Chapter Two:
A Different Kind of Pain
"In my dreams I'm dying all the time, as I wake it's kaleidoscopic mind…"- Moby, "Porcelain"
The room was silent except for the constant hum of the machines, acting almost as the errant heartbeat in the absence of his own, filling the room with the illusion of comfort. Wilson had been around death his entire medical career, but nothing he had experienced could have informed him of the helplessness that he would be feeling once he had suffered a reversal of roles. Fate, it would seem, was a capricious nymph who didn't care that James Wilson had saved thousands of lives, allowed the dying to come to terms with their illness, or the countless hours he had spent dwelling on situations that weren't his own.
None of this held the currency that would be required to alleviate the pangs of melancholia coursing through his soul. Looking down at Amber he could see that she had expired. All that was left was a hollow shell, a momento mori, resting next to him in the clinical bed. Wilson could feel the wellspring of emotions building from within, but no matter how desperate he attempted, he discovered that he couldn't bring himself to tears. Taking in a deep breath, he held it in his chest for a moment, before exhaling. After a moment he was rewarded for his effort when a single tear ran down his cheek.
"Amber," he whispered softly to the revenant beside him. "I'm sorry. I failed you." he continued. All he wanted was to be left alone, to wallow in his mistakes, to become consumed by his own grief. He listened, waiting to hear the familiar sound of the Intensive Care Unit doors opening, but it remained silent. Drawing closer to Amber's cold body, he removed his dress coat and wrapped it around her to keep her warm. He didn't care if it was futile.
It was the sound of fingers rapping on his window that brought Wilson back to reality, the cold comfort of knowing it wasn't real, but a bitter reminder of his inherent loneliness. Wilson blinked several times to create a sluice in his eyes and remove some of the redness that had been slowly working its way in since Amber's passing. He knew that he wouldn't be able to conceal the lack of sleep, but at least this would make it less suspicious. Taking one final look in the rearview mirror he could see that the irritation had subsided. Satisfied he climbed out of the car.
As he climbed out of the car he could feel his legs becoming weak. He continued on, however, fighting the need to cave and return to the car. He knew that the act would alert those around him that he wasn't handling Amber's death as well as he was attempting to convey. It would be the fissure in his façade that would, in the end, be the strand that allowed the entire yarn to become unraveled. Taking a deep breath, Wilson felt the muscles in his fingers and legs becoming taut.
Shaking it off he continued out of the vehicle and reminded himself that this wasn't what she would have wanted from him. She would often become livid when he caved or followed along with what those around he wanted to do and didn't speak for himself. He had vowed that he would honor her memory by being more vocal about what he wanted, how he was feeling, and not giving in to the crippling effects of emotional distress that had consumed him.
There was a moment of brief apprehension as Wilson closed the car door and came face-to-face with who had awakened him from his Orpheum dream. He was met by the delicate features of Dr. Remy Hadley. There was an expression of deep concern etched across her youthful visage making her seem older than her years. Wilson offered a weak smile; one that he knew wouldn't fool a blind man, and listened as the soft locking sound of the car door. Thirteen returned the smile, saying nothing, almost a stoic sage, as she extended her hand out to offer Wilson a small charm.
Wilson reached out and removed the small charm from Thirteen's waif-like hand. There was a moment of silence as Wilson ran his thumb over the charm and studied it. He had never seen anything quite like it, but there was a strange quality about it that felt eminent. "It's called a Milagro," Thirteen offered the confounded Wilson, "it's Spanish - means 'miracle' - and it's often used in devotions; this one is a heart," she continued as Wilson nodded, "I felt like it was something that reminded me of you and Amber." she finished with a faint smile.
"I don't know what to say," Wilson said running his thumb over the raised heart, "thank you. I wasn't expecting something like this," he continued looking down at the charm to avoid eye contact, "I'll be sure this makes it to her headstone. That is where I would leave it, right?" he asked. His mind flashed back to a Mexican couple that he had taken care of years before. The woman, Maria Gonzales, had suffered from terminal breast cancer and when she passed her husband, Luis, had asked him to leave a small charm much like the one in his hand on her headstone.
"I'm not sure," Thirteen replied biting her lower lip tensely, "I think so? All I know is it's a kind of memento." she continued. Wilson watched as she nodded to herself and shifted her weight. He could tell that she was becoming uncomfortable, and he couldn't blame her. There was an intense weight in the air which only complicated the interaction. "I'll be around if you, um, need to talk?" she choked out finally. Wilson was half expecting the offer of solace, but there seemed to be sincerity to her tone that cemented his ability to trust in her.
Wilson was about to thank her for the milagro when he heard the faint indicators that the rest of the procession was arriving. Thirteen took a long breath and nodded. She shifted her weight and looked over to where the hearse had arrived. "We should be heading over there," Wilson offered weakly, "and thank you for everything, Remy. It's nice to know that there are those I can trust in." he offered walking beyond her. She blinked a few times and followed behind him.
As Wilson walked from his car, and where Thirteen had shown an unexpected interest in him, he allowed his mind to drift. He knew that he would need time to be alone, a chance to distance himself from House, and explore the emotional tidal wave that was crashing on the shore of his consciousness. He would also have to deal with the mothering that he would receive from his confidante once she arrived; which would include explaining to her the reason there was no wake or service held in Amber's honor, something that Amber had made clear to him in her final hours. He was aware of the complications that were lurking on the borderline of this exact moment in time and the following moment.
There was also the palisade that would be cultivated between himself and House to contend with. Part of him wanted to take every ounce of hatred that was brewing within and direct it at House. A wise man had once said that it was foolish to blame no one and cowardice to blame the all of those around you, so it would be sensible to rest the blame firm upon House's shoulder. Had he not been drinking that evening and been alone this could have been avoided. Amber would be alive and Wilson wouldn't be walking among the departed souls of those had come before him. He would be happy.
Still, there was a part of him that knew that it was as much his own fault as it was House's fault. If he wasn't on-call he would have been there to answer the call. She might have come along, but neither of them would have been on a bus and, by extension, wouldn't have been hit by the garbage truck that started the nightmare that he was now living. As he continued along the winding rows of headstones and monuments, each another reminder of his own loss, he understood that despite the blame he was resting upon House he was equally guilty. He was also the reason House was in the condition that he was in.
As he approached where the funeral was to be held, he noticed that there was a collection of shapes and figures surrounding the silver and mahogany casket that he had chosen for her. Drawing closer he was able to distinguish the order in the chaos. He saw that most of House's team had shown up, including Cameron and Chase, who were standing off to the far right under one of the massive oak trees that littered the cemetery. In the distance Wilson caught the outline of a lone man leaning against another tree. Wilson believed for a moment that the man might have been his former friend, but if it was he wasn't interested in researching the situation further.
There was a slight breeze as he reached his destination. There was a sense of absolute dolor that hung in the air; creeping through each member of the cast of character in the fallacy Wilson reluctantly called his "life". Glancing across the group to his left he caught sight of Cuddy, standing alone wearing an expression of morosity across her ethereal features, which elicited a frown from Wilson. He let out a soft sigh as he watched Thirteen leave his side. He knew that once the interment began that he would have to assimilate with the rest of the group, he wanted to take a moment for himself to say his final goodbye.
Gathering all of the strength he could muster, he moved closer to the casket and rested his hand upon the lid. Wilson could feel his fingers becoming tense and his muscles contracting making it difficult to remain. He could feel the electric shock shoot through him and watched as his fingers trembled across the casket's lid. There was a rhythmic rapping that reported silently out in the cemetery. Taking a quick stock of those around him, he saw that no one had noticed the outburst and felt a wave of relief wash over him.
As he was about to leave, there he felt someone's hand rest upon his shoulder. Out of reflex he reached across his shoulder to meet the hand. "James," she whispered from behind him, "are you going to be able to do this?" she asked. For a moment he was taken aback by the inquiry. The question was innocent, but something about her tone indicated to him that she knew. She understood how he was feeling. There was something about the method she had used to ask it that informed his response to her.
"I don't know," he whispered softly, "I honestly don't know if I can do this, Lisa. I have to be strong, though. She wouldn't have wanted me to back out now." he continued. He wanted to recant what he had said moments before, but he knew that it was too late for that. He knew that once he had allowed her to see beyond the façade that it would be of no use to lie. If there was one thing that Cuddy was an expert at it was in the field of emotional response.
"You know that I am available if you need to talk," she asked, "right? I'm not making this offer because I feel bad about this, I'm doing it because I care." she continued moving her hand off his shoulder and withdrawing. Wilson listened to the soft click of her heels against the small rock that littered the burial area.
Wilson continued to stare down at the casket, nodding to himself, feeling the paralyzing sensation that comes along with the realization that this would be the final chance he would have to see her. One final chance to show how much he truly cared about her by following the time honored rituals used to inter the deceased. One final chance to accept that there was nothing that he could have done; nothing that House could have done; nothing that Cuddy could have done; nothing that any of them could have done to save her. That this was meant to be.
It wasn't long before the minister arrived and Wilson retired to the congregation of friends and family. Looking around the minister took a count of the congress. Wilson followed his example and took one final pass to see if there were any errant visitors arriving. Once he was satisfied that no one else was lingering out of sight and came to accept that House wouldn't be making an appearance, he motioned to the minister to begin the ceremony. As the man started to speak, Wilson could feel his stomach twist in knots. He knew that it wouldn't be a long ceremony, as no one had offered to recite a eulogy, but he could already feel each passing second becoming longer with each syllable.
Almost as if it was out of reflex, he reached across the chasm spread between himself and Cuddy and laced his fingers between her own fingers. For a moment she didn't respond, as if she was as confused by the notion as he was, but after a long break she finally crossed the chasm and locked her fingers with his. A sense of relief washed over him. Part of him wanted her to comfort him in his time of need, console him as she might House, mother him, but he knew in his heart that this was not the case. The reason was feeling these estranged emotions was because was a defensive mechanism. Even though he it wasn't real, it didn't dull the emotional connection he was feeling towards her.
Wilson wasn't sure how much time had vanished, but what he understood was that it hadn't been long. The rest of the group was following the societal rituals of resting a single rose upon the casket, saying their final goodbyes, and moving on. Wilson felt Cuddy's hand slip from his and with it his sense of comfort. He watched as she walked to the casket, resting her hand upon it, whispering something, and returning to Wilson. Knowing that he was next, he started his trek to the casket. Stopping between where he was standing and where the casket was, he removed a handful of soil. He was unsure the significance of such an arbitrary action, but he felt compelled to follow through.
"Ashes to ashes," he whispered softly to the casket, "and dust to dust." he resigned. He motioned for the attendant to lower the casket. He watched as she was lowered down and felt his heart sink with her. He knew, intellectually, that this was a method of solace and comfort, but inside he could feel his emotions clawing their way out of the box he had, as a prerequisite, locked them down in. He was amazed at how little time and effort it required to lower the casket in the cold earth. Looking back to the attendant who was nodding to him to release the soil, he found that he couldn't. He knelt down and watched as he lost control of his hand and the soil began to escape through the cracks in his fingers. "Goodbye." he said silently.
"James," her voice echoed through his mind like a ricochet, "I'm heading over to Starbucks for a mocha, come with me?" she asked. He knew that she was offering to talk to him as a friend, but his erratic mind wouldn't let him hear it as such. It came out as something more than what she meant it to be. "I could use the company and I'm pretty sure you could as well."
"I would love to," he offered standing up, "I need a moment to find myself. This is all a lot to take in." he replied. He watched as she nodded.
There was a strange sense of acceptance that he could feel battling back the nausea. Wilson shoved his hands in his coat and looked down. "I need a moment," he said aloud, "I have something to take care of - alone - if that's okay?" he asked. He knew that he had no reason to ask, but in his state of mind everything felt like a hanging question mark.
"I'll be over at the car," she replied gently, "waiting. Just let me know when you're ready." she finished. Wilson could taste the sweetness in her language, and in that singular moment, he knew that she was a true friend. Wilson watched as she left for the car and as the others turned theirs over and left.
Reaching in his coat he removed the milagro charm Thirteen had offered him. He didn't understand the meaning behind it, or believe in what it represented, but he appreciated the thought she had afforded it. Taking a deep breath, he maneuvered around the open grave and rested the charm on the edge of the headstone. "The rising sun shall always speak your name." he said to the headstone. Feeling another tear roll down his cheek, he climbed to his feet.
Without looking back he walked to where his car was located. Glancing over he saw that Cuddy was on a call, most likely with House, which offered him time to retrieve the bottle he had left in the dash. Careful to avoid alerting his confidante, he climbed in the car, opened the dash, removed the bottle, and rested it in his coat. She had no need to know of his condition, but the thought of leaving them where he couldn't reach them in a time of need was aberrant. He could duck in the bathroom if he needed to, swallow a few, and be back on track.
"Listen, I have something that I need to take care. I'll check back in later," she said into the cell as Wilson drew closer, "I'll call later." she said closing the cell. Wilson rested his arms on the roof of the car and offered her a weak smile. "Ready?" she asked. For a fleeting second he believed that he saw a sparkle in her eye, but he reminded himself that it was his emotional distress speaking.