Chapter 11

"The Wheelchair"

Saturday morning about 7:30:

"Tired" doesn't begin to explain the way I feel right now.

As soon as Cuddy gets here to stay with House, I'm out the door to head for Philadelphia and my second appointment with Dick Dickinson. That damned old couch has done nothing for the stiffness in my shoulders that's persisted all week.

It certainly hasn't done much of anything for the big bruise on the inside of my wrist where House grabbed me. I did ice it after I came out to lie down the first time, but every time I moved, it slid off. I am now left with a nasty contusion that looks as though somebody attacked me with a ball-peen hammer, and it hurts like crazy. And I have a bruise on my hip that's gonna make wearing a seatbelt murder!

House is a powerful man with incredible upper-body strength, and at the time he didn't know he'd hurt me. He didn't know the second time either. What can I say?

All that strength, and last night he was reduced to riding a wheelchair …

Oh God! That reminds me … I've gotta go to the car and grab the wheelchair out of the trunk before he wakes up … Damn!

Sneaking in and out of this place isn't easy to do. The doors screech and squeal around, no matter how quiet you try to be. The metal on the damned chair is pretty cold. Even at this time of year. It cooled off pretty much last night. Not good for him to climb into it this early in the morning … though maybe if I'm lucky, he won't be up before I leave.

Cuddy should be able to catch a deep breath or two, maybe, before he begins to run her ragged for the day …

… and I banged my damn wrist on the trunk lid when I went to close it. Bruise on top of a bruise. Dick will think I've been in a bar fight. My eyeballs look like the craters of the moon … feel like it too.

I'd just begun to doze off this morning … it was sometime after four … and I heard something deep in that hazy place between sleeping and waking that made me startle awake in alarm and bolt straight upright. I was disoriented for a moment, and I froze to the spot, listening.

Oh no!

House's cane landing hollow on the bedroom floor like the lid of a garbage can clanging in an alley!

I was off the couch, every hair on my body standing at attention, and I skidded around the corner into his bedroom. He was there … barely out of bed … beginning to make his way to the door.

What the …?

His body was hunched forward over the cane, using it not only as a support for both legs which were much too sore and weak to support his weight … but as a fulcrum in a pitiful attempt at balance and the Herculean effort of keeping himself on his feet …

Oh Christ, House!

I hurried to him and lifted up beneath his elbows with the palms of my hands in a gentle attempt to steady him. My wrist screamed with pain, but I didn't dare let him go. "What do you think you're doing?" I asked him.

He was silent for a second, too busy with his uncooperative body. "Needed more ibuprofen. Thought I'd get it myself. Sorry I woke you …"

At the same moment, he was realizing his decision to try to get out of bed had been a bad idea. I could feel his legs buckling, his bulk coming down on my abused forearm in a manner that it couldn't support. His cane crashed to the floor, glancing off my hipbone, and suddenly I was juggling all his dead weight and doing a miserable job of it.

I bit my lip against stabs of pain from every part of my body that was still capable of movement, and assisted House back into his bed. I told him to stay put while I went for the pills and a glass of water.

I brought fresh ice along, and he took the pills, drank the water and watched in stoic silence as I removed the melted bags of water and replaced them at his badly bruised thigh. He saw in my eyes the hurt I couldn't hide as I looked at his still-swollen leg.

"House …"

His next words threw me for a loop. "Jimmy … I've been thinking …maybe you could bring the chair inside for awhile. Leg's never gonna heal if I keep aggravating it …"

I said, "Good thinking,"

I sighed.

So did he.

"I'll bring the chair in before you get up."

He looked at me hard for a moment. "So leave me alone. I need to sleep now."

I turned out the light and started to leave.

I heard his words, soft in the darkness, where he would not have to witness my reaction: "Get some ice on that arm … it looks awful and it's gotta hurt like hell. Just ice it, okay?"

"Will do …"

The tears were running by the time I'd walked into the living room.

Why the hell do I let him get to me this way?

Oooo0oooO

Well, I didn't make it out of the apartment before he woke up.

I probably disturbed him at the edge of wakefulness by bringing the wheelchair into his room and putting on the brakes with the thing facing the near side of his bed.

I sneaked back out again and headed to the kitchen to start a new pot of coffee … provided I could find the coffee grinder, the beans and the teakettle. Oh yeah … and the French press. The one I'd got him last Christmas, along with the fancy Krups grinder. Both were stashed on the top shelf of his most inaccessible kitchen cabinet, and I had to drag his step stool out of the utility room to get to it. I felt a twinge in my hip where the cane had hit me. I rubbed at it and mumbled a few choice words.

Coffee beans were in the bag in the freezer, half frozen fast to the side, exactly where I'd put them after New Years. I shook my head as I rolled the bag on the counter to free the frozen beans, wiped the greasy dust off the lid of the grinder and pulled the press out of its original box.

There were still snatches of Scotch tape and remnants of colorful Christmas wrap clinging to the box, and I remembered his exact words and his exact dubious expression as he looked at it. "What the hell is this?" It had gone back into the box and not been seen or heard from since.

Dammit, I would have a decent cup of coffee before I had to get in the car and head for Trenton! I intended to indulge myself today, because I was dog tired already, and the day had hardly begun.

I'd turned on the burner, filled the kettle with water and set it to boil. I'd ground the beans and inhaled the delicious aroma that wafted out of the press as I dumped them into it. I poured the not-quite-boiling water and settled the lid-with-plunger atop the press.

Mmmm … heavenly!

I leaned wearily into the side of the butcher-block table and paused for a moment to think about all the things I needed to talk to Dick about … and waited for Cuddy's arrival.

And that's when I heard the unmistakable "tick-tick-tick" of the ball bearings on the sleek Everest & Jennings wheelchair as it rounded from the living room and "you-know-who" stuck his head around the corner of the kitchen and grinned up at me.

I rolled my eyes and shook my head at him as he sat there, bright and chipper, seemingly free from pain and looking a lot more rested than I felt. He was in his raggedy PJs and tee shirt, bare feet and ratty bed-head. If it had not been for his rail thinness, haggard look and lengthening scruff, he might have been a mischievous kid who'd just absconded with someone's private wheelchair to take it on a joyride.

"Coffee smells good," he said plaintively, craning his neck to look around me to the counter top.

"You haven't been to the bathroom yet, have you?" I accused, avoiding his obvious plea to be waited upon.

"You didn't put ice on your wrist," he countered defensively.

"How is your leg?" I refused to be baited.

"You're black and blue and still swollen. Did I do that to you?"

"You tell me if you need to go to the bathroom, and how your leg is this morning … and then we'll talk about my wrist. You first!"

"Don't need to go right now, and the leg is quiet at the moment. Both of 'em! Told you I was fine. Just a little weak." No concessions beyond the patently obvious. "You getting me a coffee? Or do you want me to get up and get my own?" He made as if to rise. "And you need to tell me about your wrist."

I walked over and reached out to stop him before he could lift either leg manually off the footrests of the chair. "Don't you dare! I'll get you a coffee as soon as it finishes brewing. A few minutes."

He noticed the hand I held in front of him was my right one. "Other one too sore?"

"Yeah … a little." I might as well admit it. After I left the apartment later, he couldn't harangue me about it anymore until I got back that afternoon. By then I'd have the soreness worked out.

"Sorry, Jimmy …"

"You were in no condition to understand what you were doing …"

"No excuse."

"You don't need an excuse! Sit still while I pour the coffee. Want some toast or something with it?"

"Nah … not hungry. But the coffee sure smells good."

I stared at him, suspicious of his lack of appetite. He knew what I was thinking and shrugged. "I'll have something later … after Cuddy gets here. When you can finally go settle down somewhere and get some sleep."

I handed him a steaming cup before picking up my own, and avoided mentioning the word 'sleep'. "I put milk in it, but you're out of sugar."

"Doesn't matter." He took a noisy slurp. "Damn! This is good."

"Made it with the French press I got you last Christmas. Remember that?"

He looked away for a moment; studied the opposite wall. "Oh … you mean that thing that looks like a nut cruncher? I thought it was a nut cruncher." He shrugged and dropped the subject.

When he finished his coffee, I offered to assist him into the bathroom … help him shower … lend a hand with whatever he needed so he wouldn't have to feel uncomfortable having to ask Cuddy to do it.

When I mentioned that to him, his eyes widened with what was most certainly a moment of panic. "Why would I ask Cuddy? You got a hot date or something?"

"Or something …"

I left it hang for a long moment as his mercurial mind processed the implications. That's when I told him I was headed to Philly for a second session with Dr. Dickinson. The news did not go down well.

"Do you have to go? Today?" The question was so plaintive; so quietly beseeching, I had to look twice to be sure this was indeed Gregory House. I suddenly felt like a father who has to go to work and leave his sick child.

I pointed to the wheelchair and tried to cajole him into an easy acceptance. "It's okay … Cuddy'll be here soon, and I'm sure you can terrorize her with your new toy."

His blue eyes clouded quickly, and I knew he would not be distracted or placated. I sighed.

"C'mon, Jimmy, you don't need a shrink … and you don't need to eat lunch with some nerd left over from college. Why don't you stay here? We can watch Oprah and throw Nerf balls at the screen every time someone says 'feelings'. I think she's got Dr. Phil on today … it'll be a 'two-fer'."

"House … I've got to go. I want to go. So I'm going."

I saw his brows close in on each other and I knew he was going to pout. He was just getting started on his patented "poor me" campaign, and the "pathetic cripple" look that quickly took over his chipper mood. He was an expert at whining when he chose to, and I could feel a major one coming on.

"What if my leg gets as bad as it was last night? Cuddy won't know what to do … you've gotta stay, Jimmy …"

I pursed my lips and rolled my eyes dramatically. He saw me as I'd intended, and it told him that two could play this game. I bent down until our eyes were on the same level. "Can you say 'man-ip-u-lay-shun'?" He reminded me of a front-end loader with the scoop extended. "Won't work, House … but I'll give you a few bonus points for the protruding lower lip."

We were interrupted suddenly by a familiar polite knock at the front door. I straightened and stepped quickly around him as he whirled the wheelchair gracefully and pumped furiously away to answer it. One of us had just won that argument by default, but I wasn't sure which of us that was!

I stared after him. Affection? Exasperation? Who knows!

The second kettle of water was ready to boil and I scooped more freshly ground coffee into the French press.

The green fuzz lining the bottom of the last coffee cup in the cupboard made it look a little inhabited … like someone had tried to grow an entire alien civilization at the bottom of a petri dish. In the white cup it looked a little intimidating, and I wondered if it might qualify as a potential dose of antibiotics, or at some later date threaten to take over the planet.

I checked beneath the clutter on the drainboard for a more sanitary one.

Aha! Gotcha!

She was pushing the wheelchair and he was letting her when they came back into the kitchen. Cuddy, however, did not look too happy. She stepped away from him and crossed her arms over her chest provocatively. The expression she presented the first thing in the morning, was not a pleasant one.

I glanced up from pretending to be occupied pouring fresh coffee, and looked at her with something as close to innocence as I could muster. I then shifted my attention to House, who dared to presume an air of innocence that rivaled my own.

"Da-aah -aad …" he whined pitifully … and he made the word sound as though it contained three syllables … "you can't leave me alone with this babysitter! She beat on me the last time!"

Cuddy and I both glared at him. Sipped at our coffee.

He tried another tack. "She tried to seduce me?"

I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, cringing as Lisa Cuddy exploded.

"House!"

It was gonna be a long day at 221B. I was kinda glad I wouldn't be there.

"I know when I'm not wanted," House harrumphed. He spun around and wheeled out of the kitchen, and it wasn't long before they heard the theme to General Hospital in the background.

Cuddy frowned. "General Hospital at eight o'clock in the morning?"

I shrugged. "DVDs"

"Oh. Uh … the most obvious question, which I knew better than to ask him … is what's he doing in a wheelchair? The less obvious, but far more intriguing question would be why's he Velcroed himself to you all of a sudden?"

I was already feeling guilty about leaving Greg in his present condition in order to seek help to sort out feelings of my own, and Cuddy's second question brought all the frustration to the fore.

"You have no idea what he went through last night … no idea of the degree of his pain! You have no right to criticize any insecurity he might be showing …"

Lisa Cuddy stood looking at me horrified, her mouth open in astonishment, and suddenly I was just as horrified at my own anger and unfounded accusations.

"I'm so sorry …" I backed myself into the butcher block table and hung my head in shame. She did not deserve to be the brunt of my fear and frustrations. I was so completely overwhelmed by the physical and emotional toll of the long night. "Of course you have no idea. I didn't tell you. You remember that whole thing with his gait that you noticed on Monday?"

Cuddy nodded, and I went on more carefully, trying to explain my explosive behavior in a way she would understand without thinking I was losing my mind. "It turns out that his left leg … left thigh … has been bothering him badly since then. Heavy spasms a few times a day … and the super-Vic's not touching it. He was trying to hide it, and it cost him a lot to finally tell me about it. He got me to agree not to say anything to you until we knew more about what's causing it.

"I took him over to PG last night and put him through the full battery of tests … including an EMG …"

Cuddy winced in sympathy, and I thrust my bruised hand across for her to observe the swelling and the large dark contusion, which expanded outward from the impact of House's death grip.

"It was rough on him, and it's beginning to look as though it was all unnecessary. He left me a souvenir without even realizing it … this!

"The preliminary results didn't show anything unexpected. Probably won't have the results until Tuesday … but based on what I saw last night, I'm not expecting anything new to show up. It seems like the diagnostician was right. Again. It's a pulled muscle … or more likely a tendon. His enzymes are all within normal limits."

"And the wheelchair?" Cuddy reached for my wrist and placed her opposite hand over the abused area tenderly. Her eyes told me she was beginning to understand that something had happened last night that had turned my embattled emotions upside down.

"James?" Her voice was gentle and questioning, and she brought my attention back to the moment with alacrity.

"I … caught him trying to get out of bed during the night. He was doubled up over the cane. He could have fallen badly … we both could have … I barely got him back to bed before we both went down. And we're both pretending the wheelchair was his idea …

"He seems a lot better this morning, but you need to know that when the spasms come, they're an awful lot like the breakthrough pain he was having before. And I think he's scared. I know he is! When we got home, he told me that something is 'bad wrong'. He didn't have a medical basis for it, but he believes this is serious."

Cuddy must have seen the fear in my eyes. She patted my sore hand very gently and released it. She frowned and raised an elegant eyebrow. "Could it be serious?"

Loaded question, kind of …

"I'm not gonna second-guess House!" I said. "I've learned my lesson. I just know his pain is so severe that it scares him, and that's serious, no matter what the actual diagnosis turns out to be."

"What do you recommend I do if the leg does spasm?" Cuddy's eyes were dark with concern. It was a tribute to her professionalism as dean of medicine of the hospital that she deferred to the deep friendship between House and me. She was actually asking for my opinion, and I was more than a little touched by it.

I answered her as honestly as I could. "Do whatever he'll let you do. Just don't touch it … especially when it's acute. The quad's a big muscle, as you know … and I … well … I lost count of how many times they stuck him. And …"

"Okay, I get the picture. So the EMG just added to the problem for a couple of days. I almost feel sorry for him. I'm surprised he agreed to go through with it."

"He didn't," I told her sadly. "Not really. He did it because he trusted me … and … because I asked him to."

The emotion was rising to the surface again as I was reminded of House's anguish the night before. I lowered my face to my hands quickly, before she could see me weep, and I felt her warm hand touch my shoulder for a moment. Her concern for House must have been eclipsed by the equal worry for my own mental anguish.

"Are you gonna be okay?" I didn't answer right away, and I could feel her drawing closer, perhaps to offer more than just the soft touch to the shoulder.

We both heard the "tick tick" of the wheelchair at the same moment as it approached the spot where we stood, just around the corner from the living room. We both straightened and turned a pair of desperately bright smiles upon its occupant.

House, meanwhile, parried his appraising glance between us, obviously searching for a trace of conspiracy. He either saw none, or was giving us the dignity of ignoring it.

Bless his dirty black heart if he was!

I gathered my crumpling senses and quipped to Cuddy: "If this guy drives you too crazy, just reconnect the TPN … which has been off too long anyway … and refuse to put the IV pole on the wheelchair. That'll buy you … oh … about ten minutes of peace until he figures out a way to attach the cane to the chair and hang the bag from that!"

We got that two-edged calculating stare again, but he said nothing. Just made one of those scrunched-up faces, whirled the chair 90 degrees and rolled off.

Cuddy wilted, and I backed into the edge of the table again.

"Ironic, isn't it? He's like greased lightning in that chair, not really disabled at all. And he's willing to give up that freedom because his pride won't let him acknowledge the full extent of his disability."

Cuddy held my eyes, and I could feel her mental calculations from half a room away. Both our thoughts had already returned to House. "I'm still not sure what to do for him of his leg gets bad," she mused.

She was avoiding the issue, and I wondered a little about the tendency toward denial that lives in each one of us …

"If it's really bad … and if it happens, it surely will be … give him 5mg of morphine. He won't tell you he needs it. He'll still be remembering the time you injected the placebo. He may even tell you he doesn't need it. So it'll have to be your call. Otherwise, all you can do is offer whatever comfort he'll allow, until the spasm eases. It'll be difficult for both of you."

God! How's that for understatement?

Cuddy nodded. Averted her eyes. Lowered her voice. "Now I understand why he seems so reluctant for you to leave here today. As a matter of fact, I'm feeling a little reluctant myself." Her smile held a touch of irony that wrinkled her nose and turned one corner of her mouth downward in a snarky imitation of our favorite juvenile delinquent.

"You'll be fine," I assured her. "Believe me, if I didn't really need this, I wouldn't be going. I'm tired, I've been sore all week … and my hand hurts. But compared to the problems House is dealing with, I sound like a cranky two-year-old!"

Cuddy's expression softened as she looked across to me again, and I could tell she hoped I would find a measure of courage and peace of mind through a second session with Dick Dickinson.

"I promise not to kill him while you're gone. And I'll wait 'til you get back so you can bear witness to my claim of self-defense. Anyway, drive carefully, okay?"

"I will."

She turned back to kitchen chores as I prepared to leave.

I said my goodbyes to House as I walked into the living room to grab my briefcase and blue sports jacket.

The wheelchair was turned toward the piano, and he didn't bring it around to face me at first.

"See you later, House. I shouldn't be gone too long. Don't do anything dumb, and try to do as Cuddy asks … okay?"

I paused for a moment with my hand on the doorknob as the "tick tick" told me the wheelchair was turning around in my direction.

His gaze was on me, his lips parted as though he might say something. Then his eyes lowered and he remained silent. The characteristic quick nod was my only hint that he acknowledged I was leaving.

I walked through the door and closed it behind me.

The bleak, sad look in those blue eyes haunted me until I was at least a half dozen miles out of Princeton …

Oooo0oooO