CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Debra walked into the living the next morning in a drunken stupor; her socked feet scooted along the floor, as if she could barely find the strength to lift them and take a step. Her eyes were dark, red, swollen, half open – she looked like a woman that was coming off of a meth high with a side order of cocaine – her hair was matted on top of her head and fell down onto her shoulders in a bird's nest mess; her shoulders were slumped down farther than they should have been and she was wearing the same clothes as the night before, which were extremely wrinkled.
She sauntered into the living room oblivious to the people that were sitting there: House, her brother Mark and a woman she didn't know, who were drinking coffee.
"How are you feeling, Deb?" Mark asked. "There's fresh coffee…"
But Debra didn't hear him. She walked past them all in the direction of the kitchen, which was her main goal anyway. Thankfully, the kitchen was empty. She walked by the small kitchen table and knicked her outer thigh, but she was oblivious of that, too.
She grabbed a cup from the cabinet above the coffee machine and filled the cup, with excess coffee running off the side. She turned around to walk to the table when she noticed a body standing in the doorway, a cup in hand; his head tilted, watching her closely. She pulled a chair out and sat down, ignoring the person until she had several sips of the caffeine jolt she so desperately needed.
After a minute or so she said, "You know what? I'm getting real tired of you knocking me out. Just because you're a doctor doesn't mean you can keep me drugged up." She put her hand in her palm, elbow on the table, and looked at him for the first time. "What time is it?"
"8:30." House tried not to smile, to avoid any misunderstanding she might have of it. He sat down across from her and sipped his own coffee. "What can I say? I have access to the good stuff, so, why not?" This time, Debra's left corner of her mouth rose just a bit, and it was a sign to House she'd be alright, well, for the moment, anyway. "You going to the funeral this afternoon?"
She didn't answer right away but looked deeply into the mug, as if that carried all the answers to the universe. "No idea."
"Deb – I'm going to say something, and I'll never say it again, but always know this, okay?" She looked up at him with concern at first, but when she saw the expression on his face it died. She nodded her head. "You know I've got your back, right?"
This time, both corners of her mouth rose and she gave him a smile, sans bearing of teeth, but it was a smile, and a start. He smiled back.
"Yeah, I know. Thanks, Scooter."
"You're welcome, Thumper. Where did we come up with those stupid nicknames, anyway?" House asked.
"There not stupid," she defended.
"Are too."
"Are not! They're cute!"
"I don't do cute," House shot back, seemingly the same old argument they always had.
"Do too."
"Do not."
"Ah-huh infinity…oh, hi, Uncle John." Her eyes darted to the doorway and saw House's father standing there.
Instantly, the playful, teasing, happy smile on House's face disappeared and his face morphed into a sagging old man; his eyes darted down at the table as if he didn't hear what he just heard.
"Save any coffee for me?" John asked, not saying a word to his son, but he did look at him, disapprovingly.
"Of course, help yourself," Debra told him.
John poured himself a cup and turned around, leaning against the counter. "Where's your mother, Greg?"
He hesitated a moment before he looked up, but not directly at his father, and said, "She's still in with Aunt Sharon."
"Mom had trouble sleeping last night, I guess. I woke up to use the bathroom and checked in on her; Aunt Blythe was with her," Debra told him.
"How's she taking it?" John asked.
How in the HELL do you think she's taking it, you MORON?! Debra thought, and as she did so she looked at House, who seemed to have the same thought running through his head.
"Well, I'm going to go check in on her. They should be up," Debra said as she stood, gave her Uncle John a quick hug and a glance at House, whose eyes were pleading with her to stay.
House instantly tensed, and no amount of Vicodin or tranquilizer or morphine would calm him down. He still didn't look at his dad, even when he sat down in the chair across from him.
"How have you been, son? I see you have a new cane. Flashy!" John said in a genuinely caring voice.
Oh, God. Now he's trying to play 'cool dad.'
"I've been fine."
"How's that pretty young thing you've been messing with?" he asked, meaning Cameron.
His eyes shot up with hatred in his eyes, and it scared the crap out of House. The last time he gave his father 'the look' he spent a week off LaCrosse with a bruised leg.
"Fine." He pulled out the bottle of Vicodin and popped two in his mouth, followed by a mouthful of coffee, like that was going to wash away the fact that his father was sitting across from him, one on one.
"Greg, I've got something I need you to give to Debra."
House looked at John with confusion. "Why don't you give it to her yourself?"
"Because your Mom and I discussed it, and we know how attached she is to you and thought it'd be better if…look, it was given to your mother by Sharon."
His look of confusion only grew deeper. "Why? She could talk to her own daughter."
"No, no, she can't. Just give it to her, will you, and stop arguing with me?"
John handed House a sealed envelope, which was very thin, as if only one piece of paper were in it. He sighed, took it from his father's hand and set it on the table beside him.
"Fine."
John scrutinized his son more and said, "Seems there's hardly any scar left on your neck. 'Fore you know it you'll be a walking scar stick. When was the last time you had a solid meal?"
House's mind was blank, but he heard his father's words. He stood up so abruptly the chair went flying out from behind him and banged against the wall.
"Don't start!"
House stormed out of the kitchen, his blood pressure soaring to almost stroke level and walked out onto the front porch.
Big mistake…I shouldn't have come…regardless if Debra needed me or not. No see, no harm.
