(A/N: the passage Cuddy reads is taken from Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte.)
July 20th
The restaurant was everything Lisa had known it would be, since Wilson had chosen it: upscale, discreet, efficient, and comfortable. It could have been a Parkway Mcdonald's for all she cared. She waited until the salads were served; then she spoke, and tried hard for a casual air. "How is he?" She speared some frisee with her fork.
"He's . . . he was in restraints when I saw him," Wilson said with obvious reluctance.
"What?" she whispered, stunned. She'd expected a non-committal 'He's fine,' or 'He's working on getting better'. "He-he wasn't dangerous when he-" She stopped, unable to go on.
"Apparently he had some sort of panic attack, tried to break a window." Wilson looked away, but not before Lisa saw the weary sorrow etched in his features.
"Oh god," she said softly. Her throat was tight. "Oh my god, Wilson."
"They have him sedated, but he's . . ." Wilson shook his head. "He's not there. He still says all the things you'd expect, but—he's-he's disappeared inside himself. He told me once when his dad was really pounding him with discipline, he'd go deep in his head to escape. Silent running, he called it."
Silent running . . . She'd heard House use the term once years ago and only as an aside, a joke. She'd never asked him about his family life, his mother and father. He'd always shied away from personal revelations, changed the subject or turned the tables, and she'd let him get away with it because she knew from her own experience some people had rough childhoods or weird parents. Somewhere along the line, House had told her he was a military brat and traveled the world because of his father's career, but she'd presumed any problems were a result of the usual battles caused by a teenager's struggle for independence. And maybe you just didn't want to know, a little voice deep inside whispered.
"Dammit, we may never get him back." Lisa scowled at the server who hovered nearby, ice-water pitcher in hand. "Could we have a little privacy?" she snapped. Wilson gave the girl an apologetic look. Lisa glared at him. No doubt he planned to leave a hefty tip later to make up for her bitchiness. He might even get a phone number . . . She pushed the thought away as mean-spirited and brought her attention back to Wilson.
"Look," he said now, "he's-he's been through some tremendous upheavals over the last few years. The surgery, Stacy, Vogler, Stacy, Foreman, the shooting, Tritter. Held hostage by a patient." He paused. "Amber."
All her anger died. Lisa put her hand over his, an impulsive gesture. Wilson smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "And then Kutner," he went on. "All of that crammed into one year would be a tough course for the healthiest person on the planet, and House is pretty far from that. His emotions have always been . . . brittle, for lack of a better word. Maybe with time he'll find a way to cope besides drugs and denial."
Lisa abandoned all pretense at appetite and set aside her salad, untouched except for the leaf still impaled on her fork. "But what if he doesn't?" Her voice shook. "What if he's broken and no one can help?" It was her worst fear-one that often woke her in the small hours, when worries often showed up despite her best efforts to fend them off with positive thinking and a few minutes of meditation snatched from her morning, before the usual chaos descended.
"We can't think like that." Wilson said. His fingers moved under her touch and clasped her hand gently. "I'm hoping that all he needs is the willpower to heal, sort things out. You'll see. We'll get him back."
They'd returned to the hospital about an hour later, Wilson off to deal with rounds while Lisa sorted her mail, fended off Human Resources, and listened to another complaint from one of the surgeons about bad lighting in the OR suites. The only event which even faintly resembled a bright spot in her day was Foreman's visit. He often came by in the late afternoon to give her a precis of the day's events in Diagnostics, something House would never have bothered to do.
"Things are going pretty well," Foreman said. "The patient should be on her way home in another day or so." He sipped his coffee. Lisa kept a straight face.
"That's very efficient of you," she said. Foreman gave her a dry look.
"I'm not here to brown-nose," he said, and set down his cup. "We need House, there's no question about that . . ."
"But you've got some ideas about running the department and now that House is out of the way, you'd like to have them implemented." She tasted her coffee and wished she'd put in more almond milk to soften the perfume-like taste. Her assistant bought frou-frou flavored decaf crap, and it was nearly undrinkable. She liked Eight O'Clock dark roast, the kind her mom drank, and the brand she'd used all through college and med school.
"House has his method, and that's great. But it's not cost-effective to say the least, and you and I both know that's what the board of directors look at when the fiscal year ends." Foreman clasped his hands on his knee. "I've got some ideas about how to rein in overspending and problems like lawsuits. If you're interested I'll write them up for you."
Lisa nodded. She doubted any of those ideas would be practical. With the insanity House caused, theoretical solutions stood about as much chance as an attempt to suspend a bowling ball with wet toilet paper. Still, it was worth a look-see. "Okay, send them over and I'll check them out."
She made it home on time for once. With Lucas off on a case for an undetermined amount of time, she'd had to hire a nanny. Luz was good with Rachel, willing to do a bit of housework and cook for an adjusted hourly wage, but she couldn't stay much past six as she had her own children to care for. At least it gave Lisa a good excuse to come home at something like a reasonable hour. She struggled with her addiction to control everything, and while most of her attempts to curb micro-management failed right from the start, this one actually worked-even if she did bring work home with her, which made it something of a qualified success. She'd take it anyway. Half a loaf, and all that.
Dinner was uninspired; leftover rice and vegetables, soggy from too much time in the steamer, but with a little tamari splashed over them they at least tasted something like food. She gave Rachel her bottle, held her while she burped and fussed and slowly calmed, then settled her with a sigh of relief.
Two hours later Lisa shut down her computer, leaned back and pushed a lock of hair off her forehead. The fundraiser banquet was ready to go, at least until the caterer called back and objected to three main course selections, instead of two. The janitors had made noises about a strike for higher pay as well, so she'd better expect an ultimatum in the next few days . . . On a sigh she turned off the desk lamp and left the office. She ignored the flash of the voicemail light on her home phone; Arlene was the only one who left messages on the land-line, and Lisa had no desire whatsoever to get into an argument with her mother right before bed, or any other time for that matter. Since Lucas had moved in with her, the acrimonious comments about a lack of commitment and an unfortunate attraction to bad boys had made discussions even more fraught than usual. They'd managed to avoid the minefield of her disastrous, impulsive one-night stand with her father's best friend, something that had happened years ago in med school during a rough time in her life, but it was always there in the background, never forgiven or forgotten. God forbid her mother ever found out about the seven-day marriage. And there was always her sister Julia, perfect in every way: younger, prettier, and most importantly, married with children.
"You can adopt all the orphan babies you want," Arlene informed Lisa once during a particularly nasty squabble, "but they'll never really be yours the way Julia's children are hers. You just remember what I say when you take that trayf birth control and deny me real grandchildren."
On that happy memory Lisa got ready for bed. She peeled off her sweats, pulled a nightgown out of the laundry hamper and made a note to catch up on laundry over the weekend. She removed her makeup, scrubbed her face and slapped on a moisturizer (as if anything less than a thorough sandblast would get rid of the wrinkles and lines that seemed to grow deeper every day), brushed her teeth, and climbed into bed. She was out before her head hit the pillow.
(She's just slipped into sleep after Rachel's settled down for the night when someone knocks at her bedroom window-a quiet knock, so whoever it is must know she has a baby. Wilson is the most likely visitor, but why would he come back after he spent the better part of his afternoon with her? And why show up at the window?
She mutters under her breath as she rises from the bed and moves the curtain aside with some caution. What she sees roots her to the spot with utter shock. Finally she unlocks the sash and pushes it up. House stands outside, backlit by the dim, ambient glow of distant streetlights. She stares at him, he stares at her. She leans forward, reaches out to touch him, lets her hand drop before she makes contact.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, bewildered. He just watches her, his gaze shadowed, fathomless. "House?" she says, uncertain and a little scared now. "Greg?"
He is mute and motionless; only his eyes move. His haunted gaze travels over her face as if he attempts to commit her image to memory. There is a desperate finality in this action that raises the little hairs on the back of her neck. And then he fades away until nothing is left but empty air.)
Lisa woke on a gasp. The room was quiet and dark. A glance at the clock told her only an hour had passed. She lay back and tried to make sense of the dream. It had been a dream, hadn't it?
"Oh, get a grip," she said at last. Her voice was loud in the quiet room. "It sure wasn't your soul mate calling for you across the moors." With a sigh she punched her pillow into shape, then on impulse shifted position, turned on the lamp and opened the top drawer of the nightstand. She pushed aside a half-eaten block of chocolate to pull out the battered book tucked away in a corner. It was one of her very few guilty pleasures; she had owned several copies over the years, all read until they fell apart. She paged through the book slowly until she found the passage her dream had brought to mind.
'Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own; in pain and sickness it would still be dear. Your mind is my treasure, and if it were broken, it would be my treasure still: if you raved, my arms should confine you, and not a strait-waistcoat-your grasp, even in fury, would have a charm for me . . . In your quiet moments you should have no watcher and no nurse but me: and I could hang over you with untiring tenderness, though you gave me no smile in return, and never weary of gazing into your eyes, though they had no longer a ray of recognition for me.'
How maudlin and cheesy, and yet deeply painful it was to read those words and hear them echo within her own heart and mind, though she had no real way to make them true. She always came back to the same question with House, and as usual it remained unanswered. Lisa closed her eyes on tears just as Rachel let out a gusty wail. Relief arrived in a flood, with guilt close behind. Sleep was over for now, but she didn't really care. She slipped the book into its hiding place and turned her back on the empty, silent bedroom.