-15-
"Surprises"
She decides to surprise him. Dropping in unexpectedly seems like a good way to spice things up, give the relationship a much needed kick in the rear. What they have together is too new to be suffering from this stifling ennui.
Was it her fault? Was she too emotionally demanding? Nathan used to give her that speech when he was immersed in the cold wash of depression. In grief counseling, Rosa was assured that this was not so. The counselors were experts, sure, but how could they know what really went on? Half the time she wasn't sure what was true and what were crumbs of what she wanted to believe.
When James left last night, without even attempting an explanation, she knew something needed to be done to remedy the situation. Her mother taught her how to put a notion in a man's head and let it eat at him like a tapeworm.
Rosa never tried to get at Nathan with subtleties. He was too headstrong to fall for any wily feminine tricks. But James might be more open to what she has planned. Her mother's assertion that a woman always had the upper hand in a relationship is now beginning to make a lot more sense. In the end it will be Rosa's call whether to salvage the relationship or let it moulder and die.
Today will be the test. To set the plan in motion, she started the day by doing something she never does. She called in sick. In a way, it is not a lie. She is sick...at heart.
Not for the first time, she blames Gregory House for her woes, for James's preoccupation. It's like fighting a being from one of Michael's cartoons. A sinister entity with powers of persuasion and seduction far beyond anything her womanly wiles can overcome.
Forcing herself to hum along with the radio, she turns down the road that will lead her to Princeton-Plainsboro.
It is only a few miles from her house to the hospital; a twenty minute drive if she doesn't get bogged down in traffic. Today she gives herself extra time to deal with possible lunchtime gridlock. She bought a new dress for the occasion. A black number, suitable for daywear but allowing just a hint of cleavage to show. It hugs her ass, accentuates her hips. It has become her partner, an ally in wartime.
You're desperate. Do you really need this man to complete you?
She has an inkling that she might, which is not something she is proud of and definitely not something she would admit to her mother.
It hasn't always been this way. In the beginning, when they were both still in counseling, James put forth a solid effort, focusing his attention on her, on them, which made her happy. More often than not she cautiously let herself believe that this relationship might have a chance.
Now James's preoccupation with House was ruining something that started out good and bright and promising. Whatever she had with James was fading fast, hanging on to a cliff edge by its fingernails.
He's poison.
Perhaps this is a sign that she should give up, leave James to wallow in his self-made misery. It is clear he is an enabler, the way he fosters his friend's bad habits. He is not even angry at House for disappearing without a word. He is just filled with worry and an inexplicable sense of guilt.
Something is wrong with that, my dear.
Rosa parks the car in the hospital lot and makes her way to the entrance, aware of the appreciative gazes she receives from a security guard, two doctors in scrubs and an orderly. Men find her attractive. Of course they do. She possesses an exotic sort of beauty, and her walk holds a promise of something more than a quick kiss goodnight. But she has rarely been promiscuous, and wouldn't consider such a lifestyle now when there is a child in her life. No, James should consider himself fortunate she has chosen him. She has chosen him.
As she makes her way toward the elevator, she spies James walking in the opposite direction, an attractive brunette at his side. They are immersed in conversation. Rosa is far enough away where she can observe them without being seen. His companion holds her back straight, her stride is quick and authoritative. Yet she is dressed like a trollop, or a hussy as Rosa's mother might say. Tight pink sweater, tighter black skirt, stiletto heels.
James holds the cafeteria door open for her, laughing at something she said. His shoulders have lost that tension Rosa assumed was part of his make up. His stress has retreated to the place it languishes until Rosa's presence calls it back again.
She wanders nearer to the door and watches through the glass as they buy their lunch (he buys their lunch), then find a table by the window. There they sit, eating, chatting, gazing out the window.
James has never looked this relaxed since she's known him.
Rosa turns on her heel and leaves without looking back.
It is still that 4:05 twilight time when Irie leaves him. Before she goes, she again gives him the option to void the waiver and head back home.
"After that impressive display of Star Trek sick bay meets Medical Center you're trying to get rid of me?"
"No. This is your vacation. If you want to opt out early," She shrugs. "it's up to you."
He considers this, thinks about what is waiting for him in New Jersey before telling her no. He will at least spend the night or what might pass for night around here.
This seems to please her. She gives him a warm smile and takes his hand, telling him to enjoy the house, to look around. Dark corners might yield surprises, distractions. It might seem sinister but he likes the sound of it.
He senses his enthusiasm is not lost on her.
Now Irie is gone. Sarno, Garrett and Misha might have taken off too. He can't be sure but it doesn't matter.
Nothing is real. Nothing to get hung about...
He grabs his cane from where it leans against the bookshelf, twirls it twice as his gaze touches the file folder on his desk.
...sixty two year old woman...
.... Paraneoplastic syndrome...
The medical team just beyond the wall need him. Of course they do.
The differential put him in mind of a dream sequence from a 60's psychological horror flick he had once seen.
Of course it did.
it's all inside yourself...
The Powers That Be were crafty (oh, yes they were); in the beginning they really had him fooled, but now he is convinced that this is a total sham, a jigsaw puzzle made up of oddly shaped pieces of his psyche. Nothing is real. This is simply a dream or hallucination brought on by the deep brain stimulation he underwent almost a year ago. He never had a doubt there would be repercussions from the procedure. Now, at last, they have arrived, hauling their overnight bags, preparing to spend some quality time with him in his Pleasant Hills colonial.
He sighs. He is content. It feels good to have it all figured out, as invigorating as a blast of arctic air after a heat wave. He can deal with this now. Speculation comes easy: he has blacked out in either Princeton-Plainsboro or at home, his mind turning on him, finally deciding to get its own back. In awhile he will awaken, IV needle in his arm, concerned faces looking down at him. "I'm not dying," he will growl, keeping a firm hold on a smile that trembles to be set free.
Now that he's figured it out, this experience might be kind of a kick. Here in Pleasant Hills he can commiserate with those who are products of his imagination, those he dreamed up to help him find his way back.
(click your heels and think there's no place like home)
He runs one hand along the smooth mahogany desk. The wood shines with a deep, rich luster, a sure sign its owner has found success in his chosen profession. Not just anyone gets a desk like this. Also on the desk, set up nicely just for him, is a silver pocket watch with hands that run counter clockwise, an eraser that has the snout of a pig and a sugar cookie shaped like a large economy size Vicodin, wrapped in clear plastic. The note on the wrap suggests he take one before bedtime. He has no problem with that. Who knows what sort of dreams it might bring.
He decides to take a tour of the house, as Irie suggested. Observe, explore. Who knows? It could be a kick.
Upstairs he checks the closets he missed the first time around. He finds suit jackets and jeans on hangers. Nikes stand straight and true in the shadows like soldiers lurking, waiting for the command to charge.
Of course...
Look deeper, he tells himself as he leans in, as his hand reaches through the forest of denim and cotton. His fingers brush the curve of what turns out to be a guitar case waiting for him like a lover in the darkness.
He grips the handle at the same time he is hit with a wave of giddiness. It's all good. Laughter creeps up on him and escapes before he can do anything about it. He pulls the case from its home. It's his now.
A man could get used to this.
Sure, he could. He has a maid, who doubles as a cook; a woman he can ogle, touch every part of her with his eyes and feel comfortable doing so. He has a big old house, a guitar, a mystery, a puzzlement. Is it real or is it...
Wilson is the ice cream man. The thought jolts him, makes him want to forget the comforts and everything sucking him in, and just...get the hell out.
But, hey, there's no pain. His fingers tighten around the crook of the cane he hasn't needed since he arrived. No pain.
He enters his bedroom, which has a slanted ceiling, a king size bed and a cherrywood dresser. A second plasma TV hangs on the wall, a stereo system sits beneath it, metallic black and winking green lights; it is quality stuff. He can tell before even giving it a careful scrutiny that it is top of the line.
Only the best for the new doctor on the block.
By his bed is an open window looking out on the day that is finally, reluctantly giving way to night. Time is moving again. 4:05 has now become, perhaps, 6:00. He seats himself on the edge of the bed, rests the guitar case beside him and opens it to find the six stringed beauty. It is an Ovation, all soft curves, and a sound like a ringin' a bell. He wets his lips and stares at it for a moment, as the breeze wraps itself around him like an embrace, smelling like the dying leaves and the yellow grass, woodsmoke and distant bonfires.
High school and Sandy Edison.
He shivers from the unexpected chill but doesn't move to close the window. Instead he picks up the guitar, strums it experimentally before his fingers set off on their own to find a John Lee Hooker riff.
In the yard next door is the woman he noticed when he arrived: the woman hanging clothes on the line, while her boy cavorted around, shouting a greeting loud enough to rattle window panes.
The woman sits on a tire swing, which twists and turns with the whim of the breeze. Her mouth is set into a small sad smile, her eyes stare at nothing. Her boy sits on the back porch, which is illuminated by the yellow light above the door. His knees are bent, bracing his book. As he reads, two fingers twist and twist a lock of his hair.
They shouldn't be here, House thinks, narrowing his eyes. He is part suspicious, part bemused. They live on that street by the green bench, which is, if he remembers correctly, on the other side of town. He thinks about the long trek he made to the town hall, after which he and Sarno took that lengthy stroll to Merriweather Street and this house.
His fingers pick out an old folk tune: "500 Miles" or "Where Have All the Flowers Gone". He's not sure which. At this point he's just along for the musical ride. His thoughts are all over the place, scattering like the leaves in the woman's yard.
Time passes, again; he is not sure how much. The temperature has dropped. Now it's cold enough to make him think about finding a jacket, since knows he will be going out to visit the woman on the swing.
He trades his guitar for his cane and heads off down the hall, stopping long enough to take a look in the closet. Reaching into the darkness again, he finds a black leather riding jacket embellished with silver studs on the cuffs and up the sides. Usually he refrains from wearing such ostentatious outerwear, but this somehow seems ju-ust right. He leans his cane against the wall, shrugs into the jacket and is halfway down the stairs before he realizes he's left the cane behind. After a moment's hesitation, he takes the remaining stairs two at a time, and leaves the house without it.