September 18th
Greg wakes slowly to grey morning light. He rolls on his back and puts his arm over his eyes as consciousness seeps in, whether he wants it to or not. With his free hand he checks the other side of the bed. It's empty, which means Roz is in the kitchen to make breakfast. He hates the little jolt of fear that stabs at him when he finds her gone; she gave her word, but other people have done the same and left him anyway.
After a time he throws off the covers and slowly sits up. He gives himself a few minutes to get used to wakefulness. His hand rubs his right thigh, a habit that's never left him. The restlessness has grown stronger, and now and then he gets what Eric described as 'shooting pains', some kind of neural regrowth stimulation, more than likely. The sensation is sharp but not in a bad way, not a spasm or cramp, just that odd feeling of something on the mend . . . His hand rests over the gully of his scar. It's not so deep now, maybe raised up half an inch or so. He's had to put a soft gauze pad over it because the ridges have begun to rub against his jeans, and he doesn't want to risk an infection. Eventually he'll probably need some kind of cosmetic repair or skin graft, but the thought of another surgery on his thigh after the muscle's grown in frightens him. He doesn't want to risk the loss of what he's gained.
Finally he pushes away that line of thought. A shower would feel good, since he aches all over. This damp rainy weather hasn't helped with pain levels. Even Roz has favored her burned arm a bit.
He stays in the hot water a while, and wishes Roz was with him so he could soap up her slender curves and hear her sigh, her thick dark hair sleeked with water. At last he has to get out or risk turning into more of an aging, crippled prune than he already is. He towels off and puts on a tee shirt, sweats and his old bathrobe, the one his wife has threatened to replace several times now. It's in shreds, yeah—holes under the arms and a rip in the hem and the sleeves are worn and frayed, but it's still comfortable and he doesn't want some fluffy terrycloth monstrosity that'll make him look like one of Wilson's girlfriends. Flannel rests lightly on his skin, it keeps him warm, and he has a fondness for ugly plaid.
Slowly he limps into the living room, smells fresh coffee as his stomach growls. He goes to the doorway and peers into the kitchen. Roz has her back to him as she takes something out of the freezer. Hellboy sits on one of the chairs at the table and washes his paw. He sees Greg and jumps down, comes over to say hello. Greg stoops to give the cat a twiddle of the ears in reciprocal greeting. When he straightens Roz stands at the counter and pours batter into the waffle iron. It has raspberries in it. Greg stands there for a moment and watches her. Then he moves forward, passes the coffeemaker where a mug waits for him beside the sugar and creamer, and goes over to the slow cooker. Sure enough, there's what appears to be a batch of soup, just begun to simmer. It's ribollita, which makes sense. Because she's a practical and thrifty cook as well as a good one, Roz will split the two pounds of turkey sausage she bought yesterday at the market. They'll have some for breakfast as well as for tomorrow night's supper. He doesn't care if she doesn't use pork, even though he knows she does it for his health; as long as it tastes good, it doesn't matter to him.
He lifts the lid, though he knows it will earn him a rebuke, and breathes in the fragrance of browned smoked sausage, garlic, basil, rosemary and oregano, and the faint hint of Parmesan from the heel of cheese at the bottom of the pot.
"You keep doing that, it won't get done till midnight," Roz says, but she's not upset, he can tell. In fact he thinks maybe she secretly likes this little ritual; he does, though he'd never admit it. He replaces the lid and ambles over to the stove to stand beside her. He lifts the corner of a waffle.
"Looks good," he says. "Smells even better."
"I stopped by the house yesterday. Sare gave me the last of this year's raspberry crop, and some jam too." So Sarah and Gene's place has become a second home for her as well, which tells him she's worked quite a bit with the resident shrink about what went down a couple of weeks ago. He's done the same. Things are better between the two of them, but there's still a barrier of reserve on her side. He doesn't blame her, it's amazing that she even talks to him; anyone else would have been long gone at this point. But he wants back what they had, the intimacy he destroyed with his idiocy.
Without further comment he moves back to the coffee and pours a mugful, adds in a copious amount of sugar and a hit of cream, and heads to the living room and the piano. Normally he doesn't like to play in front of anyone else, but lately he's tried his luck to see if music will add some weight to his attempt to court his wife.
He sits down, adjusts the seat and plays a trial scale or two, warms his fingers. Then he summons up a tune and starts to play, nothing special. About thirty seconds in he senses something in his right thigh as he uses the sustain pedal—a fluttering sensation, rhythmic, light but definitely there, and nothing he's felt before, or at least not in a very long time. He stutters to a halt, not quite able to believe what's happened. His hand moves down, touches the scar through the fleece and the gauze pad. Then he swallows hard and pumps the pedal. The fluttering comes back, moves in time with his foot as it lifts and falls. The realization reverberates through him like the shock wave of a hard slap. He knows beyond all doubt now it is the contraction of new muscle.
"What is it?" Roz stands in the doorway as she wipes her hands on her apron. When she sees he's holding his thigh, she hurries over and sits beside him. "Are you all right?" she asks, and there is worry in her quiet voice. For answer he takes her hand and places it on the scarred area, moves his foot up and down. After a moment Roz's eyes brighten. Her hand caresses him gently before she leans in and kisses him on the cheek, and this time there is no invisible wall between them. Greg lets out his breath, surprised that he's held it all this time.
"I'm so glad," she says softly, "so glad, amante," and his heart gives a little skip at the familiar endearment that he hasn't heard in days. When her arm slips around his waist, he savors the feel of her closeness, along with the giddy triumph of this new step forward in both respects. He gives her a tender little buss on the lips, riffles through his mental store of music, and settles on something appropriate.
grab your coat and get your hat
leave your worries on the doorstep
just direct your feet
to the sunny side of the street
"Nana always used to sing this," Roz says. She rests her cheek against his shoulder. "Poppi loved it. I didn't think you knew it though."
So he hams it up a little, throws in some riffs here and there, his right foot steady on the sustain pedal, and the new muscle contracts and releases, all the way through to the end.
I used to walk in the shade with my blues on parade
now I'm not afraid, this rover's crossed over
if I never had a cent
I'd be rich as Rockefeller
gold dust at my feet
on the sunny side of the street
When the song is over they kiss, lingering, sweet, urgent.
"Breakfast can wait. Let's take a test drive," Roz whispers against his lips. It's the best thing he's heard in days. Greg closes his eyes, nods once, wills himself not to shake. She takes his hand and they rise to move to the bedroom.
An hour later they reheat everything and it tastes pretty good, though Greg would have eaten it cold and been content to do so. Both he and Roz are cloud-high with afterglow and pure, unreasoning delight; their experiment was a complete success. He's not so foolish as to believe everything's solved on the basis of this one moment in time, but having his woman sitting across from him, a hint of warm laughter in her eyes, her hand touching his, is one among several and yet by no means the least victory he's won this day.
[H]
Sarah had just picked the last of the dill for one final batch of hot garlic pickles when she heard the phone ring in the house. On a sigh she rose, groaned as her legs protested, and made her way to the back door.
She'd just stripped off her gloves when Gene came into the mudroom and handed her the cordless. "Who is it?" she mouthed. He shrugged and left, with a stop along the way to get a beer out of the fridge. Sarah frowned and put the receiver to her ear. "Hello, this is Sarah," she said.
"Doctor Goldman." It took her a moment to place the voice.
"Captain McMurphy. This is . . . unexpected." Sarah winced. "I mean, it's great to hear from you."
"That's good to know, because I'm standing in your town square totally lost." There was a laugh in the older woman's voice. "How do I get to your place?"
"Oh—ah, that's wonderful!" Sarah gave a little hop of excitement. "Not that you're lost, that you're here. Tell you what, it's easier for me to come to you. Give me five minutes. Here's my cell phone number . . ."
Sarah found McMurphy in the village square. She leaned against the hood of an older SUV. Sarah pulled Minnie Lou in next to it, put the truck in park and hopped out. "Captain," she said, hand extended.
"Might as well just call me McMurphy, everyone else does."
"What would you prefer?" Sarah asked. McMurphy gave her an appraising look, a glint of humor in her dark eyes.
"McMurphy's fine. If you call me Colleen I'll think I'm back home for sure." She looked around the square. "Kansas isn't all that much different from this."
"Ahah, country girl." Sarah smiled. "Me too. Oklahoma, in my case."
"I never would have guessed from that accent." They both laughed a little.
"So let me give you the official tour," Sarah said. She faced the post office and turned as she named off the businesses. "Mail, barber, grocery and feed store, pharmacy, Lou's pizza, laundry and dry cleaning, bar, auction house." She laughed. "You've just toured downtown. How about I take you to the clinic and then you can follow me back to our place and get settled in? You've made a hell of a long drive."
They were halfway to their destination when Sarah asked "How long do you plan to stay? You're more than welcome to kip with us, we've got plenty of room."
"Thanks. Just overnight, I have to go back tomorrow." McMurphy looked out the window at the passing scenery. "What brought you here?"
"My husband and I were looking for a place to retire. Through various twists and turns we decided to sell our place in New Jersey and live here year round."
"You both still have active practices?"
"Gene does. Mine's . . . well, not exactly on hiatus," Sarah said. "But close enough to call it good."
"You're working with Doctor House," McMurphy said, and gave Sarah a direct look. "You don't have to confirm or deny that, it's just an observation."
"Ask him yourself," Sarah said with a smile.
"He'll tell me to fuck off."
"You might be surprised." Sarah fought amusement. McMurphy and Greg were more alike in some ways than they knew.
"Do you have any idea how completely insane this looks from my point of view? If I come down here to take this job—and I'm not saying I will—is it worth all the upheaval and more damn cold winters to do it?" McMurphy sighed softly. "Of course you couldn't live in Tuscon or Palm Springs."
Sarah chuckled. "Why don't we check out the clinic before I answer that question."
She had the spare key with her, and a flashlight in case the power was still off. The lights came on however, to reveal an interior under renovation. McMurphy did a slow turn as she took in the fresh drywall and new plaster, the tarps on the floor. "How long until it's up and running?" she asked.
"This part's almost done. We're working on equipment and setting up an in-house lab, since it's not practical to send things out in cold weather when the roads might be impassable." Sarah sat down on a sawhorse. "We have an arrangement with the local medical center to trade basic services if and when necessary."
"From what I read about Doctor House's practice in Princeton, he only works with one patient at a time," McMurphy said. "All this for one person?"
Sarah sensed a test. "He takes on patients who've gone through every other channel," she said. "With the amount of detail and focus each case requires, it's not practical for him to take on more than one patient."
"I noticed he has a certain lack of social skills. That might have something to do with it too," McMurphy said, her tone dry. Sarah tilted her head.
"True, but don't let that lead you to believe he's incapable of compassion or understanding." She looked at the floor. "He feels very deeply. He's just good at hiding it."
McMurphy perched on a ladder and folded her arms. "So why exactly do you want me to work here? I'm presuming you have a pool of potential employees available locally."
"Yes, and if you decide not to take the job I'll go through that pool and all the resumes stacked up by my computer as well," Sarah said, and flinched at the thought. "I think you've got what it takes to work with Greg. His methods are unorthodox, to say the least. He needs someone who can handle the way he performs a differential diagnosis without either freaking out or agreeing with everything he says."
"'Unorthodox', that's one way to put it. He's certifiable," McMurphy said flatly. "I did some research. He's been censured for endangering patients lives, destroying hospital property, alienating fellow doctors . . . He was kicked out of med school twice."
Sarah nodded. "All true."
"And you want me to come up here and run this man's office? I'd end up killing him before the first day was over."
"No, I don't think so," Sarah said, and smiled a little. "I believe you'd enjoy working for him."
McMurphy rolled her eyes. "Shrinks just can't resist analyzing, can they?"
Sarah laughed. "Afraid not. But you know I'm right."
The older woman looked away. "Working with crazy people got me into a lot of trouble back in the day."
"He's not crazy," Sarah said. "He's manipulative, misogynistic, irritable, sarcastic, and a born limit-pusher. But he's rational to a fault when it comes to medical practice, and he knows what he's doing. There's a long line of patients who can attest to all of that because they're alive and relatively healthy thanks to him." She got to her feet. "We can talk this over at the house. You must be hungry and tired after such a long drive. You can follow me to our place and we'll get you set up in a room."
McMurphy tilted her head. Her dark eyes held a glint of amusement. "I can see why he likes you. You take care of people."
"Yes," Sarah said. "Guilty as charged. Aren't you glad?"
"As a matter of fact, yeah." The older woman got to her feet. "I hope you're a good cook too."
They arrived at the house to find Greg's car parked at one end of the drive, an effective block. Sarah rolled her eyes and put Minnie in her usual spot. She guided McMurphy's SUV in beside the truck.
"Great ride," McMurphy said as they passed Barbarella. "House's?"
"Oh yeah," Sarah said dryly, to make the other woman laugh. They went inside. McMurphy stopped in the front hall, took in the living room and Gene draped across the couch as he watched the football game, his sock-clad feet propped on the arm and beer in hand.
"Nice," she said after a few moments.
"Thanks. Have a seat," Sarah said. "Can I get you anything? A soda, beer, glass of wine?"
"Something non-alcoholic would be great," McMurphy said quietly. Sarah nodded.
"Okay." She caught the silent subtext and made no other comment. "Gene, this is Captain Colleen McMurphy. McMurphy, this is my husband Gene Goldman."
Gene went from boneless sprawl to on his feet. "Captain," he said, and extended his hand. "Nice to meet you, ma'am."
McMurphy shook his hand and took Greg's easy chair, something Sarah noted with secret amusement. "Likewise. Don't let me interrupt."
"Eagles were losing anyway," Gene said, and sat down. He turned down the television. "I understand you're here to consider taking the job with House."
McMurphy nodded, brows raised. "'Consider' being the operative word."
"She'll be staying with us tonight," Sarah said. "Why don't you show her to one of the spare bedrooms while I get us something to drink and start supper?" She glanced at McMurphy. "If you don't mind, I'll call Greg and let him know you're here."
"Fine by me." There was a cool assertion in the older woman's tone that spoke volumes about her opinion of Doctor House. She said nothing more, just retrieved her overnight bag and followed Gene up the stairs. Sarah watched her and smiled a little. After a few moments she went to the phone and hit speed-dial.
"Hey," she said when Roz answered. "Come on over for supper. Greg needs to conduct an interview. Captain McMurphy's here."
"The nurse working with the young guys at the VA hospital?"
"That's the one," Sarah said.
"Okay, I'll tell him. We've got good news too," Roz said. She sounded relaxed and happy. "What can I bring?"
"If you have some of Lou's Italian bread, bring it on over," Sarah said. "But just your husband is fine."
"He won't slice up as nice for garlic bread," Roz laughed. "See you in a few."
That's the sound of a satisfied woman, Sarah thought as she ended the call and went into the kitchen. They're working it out, and that's great . . . but I'm still going to make my suggestion.