-8-

"Forward"

Rosa hums as she peels the potatoes. The sink is littered with their skins; the faucet is on and the pitta-pitta-pat of water against steel is comforting, like rain tapping at the window on a fall evening. Michael is in the living room, watching Bugs Bunny cartoons and coloring a picture he plans on giving to James. He colors the fire truck blue because it is sad. It has only one-two-three wheels, and Michael is hoping James will know how to fix it, since he is a doctor.

"Doctors fix people, not trucks, " Rosa has told him gently many times. Michael is somehow under the impression doctors can fix anything that is broken.

Rosa hums, something she has begun doing more frequently these days. Housework brings out the music in her, silly as it might seem. She only has to start making the beds or scrubbing the tub and a tune finds her. But it's cooking that inspires her musical meanderings more than anything else.

Eight months earlier she doubted she would ever make music again. Now the idea has possibilities. Before Nathan died she used to sing all the time, conjuring up songs on the Martin Ovation, which now waits patiently for her on the top shelf of her bedroom closet. She has no idea when she might be motivated to breathe life into a new song again; touching the instrument will probably bring her to tears. Too many memories would be stirred up by the feel of strings beneath her fingers, the curve of wood against her breast.

Humming is a start.

It's all about the starting over, her group leader at grief counseling told her. It's like pressing the 'refresh' button on a Windows browser. Initially she thought the analogy stupid and somewhat callous. Now she sees that it might make some sense after all.

Starting fresh is possibly the hardest thing she has ever done.

James has helped her make progress climbing that steep, nearly insurmountable incline. But has her presence helped him at all? In some ways, James is beyond help. He will never let go of this troubled relationship with House. The two are joined at the hip no matter if they're miles apart or in the same room.

But there is something...a depth to that relationship Rosa will never fully understand.

At times she is envious of a bond so strong it can't be severed. It's doubtful she will ever experience this level of intimacy, emotional or otherwise, with anyone. The chance that James could feel this symbiosis with her, this merging of minds and souls is slim. It's okay. It's enough just having him here.

She wonders about House as she puts another potato into the pot by the sink. You can't help but wonder about someone you've been told is poison. Her first instinct is to tell herself she is of a different breed, that she would know how to handle this guy. And he would learn to respect her.

He is poison...

With a shake of her head, she realizes she is probably giving herself more credit than she deserves.

Still, she would like to meet this House, just once to make up her own mind about him. But, clearly, this is not her territory; not a street she's been invited to venture down. So she will steer clear.

Her thoughts drift back to James, how much she enjoys making him smile. But even when he smiles, his eyes hold so much hurt. She worries if he will ever truly be able to work through the grief that continues to feed on what remains of that good heart of his.

He tries.

They entered counseling at about the same time. After three sessions they began going for coffee together, neither of them anxious to return their empty houses with their silent rooms and too-wide beds. Michael stayed with Rosa's mother on counseling nights, which made tumbling into this relationship that much easier.

After Nathan's suicide Rosa thought she would pull through, surmised she was strong enough to hold her life together. The night Michael toddled into her bedroom and caught her sobbing convinced her otherwise.

Nathan battled a depression so debilitating, he was forced to leave his job as a photojournalist for The Princeton Press. He grew uncommunicative, spending hours sitting silent and alone in his darkroom. His antidepressant drug therapy ended four months after Rosa forced him into it. He refused counseling. Nothing Rosa said made a difference.

She was planning to take Michael and leave the state, even if it meant giving up the teaching job she loved. But Nathan left them first.

Life had never been so painful, so rife with misgivings, but Michael helped her through it; he became her lifeline. His presence, how he clung to her hand or her skirt as she wandered through her days, convinced her there had to be a way to expedite the healing process.

After she entered counseling, she realized that what she went through didn't seem half as tragic as James's loss of Amber. To lose someone so unexpectedly, to have them wrenched away...

At least James got to say goodbye.

"Mom."

She stands frozen by the sink, half peeled potato in one hand, paring knife in the other. Michael tugs at her jeans pocket.

"I fixed it."

"What's that, honey?" Rosa looks down to see Michael waving his artwork at her.

"The fire truck." He jabs a stubby finger at the paper. "One-two-three-four wheels. See? I fixed it."

The truck is now whole; its new wheel is a ragged blue circle rendered in hastily scribbled crayon.

"That's a beauty, Mike." Rosa's grin is genuine as she tells him, "James will be glad."

"Hello there."

He feels like he is inside the Saturday morning cartoon heart of Boy in Love. Boy's heart swells to three times its normal size, pounding ba-boom, ba-boom, pushing through Boy's chest cavity, as shiny and pretty as an American Beauty rose. You almost think that heart is going to explode and splatter all over Girl's pretty pink dress. But, nah...

"Dr. House?"

He turns his head slowly to meet Garrett's eyes. "Red," he says.

"It sure as hell is," Garrett laughs. His teeth are sturdy and straight, white like the moon, all except his left canine, which is gray. Dying.

"Stating the obvious is a way of making useless conversation," House says.

"You started it."

"Just heading you off at the pass."

"We can continue down that road, if you like."

"No thanks, not interested."

They sit side by side engulfed by the crimson that pulses to its own beat. They listen for awhile; the sound is calming. It's like being safe inside the womb. Warm, secure...

"I hope you're not fading on me."

Garrett's voice jars him. House jolts from his doze, fixes the beaked nose wonder with a glare. "I want my meds."

"Not now. Not good for you now."

"Pain is not good for me now," House counters, rubbing his thigh. He wonders if this is an elaborate scam, a ruse put forth by his team. After all, he did get the travel magazine from Kutner, who, being a science fiction aficionado, might not be above planning a practical joke of this magnitude. On the outside, Kutner was like a goofy kid out for a good time. But look deeper and you find a wise, albeit crafty, physician, who is capable of many things.

"Did Kutner put you up to this?"

"I don't know any Kutner." Garrett's dark eyes twinkle.

"Ri-ight."

"You're thinking conspiracy theory?"

"That's a question for a question," House grumbles and clicks his tongue. "Here's another one. "Is there a point to this?"

"The point is...this is your vacation. It's supposed to be fun and exhilarating and...cool, as you might say." Garrett stands, the top of his curls dissolving through the crimson. "Since it is your vacation, you might consider relaxing and rolling with the flow."

"I have no idea what you're getting at. I feel like I'm in the funhouse at Coney Island and...it smells like burnt turpentine in here."

"That's just the remnants of the Afterburn." Garrett shrugs before leaning over, attaching a wire to each of House's temples. "Can't be helped."

"I'm being wired for sound...or to explode?"

Garrett laughs and sits again, crossing his legs like he's preparing to watch game three of The World Series. In his hand is something that looks like a small, sleek TV remote. "You sure are a curious guy. Would you be interested in checking out a travelogue of available locales?"

"'Curiouser and curiouser," House throws him a wary look. "If I wake up on a slab, who do I have to thank?"

"Close your eyes, Doctor," Garrett whispers. "It's showtime."