Chapter 17
"Cruising Through the Hinterlands"
Damn the voices in my head!
And damn the icy fingers closing around my heart …
I was going to go back to House's room … check on him for the thousandth time, but paused at the entry to the hallway as I saw Lisa Cuddy in the chair, programming the TiVo to record those wrestling matches he'd been whining about. She saw me hesitate and looked up just long enough to shoot eye-daggers at me, then return to what she was doing.
I raised my eyebrows … I think … waiting for her to say something. She had that attitude about her that meant a serious conversation was about to ensue … or rather, she would be doing the conversation part … and I would be doing the listening part.
Mostly.
She finished with the TiVo, stood up and smoothed her skirt. Tilted her head in the direction of the kitchen.
Uh oh!
She led and I followed.
She wanted to talk about Dickinson's voice file, something I had hoped to avoid as long as possible. Wasn't gonna happen. Halfheartedly, I told her that the reason I'd agreed to take the first shift with House was so she could get some sleep. She looked tired beyond measure, and another hour of technical conversation would be difficult for both of us.
To my utter surprise, she agreed with me. Told me to go ahead and go in with him awhile, and while I was doing that, she promised to rest. I thought I was getting a reprieve, and I turned eagerly for the bedroom again. But I should have known she wouldn't let it go that easily. She reminded me that we needed to do this … for House … and she'd hit my soft spot and I knew she was right and I was being intensely selfish. Again.
Cuddy had a knack for being right about things like this. I knew she'd heard me confess to Dickinson all of the mean and callus things I'd done in the past to my supposed best friend, and she would probably like to hear more about my short, guilt-filled confessions to Dick about them.
I hunched my shoulders and started across the living room and down the hallway without a word. I could feel her eyes following me all the way to House's inner sanctum.
When I pushed his door open and walked in, he looked as though he'd been waiting for me. His eyes lit up for a moment, and he licked his lips, gathering momentum to say something that was going to be hard for him. I noticed all the signs and held myself rigid to keep from giving away that I knew something, probably goofy, was coming up.
"Meant to tell you …" he began hesitantly … "breakfast was … uh … really good this morning …"
I frowned.
What??
"Uh … House? I didn't make breakfast this morning, and you didn't eat breakfast this morning. Other than that though … thanks for the … ummm … compliment?"
He grimaced. "Meant yesterday morning anyway. The … eggs? Really good … and you did a good job cleaning up the kitchen."
Okay, that's it! This is off the wall, even for House!
I leaned forward a little, looked closely at this strange friend. I was wondering whether I needed a thermometer … or maybe a straightjacket.
"Are you dying? Am I dying? What's with the proclamations of appreciation all of a sudden?"
He glared at me with an exasperated scowl. "Just tryin' to tell you that it's … rad. Really rad! What you've been doing. Everything! For … uh … me."
Oh God!
I could feel the laughter welling up inside … feel it consuming me like a wildfire consumes underbrush. I could feel its heat rising to my face, and I bit down on my tongue and looked down at the floor in the most concentrated effort of my life to not let it overflow. I succeeded in swallowing most of it, but some vestiges must have escaped around the edges.
"Are you laughing at me?" He demanded.
He looked indignant, vulnerable and endearing, and my fond recognition of his clumsy efforts helped me regain a shred of self-control.
"I was just trying to say thank you … but if you don't want me to …"
When the laughter finally escaped, I absolutely could not hold it back any longer. "Sorry, House … I guess I'm just punchy. You want to thank me? Quit saying 'rad', okay? No one over the age of forty … well, thirty … should use that word. Stop, and we'll call it even."
He was still glaring at me, trying to decide whether or not I was making fun of him. He looked so "four-years-old" at that instant. I just wanted to hug him … but of course I refrained from giving in to the urge.
I let the laughter flow again, and just shook my head at him. "Really! Don't say it again and we're even."
He wouldn't let it go. "I like that word!" He grumbled. "Makes me sound … hip."
That statement, naturally, only fed the amusement, and after a few moments it became contagious. House began to laugh too, and visibly relaxed. He'd let me know, in his own convoluted way, how he felt … and I had to admit that that was (pardon the expression): rad!
After that, we continued to talk together, and laugh together, until I finally saw House's eyelids begin to droop, and I could see he was genuinely content and even comfortable.
I decided not to bring up his enigmatic statements from awhile earlier. Why ruin the mood? It looked to me as though his sleep would be restful and dreamless.
I began to back away a little and allow him to sleep. I still had to deal with Cuddy and the damned voice file. I turned off the light, closed House's door softly and started for the living room and her … and it.
Cuddy was awake and waiting for me. She had the laptop set up on the coffee table. I couldn't miss it, and she was not going to let this go. I looked at it and sighed and groaned inwardly. I guessed I'd just have to listen to it again. With effort, I combed the consternation from my face and sat down beside her on the couch. I wished I had something strong to drink!
The first thing she wanted to know was if I had talked to him. I hemmed and hawed around, but her eyes grew hard for a second, and I knew I wasn't about to get away with less than the truth. I took a deep breath and admitted that what I'd said in there, and what House had said in return, had been not much more than banter between old friends.
I told her about the tongue-tied efforts House had made to offer a genuine thank you for what I'd done for him over the past month or so. Cuddy smiled while I was relating the conversation to her and rolled her eyes.
"Should'a warned you he was gonna do that," she admitted. "He told me this morning he would do it. I think he was actually worried about you. He yelled at me because you were so worn out! In typical House fashion he'd come up with the perfect solution. He wanted to have himself admitted to the hospital …"
"Wha-a-at??" I couldn't believe my ears.
"Yeah. He did. I thought that was a little drastic, and I told him so. I suggested he might want to try showing you a little gratitude instead."
I could see the beginnings of a smile curl its way around the corners of her mouth. She continued, hinting around with a touch of sarcasm. "It was obviously … amusing …"
I nodded, still a little touched that he'd told her what he planned to do, and even more touched that he'd actually done it. It must have been pure torture for him. I felt kind of warm inside when I heard her side of it.
"It was amusing … in kind of a 'Twilight Zone' kind of way," I admitted. I could feel my face pulling into a sort of wry look of amazement. "But we both … lived through it."
Then I told her the rest of it, and we both smiled. The big phony! Neither one of us could help caring about the guy.
Cuddy sobered after a few more moments of reflection. She leaned forward and pointed a stylishly manicured finger at the laptop. "We don't have to do this tonight if you're too tired," and she indicated the bandaged hand that I held protectively against my chest.
I shrugged. Better to get it over with.
"No, let's just get it done. You're right, it's important … for him."
She started the voice file, and for an agonizing length of time we listened to my hesitant, weak and guilty voice; Dick's gentle questioning and my less-than-responsive meanderings.
When Dick clicked off the recorder, just before the part where I'd had to admit I'd thoughtlessly walked away from House in agony on the floor of his office, Cuddy reached across and shut off the voice file also.
Here it comes …My guilt was firing up the waterworks and I swallowed hard at least a half dozen times. I guess Cuddy noticed, because her eyes were soft with sympathy and understanding. She knew how uncomfortable I was with this, and she was giving me every opportunity to shore myself up to be able to go on.
I met her eyes, but the tears were starting to spill over. I did not want to have to hear myself say those damning words again.
Her hand reached up to touch my cheek, and the back of her index finger wiped away the tear that lingered there. Her expression was one of incredible tenderness, and I could see that her eyes were a little moisture-laden too.
"I think a break is a good idea. I'm going out to make us some tea. Okay?"
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak for a moment.
I got up from the couch and turned toward the hallway. As she was entering the kitchen, I called to her softly. My voice hitched and broke a little, but I was able to remain coherent. I saw her pause in the doorway and glance back. "I'm gonna go check on him … and hang the next TPN bag."
She nodded and continued into the kitchen. I walked down the long, long hallway.
When I returned, I was relieved that House was still asleep, and Cuddy was back on the couch. Two mugs of steaming apple-cinnamon tea were sending tantalizing aromas from the coffee table. I sat down, lifted my mug and took a loud, appreciative slurp. Hot! Mmmm …
I looked across and saw Cuddy's gaze resting gently, but questioning, straight in line with mine.
"He's still sleeping. I didn't disturb him." I picked up my tea. "I'm … sure you have some questions," I mumbled around the lip of the mug.
She shook her head minutely. "No, no questions. But I do have something to say, and I want you to really listen."
At that moment she went into her: "I'm-the-administrator-listen-to-what-I-say", mode. But under that voice I could also detect a hint of the compassionate "Mother Hen".
She began by revealing to me the details of the up-until-now untold story of House's late-evening visit to her office months before. She'd revealed a sketchy outline of it to me before, but none of the "real" details. His eyes had been red-rimmed, she said, and his voice roughened by desperation and pain. And he had asked for a favor …
I could tell the memories were difficult for her. She sat with her body hunched, hands clasped in her lap and eyes downcast. Shortly after she began, I wondered whether she might be about to break a confidence that House would choose to keep private. But as the story unfolded, I knew that as House's best friend, she needed me to know.
Greg had gone there under a cloak of darkness and concealment, and she was relating it now as though it had been done in broad daylight and under the scrutiny of everyone in the hospital. I held my breath as she continued.
House had asked her … begged her … for an injection of morphine directly into his spine to control the intolerable pain in his leg. She had accused him of becoming a junkie, wanting only the "high" that the strong drug would induce.
When she got to the part where he'd unbuckled his belt and let his jeans puddle around his knees in order to show her the ugly hole in his thigh, and stood pleading, almost in tears, that he could swear he remembered a muscle being there …
Cuddy's face was drained of all color when she admitted to me, at last, that she had injected him with saline solution instead of morphine because she was afraid he was truly becoming a drug addict, and that his pain was out of control, and not real, and mostly in his head.
She admitted, regretfully, that she had never insisted, even after that terrible night, that he be fully evaluated. She should have. He deserved her compassion, not the obvious expression of doubt and the coldhearted administering of a placebo. She had been there, after all, when the original injury occurred … been part of the medical team that treated him like a junkie even then. She was almost overwhelmed with doubts and guilt and self-recrimination, after having doubted the veracity of his pain twice in a row.
"I let House down too, Dr. Wilson," she said to me formally. "You don't have a corner on that market."
I stared at her for a few long moments before finally thanking her for sharing her own struggles with it, and for confiding in me the whole truth about Greg's clandestine visit to her office, seeking relief. We both had many things to regret, but hopefully, we both could also work at overcoming it for his sake, and the sake of his ongoing recovery.
Our tea was growing tepid while we talked, and we drained our cups as she resumed the voice file. My words, and Dickinson's rolled out of the machine yet again.
It was a little easier, this time, to hear myself tell Dick about my callus rebuff of House on the floor of his office … even though at the time I'd feared Greg's sharp tongue if he'd known I'd witnessed even a second of his vulnerability …
And then we were past it, and past the feelings of shame and the regrets and the terrible guilt, and Cuddy was still reassuring me that she had initially done the same thing to him. She assured me that the things we had done, did not make us right … it just made us human. And we spoke of the burden of being human as something we weren't very proud of sometimes.
Yeah! That's for sure …
We stopped the voice file again as further revelations were uncovered, and eagerly resumed our conversation where we'd left off.
We spoke of Dick's warning that House was literally "programmed to fight us" … and the further realization that the three of us, through all these travails in our growing solidarity, were indeed becoming a family of choice … self-created and self-defining, and self-sustaining.
One of the better aspects of being human …
Cuddy resumed the file.
We listened to my giddy self-proclamations as the "Number One House Fan" …
that House wasn't just the selfish bastard he presented to the world, but there was so much more to the living, breathing person behind the misanthropic mannequin … and there was so much more to the bold and brilliant mind, the quick wit, the raucous sense of humor … and the way I went on and on about his good points until I felt myself glowing red and feeling like a one-man band at a political rally.
Dick went on to stress the fact that I needed to engage House in a conversation that mentioned his pain as a huge part of his personality, and that the loss of it would sooner or later (probably sooner!) change his perception of himself as his pain diminished. He would experience a period of grieving for that loss and find it disconcerting at the least, and deeply disturbing at the worst. The result might be more lashing out, and more anger while he tried to come to terms with the shift.
Cuddy stopped the recording again. "What happened when you confronted him about this? You didn't mention it, and Dr. Dickinson made it sound pretty important and vital to his recovery. How did House react when you mentioned it to him?"
I couldn't meet her eyes. I had to look away. "I didn't mention it because it didn't happen. His self-view hasn't changed, as far as I can see."
I shrugged and finally met her eyes again. She was frowning.
I couldn't look at her, even as I continued. "Well … Dick brought it up again today … but with the new pain problems, House can't really be grieving at the loss of the old ones, can he?"
Cuddy reached out her hand toward me, but stayed the movement before she actually touched my arm. "Sounds like something that has to be talked out. You're avoiding it, aren't you?"
I still couldn't look up. Still couldn't admit I'd probably messed up again. "I don't want to borrow trouble. When we know for sure what's going on with the left leg, then I'll talk to him … I promise."
Cop out!Cuddy looked doubtful, but started the voice file again.
Dick was still reassuring me that it would be okay if House lashed out at me, because he wasn't really lashing out at me, but handling the changes in his life in the only way he knew how: with anger.
The suicide thing came up, and my fears along with it. We listened as Dick voiced his belief that House's suicide risk was not high, even though he probably did have a plan in mind. The fact that he did have such a plan might be the very thing that kept him vitally alive and willing to fight.
As the voice file finally came to an end, Cuddy laughed quietly at our mention of a poker game with House a little further into his recovery.
"I want in on that one!" She said with a wink.
When Dick finally asked me what I was getting out of the deal, and I'd admitted that: "this time I wouldn't be losing a brother …"
Cuddy looked at me with a puzzled expression, although she did not ask the inevitable "what brother??" question. I decided she was using laudable restraint.
This time she reached out and actually touched my sore hand gently. I knew she noticed I was lost in thought. I wondered what she might have said if I'd told her I was thinking:
This time the demons won't win!I closed my eyes and made a sincere promise to House:
We've come this far, you and I … we'll face it together!Oooo0oooO
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