Chapter 4
Last Temptation
"Greg!" Mom calls.
I go downstairs to the source of her voice. They're at the dining table; Mom, Dad, an army buddy and his wife. There's turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie. That, and the festive table cloth would suggest it's Thanksgiving.
"Come on, over here!" Mom smiles and motions to the empty chair beside Dad. "We're about to eat."
I plod along, going through the motions.
"What took you so long? What were you doing?" Dad hisses when I sit down.
"Nothing."
"As usual." He spreads a cloth napkin across his lap while Mom carves the turkey.
The meal is typical, boring. Dad and his buddy laugh about army stories, Mom and the wife gossip about neighbours, people they know.
It's all routine until army buddy shovels in the cranberry sauce. His face turns as red as a baboon's ass. He coughs, tongue protruding, and reaches for his drink. Mom, Dad, and his wife's voices overlap to the extent it's impossible to discern the words, but I know they're asking what's wrong.
"He's choking!" Mom's voice finally stands out. "I'll call for an ambulance!" She hops up to grab the phone.
He rushes from his seat, into the open kitchen. His wife follows. He flurries to fill a glass with water, then gulps it dry.
"No, no," he manages, stifling a final cough. "I'm all right."
"What happened?" Mom sets down the phone.
"Was there some kind of hot spice in the cranberry sauce?"
"No, nothing like that." Mom looks shocked and trades a glance with Dad, still beside me.
His rough hand grips my wrist. "What did you do?" he growls.
"Nothing," I lie.
In a single motion, he jerks me from my chair. They all see, but don't do anything. He drags me into the study and slams the door.
"I'm only going to ask one more time." He rips his belt off, dangling it in front of me.
"Cayenne pepper," I say. "I mixed in a whole bottle."
His scowl deepens. He casts his belt to the desk and shakes me by the shoulders. "What the hell were you thinking? Why do you always have to try to sabotage everything? What if you'd caused him to choke? What if he was allergic, or something? You have no respect for anyone. "
Buzz. Buzz.
"What's that noise?" I glance past him, around the bookshelves and desk.
"I don't hear anything. You're just trying to get out of this." His fingers dig into me as he grabs his belt again.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
"There it is again."
He lashes me across the wrist. The strike is hard enough to sting through my sleeve. As he pulls back for another swing, a black and yellow shape comes into focus, hovering above him. A bumblebee. It must have come through the window. But it couldn't have. It's November.
This isn't real. At least not all of it.
"You're pathetic," comes a woman's voice. I'm in Dr Nolan's office. Amber sits in the chair across from mine. "You know why you won't answer it."
"Answer what?"
Buzz. Buzz.
There's a cellphone on the end table beside her chair.
"Coward," she jeers.
"Corpse," I snap, standing up.
"Oh, so typical. Running away." Her voice bites me in the back as I go for the door. "Too bad you can't," she says, my hand jarring the knob.
It's locked.
"No where to go."
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
"You're dead." I lift my cane, bash it against the door. "This isn't real."
"Maybe not, but sometimes that's not what's important."
My pounding has no effect. On the door, that is. My cane snaps in two with a loud crack, the end clattering below. I'm left with a splintered chunk that cuts my hand. Blood drips from my palm to my wrist and splats on the floor.
"You're scared."
I turn. "No, I'm not."
"Spoken like a ten-year-old." She crosses her legs, folding her hands together. She doesn't need to move to control the scene. "You know the saddest part is that what scares you most isn't even losing Cuddy, it's admitting you don't deserve her. That you don't deserve anyone."
I clench the useless cane handle at my side. The wet spreads and keeps dripping.
"You're still broken... always broken." Her glaring white teeth taunt me with every syllable.
"And you're still dead."
"Wow. Way to beat that horse." She scoffs.
I toss the scrap of cane and lurch towards her, my hand at my hollow thigh. Can't go fast. I'm a caterpillar inching along a branch. Each step is a strain, a shot of agony that might topple me. She delights in every second.
"Finally." Amber sighs as I reach her. "What now?"
Buzz. Buzz. The phone beside her vibrates again. She arches a brow at it. There's no name and the number is blurred.
I snatch it up, hurl it against the wall.
"That won't do much good, you know."
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Still going.
"The phone is fine," she says. "You're the one who's broken."
My fingers fly to the chair arms, sinking in, smearing blood on the upholstery before I know what I'm doing. It crashes onto its side easily, but Amber doesn't go with it. She's too quick.
She presses against me. I'm falling.
My body collides with the floor. Pain radiates from my head, my neck, my back.
"Broken," she hisses again. "Broken, broken, broken."
Buzz. Buzz. Damn that phone. It's as annoying as her chanting.
I can't get up.
"You could've turned it off." Her eyes flick to the phone. "You chose to put it on vibrate," she says. "Why do you think that is?"
She kneels in front of me. "You wanted to hear it. Part of you wants to punish yourself." She leans down until her hair brushes my cheek and her breaths heat my skin. "Part of you knows," she whispers, "that your inability to deal with normal human emotions is causing you to sabotage yourself like you always do."
Her words, like scalpels, seem to flay at me, deepening the sensation of every burning nerve.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Rattle. Clop.
She's gone. It all is.
I pull myself up from the pillow, glance to the alarm clock. I squint to make out the digits. 12:06. The thin, white curtains on the windows do almost nothing to dampen the sun's onslaught. My head's pounding. And I really need to pee.
I drag myself from the tangle of sheets and stumble across the unfamiliar room, past a scattering of empty liquor bottles, towards the bathroom.
Emptying my bladder is like passing a hundred tiny razor blades. I fight the urge to vomit, leaning over the sink. The cold water against my face helps a little. Colours dance behind my eyelids.
Buzz. Buzz.
On the stagger back to bed, there it is. My phone. It must've vibrated off the nightstand. I don't care about that stupid dream. She's wrong. And I'm not answering it.
I throw myself onto the mattress again, stare at the ceiling.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Checking in is a hazy image in my head, followed by a stream of drinking, stumbling, falling. Being swallowed up by chlorinated water. Tangling in the cover of a closed swimming pool. After that it's black. Why didn't I drown?
The Vicodin bottle is empty, but there's still a whiskey by the alarm clock. It's almost full. I grab it.
Knock. Knock.
About time they show up. I drag myself from the bed to answer.
Not room service. Wilson lodges his hand between the frame and the door before I can slam it shut in his face.
Nice try. That's not going to stop me.
"Ow!" he shouts. "What's wrong with you?!"
"Should have used your foot."
He keeps pushing. Annoyingly persistent, as usual. "Dammit, House, just open the door!"
Hot lightning streaks through my leg. It gives out. I stumble backwards and he forces in.
"What the hell were you thinking?" He's not talking about crushing his fingers.
I sag against the wall, feeling like a bear caught in a trap. "How did you find me?"
"Big hint. You probably shouldn't have used Cuddy's credit card to pay for the room." His brows knit together in judgement. "It's bad enough you abandoned her for three days to go to some stupid potato gun thing."
He steps closer. "You actually had the gall to take her credit card with you. Then, you hole up here for almost two days, refusing to answer your phone."
Wait. Two days? "What day is it?"
"Monday."
I've lost a day. "Don't remember Sunday," I mutter.
He glances to the bottles strewn about by the bed. "Probably has something to do with the fact you've been trying to drink yourself into liver failure."
"Liver failure," I force a sloppy laugh. "Ironic, right?"
He scowls. A remark in bad taste, I guess. "What kind of ass does this?" His hands fly out from his sides, motioning to the mess.
"Me."
"Apparently," he scoffs, purely in disgust.
"What did you expect?" I arch away from the wall, stagger, then slam back against it.
"That you'd at least try not to take yet another dump on everyone who cares about you," he says, fetching my phone from the carpet.
I sink to the floor. "She's wrong, you know."
"Maybe so." He comes back. "But if you cared, you'd support her anyway."
"Not Cuddy," I say. "Amber."
His eyes pop. "You're seeing Amber?" He crouches to my level.
"She says I'm more afraid that I don't deserve anyone, than I am of losing her."
He squints, like he's decrypting a foreign language.
"I'm not," I blurt.
"You're still drunk."
"That was the intention."
It's like a lightbulb has flashed in his head. "Oh, I don't believe it." He stands.
"It all makes sense now." He sticks a finger up at me, his lips parting in a bitter smile. "You want her to break up with you. It's easier that way. If she doesn't love you, you can convince yourself you don't love her," he says, "and then it won't hurt as much."
I draw circles with my index finger along the handle of my cane as it lies horizontal beside me."Gotta admit it's a good idea."
"Like hell it is." His voice takes on a harsh tone you almost never hear. He lets out a sigh and crouches again. This time he tosses my arm over his shoulder and drags me to my feet.
My chest heaves with a ragged laugh. "You're so in love with me it's disgusting."
"Yeah, right," he grunts out, starting us down the hall. "If this were just about you, I'd let you drown in your own sick."
"Such lies." I tap his knees with my cane, nearly tripping him. "Just keep telling yourself that."
"Give me that." He jerks the cane from my hand.
We wobble to the elevator. It's full of people. I don't care. "You've chosen me over every wife, every woman you've ever dated."
"I'd tell you you're making me doubt my resolve," he mutters, shifting in place. "But that's exactly what you want to hear."
"This man loves me." I throw my other arm around him and press my head against his chest.
He stiffens, but doesn't push me off. "I'm sorry. He's really drunk."
"Not drunk enough."
The sound of Hanson makes me peel my cheek from the car window. The glass has a wet spot. Oops. Guess I was drooling. "You turned it back on?"
"Yeah, right now really isn't the best time." Wilson answers the phone instead of me as he navigates the hospital parking lot. "He's...um... fine, but..."
"No, no, put it on speaker." I reach for my phone, him squirming to keep it out of reach. Pretty good multitasking.
The car stops. "Oh, all right I'm lying, he's drunk off his ass." He unfastens his seatbelt.
I try to free myself from mine. "I'll talk to Cuddy if you put it on speaker."
"Afraid you're going to do that regardless."
"Not necesses... necessarily." Damn clasp. Can't find the release.
Wilson clicks it for me and the belt whirs into its slot.
I seize the opening, grab my phone. "Hah. Got it."
Instead of fighting me, he slides out of the car.
"So's... there a case?" I ask.
"House? Are you okay?" Cameron asks.
"Fine." I watch Wilson circle to the front of the car. "Well, not fine as in fine, but who really cares about that?"
"Our patient is a sixteen-year-old aspiring to be the youngest person to sail around the world," Masters says. "And, um... today's my last day of rotation."
"So?"
"Um... I..."
"She collapsed yesterday during a practise run," Cameron interjects.
"We thought adrenal insufficiency," Chase says, "so we were tracking her cortisol levels, had her on a treadmill to speed things up when her hand turned completely blue."
The door pops open. Wilson goes for the phone, but I swat him away.
"Is Thirteen there?"
"Wait, you know she's back?" Foreman asks.
"Yeah, we shared a few motel rooms. Does that bother you?"
No response.
"She showed up this morning," Cameron says. "Wouldn't tell us anything, just went to Wilson."
"Must have been about you," Chase adds, pausing for a moment. Probably waiting to see if I'll explain anything. Not gonna happen. Way funner to leave them puzzling over it all. "We put the patient on vasodilators, restored enough blood flow that she won't lose any fingers."
"This is ridiculous. Come on." Wilson starts to pull me out of the seat.
"I know you're enjoying all the groping," I mutter, "but I'm not an invalid."
"I don't know why you guys are bothering," comes the condescending tone of Foreman through the speaker. "He's clearly too drunk to do this right now."
"Still can out diagnose you, Dr Chocula..." The final syllable draws out with the bile that froths up my oesophagus. Wilson ducks out of the way as it spews from my mouth onto the asphalt in a yellowish-brown splutter.
I spit. He gives me a moment. "I feel better now."-
"I'm sure you do." He tears the phone from my hand and helps me over the puddle.
"Yes, that was him throwing up," he says to the team. "You'll have to call back later."
We slog across the parking lot that sparkles with leftover rainwater. The relief I felt a moment ago is gone. Every step causes my head to spin a little faster. I want to ask him what we're doing here if he doesn't want me working. Maybe Cuddy's still playing hospital babysitter.
I think a grunt comes out before the blackness closes in and my muscles go limp.
"Hey, that's not funny. Come on, I'm not carrying you."
Wilson sounds far away even though it must be his body keeping me from falling to the pavement.
"House?"
The haze clears. Plastic footboard. Bracelet chafing my wrist. A line running into my vein from an IV stand. The pale knit blanket cocooning me is tinted orange by sunlight. Must've been out for several hours.
"You're an idiot," Thirteen says from the chair by my bed.
"Wow, Wilson, the hair's great, but your boobs have really shrunk."
A smile teases the corners of her lips, but stops there. "You were dehydrated. Drinking nothing but alcohol to the point of puking, for two days, tends to do that."
"Afraid I wouldn't make it?"
"More like my medical board hearing isn't for another two weeks, which means I can't exactly do a lot." She uncrosses her legs. "Is it fun testing the limits of your relationships?"
"Didn't realise you'd be so upset if I stood you up."
"No, you know what I'm talking about." She stands.
Right. There's a twinge of stark clarity. "Wait." I jolt upwards, fighting against the constrictive blankets. "Weren't they monitoring her liver enzymes?"
"Yeah. The toxicity came on suddenly. AST and ALT were fine before that." She watches me a moment longer, then takes a step towards the door. "If you're ready to be back on your feet, you should go and see her."
Masters barges in before Thirteen can leave.
"I'm sorry. I know this isn't a good time, but I really need to talk to Dr House."
"There might never be a good time." I press the button to elevate the head of my bed.
"Okay." Thirteen looks at me then back at Masters.
"Our patient, Kendall... she has lymphoid sarcoma. Her arm needs to be amputated, but her parents won't consent because it's not what she wants. She wants to be discharged so she can finish her sail. The cancer could spread before then. She could die."
"Unfortunately, patients have a right to be stupid," I say, irony stinging as the words sputter out. "Nothing we can do."
Thirteen narrows her eyes at me. "Really?"
"Well, technically you could break the rules and force her somehow, but seeing as how that's not ethical..."
"I don't want her to die."
"Then you've only got one option."
Thirteen has no argument.
Masters shifts awkwardly, clutching a book at her side. "I can't."
"So, colouring inside the lines is more important to you than saving this girl's life? Maybe it's good this was your last day." Yeah, I remember her saying that. I wasn't that drunk by that point. I stand and rip the IV from my arm.
Masters turns to leave. Thirteen goes with her. I can see them in the hall through the gaps in the blinds.
"What's that?" Thirteen motions to the book in Masters' hand.
"Oh, it's my log book."
"Weren't you supposed to have turned that in hours ago?"
"Yeah, but I couldn't get my last LP."
"Oh. I might be able to help with that."
Cuddy's skin has no tinge of yellow now. She opens her mouth, then stops.
I take a few limps closer. "I know an apology won't change anything."
"No, because you won't mean it." Her fingers tighten around clumps of blanket. "Or even if you do, you'll just screw it up again. Like you always do."
"Does this mean we're over?"
Her eyes coast across me as though she's hunting for something. "It should," she says. "But no."
I try not to allow any confusion to show on my face.
"I won't give you the satisfaction."
"Wilson's talked to you, hasn't he?"
Her back arches, searching for a more comfortable position against the pillow.
"He's more twisted than I am."
She doesn't say anything, but it's not hard to deduce her bewilderment.
"He won't persuade you to get the treatment, but he will persuade you to stay with a selfish, unstable, emotionally unavailable boyfriend. Just to make sure I don't get my way."
I realise it sounds like I'm talking about two different people.
"He thinks you're running away because you love me," she says. "I'm not even sure any more." She bites her lip. "Do you?"
"If you have to ask—"
She interrupts. "Of course not." A layer of mist diffuses over her eyes. "If you loved me, you wouldn't abandon me. I don't care how scared you are."
"I won't watch you die." My cane kicks out, preparing me for a step. I turn halfway towards the door. Something won't let me move.
"So, you're going to make me face it alone?"
She's not alone. She's got her mom, Julia, Rachel. She doesn't need me. I can't give her anything. I turn back.
She flicks a tear away. Another rolls down.
My eyes retreat to the dangling IV cord. She's right. I'm revolting.
"I've changed my mind," she says. "Not that it makes much difference."
I close the gap between us. "I'm sorry. I know it doesn't mean anything, but..." The lump in my throat won't go down. "I'm sorry."
Her lips suck into her mouth as she closes her eyes for a moment, more streaks flowing across her face.
I clutch her hand, my stare substituting 'I love you'.
A cart with a defective wheel scrapes down the hall.
"I accept whatever you think is right."
"You were." Her words disintegrate into a sob and I pull her into my arms. Her body trembles against mine. "I'm ready to try the interleukin-2."
Emotions are idiotic. Illogical. They cause people to make stupid decisions for stupid reasons. Now she wants to change her mind all because she had a serious side effect from one drug. And just like that, I'm getting my way. I should be relieved.
But I'm not.
It's like a river slamming against a dam. The pressure builds and builds. There's no release. I'm shuddering, but the tears won't come for me. "I want you to know... I won't leave again. No matter what happens."
Wilson jots the prescription and offers it, but I don't raise my hand from kneading my leg. Standing is almost unbearable. But then again, so is sitting. Muscles tense and quivering under the strain, I lean against his desk. The corner digging in barely registers. "I need more."
His brow lifts questioningly as he drops his elbow to rest on the surface in front of him, glancing between the script and me. "You went through sixty pills in five days."
"Because Vicodin's not enough." I tilt my cane forwards and let it clack against the desk. Repeatedly. Every collision causes Wilson's shoulders to tense.
"It used to be," he says. "And if anything your tolerance should have decreased."
"Makes sense." I keep crashing the wood together, clench my eyes shut. "But it's not working any more."
"Are you sure this isn't—"
"What?" I blurt, glaring at him. "All in my head?"
"Not all of it, no." He rises from his chair. "How many times do we have to go over this?"
"As many times as it takes for you to stop psychoanalysing physical pain." I clench and dig my fingers deeper, unable to stifle a grunt.
"I just wish you'd admit that Cuddy's condition may have something to do with it."
"Fine! What does it matter? The result's the same!"
"The treatment isn't."
"What, you expect me to just talk this away?"
"Obviously, it's not an instant cure, but it can hel—"
"Just write me some damn oxy," I interrupt. "Or I'll find someone else who will."
He scans the room. I know that look.
"And don't bring up Cuddy as an excuse," I say before he opens his mouth. "She understands I need something for the pain."
"She understands you being back on Vicodin right now. Climbing the ladder isn't exactly the same thing. She's already worried about you. You're going to pile on more. Do you really want to do that to her?"
"The question is, do you really want to do that to her? I can't be with her like this."
His eyes coast up and down me, seeming to fix on the spot where my body is partially fused with his desk. I shift away, separating, only to let my hip land back against the sharp edge. The stab subtracts a point or two from the ever-present gnawing below. There's a mixture of frustration, resignation, and something softer in his gaze. I know that one too. Pity.
He crumples the script from before, tosses it into the trash, gives me one more look, then presses his pen to a fresh paper.
29 March
"I can get it. It's all right." Cuddy huffs, pushing away Foreman's attempts at helping her shove personal items from her desk into a box.
He backs up, awkward, speechless, glancing at me as I walk in.
"Congrats on the promotion," I say. "Glad someone's seizing opportunities."
Speaking of opportunities, I'd actually planned to open an intern position on the team for Masters, but the last case was too much for her, apparently. Seems she did some things she wasn't comfortable with. Things that resulted in saving a girl's life. Disappointing, 'cause she's got a good brain. But if she can't bend the rules, it's all wasted.
Foreman arches a brow. "It's temporary. And not my idea."
"Feeling guilty? Good."
Cuddy drops her name plate into the box. What would have normally been a seething glare is only lukewarm. "Foreman was the fifth person I asked. No one else wanted the job. Big surprise."
There's a distinct unease in the air while Cuddy shuffles past him, box to her chest.
12 April (Two Weeks Later)
Wilson joins us in the living room, a folder tight between his fingers as if the pressure will alter whatever is inside for the better somehow. We sink into the couch cushions, a moment of unsettled quiet. Cuddy shifts and tugs her skirt straight. She wants to tell him he didn't have to come over, insist again he should be treating her like any other patient. That's ridiculous, of course, so he'll tell her as much, while getting the mistaken impression she doesn't want him here. She'll notice and try to reassure him without embarrassing either of them. They'll both feel stupid and uncomfortable.
Luckily, Cuddy's mouth closes as quickly as it opened, sparing us the whole awkward social dance routine.
Wilson's deep breath causes her to squeeze my hand.
Get it over with. I hold my tongue, don't allow those words to roll out even though every second is agony.
He flips open the folder and slides out the two scans on the coffee table. Cuddy tenses herself deep against the couch back, leg shaking against mine. My eyes leap to the scans, the old one and the new one, scrutinising.
He didn't even need to show the previous for comparison. Any idiot with partial vision and half a functioning brain could see it. The white blots haven't shrunk. They haven't even stayed the same. They've grown. And spread. They're invading the adjacent lymph nodes.
She gasps, a hand flying over her mouth.
Wilson winces, scrunches his nose between his fingers. "We should've started you on another TKI immediately."
I pull my legs closer together to escape her trembling. I don't like how it makes me feel. "Or we should've started the IL-2 immediately."
She latches onto me, burying her face in my chest. My hands find their way to her back. Wet seeps through my shirt, the fabric choking her sobs. It sticks to my skin the same way the stark truth hangs in the air around us. Wilson's eyes meet mine over her shoulder. He won't dare say it, but he thinks this is my fault. It's his.
"We wouldn't be in this situation," I say, "if you hadn't skipped over the obvious first line treatment, then hesitated over some potential risk." My tone turns biting. "Her heart's fine. She's fit and still young. This tiptoeing has just wasted precious time."
He jolts from the couch, lip quivering with all that he wants to burst at me but can't. "You're doing what you do with all of your patients, taking risks, reaching for miracle cures." He clenches his jaw. "It doesn't always work that way. You should know that by now."
I ignore that. "The sad part is, you're the oncologist."
"Don't argue about this." Cuddy pulls herself from my chest, rubbing her eyes. "I made the decisions. I was wrong. Nothing we can do about it now."
"There are still options." Wilson touches her shoulder. "I can put you on sorafenib, or sunitib."
"Or we can start the IL-2 now," I say. "And we hit it hard. No playing it safe."
Wilson casts a dubious glance, but doesn't remark. For Cuddy's sake.
"The main cause for failure is inadequate actual doses because somebody gets scared or uncomfortable and skips."
"We don't actually know that." Wilson sighs. "And it's the protocol for a reason."
I grip the couch arm, dig into it. "If we do this, I'm gonna do it right."
Wilson turns to Cuddy. "It's your call."
She bites her lip, looking at him, then me. She blinks long. "I trust you."
He doesn't need to say a word. It's written on his face. He thinks I'm getting her hopes up, getting my hopes up, for nothing. I'm not. This is going to work. She's going to be fine. Because she has to be.