August 12th
"Doctor Goldman wants to meet you in the yard," the orderly says. He looms over House like a shadow. It's okay though, this guy's actually one of the few decent staff in this pit of doom.
"It's her day off," Greg points out.
"I dunno 'bout days off," the orderly says-a lie if there ever was one, but it's a nice line anyway. "Come on, it beats makin' them stupid baskets in OT."
True enough. Greg shuffles to the door and follows the Shadow outside.
It's early but already warm and sticky, the harbinger of yet another miserable day of oppressive heat and humidity. The House whisperer indeed waits for him, perched on a picnic table. She's clad in worn jeans, a sage green camisole with a thin white cardigan over it, and a cheap pair of flip-flops-as unlike her usual somber office camouflage as it's possible to get, outside of stark naked. Too skinny for that, he thinks. Nice rack though. Atop her curls is a black Stetson, battered and well broken-in. As he approaches, she tips it back in a careless gesture she's undoubtedly used a thousand times, to reveal a pale face with substantial dark smudges under her eyes. At her side is a small cooler. Greg stops a few feet away. "Nice hat," he says.
"Took it right off a cowboy's head," she says. "Paid a shot of tequila and a kiss for it."
"So you're a cheap date. Good to know." He can just see her in some honky-tonk in East Bumfuck, where she'd snatched that thing right off Jesse James's noggin. "You look like hell," he says. To his surprise, she grins at him. He realizes she is absolutely sodden with fatigue, but not at all concerned about it. The knowledge puts him on guard.
"She thinks she understands you now," Amber whispers in his ear. "You can have all kinds of fun with that assumption."
"Damn, that's a shame 'cause I feel great." The subtle twang he's always noticed in the doctor's quiet voice is more pronounced, most likely because she's tired. "Take a load off." She pats the table top. "Had breakfast yet?"
He stays where he is, though it hurts like hell to stand in one place for too long. "You've been keeping all hours working on that stupid notebook."
"Yeah." She leans back a bit. "You threw me a girlie pitch," she says, and looks off into the distance. The word 'pitch' comes out in two brief, liquid syllables: pih-yitch. She doesn't seem pissed off about his deception.
"How much of it did everyone figure out?" he asks, interested despite himself. For answer she opens the cooler. Inside, packed in ice, are two pint containers. She offers him one along with a plastic spoon. He limps to her, takes it, removes the lid, peers inside. "Thirteen decoded one of the better pages," he says after a moment, and digs in. The rich, roasted-caramel taste of hazelnut ice cream coats his tongue. He savors that first cascade of flavor; it's the best part of the whole experience. Slowly he sits on the bench seat. "What kind of a doctor are you, giving wack jobs ice cream for breakfast?" he says. She licks her spoon.
"The good kind," she says, and digs out another enormous bite. She takes her time to enjoy it before she speaks again. "It wasn't bullshit."
He turns his head to look at her, incredulous. "It was total bullshit!"
"No way, son. I got three degrees in BS," she says. "You're a rank amateur at shovelin' shit." The word 'shit' also has two syllables: shih-yit.
"Your food handler's license doesn't count," he says. She laughs. It's the first time he's heard her laugh, and it's a pure, sweet sound of real delight. Something in it eases his heart. He pushes the knowledge away.
"Like hell it doesn't," she says. "Those damn things are harder to get than college degrees." They are silent for a while, as they eat ice cream in what has become an almost companionable silence.
"So," he says when his pint is empty, "what's with the hick shtick?"
"You showed me yours," she says. "Now I'm showin' you mine." She sets aside her ice cream and stretches out her arm, slowly pushes up the sleeve of her thin sweater. On her forearm is a tattoo-a cartouche. Just above it are over a dozen scars, parallel horizontal incisions about three inches long, some with clean edges, some ragged and choked with excess tissue. He stares at them, shocked into silence. Their ugliness is made worse because they desecrate the silken, creamy skin of a beautiful woman; they speak of unendurable pain and futile attempts to make it stop. He lowers his gaze, not sure what to do. Her past misery speaks to him in ways he cannot bear to think of.
"Maat-Ka-Re," he says finally. "In the cartouche. That's Hatshepsut."
"Her prenomen, yes. I think of her as the original Queen of Hearts," she says, and lowers her arm. She doesn't cover it though, just rests it on her thigh. "A strong woman who knew who and what she was. And what she wanted."
"Did the cutting help?" He already knows the answer, but wants to hear what she will say.
"For a while. At least the ones I made did." Her voice is quiet, neutral in tone. He holds his breath as what she tells him breaks into his mind like a gunshot. Someone deliberately cut her. Horror and fury fill him but he remains silent, struggles to push away his own memories of pain and helplessness.
"Anything works, for a time," she says now. "Then I found out who and what I really am and what I want, and most days that's enough." She picks up her pint of ice cream, stares into the half-empty container, sets it aside. "I can work with you, if you want me to."
"I don't know what I want."
"Yes, you do." Her voice is gentle, firm, inexorable. "Yes you do."
"So, you've decided to fix me," he says under his breath, his words harsh with the bitter resentment he cannot hide. She turns to look at him. Under the wide black brim of the Stetson her sea-green eyes are serious, intent.
"No," she says. "You choose healing for yourself. And you choose what you heal. There's a big difference." She holds his gaze. "And anyway, who says you need fixin'?"
Greg flinches at the words, remembers when someone else said them. That's two women who've told him they'll take him as he is. They must be insane. All he ever had to offer was his ability to find the truth, and now even that is gone. "What use are you then?" he says, loud enough to startle a nearby crow into flight.
"I can help you. If you'll let me," she says. He stares at her.
"You think because you read that stupid joke of a journal, because you've gone through whatever you've gone through-you think you know anything about me?" He pushes away from the table, hurls the empty pint and spoon away.
"I don't know jack shit about you," she says. "But I'm willing to listen, if you'll allow it." He sees her pull something out of her purse. She hesitates before she brings forth the object; a small gesture, but very telling. The something is a notebook. Not the Obvious Joke, this is a different one, smaller and more compact, an artist's sketchbook. She holds it out to him. He doesn't take it.
"You really did keep a journal?" he says, and laughs. It's an ugly, cruel bray, full of ridicule. "How stupid are you! And now you're actually going to let me read it?"
"Of course," she says. Suddenly he's angry with her. This has to be some sort of trick. That little hesitation tells him despite her reassurances she's afraid of what he'll do with the information she offers, which puts him in a bind. As much as he wants to break her down just for shits and giggles, another part of him doesn't want to hurt her. She's been through enough. He knows which side will win, though.
"Watch out," Amber says with malicious satisfaction. "She's trying to set her hook. Don't let her reel you in."
"You know I'll use anything in there as ammunition," he says. "Anything. I'll rip you to shreds just for fun-you know that!"
"I'd expect nothing less." she says, and now she's smiling. He scrubs his fingers through his hair in frustration.
"But why?" he shouts at her. Off in a corner of the yard he sees the Shadow stub out his cigarette and start toward them. Goldman looks at the orderly, shakes her head. He stops, goes back to the corner. Greg glares at her, outraged that this skinny little woman holds that much power over him.
"I made you a promise," she says, and tilts her head a little when he groans. "You're a tough act to follow, you know. You're a helluva lot smarter than me, that's for sure. But I know a few things you don't. And that's good enough to go on, if you want to."
"What if I don't?" he says, as his frustration pushes him to impulse. "What if I tell you to fuck off?"
"Then I'll leave," she says. "And you can do whatever it is you've been doin' to this point. Which hasn't worked out too well, if we judge by available evidence."
That's it, then. She's laid it out so he cannot ignore the truth of his situation. There is nothing for it except to take her journal. "Thanks," she says when it is in his hands. He rolls his eyes.
"You won't be so happy later," he says. "But it's your funeral."
She hops off the table and picks up his pint container and spoon, places them in the cooler along with what's left of her own treat. "My husband wants to work with you on pain management," she says. Greg can't help the leap of hope her words cause, but he avoids her gaze. "If you agree, he'll see you on Wednesday right after our session." She shakes the sleeve of her sweater down over her arm, a casual gesture that doesn't fool him for a moment. Her display of those scars was anything but casual on her part. He's sure she keeps them hidden most of the time, even in private. "I'll bring your journal back to you."
"Dump it," he says. It means nothing to him; in fact the thought of it is an embarrassment now, a prank that fell flat, though it's given him all the ammunition he needs to get free of this place. Goldman nods, steps forward. To his surprise her small hand comes to rest on his arm, just for a moment. Her touch is light as a butterfly. The gentle pressure offers a curious sense of comfort.
"Remember, you choose. Always," she says. She withdraws her hand and walks away into the hot morning sunshine with no hesitation in her step. She doesn't look back. The Shadow lumbers toward him. It's time to return to the cold, bland confines of the hospital.
For once he can hardly wait to get to his room, however. As the door is locked behind him he sits on the edge of his bed and contemplates his new toy. Anticipation is half the fun, he thinks.
"I can't believe you're falling for this," Amber says. She sits next to him, a sullen look plastered over her features. "You're seven kinds of a moron for buying into her lies. She's manipulating you into thinking you have choices! You know that's complete bullshit!"
He ignores her and opens the notebook. Amber folds her arms in disgust and retreats to a corner, watching him with glowering resentment.
On the inside front cover is a brief note, written in a precise, firm hand.
Okay, I cheated too. But just a little. -S.G.
Below the note is a set of lyrics to the song "Desperado". He pinches the bridge of his nose, in actual physical pain at the sentimentality of her choice. Good God, she really is a hick right down to the bone, he thinks. He starts to read the lines and the song slides into place in his mind, a perfect recording straight from memory. As he listens to the familiar melody, he is astonished to feel the sting of tears against his eyelids.
you know the Queen of Hearts is always your best bet
The Queen of Hearts, he repeats silently, and sees a slender arm scarred with more memories of pain than even he can bear to think about. And to his horror, when his treacherous mind takes him to his last moments with Cuddy, with another human being who cared for him to some extent at least, her hand on his cheek, her eyes dark with worry and fear, fight as he will the sorrow and guilt created by that memory grows. The words on the paper blur and fade as the music plays in his head. The journal slips out of his hand and falls soundlessly to the carpeted floor. Outside his window trees shudder in the dry wind. He stares at them as the lingering taste of hazelnut turns to salt and ashes on his tongue.
you'd better let somebody love you
before it's too late
August 14th
It is well after midnight. The change of shift has come and gone; the deep quiet of the small hours settles over Mayfield. Greg lies atop his bed, too tired to sleep. No, that's not true. He's too wound up to sleep. Wait, that's not right either. Actually he's scared shitless about his meeting with Gene Goldman later this morning.
"Pain management," he says out loud. He hates that phrase with every fiber of his being. It's a euphemism for control, for rationing, deprivation, and a lifetime of misery.
"Wow," Amber says. She sits next to the bed, regards him with amusement. "Riding the association train tonight, I see."
He ignores her and touches Sarah Goldman's journal, next to his pillow. It's ridiculous that it's there, but he's still not quite sure it's real. No point to ask anyone else if the thing exists. In fact he's not certain this entire experience isn't some massive delusion and he's really still in lockdown, tied to the bed and stoned on Ativan. It feels real enough, though.
"Awwwww," Amber says. "Tough not knowing who or what to believe, isn't it? Good thing you've got me."
Greg's read through the journal several times now. It is as simple and truthful as his was complex and duplicitous. Some of the entries are illustrated, little watercolor and ink sketches full of vivid detail, mostly of rural settings; one or two are portraits. She has a good eye, an artist's eye, and plenty of skill. Her work brings her words to life.
She's a native Sooner, one of the few he's met. He remembers Oklahoma as flat, brown and boring. She remembers it as hell. Copious physical and emotional abuse, raped repeatedly by a cousin, addict parents in and out of rehab, in and out of her life from the time of her birth; she'd tried suicide twice and ended up where he is now, all by the age of twelve. Her teenage years were a little better, as her paternal grandmother took her in and gave her a stable home, if nothing else. She graduated from high school and went on to college, a career and eventually, marriage. There is no mention of the three degrees she spoke of in their little tete-a-tete the other morning. He suspects she is unwilling to even appear to boast. Even the recounting of the horrendous details of her early life is factual, without exaggeration or excess emotion. He has the strong sense that she's let go of her history to some extent at least, an astonishing feat of will when he considers how much she's been through. While he envies her freedom, at the same time it causes a sense of dread deep inside, and he can't figure out why.
Greg wishes she hadn't told him about her terrible childhood. He'll use it against her; he knows it'll happen. And selfish bastard that he is, he isn't as worried he'll hurt her as he is that he'll screw up his chances to score some really great drugs from her husband. He needs a fix like babies need mothers milk. One more day without something to kill the pain and I won't be responsible for what happens, he thinks, and knows that's the sound of desperation, nothing more.
"The truth will out," Amber says, solemn and mocking. Greg touches the journal, closes his eyes, and tries once more to relax.
'Desperado,' the Eagles