"GUESSWORK"
- Chapter Thirty-Five -
"The Smallest Gifts"
It rained all night Wednesday night. Thunder and lightning infused the Paramar Clinic with macabre shadows that lit the windows like portals to another universe and sent ghostly, jagged images across the walls, the ceilings and the floors.
One particularly loud clap of thunder followed a lightning strike that hit uncomfortably close by. The concussion woke Wilson from a sound sleep and sat him straight up in bed as though he were on springs. He sat confused for a few moments, not sure what had frightened the hell out of him. Then lightning struck again, followed by another clap of thunder, and a sheet of rain that lashed the window with a fury that made the sash rattle.
Wilson ran his fingers through his mop of baby fine hair, threw his legs over the edge of the mattress and stood up. He raised both arms above his head and stretched upward like a sleek jungle cat, shoulder and back muscles bare and gleaming in the ghostly light. Wide-awake now, he walked over to the window and looked out. The parking lot gleamed beneath the arc lights like a miniature lake, raindrops hitting the asphalt and splattering outward like tiny water-filled balloons. No fit night for man or beast. He reached to the back of his neck and rubbed the corded muscles, then turned around and padded back to the bed.
Movement from the other side of the room drew his attention and he paused looking, making sure House was okay. In the strobe-like lightning strokes and the light from the window, Wilson saw a sight he hadn't witnessed in years. Gregg House was sighing in his sleep, curled on his right side, oblivious to the storm. Both knees were drawn up toward his body, one arm under his pillow and the opposite hand open and relaxed beneath his chin.
Wilson stood and stared, suddenly grinning. House's crippled leg was on the bottom, and House wasn't writhing in pain. All that guesswork had somehow produced a miracle. The large bandage that covered the surgical scar and the small insertion wounds was still held in place by the elastic bandage that encircled his thigh, but the leg was mobile. The foot with the decubitus ulcer rested on its side, padded bandage still in place, off the pillow and flat on the sheet. House's other foot lay relaxed beside it.
James Wilson stood for a long time, just looking and marveling at the changes that had taken place in the short passage of time they'd been there. Four days. About to begin the fifth. Gregory House's chronic pain was a thing of the past.
My God!
Wilson got back into bed and lay down again. He pulled a pillow beneath his head and flopped over onto his left side. From there he had a clear view of House, snoring away like a happy rhinoceros, comfortable and free from pain. Wilson lay watching as though the image would suddenly fly away and everything would be back to the way it was before.
House had been sleeping a lot lately, Wilson thought. The meds and IVs he'd been using had much to do with it, of course. But he hadn't even had a Vicodin all day. Except for the Lidocaine injections when they tended to his foot, House was completely drug free. Wilson believed the reason for the extra sleeping might stem from all those years when it had been impossible for the man to experience more than a few short hours of rest before being awakened yet again by mini-spasms and the relentless pain in the ruined leg.
Wilson sighed with relief. He wondered what it would be like being around a House who was not in constant pain … not pacing the hallways of the hospital in an effort to tame the demons and extinguish the fires.
He smiled to himself, knowing that with a restless spirit like Gregory House anywhere near, not that much would change. House was, after all, House! James often wondered just exactly what the hell he'd meant the first time he'd ever said that. Once he'd said it though, everybody said it! House was a world unto himself, a surging maelstrom of haphazard contradictions, and a one-man crowd.
Wilson went back to sleep, finally, letting the thunder and the lightning and the driving rain fade into the background. He relaxed into the assurance that the force of nature outside the windows of Paramar Clinic didn't hold a candle to the one in the bed across the room.
Morning light brought with it a continuation of the wind and the rain, although the electrical storm of the night before was drastically diminished.
House was already awake and sitting up against the head of his bed, grumbling about being hungry, having to pee, and rubbing at his right ankle, bitching that his foot hurt.
Wilson struggled to get his eyes focused, then sighed and looked across at his friend. House had removed the elastic bandage from around his thigh, obviously wanting to get a closer look at the massive surgical scar and check for himself the sites where the nanocite injections had gone beneath his skin.
His bed looked as though a professional wrestling match had taken place on it. The wound dressings, along with the fresh scrub pants he'd discarded during the night, were tossed in a heap and tangled up with the top sheet. House sat boldly in his underwear; not at all shy and retiring over his near-nakedness as he had been the day before. But his hand rested near the instep of his wounded foot, and Wilson could tell it hurt him. He wondered if the man would ever find complete release from pain …
"House? Are you okay?"
"No, I'm not okay, dammit! My foot hurts like hell, I have to piss like a racehorse, and nobody has bothered to feed me in weeks!"
Wilson squinched his eyes shut and shook his head in exasperation. He was taking notice that House was beginning to behave like a baby bird. Every moment he was awake, he was bitching that he was hungry, and that simple fact in itself belied any serious problems with his overall health. Baby birds were insatiable … and if they were not insatiable, they soon got kicked out of the nest to die. This baby bird was very much alive and chirping! It tickled Wilson no end.
That he had to pee must certainly be true, because he had not been able to go to the bathroom since being relieved (relative term there, Wilson thought with a small smile) of the Foley rig the evening before. He probably not only had to pee, but he was also probably backed up like the floodgates in the dike of Amsterdam.
That there was pain in his foot, Wilson had no doubt. The ulcer was healing, but the internal pressure of such a wound often caused continuous throbbing that needed tending on a regular basis to keep the sufferer from literally wanting to climb the walls.
Wilson got out of bed and walked over to House's side of the room. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and reached over to pull his friend's hand away from his ankle. "I guess we should tend to first things first then," he said with a grin. "We drain the lizard first, and then fix the foot. After that, somebody might feed you … if you behave yourself."
One of House's stock "looks" was RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION in capital letters, and he turned it upon Wilson full throttle.
"If I behave myself? Wilson, how could you? I'm hurt. I hurt! I can't walk … and I need to go to the damn bathroom before my bladder explodes like a fireplug at a five-alarmer …"
Wilson was still smiling, trying to be sympathetic, but not succeeding very well. He was still so giddy from knowing the pain in House's leg was gone, that further complaints from this whiny six-year-old just did not have the same impact.
He got to his feet and held out a hand. "Swing your legs over here and let me get you under your shoulder. I'll take most of your weight so you can hop into the bathroom. It's only a few steps. Just be careful that you don't put your foot down. If you do, it could open the wound again and screw up everything. Got that?"
House grunted something under his breath and nodded, moving across gingerly so Wilson could position himself to take House's weight at the edge of the bed.
Laboriously, House stood up, right foot hanging limp, useless, throbbing, leaning his weight almost completely on Wilson's willing strength. He was surprised at how weak he was. The last time he had stood on his own was the Friday before when he had left the diner in Chase City sometime before noon. He suddenly remembered riding in a fog of pain to finally alight, only half conscious, at the clinic where friendly hands had taken him in and given him shelter.
And Wilson was there. Wilson was always there …
House gulped and hitched a breath in his throat. He nearly lost what was left of his balance, and stumbled, groping.
Wilson had him, both arms shoring him up, sharp words of warning stabbing cruelly at his consciousness. "Don't lose it, House! Stay with me! Don't put your foot down! House! Snap out of it!"
House rallied at his friend's tone. Pulled himself back from the shroud of grayness that tried to envelope him. Raised his foot quickly before it touched the floor.
Wilson pulled down the jockey shorts, sat him on the toilet, steadied him as he relieved himself, holding onto the right ankle with his free hand.
"Thanks … didn't know I was so fuckin' … puny!"
"House, you've gotta be the biggest pain in the ass I ever met …"
"Sorry …"
"No you're not."
"No I'm not."
By the time they'd wrestled each other out of the john and back to the bed, House was gaining strength, hopping on his own and resuming his bitching about the dire lack of sustenance and the escalating pain in his foot.
The only thing that thwarted a full-blown argument was the arrival of Kip and Shaniqua and Bill with a crash cart full of medical supplies (no one had forgotten about House's foot), and the ubiquitous three-tier serving cart loaded with mouth-watering goodies.
The "poor me" House retreated quickly into the "baby-bird-six-year-old" House.
Everyone dug into the sausage and eggs and toast and coffee with relish, talking about the damage done by the severe storm the night before. Kip said the back lot of the clinic looked as though someone had swept it clean with a broom. Poor Bobby was not even able to find a clump of tall grasses behind which to relieve himself.
House, chewing on a slice of toast and holding a forkful of eggs and sausage, frowned and looked blankly at the ring of faces around him. "What storm? Was there a storm last night?"
He managed to look affronted when they all stared at him in varying forms of disbelief. That is, all but Wilson.
After Shaniqua Tolliver left again with the teacart, Kip and Bill stayed behind to give House a physical once-over.
At times like this, Kip Bernoski was all business. He instructed House to lie down on his back so he could be examined thoroughly.
At times like this, House was all business also. He had volunteered for this, had most certainly benefited from it. Now he willingly submitted his person to Kip's gentle hands.
Bernoski donned a sterile stethoscope, surgical robe and rubber gloves.
With Bill Bernard as backup and Wilson watching closely nearby, he began an inspection palpation, percussion and auscultation. Carefully, he examined House's eyes, ears, mouth and nasal cavities. Hands-on, he continued downward, taking special care with the laceration on the left hand, pronouncing it as healing properly and assuring his patient that he would: "… certainly be able to play the violin again …"
"Hah! Slice my hand … gain a talent! What'll happen if I slice the other one?" He, of course, didn't expect an answer, and didn't get one.
Kip continued down across the bony ribcage, the shallow abdomen and the pubic arch. House stiffened beneath his hands, but did not move. When the examination reached the area of the surgical scar and the tiny wounds, Kip's examination grew more intense. He massaged the crippled leg vigorously, apologizing ahead of time if any of his movements caused pain. But House pinned him sternly with an ice-blue stare and told him to do what he had to do. "You've gotta know!"
A few times House hitched a breath and winced, and Kip paused, questioning. House smiled, embarrassed. "Sorry," he said. "I'm used to touches like that causing enough pain that I'd want to scream. Reflexes, I guess."
"You telling me that all this poking and prodding doesn't hurt?" Kip inquired with a grin. He finished rebandaging House's thigh, and then straightened, satisfied.
"That's what I'm tellin' ya … doesn't hurt. Just around the wounds …"
Kip grinned again. "Wonderful."
"Wish I could walk on the damned foot! I'd get up and do a dance …"
Kip snorted. "Fat chance!" He said. "If you tried that, you'd go flat on your ass. Your leg isn't healed. It's still crippled! All this nanobusiness did was get rid of the pain. You're gonna have to take it slow for awhile … even after your foot is healed. You
might gain a little mobility, or you might not. Don't expect miracles! Actually, I'd say you've already had your share."
House pulled a face. "Yeah … tell me about it! Thanks Kip … all you guys … thanks."
Bernoski nodded. "You're definitely welcome." He removed his stethoscope and placed it on the crash cart. "You ready for me to do your foot?"
House winced. "Yeah …" remembering the pain. Things weren't all roses just yet.
Bill administered the Lidocaine, waited for it to take effect, and then unwrapped the bandages. The wound itself was clean, the area surrounding it turning gradually to a more healthy shade, and the swelling was finally diminishing. "If you're careful, Gregg," Bill said, "you may be able to take some weight on this in a couple of weeks. It seems to me that the worse of it is about over. You're gonna still have some pain … that's pretty much unavoidable. But that should begin to ease off a little. Just don't try to rush it, okay?" He was flushing the wound with the small pump bulb, wiping the liquid away with sterile gauze pads.
House nodded, watching the procedure and trying not to wince. The Lidocaine was doing its job, and his foot no longer hurt, but the ministrations looked as though they would like to hurt, and it was difficult to keep from pulling away. "Trust me," he grumbled, "now that I know what it's like to have a bed sore … I'm gonna be damn careful not to get another one. No more soft-soled riding boots! The soles of my next pair will be made of iron!"
Wilson, silent until now, groaned.
In the afternoon they allowed him to get dressed. Wilson helped him pull on his last pair of old blue jeans, his "Old School" tee shirt and his favorite pair of Nike Shox, only one of which could he wear. These things Wilson had pulled out of the bike's saddlebags and squirreled away in one of the drawers of the room's only dresser. House sat gingerly on the edge of his bed while Wilson eased a heavy gray sock over the thick bandage on his foot. House found it relatively easy to hop over to the wheelchair in the corner and settle himself into it. Wilson raised the right leg rest a little and slid a bed pillow beneath House's foot.
Shortly thereafter, he was running the corridors, fleeing before herds of buffalo, bearing down on Kevin Harvick in the #29 Chevrolet, and giving chase to Spiderman as he flitted along the streets of the city …
After five minutes of listening to NASCAR sound effects and wolf whistles that echoed off the walls, Wilson, clad in clean chinos and a brown tee shirt that matched his eyes, gave up and slowed to an amble. House was out pacing the corridors again, but in a different way. He was shaking the effects of nearly five days in bed and celebrating a form of freedom he hadn't known in more years than he cared to count.
Wilson couldn't compete with that. Wilson didn't want to compete with that!
Down near the other end of the building, Bobby the German Shepherd, stood at the open doorway of Earl's quarters. He could hear the exuberant voice of the human as it waxed and waned along the corridor. Bobby was puzzled. The man in the wheelchair was the most puzzling creature he had ever seen, and the reason for the loud shrieks and vocal thunderings was far beyond the dog's experience. Even Tyree Tolliver did not make that much noise! Bobby was a little alarmed, and hung back from venturing any closer.
The dog had been off his feed all day, and he was queasy in the gut. Outside in the back lot this morning when it had stopped raining and he'd been let out to run, nothing was the same. The field was muddy and unfamiliar; all his favorite haunts flattened by the storm, and no longer marked with his scent. He was upset. He'd had to squat where there was no tall grass to hide behind, and it was too strange. He'd marked his territory three times, and then his pee was all gone. More strange. When he'd sniffed at it to be sure it was indeed his pee, the odor was strange too. Metallic. When he got up to move on, the liquid left behind had a faint pick twinge to it, but Bobby wouldn't have known anything about that …
After the evening meal, everyone was invited to Lab #2. The invitation had come from Bart and Lillian.
What was the occasion? Kip knew. He'd known for some time; had even let it slip once, but no one caught it. He was smiling to himself as he led the little entourage away from the main dining area to the place where Lillian Chan presided calmly over the bridge of the Enterprise, in a strange new world where no one had gone before …
Gregory House had tired himself out. He'd spent the entire afternoon cruising in the wheelchair; banging around from one end of the vast building to the other, exploring the places he'd heard about but was unable to visit. Today he'd managed to visit every one of them … except this one.
Lab #2 had been off limits the whole day for reasons unknown. Lillian Chan and Bart Kirkpatrick had been sequestered there, hidden away behind the glass and stainless steel partition where Lillian conducted her nanotech research, monitored the "children" and participated in some mysterious project that, up until now, remained very hush-hush.
Now the door was open, lights dimmed, and a coruscating array of multi-colored Christmas lights played across the ceiling like insects across a pond.
Gregory House was all eyes and ears. He was subdued from his frantic afternoon, and allowing Wilson to push his wheelchair. His foot hurt a little and he was babying it. Wilson knew he was sore, and he wore one of his "dammit, I told you so!" expressions. But he said nothing.
To Gregg, one of Wilson's silences was worse than one of his lectures.
Bart Kirkpatrick appeared at the edge of the partition, silvery hair backlighted by the sensor array. His face was serene, his sightless eyes shining. "We have something nice for you …"
Behind him the sound of a piano began in he background. Subdued at first, and dreamy. "Moonlight Cocktails":
"Couple of jiggers of moonlight and add a star,
Pour in the blue of a June night and one guitar …"
A piano where there was no piano.
"Mix in a couple of dreamers and there you are:
Lovers hail the Moonlight Cocktail …"
Enchanted, James Wilson found himself grasping the handles of the wheelchair tightly with both hands. In front of him, House leaned forward. The tired head came up to attention. Gregg's eyes closed, his eyebrows lifted, and a look of near-ecstacy passed across the grizzled features.
House's dimples deepened until they were sharp and pronounced, even beneath the scruff. House's hands came off the wheelchair's armrests, fingers finding fantasy keys in the air, playing along with Lillian's piano:
"Now add a couple of flowers, a drop of dew,
Stir for a couple of hours 'til dreams come true.
Add to the number of kisses, it's up to you.
Moonlight Cocktail – need a few."
Lillian finished the song and brought the lights up.
House opened his eyes and looked around, startled, as though he'd been rudely awakened from a beautiful dream.
Someone was calling his name:
"Gregg … Gregory House!"
He looked around, then saw Wilson's finger pointing to something beyond the partition. He shaded his eyes with his hand and stared into the lights.
Lillian called his name again. "Gregg!"
He felt stupid. Put on the spot. "Huh?"
There was quiet laughter surrounding him.
"Play it with me, Gregg … can you?"
He didn't understand. "What?"
"Play the song with me, will you?"
He wrinkled his nose and looked around. "How?"
Behind him the door opened. Bill Bernard and Kip Bernoski entered the room pushing the little spinet from the front reception area. It was old, but it had been polished by loving hands and gleamed beneath the lights.
"That's how …"
House looked down at his lame foot, held up his lame hand. "I don't know if I …"
"I can play with no hands, Gregg. Try … as a favor to me."
He looked around. The room was silent. The very least he could do was try. The debt he owed these people was incalculable. "Wow!"
He pushed himself to the keyboard of the spinet and positioned his foot out of the way beneath it. He positioned his hands on the keyboard. "Hit it!"
"Cool it in the summer breeze,
Serve it in the starlight underneath the trees.
You'll discover tricks like these
Are sure to make your Moonlight Cocktail please.
"Follow the simple directions and they will bring
Life of another complexion where you'll be king.
You will awake in the morning and start to sing
Moonlight Cocktails are the thing."
When the song ended, the room exploded in wild applause.
Wilson helped House into bed close to midnight.
He'd tended to Gregg's foot by himself, mainly because he did not wish to subject anyone else to House's bitching about how much his hand hurt, how many times he'd banged his foot into the base of the spinet in his exuberance, how he was probably getting a migraine from staring into those freaking blinking lights … and on and on.
In his heart, Wilson was singing the words to the song and celebrating the evening in Lab #2. He wondered if House even realized …
Gregg House leaned back against his pillows and rubbed at the ache in his left hand. It didn't hurt as much as he'd let on. His foot would be throbbing as soon as the Lidocaine wore off, but that was to be expected. He wasn't going to get a headache, he wasn't going to get an upset stomach, and he wasn't going to toss and turn in his sleep.
He was feeling pretty good, truth be told, and as he stole a few surreptitious glances in Wilson's direction, the smile on his friend's face told him Wilson wasn't fooled at all.
When the lights went out and they were settled for the night, House looked over at the boyish face lit by the arc lights through the window.
"Hey, Wilson … ?"
"Hey, House …"
"The little gifts … are always the best, aren't they?"
"Yup."
"G'night, Wilson."
"G'night, House."
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