Chapter 8
"Morning"
Wilson … Early Tuesday Morning:
It's too early to even think about getting up, but I'm finding it impossible to go back to sleep. I awoke at 2:00 a.m. and my back felt as though King Kong was pressing me down with a hand between my shoulder blades. I got up and went to the bathroom, then took a couple of extra-strength Tylenol and came back to bed. But they're not working, dammit, and I still have the ache, and it seems even worse than it was before.
Don't know if it might be the aftereffects of the stress from yesterday, and all the driving, or if I'm being laid low by my guilty conscience. Hard to tell, but if this keeps up much longer, I may just as well get up and go out in the kitchen and do yesterday's dishes. I can make some coffee and watch the sun come up from the window above the sink … or sit down with the laptop and put down some thoughts about my session with Dick …
Yesterday was strange from start to finish. I'm thinking about it, and yet trying not to. My mind keeps skirting the issue as I watch the first hints of daylight lift the lid off the darkness in the east, giving us early risers a peek at what promises to be a nice day.
I'm running hot water in the sink, getting ready to do last night's dishes and last week's dishes, and if I know House, probably some of last month's dishes. I can understand now why washing dishes isn't one of his favorite activities. Standing on his feet in the same spot for more than a few minutes at a time, probably causes him more distress than I ever had any idea … or even paused to think about in all these years.
I do understand now, though, and it's causing me so much regret that I'm having trouble believing how callus I've been about his disability ever since the infarction. His apartment is messy because most of the time it hurts him to do more than just cursory cleanup. He wears unironed shirts because it's painful to stand and iron them … and having them sent out to a laundry just isn't high on his list of priorities. And the list goes on. He's a good cook, but he seldom cooks anymore because … well … I guess I don't have to keep screaming off the pier after a ship that left port years ago …
Here I stand … my mind all over the place. I've dumped the grounds from who-knows-when, into the trash and put on a fresh pot of coffee. My back hurts like hell as I lean over the sink to scrub the first round of glasses and cups and silverware and trying to find enough drying space for them on the drainboard. By the time I get to the pots and pans, they'll be piled to the ceiling.
Damn!I don't have any idea why House doesn't have a dishwasher in this kitchen. It's not like he can't afford it, but a dishwasher isn't a state-of-the-art sound system or a Gameboy or an i-Pod, and therefore, not important. House logic!
Actually, that's a pretty good idea for a Christmas present for him. He's a royal pain to buy gifts for, and the only thing I've ever given him as a gift that wasn't "pooh-poohed" were bottles of expensive booze. Well guess what, Buster, this year it's gonna be a little different.
Oh well.
Three days' worth of food encrusted on these plates! He's got no Brillo, no SOS pads, no Scotch Brites … I'm gonna have to soak some of these. Hate to think of those two cook pots over on the stove.
My back still hurts and I still feel like King Kong is trying to hitch a piggyback ride! Probably time for a couple more Tylenol.
The percolator's bubbling up like Old Faithful. Good. Oh super … no clean mugs! Have to rinse one off to get a cup of coffee. Pouring. Stuff is strong enough to float a horseshoe!
Okay. Hot. Black. Tastes like somebody dragged their dirty socks through it. I gotta look around for the French press I got him for Christmas …
Mmmmm …
It's getting daylight faster now. Never took Tylenol with coffee before, but I guess there's a first time for everything … and I keep thinking back to the session with Dick yesterday afternoon. I almost dread the day I get the voice file in the mail. I know I sounded like a blithering idiot during that interview … hesitating … stuttering … falling over my own words like a nine-year-old … sounding more like some addled clinic patient than a medical doctor with three degrees.
I probably gave Dick the impression that I was in as bad a shape as Gregory House. There were a few times when I thought the old waterworks were going to spill over while we were talking, and that wouldn't have helped Greg or Dick or me … or anybody, for that matter. My professionalism was at an all-time low, and some of the time I felt almost tongue-tied.
I want to help House get well … not make him sound like some kind of doddering hypochondriac. Maybe I'd better not put any notes on the laptop until I see the voice file, or read the hard copy. I've got to clear up some of the questions Dick is bound to have after listening to an old friend who sounds as though he's lost all his marbles.
Oh Christ, House … your friendship means the world to me … and here I am acting like I've taken leave of my senses.
I need to talk to Dick again and clear up some of the crap I said while jabbering like a trained chimpanzee. Maybe sometime closer to the end of the week … hell, I dunno …
So … why do I have this sneaking suspicion that something malodorous is about to get tangled in the cooling device?
I knew I had to call Dick Dickinson again. Maybe sooner than the end of the week! My indecisiveness and uneasiness are intensifying, and I don't know why. And I have to tell Dr. Cuddy how I feel, and how messed up I am over this. She's been wonderful with House, and I owe her. A lot!
Anyway …
Oooo0oooO