Chapter 5
"Wilson and Dickinson"
The old hardwood of the original building had been preserved throughout the lobby, Wilson noticed. When he'd walked through the glass and stainless steel front door, he felt as though he'd been transported by some fantastic time warp through a gateway into the Nineteenth Century.
Tasteful American Colonial furniture occupied most of the floor space, accompanied by dark mahogany side tables and coffee tables. These, in turn, were laid with stacks of books and magazines, and accompanied by tasteful, antique-looking table lamps. Elegant potted plants, which hung, reclined or lounged in exquisite, serene arrangements, filled in the empty spaces.
Spotless floors were inlaid in a diamond pattern and sanded down to show off the beauty of the antique oak grain, then varnished with a soft patina-like coating, reminiscent of very old bridge decking. The walls were finished with alternating Earth-tone wallpaper and original dark walnut wainscoting. Paintings of elegant horses and youthful riders hung strategically about.
A man and a woman holding an infant sat on one of the settees, and a woman of about sixty leafed through a magazine in a chair a short distance to the left.
Looking up, Wilson saw an elaborate balcony type walkway surrounded by a wrought-iron railing that gave access to another group of professional offices. He could not help being impressed. The remodeling was breathtaking, and he found that his memories of the place the first time he'd seen it, had been remodeled as well.
To his left were heavy oak doors, which led to a dentist's office and an eyeglass emporium. To his right hung an antique sign with a weather-beaten carving of the blindfolded Goddess of Justice. The sign was displayed above a door with a beveled glass pane, denoting: "Leonard & Laurie, Attorneys At Law."
Next to that was a solid mahogany door set into the lighter oak. He had to walk closer in order to read the simple brass plate set near shoulder level into the wood: "Ardais Verengi-Degas, Psychologist. Specializing in Child-Elder-Women. On call 24 hrs. Call 403-9483."
Wow!
Wilson endeavored to wipe that "touristy, sight seeing" look off his face, but it was difficult. Spinning around in the opposite direction, he searched for a set of stairs to the second floor and above. All he saw was a pair of what appeared to be pocket doors directly across from him. There was a wall plate beside them, not easily read unless one was standing a foot away. He walked over. Stepped inside.
R. Dickinson, PhD, Psychologist - Group Therapy – 2nd Floor
The pocket doors discreetly hid an elevator! He palmed the plate and a set of digital numbers glowed on the wall. "Two. Three. Four. Five." He pressed the numeral "2" and waited, assuming this action would lead him to the stronghold of Dick Dickinson!
Again, he tried not to be impressed. It was getting harder and harder.
Wow!
The machinery meshed smoothly and he rose like a bubble through the water. Suddenly he was standing in an area almost like a mezzanine, looking out over the wrought iron railing he'd had to look up to a few minutes before.
Dick's office was straight across from him and Wilson started toward it. The sense of awe that he'd experienced when he'd walked in, left him abruptly and his thoughts returned in a heartbeat to the real reason he was there.
House!
He realized he'd needed every second of the time taken up by his assessment of the regal surroundings. It had allowed his brain to slow down, shift gears and run along in "idle" for a short interval while he combed his emotions of the need for angst and drama. House's illness and present physical dilemma must be discussed in doctor-to-doctor mode as much as possible.
If he were to allow himself to slip back into the concerned-best-friend persona, it would be doing House a disservice, as well as giving off a false veneer of faulty information that would not help his friend, but would mislead Dickinson as well.
Wilson stopped in front of the heavy mahogany door with the bronze plate in the middle:
"R. Dickinson." He drew himself up and took a deep breath, only now realizing the stamina and physical resources of his own that this serious crisis had cost him.
Everything bone in his body that moved … hurt!
Wilson reached up and placed a heavy hand on the achy muscles at the back of his neck, massaging for a moment.
Regrouping his resources and schooling his face to present a pleasant expression, he turned the doorknob and walked into the reception area.
Margie McAllister looked up from her computer desk.
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James Wilson was a bundle of nerves. He could feel the shaking from deep within his gut, and he hoped he could pull off this interview in a professional manner. He shifted from foot to foot, lowering his head shyly, even as he pulled the outside door closed behind him.
The woman behind the well-appointed mahogany desk tilted her head toward him in a friendly manner and trained a sympathetic look at his disheveled appearance. "Would you happen to be Jimmy Wilson?" She asked. "I'm Marge."
Wilson nodded and approached her position. "Hi Marge. Uh … yeah … that would be me. Been a long time since anyone who wasn't trying to tease me, called me 'Jimmy'."
She smiled tentatively, obviously unsure what he'd meant by that, but not quite willing to ask. Instead, she pointed a bright red fingernail to a door at the opposite side of the room. "Dick's waiting for you. Told me to tell you to go right on in. Have you eaten?"
Wilson frowned a moment, suddenly realizing that, no, he hadn't. "Ah … no … I didn't take the time."
She nodded. "Okay then. The boss didn't eat anything either, just in case. Tell him I'll call and have something sent in. Any preferences?"
Wilson hesitated, offered one of his self-deprecating "shrug-double-take" combinations and looked at her in a puzzled manner. "I'm … ah … fairly easy to please," he said. "Whatever you decide will be okay with me. Thank you … Marge." He turned slowly, in case the woman wanted to ask him anything else. She had already returned to her computer, so he pushed down on the latch of the inner door and opened it, sticking his head through first.
Dick's office was nothing if not well appointed. The first thing to catch James' eye was the comfortable chaise lounge positioned across a corner with a potted palm behind it and an leather arm chair positioned strategically beside it. He had to smile at the cliché so long associated with the term "psychiatrist's couch", and the silly familiarity with the idea caused him to relax a little and look around.
Large potted plants gave the entire office a distinguished and serene look. Formal wooden shutters, half closed over the front windows, lent a sense of privacy and decorum. Wilson was impressed.
Richard Aubrey "Dick" Dickinson was standing to the left, half smiling, behind an elegant mahogany desk. Directly behind him, a tall mahogany credenza held a silver coffee urn from which emanated the delicious aroma of fresh coffee busily brewing.
Dick looked exactly the same as he'd looked five years ago when Wilson had been here before, shortly after he and Dais had purchased the dilapidated old building. He could not help himself; he grinned ear-to-ear as the man moved toward him with both arms out.
He knew Dick did not do handshakes because of the crippled hand, and Wilson did not hesitate to grab his old friend into a quick, friendly bear hug.
"It's really good to see you, Jimmy Wilson," Dick growled in his deceptively deep voice.
The two of them pulled apart and scrutinized each other from arms' length. "Good to see you too, Richard," Wilson responded. "You look as though life has done very well by you. How's Dais? I see he has a shingle on one of the doors downstairs."
Dickinson smiled. "Dais is Dais … steady as a rock and predictable as the tides. Nothing fazes him, and he is my rudder in life's ocean. We are both very well. And you? How's Julie? Any little Wilsons yet?"
James felt his gaze shifting suddenly to the carpet. "Uh … Julie? We didn't make it, Dick. Julie has moved on in her conquest for a man to hang off her arm and make her look good. I guess I didn't quite fill the bill."
"Damn, Jim … I'm sorry. I thought you two were pretty solid. Anyhow, what matters is that you're here, and I'm really glad to see you. I'd like to hear more about this intriguing case of yours."
Wilson sighed. "It's bothering me a lot more than I ever thought possible, and I really need your advice about which way to go next … and by the way, before I forget it … the lady in the outer office asked me to tell you that she's going to send out for supper in a little while …"
"Ah yes, Margie. The woman is a phenomenon. Couldn't run this practice without her. So anyhow, help yourself to the coffee and cookies and we'll get started on this case of yours."
Dick moved back behind his desk, sat down and reached into the middle drawer; fished out a bottle of prescription medication that looked disturbingly familiar to Wilson, along with a tiny digital recorder which had been handled so often that part of the metallic paint was worn off at the corners. Dickinson set it in the middle of the desk blotter and uncapped the pill bottle. Wilson watched him as he took one of the white tablets with a small glass of water.
James poured a steaming cup of coffee and walked with it back to the opposite side of the desk. He sat down in the comfortable chair there and allowed himself to settle back into its plush depths. "Vicodin?" He asked softly.
Dick looked up and nodded. "Yeah … sometimes I need it to stay focused."
"Is your hand getting worse?"
"Sometimes I think so. Other times, it's fine. I take these … and sometimes Baclofen. Now that I'm older, I seem to have good days and bad days with disturbing regularity. I don't need to be distracted by the nerve pain that seems to spike in my hand sometimes.
"But this isn't about me … I'm fine … it's about you."
Wilson was smiling gently with a teasing sense of déjà vu. Where the hell had he heard those words before? Suddenly he was certain he'd come to the right place.
Dick noticed. "What are you smiling about?"
"Something you just said … it's getting to the point that every time I hear the words 'I'm fine', I jump!"
Dickinson frowned. "Not sure I get it …"
"Oh … I'm sure you will." Wilson made a wry face and shrugged.
"Anything to do with your case?"
"Uh huh, unfortunately. My patient takes Vicodin too. A lot of Vicodin!"
"Care to fill me in?"
Wilson took another sip of his coffee and began.
"Okay … but I want you to know this is going to be difficult for me. The man's name is Gregory House. He specializes in diagnostics and nephrology. He's a brilliant and tortured genius, and he's been my best friend for years … although sometimes I think I'm more of a whipping boy than a friend." Wilson sighed and shrugged.
"House is disabled … quite lame. He had a muscle infarction in his right thigh a number of years ago, and the hospital botched not only the diagnosis, but also the surgery. There was serious nerve damage."
Dick drew in a sympathetic breath and frowned at Wilson as a few thoughts came to him simultaneously. "Is he wheelchair bound?"
"No, fortunately. But they had to remove most of the necrotic quadriceps muscle, so he's been left with permanent weakness and chronic pain. He takes Vicodin for the pain, and eats the damned stuff like candy sometimes. But anytime I ask him how he is, I always get the same answer: 'I'm fine!' even though I know he's lying through his teeth. He walks with the aid of a cane. Without it he can't walk ten feet … well … twenty.
"Sometimes I'm not sure if I'm his friend, or his doctor, or if I'm trying to be his conscience. I've ragged him about addiction aspects so often that he just does as he pleases and ignores me whenever I bring it up. He's been having some serious trust issues, and sad to say, I may be part of the problem. I hate seeing him hurting, but I don't know how to help.
"That's why I'm here, Dick. I need your input. I'm trying to get his trust back, but not sure if I'm doing it right. I've caused enough damage and I don't want to cause more."
Dickinson considered. Jim wasn't telling him everything. There was more beneath the surface here than met the eye. The stricken look on Wilson's face was hiding a plethora of emotions he seemed unwilling, or unable to face. Either Wilson's conscience was nagging him deeply enough that it was forcing him to consider reversing his former actions, or something still unspoken was waiting for him shore up the courage to speak of it. In either case, Dick was willing to wait his friend out.
"Okay … we'll talk about it in a minute … but just for my own curiosity: how come you traveled all the way to Pennsylvania to talk to me? Aren't there any psychologists in Princeton? Or is this Gregory House hiding out from the law?"
Wilson was beginning to relax a little. Perhaps it wasn't going to be as hard to discuss House's difficult case as he'd originally thought it would be. Dick had just the right combination of seriousness and humor to weigh everything he had to say with the right balance of professional interest and compassion.
James sipped again at the steaming coffee in his hands and thought for a moment. The warmth emanating from the large ceramic cup was reassuring.
"Well, he's not 'hiding out', exactly, although it might be debatable in some aspects. He's a unique individual. An enigma. He's the burr under my saddle and the fly in my soup. But he is brilliant and gifted and quite famous in a strange sort of way. He's also been very ill and in constant pain for a long time, and many of his colleagues, including me, unfortunately, have gone so far as to call him a liar."
"Sounds intriguing," Dick admitted. "Are you ready to get started? I'm going to record us so we'll have a voice file and a printed transcription later. That way you'll be able to reference it, and so will I if need be. After Margie and I finish with it, I can send you either the voice file or a transcript … or both. Shouldn't be more than a couple of days. Okay with you?"
Wilson nodded. "Certainly. I'm ready whenever you are."
Dickinson reached toward the tiny digital recorder, looked across at Wilson, received a small nod, and flipped the "on" switch.
The little wheels began to turn slowly …
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