Chapter Four:
Running Blind
"Running through a field where all my tracks will be concealed and there's nowhere to go…" - The Red Hot Chili Peppers, "Snow" (Hey Oh)
"Well, that's one way of fucking up a beautiful friendship." Wilson said aloud as he tried to turn his vehicle over, cursing himself for his own stupidity. As he moved the shifter he allowed his mind to drift back to his encounter with Cuddy in the café. She was trying to help him, to offer him a chance to talk, and in realizing that she might not be able to coax it out of him, she had offered him the number to a friend he could express himself with and not feel confined. It was odd to be on the other end of the conversation for him, but he knew she meant well. And, he thought to himself as he continued to fiddle with the car, it was often easier to speak to someone you didn't know. A sympathetic ear from a sympathetic stranger. Perhaps this was what he needed. It didn't matter that she was doing everything he would have done in the same situation and he had taken her offering and shut down - in essence locking her out - all of this after he had sought her soothing embrace. He was becoming more and more like House with each passing moment. It was not a helpful thought to have tumbling around in your mind.
Brushing these aberrant thoughts from his mind, Wilson struggled to think of something - anything - else. He knew that Amber wouldn't have wanted him to dwell on her death, let alone harbor misconceptions about his relationship with Cuddy, but the sense that he had inadvertently affronted her continued to linger. He wouldn't allow the distance to float between the two of them for too long, but he knew that it would ostentatious to call her sooner rather than later. He would allow himself a bit longer, time to mull it over, before he would make that call. It was often distance and time that allowed for healing between friends and while he understood this wasn't the end of their friendship, he knew that it was the transition from one level to another. One that could lead to strange new lands or chase them further apart. Either way, he knew that she cared for him. More than he had thought before the loss. It was nice to see a different side of Lisa Cuddy, one other than the mediator who often asked him to corral House in. A task he took to like a duck to water.
Shifting his weight in the driver seat, he felt the bottle resting in his pocket shift with him, a sullen reminder that it was still there. Waiting for him. He felt himself becoming tense once again. Reaching down he groped for the bottle, but stopped himself before he could withdraw it. "Amber wouldn't have wanted this," he said to himself in an effort to talk himself out of it, "she wouldn't have tolerated this kind of shit, James." he told himself. Checking the dash clock he saw that it had been less than two and a half hours since he had last taken the Valium. As a doctor he was aware that if he continued to take it he would run the risk of overdose or coma. "Later," he resolved stiffly, "if I'm still feeling like this I'll take another few later. Yeah…" he continued, his voice trailing off. He recognized that he was making a deal with himself, much like an addict would, but this thought soon escaped his mind as he tried to focus on something other than the need that was slowly building in the depths of his chest.
Pulling up to the stop light he let out a labored sigh. Glancing around, as he often found himself doing when confronted with a stop light, he saw the local Barnes and Noble was less than a mile ahead. His mind flashed to the hundreds of somber family members he had directed to the local bookstore, offering a list of self-help books, and recommendations he had made to help them overcome the recent loss of their loved ones. It felt strange to him to be thinking of such a thing within the construct of his current state of mind, but Wilson felt himself drawn to the idea of allowing someone else telling him how to deal with his misery. He had spent most of his life being the "shoulder to cry upon," "receptive friend," and "the kindly doctor." He didn't believe that it was too much to ask to be on the other side of the couch, to be consoled instead of being the consoler. He found himself once again thinking of Cuddy and how she had tried to be the consoler and he had thrown it back in her face. Like an disrespectful wretch who deserved no such kindness.
The light switched and Wilson lurched forward. Behind him he could hear the cacophony of profanity and other drivers becoming increasingly agitated with him. Part of him could have cared less what they thought of his indecision. They knew nothing of his situation or how he felt. How could they? And more importantly, how could they even consider the task of judging him? Just because he was moving slower than they liked? It was presumptuous at best. The other half of him wanted to do what most Jersey natives would have done in his situation, but it wouldn't have done much to resolve his trepidation. Continuing along, he soon found himself flicking the blinker on his wheel and turning into the parking lot of the Barnes and Noble. It was more of an unconscious choice than one that had come from his own choice, but he didn't have the energy or courage to correct his course. He shifted the knob as he stopped in the parking space and leaned back in the seat. Reaching down in his pocket he fumbled with the bottle, running his hand over it, and reflexively removing it.
Looking down at the bottle of Valium he felt himself becoming tranquil. It was an amazing illusion, he thought to himself, as he felt the calm wash over him from the simple act of looking at the bottle. Still, he could feel the anticipation collect in his heart as he moved his hand across the bottle and examined it, reading his name written on the bottle, his doctor's name, and that he should take two each morning and before bed. It had been a difficult choice to make, but one that he had come to accept. Amber had told him that it was okay, now and then, to let your pride falter and accept the help of others. And he had, in an effort to find comfort, and found himself with a prescription to Valium. As he started to untwist the cap, he heard Amber's voice scolding him for being weak, giving in to his depression, and accepting defeat. Taking heed of what he took to be the Voice of Reason he often shoved down, he rested the bottle on the dash of the car and unbuckled his belt. He had told himself later and he was going to keep that promise to himself.
As he climbed out of the car he felt his cell vibrating. Reaching into his breast pocket, he removed his cell and bit his lower lip. The name on the screen read "House." Wilson debated answering the call, however, decided that it would be better if he let it reach his voicemail and deal with it later. There was little the man could say that would hold much interest to him. He had enough agitating him as it was, he didn't need to have House berating him for being an idiot. Moments later the cell vibrated a second time, this time informing him that House had left him a message. Looking down at the cell, he tossed it into the car and shut the door. He was James Wilson right now, not Dr. James Wilson Head of Oncology at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Hospital business could wait. It would wait. The last thing he needed was a constant reminder of things he was trying to forget and House would be the face to that desire. Besides, if it was something dire he would track him down, as he had done so many times before.
Feeling an aura of release that had eluded him for so long Wilson, walked into the Barnes and Noble with a calm and collected sense of being. He was free from the amalgamation of stress conspiring to break him down. He was nothing more than a simple man; something that he had lost along the way to becoming the complicated man that he was. Taking a deep breath, he swung open the ornate double doors and crossed the threshold of the Barnes and Noble. He was taking the first steps in his journey of self discovery. At least, this was what he told himself as he broached the entrance and felt the cool breeze that felt even more inviting to him than usual. He found it strange that he felt so calm and cool in a book store, but he was reminded that it was in a book store that he had developed so many loves and interests. It was almost as natural as breathing for him, to be in a store, surrounded by volumes of knowledge and fiction that had brought so much joy to himself and others.
Upon walking in he discovered that he was flooded with hundreds of options, choices abound, and realized that he didn't know what he was looking for. He intrinsically understood that what he needed, but as his eyes continued to take in the thousands of books before him he became lost in an ocean of choice. For a moment he found himself overwhelmed, consumed even, with the prospect of having to locate something to help him cope with his loss. It had been far too long since the last time he had set foot in a Barnes and Noble, or any book store for that matter. He used to know where everything was and where even the most obscure tome could be found. Now, now he felt like a stranger in a strange land as he scanned the countless shelves. Shifting his weight he took a long breath and scanned the aisles for someone who might be able to assist him in his conquest.
Moving with an absolute sense of unease and confusion, Wilson found himself drawn to the Michael Crichton section. It wasn't the exact spot he had thought he would find himself drawn to, but it also wasn't as alien and unknown as it might have seemed on the surface. Collected before him on the mahogany shelf the selections of novels were laid out before him. Tilting his head to the left to read the titles he saw all of the classics: Jurassic Park, Congo, The Andromeda Strain, and Timeline. Each was a classic and each one he had, at one time or another, read from cover to cover with an enjoyment he rarely found in most fiction writers. Continuing down the line, he saw that Crichton had written more since he had finished reading the magnificent State of Fear. As a doctor he had precious little time to keep up with writers he loved, but now and then, when the option was available, he liked to check in and see what was new. See what he had not yet read. Perhaps locate a new favorite, even.
Each of the new titles had the same boast of action and adventure infused with cutting edge bio-medical technology run amok, however, in his current emotional tumultuous state of mind he knew that this wasn't what he was looking for - he was looking for something a bit more introverted and psychological. This was when out of the corner of his eye he spotted the one Michael Crichton novel he had never read before: Sphere. As he reached out for the novel, he felt himself becoming more and more drawn to it. It was odd that there was an older novel by Crichton that had somehow escaped his attention, but there it was. On the shelf, next to a copy of The Lost World: Jurassic Park, another novel that he had loved despite it's outlandish sense of science. He often had to remind himself that Crichton had been a doctor himself and this was his way of releasing those thoughts that kept him up at night. And if some bad or questionable science was required to make something a little more exciting, he could forgive that. Even if it was still pretty out there.
Fascinated, he turned the novel over and scanned the description. As he read about the storyline of the novel he felt a bolt of electricity shoot down his spine. This was a new sensation that he had never quite felt before. It was as if he was reading about himself, if he had been asked by the government to investigate a strange sphere located at the bottom of the ocean, and he found himself even more entranced with the novel. Wilson found himself checking the self before him, noticing the gap that he had created in taking the novel from it's resting spot, and saw a clear metaphor of his life emerging. Something had been taken out of his life that had felt concrete, but despite the fact that there was a void, it would soon be replaced with something else. The trite lives often lead by the protagonists of the novels brought - often unwillingly - into a situation much beyond their control and forced to overcome the dangerous nature of tech and science spinning wildly out of control. Looking closer, he realized that what he was seeing wasn't so much about the novels as it was the actual location those novels occupied.
His life was like the shelf on which the novel had been resting; a life that had been lived and was dense with knowledge, adventure, and friendship, yet in the center of it all something was missing. The longer he focused on the shelf and the collection of novels, the more he was drawn to the gap, the absence that had been created by the removal of a single novel, a single unexpected event that, in the flow of vivacity, was unanticipated and left the visage incomplete. "Sir, are you looking for something?" came a youthful female voice. Wilson felt himself become tense and spun on his heel to see a young redhead smiling at him. He wondered how long she had been there, watching him stare at the empty slot in the shelf like an idiot. Out of desperation he scanned around to see if there was an escape route available.
"Oh," he stuttered, "I was looking over your wonderful selection of Michael Crichton novels." he managed to choke out. The young woman smiled at him. Wilson felt himself becoming lax and allowed the breath he was holding to liberate itself. The woman nodded and offered a curt smile. Glancing down he checked to see what her name was, trying to avoid coming off like an ass who was busy staring at her ample breasts, and saw that it was Evelyn. "I'm a fan of his and was looking for something I hadn't read before," he offered making small talk, "and came across this one, um, Sphere." he said feeling a faint smile cracking along his lips. Evelyn nodded once more, this time with a sincerity Wilson had never seen someone who spent forty hours a week slaving in retail boast.
"Sphere," she mused aloud, "that's the one about the craft under the ocean. I don't think I've had the chance to read it yet either, but I have seen the film. God, Dustin Hoffman was amazing in that! One of his best roles ever, if you ask me." she offered. Wilson found himself feeling at ease around Evelyn. She radiated an aura of confidence that was almost contagious. "Though, between you and me, I think that Jurassic Park and The Lost World: Jurassic Park were his best novels. The movies were amazing, too. Just wasn't a fan of the third. God that was a terrible movie. Ever see it?" she asked absolutely beaming. Wilson felt the desire to run recede and found that this young woman, Evelyn, had made him feel a lot less like the idiot who stood there obsessed with a empty slot in the shelf.
"I can't say that I've ever seen it," Wilson replied, "but seeing as how someone of your wonderful taste didn't like it I'll have to take that into consideration next time it's on to avoid it." he said. There was enough truth in his statement that he didn't feel like he was lying to the woman, she was going well beyond what was being asked of her in talking to him, and he found himself comfortable enough with her to let her in a small bit. "Evelyn," he said looking over the novel a second time, "I have to confess that this isn't the real reason I'm here. The real reason is I was looking for the self-help section and became sidetracked and found myself in this Ocean of Crichton and couldn't resist." he replied. He watched as Evelyn shifted her weight, rested her left hand on her hip, and chewed on what he was saying. Wilson felt his heart sink, feeling like he had said too much, when she smiled to him and motioned behind him about a hundred feet. For a second he had no idea what she was pointing out to him.
"We have one of the best self-help selections in the state," she boasted, "is there anything specific you're interested in? I've been stocking that section for so long I'm almost an expert on the various topic." she offered. There was a tone of unadulterated desire to assist in her voice. Wilson was unsure if he could tell her the full extent of what he was looking for or if he should leave it where it was. "You don't have to share with me, but if I can be of assistance I won't share with anyone else what you share with me." she coaxed. Wilson couldn't help but wonder if his anxiety was written across his forehead and this woman had simply read it off, or he exuded the pallor of someone who had taken a hit that was too much for them to bear, but the thoughts quickly evaporated as he found himself further entranced by her heartfelt desire to help him.
"When you say it like that," he replied feeling a bit less tense about it, "I lost someone close to me recently and I was looking for something about dealing with and overcoming emotional distress." Wilson confessed. Evelyn nodded, her hazel eyes full of honesty, and motioned for him to follow her. Following her lead he found himself navigating a maze of novels, comics, dictionaries, and audio books. Each one seemed to offer something new, another escape from reality, another new adventure to insinuate yourself into, but he knew that if he was to overcome this he would have to cement himself in reality. The fictional account of psychological testing by an underwater craft, while absolutely out of the realm of possibility, was more a metaphor of his life than anything else on the shelves surrounding him and the young Evelyn. And one that he felt comfortable with the exploration of. What could be better than allowing yourself to be lost within another world, a magical world much like your own, and one that reflected your own troubles?
It wasn't long before Wilson and Evelyn arrived at their destination. Rotating on her heel, Evelyn came face-to-face with Wilson. "This would be where you can find everything from Dr. Phil's daft brand of self-help to the real breed of folks who are interested in helping you, the reader. I have found that the best are Dr. Sean McNamara's Dealing With The Pain of Loss and Dr. Robert Stewart's The Stoic Sage: Coping With Your Grief, but that's me." she offered. Wilson nodded taking into consideration what she had said. "If there's anything else I can help with you can find me lurking in the Anne Rice section." she replied. Wilson faked a smile and Evelyn left him to his own devices. He found himself wondering how such a cheerful and sanguine young woman could know so much about this type of loss, but reminded himself that it would have been out of line to ask such a thing. He was a customer, little more than that, and not a friend. He should leave it alone, but his mind continued to wonder as he scanned the shelves of the Self-Help section.
Watching as she left he felt a strange sense of loss wash over him. It was rare to find someone as interested in helping as she was and even more extraordinary to establish such an ease with said someone. Casting the isolation aside, Wilson returned his attention to the shelves and scanned the selection of titles before him. There was a sense of awe at the vast amount of pages consolidated before him as he ran his hand across the spines of the various options. Thinking back to what Evelyn had recommend, he slid his hand along until he came across The Stoic Sage: Coping With Your Grief. It was one of several books he often offered as a recommendation when asked, yet for some reason or another had never read beyond the description on the back of the book. "No better time than now, James." he whispered to himself as he removed the book from the shelf. This time he was able to avoid the enraptured attention to the void that was left behind.
Glancing around to make sure there was no one around who might know him, he held the book out and listened as the spine cracked, indicating that this was the first time it had ever been opened. Wilson watched as a small plume of dust rose out of the book, waving his hand to clear the air, and read the obligatory list of critics praising Dr. Stewart's deft craftsmanship and ability to help others. It all read like something you would expect to hear on one of Dr. Phil's shows, but he sensed that there was sincerity in each of the critic's statements. One, written by a critic in upstate New York, stood out. "Dr. Stewart writes with an intense and intimate understanding of the conditions of grief stemming from the experience of losing his wife at a young age.". The review struck a chord in Wilson that brought the loss of Amber back into sharp relief. Again, he felt the intense need for the Valium that was out in his car, the chemical escape that could release him from the memories. To hell with what his subconscious mind thought. Still, he was able to force the craving down long enough to return his attention to the books in his hand.
Satisfied that this was the best option out of the immense choices before him, he rested it under his arm along with Michael Crichton's Sphere. He was astonished with the effortlessness he had in finding what he was looking for. The unspoken truth was, however, that when he had entered the store he had no idea what he was looking for; he only knew that he was looking for something to mollify his misery. He would still require sabbatical from Princeton- Plainsboro, however, no amount of self-help would change that. It was with that he found himself once again thinking of Cuddy and their amorous encounter. He resolved that he would discuss what had occurred at the cemetery with her when he found himself in the hospital. Right now his focus remained on paying for the books he was carrying and making it out of there without having to reveal to another clerk how he was feeling; Evelyn was a fascinating fluke. But a fluke that he found to be as equally intriguing as the encounter that they had shared. For a brief moment he considered checking the Anne Rice section to see if she was still there.
As he walked through aisle after aisle of diverse novels ranging from romance to humor he had the strangest feeling that he was being watched. He wasn't certain of the source, whether it was another customer or one of the countless clerks, there was only the incredible sense that he was being followed. Scolding himself for being paranoid he eradicated those thoughts from his mind and continued toward the registers. Still, something was off. Taking a moment to alleviate his concerns, he spun around and scanned the aisle behind him. In the distance he saw the silhouette of a man looming just out of sight. Feeling foolish, he lurched closer. "Hello?" he said to the silhouette. There was no audible response to his inquiry. It was as if the figure didn't hear him or couldn't decide if he was worth the effort of responding to.
Moments later the silhouette shifted out of view. Wilson couldn't help but feel a sense of familiarity with the shape, as if he had seen it before, but he found it difficult to trace the origins of the acquaintance. Brushing the encounter from his mind he continued his trek to the register so he could check out and leave. He wanted nothing more than to be alone with his thoughts; alone with his sorrow. He wanted to be alone in the apartment that he once shared with Amber, but he knew that he would never be alone with her memories still tied to everything in the apartment. On every sheet, leaking out of the faucets, and covered on the walls. It was not something that he could easily dismiss or replace, but it was all he had and like it or not, it was all that would be left of Amber.
Once he reached his destination he was relieved that the clerk behind the counter was a young man in his mid-twenties. "Find everything you were looking for?" he half-heartedly inquired as he scanned each of Wilson's reading choices. Wilson nodded and reached for his wallet. Removing his American Express he handed it to the man. The young man slid the card across his register and handed it back to Wilson. "Thank you for shopping at Barnes and Noble. Be sure to come back and shop with us soon." he replied, sounding less excited about the prospect than Wilson was. This was the kind of service he had come to expect out of employees who made minimum wage and had little prospect ahead of them. Part of him wanted to scream at the young man, to tell him to find something better for himself if he was so miserable where he was, and the other part of him wanted to be back out at the car. In the comfort of the bottle that was still rested on the dash.
Stepping outside, Wilson felt a chill run through him as a strong crosswind blew across the parking lot. He felt accomplished and satisfied with himself. He had managed to retain some semblance of control and had even made a friend, if she could be called that, without having to talk too much about what he was feeling. The thought of his encounter with Evelyn reminded him of the woman Cuddy had mentioned to him during their time at the café, Dr. Andrea Scanlon. He thought of how much ease he found in talking about his loss with Evelyn, a woman he had never spoken to before, and decided he should call Andrea when he had a little bit of time on his hands. If nothing else he could confirm to Cuddy that he had spoken to someone about his emotions and she would be satisfied. He felt like he owed her that much, if nothing else. He resolved that he would do this as soon as he arrived back at his apartment and had a chance to sort out a few things.
Reaching his car, he withdrew his keys from his pocket and rested the books he had purchased on the roof. Another crosswind blew his hair across his face and caused him to fumble with the lock. "Damn it!" he shouted. Resting his hands on the driver's side window he composed himself and attempted to unlock the door a second time, this time with much more success. Collecting the books from the roof of the car he climbed in, buckled his seatbelt, and turned the car over. Glancing across the seat to his cell he saw that no one else had tried to reach him while he was in the store. "Just House," he said to no one as he shifted and started out of the parking lot, "wonderful. If I'm feeling up to it later I'll call you back, but don't hold your breath."
There would be time to take care of the loose ends at the hospital tomorrow. As he left the parking lot he looked over at the bottle and caught himself looking at the clock, expecting to see it reward him with his patience, but it indicated that he would have to wait a bit longer before he could release the building tension. Letting out a burst of oxygen he felt his muscles become lax. He could feel a sense of failure washing over himself as he reached for the bottle. "No," he said aloud, "I won't fail you." he said, speaking to Amber. Searching his soul for the strength to deal with the cravings, he pushed the button to lower his car window, and in a move that even he hadn't expected of himself he tossed the bottle into the street, hoping he had made the right choice.