I noticed that I had used the name Joe again! The previous Joe was Georgia's beau, whose full name was Joseph so I went back and changed the script to give the full name. This second Joe was short for Jonathan, so I changed the abbreviation to Jon, just so that if I end up using Joe again, you will not immediately think "suicide". This ought to be the last one described in this story – if the characters choose to behave, that is! They do tend to have a bit of a mind of their own.
About the music in this chapter: I'm not sure if Hugh Laurie can play the instrument that is used, but he did play pretty much anything he could lay his hands on, on the comedy series "Fry & Laurie". And anyway, this is fiction and this is House – who by my definition can do anything! Right?
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Cuddy was still on the balcony with House when Blythe came to see her son.
"I'm sorry, Greg," Blythe said. "He didn't mean anything with it."
"I know, mother," Greg reassured her. "Don't worry about it. It's been going on for 47 years; I'm used to it by now."
"Would you like to sit down," Cuddy didn't think she was wanted right there and then. "I need to go and run my hospital."
"Thank you, Lisa," Blythe responded. "I would like to sit down for a moment."
"The seat is warm and so is the blanket," Cuddy told her, helping her with the blanket and then leaving mother and son alone.
"What did you do with Dad?" House asked.
"I told him I wanted to speak with you alone," Blythe told him. "So I left him in the company of Allison."
"Oh, dear," House said with exaggerated dread. "That might not be such a good idea! Cameron is like Dad in that she cannot tell a lie. And if she thinks somebody is wrong... It could get ugly."
"I don't think you need to worry, you made it pretty clear you did not want her contribution to this situation between you and your father."
"I would feel greatly reassured if my not wanting something had stopped her before," House rolled his eyes.
"Really?" Blythe was surprised. "I would have thought your opinion matters to her a lot."
"Well, it did, I have to admit that," House conceded. "She used to bend over backwards to please everyone and especially me. Lately, though, she has grown a backbone and goes against my opinions and even orders on regular basis."
"Well good for her," Blythe was impressed.
"I agree," House said. "She may even have a truly original opinion one of these days."
"Greg!" Blythe admonished him. "Just because she is a nice young woman is no reason for you to sneer at her."
"I sneer at everybody, why should she be an exception?" House asked. "Or do I need to ask?"
"I'm not telling you what to do with your life," Blythe said. "But that does not mean I cannot make some suggestions. But enough of that, you are certainly old enough to know your own mind."
"Thank you, Mother," House smiled. "It is so good to know that you will not interfere!"
Before they got any further with their conversation Wilson came to the balcony to have a word with House. He did feel a bit awkward having been the one who got John to tell the story, but he still wanted to clear the air as soon as possible.
"I ... I need to go and give Andie her medication now," Wilson informed House, trying to gauge the mood on the balcony at the same time.
"The meds are not working very well any longer," House responded normally. "You need to increase the dosage quite a lot, and once you do she will not be very lucid anymore."
"I know. I don't think I can put off inducing the coma for longer than two days anymore." Wilson was depressed.
"That would be my estimation as well. You need to prepare her mother."
"Yes. Though we have discussed it, it will still not be easy. I really don't know how she will survive all this," Wilson shook his head.
"You do know that once Andie is gone, you will not see her mother again, either. Or possibly in a month or so when she comes over to thank you one last time for everything before she moves to California?" House asked Wilson.
"You don't know that for sure," Wilson denied.
"Jimmy, we, this hospital, all this, is completely tied to Andie's cancer. Her mother will not want to remember her as the cancer-kid. She will want to remember her daughter as her daughter, the way she was at home. Coming here, seeing us will be too painful. You do know this, since Andie is not the first child you have been unable to save." House spoke earnestly to his friend.
"House ... "Wilson put up his hand to stop his friend. "I'll think of all that once this is over. Just let go now."
"Ok." House agreed a little dubiously. "Andie may be feeling a little deflated after the party," House then went on. "Would you open her window – her room was on this side of the building, wasn't it."
"Yes, it is, but why does that matter," Wilson asked puzzled. "And why must I open her window?"
"Just do it," House said. "Trust me. Besides, you owe me."
"Oh, very well," Wilson agreed. "I'll go home after I see Andie, so good night Blythe and thanks for your help with the party."
"You're welcome," Blythe smiled. "See you tomorrow."
After Wilson had gone, House stood up and went into his office. He returned with a trumpet.
"I got this from John Henry Giles," House told his mother.
"After you cured his paralysis?" Blythe asked.
"Yes. How did you know?" House wondered.
"It was a miracle and made the papers. Of course that Hollywood doctor was there in every story trying to make it appear like he had decided to consult with you and had been there actively involved the whole way! That your contribution was just a minor push in the right direction, which finally helped him solve the medical mystery." Blythe didn't sound very impressed. "Of course, it was very difficult to recognise you in his story."
"I bet," House sneered. "Anyway, I got a trumpet out of it. Sure, John Henry told me not to play it, but I think he would forgive me this once."
House checked his watch to make sure that Wilson had had time to go to Andie's room and open the window. Then he leaned against the wall and lifted the instrument to his lips. First he played simply the melody to "Merry Little Christmas": "Have yourself a merry little Christmas / It may be your last / Next year we may all be living in the past / Have yourself a merry little Christmas / Make the Yuletide gay. / Next year we may all be many miles away. / Then he started to jazz it up, to give it the blues, to tease it, elaborate it and weave in feelings that nobody who didn't know him – and hardly any did – would have associated with him. The music soared and wept, it smiled, it bled with grief and it comforted the soul. He immersed his pain into it, and Andie's pain. The losses they had been through and were going through, and yet in all that there was a thread of hope of something. Of finding answers, solving puzzles, - of finding what comes when everything else is over. Finally after 20 or so minutes he returned to the melody and finished: From now on we'll have to muddle through somehow. / So have yourself a merry little Christmas now, drawing the last note to its extreme and letting it die softly.
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All over the hospital and the grounds people were listening to this Christmas serenade wondering where it could be coming from. Most people presumed it was a recording or possibly a live performance on radio. Nobody suspected the truth. Not even Wilson, who at least knew something, was going to happen.
Wilson had opened the window as requested and he was just about to give Andie her drugs, when the first notes floated into the room. Andie asked him to wait, so that she would be able to hear her song properly before the drugs made her drowsy. She didn't say that this was her song just that she wanted to hear it.
Her mother didn't say anything either, because she felt the moment Andie had shared with House the night before was private, but she felt her eyes tear up again at the kindness the gruff, unsocial doctor was showing to her little girl. She knew House by reputation; she had spent far too much time in PPTH not to have heard several stories about the eccentric diagnostician. The way he was behaving with Andie did not fit his fame. Yet it did fit the man. Somehow, somewhere, in some strange private universe Andie had connected with House. And he was ready to do things for her that he would probably never do for anyone else. Just for Andie, because she was dieing and needed him.
Once the last note had petered out, Andie sighed and nodded to Wilson to give her the meds. She didn't say anything, just smiled. Her mother held her hand and though she didn't sleep, she did snuggle into her covers drowsily. She would receive other, stronger medicines later for the night, but for now she was in an almost pleasant state between sleep and awake.
Wilson talked with her mother about the predicted schedule for the final chemically induced coma and how long after that he expected Andie to live. It was difficult for Andie's mother to hear it all, but she took it bravely. There was no choice, and if Andie was prepared then she needed to be, too.
Wilson was relieved that the talk had gone so well, but he couldn't help the nagging feeling that it had gone so well, because somehow the music had prepared the way. That somehow House had formed a secret with Andie and her mother that he, Wilson was not party to. He didn't want to name the feeling it gave him, because jealousy did not fit his idea of himself, but he still had a sneaking suspicion that House had been right – as usual – about him feeling rejected because House was the "flavour of the day". Wilson shook his head to dislocate such thoughts and decided to go home. These doubt were sure to be gone by tomorrow, after a nights sleep.
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Foreman had been the only one left in the diagnostics department conference room when House started to play. Chase had clinic duty, Cameron had recruited John House to help her with some of the cleaning and they were taking some mugs and thermoses back to the cafeteria. When he heard the trumpet, Foreman too first thought that it was a recording, but he decided to go and see. Houses office was empty, and when he sneaked a look to the balcony he saw Blythe there, sitting in a chair with blankets around her and her eyes were closed. She was listening to her son, who was the one making the music.
Foreman made sure that House could not see him, but he stayed near the balcony door listening. He could not get over it. House never ceased to amaze him. If he lived to be a hundred he would never get this man. The music he heard didn't seem to fit the man who enjoyed being crude and rude and socially unacceptable. And yet, somehow, the music was the man. – Or then he had just eaten too much at the party and was having indigestion induces attack of melancholia and pensiveness.