Five
It wasn't enough. Impossible to hold it back. Her hair was pasted to her face from perspiring, eyes bloodshot and teary. Her knees trembled as she once again doubled over and vomited. The contents of her stomach, projectile in their quitting of her insides, flew into the toilet of the one stall lavatory. Knowing it was difficult to subside the burning of her throat from the acid, she remained silent through the otherwise noisy throwing up. At last she was able to keep her symptoms at bay, and washed her face before applying a forceful smile.
Only as she opened the door was she approached by House on one side of her and the Chapel's on another. They both began to ask impertinent questions simultaneously, House mostly because he knew she had a splitting headache and he wanted to irritate her before she would explode and the couple inquired in fear for their daughter. "Is she all right?" "Why do you spend so much time by yourself, Chase?" "Does my daughter have a tumor?" "Are you on drugs or something, people? My God." "Chase, blah blah blah, are you done talking yet?"
"Stop," she finally groaned helplessly, closing her eyes and stopping in her tracks. Holding up her hands, she gave a heaving sigh. "I haven't checked on Bailey for three hours. You asked me only an hour ago. House, isn't there someone else you can bother?"
The parents, agitated and put off, turned toward each other, desperate to see Bailey. House, observant and keen, watched Emma carefully as she walked in a strange new pattern down the hallway. She carried herself differently. It was evident; House wondered why no one else had said anything. If I brought it to the table…I wonder.
"Listen up, lousy slobs," he congenially addressed the team as he paced the room, holding a red marker in his right hand while leaning on his cane with his left. "There is a difference between secrecy—" he banged his cane firmly on the desk, and suddenly lowered his voice, "and privacy. Conventionally—generally—secrecy is usually used for some morally incorrect doing or cause. Like, say, lying that your daughter has a tumor to, for some reason, raise your medical bill and drop your insurance bill." He coughed, hinting. "Secrecy, my friends, is morally wrong." He once again slapped his cane on the table, this time purposely in front of the pale faced girl who had emerged from the lavatory not two hours prior. "Privacy is something completely different. Privacy has nothing to hide, but the personal aspect gives the person the right to not voice it freely. Privacy is not hiding something. Secrets are not personal. Secrecy and privacy are two very different things." His team eyed him with precaution. "Missus Chase, my friends, has a secret."
When the four other pairs of eyes suddenly were averted toward her, Emma glanced around quizzically, scared, speechless. House, how could you do this to me? But she wasn't ready to tell anyone. Once she met her husband's eyes, she knew that he urged her to just spit it out. And then the tears welled up. She shook her head, ever so slightly. Standing, she pushed back her chair and marched out of the room, closing the door behind her in one fluid movement.
"Women. So temperamental," remarked House passively.
Cameron turned her face of disbelief toward him. "House, you obviously made her upset. She and you both know something that the rest of us don't."
"No," Chase blurted, eyes cast to the table, hands capering there nervously. He plunged his fingers into his hair and rested his elbows on the tabletop, and said guiltily, "I know, too."
"Well then what the hell is going on?" Foreman interjected.
There was a pause. Chase was unable to bring himself to say the cause without the consent and will of his wife. Cameron and Foreman were baffled. House waited for the opportune moment to speak. "Give me the three main causes for vomiting. Just three."
The answer came automatically for the dark man. "Uh…stomach or intestine infection, injury or irritation…irregular brain function or damage…and inner ear infections like dizziness, or motion sickness."
"Ah, yes. Motion sickness. And where or when do you usually get that?"
"Usually in a car or some type of moving vehicle." Cameron was the one to answer this time, anxious and waiting for the final verdict—what could this all mean? House often had something up his sleeve.
"Or, say, when the person is simply moving," said House with an irregular emphasis. "Or…persons?"
And did this strike a note of wonder. What did he mean by that? His conclusions were such enigmas, it was hard for anyone to decipher them without him giving another clue—or ten. Chase, heart pounding and sinking down to his toes, felt himself begin to lose it. "House, just stop this stupid nastiness already. If you say it's such a secret, don't bother trying to figure it out. It's our secret, not yours," he shouted defensively, bringing himself to his feet. He kept a hard gaze with his boss, which was soon broken down by the horror of House's constant, apathetic stare.
The man leaned over his scholar. He said lowly; softly, "Then come out and say it. Blondie."
Oh how Chase had the urge to HIT this man. But he refrained, building up his posture and going out to find his wife who had already fled the scene and was probably down to the next sector of the hospital. Without another word, he exited.
Allison stood. "If it's that important to them, let it be, okay?" The sardonic, regretful sneer she threw at House was not merely as effective as she'd wanted it to be—her facial expressions could've used some tuning, in his opinion—but she left it as it was and also moved through the door.
Foreman was still disappointed that he had not yet gotten to finish his coffee for that day. So many interruptions. "How do you like it?" he asked House, going over to the machine and getting the brew ready.
"Oh, I like it black," he replied, stumbling out of the room confidently. "Just like my men."