouldn't work without power. There was a standard phone in the bedroom, but he didn't want to wake Stacy yet. She'd be pissed enough as it was.
Wait. He opened her purse and found her cell phone, fully charged. In the kitchen, he found the emergency number for building maintenance on the refrigerator, where Stacy had placed it "just in case" when he first came home. House punched in the numbers and listened to the phone ring as he walked across the living room.
He stopped in front of the door and tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder to free up one hand. He had just gotten the door unlocked and started to open it when the phone began to slip away. He grabbed for it with his right hand, but nearly dropped the cane and overcompensated when he shifted his weight onto his left leg. House stumbled slightly, then caught his balance again. He caught the phone with his left hand just as it stopped ringing.
He could just barely make out the voice on the other end of the line. "Pinnacle Management."
House leaned against the wall and held the phone up against his ear with his left hand. "This is Greg House, I'm calling from Hill Street ..."
"Yeah, we've got a couple of reports from there already," the man said. "Do you have any water in your place?"
"Bathroom," House said. He peeked out the door. The hallway was just as dark as the living room.
"OK, listen. We've got someone on the way there already, but it looks like there's a problem with the main line. We'll be shutting everything down. What's a number where we can reach you?"
House gave him Stacy's cell number and hung up.
the bathroom door he could hear the water seeping out even before he pointed the light at the tiles. The water seemed to have reached further than it was the last time he'd been there. He stepped forward and felt the cold water at his toes.
He could almost hear his father's voice, teasing him, pushing him. "What's the matter, scared you're going to fall?"
Yes, House thought. I am.
He rubbed at his thigh and wondered if it was time for a Vicodin.
Once he woke Stacy, she was full of ideas -- none of them useful. She made herself busy planning their escape while House sat on the chair, trying to ease a stubborn cramp out of his leg.
"You can't stay here," she argued, and he knew she was right. He also knew those steps -- all of them.
They looked even worse than he'd remembered as he stood at on the landing: bare concrete, sharp edges, narrow and dim in the emergency lighting. House felt like he was balanced on a ridge, unable to make out the line separating the step he was on with the one just below it. For a moment he remembered the scene in "Vertigo," watching it with Wilson, the changing focal point on the camera distorting the height of every drop. He shook his head, reminded himself he had no fear of heights and stepped down.
For a few steps, House began to believe he could make it. His leg protested, but it obeyed him. He leaned heavily on the railing to his right, the cane in his left hand with Stacy holding him tightly. He'd step down with his right leg first, then brace himself for the split second it took to hold himself up with his arms and what remained of his right leg as he stepped down with the left.
By the sixth step, though, he was cursing his overconfidence. His right leg was trembling and sending shooting pains up past his hip and into his back. He was sweating, and when they reached the landing he stopped to catch his breath and wipe off his hands. Stacy looked up at him with a smile. "I knew you could do it," she said. He just shook his head.
At the next landing he stripped off his sweatshirt and he could feel his arms shaking nearly as bad as his leg.
He tried to concentrate only on the next step and ignore the distance stretching out before him.
He tried counting down the stairs the way he used to count down the laps when he ran on the track.
Nine more steps.
Eight.
Seven. He could feel the trembling in his muscles getting worse.
Six. Too many. He tried to convince himself to take two more steps before he would allow himself to take a break.
When Stacy abandoned him, there were five steps left to the next landing, the next safe zone. He told her he needed just a minute. He wanted to sit, but wasn't certain if his shaking arms and legs would allow him to lower himself without falling.
He tried to call her back, just long enough to help him down, but she was already gone.
House closed his eyes, tried to shut out the sight of the steps left in front of him. It wasn't far. He could remember when he was a kid and he'd jump the last few steps on every flight of stairs, his Mom yelling at him to slow down as he'd hit the ground running. And he could remember how easy it once seemed to bound up these same steps three at a time.
But all that was before. Before the pain and the pills and the PT. When the worst he expected was maybe a bruise or sprain and a few days of Stacy pampering him while he grumbled and iced a sore ankle.
Now ... now here he was, trapped halfway down a short flight of stairs, unable to go back up, afraid to move forward -- and the aches and shakes in his right leg getting worse the longer he stood there.
House strained to hear the sound of Stacy's return and hissed as the damaged nerves sent another shock of pain up and into his spine.
He grabbed tight to the railing and the cane. He looked out at the wall in front of him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He looked down again at the step directly below him and lifted his right leg. He placed it on the next step down and held his breath as he shifted his weight.
His right thigh shuddered and his knee refused to hold. House fell back onto the stairs. He felt the concrete edge of one step dig into his hip as he slid down it, then another. He let go of his cane and reached over with his left hand to grab at the banister and came to a stop three steps below where he'd started, his right leg folded under him. The left had come to a rest on the landing.
House lay back and felt the cold concrete under his shirt. He let go of the railing and used both hands to straighten his right leg before it could to stiffen up under him.
He allowed his head to fall back onto the step behind him. He clenched his jaw and glared up at the ceiling. "Useless," he murmured. "Useless."
He crossed his arms over his face. His forearms were still trembling. He tried to remember what it was like before, what it felt like when shaking muscles were the sign of a hard workout, a day when he'd managed to push himself further or longer than before. When it felt good. When anything felt good. Now he was nothing but a cripple, trapped in a body that wouldn't obey him and on a flight of stairs that mocked him at every step.
Nothing was normal any more. Nothing was good.
House wasn't sure how long he lay there. He'd left his watch upstairs, but he had felt his heart rate slow. Where the hell was Stacy? He uncovered his face and tried to crane his head back to see if there was any sign of life from the floors above him. They hadn't seen anyone in the stairwell during the long time they spent coming down to this point. He guessed the other residents must have been able to make a quick exit.
But now he heard a sound from somewhere just below him -- the heavy fire door opening, and footsteps on the concrete. House felt a vague sense of relief that someone would find him there, but was even more pissed that he'd be seen like this at all.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows and could see the path of a flashlight as it bounced against the wall on the landing. Whoever it was stepped up onto the landing, and the light flashed onto House. He blinked as it rested on his face.
"House?" Wilson's voice came from beyond the end of the flashlight. House let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "You OK?"
"Peachy," House said. "You want to get that thing out of my eyes?"
"Sorry." Wilson turned the light away and sat on the stairs near House. "Stacy called me."
House clenched his teeth and lay back again. "She called you. Of course. Why on earth would she want to do something that I actually needed her to do? It's so much easier just to call someone else in to do the heavy lifting."
Wilson didn't say anything. He just sat on the steps across from House. He set the flashlight down between them, the beam pointing steadily at the wall.
"I suppose she already bitched about me slowing her down when she's got better things to do."
"She didn't say very much, actually," Wilson said. "I thought she'd be with you."
"So did I," House said quietly.
They sat quietly again for a few minutes. House could feel the trembling begin to ease, though his right leg was still screaming. He'd taken a Vicodin before they left, and knew he shouldn't take another one yet, but he found himself fingering the bottle in his pocket.
"So how bad is it up there?" Wilson said, finally breaking the silence.
"On a scale of one to five ... wet and cold."
"And to think that people talk about indoor plumbing like it's a good thing."
House knew it had to have taken Wilson at least 15 minutes to get dressed and get here after Stacy called. He wondered again how long he'd been stuck there, and just where she had gone.
"So did you manage to make it this far on your own?"
House shook his head. "The only thing I can manage on my own these days is falling on my ass. Stacy got me this far, then split."
"What do you mean she split?"
"What the word denotes. She vamoosed. Told me to take a break and ran for the hills -- or what passes for hills around here."
"House, I'm sure she didn't just ..." House glared at him. "OK, fine." He looked down at his hands for a moment, then over at House. "So how are you feeling. Tell me the truth."
House took a breath and looked down at his leg, noticed he'd been rubbing it without even thinking about it. "It feels like hell," he admitted. "And my knee's gone stiff."
"Want me to take a look?" Wilson had already moved over. He looked up at House and pushed the leg of his jeans up once House nodded.
House hissed as the material bunched up at his knee and Wilson worked it over the joint. "Sorry," he said. Wilson put his fingers gently on the kneecap and around the edges. "It's a little swollen," he said.
House nodded.
Wilson eased the denim back down and sat to the side again. "Think you're going to be able to make it down the last part?"
"I don't know," House said softly.
"I'll be here," Wilson said. "Let me take the weight. We'll get you out of here and then run you over to the hospital to have Simpson check you over."
"How about we pass on the hospital portion of that plan?"
"House, you know we need to check it." He grinned. "And this way you can interrupt Simpson's beauty sleep on a Sunday. He'll hate that."
"Just like you to find the one bright spot." House sat up.
Wilson positioned himself at House's right side as they faced the next set of stairs, allowing House to avoid putting any weight on his leg. House finally heard Stacy on the steps just as he and Wilson reached the final step. She was weighed down with bags and coats and House wondered just what she had thought he was doing the whole time she was packing.
Wilson insisted on the crutches, and he gave in because he knew Wilson was right. Wilson insisted on taking him to the hospital, and he gave in because he knew he could have done some real damage while Stacy wasted her time upstairs. Wilson insisted that they come stay with him and Julie, and he gave in because he was just too tired and miserable to come up with any alternatives.
Now he was laying in a bed that wasn't his, in a room that wasn't his and in a place that wasn't home.
House looked around at the boxes and bags stacked against the wall. He recognized the dresser from James' old place. There were framed movie posters leaning against the shelves at the far end of the room. He noticed that the water had stopped running. He heard Stacy's steps cross the floor -- from the bathroom, down the hall and out into the great room. He finally heard the door open, then close behind her.
He rolled over and wondered if he could get back to sleep. He could still see the papers lying on the floor where he'd thrown them. Stacy kept pushing them at him, telling him that he should sign them, let Cuddy run her disciplinary hearing so he could put it all behind him and they could all focus on the future. He felt another twinge from his leg and he reached down to massage it.
Move forward? How the hell did she think that was going to happen?
--------------------
WILSON
Wilson stretched his arms up over his head as he tried to work out the knot that had tightened up behind his left shoulder blade. A faint winter sun had broken through the clouds and shone briefly on the files spread across his table in the cafeteria. He could feel the heat on his skin as he reached for his coffee.
He had brought his work to the cafeteria in the lull after the breakfast rush in hopes that the caffeine and a change in scenery would help keep him awake. The cafeteria was also closer to the treatment rooms than his own office, and he wanted to be available quickly if Ray needed him again.
He liked the old man -- but then, he like most of his patients as House always liked to remind him. Ray's wife had been with him that morning when he caught up with them in the ER. Ray was one of those guys who didn't want to complain, and it had been his wife who had insisted he come in when his fever spiked.
Wilson took a sip of his coffee. It was a poor substitute for the cappuccino Julie had brought him earlier. He had stopped off at Ray's room to check in on him once they had started him on the IV antibiotics. When he stepped out, he had been surprised to see Julie standing there waiting for him. She smiled and said the nurses and had told her where to find him.
"I brought you a treat," she said, and held out the Starbucks cup.
"And here I thought my treat was just seeing you again," he said, and she smiled.
Their fingers touched as he took the cup, and she gently caressed the back of his hand before she took her hand away. Suddenly the day seemed brighter, the problems easier. He caught a glimpse through the door of Ray's wife looking at the two of them. She said something to her husband and they both laughed.
"They've been married 53 years," he told Julie, nodding toward the room. "Think we'll look anything like them in 50 years?"
"Only if you expect me to start dying my hair red," she said, and he chuckled.
Julie stayed with him while he filled out new orders at the nurses' station. Wilson took her hand and walked with her to the elevator, then down to the main lobby. "I missed you this morning," Julie said.
"Me too," he said, and squeezed her hand. "Did you see Greg and Stacy this morning?"
Julie shrugged. "Not really."
Wilson sighed. "They were fighting again?"
She nodded. "Sorry you've had to see all this," he said. "I don't know what's going on with them."
Julie paused near the door and buttoned her coat. "They'll probably be happier once they're home."
Wilson shook his head. "I hope so."
"I've got to go, got a session this morning," Julie said and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "You going to be able to take a break later?"
"Maybe."
"You work too hard," she said. "You really should take a break."
"I'll try," he promised.
Wilson had finished up the Starbucks hours ago. He looked away from his paperwork and took another sip of his cafeteria coffee. He leaned back and tried to relax as the sunlight washed over him, but sat up quickly when he heard a familiar laugh coming from across the room.
Nelson.
Wilson knew the hearing was set for that afternoon, and knew that House hadn't wanted to sign the paperwork Stacy had prepared for him. He wasn't that concerned. He knew the details that Cuddy already had in hand, the test results -- and the tests Nelson hadn't run. Cuddy had him solid. At best the committee would put him on probation -- a move that could make his life hell. Cuddy was pushing for more though. She wanted him out of her clinic -- and preferably out of her hospital. So did Wilson.
If Nelson was worried he didn't seem to be showing it. He was with a group of residents, apparently telling some complicated joke.
"You think I like seeing him in the hallways knowing what he did to you?" Wilson had said the one time he tried to convince House to contribute to the hearing.
"This isn't about you, Wilson," House said, and stared out the window at the snow.
It didn't make any sense. House had always saved his greatest insults for doctors like Nelson who took comfort in the easy answers, rather than the right ones.
Of course he'd never had many kind words even for those who were good at what they did.
"What the hell did you use, Simpson, a hacksaw?" House had asked the orthopedic surgeon the first time he saw him after the debridement surgery.
Simpson had always been his own biggest fan. He expected House would be impressed by how much of the leg he had been able to save -- or at least appreciate the skills that had allowed him to save the leg at all. Instead House had treated him with the same contempt he'd always had.
"Would it kill him to say thank you? Just once?" Simpson had said to Wilson when Wilson had offered to buy him a beer after one staff meeting. "Everyone else refused to even try. I was the only one who could save both his life and his leg."
Sunday hadn't been any better. House was miserable -- pissed off at Stacy and at himself and now forced back onto the crutches and in pain -- even greater pain than usual. Simpson had been pulled from his warm bed only to be faced with House.
"Why do you keep trying to screw up my good work, House?"
"What, exactly, qualifies this as good?" House had needed Wilson's help to get up on the exam table, and Wilson had waited with him until Simpson arrived. "Is it the scar? Because this one's a winner. Is it the extent of muscle removed? Because turning someone into a cripple must be a great way to pad the CV. Is it ..."
Wilson had let himself out of the room before House got his rant up to full steam. Thinking about it now, though, he realized it was the first time he'd heard House refer to himself as crippled. Since then he'd used it even more, especially when Stacy was around.
Last night had been typical. He began by bitching about the brace Simpson made him wear, then turned it into some stupid commentary about their sex life that sent Stacy away from the table.
Julie joined her in the living room and they sat there chatting while Wilson stayed with House. He changed the topic to the hospital gossip that the dean of medicine was expected to announce his retirement soon. Stacy passed them by without a word a few minutes later when she came into the kitchen to scoop out some ice cream for herself and Julie.
"What," House said to her as she walked back to the living room. "Nothing for the cripple?"
Wilson wondered if House was trying to punish himself or Stacy.
He heard Nelson's laugh again. Wilson grabbed his charts and his coffee. His chair scraped against the floor as he stood. When he looked up, Nelson was looking over at him. He wasn't laughing now. Wilson turned away and left.
------------
Wilson could hear the television as he walked into the house. McMurtry had ended up canceling the departmental meeting at the last minute and Wilson found himself with a clear calendar for most of the afternoon.
He made a few excuses, then took off, stopping at the store on his way home. House looked up at him as he walked in, carrying two plastic bags.
"Get me anything good?" House turned sideways against the cushion and turned down the TV volume.
"Chips," Wilson said, and tossed the bag across the room. "And don't leave crumbs all over the couch."
"Wouldn't dream of it," House said. "I think it's a sin to waste decent junk food. It's one of the commandments -- number eight or something"
Wilson tried to remember the proper order. "Remember the Sabbath Day and keep it holy?"
"Something like that," House said. "I think it's one of the amendments regarding the proper snack food to consume while watching the NFL on the Sabbath."
"They never teach the good stuff in Hebrew school."
"That's why I'm here -- for spiritual guidance."
Wilson finished putting a few things in the refrigerator -- some of Julie's favorite yogurt, some ricotta for the lasagna he planned to make later -- and took out two cans of Coke. He left the rest of the things on the counter and joined House in the living room.
"What the hell are you watching?" Wilson asked, and handed over one of the cans. He plopped down on the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table.
"'Days Of Our Lives,'" House said. "Want to know who's sleeping with who?"
"Pass." Wilson took a handful of chips from the open bag.
"You sure? If you're going to start playing hooky every afternoon, you'll want to know. When it comes to daytime TV, it's either this or 'People's Court,'" House said. "These characters are a little more believable."
Wilson stared at the TV screen. "Should I know her?"
House looked at the TV, then at Wilson. "Ah, so you have seen 'Days' before."
"Don't think so."
"Come on, sure you have. That's Dr. Marlena Evans. You just can't have 'Days of Our Lives' without her."
"Nope. Not familiar." Wilson shook her head. "I'm thinking of something I saw when I was a kid."
House laughed. "Electra Woman and ...
"Dyna Girl," Wilson said, and sighed. "I think she was my first love."
House laughed. "And does Julie know your heart belongs to another?"
"Not unless you plan to tell her."
"Only if the right opportunity comes along."
Wilson laughed and took another handful of chips. House sat quietly. When Wilson looked over at him, House wasn't watching the screen, but instead was staring across the room.
"So was it bad news?" he asked finally.
"What, my patient? No. Nothing major."
"Not that. If you're here now, Nelson must have gotten away with it and you figured that someone better stop me from going postal."
"House, no. I don't know what happened. As far as I know the hearing hasn't even started yet. I just had some free time, and didn't feel like sitting around waiting."
House studied him.
"Really. I don't know what the status is."
"OK." House looked at the TV again.
"I thought you didn't care."
House shrugged. "Just because I want him to be as miserable as me doesn't mean I want to be the one pushing him off the cliff."
"He pushed himself," Wilson said.
House shrugged again.
"It won't always be this bad, you know," Wilson said. "The crutches are temporary."
"And then I trade up for the cane again." House took the bag of chips from Wilson. "So is it your turn to give me a lecture this time? All about how I should appreciate life?"
Wilson shook his head. "No lecture. Just ... wishful thinking, maybe." He slouched into the couch and looked up at the ceiling, then rolled his head to look at House once more. "I guess I'm just an optimist."
"And yet you chose oncology."
Wilson smiled. "A masochistic optimist." He looked back up at the ceiling again. "Must be why I hang around with you so much."
"Yes, because when it comes to doling out pain, I'm the expert," House said. He turned up the volume again. "Just ask Stacy."