Title: Tragic - PT 15
Pairing: House/Cameron ?
Rating: PG
Summary: Cameron's life (Cam's POV) - Gambling - To go to Princeton or not...
Disclaimer: Don't own any of it, just playing...
Note: S2 does not exist in this story.
Beta: Many many thanks to the wonderful, lovely, patient yutamiyu! xo
Note: Sorry for the delay! This was a difficult chapter to write! And very long! I am hoping that after the delay of finishing this chapter, you are still interested in reading it! The ending was difficult to write - and part of the reason it took me so long to finish! Would love to hear your thoughts & comments (good or bad!) - and I will try to answer all comments as soon as I can. I will try my best to get 16 done as soon as possible, I've already started writing it... but it's all about time! Darn real life always getting in the way! I hope everyone is well! S.
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Sometimes you realize that you don't always make the wisest decisions. But hindsight is always, 20/20 right? You go back to that old thing your mother used to say to you, sometimes things happen for a reason. Right now you are wracking your head for all those reasons. Your mind going through events and details, looking at clues in different lights for any answers, everything becoming fine tuned, yet at the same time so much more confusing, and your heart just muddled.
You sat at the poker table, even though you've never had a good poker face. And you hate that you used your daughter to sweeten the pot. You know this makes you a bad person, especially when you are bad at playing poker. You never really knew the rules, understood when to hit or stay and your eyes... your eyes always gave everything away. You were never good at detaching yourself...from anything.
You didn't immediately do what Wilson wanted you to do: you sat on it. You thought about it, you mulled over what you were going to do. Two weeks later, you send House an email you know he would never read, pack as lightly as you can, get out of work early and haul ass on a late afternoon train out of Penn Station headed for Princeton for a little surprise visit. Why not play House's game on House himself?
You arrive in a taxi to the front of his townhouse, a cozy home flanked by similar bricked and limestone beauties; a home that brings back some good and bad memories for you. You are nervous and your heart is beating a little fast. You haven't thought this plan out too much, which may or may not be a good thing; your biggest decision was whether or not to make a visit. If he's not home, you'll be screwed. You wonder how similarly he felt when he came to visit you. You laugh to yourself over those thoughts; with his ego and arrogance, he probably didn't worry at all.
As you exit the taxi, you put Pearl in her stroller. You lock the wheels, place the stroller at the front of the door, ring the bell, and go back to the taxi to pay the driver and retrieve your weekend bags. As the driver pulls away, you turn around to face a startled House. It's a look you haven't seen before.
Hi. You smile at him. Surprise!
"Hi." He starts to bend down to pick up Pearl out of the carriage. "What are you doing here?"
You tell him that you and Pearl missed Princeton, and wanted to get out of the city for the weekend for some fresh air. So you thought you would both come for a visit, and didn't he get your email? You smile at him as you brush past him as you enter through the doorway.
He looks stunned and immobile, confused and ruffled. With Pearl in his arms, he wheels the stroller inside and closes the door behind him.
You ignore the pleasantries of trying to ask him how he's been or why neither of you have communicated with each other in a while. It's obvious, and you both know it. There is a time and a need to discuss it, and it is not now. So you carry on with your happy façade and allow him to be confused by your presence.
Right now Pearl is remembering his face, and touching his nose and drooling on him as he holds her up in the air. He has a little smile on his face, a little gleam in his eye that you remember seeing when he has the satisfaction of solving a case and he's pleased. You're happy because this is part of the reason you came here, to be a friend and to bring a little brightness into his world. You said you would never keep Pearl from him, and he hasn't reached out recently to see her, and you feel you needed to find a middle ground for him. That's what you try to tell yourself right now. You know the situation is difficult, but you know it's good for him. You try not to think of what Wilson said to you, though his words are memories in your head echoing like voices in a canyon repeating in varying strengths and weakness, never quite seeming to fade.
You don't mention his card or Wilson's visit. You don't think House would appreciate either. Besides, it would automatically put him on the defensive and it's too early in the weekend for that. You do want to try to enjoy your time here. You know that you are ignoring a lot of things, but he's done so much for you; you just keep thinking about what Wilson said.
You make yourself right at home in his home, like you've been life-long best friends; you just jump right in. You're sure this makes him slightly uncomfortable, but nothing about this weekend is going to scream comfort, including your visit. You are trying not to look at him too hard, because you want to glue yourself to his body, tie his arms around you like ribbons. You ache. You hate that he looks a little thinner than last time you saw him, that he looks even more tired than usual, dark circles under his eyes overpowering his face with shadows. You just want to reach up and run your hands across his cheeks, feel his skin underneath yours and pull him tight to you. You realize you're holding your breath. You exhale as you put your bag down.
He shows you to the guest room where you deposit your belongings. Everything is a mess, typical bachelor pad. He tries to apologize, you shush him, after all, you did surprise him, and you don't care anyway, you didn't come here for the décor. You are throwing him your biggest and brightest smiles, but he is deflecting them, just looking at you with such confused eyes. You are going to try your hardest to maintain a sunny disposition, no matter what, that is your plan (you repeated this mantra to yourself the entire train ride to Princeton).
"Cameron, where is Pearl sleeping? Don't you have one of those portable bed things?"
You do, you explain, but it was too much for you to carry by yourself on the train and everything. You'll just put her in the bed with you and be real careful. That's all.
You look at him like you just gave him the easiest answer in the world, but he looks dark and complex. He leaves the room, mumbling there are linens in the closet. You start worrying that perhaps this visit might be a mistake. You refresh your mind and try try try to think with the positive attitude you know you'll need to survive (or you will kill Wilson for this).
You return to the living room to find Pearl and House sitting on the floor playing with her favorite cups. She loves these colorful plastic cups that fit one into another. She's just fascinated by them. House seems equally fascinated as she takes them apart and tries to put them back together again. You sit on the couch and curl your feet underneath you watching them both.
When Pearl succeeds in her mission with her colorful cups she knows it and claps and giggles. House's face is awed by her delight and her achievement. Immediately, she takes the cups apart again, scatters them in front of her and tries to put them together again as if she just hadn't done it. He turns to look at you. You smile. "She's getting so big. She's so smart. I can't believe she just put all those cups back in order."
You tell him it's her favorite little puzzle, that she likes puzzles. You give him a sly and knowing wink.
You ask him what he wants to do for dinner. Does he have anything in the fridge, you wouldn't mind whipping something up.
"Nah," he shrugs, "I've been busy at the hospital the last few weeks, I haven't done much food shopping. In fact, I may need to run out and get milk for the baby later. So, how 'bout we order Chinese for old times sake?"
You nod in agreement. You pick Pearl up, and follow House into the kitchen. You put a bib on daughter to feed her some sweet yams that she loves. You sit with her at the kitchen table, Pearl in your lap, cups spread out on the table in front of her. You want to keep the mess to a minimum.
"Hey, you want the same?"
Uh huh.
"Okay," he picks up the phone. "Hey, it's a different place now, the other one burned down. But...I can probably bribe the delivery guy into picking up a quart of milk."
You look at him, confused.
"Trust me," he assures you, "we're on a first name basis. Whole or low fat?"
The Chinese food arrives, with the milk, and House tips Juan generously. It's starting to drizzle outside, and the damp air is starting to permeate the house. You change Pearl into her PJ's, as you hear House making lots of noise in the living room, throwing things around, things falling with a thud on the floor. You wonder what he's up to.
You bring Pearl back into the living room and find a flickering fire going in the fireplace and dinner (with plates, silverware and napkins) set at the coffee table. You are surprised by this. He comes back from the kitchen with a bottle of red wine and two glasses in his hands. "Wine?"
Sure, sounds good. You smile, slightly nervous all of a sudden. You tell him you need to make Pearl a bottle, you'll be right back.
He puts the wine and glasses down, "Gimme," he says, motioning with his hands for you to hand him Pearl. You do. "Hiya munchkin. You tired yet?" You hear as you head to the kitchen.
When you return, House is settled on the sofa with Pearl and her bunny blanket -- a necessary item for her sleepy time -- you're surprised he remembered. He reaches toward you to take the bottle from your hands. You realize he enjoys this time with her much more than you remembered. You sit on the floor, pour the wine, and start sipping.
You know she'll drink half the bottle and be out in ten minutes. Like clockwork, your angel sucks down half the bottle, her bunny blanket half covering her face, her little eyelids becoming heavy, and her mouth still moving. And then she stops, milk still gracing her mouth. You get up, wipe her mouth with a napkin and take her from House to go put her down. He looks disappointed when you remove her warm little body from his arms. You can't look at him. You quickly walk to the guest room and nestle Pearl into the middle of the bed, surrounded by pillows. You tuck a blanket around her and kiss her head, inhaling her scent one last time.
You head back to the living room, suddenly feeling like you're on a date. That's the last thing you want to feel right now. You're wondering how you can avoid that.
You can see House was either thinking the same thing or just doesn't give a damn, because when he hears you in the hallway he suddenly starts breaking into the Chinese, dishing noodles onto his plate and into his mouth. Okay, back to normal, and that you can deal with. Obnoxious House, grumpy House, that's good, that's normal. That you can keep at arm's distance for now. You sit crossed legged on the floor and dig in. You're starving.
"Hey, there's crap on TV Friday nights," he says, and tosses the remote on the coffee table. "Anything you want to watch? We can put a movie in."
Sure, whatever he wants, you shrug.
"How's the new hospital treating you?"
Good, you tell him. It's different, the people that is. You've been busy, but you've been doing much more research than you were doing before. The staff is very large, and not quite as friendly. Maybe it's just different for you now, because socializing is not in the top of your priorities; it's just getting home to see your baby.
"Well, David Silver is an excellent doctor," he says, staring at his dinner.
Yes, you feel lucky to be working under him. Unfortunately, he seems to be traveling a lot presently, giving lectures, etc., so you haven't gotten to know him too intimately.
He raises an eyebrow at you.
Stop it! You tell him and slap his knee. You both laugh. You ask him how PPTH is.
And then the stories begin, the torture that Cuddy has put him through recently, the idiotic things Tate and Donovan have done recently. They're no Foreman and Chase, he says as an aside. You smile to yourself and say nothing. You know he hasn't hired anyone for your position yet. Well, no one that he's kept. Better not to discuss that. He humors you with ridiculous clinic patients. And then quizzes you on what your thoughts are on some of their recent complicated cases. You continue to sip wine, and before you know it, it's after eleven and you've drank two bottles of good Cabernet Sauvignon. You start hoping to yourself that Pearl will decide to sleep in tomorrow.
You know you need to end this night, and go to bed. There is that awkward silence. Someone needs to make a move. You get up and pick up the dirty plates and head to the kitchen. You hear House throwing empty cartons in the delivery bag. You rinse and wash the plates, placing them on the drying rack. You turn to see what else might still be on the table, and you're startled to see House in the kitchen watching you.
"So, why are you really here?"
You're feeling the effects of the wine, so standing straight for a long time isn't going to work. You hold onto the counter. You tell him what you told him earlier that you just needed to get out of the city and get some fresh air. Besides, you don't really know anyone still in the city and you were both feeling a little lonely, and you thought that Pearl would like to see him. You smile. You know you're rambling now.
"Did you want to see me?"
Yes.
He looks down. Maybe that's not the answer he was looking for, which confuses you, but you're honest.
Did he want you not to want to see him?
(Oh, no, this is not the time for a conversation for you. You will just make a mess of everything. More of a mess than it already is.)
"I don't know." He finally looks up at you. "I don't think we should talk about this
now."
You agree, nod your head, and try not to think of his words.
You stumble past him to hurry to the guest room. He grabs your arm. You look at him; you know your face is flushed.
"Well," he starts hesitantly, "I guess, I am glad that you guys decided to come and surprise me."
He looks at you with his startling blue eyes. The distance between is so intense you're afraid to break it. You know how hard that was for him to tell you.
Good, you nod and try to give him a little smile, you better be off to bed. You tell him to think about what he might want to do tomorrow, as you walk down the hallway, trying to ignore the heat on your face, the intensity in your eyes holding back emotional tears, the feeling of his hand on your arm.
You ignore your normal bedtime routine. You throw your nightclothes on, leave your clothes crumpled on the floor, and you don't brush your teeth. Pearl is sleeping soundly, and you curl in next to her. Luckily you're exhausted and have had enough wine to knock you out as soon as your head hits the pillow. You don't want to think. You hear the soft tinker of piano keys as your mind fades.
You are woken out of a dead sleep by a piercing pain radiating in your head. Oh no, you think to yourself. Instinctively, you curl into a fetal position and hold your head. There are flashes in your eyes, you start fighting the feeling of nausea. You are rocking yourself, hoping not to wake Pearl, breathing in through your nose, out through your mouth. What the heck happened? You didn't drink that much. Then it dawns on you... MSG, sulfates from the wine, the rain, and, well, just stress. Migraine. You know the difference between a hangover headache and the piercing pain that is invading your skull.
Your feet touch the cool floor, your hand glides along the wall as you make your way down the hall to the bathroom. You hope you don't wake anyone and you hope you make it in time. You do. Thank goodness. You keep the lights off, because you can't handle the brightness burning into your eyes. You lay with your head against the cool tile floor, hoping to calm your stomach. You get up enough strength to get yourself back to your room, cool wet washcloth in your hand.
You tear open your bag looking for your Imitrex. After dumping its entire contents on the floor, all you could find were the samples of the new drug that Foreman sent you. You curse yourself for forgetting the Imitrex, and you'll kill Foreman if this stuff
doesn't work. You dry swallow the pill, curl back into bed, and cold washcloth over your eyes and forehead. The pain knocks you out and you shiver back to sleep.
Pearl starts fussing about two and half hours later. You can't blame her for not wanting to break her schedule, but today you wish that she knew how to sleep in on a Saturday. The pain in your head hasn't dissipated. You're going to kill Foreman. You're having a difficult time changing her diaper; your sensitivity to scent is high right now. It takes you twice as long as usual. You hand her a pacifier, and run to the kitchen to dispose of dirty diaper, make a bottle and get an ice pack.
You vomit in the sink. This migraine is getting you good. You can barely keep your eyes open in the grey morning sky. From all the way in the kitchen, you can hear Pearl starting to cry. You start to whimper to her to 'shush baby,' like she's going to hear you. You rinse the sink out, and pour a bottle. You hate that you two are probably waking House up.
As you are rushing in the hallway, he is halfway to your room. "What the hell is going on?"
She's hungry, you explain.
"Why didn't you take her to the kitchen with you?"
You just can't right now, you try to explain, feeling woozy again. Here, you say, handing him the bottle, can you give her this, and you'll be right back.
After you return to the bathroom, looking three shades whiter than pale, dark circles under your eyes, your hair a tangled mess, you find House and Pearl lying in bed having a bottle.
"Cameron, what the hell happened in here?" he laughs, looking around at the disheveled mess, and emptied bag.
Not now House. You start to crawl into the other side of the bed.
"Wow, I thought you were a better drinker than that."
You are. You're not hung-over.
"Right."
Right.
You pull a pillow over your head. You hesitate, and then you tell him you need to ask him for a favor.
"Okay."
You need an Imitrex prescription pronto.
"Imitrex?"
Yes. Sumatriptan. He's familiar?
"Seriously?"
Seriously. House, can we stop this? You're desperate.
You start explaining the triggers that occurred MSG, wine sulfates, etc. And you forgot your prescription.
"I didn't know you got migraines."
You tell him he doesn't know everything. Well, and you've kept it under control for a while.
"Who's your neurologist? Why not call them?"
It's Foreman. You left the damn thing in the city, and the samples he gave you are for the birds. If you take another one, you won't be able to take the Imitrex.
"Okay."
Thank you.
You feel the bed move as he gets up. "You going to be okay?" He picks Pearl up.
Yes, please no more talking.
"Have you had them this bad before?"
Yes, but not for a while.
"Okay," he pauses, "well, I'll take Pearl with me since we're both awake and we'll watch cartoons. Does she get anything else for breakfast?"
As you fade back into pained sleep, you mutter, yes, some Cheerios and a jar of bananas in the diaper bag...
You feel like you blinked your eyes and you're being jostled lightly by House, who is trying to roll the sleeve up on your nightshirt. You feel a pinch. You know he got you a shot of Imitrex. You hear him ask you if you want a new icepack. You mutter yes, and fall back into the darkness, the feeling of large veins gripping your head like in some horror movie and devouring your brain. The coolness makes it feel better. You hope the Imitrex will attack. You fade again.
You hear birds and cars. You roll over and glance at the clock. It's almost four in the afternoon. The pain is gone. You feel drained, and empty. You sit up slowly. There is a glass of water on the bedside table. House. You are glad it is there and drink greedily from it. You heave yourself out of the bed, bare feet on the wood floor. You look in the mirror and try to rub the sleep from your eyes, brush your hair and gather it into a neat ponytail. You are cold. You throw on a sweatshirt. You creep to the bathroom to brush your teeth. You feel so much better, just weak.
You enter into the living room where you hear the sound of a faint television. House is lying on the couch, Pearl across his chest, both of them taking a nap. You feel a twinge in your heart. And you feel guilt. He's been taking care of you. Both of you. Again. And all day. You notice the stroller near the front door, wet droplets on the cover. He took her for a walk. You smile to yourself, and go to the kitchen for something to drink and hopefully a piece of toast.
You open the fridge. You're shocked to see color in there: fresh greens and vegetables, eggs, juice, chicken. He went food shopping too. You smile. You pull out the juice, pour yourself a glass, and rip the end off a fresh loaf of French bread. You go back into the living room to watch the two of them sleep. You feel like you can do that for hours. Watch these two mysteries sleep and breathe, both of them serene and peaceful in their slumber, but with lightly clenched fists as if they're holding onto something...
You feel a little guilt; guilt for having imposed yourself and Pearl onto House this weekend; guilt for you being sick today and him having to take care of Pearl and you. You're sure it's not what he bargained for. You watch the two of them napping on the sofa, the lull of their breathing mesmerizing you, yet you feel guilty. He is not her father. You have never felt that he was and you have never looked at him in that light. You are not quite sure how he sees his role. You are selfish; you see Pearl as solely belonging to you, though you don't mind sharing her with her others. You don't expect him to be her father; you never did, not now, not ever. Throwing him into today's scenario is suddenly making you uncomfortable. Yes, you are aware he has taken care of you before and yes, even Pearl. But in ways, to you, that was so different. Your head wasn't screwed on right, and she was an infant. Her personality is so much more developed now; your relationship and bond with her so instinctual, so loving, so possessive.
You begin to regret your decision to come to Princeton. Damn Wilson! You need to put Pearl first. You need to sweep House out of your brain. You arise from the chair and tip toe over to the couch. Gently you lift Pearl off House, cradling her in your arms, and retreat to the guest room. Neither wakes. You try not to wonder if House noticed the disappearance of warmth on his body, you know he deserves it. You put Pearl in the cradle of pillows and head to the bathroom for a quick shower.
A hot shower has always been a great thinking retreat for you, something about the pouring of hot droplets over your shoulders massaging knots of stress off your frame. You contemplate taking a train back to Manhattan tonight, maybe this was a mistake, a total mistake. You just can't think, your head full of clouds, you think you're still in a daze from your earlier migraine horror. Your emotions are so conflicted by such a desire to be here, and such a desire to run. Rinsing warm soapy water from your hair, you hear a sharp knock on the bathroom door that wakes you out of your warm wet thoughts.
Yes?
"Cameron," House opens the door a bit, you feel the cool air rushing in. "You hungry?"
Hmm...yeah, a bit...
"Did you get yourself some clean towels?"
No. You forgot.
"I'll get you some."
He returns momentarily, you peak out from beyond the shower curtain and see him place them within reach for you. You smile at him, but you're some what surprised by his presence in your bathroom space.
Thanks.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, leaning against the sink.
Much better. Thanks.
You laugh inwardly, thinking back to too often when he has entered this space where you are in a vulnerable place. Not really time for a conversation, any conversation. At least not for the two of you. Not right now. Other circumstances perhaps...
You turn the water off and reach for a towel, and start toweling off. Blue gray towels soft against your skin, as you dry your face you smell the familiar scent of home. You quickly try to drop the thought and wrap the towel around your head.
"Okay," House drags out, "well, dinner will be ready soon."
You step out of the tub, and wipe the steam from the mirror. You don't recognize yourself in the mirror for some reason. Dark tangled hair around pale face and deep-set eyes; your eyes look disturbed, just not like you. You finish in the bathroom and get ready for dinner.
You go back to the living room afresh with a newly awaken Pearl, who's bright eyed and pink-cheeked. House is sitting on the sofa, flipping through channels, and the room is filled with the aroma of cooking dinner.
Hi.
"Well, hello girls," he says dryly, not removing his eyes from the television. "Everyone feeling more refreshed?"
You put Pearl on the ground to play with her cups. She doesn't want to play and puts her arms up to you, fussy noises coming from her. You sit on the other end of the couch, Pearl snuggled quietly in your lap, you put your hand on her head to smooth out her curls.
Yes, you respond.
"So, between one being the best and ten being the worst, how bad was the migraine today?"
Oh, about a nine. (You lie, a little bit. Does half a point count?)
He lowers his chin to himself. "Don't you think you should go the neurologist for a checkup?"
It's not neurological, you say, glaring at him. He's knows that, you know that.
"But, it was pretty bad."
Yes, but you don't get them often, and you haven't had one like that in a while.
"An even better reason to go."
You look at him. You're not going to argue about this with him. You'll speak with Foreman. You thank him for the sumatriptan.
He grumbles that you make him back down off the neurologist issue, and tells you he made Tate deliver the sumatriptan from the hospital. And then he snickers. (Tate must be his new Chase.)
You start to apologize for putting him the position of having to take care of you and Pearl today. He doesn't listen to you and gets up and heads to the kitchen. He calls that dinner is ready and to come sit at the table.
You feel like you can count the number of times the two of you have sat at a table to eat -- there hasn't been too many; too many meals have been eaten in front of the television, on the go, during meetings. This is almost a presentation put before you -- an unusual mixture that is making you homesick and needy. You wheel Pearl in her stroller close to the table, feeding her jarred beets and handing her toys, and alternate to the delicious dish in front of you.
House is unusually quiet. You know he's not one for small talk, but this is even quiet for him. You prepare yourself for whatever onslaught is stirring around in his brain, you are sure it will spill out at some point.
"Cameron?" (So it begins.)
Yes?
"Why did you come here?"
To visit. You thought he might like to see Pearl, you told him that before. (You decide to leave out the rest about wanting to see him too, you are nervous to dip your toes in that water, it's not always so easy with him.)
"Hmm." He's contemplating, moving food around on his plate. He looks at Pearl, who is smiling at him, beets on her cheeks.
"Did you always want to have children?" he asks.
You stop chewing and raise an eyebrow. You guess, it just seemed natural to you that you would -- at least one day -- although that one day caught you by surprise.
"Are you sure you didn't get pregnant on purpose?"
Excuse me?
"Well, you're always looking to take care of something. It wasn't me -- it couldn't be, and Ryan didn't need it. Why not create something that would need it?" He states so matter-of-fact.
You look at him with astonishment. You thought he knew you better than that. You harshly reply that if you were so desperate you could have adopted a puppy instead.
"That's cute!" he mock laughs.
Your face burns red. House! Why is he asking this?
"Because I think, really, in your twisted desperation to show that you care and love by taking care of someone, in all honesty, you're the one who needs and wants to be taken care of."
Is this about this weekend? You shake your head in mild frustration. You're sorry to have put him in the position you did today, it was totally a freakish occurrence.
"Cameron, I think you like it when I take care of you, when I'm around."
The cards are out on the table. Poker. Texas Hold 'em. You have no idea what he's hiding, but you're starting to see what you're playing against and you know what is in your hand.
House, you urge...try to explain, you like him around, there's no doubt of that. You came here this weekend because you thought that it would make him happy to have Pearl around, and that makes you happy. (You ante up. You don't realize that you have a shitty hand. And a bad argument.)
He calls.
"Cameron, I think you have daddy issues."
Your eyes widen. What? What is he talking about?
"I think it's not that you want me to be around, but just an older man, someone who might seem like a comforting presence to you, more like a father figure is what you want and need. And that's not me."
You start to laugh. You ask him if this is a joke.
He is looking at you straight-faced.
You are confused. You are wondering why and how he could be thinking such things about you. Besides, you've barely discussed your husband or even your family with him.
Suddenly, memories of your bedroom start to flicker in your mind. Open photo albums sprawled in front of your arm chair; pictures of your dead husband and the family that disowned you (but that you still love) staring up at you from the carpet. You feel the blood drain from your face, anger taking over in the sense of a white mask of a pantomime. He played his cards well; you had no idea what he was holding. You thought he was bluffing. You think of cleaning up your tornado, fingering that cursed black date dress that he had taken from the floor and gingerly unwrapped from its tangled tossed mess and hung on a hanger, like a sacred relic; the photo albums open exposing your history without words -- assumptions being made -- photos taken from their place holders. At first you were puzzled by the empty spots, but you figured you must have taken the photos out at some point. Now you know House took them -- to pour over them, to examine, to look for something - at something he didn't understand.
You stand abruptly, knocking over the chair. Pearl is startled, little baby lashes flicking fast against her pink cheeks. You very loudly tell him you want your photos. Now.
He pushes up from the table and limps away. You quickly spoon the remainder of the beets into Pearl's mouth, wiping her cheeks and taking her out of the carriage. She is startled by your rushed and angered movements and starts to cry.
He returns and hands you six photos. "You told me you had no family left; that was a lie."
No, it wasn't, you reply. If he had asked you instead of making presumptions, you would have explained.
You grab the photos out of his hands. There are two pictures of you and your husband, one old family portrait, one of you and your father, one of you and Pearl and one of Pearl as an infant. You stalk to the guest room and start throwing your things into bags; you'll be leaving right away.
Pearl is on the bed, confused and crying. You try to change her and call for a taxi simultaneously.
You are infuriated by him. You expect his nosiness, you expect him to jump to conclusions, but this conclusion -- this assumption is just too much. You are furious. If he had just asked you, you would have told him. But he didn't, he just made up what he wanted, made up a story that best fit what he needed in order to keep you away.
You feel him standing behind you in the doorway. You tell him to go away.
"What are you going to do? Leave at this time of night? Travel with the baby? Look how you're upsetting her!"
Screw him! Besides, he's not your father or hers. You can do whatever you want. You don't need his permission. And you don't want to feel like he might be taking care of you, you hiss.
"Cameron!"
His words, not yours.
As you're finishing up, the door bell rings. He sighs and goes to answer it. You know it's the taxi, so you rush down before he sends them away. You hand the driver your bags and tell them you'll be right out, as you go to retrieve your crying child. House is sitting on the bed with her, trying to calm her. It's working (you hate him for that). When you pick her up, more like grab her, she starts crying again. You barely let him say goodbye to her as you walk out the door.
You feel horrible that your actions are upsetting her. You feel horrible that you used her to be the reason to go see House, to be the reason to try to "fix things" with him. Perhaps things are always meant to be broken? It should have just been you and him -- just like you demanded out of him to ponder.
You try your best to calm Pearl on the drive to the train station. Your cell phone keeps ringing. You turn it off. In the terminal, you think people must think you are a horrible mother because your child is screaming bloody murder. She doesn't calm down until you are halfway to New York City. You don't blame her; it's all your fault. Besides, you couldn't calm down, either.
You return to your dark, empty apartment; Pearl finally asleep out of crying exhaustion. You open a bottle of wine, turn off the ringer to your phone, pull out the photo albums and return five of the pictures to their original homes. You left one in Princeton -- of Pearl. Still, in your heart of hearts you felt he should have it; he obviously wanted it. You'll consider this his winnings. Besides, this is not her fault, this is all on you.
END PT 15