-12-
"Deeper"
The first of the three children to spike a fever is Felicia. It is 5 AM. Eloise sits on the edge of her cot, holding her daughter's hand when it happens, when Felicia begins the moaning and weeping that always accompanies her plight. Eloise can actually feel the girl heat up, like a kettle of water reaching its boiling point. It is hardly a surprise; Eloise knew it was coming, which is part of the reason she requested to spend the night by Felicia's side.
She is exhausted. They both are. Like clockwork, the fevers arrive every twenty six days, and Eloise fears the persistence of the ailment might just do the both of them in.
But she doesn't want to think this way. Everyone has been so nice, so eager to help. She wishes she could feel some hope, some small spark of optimism. Doctor House might have had this thing figured out by now. If he were here.
Nurses arrive with a temperature controlled cooling blanket. With practiced efficiency they undress Felicia, then sponge her down with lukewarm water before laying the blanket over her. The routine has become as natural as breathing.
At times Felicia becomes delirious, yammering away to cartoon characters, the Jonas Brothers, friends from school and others who exist only in her fevered brain. After awhile the chatter gives way to quiet sobs as Eloise rocks her daughter in her arms.
The handsome Indian doctor arrives to tell her that Felicia will be put through a battery of tests today. Under his arm is a clipboard; she assumes there is another consent form to sign because she knows the routine. The doctor rattles off ailments that could be causing the fevers: juvenile rheumatoid arthritis, cyclic neutropenia. Eloise appreciates the fact that he wants to keep her in the loop but he might as well be speaking Greek or Chinese...
Her shoulders slump; her exhaustion has nearly done her in. Even so, she manages to explain that Felicia has already been tested and prodded and poked...and
Where is Doctor House?
The handsome Indian doctor with the kind eyes assures her he understands. But the tests already run on Felicia were not up to the diagnostic team's standards. They would like to do a more comprehensive workup of all three children.
The fight has been taken from her. She signs the form, granting them permission to do what they will.
Wilson sits on his bed, two pillows propped against the headboard, cushioning his back. He has worked hard at coming to terms with the fact that this is still his bed. For weeks after Amber died, he tried sleeping on the sofa, except they had spent countless moments talking, eating and making love there too. Memories lurked behind the TV; they leaped out at him when he opened his closet to choose a shirt for the day. They assaulted him from every corner of the place, so what did it matter where he ended up?
You have Rosa.
Yeah. He does. So why is he here?
A slow exhale seems to help ease the heaviness in his chest. On to other things. He stares at the Google page open on his laptop screen; the cursor winks at him like an annoying uncle at a family reunion.
Try, try again.
He has typed the words of the strange, cryptic travel offer into his word processor and now plans to cut and paste it into his browser.
It is 5 AM and he is running on four hours of sleep. Tossing and turning, making a valiant attempt to prevent himself from obsessing over House's latest 'situation' did nothing but give him a headache. Finally he gave up trying to coax temporary oblivion to join him, downed two Excedrin gel caps with a glass of orange juice and settled in to see what he could see.
(you are curious; you will not be sorry...)
It is easy to imagine House absorbing those words, falling prey to that challenge. Wilson shakes his head as he pastes the text into the Google search and waits for the results.
What he gets back is not totally unexpected: the postings of a few obsessive loons on sites catering to UFO freaks, alien abduction victims and those who wish they were.
Their comments are disjointed, rambling. It is obvious these people are Post Toasties, as his mother might have called them. They are delusional, drug addled; descriptions of their experiences are rife with 'I thinks' and 'I can't be sures'. What they do recall borders on insanity. Stories of being shuttled off to 'another plain of existence in candy colored chairs' is just too much for Wilson to deal with.
House would never take this crap seriously.
Wilson wonders if he should mention his findings to Cuddy. But they were looking for something sane, some voice of reason to explain it all. Not this.
Later, when the sun rises higher and his head stops pounding Wilson will call the 800 number and speak to someone about the 'lifestyle change' that is being offered. Going to the source is more logical, more sane. There has to be a better explanation for where House might have gone than what Wilson excavated on the 'net.
He closes his computer and shuts his eyes, the brightness of the screen fading behind his lids as he primes himself to meet the day.
Once upon a time House dreamed he was the ruler of a great city, a city whose beauty and grandeur were dwarfed only by the immensity of the sky and the sea. Inspired by stories his mother read to him, captivated by the richness and diversity of the places he visited, his fantasies often embodied being at the top of the heap of the ruling class: the go-to guy, the one his subjects would both revere and despise.
Sarno waves a hand at the city below "This-"
"-is dookie," House interjects, leaning two hands on his cane as he casts a disparaging eye over the scene. This isn't anything like the city he concocted in his head as a kid. This is white picket fences, two point five kids and a chicken in every pot.
"Caca," he goes on. "Fecal matter..."
They stand side by side atop of a grassy rise behind the Town Hall. From here Pleasant Hills is a sedate patchwork of civilization: a place to raise your kids and watch them go off to more exciting, lucrative pastures; a place for the old folks to rock on their porch swings and watch the world go by.
You think you hate this.
No, he realizes, he doesn't hate it. He spent his high school years in a town like this. He got his first taste of nookie in a town like this. He learned to drive in a town like this.
"Aw, man, you're not even listening to me." Sarno throws his hands in the air, then gives House a disappointed look. "You're supposed to be curious and smart, always looking for reasons, digging for answers. I could show you some amazing things-"
"...shit," House tells him with a somber air of finality.
"Maybe you should leave," Sarno says with a sigh. "It's not generally done before the twenty four hours are up but sometimes exceptions gotta be made."
This is unexpected. Now suddenly, more than anything, House wants to stick around awhile.
"I can arrange it." Sarno digs out the rectangular keypad that seems to control the universe.
"You know too much about me."
"You're not exactly an unknown entity." Sarno's fingers are all over that keypad, arranging House's ride out of here. "The whole community's buzzing with the fact you're here. It's big news."
king of the world, top of the heap...kind of cool, don't you think...?
"Wait." House puts one hand on the box in Sarno's hand. The box vibrates and hums at his touch. "Show me more."
Merriweather Street is a late autumn picture postcard, all golden leaves and brilliant sunshine. The moment House and Sarno turn off Sanford (where it is hot and dry, like an Arizona summer), the air temperature drops twenty degrees and the wind whips up with enough gusto to persuade the dry, dying leaves to abandon their branches. Drifting and swirling in lazy circles, some come to rest on lawns and rooftops, while others flutter in House's path. The urge to bat them around with the tip of his cane is irresistible, and he wonders why he never noticed what cool playthings they were. Not even as a kid.
After awhile the game gets old, which inspires him to shift gears and test his new found mobility. Shuffling and kicking up the leaves is kind of cool. The loud ssssh, sssssh! sound amuses him and keeps this game from getting dull.
"Favorite time of year?"
"Huh?" House has almost forgotten about Sarno, who has been beside him the whole time.
"It's so fuckin' beautiful. Not too warm, not too cold," Sarno says. "I made sure they put a hammock in your yard."
"Who's they?"
"They. The minions. The ones who slave for the powers that be." Sarno jams an unlit cheroot between his teeth and waggles it fiendishly.
"How is it done?" he asks, plucking a leaf off the cane's rubber tip, testing its waxy solidity between his thumb and forefinger.
Sarno chuckles as he flicks away the cheroot, then spreads his arms, like he is balancing on a high wire. "They hitch one end to one tree-"
"Not the hammock." House pauses in mid-step, turns on his heel and indicates the neighborhood with a wave of his cane. "This."
"Patience, man." Sarno lifts a white-blond brow as his fingers skim over his keypad. "You're almost home."
Of course the house is a two story colonial, complete with white picket fence, wisps of smoke drifting from the chimney, a winding stone path leading to the porch. There is a swing on the porch, of course, a brass knocker on the door...
...and in the front yard is a blank wooden square that swings up and back on two brass chains. Its wrought iron stand is embedded in the crisp leaves and emerald green grass.
The air smells of woodsmoke. House closes his eyes and thinks of lacrosse, thinks of Sandy Edison daring him to go out for the last spot on cheerleading squad. It's the only way he'll ever get in her pants...so-
"She's a beauty, eh?"
"Sandy..." he murmurs. He can almost feel the swell of her breast against his palm.
"The house."
He blinks, shakes his head slowly, ridding his mind of these ancient thoughts. His temples pound; his face feels hot. It's like waking from a fever dream. Again he has been away. For how long he doesn't know.
Inside the front windows, white curtains float and dance, like ghosts sending out a silent, seductive welcome. Music accompanies the dance. Crazy rhythms, steel drums. Robert Mitchum...Calypso is so...
That keypad is still in Sarno's hand, like it has taken root there. The touch of three buttons opens the colonial's door.
"Go on in. Enjoy yourself. It's your vacation. Lots to do and discover." He smiles and once again House notices how those two front teeth are gray. Dead.
Just like Garrett's...