-9-
"Next"
The fevers didn't crop up all of a sudden. It had been between eight months to a year since the first instance presented itself. Since then the fevers appeared and disappeared like a aces in a magician's hand. At times they would spike as high as 105, seizures accompanying them more often than not. It was a nightmare for the parents, a weary parade of tests for the kids.
The three sets of parents had formed a support group. After a multitude of futile treks to their pediatricians, they did what many people do in desperate situations: scour the internet for help. They met at the American Academy of Pediatrics website, where they posted their woes in the Parent's Corner, describing their children's feverish spikes and dips, which seemed synchronized to some cruel, relentless clock.
Now they are in Cuddy's world; the children are all nestled snug in their hospital beds. It is late, nearly 10:30. All hopes for an audience with House have been dashed but Cuddy makes sure the children are well looked after.
It is difficult to gauge how long it might take to diagnose this odd, persistent malady; proficient doctors have already tried and failed. The parents ask anyway, their voices hoarse, eyes red-rimmed, their hands fidgeting at their sides. Cuddy can only assure them that everything that can be done is being done.
Where is Doctor House? The question has become a mantra. She wishes she knew the answer. She has tried his cell phone numerous times and has received that same infuriating message to leave a message.
This is when she wants to throttle him, to remind him in a less than genteel way of his vocation.
He's on vacation. You pushed him into it and he actually went somewhere. Either that or he's hibernating at home. But his car is gone; Wilson informed you of this. So where the hell would he go?
She encourages the parents to head home, get some rest. They would be no good to their children if exhaustion set in. The majority of them see reason, but Eloise, the mother of the shy, honey haired Felicia, insists on sleeping on a cot next to her daughter.
Cuddy can't help but sympathize and has a nurse set Eloise up with blankets and pillows.
After making her way down the quiet corridors to her office, Cuddy closes her door and stands in the center of the room, savoring the silence and solitude. After a slow ten count, she seats herself behind her desk, exhales softly and covers her face with her hands. The self imposed darkness feels nice. Here she can be a child again, pressing her hands against her eyes, blocking out the light, pretending to be invisible.
They can't get you if they can't find you...
The members of House's team are scheduling shifts in order to monitor the children around the clock, but Cuddy has little hope they will come up with the answer. They are good but still...
She wonders if one of them might have a clue to where House has gone. House is a talker and a braggart and could have let something slip, especially if there are loose women and liters of bourbon in his immediate future. She gives this some serious thought but decides not to ask. If her doctors feel she lacks confidence in their abilities, she will have done them, the hospital and herself a great disservice.
It is Kutner who provides her with what could be a lead. Cuddy is just shutting down her computer and slipping on her jacket when Kutner knocks twice and enters her office. He is taking the night shift but even at this late hour, seems refreshed and awake. Maybe he cat-napped on his break...
"House might have gotten his vacation idea from this." He pulls a magazine from his back pocket and hands it to her. "They always send me two, so I left a copy in his office before he took off. Something in there might have struck his fancy," he says, cocking his head. "They offer some pretty unconventional getaways."
The cover photo of three smiling collegiate types standing next to a toothless leathery skinned woman causes Cuddy to wince. For their dining pleasure, the group are sharing a crispy snake on a stick. Behind them are cauldrons and grass huts and mountains with snowy peaks.
House wouldn't go there if Carmen Electra lay nude, pining for him inside Baba Yaga's hut.
But she thanks Kutner. After dismissing him she tucks the magazine into her briefcase.
Later, much later, she falls asleep and dreams of orange skies, mangos and boa constrictors making themselves at home in her entrails.
Go, Speed Racer, go, go, GO!
He zips, he zooms, he flies. The sensation is a rush, like having wings on his heels and a jetpack on his back. A sound accompanies the ride, a not unpleasant roar, emanating from inside his head. It is the sound of a lion's yawn or a giant wave cresting in slo-mo before crashing to the shore.
But this is not what he sees.
He soars...through a whirligig of deep golds, purples and reds. The colors (yeah, man, the colors) are like bright smears of paint blurring and meshing into an eye-catching yet indefinable hue. Somewhere in the back of his mind someone (Garrett?) is giving him the lowdown, the director's commentary on this dreamscape. Some of the words make sense and others are as indistinct as the brilliant wash of colors. The odd thing is, the concept is crystal clear. The choice of where he lands will be made based on true feelings, pure thought, no wall of deceit to get in the way...
What do you think, Doctor?
Below him is a city filled with dazzling white lights and cool sounds; he senses the music more than hears it, a mix of tactile colors this time: gritty brown jazz, like sand between his fingers, golden sweet sax, like warm honey on his tongue, a cacophony of chatter, of car horns and so much more, melding, meshing, nothing as boring as reality to get in the way...
But how about this?
how about...
we leave the world of hep cats and ditty-bop behind to venture farther out to the 'burbs. Here are white picket fences, quiet, tree-lined streets where birds twitter, a dog yips, church bells chime the hour. Smells of grilled chicken, hot dogs and freshly mown grass make you smile that secret little smile. Easy, so easy. Over there...wash hangs on the line, white sheets waving, waving, blanketing the world, welcoming you to your town...
Welcome.
A sweet, small tinkle of bells awakens him. The sound is distant but, he guesstimates, not too far away. Something about them makes him think of summer, of cotton candy...of leaving places before he is ready. It is a lonely feeling so he switches gears, surrendering to a huge yawn, his mouth open wide, head tilted back as he stretches and enjoys the feel of the sun warm on his face.
...moments as simple and pleasurable as this...
That voice in his head is breaking up. That dude with the nose like a hawk's beak has been chattering to him for a good long time.
Garrett.
Yeah, Garrett's voice crackles and dies. He is gone now, which is kind of good and kind of bad. Without dwelling on this too much, House runs his hands down his chest, over his jean clad thighs.
The bells tinkle again, closer now, like they are calling him. Opening his eyes is an option; remaining exactly as he is another. He feels...free.
The warm breeze ruffles his hair. Something feather light and cold lands on his brow and on his hand that grips his cane.
When he opens his eyes, he is greeted by sunlight of such pure yellow-white it should hurt, but it doesn't. The air is warm, balmy yet...snowflakes drift from the sky. The flake on his hand has melted but another five or six have taken its place. He scrutinizes them; touches them to his tongue.
...a season to suit every whim...
Garrett, it seems is not quite done talking. But House has better things to do than to listen to him prattle on.
In the yard across the street stands a sturdy oak tree dressed up for autumn: all oranges, yellows, reds and browns.
The air is filled with the smoky tang of burning leaves. The smell brings back a lonely, longing ache that not even a fistful of Vicodin could ease.
Pushing the melancholia away, he attempts to immerse himself in what passes for reality. Isn't that what vacations are all about?
He sits on a bench the color of Dorothy Gale's ruby slippers, feeling like an old codger taking a break from his afternoon constitutional. Running one hand along the smooth wood, he wonders about dreams and how real they can seem and those wires that were (years ago) attached to his temples.
Ting-a-ling-a-ling
The ice cream truck pulls up to the curb with Wilson in the driver's seat. He smiles, causing those dimples to deepen as he tips his white cap with the shiny black bill. "Welcome."
After a careful scrutiny, House realizes that although the guy's a dead ringer he's not the genuine article. Those eyes are a little too wide and possess none of Wilson's world weary cynicism; his lips are thinner, his hair about two shades darker.
Close but no cigar. House heaves a disappointed sigh. With its picket fences and lazy, homespun atmosphere, this place would be right up Wilson's alley.
"Free ice cream for our new arrivals." Wilson-Not-Wilson takes a jaunty step out of his cab and heads to the rear of the truck. "Cone or cup? Vanilla, chocolate, strawberry?" He pulls open the little door, allowing a fog of frozen air to escape and drift around his head. He peers at House hopefully.
"Vanilla cone."
Like a conjurer reaching into his magic hat, Ice Cream Man Wilson's arm extends into the freezer and immediately comes up with goods. He knew all along, House thinks.
He knows everything about you.
All the rest is a show.
Shrugging off the unease and the feeling that someone's fingers have been probing and prodding inside his gray matter, House accepts the treat.
"What's your name?" House asks, before taking a tentative lick of the ice cream. It's richer and creamier than the store bought stuff.
The question stymies Ice Cream Man. His reaction, the rub of the neck, the squint of the eyes makes his resemblance to Wilson more than uncanny. It's downright terrifying. The ice cream, that delicious confection, slides down House's tongue before meeting the lump in his throat. He feels like throwing the rest into the ruby red trash can (Pleasant Hills is your town. Please keep it clean) at his side. But no can do. Despite his shaky hand and that stone that has taken residence in the middle of his chest, he really wants to finish the cone.
Ice Cream Man Wilson hurries back to his truck and starts the engine. The bells tinkle. His smile returns but it is nowhere near as open and amiable as before. His teeth are bared, making him look like a frightened animal. "Mr. Sarno at the Town Hall will want to see you."
"Will he now?"
"You should go." Ice Cream Man Wilson nearly drops his hat in the process of tipping it again.
House raises a hand, confusion muddling his thoughts. "Where-"
"Be seeing you."
A frigid wind whistles and sighs, causing the leaves and foliage to tremble as they hiss their complaint. House shivers, raises his eyes, silently lamenting the storm clouds rolling in. He is not ready for this, he concedes, tossing the remainder of the cone in the garbage. Silver-gray and ominous, the sudden appearance of the clouds does nothing to convince him this is not a dream. That he is not still wired up in that red cube, big nose Garrett supervising the proceedings...
How was Kutner able to put together a prank of such magnitude? The thought hits him with an abruptness that is disconcerting. Yet there is something cool about being 'punked' with such detail and flash. If Kutner is behind this, House is almost proud of him.
The clouds pass. The sun smiles down again, yellow-white, like an egg frying in a sky blue pan. Across the street a small boy plays in the yard, bounding over two wooden crates he has put there for this reason. After each successful jump he gives out with a hearty "Yahoo!".
Behind him is a slim woman with skin like mocha and hair like chocolate silk. As she hangs shirts on a line, her lips curl into a soft smile. The boy is amusing her. She loves him; he's not a burden. The thoughts fly at House from every direction. He catches them; stores them away for another time as he continues his surveillance. The woman stands on her toes to reach for another clothespin, causing her white cotton dress to strain at her pretty darn glorious bosom.
...something to be said for the scenic view...
Garrett is no longer amusing or cool. House wishes he would go away.
Something small but powerful tugs at him. He should be enjoying himself...somewhere. This is a vacation, which means he should be immersing himself in diversions more along the lines of television,hookers, porn and booze. His eyes scan the empty suburban streets.
There must be a pub around here somewhere. A homey little place where the bartender calls you Joe and pours himself a drink while he fills your glass.
That's the ticket.
House decides he no longer wants to sit and smell the grass and watch a hot mama playing the dutiful little wifey...
Rubbing his hands together, he leans forward, preparing to rise from his seat and explore. But after a few moments, he finds he has made no move to get on with his day.
"Yahoo!" The kid takes one final leap before breaking into a run and braking at the curb. "Wel-come, welcome, welcome!" he yells, waving his arms in excitement.
Against his better judgement, House hesitantly lifts one hand in greeting, then looks at the sky.
The sun should be higher. He's been here awhile, the earth should have turned, shadows should have shifted.
No.
The day, it seems, is waiting for his next move.