November 21st
Dana set down her pen and rubbed tired eyes. She'd been chipping away at this paper for hours now, and what she'd written seemed trite and uninspired. Her belly rumbled with hunger, and her left leg had given her warning spasms for some time. She needed to get up, move around, make something to eat so she could take her meds. And yet she couldn't do it. It didn't matter; nothing mattered.
That's the depression talking. She leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms, glanced at the time. It was late, close to midnight, and well past her usual bedtime. The thought of another night alone held no appeal, but neither did staying up till the small hours to write.
It had been a good week, all things considered. She'd acquired two new patients, one of whom showed a bit of progress within the first session; the clothes and items she'd cleared out had been taken away to a donation center; and she'd actually had dinner with Greg at his place and stayed over, something she'd enjoyed. He had too; she knew him well enough by now to read the signs of true emotion under the façade he presented to the world. Still, she continued to proceed with caution, as much for herself as for him.
Call him. The thought slipped into her mind before she was aware of its presence. She glanced at the phone. "No," she said aloud, and swung her gaze back to the monitor. But a moment later she had the phone in hand. She stared down at it.
He might not want to talk to you. This could make things worse. Apprehension welled up within. The relationship had begun to heal, but the wound was still vulnerable; a single bad experience could tear it open once more.
She remembered Greg glaring at her, accusing her of running away. She'd felt hurt, even as she acknowledged the truth in what he'd said. Now she was doing the same thing in a slightly different form.
"He came to me first," she said aloud, and hit speed dial before she could reconsider. Two rings later the phone was answered, but not by Greg.
"Doctor Gardener." Amos's voice was low, a bit rough, steady and calm. Dana sat up a bit.
"Amos? Forgive me for disturbing you, but I-is Greg—Doctor House—is he—"
"He's fine, doctor. I'm just here to check on things. Hold on, I'll get him. He's still up."
A few moments of muffled noises, and then Greg said "Gardener—something's—is something wrong—what-" His voice was harsh, anxious.
"Greg." She let go a breath. "Nothing's wrong. I just—just wanted to call."
There was a brief, surprised silence. "'kay."
Dana swallowed the lump in her throat. "How are you?"
"'mfine." He didn't sound convinced of that.
"What . . . what are you doing?" She wanted a mental image of him, not some memory but himself as he was in that moment.
"Music." He paused to drink something, a quick slurp of what was probably bourbon or whiskey. "You're up late."
"Writing. I couldn't sleep and decided to work on an old project." Dana took a chance. "I was lonely for you."
Greg said nothing for a few moments. Then, "I'm putting you on speaker."
After a brief silence she heard him begin to play. He had the soft pedal down, an unusually considerate action on his part.
ever since she moved, took all the happiness
ever since she left my life in a mess
ever since she left my old address
can't you see, you left my life in a mess
and I must confess
me minus you equals loneliness
Dana sat in her quiet office and listened. From the roughness in his voice, the hesitant way he sang, she knew this song was important to him. And to her too; he could tell her things in music he couldn't in any other way.
all the people, the whole neighborhood
used to tell me, 'bout how you been so good
and all the little places that we used to go
that's the very same places I don't wanna go no more
really drain me so
me minus you equals loneliness
Eventually he fell silent. Dana took another chance.
"I . . . I feel the same way."
"Then come over." There was an urgency in his low voice that caught at her.
"Greg, it's—it's late—"
"So what? It's Friday. You can stay for the weekend." He paused. "Unless you don't—"
She sighed softly. "I do want to come over, but I'm not safe to drive. My night vision isn't good."
"Bullshit." He sounded angry. "That's just an excuse."
"No, it's the truth. I'm having trouble driving after sundown." Dana didn't bother to keep the hurt out of her words. "If I didn't want to see you I'd say so."
"Well-take a cab then! You can afford it. You—you paid my hospital bill like it was a stay at a Motel 6."
"Of course." She was puzzled by his annoyance. "I knew you'd be in physical therapy for some time and not able to work. I could help out, so I did."
Greg exhaled, a long, slow breath—not quite a sigh. "It's really that simple for you, isn't it." He paused. "Then come over in the morning. Please."
Dana swallowed on a throat tight with sudden emotion. "All . . . all right."
"You're crying.' He paused. "What—why are—"
"I'm not. I'll—I'll leave early. Would you like me to bring anything—"
"Just bring yourself. No work."
She thought of her caseload. "Greg . . ."
He made a derisive noise. "You're using it as a shield."
That was true enough. A little shiver went through her. "All right. No work."
"Uh . . . really?" His astonishment was clear. Dana couldn't help but smile.
"It's a valid observation."
Another silence, and then he chuckled. "So practical."
Her smile widened a bit. "Sometimes."
"Go to bed. You can make breakfast here, if you like. Wilson will buy enough groceries to feed an army by the time you arrive." There was a subtle caress in the peremptory tone.
"I . . . I will." She closed her eyes. "Would you . . . would you play for me again before I go?"
It took a couple of bars, but she recognized 'Goodnight, Sweetheart', which brought back her smile. He played it slow and gentle, with rolling chords. When he was done she said softly "Good night," and ended the call.
She didn't fall asleep right away, just lay in the darkness and tried to make a to-do list for the morning, but after a few minutes she gave up and thought about Greg. A part of her feared this was a mistake, but if it was, it was better to do something than nothing.
We'll sort things out in good time. The thought surprised her. She remembered Greg singing about a loneliness as deep and strong as her own, and drifted into sleep on a curious sense of peace.
'Loneliness,' Dr. John