-14-
"Diagnosis"
"You, yes,YOU, could experience the vacation of a lifetime! No one is too old to enjoy a stay with Getaway. Thinking of leaving town for a while? Those grandkids or needy adult children too much to take? Well, just put your day to day grind on hold. You've come to the right place..."
Wilson holds the phone an inch away from his ear. This way, there is less of a chance of being deafened by the calypso music and manic pitch of the vacation getaway huckster.
"...and if you book now, you'll be guaranteed a voucher for a free dinner for two at one of ten (count 'em) TEN five star restaurants on our properties."
This couldn't be right. House would never have stayed on the line long enough to listen to such drivel, much less book a vacation with this loudmouth buffoon. The worn looking The Road Less Traveled magazine is open on his desk. For what is probably the hundredth time, he skims the ad with its sinister sounding promise and mystical overtones.
"Think of it...warm, tropical breezes, a vodka gimlet at noon, shuffleboard, free tango lessons..."
No. This has got to be wrong-
"Getaway vacations." The voice at the other end of the line startles him. "The vacation haven for the young at heart. This is Beatrice. How can I help you?" Such a nasal whine; she sounds like a clothespin is pinching her nostrils shut.
"Eh, hi, Beatrice." He taps the end of his pen against his desk, then swivels his chair so he is facing the wall. "I got your number from The Road Less Traveled magazine."
"That's very nice."
"Yes," Wilson clears his throat before going on. "Is yours the ad that reads, 'It's not what you think' and 'Not many have what it takes to be part of what we do'?"
"Yes sir."
"Oh."
In the background, the same irritating calypso music plays on. Steel drums accompany a singer with strong, steady tenor. The guy has some serious chops.
"It's quite a colorfully worded ad, don't you think?" Beatrice says.
Wilson blinks, stares at the phone, then blinks again as he places the earpiece against his ear. "It doesn't seem to jibe with your spiel for sunny afternoons filled with shuffleboard and tango lessons."
"What's that, sir?"
"I mean your ad sounds like something from "The Twilight Zone." He switches the phone to his other hand, thinking maybe he shouldn't have elaborated. Maybe he should have just hung up. House will be back soon, spouting off tales of Atlantic City, g-strings and late night booze-ups. Wilson has no idea why he is bothering with any of this.
Beatrice mumbles something, her words going missing beneath an undulating sea of exotic rhythms.
"It would be nice to get at least a hint of what's going on here."
"Well," Beatrice begins, suddenly sounding like a temptress, a seductress. "It's all how you look at things, Dr. Wilson."
"I...see."
"Would you like to sign up for our Fort Lauderdale trip? The rates are especially good this time of year."
"I'm sorry...no."
"We-ell." The pinched voice returns, sounding somewhat disheartened. "If you change your mind, my name is Beatrice and I'll be happy to help you with all your vacation needs."
His throat is suddenly parched; still he manages to croak, "Thank you, Beatrice."
"No, thank you, Dr. Wilson."
Like a man in a trance, he slowly swivels his chair back around and replaces the phone in its cradle. He rises to his feet, shrugs on his lab coat to look the part of the confident, assured department head he needs to be for the rest of the day. He is, after all, a professional. People depend on him.
You never said your name but she knew your name. How can that be? Try to think of all the ways that could be...
Right. Beatrice knew his name but he never told her his name. He almost reaches for the phone, almost calls her back to ask her. But...no. She probably wouldn't pick up anyway. Or if she did, would probably disavow any knowledge of their prior conversation.
Say what....sirrrr?
Laughter or something close to it bubbles in his throat until he sends it packing with a sharp cough.
He exits his office and leaves all thoughts of strangeness to languish on their own for awhile. He is sure he will rejoin them in good time.
Eloise has gone home for a much deserved rest. But it wasn't easy convincing her to leave Felicia. It took Cuddy the better part of a half hour to convince her to go.
David, the eldest of the two boys brought in, suffered a fever early this morning, which his parents had predicted within a day of its onset. Under the care of Taub and the nurses, it was brought down without a problem. Now that the boy is resting comfortably, all eyes are on Eddie. He isn't due to spike for another week. But who knows? The malady is infuriating, unpredictable...right up House's alley.
With all the fevers down for the moment, the team can now concentrate on putting its efforts into getting to the root of the problem.
The parents have stopped asking for House. Cuddy assumes they are loath to downplay the efforts of his team. At this point, they will take what they can get. But she can read them, see the disappointment in their eyes as another test is given, as another go round with needles and bloodwork leads to more dead ends. The frustration in the air is palpable. She attempts to emphasize the fact that since these doctors were handpicked by House, they are more than capable to do his work. The parents nod and shrug, more to shut her up than to agree. To say more would only serve to test their patience. So she leaves them in the hands of House's capable colleagues and goes off to tend to other matters.
The morning passes and the afternoon steps up to the plate. After lunch, Cuddy heads back to her office, there is paperwork to tend to, a budget meeting coming up. The world does not revolve around House. Really, it doesn't, she thinks, slowing her step as Wilson approaches. His mouth is pinched, his gaze is faraway, like he is receiving a communication from somewhere 'out there'. He might not have noticed her had she not stood directly in his path.
"How are you?" she asks, taking in the shadows under his eyes.
"I called them," he says with a sigh, his gaze drifting to the ceiling.
"Who?"
"Getaway Vacations." He shakes his head and meets her eyes. "You think House has suddenly developed a penchant for shuffleboard and tango lessons?"
"Stop it." She places a hand on his arm. "The world does not revolve around House."
"It's good to try to think that way." He tells her with a humorless smile. "But you know as well as I do, it doesn't work."
Time flows differently in Pleasant Hills.
Irie tells him this as she takes him to a part of the house he has yet to experience. He doesn't realize he is smiling until he sees his reflection in the glass door to his office. The legend "Gregory House, M.D." has been etched into the glass. This day has gradually become more interesting than annoying. Here is an office with a desk and a computer, a Worlds Of Warcraft game waits for him next to the hard drive.
Cool.
He likes Irie. She is the only one who will answer the questions he tosses out without seeming put upon. So far he has asked her her name (Irie Tomyesku), if she is married (no), her title (Head of Operations).
"How long have I been here?"
The clock on the tells him it is 4:05. It seems like it's been 4:05 forever, or at least since Irie and Garrett arrived. The slants of sunlight through the blinds have not shifted since their arrival, shadows have neither lengthened or waned. But his body clock is off. At one point, after enjoying Misha's light meal of chicken and rice, exhaustion settled into his joints, but he now seems to have found his second wind.
"Two days, First World time," she tells him as she pushes open his office door. "About eight hours here."
"First World?"
"Yes."
"Explain," he says.
"Have patience, Doctor."
He gives her a hard stared. "So that twenty four hours-"
"Look." Her smile is genuine. It lights up the room before she turns on the desk lamp. "You can leave any time you want."
"That's not what I've been told."
"I'm telling you. You're a doctor; you're probably needed back there."
"Okay." He rubs his chin, considers this. "So...do I just click my heels and just keep repeating 'there's no place like home?"
"Just see Sarno," she laughs. "He'll void the waiver, get you back home without the requisite ruby slippers."
"I'm in no hurry. I'm on vacation," he says with a slow grin, taking in flow of her body line as she moves through the room, straightening books, glancing at papers in the inbox. Finally, she stops her constant motion to throw the switch on a small silver box on the desk. This powers up an expansive screen on the wall.
Throwing him a sly look, she asks, "Want to see something cool?"
"Why does the ice cream man look like Wilson?" he replies, approaching the screen. "Why does the maid look like every woman who ever had the good fortune to get with me?"
"We like our guests to feel comfortable."
"My leg doesn't hurt." When was the last time he reached for his pills?
"No, it sure doesn't."
"Why?"
"Why question what is good and right and benefits you?" Her hand is smooth and cool as she slips it into his. "Just enjoy."
On the screen is a long metal table bathed in eggshell colored light. The source of the light isn't...anywhere, which is somewhat disconcerting; something is wrong. The hairs on back of House's neck prickle.
"Mortuary?"
"Examination room."
House gives her a sinister, sidelong look and hisses in his best German accent, "Issit safe?"
"Why don't you find out?"
She releases his hand and he takes a step. Reaching one hand out, he almost stumbles over his own feet as he discovers the screen is not a screen at all. No real solidity here. It is mesh, like mosquito netting melting around him as he moves. One more careful step and he is in the room, the not unpleasant heat of those eggshell colored lights bathing the top of his head, his shoulders.
Why are you not surprised?
Irie is no longer visible through the mesh, but he is not alone. On the table is a patient. Her pale skin and blue hospital gown seem to glow under the relentless lights. Head down, she stares at her hands resting in her lap; her legs dangle off the side of the table.
"Sixty-two year old woman." A male voice proclaims from...somewhere. "Presents with double vision, uncontrollable tremors in her head and hands."
The owner of the voice fades in, like the ghost of Christmas past, He wears a lab coat that flaps open to reveal a formidable paunch as he scribbles symptoms on a white board.
"She suffered loss of balance, slurred speech. Her first doctor ruled out a stroke, then diagnosed Parkinson's, which he soon changed to MS..."
"Idiot," House murmurs, watching a team of physicians materialize behind Master Chief.
"A second doctor went along with the MS diagnosis, and a third physician told them he had no idea what was wrong..."
"It's not MS." House strolls past the patient, glares at the whiteboard, then switches round on his heel. "The onset was too quick, too severe. Was there an MRI done of the brain?"
"Yes."
"Lesions?"
"No."
"Not MS." Now he was in full diagnostic mode. "Have you tested for Vitamin E deficiency? Encephalitis?"
"Not yet..."
"The engraved invitation's in the mail."
"We...uh."
"You're useless," he grunts. "Get with the program. If you worked for me I'd fire you."
More doctors appear, seeming to float through the blanket of darkness and light. Watching, waiting.
"Do a panel of blood tests, check for unusual antibodies," he tells them all.
The doctors scatter like his team does when he issues a command. Scuffling footfalls fade into the darkness; House doesn't expect to see this particular group of physicians back here anytime soon. He prides himself on being difficult. Most likely--hopefully--he has scared them off.
The patient eyes him beseechingly. He wonders if anyone has actually examined this woman or was she simply shoved into an MRI machine without even being-"
House's eyes widen as the realization slams him upside the head. She's not here. His fingers brush skin that is only air thickening into the shape of her form, mirroring her physiology. His hands press nodes and glands that are probably somewhere far, far away. He can feel her presence, her form but...shit! Doesn't anybody look at what's in front of them? This basic bit of doctoring has been left to him.
Despite the strangeness, he manages to do the exam, motioning for her to remove her thin, grey hospital gown. She barely reacts to his touch but the more he moves his hands over this semi-holographic image, the more detailed are his findings. It seems he is able to discern many things from this Star Trek version of a medical exam.
Closing his eyes, he 'sees' there is a growth in her left breast. This might have something to do with anti-Yo antibodies the doctors will find when they do the tests.
He knows this; it is as much a certainty as his name and gender.
"Paraneoplastic syndrome," he murmurs with his eyes still closed. The patient is experiencing a group of degenerative disorders. They were triggered when the body's immune system mounted a response to a cancerous tumor somewhere inside the body--
--the tumor he 'sees' in her left breast.
He takes one step back, then another. His patient raises her head slightly as if she is waking from a long sleep.
"Get me out of here." His words tremble as they leave his lips. He hates how afraid he is, the feeling that he is in way over his head. It's amazingly, impossibly interesting, yet...he is seriously spooked.
"Thank you for your help, Doctor." The guy with the paunch under his lab coat stares at him from just beyond the lights. "Your participation in this differential was immensely helpful and much appreciated. We hope you will remain in Pleasant Hills and consider becoming a member of the Consortium."
One more step back and the examination room melts away; he is in the office again in the white colonial with the porch and the leaf strewn lawn.
Irie's knowing smile infuriates him. He feels as if he is a specimen under glass, every move studied and scrutinized, analyzed until it has no meaning. Like a word uttered over and over until it is just a series of sounds...
She winks. "Pretty damn cool, eh?"
A thousand smartass responses are considered then discarded.
"Yeah," he mutters, giving in. "It is."