Chapter Three:
Moving Forward In Reverse
"The only thing I'll ever ask of you, got to promise not to stop when I say when…" -Foo Fighters, "Everlong"
The ride from the cemetery was uncharacteristically silent. There was the occasional hushed small talk or the jittery sigh, but beyond the casual amenities it remained a solemn drive. It was an atypical occasion when he didn't have something to talk say, to offer, but James Wilson had no idea what one would speak of in the situation he found himself in. It wasn't like there was a manual for loved ones of the recently deceased, a kind of field guide that offered volumes of options on things to say to concerned friends and loved ones. And while he undoubtedly understood the reasons behind his actions, the logic that defined the gestures, and while this offered him a trifling placation it still unhinged him. It brought back feelings that he believed he had buried long ago. It only made matters worse that he had no control over it.
Wilson knew that he would have to speak about what occurred in the cemetery, eventually. He knew her well enough to know that she might allow it to linger, given his emotional state, but sooner or later she would confront him about it. He would have liked to believe he would have the luxury of time, but he knew that it was best to face the feelings head on. At least, this is what he would so often tell the families of those he had treated. A helpful doctor, but one who never knew the scope of what it was to be on the other side of the desk. It was also one of the few life lessons his father had taught him before he succumbed to the disease he spent much of the second half of his life combating. Letting out a long breath of air, Wilson recomposed himself and relegated the memories of his father to the back of his mind. There was enough on his mind as it was - he didn't need to tack the stress of his father's passing on to that list - and he knew that he would be performing on emotional tightrope with Cuddy shortly.
He had become so consumed with his own thoughts and reminiscences that he hadn't noticed that they had reached their destination. "James," she said as she moved the shifter and unbuckled her seatbelt, "we're here." There was a lull as he stared out the window, feeling the weight of his emotional distress crushing down on his spirit. "James, are you feeling alright?" she asked again. Wilson could feel his right hand convulsing. "James?" she asked a second time. Though he could still hear her voice clearly, it felt like she was a hundred miles from him now, isolated in the barren wasteland of a frozen tundra of his own creation.
"Yeah," he managed weakly, "I'm doing fine. Just lost in thought is all," Wilson said moving his left hand over his right to conceal the tremor, "I'm not used to this kind of thing. You might have to excuse me." he finished. Cuddy nodded and climbed out of the car. Wilson, drawing in as much air as he could manage to fill his lungs with, exhaled and followed her lead. After a moment he was able to recuperate from the quivering and closed the car door, following Cuddy into the café. If the tremors became more pronounced he would have to clue her in on his condition. A situation that left more than a bad taste in the oncologist's already dry mouth. He also knew the full scope of what that would look like, and for him, it was not what he wanted or needed at the moment.
Once inside Wilson found himself enraptured. There was something incredibly calming about the café, something that emanated comfort. The scent of hundreds of flavors of java filled the air, each more succulent than the last, each inducing another wave of calm and serenity. The faint sound of Imogen Heap floated through the speakers, offering something that few establishments of the like could boast. It didn't take much for him to understand the reason that she had selected this Starbucks and not the one close to the hospital; it was far enough that there wouldn't be the constant reminder that the two of them were doctors, the rushing ambulances and sirens, and it was about as serene as one could find without incense and yoga. Although, he would have welcomed the shift in scenery. Anything to escape from the memories that lingered just on the edge of his mind of Amber.
Wilson found himself thankful for Cuddy's suggestion, as he wasn't expecting the kind of service they received from the soft faced young woman who welcomed them to the café and lead them to their seat. He had been in hundreds of Starbucks around the country, but never one as lavish as this or with a staff that seemed as welcoming or on point. "I'll be back in a moment for your orders." the waitress said with a munificent smile. Wilson offered her a weak smile back, the best he could muster in his current state. Cuddy removed her coat and rested it on the back of the chair and looked tenaciously at Wilson. He knew that she would be seeking answers, but was there more as a friend than an enemy. He would have to continually remind himself of this.
"How are you feeling?" she asked softly. There was a sense of absolute interest in her tone that dictated that she wasn't asking out of duty, but genuine concern for a friend that Wilson hadn't been expecting. "You didn't seem to be doing too well at the funeral," she continued shifting her weight in the chair, "and as your friend I'm worried about you." she finished, smiling gently. For a moment Wilson had trouble with the simple belief that she was interested in how he felt. It was almost as if he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, the favor he would be asked in return for his help. But there never came a second drop of the shoe.
Wilson didn't know quite how to respond without betraying the confidence he had built around himself hours before. He would have to tear down the walls he had so assiduously constructed to keep others out. "I'm having some trouble talking about this," he said softer than he had expected to as it came out as more of a whisper than actual speech, "but I'm making an effort. I need time, Lisa. I don't know how much more of this I can handle." he offered. He knew that it wouldn't be enough to slake her curiosity, but it would be enough to allow him a chance to test the waters with her.
Cuddy leaned back and was about to speak when she was cut off by the return of the youthful waitress, "I can take your order now?" she replied. Wilson found that he had to reflect upon the choices for a moment while Cuddy knew what she was would like. "Sir?" the waitress inquired as Wilson mulled over the options. After a long lull in the conversation he finally made his choice. "I should be back with the macchiato in a few minutes, the chai latte will take a bit longer, is that alright?" she inquired of Wilson. He nodded and the waitress left to retrieve their drinks. Again, he was struck by the kindness in her eyes and her attention to detail. He was also taken in with the fact that she was patient enough to wait for him to make his order, a trait not often found in a waitress who made a little over minimum wage.
"James, that's the exact reason I asked you to come along with me," she confided, "I don't want to sound selfish here, but I was having a lot of trouble there, too. You're not alone in this." she continued. Wilson could hear the conviction her tone and knew that she wasn't lying to him. "I might not have been as close to Amber as you were, but this affected me as well. Let's face it," she said leaning closer now, "it affected all of us - House included." she finished. Wilson looked down at the table and traced the outlines in the wood's design. Despite her concern for him it had somehow become the most interesting thing in the room.
"I know it affected House," he said leveling his voice to obscure his anger, "he would never have gone as far as he had if it wasn't important to him. You know that as well as I do. His obsession with it went beyond his normal defiance and, shall we call it something, enthusiasm to solve the mystery," he continued feeling himself becoming more intense with each passing second, "but I don't know. I don't even know how it affects you because no one really cared for her. House used to call her Cutthroat Bitch for Christ's sake, Lisa!" he shouted losing control. Cuddy's expression was of a woman affronted. His mind raced back to the various vulgarities House had thrown at her. How could he justify such things and still pretend like it mattered to him? Perhaps there was more to this than Wilson had thought.
"James, you might want to lower the volume a bit," she said looking around, "we are in a Starbucks." she continued. Wilson nodded and leaned back in his seat. Had his tone become too loud? Or was she looking out for him? That familiar motherly attitude she often boasted. "But I do understand what you're saying. House is an asshole, let's face it. He's called both of us things I won't dare repeat here," she offered, "hell, he once told me that I should be happy that I wasn't a mother because I couldn't handle dealing with a child that wasn't even my own." she replied. Wilson watched as the faint evidence of tears welled beneath her eyes. Reacting, instead of thinking it through, he reached his hand across the table and rested on her own. It was a reaction that he wasn't expecting of himself.
"You're right," he offered, "but I still don't see how it demonstrates that he cares about you or me, Lisa. It shows how much of a self righteous asshole he is." Wilson replied feeling himself calming down as he spoke. He knew that she was right, that House was an abrasive asshole, but there was still something lurking beyond that, under the cold steel blue eyes, beyond the abusive remarks. House, being a social outcast, often had his own methods of showing that he cared. Methods that ranged from outlandish to absolutely insane. It was a wonder how the two of them remained friends for so long. "Look, I know what you're trying to do and I appreciate it, but I need time. I need to be away from all of this. I need to a change of scenery." he said before he could stop himself.
"You're macchiato and chai latte are ready," the young woman interjected, "and I will be back in a few minutes to check on you two. Enjoy." she said leaving. Wilson slid her macchiato across the table to her and drew his chai close. He could feel the heat emanating from the Starbucks cup and wanted to drink it in more than the actual drink within. He watched as Cuddy blew the steam from her macchiato and let out a long sigh. The waitress went back to the counter, Wilson noticed, and smiled to him. He blew it off as a sympathetic compliment, seeing as how he was broadcasting loneliness. Another aspect of himself that he would have to fix, if he wanted to make it out of this whole situation without being mothered and taken care of.
"Take all the time you need," she said taking a sip from the macchiato, "but do me a favor. I have a friend, an old friend from medical school, who is a therapist. She's in upstate New York," she continued writing something down on a scrap of paper, "her name is Dr. Andrea Scanlon." she said moving the scrap of paper across the table to Wilson. He looked down and noticed that she had written her name and number on the scrap. The name sounded a little familiar to him, like he should have known who she was but couldn't reach down far enough to remind himself of who she was.
"I'm not making any promises," Wilson replied taking the information, "but I will think about it. I don't know what I'm doing yet, but what I do know is that I need to spend some time alone." he reinforced. He watched as she continued to drink her macchiato, searching for something to respond with. He knew that she meant well, but the thought of seeing a therapist seemed a bit extreme. Still, it wouldn't be a bad idea. He often suggested that those who had recently lost a loved one speak to a therapist. Keeping the option open, he folded the note and rested it inside his coat where he could find it if he decided to call on her. It was the least he could do for Cuddy, since she had taken this time to sit down with him and try and be a friend.
"All I'm asking is that you consider it, James," she said softly, "unlike House I won't blackmail you." she continued. Wilson knew that she was right. House had gone to extremes for him in an attempt to save Amber's life, but there was still the lingering fact that he had spent the last twenty three years of their friendship pushing limits. "Speaking of House, have you spoken to him since she died?" she asked. Her words fell through the air and landed in Wilson's delicate heart like a knife. And the blade cut much deeper than he figured that she was cognizant of.
"No," he said without hesitation, "we haven't spoken since...Amber." he said. He knew that she was fishing for something now, but he wasn't quite sure what it was. "I don't have anything left to talk about with him. I could fucking care less about what he has to say, to be honest." Wilson continued. He knew that it was a harsh thing to say about the man he had called his best-friend for so long, but he was done being ambiguous. The time for that had come and was no longer a thought that went through his mind. He could have cared less what she thought, or House, or anyone else for that matter. It was his emotions.
Wilson knew that he was being more detached than he should have been with her, but there wasn't much left he had to talk about. He knew if the conversation continued much longer than she would segue into the reactions at the cemetery, and the more he thought about it the more he felt like it was best to let sleeping dogs lie. He had an innate understanding that she had known how he felt for a long time now and that this was an emotional response, not a strange method of confession to his feelings for her. He also didn't want to re-live the awkwardness of the moment a second time. Once was more than enough for him. More than enough for eight lifetimes, in fact. But it didn't matter, he couldn't rewind the clock and take back what he had said and done. It was too late for that.
"I know how you're feeling," she replied taking another hit from her macchiato, "but you can't blame him for her death." she told him. It was starting to feel like she was trying to mother him. Again. "He risked his life for her; for you." she continued to enforce the issue on him. He wanted to scream, but he knew that it would only create a chasm between them and he needed all the support he could find at the moment. Despite his sense of overwhelming guilt and the need to bolt as fast as he could from all of this. To see something new, something else, to be someone new, someone else.
"I know what he risked," he replied with tinge of disdain, "but I can't do this right now. I'm leaving tomorrow afternoon," he continued unsure of how he had come to that decision, "I'll stop at the hospital and take care of some of the paperwork for an administrative leave." Wilson said standing up. There was a look of absolute desperation painted across Cuddy's face. He was torn between staying a bit longer and leaving to clear his mind. "I need a ride back to the cemetery to collect my car." he replied, almost in a whisper. It was an uneasy truth that he hadn't taken into consideration when he had agreed to come with her. Now, as he was about to leave, he found that he was back in her debt and in need of her assistance.
Wilson had expected the ride back to the cemetery to be one long list of reasons that he shouldn't leave or an excuse to lift the burden of blame from House, but it wasn't. He was astounded at the silence that filled the vehicle. There was only the rhythmic lullaby written by the thoroughfare beneath them. Part of him was relieved, having expected to have to listen to Cuddy's rationalizations and excuses to remain around, but still yet there was a small blemish in his soul that wanted her to bereave him. It felt strange for her to give up so easily. He was about to speak when he noticed on the horizon the cemetery. Glancing over to the woman next to him he felt, for a brief moment, that he was in the company of a stranger. Cuddy was kind of woman who had something to say about everything, but here she was silent. He couldn't tell if it was because he had been abrupt with her, offended her, or some reason beyond his meager understanding. "We're here." she said flatly.
"Lisa, I didn't mean to be so offensive back there," he said trying to smooth things over with her, "but I need some time. This is all a lot to take in and it's coming at me from all sides…" he said, his voice starting to trail off as she stopped the car next to his own. "Thank you for the chai latte and conversation." he offered. He watched as a small smile cracked across her lips. It wasn't much, but it was enough to console his bruised sense of friendship. Despite his rebuttals and his insistences that he needed time and didn't want her help, she still kept him in her heart. It was a reassuring thought.
"Just think about what I said," she replied, "and call Andrea. She's a friend and I know that she won't screw with you. She's about as honest as House and as kind as I am." she continued. Wilson nodded to indicate that he understood her assessment. "And if you still need someone to talk to I'm free. I can make time to talk to you, if need be." she reached across the seat to him. Wilson felt himself reach across and meet her halfway. The amount of physical contact between the two in the last few hours had come as a shock to him, but he wasn't about to complain. Despite everything, she was still an amazing woman.
"Again, I can't thank you enough for what you're doing," he said climbing out of the car, "and I should be around after lunch - would you like to do lunch with me tomorrow? One final lunch before I leave for awhile?" he asked, feeling himself becoming tense. She continued to smile back and nodded. Wilson nodded softly and climbed the rest of the way out of the car and began walking back to his own, unsure if he would be able to keep the appointment he made with Cuddy to have lunch with her.