-16-
"Truth"
Lunch with Cuddy had not been the stress free half hour he had anticipated. It started out well but quickly slid down a slippery slope.
With a chuckle, he told her about the 800 number call and how Getaway Vacations could not possibly have enticed House to fall for their line.
But they knew your name...
Caller ID. All the cool kids have them.
It seemed like more than that, didn't it? Beatrice, the Getaway Vacations gal, seemed to know exactly who you were.
That's what she wanted him to believe. Make him think she was an old friend, a valued acquaintance. Beatrice had a job and did it well.
Cuddy taps her fork against her plate, jolting him from his thoughts. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah." Nodding, he sips his water and reluctantly meets her eyes. "Sure."
"You didn't hear a word I said."
"I-" Her eyes narrow at him and he has the sudden urge to return to his office and stay there until he is less distracted by what's in his head. But he sighs and gives in. "I...guess not."
"I said, I still think he went the casinos and trollops route."
Wilson decides to allow his suspicions to take a back seat for awhile and agree. No sense involving Cuddy in his unusual, somewhat disturbing, mental meanderings.
With speculations out of the way, they can leave everything behind, chat about the innocuous: the weather, a few choice bits of hospital gossip. But as lunchtime nears its end, Wilson can't help confiding in her; with some reticence, he asks her advice. What should he do about Rosa? Emotionally he is growing more distant from her and it isn't something he can shrug off.
She sets her plastic fork beside her half eaten salad. Leaning forward slightly, she asks if Amber is the problem.
"In a way." He doesn't want to talk about Amber. Lately, her ghost has taken to sitting on the edge of his bed at night, watching him sleep. He spies her through half closed lids when he thinks she can't see. But she does. She smiles at him. That's when the overwhelming sense of guilt hits. Maybe he doesn't want to to make this relationship with Rosa work. Maybe it's too soon...
"Maybe it's too soon," Cuddy says. "You gave it the best you could. You need to be honest with her, James. No sense letting her think this is going somewhere, when you know it's not."
He folds his hands on the table and lets out a long breath; his shoulders slump. He is relieved. Cuddy's confirmation of what has been bothering him puts him in a better place emotionally; he feels better than he has for days.
After breathing a few words of thanks, he lifts his head and spies Rosa at the cafeteria entrance. She is in the process of turning away. After a moment she is down the hall and gone.
Wilson meets Cuddy's eyes again. He thinks about House, about the file folder waiting on the desk, about what the rest of the day might bring. But he doesn't think of Rosa at all.
House is glad he found the jacket. It is leather, fleece lined, more like a flack jacket than riding gear. He likes the feel of it, the weight of it on his back. He carries himself differently than he did when he was forced to endure the limp. The jacket enables him to affect the confident swagger he would try for but ultimately fail to achieve when he was crippled.
The woman doesn't seem to notice his approach, as the toes of his sneakers stir the leaves. But the boy is alert. He raises his head, smiles as he rises to his feet. His book thumps against the wooden porch as he lifts his hands over his head. He waves them in an arc, like an ardent fan at a sporting event.
"Welcome!"
House digs his hands into his pocket. His eyes are on the woman who continues to cling to the ropes that secure the tire swing to the metal pole. She licks her lips, her brow creasing in confusion as she gazes at her surroundings, as if she has forgotten where she is.
"This isn't where you live," House says.
Her gaze shifts towards him slowly, cautiously as a smile floats across her lips. "Of course It is." Her voice holds a vague southern twang. "You need to ask questions before you make assumptions."
She seemed younger in the daylight; the night's shadows etch lines in her face, around her eyes and mouth. Her cocoa colored skin looks like dark chocolate cream.
"You were across the street from the bench when I arrived." House takes two steps closer and wraps his fingers around the pole as the woman continues to swing up and back and around. The metal is cold enough to make his palm ache, but he doesn't release his grip. "Now you're here."
"Are you on vacation or are you a new resident?"
"Me first," he says. "You haven't answered my question."
"Welcome! Welcome!" The boy is running back and forth, The force of his footfalls causes his book to fall from the porch and into the dirt and leaves.
"Chas," the woman says quietly. Her tone holds a warning, yet is quiet, lilting. House almost expects her to burst into song; the anticipation causes a shiver to run through him. She seems like the proverbial dream walking. There she goes, moving, floating barefoot across the leaves. The boy slows at her approach, then stops, watching like a boy-king as she kneels before him. His hands are in hers as she speaks to him. He listens, smiles and nods, but his eyes find House and open wide, ensnaring him in a doe-like stare.
"You...haven't answered my question," House says again. He is not about to be put off by how surreal this night has become.
"You'll find out soon enough, if you decide to stick around," she says, watching as the boy retrieves his book and settles in again. "Otherwise what does it matter?"
He takes another tentative step toward her, then stops. "I can't decide if I want to stick around if I don't know where I am."
"You're in Pleasant Hills."
"Shit." He turns on his heel and starts back toward his house.
"Wait."
After one step more, he stops. Force of habit dictates that he look for his cane, If he could lean against it, with a bent knee, hip jutting stance, he could emphasize his impatience, his ire. But he knows it waits for him by the bookshelf, abandoned, yet loyal 'til the end. Nevermind, he thinks. There are other ways. He thrusts his hands into his jacket pockets instead and whips around, throwing the woman a venomous scowl.
"Either talk to me or don't."
"You won't believe me anyway. You'll think you've been drugged, that you're dreaming. They all do." She hefts herself onto the tire swing again and dangles her feet so her toes just brush the leaves. "What's your name?"
"Greg."
"Jayda," she says, smiling over at the boy.
House stands over her, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Tell me," he says softly.
Expelling a long breath, she runs her hands up and down the ropes. "You're dealing with the government. And like all government projects, there is subterfuge, secrets and an end result that might not benefit you at all." With a tilt of her head, she asks, "You've only just arrived?"
"You know that."
"Did you know that four days have passed back there since this morning?" Jayda hitches a thumb over her shoulder.
"No." House shakes his head in disbelief or denial. He can't be certain which.
"It's true. I keep track of these things." Her smile fades as she continues. "Now consider how much you have already been given that you would be reluctant to leave behind."
His throat tightens as he recalls the holographic diagnostics room, the TVs, the games, the guitars.
His mobility.
"They want you for something. That's why you're here. You knocked. They opened the door. Now you're trapped."
"I can leave whenever I want."
"Sure, okay." She nods. "Who told you that?
His throws her an apprehensive look. "Irie."
"Oh, you've met the big guns. Wow. You must really be something special. They don't come out to play unless it's a major dog and pony show." Jayda's eyes twinkle with amusement. "What are you, the savior of the free world?"
"I'm a doctor."
"You must be a damn fine one." Her gaze again flicks over to the boy, who is twirling his hair, immersed in his book. "They'll make you think you're free and clear to do what you want. But it's a sham."
"What sort of poison is frying your gray cells?" House shifts his weight from his left foot to his right. It doesn't hurt. "Booze? Pills? Marijuana? Prescription meds?"
"None of the above." With a haughty quirk of her chin, she smirks, pushes herself back with one leg and swings. "You know that song that says, 'You can check out any time you like but you can never leave'?"
"I'm not-" Confusion creeps in like fog across a lake.
"I'll give you the deep dark secret. Not that you'll remember much of it after tonight." A shadow of worry crosses her features, like a ghost drifting over a sun drenched plain. "This is the government's way of diluting the earthly populace, easing the strain, lightening the load. There are just too many people back there, living longer, crowding each other. Space stations and populating the habitable planets were their first options but it's taking too long to get those things going." Her brow furrows as she continues. "So the geniuses in charge decided about a quarter of a century ago, while dickering around with spaceships and moondust, that shuttling folks off to another dimension might be a quicker alternative."
"Ecstasy? LSD?" House makes an attempt to keep his voice steady. It's not working.
"They want the best and the brightest, the ones who will make these cities thrive." Her laugh holds little trace of humor. "Judging by the swell digs you fell into, they must have hit the jackpot."
"I'm going home," he says. "Tomorrow."
"Think so, huh?"
"Yes."
"Positive thinking is good, but you are going to forget things," Jayda goes on, sliding her gaze toward the boy. He leans against the door, asleep with his book by his side. "They'll mess with your head while you sleep. Before you know it, you're not going to want to go back. Before you know it...you'll wonder why you ever thought to leave."
Already these notions have crept into his head; has he been compromised, had Sarno or Garrett or Irie gotten to him already, placed their fingers neatly inside his gray matter, shifted things around, like mosaic tiles on an expansive off-white wall?
A niggle of fear creeps through his gut. Suddenly everything Jayda has said sounds reasonable and right. "How do you know this?"
"I know," she says, "because I helped put the whole thing together."
Jayda suggests he follow through on his plan, futile as it may be, to head down to the town hall first thing in the morning, tell Sarno to get him out of Pleasant Hills. Those dark eyes flash as she grips his arms, telling him, commanding him to remember her words.
His curiosity is burning, a bright blue flame growing brighter and stronger with each quandary thrown at his feet; he wants to ask Jayda why she is so eager to come to his aid. He is a stranger and she is not the driver of the damn welcome wagon. What happened to turn her away from a project that was at one time important to her? And why hasn't she taken her own advice and gotten out?
She releases him with a shove, as though that flame has singed her too; it seems she is well aware of his thoughts and those questions she is not about to entertain.
House turns, leaves her standing in the yard with the sleeping boy and the gently spinning tire swing.
He returns to his house (he will need to stop thinking of the place as his if he ever hopes to be free of it). Scents of cinnamon and apples and spices fill the rooms. The smells make his mouth water; they are oddly heady, intoxicating, compelling him to make tracks to the kitchen to discover what special treat might be in store.
someone knows you well...how your mind works....what 'gets' you....
On the butcher block table is an apple pie, its crust is sugar drizzled, glazed and browned to perfection, enticing him to move closer. A single slice has been cut just for him: a sumptuous triangle waiting on the sort of delicate blue and white plate Wilson might keep in his cupboard. Beside this rests a silver fork on a linen napkin. Milk in a tall glass completes the scene.
His thumb rubs his forefinger in anticipation of what is sure to be the best piece of pie he has ever eaten. It is too golden, too beautiful to be anything less.
He seats himself in the quiet kitchen, resting his hands on the red and white checkered tablecloth, breathing in time with the slow tick...tick...tick of the wall clock. 7:30. It is only 7:30 but it feels much later. Exhaustion is gradually setting in; he feels like he has been awake for days.
...tick...tick...tick...
His fingers brush the fork just as a gentle hand lights against the nape of his neck.
"I made it just for you." The voice is silky satin in his head.
Something, someone drifts past him. Now there is a physical presence to accompany the throaty declaration. She sits across from him and tilts her head, holds him fast with Stacy's cynical, yet desirous look, her lips part and now she is just west of Cuddysville.
Suddenly he doesn't know what to do.
So she helps him along, leaning forward so her blouse hugs her tighter to accentuate her nipples, the soft roundness of her breasts. After filling his fork with warm crust and apples and sugar, she guides it into his mouth.
It is impossibly delicious, melting like molten sweetness on his tongue. Closing his eyes, he savors the feeling of the syrupy warmth making its languorous path down his alimentary canal, down, down, down to fill him.
He opens his eyes and blinks, feeling like a sleepy child. But he is a man...his body assures him of this as Misha takes his hand and leads him to bed.