Chapter 2
Fall From Grace
22 March (One Week Later)
We discuss a 23-year-old homeless guy with burn injuries and the desire to lie about his name, which would have been diagnostically more boring than watching a cat lick its own ass, if not for the fact he'd claimed his burning flesh smelled like licorice and the ER antiseptics, like blueberry muffins. Chase and Foreman go to search the park where he was found, while Cameron and Masters are sent to give him prednisone and perform an odour ID test to identify a possible neurological cause.
It's been too long now. I've tip-toed for the past week, letting Cuddy digest the news without saying much. It's taken every bit of will I've got, to hold back, to support her, to deal with the pain. And I don't want to count the Vicodin.
A final indistinct word flows from her to the nurse who hustles by me on my way in.
"This is stupid," I say. "You can't keep going on like this."
Cuddy rolls her chair back. With the look she hurls, I might as well have thrown something at her. "Going on like what?"
"You should let us start you on the interleukin-2."
"We've already been through this." Her features relax as she shuffles through paperwork. Probably more a metaphor, a physical representation of her search for the next excuse. "It's dangerous."
"In the '90s maybe. There are advanced protocols now."
"I'd be bed-ridden and miserable for at least a week at a time."
"Right. 'Cause the pazopanib's a picnic." I squeeze my cane handle. "You'll be bed-ridden and miserable within the year, anyway. Permanently."
Her focus settles on me, her hands freezing with a stack of papers held above her desk. "It doesn't matter. I need to keep working as long as I can."
"Because pencil pushing and strolls through the clinic to make sure all the runny noses are being properly wiped is worth forgoing a potential cure."
"I knew you'd do this."
"This way, you've got a year or two. And that's being generous. " I step closer. "You wanna do that to Rachel? You're ready to leave her without doing everything you possibly can?"
She slams the papers down and stands from her chair. "Don't bring Rachel into this. You're not going to use her to manipulate me."
The words are acid on my tongue, burning too much to swallow. They have to come out. "Then you're a crap mom." My nails dig into the rosewood handle and the cane raises on instinct, sweeps across her desk. Papers flap. Clutter thuds to the carpet.
Her jaw drops in a moment of stasis, a moment I ask myself if I had to do that. I did. The last errant page floats down. Her brows tighten, hands curling into fists."You're such an ass."
"If you're accepting you'll be dead before she learns to read, you should go home and be with her now instead of wasting time here." I motion to the mess on the floor. "This crap doesn't matter. You know it doesn't."
"How like you." She snarls, tears welling in her eyes.
Another pause. The seconds drag. A twinge of regret stabs me in the stomach. It creeps out, low. "I'm sorry."
"Are you?"
"Yes... but I'm also right." I lean my cane forwards and then back, wanting to approach her, wanting to do something to reverse this. But I don't know how.
The door swings open behind me.
It's the team. They take a moment to say anything, eyeing the pile of clutter on the floor and Cuddy's discomposure alternatively. She flicks her tears and tries to look unbothered.
"Gastrointestinal bleeding," Chase says.
"And his name is Danny Jennings," Cameron adds.
"We found some vials in his backpack. He said they were vitamins A and B12. And surprisingly he was telling the truth."
"He also enjoys vitamin H." Foreman gives a smug look. "The kid's a junkie."
"Tox screens were negative for drug use," Masters chimes in.
"His hair wasn't. I had it tested."
Cuddy kneels and starts scooping up the crap on the carpet. She doesn't say anything, but her eyes tell me she wants us to take this discussion out of her office.
I don't want the argument to end like this. Without winning. Without a conclusion of any sort. I'm not giving up, but maybe it's better to leave her for now. She's more likely to change her mind if I give her a while to stew.
"He was a heavy user sometime in the last five months," Foreman says, the team glancing at Cuddy between waiting for any reaction from me.
Cameron takes a step backwards."We can leave if you two are in the middle of something."
"No," I say, meeting Cuddy's gaze a final time before turning towards the door. I'm right. She'll realise that soon.
We discuss the case on the way back to my office. If the patient has been snorting heroin, he could have caused the dysosmia himself. Chase thinks Hypervitaminosis A could have caused the bleeding in his GI tract. Foreman doesn't buy unconnected symptoms. I mention that since he's been sleeping on a bed of dog poop, it's entirely possible he's got six different symptoms for six different reasons. Masters suggests the bleed could have been caused by a GI obstruction. I tell the team to give him tocopherol and zinc for excess vitamin A, and x-ray his abdomen to check for an obstruction.
"I'm so sorry to have to give you this kind of news." Wilson raises from his chair, looking across to a middle-aged woman as I barge into the office.
"Tell her she's being an idiot." I tap my cane against the wall.
The woman cranes around to stare at me with a sour expression.
"Don't worry. He's not talking about you." Wilson pats her arm with a placid smile, then hardens towards me. "Yes, because that's the best way to support your girlfriend in this crisis."
"She won't listen to me. Use that gift of yours. The same one you used to convince this woman that a radical mastectomy is the best shot for her stage 3 breast cancer."
The woman clutches her purse tight to her chest and scrunches her features just as tightly. "Excuse me." She turns to Wilson. "Who is this man and how does he know about my diagnosis?"
"Lucky guess," I say.
"I'm sorry Mrs Vurwater."
She stands up and slips her shoulder under the strap of her handbag."You're not sharing my confidential information, are you?"
"No, I can assure you that hasn't happened." Wilson soothes her with diplomatic motions, then reaches to shake her hand. "Come back on Wednesday for your consult and then we'll see about setting a date for the surgery. We'll go over more details, then. How does that sound?"
She nods and withdraws, all the while flinging slicing glances my way.
The door doesn't latch behind her, so I use my cane.
"We've already been over this." Wilson returns to his seat. "High-dose IL-2 isn't by any means a likely cure. You realise that's only a small percentage of patients."
I limp to the couch and plop down. He arches a brow, analysing what it means for me to do that. I don't care right now. "You'd rather we do nothing but wait for the cancer to spread?"
He looks at the wall, then back at me, sighing. "She wants to stay on the pazopanib. And..." He hesitates, like he's about to admit to wearing adult diapers. "There have been anecdotal reports that tyrosine-kinase inhibitors prior to IL-2 can raise the risk of cardiac toxicity. She'd have to be off the pazopanib for at least three months to be completely safe."
How idiotic. I force a scoff. "Oh, what a bright idea that was. Did you tell her that before she started popping them like Tic-Tacs?"
"Yeah. It was her choice."
"So, you want her to die."
"House... you're being ridiculous. Of course I don't." He presses his eyelids. "It's just that she's my friend too... and I can't force her to do something she doesn't want to do."
"I know. Because respecting a friend's wishes will mean so much when they're dead." I squeeze my cane between my knees, sliding it up and down to take my mind off the grinding in my thigh. "Better she hates you and lives."
"Me or you?" He squints. "Are you trying to use me to gauge whether it's worth making her hate you to force her into this?"
Dust particles shimmer in the sunlight filtering through the blinds. Watching them drift to the floor is preferable to watching his eyes bore through me. I let it out low and gravelly. "Yes."
Silence passes between us, punctuated only by shuffles in the hall and distant dings of the elevator.
"I don't know what to do." I start tapping my cane to the floor again.
"The fact you're admitting this is..." His chair creaks. "It's healthy."
My gaze flashes to him now, narrow. "Is it?" I pull the empty bottle of Vicodin from my pocket and slam it on the desk.
He leans further back and his mouth falls open. "Does Cuddy know?"
I don't answer as he takes the bottle and reads the label.
"Of course she doesn't," he says. "You should tell her."
"The pain's worse again."
"Understandable."
"That's it?"
"Your girlfriend has cancer. You find emotions and intimacy uncomfortable. You don't share your fears openly. You're bottling it all up. The repressed strain is causing physical symptoms, making your leg hurt more."
"If I wanted a psychoanalysis, I'd check myself back into Mayfield. But, then again, maybe you'd make a better psychiatrist than an oncologist. Most of your patients end up dead."
A particularly loud breath hisses out of him. "You wanted my opinion. Don't pretend you didn't."
"No, I wanted your help."
He looks taken aback. "Of course, if there's anything I can do."
"You can convince Cuddy to get the treatment."
"Anything except that." He pulls out a drawer, slaps his prescription pad on the desk, stops a moment as if pondering several poor options. His eyes flick to the pill bottle. "You should tell her." He presses down the pen, scribbles something and rips the page off. "If you don't, it's only going to make everything worse."
I don't say anything as he stands, closes the space between us, shoves the paper at me. More Vicodin.
Without another word, he heads for the door. It's lunchtime.
"What? No lecture?"
He pauses and faces me. "Dealing with something like this... only someone who's delusional would believe you'd be able to hold it together without relapsing."
I push through the office door to find Chase and Cameron gaping at a scan. An ultrasound. Not what I'd requested.
"So, he's pregnant?" I ask, heading to my desk. "That could count as an obstruction, I suppose."
"It's not the patient's." Cameron pulls an x-ray out from behind the ultrasound and offers it to me.
"We've found out what caused the bleed. He had thirteen pieces of bone in his digestive tract," Chase says. "We thought pica, but he says he ate them on a dare from a guy who works at a restaurant."
"More interestingly, you two didn't think you should tell me you're having a baby."
Chase stuffs his hands in his lab coat pockets. "It wasn't a secret, or anything."
"We just..." Cameron shifts as I brush by her. "We didn't think it was a good time."
"Good time for what?" Foreman comes in
"Tiny little baby shoes." I sit in my chair.
He raises his brows, then studies the ultrasound in Cameron's hand as he approaches. "Yours?"
"Yeah." She smiles.
"Congratulations." Grinning, he tosses his arms around her.
"Aww, what a touching scene," I say. "I should have brought my camera."
Foreman scowls and they ignore me. Masters joins us just in time to catch the end of his handshake with Chase. "Did I miss something?"
"We're having a baby," Cameron says.
"Oh, uh, congratulations." Masters fidgets for a moment.
"Thanks."
Somewhere between Masters relaying that the patient is now experiencing tunnel vision, and them debating again whether or not he's been snorting heroin, which would account for the dysosmia, I lose track of the differential.
Instead, my ears hone in on the splatting against the exterior window. Rain. It lands against the glass with a hypnotic tapping. The droplets snake from top to bottom.
Like the tears on her cheeks.
My mind snaps back to the bustling hospital cafeteria, where I'd grabbed a cold-cut and a bag of chips and was ready to sit down when I saw Cuddy across the room at a table with her mom and sister. Their fingers were tangled together beside a couple of coffees, their chests heaving with sobs.
A sensation like a chill, but not cold, ran down my spine and gripped my ribs. My heart rate elevated, respiration became uneven and laboured. The sub and barbecue chips on my tray didn't smell appealing any more.
I recoiled, fled into the corridor as fast as my limp would allow. It was an animal instinct. A fear response. I couldn't go to her. I ducked into the empty stairwell, managed to ease myself onto a step, and tried to recover my appetite.
"House?" Foreman's voice returns me to the office. "Are you even listening?"
The team are in a semi-circle in front of my desk, all painted in varying shades of confusion and exasperation.
"I'll start when you decide what the symptoms are and give me some theories," I say after a moment.
Paying little mind to where the words are coming from, I filter the important bits. Western equine encephalitis. No. That's out. No fever.
Foster Kennedy Syndrome. A meningioma or plasmacytoma pressing on his olfactory nerves, affecting sense of smell, growing and now pressing on his optic nerve, causing the tunnel vision. Possible.
I tell them to MRI his head and find it.
When they're down the hall, my fingers are unconsciously brushing the empty pill bottle in my pocket. I haven't filled the prescription yet. Wilson's words ring in my head. They're annoying.
And wrong.
I stop in front of Cuddy's place, pull off my helmet to be blasted by the downpour. Shouldn't have used the bike today. There's another car parked out front. One I recognise. A sliver of dread adds to what's already there.
She must have been feeling run down again. When I went to her office, she was gone. Her secretary said she'd gone home. I don't completely know why I'm here. Didn't want to listen to Wilson. But something kept me from the pharmacy. Something made me come here instead.
I climb off the bike and hobble through the pelting rain to the door. It's still early evening, so no need to pull out my key.
My footsteps are lighter than usual in the foyer. I catch a glimpse of Cuddy in the living room. She and Julia are on the couch with red eyes and a box of tissues on the coffee table in front of them. Before I can consider my plan of action, something bumps my leg.
Dressed in dinosaur print pyjamas and a bowl of dry Apple Jacks in hand, Rachel glowers up at me. "You're all wet," she says, like it's the most wonderful and surprising thing ever.
I look at the puddles forming below me, then back at her. My gaze flits to the living room again. They haven't noticed me. Cuddy pulls another tissue from the box and dries her eyelids.
"Mommy's really sad," Rachel says. "She's been crying with Aunt Julia ever since she came home." She pops an Apple Jack in her mouth and chomps, spraying crumbs to the glossy wood, losing a few larger chunks that join water droplets and swell into tiny edible sponges.
After a moment, she plops to the floor, then slides along until her back is against the wall. She holds the bowl towards me "Want some?"
I ease myself down beside her, letting my cane lie next to me. The tension releases from my leg and my soaked jeans cling to my skin. Maybe a quick blast of sugar will distract me. I grab a handful of cereal and cram it all into my mouth at once.
Rachel's eyes blow up. "You can fit all that?"
"Yup," I manage, then show her the half-chewed mess.
"Wow." She grins.
Now there are two layers of crunching.
"How... can we... make Mommy... happy again?" she sputters out between chewing.
I swallow. "I don't think we can."
"Why not?" Her eyes twinkle at me with an innocence I've never appreciated before. She's lucky she doesn't know anything. It's so easy being her age.
"Because... grown-ups are complicated and stupid." I push in a few more pieces of cereal. "And the things grown-ups have to deal with..." I grind it to mush, then swallow. "...are even more complicated and stupid."
She scrunches her face in puzzlement as she takes another bite, gears whirring in her head.
My phone buzzes.
"Who's that?"
"My little ducklings, " I say, answering it.
"Aww... duckies are cute."
"Patient has two dark spots in the parietal cortex," Masters relays. "They're not tumours. They could be some kind of injury or inborn defect."
Crumbs rolling down her shirt, Rachel holds the bowl towards me again. I don't hesitate to grab some more Apple Jacks and chew into the phone.
"He was clinically dead for several seconds during an OD," Cameron says.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
She's pretending not to hear. "The... dark spots could be brain damage... from oxygen starvation."
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
"Are you eating something?" Foreman blurts.
"Oh, is that against some rule I'm unaware of?"
He doesn't humour me and chooses to argue with Cameron. "It's not from oxygen starvation. I've seen MRIs like that in schizophrenics."
"I wanna duckie," Rachel mumbles with her mouth full, "but Mommy says no."
"Schizophrenia doesn't explain why his blood pressure skyrocketed and he threw up in the MRI," Chase says.
"Panic attack. He's claustrophobic," Foreman says. "He was fine once—"
"Did she also say duckies make poopies everywhere?"
"Umm... no."
"Apparently, you're dealing with something more important." Foreman sounds annoyed. "I guess we called at a bad time."
"No," I say. "It's just that I must have missed the part where you explained why you're calling me about this at all."
I don't need to see their faces to imagine their confusion on the other end.
"You wanted to be kept informed, didn't you?" Masters asks.
"Informed, yes. Listening to your meaningless arguments without a clear theory, no."
Finally they're all quiet.
"If he's schizophrenic," I say, "there's nothing we can do."
"Skittlefrenic? What's that?"
I move the phone away from my mouth and lean closer to Rachel. "A bad head boo-boo that makes you see and hear things that aren't real."
"Ohhh." She puts the empty cereal bowl down beside her. "That's scary."
"It is," I say, more honest than I normally find myself. Flashes of my worst nights at Mayfield, tossing and turning in agony, both physical and mental, swirl through my mind.
"We have to help him," Cameron says, bringing me back to the conversation. "We can't just send him back out—"
"By all means, invite him to live with you, then." I hang up.
Footsteps approach. "What's all this?" Cuddy's voice sounds congested.
She and Julia stand above us.
"Oh, Rachel, sweetie, you've got crumbs all over." Cuddy picks up the empty bowl and brushes Rachel's shirt off. "I thought you were eating at the table."
I want to question the importance of something so trivial as crumbs on the floor when she has cancer, but I hold it in.
"House came in," Rachel says, standing up. In her mind that's reason enough.
"I can see that." Cuddy's eyes turn harsher when she looks at me. I doubt it's just the mess.
"Do you want me to stay?" Julia fiddles with her purse strap on her shoulder. I can't help but notice the glances my way, which are some blend of confusion and condescension.
"No, that's all right," Cuddy says. "You should go home to the kids."
"All right. But call me whenever, okay?"
They hug, then Julia kisses Rachel on the cheek.
I still haven't said anything, or moved, by the time Julia has finished her goodbyes and gone out the door.
"You should get changed." Cuddy glances down at me again. "Put on something dry."
I start to pick myself up. It's harder than I thought it would be. Halfway up, searing pain shoots through my leg and it gives out. Cuddy grabs my arm and helps me, passes me my cane.
"Are you okay?" Rachel asks beside me.
"Great," I lie, my eyes meeting with Cuddy's as I steady myself.
"Honey, why don't you go and watch your cartoons?"
"Hm... okay." She pitter-patters off into the living room.
"I'm sorry," I force out.
"I know... but—"
I cut her off. "I'm not handling this." My voice falters. "I can't."
She stares now, fixed on my words.
But words aren't as easy as showing her. I pull the empty Vicodin bottle from my pocket.
She takes it and her face changes from shock to disappointment, to something I can't read.
I grip my cane tightly in preparation to take a step. "Should I go?"
She grabs my hand. "No."
Her arms wrap around me. I put mine around her. I'm going over all the possibilities in my head, what she must be thinking. She loves me. She's forgiving my words, my falling back to Vicodin. But nothing has changed.
I withdraw, drag out the new script now and give it to her. She squints at it. "Did you forge this?"
"Not this one," I say. "It was Wilson's idea." What a cheap way to diminish blame. Hypocrisy. If he hadn't written it, I'd have only done it myself again. But the fact he did... it's probably why I hesitated to fill it. Probably why I've told Cuddy. Why I'm admitting it all to her now. Reverse psychology at its best.
She passes the script back. "Why didn't you fill it?"
"Didn't think you'd be okay with that."
"Of course I'm not," she blurts.
My shoulders sag, eyes rolling from her to the opposite wall.
"But... you need it," she says after a moment. My focus returns to her. "I understand."
I stare instead of replying. Permission to go back on Vicodin full time. All my problems are solved.
Are they?
Well, that would be stupid to suggest. I clutch my leg. But the pain is the pressing issue. It's what matters right now.
23 March
Footsteps by the couch make me flinch. The sun is coming up. Must've fallen asleep for an hour or two.
"You didn't have to get out of bed." Cuddy tightens the belt of her robe.
"Didn't want to wake you."
"The Vicodin isn't helping?"
I glance to the bottle on the coffee table. Already taken more than I should have. The pain's a faint grinding. I'm not even sure that's why I couldn't sleep. "Better than ibuprofen."
She doesn't have to say it. Her concerned frown is enough. It's hard to believe it's not more effective after being clean for a year.
She lies alongside me, tucking herself under my arm without a word.
"No yoga this morning?" I ask, my jaw vibrating against the back of her head. I imagine her wince. That was stupid. Of course, not. She's achy, winded, sleeping longer. Her routine is changing even if she's pretending it's not.
"Sorry."
"It's okay," she answers after a few seconds.
The warmth of her body against mine almost makes me forget it all. It'd be nice if it could last forever. But like everything, it's only temporary. I know that as I drift from consciousness.
The repetition of MMMBop tears me from a better place. My ringtone for the team.
Cuddy gets up as I grab the phone from the coffee table. It's 7:53.
"I should check on Rachel and get dressed." She leaves the room.
"Danny Jennings is dead," Chase says.
"And when did this happen?"
"Three months ago, apparently."
"Are we still talking about schizophrenia kid?"
"It's not schizophrenia," Cameron says.
"You may have guessed, but we didn't go home last night." Chase sighs. "We were about to, when we got a call from a nurse that the patient's arm felt like it was on fire. He's on clozapine. If it's a delusion he should be getting better."
"That leaves genetic conditions," Cameron adds. "Testing all of them will take weeks, so we tried to narrow it down by finding his parents."
"I got in touch with your buddy Lucas and had him see what he could dig up on Danny Jennings," Chase continues. "Turns out, he was in rehab, then died of a drug overdose three months ago. So, we still have no idea who our patient is."
"Impressive. You accomplished all that instead of sleeping." I sit up and stretch my shoulders. "If only my night had been so productive."
"Unfortunately, we're still no closer to figuring out what's wrong with him," Cameron says. "He won't tell us his name. Even if it means he's going to die. He claims he deserves it."
"Well, it might be time to break out the interrogation equipment."
"I hope you're not serious."
"I didn't think you'd be back until late." Cuddy sags on the couch, turning as I walk in. Her complexion is more yellow than usual. No, it's probably just the orange of the setting sun pouring in. Rachel plays with toys on the rug below.
"Case is over. Early-onset Parkinson's." I say. "No sense in hanging around."
"Come and play." Rachel hops up and grabs my hand, tugging.
"Oh, honey," she says, haggard, scratching a reddened spot on her arm. "Don't pester House."
"How long have you been itchy?" I ask.
"It's nothing. Just that new soap."
Could be. One whiff seemed equivalent to having the perfume section of the shopping mall dropped on my head.
"Please." Rachel tugs at me again.
"All right." I ease myself down on the rug with her. "What have we got here?"
There's an assortment of cars and little people, along with a t-rex. I can work with this. "So this guy," I say, lifting the fireman, "is an alcoholic. Can you say alcoholic?"
"Acko...ackoholic."
"House...!" Cuddy hisses. "What are you doing?"
Rachel laughs. Cuddy releases a laboured breath and closes her eyes.
"He doesn't have any cash on him—firefighting doesn't pay well—but he really needs his fix. So, he goes to rob the liquor store over here." I hop him over to the coffee table leg. "Problem is... he didn't realise the lady, here," I say, moving the policewoman over. "Has a gun under the register."
Rachel's eyes pop, watching me point the policewoman at the fireman.
"And she shoots him right in the gut. Bang." I knock over the fireman, causing Rachel to jump.
Cuddy moans. "What are you teaching her?"
"Nothing she won't learn on TV."
"Exactly why I don't want her watching whatever's on." Cuddy lies down across the cushions.
"It's fun Mommy!"
"So, then he's gushing all over the floor." My hands fly out in exaggeration. "Splooosh!"
"Eww!"
"The lady has to call the ambulance." I wheel it over, making a siren sound. The top of the ambulance has to suffice for putting him inside. "They drive him to the hospital." I make the siren sound again. "But then..."
Rachel hangs on my every word.
"A hungry t-rex shows up." Under my direction, the dinosaur stomps up and flips over the ambulance. The fireman clatters beside it.
"Oh no."
Cuddy strains to lift her head from the sofa arm. Before I can continue, my phone goes off.
"It's not Parkinson's. Patient's heart is dilated and failing," Chase reports. "At the rate it's happening, he's going to need a new one soon."
"And no way we're getting him on the transplant list," Foreman says.
"What are we missing?" Cameron asks.
"Everything. We know nothing about this kid," I say. "Except that he's gotten worse since we admitted him."
Rachel plods over to her mom, nudges her.
"Why?" I prompt the team.
"What sweetie?" Cuddy lifts herself.
"Can I have a cookie?" Rachel asks.
"Finish your veggies first." She motions to the plate on the coffee table with one half-chewed, and three untouched broccoli florets.
"Most of our patients tend to do that, if we don't cure them," Foreman says.
"Okay." Rachel groans and plops to the rug with the plate, watching me as she starts to chow down.
"Yeah, but why so fast?" I ask. "He had dysosmia for a few months. Never even came in to have it treated. He's just a random burn victim."
Cuddy drags herself from the couch.
"You okay?" I hold the phone to my chest and jump up.
"Yeah." She brushes my hand. "Just feeling a little nauseous again. I'll be right back." She heads out.
"We get him," I continue into the phone. "Boom, he's got tunnel vision, peripheral polyneuropathy, cerebellar ataxia, and now cardiomyopathy."
Chomp. Chomp. Rachel chews with her mouth open.
"What's different here from, say, living in a filthy state park?"
"You think cleanliness is making him sick?" Masters asks.
"Allergic reaction?" Cameron offers.
"We treated him with Vicodin, clozapine, and one bag of levodopa," Foreman says.
Chomp. Chomp. Rachel stares with a unique combination of obliviousness and curiosity.
"His condition started deteriorating before that," I say, gaze drifting from her eyes to her mouth, to the green goop visible inside whenever she opens it. "What's he been eating?"
"Um, I don't know," Masters says.
"Then find out."
"All right."
"What are you thinking?" Cameron asks.
"Most of the meals are vegetarian. Wouldn't be surprised if he's been eating healthy because he can."
Adult Refsum disease. The patient's body can't process the phytanic acid and chlorophyll of green vegetables. Turned out his new, healthy diet was killing him. Another puzzle solved. And again only a vague glimmer of satisfaction as I stare at the ceiling in the dark, Cuddy asleep beside me.
The door opens. Little footsteps. "Mommy," Rachel whimpers.
She groans, rousing partway. I sit up. "What is it?" I ask, hushed. "Mommy's sleeping."
She hangs her head, at the brink of tears.
"Did you have a bad dream?"
She nods.
"Come here." I motion between us, leading her to climb up.
Cuddy stirs despite my efforts. She rolls over, eyes coming open. "Rachel, sweetie, what's wrong?"
"She had a nightmare," I say.
"It's okay. Mommy's here." Cuddy lets her nuzzle close and strokes her hair.
I lie back down, like a plank, a strange observer. It's got nothing to do with me. I'm an outsider. And there's an odd comfort in that.
Then she latches onto my arm, tiny fingers digging into my skin. What's up with that? I'm frozen for a moment, then I slide closer. She buries her head against me now. Cuddy keeps petting her hair, awe visible through the shadows.
And what does this mean? How the hell am I supposed to deal with it?