Chapter 32

"Keeping Up Appearances"

Lies!

Damn the lies … and the secrets!

And damn those carefully constructed walls!

And damn the cement-block walls thrown up as barriers between one person and the next; walls designed to deceive, disguise, threaten and protect. We all have them. We all do whatever we can to defend ourselves from those who would hurt us … either on purpose or through thoughtless words or careless deeds. We harbor the secrets and defend the lies. And the walls grow higher and higher …

House's walls were high and impenetrable. With parapets! He had lived for eight years with the knowledge that no one in his world was willing to believe the amount of physical pain he lived with every day of his life. No one wanted to hear the complaints of a cripple who could not mask his discomfort at least part of the time. And nobody, it seemed, wanted to be bothered with someone whose limitations did not allow him to keep up.

And so he had closed himself off. Clammed up and cemented his walls with the mortar of bitterness and conceit and sarcasm and arrogance. He had turned his walls into a fortress that surrounded him on all sides. His moats were populated with alligators. His stone battlements defended by lances poisoned with outrage, his bell tower guarded by a fire-breathing dragon.

No one breached the gates or crossed over the drawbridge. No one had any desire to do so.

My walls were in place also. My walls were constructed of old barn-board and pounded together with bent and rusty nails. Easily breached, but there. My walls were buoyed by the library paste of indecision; creaking in the wind and sagging beneath the rain. But they held off the pain of my uncertainty and the fear of my own failure.

My walls were no match for Greg's, but I hid behind them regardless, so unsure and cautious and fraught with trepidation.

I had a valid argument that stood with me behind my walls, but I did not want to violate his fragile trust or cause him to bring in additional construction crews to rebuild his walls. We had labored too hard and too long to bring them down.

Crazy thoughts painted vivid and complex mind pictures as I stood in the living room after Cuddy left. Indecision on top of inaction. I felt riveted to the spot. Should I keep going along with House's current playful mood? Or should I try to float him back to Earth and speak to him about the truth of his actual diagnosis?

Could he handle the fact that his newest leg pain was a trick of his mind? Or would it cause him to revert back to the long, agonizing years when no one believed the pain he'd had to endure just to get up in the morning? Could I become the cause of his walls springing back into place?

Damn the walls we build around our hearts!

I watched him sitting on the couch, blanket draped around him and still behaving as though the conversation of that morning had never happened. His low-grade fever kept him a little subdued, but his ongoing jokes about my current losing streak in our video poker games were getting a little old and a little unfunny.

He got in a few more digs about the new diagnosis, saying that he might even have "psychosomatic sputum" harboring in his lungs and causing a "conversion cough". I had to laugh at that one because it was funny … and because it was further proof that he still continued to examine and consider the diagnosis, which fed my hope of a positive and peaceful outcome.

Wilson … Are you nuts??? (A distinct possibility!)

I made him soup again at lunchtime … that sickly canned stuff he insists on that looks like old house paint that's sat in a half-sealed can for too long. He ate some of it … not a lot … and I had the distinct impression that he was doing it mostly to keep me off his back than the fact that he was actually hungry. I knew what he was doing and didn't rag him about it, although I wish he'd eaten more than three or four spoonfuls.

Later, he insisted on more games of video poker, knowing he could beat the daylights out of me with it. I indulged him awhile, unenthusiastically, which he caught right away. "Sure hope your luck is better, come Friday night!"

Right! I remembered he'd heard the plans being drawn up for the real poker game as he eavesdropped on the voice file. Actually, I was a little surprised he did not try to squelch Dickinson's visit altogether. Maybe he was intending to sabotage Dick's theories about the possibility of psychosomatic pain, and cause an argument that would effectively stonewall any conversation on the subject that might turn up.

There's that word again: "wall". The "House Construction Company" is a powerful entity. I wonder if we can ever force it out of business …

I pushed my doubts back into submission for the hundredth time and smiled across at him. "I don't think it's gonna matter how good my luck is. Dick might just catch you with his bluff detection skills. I could never put anything over on him back in college. He can read people the way you and I read X Rays. Analyzes things so quick you never know he's doing it. I know you're good, House … but he might be better."

I got a dark frown with that one, and I hoped I hadn't gone too far. Greg's temper could be mercurial at times, and I had taken a definite chance by suggesting that someone else might possibly best him at poker.

He did not rise to the bait, but it was shortly after that that he turned off the little video game and put it down. "I think I need a shower," he said suddenly. He was right. Those sweats are getting kind of ripe … and so was he …"

I looked at him from the corner of my eye and he seemed tired, washed out from the fever. "Why don't you take a nap first?" I suggested. "Give that temp a chance to go down on its own."

He shook his head. "I feel okay. I think I'll feel even better after a shower. Would you mind disconnecting me?"

I decided not to argue. His walls were dangerously close to ramping up again. He did seem to be doing all right. He'd been walking around a little with only the use of the cane, and had not requested the wheelchair. I figured all he had to do was get himself safely to the bathroom, undress and make it to the shower chair. It wasn't like there was any major physical exertion involved. I had to stop worrying so much and allow him to take back some control; even more important, reinforce the trust and keep those damn walls crumbled down where they belonged.

I disconnected the TPN and handed him the cane. I didn't even remind him that he should call me if he needed me.

I did, however, find a whole plethora of good deeds to accomplish in the vicinity of the bedroom-bathroom for the next twenty minutes or so. Pillows to plump, laundry to gather, bedside table to clear off, furniture to straighten, blankets and bedspread to fluff … and on and on …

When I heard the water shut off, I waited a minute before starting toward the kitchen with an armload of dirty dishes and laundry. I didn't want to be accused of hovering when he came out of there. But I was still close enough to the bathroom to hear the quiet, grudging call through the door:

"Wilson …"

I dropped the armload of stuff on the hallway table and hurried back to the bathroom. "House? Are you okay?"

The door opened slowly before me, and I saw immediately that the cane was in deadly danger of bending in the middle. He had made it into his skivvies, but no further. "Gotta go to the bedroom and … take that nap now. Might want the chair though …"

The bedroom was a mere few steps away, but when someone feels in danger of falling on his face, the distance seems insurmountable. He was trying valiantly to keep his voice casual, but the note of stress and the pull of pain around his eyes told me he was in trouble.

"Stay there … I'll be right back with the chair." I turned to the bedroom and pulled the wheelchair out into the hallway, dragged it, skittering sideways, to the bathroom doorway and turned it so he could sit down. I remembered the disconcerted look on Greg's face when I'd mentioned how well Dick Dickinson could read people … and I wondered if that comment had caused him to work himself into the state he was in. If that were so, then what the hell would happen on Friday? House liked to solve puzzles. He would be very uncomfortable at being the puzzle!

Was I reading things into this that weren't there?

I turned back and saw again the strained face, the slack jaw, and the pain-glazed eyes. I tried to figure out whether … and if … and how much … assistance Greg would allow me to offer right then.

He was gripping the doorframe with his free hand. The other one gripped the handle of the cane to the extent that the entire cane was trembling. So I stepped around the wheelchair and gripped both his elbows in my hands, lowering him gently downward. I moved him the short distance to the bed, thankful to be able to get him up there before the encroaching spasm built any further.

Greg turned his head toward the wall, his roughened voice wafting back to me. "I'm gonna nap now … shut the door on your way out, will ya?"

"Fat chance, buddy!" I said softly, and I sat down on the edge of the bed as close to him as I could get within the limits of propriety.

In spite of the fact that his back was turned, I could still see that his eyes were closed tightly and both hands balled into fists at his sides to keep from digging into the muscle of his leg. Beads of sweat popping out on his forehead had nothing to do with his fever. He spoke one word, pulled from his throat in anguished desperation:

"Please!"

I knew how much it cost him. The heaviness in my own chest made my reply difficult.

"Nope … I'm staying put, pal … and the deal's the same. Medical help … or the support of a friend … or both. Up to you."

He turned with difficulty to look up at me. He must have understood that I meant what I said. Maybe he was beginning to grasp the fact that being cared for by someone who cared deeply for him … didn't suck! In that moment, his rigid resolve to hide his pain from the world, broke. Another wall came tumbling down. "Both, Jimmy. Both!"

I was glad I'd thought to pre-draw two 5mg syringes. I didn't want to leave his side for any reason, and the administering of them would prevent him from seeing me with my eyes wet and brimming. I retrieved the medication and a flush from the drug box. I then set down at his side again to administer it.

Nothing was said by either of us while I pushed the med, concentrating fiercely on the task. Greg's eyes remained closed as he concentrated on breathing his way through it. I was thankful he couldn't see my face. No words from me would have brought him any consolation at that moment anyway. I managed to maintain a warm and respectful silence with just the touch of my hand on his arm. When I finished the flush, I set the syringes down and reached for his pulse.

The surprise came when he opened his eyes at last and gripped his fingers gently around my wrist, and I'm almost certain he was being careful not to inflict the same strength with which he'd hurt my hand nearly a week before. How he managed that kind of consideration through his own dark discomfort, I don't know, but I could almost feel his caring deep in my stomach. He could be so tender when he chose …

His eyes rolled upward and locked with my own. Did he see my tears? "Why?" He asked.

"Why what?" I thought I understood what he was asking, but I was afraid I had no answer to give him.

"For years you told me the pain was in my head. You said I was an addict. You wanted me to see a shrink. Now you think you've had your diagnosis confirmed. Yet, here you are … treating my pain. Why now?"

I could see the spasm ebbing at last; see the muscle contractions slowly relaxing beneath the skin of his thigh. I knew my response would be very important to him. As his gaze continued to lock with mine, I believed I finally had an answer that would serve us both.

"I watched what you were going through for a lot of years … and that's all I did. I watched while you suffered. I guess I … didn't want to think about it too much. Twelve days ago … when you collapsed … I had my eyes opened for the first time … and I …"

I ran out of words and out of breath and out of courage. This was why he defined me. This was how he lent me the strength to see things through. His confidence strengthened my walls of "barn board" and replaced my library paste with a little of his mental concrete. I ducked my chin just enough to keep him from witnessing the condition of my emotions, and tried to compose myself before I attempted to say anything else. It was only a few short words, but they would be the most heart-wrenching words I'd ever speak. And the most difficult. So I took a deep breath and lifted my head, allowing him to see all the truth my eyes were capable of giving him. Those four painful words came out of me in two separate, broken sentences:

"I saw. You suffer …"

Greg knew. He knew that those words I'd choked out over swallowed sobs were all the honesty I could offer him. Those … along with the regret of trying to ignore all he'd gone through for so many years while his best friend stood by and almost scoffed at his pain.

Greg acknowledged all the unspoken guilt that flooded out with the admission, and his fingers tightened very gently on my wrist that he still held in his hand. I saw an oddly apologetic look in his eyes then. He was hesitant when he offered acknowledgment. "It's real, you know. The pain."

I didn't even have to think about the answer to that one. My voice began to regain some strength when I was finally able to answer. "I know. Whatever the cause, the pain is real. And it will be treated."

"Glad we're on the same page there, anyway!" His voice was weak, but he was trying for the old sardonic tone anyway. He still wanted me to know he disagreed with the diagnosis.

So I nodded and acknowledged him in return.

I hid the relief behind my words. Walls! House knew his pain was finally being taken seriously, and now that the hurdle had been crossed and the tension eased somewhat, he allowed the morphine and the pain relief to ease him into sleep. He fought it as long as he could, almost seeming to await my permission to give in to it.

I removed my hand from his grasp by moving my opposite hand down along his arm to ease his fingers away. "Catch that nap now. You're a real handful, ya know? I could sure use the break!"

I saw him smile and let his eyes go shut.

The only thing I had energy left for, was to shake my head in my usual fond exasperation, then silently slide off the bed and leave the room.

Some walls were down for good. Others remained standing. Only one thing had taken a definite hit today: A lot of the old cement was beginning to crack along the seams …

Oooo0oooO

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