Three weeks after leaving hospital Lara could kid herself that life had almost returned to normal. She and Larissa had packed up all the baby things and sold them off, not without a few more tears from both of them. Larissa and Paul had collected the furniture Lara had put into storage and returned the room to the home office/spare bedroom that it used to be.
Lara had gone back to her yoga class. One excited person had noted her shrunken belly and asked after the baby, and when Lara had told her that she'd died, everyone left her alone, clearly uncertain what to say. Her body was slowly returning to what passed for normal, her stomach was noticeably smaller though it was still swollen, and finally her breasts had stopped aching, although they still showed a few purplish stretch mark stripes. Lara knew she'd have to wait a while for those to fade and told herself to be thankful she hadn't ended up with any on her belly.
She thought about going back to work, that perhaps it would be a good idea to focus on something else. She called her boss and explained the situation; later that day an enormous bouquet of flowers had arrived. Funny, she realised they were the only flowers she'd received. She'd barely had a chance to tell anyone about Grace's birth, before she was telling them about Grace's death. Her boss was sympathetic and agreed to find a way to get Lara back to work as soon as she was ready, but left that decision to her. Lara still hadn't quite worked out what she felt like doing and as she was still sleeping for at least twelve to fifteen hours a day, a normal office routine didn't appeal. In the end she told her boss she'd stay on leave for a while.
Larissa or Paul came around every day, even if just for a few minutes. But it wasn't until Janet came to visit one day that Lara realised she hadn't eaten for two days.
That was probably not very normal.
Janet walked in carrying bags filled with cupcakes, a couple of casserole dishes and a few groceries that Lara was very grateful to see. She was just about out of toilet paper and the milk had run out days ago. She'd starting drinking her coffee black – a trip to the grocery store seemed like too much effort.
"Are you hungry?" Janet bustled around the kitchen, organising things like the efficient mother-of-two that she was.
The question reminded Lara that she hadn't eaten and yet, curiously, wasn't hungry.
"I brought some fresh tomatoes. I can make you a sandwich."
"No, thanks."
Janet sighed. She finished putting everything away and then turned to Lara taking her hands. "Are you eating? Are you looking after yourself? You look like crap." she said in that blunt way she had.
"Of course," Lara protested weakly.
"Lara, I know what you're supposed to look like after you give birth. And unless you're Angelina Jolie with your own personal trainer, you're not eating."
"I'm not hungry."
"I know." She squeezed Lara's hands. "But I'm going to make you a sandwich anyway and you'll eat it, just to please me. Okay?"
Lara nodded, slightly ashamed to submit to the tone Janet clearly used on her toddler. The plain tomato sandwich was easier to eat than she'd thought and she had to admit that she did feel better afterwards. That night she decided to have another, but cut her hand trying to slice the tomatoes. It wasn't that deep, but it hurt and bled profusely. She slapped a Band-Aid over it, annoyed with herself, and ate the half-made sandwich anyway, then fell asleep on the couch watching re-runs of MASH.
--
House was in his office twirling his cane like a lazy cheerleader and staring off into the distance when someone knocked at his door. He was so absorbed by his current patient's case he almost didn't hear it. When he saw Paul Kimble walking in, one of Wilson's oncologists, he could only think that it had something to do with the case.
"Would paraneoplastic syndrome cause blood clots in the brain?" he asked.
"Uh," Kimble looked taken aback, like a kid who'd had a pop quiz sprung on him. "I don't know, why?"
House narrowed his eyes. "If you're not going to be helpful, why are you here?"
Kimble sighed and took a seat opposite House's desk. "I need to talk to you about Lara."
House rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically, but it was a cover for the deep and instant unease he felt. He'd just been beginning to feel that he was putting all that behind him. At least, it wasn't in his thoughts quite as often anymore, and he was beginning to feel he was back to what he considered his normal level of unhappiness.
"What about her?" he asked, sure he didn't want to know the answer.
"She's not doing well. Not eating, not looking after herself. She's very depressed."
"Well of course she is. Her baby died," House said with a "duh" tone.
"We were wondering if you could go and see her," Kimble said tentatively. "She might listen to you."
"Why would she listen to me? I hardly know her."
"I know." Kimble sighed. "It's just we don't know what to do. Janet and Larissa and I have been visiting every day between the three of us. I've been keeping an eye on her medication, making sure she's not taking too much. We've done everything we can think of."
"It's only been a few weeks. She needs time."
"I know that," Kimble said, starting to get irritated. He fell back in the chair and sighed loudly again. "I met Lara two years ago when I met Larissa. They're best friends. Larissa is going out of her mind with worry."
House sneered. "Oh, now I get it. The little woman's making life difficult for you at home, so now you need to solve her friend's problem to get her focus back to you, huh? What, she too upset to give you any of the good stuff?"
Kimble shook his head and looked disgusted. "Fine." He rose from the chair. "I can tell Larissa I tried."
House watched as Kimble walked towards the door. "Wait," he said after a pause long enough for the other man to almost make it all the way out into the corridor. House wasn't quite sure what to say. How could he explain that he didn't help other people out of their misery, other people did that for him? He was crap at sympathy, even crapper at empathy, and no use at all the practical things that depressed, grieving people required. He couldn't cook, hated housework, was awkward and uncomfortable with the kind of physical affection that might be involved.
Above all, he didn't need to be reminded of Grace, not now that he was over the whole thing. But it did prompt him that he still hadn't heard back from the neonatal cardiac specialist in London that he'd emailed Grace's file to for a second opinion on cause of death. "Inconclusive" just didn't cut it for House. He made a mental note to check the time in the UK and call him to follow up.
"I've known Lara a long time," Paul said, hand on the door. "I saw her when her fiancé left, when her dad died. This is different."
House sighed. "Give me her address. I'm not promising anything."
--
Lara wasn't planning to open the door, but whoever was on the other side was clearly very keen to come in. They knocked, continuously, until Lara sighed and peeled herself up from the sofa.
"I'm coming!"
She opened the door, expecting to see Larissa, Janet or Paul, although the knock should have told her it wasn't one of her usual visitors.
She'd forgotten how tall he was – his frame almost filled the doorway. They stood, looking at each other frankly in silence.
"You stink," he said after a while.
"Nice to see you too," Lara muttered.
"No, really, you smell. Bad." He barged in through the door and walked straight into her living room.
"I've been working in the garden," Lara protested.
"What, three days ago?"
Lara made some muttered excuse, but he was right. She had been possessed by the need to re-pot all her plants the day before yesterday – or was it the day before that? She'd only got halfway through before some of her still-tender muscles complained about the exertion, so she'd given up and decided to finish them later. Showering had seemed a little pointless when she was only going to get dirty again when she got back to it. Except she hadn't quite managed that yet. None of her friends had said anything, not even Janet.
"Why are you here?"
"Paul asked me."
"He had no right to do that."
"Oh, don't get your knickers in a knot." He shrugged off his leather jacket and flopped down onto the sofa. "Got any beer?"
"No."
"Whisky?"
"No."
"Damn. Would have brought my own if I'd known."
Lara snorted. "Larissa took the hard liquor. She doesn't think I know, but I remember I had a full bottle of Grey Goose and it's suddenly disappeared. There's wine though. Maybe she thought I couldn't do as much damage with that."
Lara wandered around to the front of the sofa where he'd made himself comfortable and he looked up at her. "She's worried about you," he said, matter-of-factly.
"Everyone's worried about me."
"Not me," he said, shaking his head. "You look fine to me. Don't smell so hot, but you look fine."
Lara knew he was lying. She looked like shit. Her replanting effort had been partly inspired by the fact that she'd looked at herself in the mirror and hated the pale, blotchy skin on her face. Spending some time outside had been an effort to address that. But somehow, she realised, the paleness of her skin was nothing to do with lack of sunshine. It was coming from the inside.
"Maybe I could do with a shower," she admitted reluctantly.
"Good." He got up from the couch and wandered into the tiny kitchen alcove off to one side. He opened the refrigerator. "How long's this lasagne been in here?"
"I don't know. Not that long, Janet's pretty good at keeping an eye on that."
"It just goes in the oven, doesn't it?" He peered at her over the door.
"Um, yeah." Lara felt as if she'd stepped into a fast-flowing stream and had been dragged along with the current.
"Good, that's about the extent of my cooking abilities. It should be ready by the time you're out of the shower. Don't forget to wash your hair because I can see at least one bug in it."
Before she realised quite what was happening, Lara found herself in the shower, washing her hair. She watched as a small beetle swirled away down the drain with the suds and the tears welled. Because somehow, the capable, pragmatic, professional Lara Thompson that she'd once known had turned into a hermit lady who didn't wash and went days without realising there was a bug in her hair.
That was not good.
It had taken a virtual stranger to point it out.
Just the idea of being so pathetic made her feel like sitting down in the tub and never getting out. Instead, finding some inner resolve she didn't know she had, she grabbed the shower gel and a new razor, shaved her legs and underarms and double-conditioned her hair. After the shower, she brushed her teeth, blow dried her hair and found a stretchy gypsy-style skirt and a black t-shirt that were both a little too clingy, but at least they weren't maternity wear. Since the hospital, Lara had mostly been wearing pyjamas, because she couldn't bear to put on the clothes she'd worn when she was pregnant. Had packed them up and had Larissa take them away, in fact. But her belly was still too swollen for most of her old clothes.
When she finally walked out into the living room, it was filled with the smell of meat and tomato and cheese. Plates and cutlery had been dumped in a pile in the middle of her small dining table and a bottle of red wine had been opened and a bit of it – quite a bit of it – had already been consumed.
"Where do you keep your pot holder thing?" a grumpy voice asked.
"In the second drawer," she said, pouring herself a glass of wine. He'd put out drinking glasses, not wine glasses, but Lara didn't really care. The wine tasted lovely but didn't feel very good once it hit her stomach. She realised she really had to eat something.
A moment later, House emerged from the kitchen holding the lasagne. He dumped it on the table without fanfare, cutting each of them huge slabs and messily transferring it to plates.
"Here," he said, shoving one towards her. Without waiting for Lara, he sat down and began eating.
She couldn't help feeling the corners of her mouth lift in what felt almost like a genuine smile. The first she could remember in a long time. She wasn't quite sure why. It wasn't as if Larissa hadn't tried to serve her a meal or ten before now. Perhaps it was because Larissa's service came with sad pleading to please eat. This time she felt as if it was simply a foregone conclusion that she would do exactly what he had asked without him even asking, let alone begging. She sat down and began to pick at the lasagne, managing quite a few forkfuls before she had to rest.
"How have you been?" she asked eventually, feeling strange sitting at the table with someone without talking.
"Good." He'd eaten all the lasagne on his plate and was in the midst of serving himself a second helping.
"Busy at work?"
"The usual."
"How's Wilson?"
"Good."
"It's been pretty cold for Spring, don't you think?"
"I guess."
Lara almost growled under her breath. His curt answers were irritating her. When they'd first met, their easy conversation and his witty banter had been one of the most attractive things about him. "Seen any good movies recently?" she asked sarcastically.
House gave a small laugh. He was clearly deliberately being difficult and was amused that she'd called him on it. "No, you?" he said, finally taking part in the conversation.
"I watched a MASH marathon last week."
"Hawkeye Pierce inspired me to want to become a doctor."
"Really?"
"No." His eyes sparkled mischievously. "But I liked the idea of all the martinis."
"You're a pain."
"That's what they tell me. Eat." He pointed a fork at her plate.
Lara picked up her fork and ate a few more mouthfuls of food. She figured her stomach had shrunk, because she felt genuinely full having eaten about a quarter of what he was shovelling away.
He finished his food and sat back watching her eat until she pushed the still half-full plate away.
"I'm full."
"Good. That was great lasagne."
"Janet's been wonderful – I get all the leftovers from her family."
"Any chance she can stop by my place?"
"I'll ask."
"Does she do dessert?" He took in a deep breath and then burped.
"Nice!" Lara objected.
"Excuse me," he muttered.
"There might be ice cream in the freezer. And I think she said something about pie, I don't know what kind."
House suddenly leaned forward, narrowing his eyes, staring at her intently.
"How hot was your shower?" he asked.
"What? I don't know, the usual."
"That lasagne was just warm. So why are you sweating?"
"I'm—" Lara wiped a hand over her face and realised that she was perspiring. She hadn't noticed. Whether it was her grief or the anti-depressant medication that was supposed to be treating that, the sensations of her body, pain, pleasure, taste, discomfort, whatever, it was all dulled.
He reached over and put the back of his hand against her forehead.
"Lara! You have a fever!" He sounded annoyed with her.
"No, I don't, I'm just—"
"Do you have any abdominal pain?"
"No."
"Any problems peeing?"
"I'm fine." Lara reached up to pull his hand away.
"You could have a postnatal infection."
"All the bits of me that could have an infection are fine. I read the books. I've been careful."
"Yeah, like not washing for three days." His sarcasm was clear.
"Leave me alone," Lara said abruptly. They'd been having a pleasant dinner, until now. She annoyed with him for spoiling it. She reached over to pick up his plate.
"What did you do to your hand?" He grabbed her hand and turned it over.
Belatedly Lara remembered the cut from the tomato. She'd been meaning to do something about it, but it kept slipping her mind. Like everything else.
"I cut it." Now that she was thinking about it, she realised it was throbbing and hot.
"The bandage is disgusting."
Lara realised it was the same Band-Aid she'd put on when she'd first cut herself. And she'd been doing a lot of gardening and not-washing since then.
"Come into the kitchen."
Lara got up and followed him meekly. He held her hand under the low-hanging kitchen light and pulled the Band-Aid off quickly. Lara winced.
"This is gross, and that's saying something. You have no idea the gross things I've seen."
Lara bit her lip.
"Have you got Paul Kimble's number?"
She nodded as he pulled out his cell phone. She grabbed her own phone, looked up the number, and read it out to him as he dialled.
"Kimble, it's House. Write Lara a script for amoxicillin and bring some over." Lara could hear Paul's slightly panicked voice babble in the background. "No it's not, it's a cut on her hand. Yeah. Good." He hung up.
"Have you got a first aid kit?"
"Yeah, but it's not that bad—"
"Shut up and get it."
Lara sighed and realised it would be easier to give in. She hurried to the bathroom and pulled the small kit from the back of the cupboard. Returning to the kitchen she handed it to him.
House held her hand under the light again and with cotton and antiseptic cleaned out the cut and the skin around it. He prodded it gently and Lara sucked in a breath.
"Idiot," he muttered vehemently under his breath as he found a clean bandage and dressed her hand.
For some reason, hearing him call her that made hot, painful tears well in her eyes.
Perhaps because he's right.
The thought came fast and unbidden, stabbing her like a physical jolt. She blinked and felt the tears slide down her face; her breath caught in a badly concealed sob.
He looked up at her and Lara didn't miss the expressions that crossed his face. She could have sworn the first was fear, but that was quickly covered by exasperation.
"It doesn't hurt that much," he accused.
"No." Lara shook her head. "It doesn't."
"Then stop crying."
Lara wished it was that easy. "Sorry."
He returned his attentions to her hand, finishing off the bandage with a short length of tape to hold it in place. "Change it tomorrow," he said brusquely. "Get Kimble to do it for you. And take some Tylenol for the fever."
"Okay." As soon as her hand was free, Lara turned away, fighting to compose herself again. She knew it would take a little while, she'd become an expert in her tears and this was the kind of unexpected attack that would take ten minutes or so to recover from. She wished she was more creative, she'd heard that the Eskimos had lots of different words for snow, and if she'd been able to, she'd have started a lexicon for crying, the subtleties and distinct types she'd discovered herself capable of over the past month.
She grabbed some tissues from a nearby box and blew her nose, hoping that might speed things up. While her back was turned she heard a rustle and when she looked up again she was just in time to see his back in the doorway as the front door closed behind him.
At that, Lara was consumed by fresh sobs and threw herself down on the sofa, crying into the pillows.
--
Paul Kimble got home just as his wife finished a late-evening conference call with her office. They kissed and then he took off his jacket and sat down in the chair with a heavy sigh.
"I went to see Lara. Had to take her some antibiotics."
Larissa had been sorting through the day's mail, but at her husband's comment she dropped the envelopes and put a hand to her throat. "Oh my God! Is she okay? It's not an infection related to the birth is it?"
"No, that's what I was worried about too, but she cut her hand and it got infected."
"And we didn't notice!" Larissa was clearly upset.
"It's okay," Paul consoled. "How were we to know? House looked at it and dressed it for her."
"He visited?"
"Yeah, he did."
"Did Lara say how it went?"
"No, she didn't say anything about it. I knew he was there because he called me and told me to get her the meds. When I got there he was gone and I could tell she'd been crying, but get this," his voice rose with clear excitement. "Larissa, she was dressed in clothes. She'd washed her hair. I even think she might have eaten something."
Larissa started crying.
Paul stood up and put his arms around his wife. "Darling, what's the matter?"
"Nothing," Larissa sniffed. "I'm just so relieved."