An: Constructive criticism is always welcome - namely when I have no idea where this plot is going as of yet. Thank you though, for the positive reviews anyway.

Home - Problems

When I got that phone call, I knew we were going to have a problem.

The past six weeks have been so damned surreal - I was waiting for somebody to pop out of a closet and tell me it's all been nothing but a nightmare. Of course I knew nothing of the sort was going to happen. It's a complete whirlwind of emotions when your child, once lost at the age of not quite six, returns into your life eight years later - now a teenager, showing hardly a trace of the little girl that you once knew so many years ago.

The days following our daughter's recovery were tough ones. Alexandra faught death for almost a week in the ICU before she came back to us. For awhile it looked like things were going to be fine. The sarcasm and wit I remember her having as a tiny child were there, she seemed happy at the prospect of having us around, happy at the fact that her captors were dead - never to harm her again. We spent a nice holiday at home with family and friends - she seemed to be taking everything very well for someone who'd just suffered something that would rank high on a list of life's most traumatic experiences. We never pushed her to talk about what she'd gone through the past eight years - we faught to keep the media away from her the best we possibly could. She seemed a little shy at times, but happy...eager to pick up where she last left off.

I now know it was myself and Allison who were in the wrong. Instead of going on like she'd just been on vacation the past eight years - we should have actually done something about it. What, I don't know - I know I have a way with words, but I'm not going to even admit they're of the comforting type. What was I going to say to her? Sorry I was too crippled to save you that day? Welcome back? My daughter and I became complete strangers when it came to anything that didn't involve laughing or snarking at others. It was obvious from the moment she started talking that she was as similiar to myself as they come...which is probably why it was so hard for her (and myself). It was amusing back in the day, but after all she'd gone through I think she's become as standoffish as I was all those years ago after my infarction. I could see it in her eyes - it's the same look I would give Stacy when she pressured me to talk about what had happened, the same look I'd give anybody who wanted to pick me apart. I acted like nothing was wrong - and it's there that I made my mistake.

When I look into my daughter's eyes now, I not only see said look - I see a person who knows she's completely lost.

It was Allison who asked Allie if she'd like to return back to school.

Allison was so excited when she agreed. So excited that she missed the look that briefly flashed across our daughter's face - one of complete fear and uncertainty. My daughter was strong, I knew this from the moment she'd been born - but I had no idea she'd picked up Allison's "need to please" gene. You could tell that she didn't want to do this - but she wanted desperately to make us happy. I should have said something, I really should have. I guess I must really be the most selfish person on the planet though, because I just went right along with the plan.

Allison and I had been off of work since Allie had been recovered. I hadn't been to work in so long, I was far too happy to be returning. One year after my daughter was taken, the hospital had decided to offer our diagnostic team permanent positions. The department of diagnostics at PPTH had become so well known by this time, that they figured they had nothing but positive things to gain by keeping it around. Allison, Chase and Foreman's fellowship had already been extended and would be ending officially around this time and the hospital had offered them impressive contracts to keep them around as part of the permanent team. They all accepted and our department had not only grown, buthad become one of the leading centers for diagnostics on the east coast. It was the one good thing to come from the mess that had errupted a year ago. It offered me a chance to throw myself into work completely - forget what was happening at home. I missed work - I know my daughter being back takes precident, but I was eager to get back. So I went along with this plan of sending my daughter, fragile and obviously depressed, off to start as a freshman at the well known private school here in Princeton.

Allie didn't have much to say about the whole thing. She joked around about having to wear a school uniform (she'd picked up a style that Wilson loved to call "daddy's little punk rocker", thus creating many frowns over a tie and pleated skirt) and acted pleased that she'd get a chance to make some actual friends. She'd also been spending increasing amounts of time alone in her room blaring The Misfits, playing electric guitar and the drums at a level so loud - it was probably responsible for waking up the ancient old man in a coma at the hospital, only to have him croak obscenities at me for a good three minutes (how was I to know he could hear me eating at his bedside all those times?), then die of a massive brain hemmorage a moment later. She was no doubt upset, just completely refusing to share her feelings on the matter.

The day she started school, was one the media decided they absolutely needed to cover.

Cameras littered the front entrance to her school, but she took it like a true House and stormed in there as fast as her crutches would carry her. I hoped that she'd be alright - Allison was convinced that she'd have a brilliant time, but I had my doubts. I should have sent her to a public school where the kids wouldn't be so judgemental, or at least kept her home for awhile. She was SO much like myself, I knew it would be a matter of days (or as I was to find out - hours) before she cracked and either a) got herself kicked out or b) left on her own accord. I highly doubted that one could hold in something like she went through, and continue to fare fine in daily life. She didn't even have a clue about real life -she'd been locked in a room for the past eight years!

When I got the phone call in the middle of that morning's differential diagnosis session, I somehow knew before picking up the receiver, what it was going to be about.

Allie's school was calling to inform me that she'd been present in all her morning classes, but dissappeared shortly before lunch. Instead of telling Allison what was going on (no need to shatter her bubble of 'dad and me and depressed teenager make three') I did the only thing that an avoidant father who would rather suffer the plague than talk about feelings would do -

I sent Wilson to go find her.