Chapter 15

"Time Passes: The 'Mad" is Going Away"

MY EYES FLUTTER OPEN JUST AS DAWN IS BREAKING. BEYOND MY BEDROOM WINDOW THE SKY IS TURNING PINK. I LIE STILL TO WATCH AND LISTEN. THE WINDOW IS UP AN INCH OR SO FROM LAST NIGHT AND THERE IS JUST ENOUGH BREEZE TO STIR THE STALE AIR AROUND AND LET IN THE SOUNDS OF BIRDSONG AND THE FRAGRANT AROMA OF NATURE TAKING A SHOWER. I HAVE DRIFTED TO CONSCIOUSNESS JUST IN TIME TO ENJOY IT.

THERE COMES THE A SUBTLETY OF MAPLE LEAVES BEING TAPPED GENTLY BY RAINDROPS, AND AN ILLUSION OF NEW BLADES OF GRASS REACHING UP TOWARD THE SKY. EVERY EAGER BIRD IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD IS NOISILY CELEBRATING.

THE EARTH GIVES OFF A BREATH OF FRESHNESS THAT NO MAN-MADE FRAGRANCE CAN MATCH. TURNING ONTO MY SIDE, I LOOK OUT MY SECOND-STORY WINDOW AT THE WAY THE TREES SEEM TO TREMBLE WITH JOY IN THE RAIN AND DOING A FESTIVE DANCE TO THE LOW DRUMBEAT OF THE DROPLETS ON THE LEAVES.

EVEN ON THIS TIRED SIDE OF TOWN WHERE THERE IS LITTLE TO BE SEEN OF BEAUTY, THE TWO TREES OUTSIDE MY APARTMENT BETWEEN SIDEWALK AND STREET, ARE A RARE GIFT. SOMEHOW PASSED BY WHEN BULLDOZERS RAZED THE REST, THEY CELEBRATE THEIR SURVIVAL BY ENTWINING THEIR BOUGHS AND BRUSHING AGAINST ONE ANOTHER LIKE LOVERS CELEBRATING THE NEW DAY. I WATCH CLOSELY, WAKE SLOWLY AND PREPARE TO LAY FEET ON LINOLEUM.

FROM THE TINY KITCHEN ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE FLAT I HEAR THE CLOCK TIMER CLICK ON AND THE FIRST SOUNDS OF THE COFFEE-BREWING PROCESS. I COULD LIE HERE AND LANGUISH FOR HOURS, WALKING THROUGH SOME ROUGH SPOTS IN MY MIND … USING A MENTAL RAKE TO SMOOTH SOME OF THEM OUT … BUT IT'S TIME TO GET READY FOR WORK.

IT'S EARLY, BUT THERE ARE THINGS TO DO, PLACES TO GO AND PEOPLE TO SEE. ANOTHER DAY OF BUSINESS AS USUAL.

THE TIME FOR RECONNOITERING IS LATER …

Six-thirty a.m.

I sit at the tiny table in the tiny kitchen, letting my eyes wander over my tiny surroundings. It's not much. Purposely.

I gave up the loft; that huge, pretentious, barn-size collection of opulence and affectation that I purchased for spite, in order to accommodate House and his leg and his precarious state of mind,

and whom I then kicked out to accommodate my first ex-wife … only to have her leave me … again!

I was trying to be the hero; the savior; the Galahad … and succeeded only in becoming a pariah and a demanding demagogue. When I took a long, hard look at myself, I decided I need a massive shot of humility. I sold the loft and just about everything in it … came across town and rented this little hole in the wall. Humility times fifty!

I traded down to the bare minimum to avoid distraction. I'm still not sure that it's working. Sometimes the resentment still tries to wedge its way in. House is gone and Sam is gone, and I'm finding it very hard to face myself and what I've become. I was looking for happiness and got the opposite.

All my personal stuff is in storage and this flat is sparsely furnished. That might be cheating-by-omission, but I need things to be simple for a while. This place has no items from Lord & Taylor, or Gorham or Lay-Z-Boy at my fingertips.

There is a tiny kitchen table pushed against the wall. It has leaves that pull out to make it bigger, but if I do that, I can't open the refrigerator door. Two chairs at the table: one at each end. If there are more than two people in here at once, it feels absurdly crowded.

The fridge is apartment size. I can stand against it and rest my chin on top if I want. I could also bend my knees a little and sit on the table at the same time. I tried it once and found it ridiculous. I keep a tiny microwave atop the fridge. The gas stove has three burners and an oven about the size of the washbowl in the bathroom. I keep a couple of pots in the oven to save space.

Like House used to do, except my pots are clean!

There's a sink; small and rectangular, flanked on the right by a drain board that's attached to a work counter about three feet long. I keep a cutting board on top of it, along with a toaster and a can opener. Cupboards over the fridge and sink are narrow, but offer enough space to store a few canned goods and a couple dishes and bowls. I prepare simple meals and eat a lot of canned soup. There's a big lidded plastic trash can under the sink, because cheap food generates a lot of garbage. I visit a couple of neighborhood greasy spoons when I don't want to eat here. Sometimes I get hungry for something that's not smooshed up in a can or frozen into a brick that turns to mush when you heat it.

Once a week I go across town to meet up with Chris and Eric and Sandy at the 'Boar and Bull'. Once in a while Robert tags along. We all go by first names now, and they call me 'James'. The food is good, and the atmosphere lively, but not insane. We mostly talk shop because we have no family commitments. Sometimes Chris mentions his two little girls who are both over four years old now. Robert often updates us on 'the woman of the week' … and Sandy matches him with 'man of the week'. This practice usually gives us all a good laugh.

The former "House of House" never comes up …

None of us mentions the names of "Cameron" or "Cuddy" either. Some things are best left alone. We all realize a parting of the ways will come between the five of us sooner or later … probably sooner than later. Chris and Robert are already looking for positions elsewhere. Eric is on 'hold' for now, but he will leave also if something promising turns up. And Sandy … well, Sandy is fully qualified to work with any doctor that happens to be there. She's been my right-hand person for almost eight years, and she knows I would like to get the hell out of Dodge if I can. She has encouraged me to that end, but for now I slog along in the same position and keep an eye out … and I sniff around for any news of House … but so far he has remained elusive. I miss him …

After these small excursions I always get in my car and drive directly back to my little hole-in-the-wall. I park as close as possible and return to the big brick apartment building on the corner. I climb the stairs, walk back the dingy hallway and arrive at my front door. Nothing about the place is welcoming. One apartment is just like all the others. I unlock the door, step inside and flip on the light. I lay my key ring on the end table in the corner.

My living room holds a small couch, a chair, and another end table with a 1950s lava lamp on it. There's a 13-inch analog TV on a rickety wire stand. It's not plugged in. I don't know if it works or not, and I'm not even curious. There's no room to set up a PC, so I keep my laptop in its locked case behind the couch.

The flat is good enough for now. I spend most of my time at work anyhow, and I'm not sure if I want to stay in New Jersey or start over again somewhere else. I've found that all I really need is a bed, a shower, a toilet, and a place to crash after work. I have the bonuses of Maple trees out front and an automatic coffee maker that delivers a potent brew to take to work with me every morning.

My imagination longs for new vistas to explore, but my consciousness still slogs through the quagmire of the past. It's been two years since I've seen House.

Last March when I made that run at Hunchback Hill, the excursion did exactly zero to purge my skewered outlook on life. It left me with multiple scratches and gouges to my traumatized muscles and had me limping around for days. Sore knees and blisters on my heels … no thanks … never again.

I did it to purge House and his crazy, destructive lifestyle from my conscious memory, but all it did was bring the persistent feelings of regret even closer. Added to that, I was wearing his damn clothing! I have since chucked them all. His memory is just going to have to fade with time. Like a dim, hoary, painted ad fades from the side of a weathered old barn, leaving only a shadowy image you can barely see anymore …

Someday I will move on. Someday I will do some necessary poking around and look for a small clinic in need of a very good, very thorough oncologist. Until then I'll stay right here where I am and try to leave all the residual confusion behind me. Making a new start by slogging along in the same old rut doesn't make much sense, but so far I seem unable to gather the resources to get things turned around.

Dating and carousing for female company has become unattractive and futile. I've had enough of that for awhile after the dismal failure with Sam the second time around. Friends and colleagues are safer to deal with, and I've found that the years I spent in the unending quest for a perfect relationship ended when Amber died, and anything less is more bother than it's worth. It also costs more than I'm willing to pay … and I don't necessarily mean in money.

Nowadays I spend a lot of time by myself. I'm trying to figure out the person I've become over time, through a bad combination of circumstances and stupid choices. I have to stop trying to define myself by the glitter of the woman hanging off my arm. The ones who are my own age often have voracious appetites … like salivating wolves …

*Give me nice things! I want to be seen with you at expensive restaurants and theatres. Lavish me with candy and flowers! Seduce me with beautiful jewelry. Buy me a Ferrari!*

Who the hell needs that? Especially since I work for a living. I'm quickly becoming one of those middle-aged men whose good looks are fading … but still have money for the spending.

*… and all the Wolves KNOW!*

Sometimes while shaving in the morning, I stare at my reflection. The physical changes tell me that no one will ever call me "Boy Wonder" again. Crows' feet plough furrows at the corners of my eyes and mouth. My hair is becoming dull. The boyish charm has diminished to middle-age paucity. There are grey streaks widening at my temples, and no one tells me they make me look 'distinguished'. My eyes have hollow spaces that did not exist before, and my skin is sallow; almost pasty. I'm galloping toward my fifties … and it shows.

I long for the happy-go-lucky days at McGill. Years before I began the practice of getting married over and over again. Carefree weekends in Montreal. Sailing on the St. Lawrence on Sunday afternoons and navigating that majestic waterway, enjoying the sunlit view of Mount Royal.

College classmates; Joe Ferguson, Ardais Verengi-Degas, Dick Dickenson and me … out girl-watching on the street corners of Ottawa and getting tipsy at their noisy, friendly pubs. It's all ancient history now. Where in the world have the years gone?

I want to go back to a time before the rest of my life began, and I don't want to turn into the scoundrel I've become. But I have no choice, I guess. I have to deal with it.

I sigh and stop the sojourn into daydreams with effort.

I gather my coffee, my keys and my jacket and step out the door into the hallway that leads to the stairsteps. I lock the door behind me and test the doorknob. No elevator here. It's dingy in this narrow passageway, lit only with dim wall sconces. I make my way forward to the stairs descending to the ground floor and the vestibule with the filthy plate-glass-paneled door that opens onto the street.

My car is down the block, too far for me to keep an eye on it from the apartment. This is the industrial side of town, always vulnerable to break-ins and robberies. Newer cars sometimes turn up stripped or missing. I'm heavily insured, but I always breathe a sigh of relief when I see the Volvo still there in the same condition I left it. One of these days my luck will probably run out, and I'll have to file a claim. I know it as well as I know I've been too long procrastinating at the thought of selling it and buying some old clunker a lot less interesting to chop shops and thieves.

But there it sits … still pristine. I fumble with the coffee cup and the keys. I put on my jacket, press the lock release and hit the servo that starts the engine. This sweet car has only 23,000 miles on it, a very desirable prize for the right midnight cowboy. I need to get rid of it until I've worked through all my self-made complications and move into another life.

I open the console and stand the coffee cup in the holder. When it stops sloshing and threatening to spill over, I put the car in gear and pull out onto the street. Traffic is heavy. People are heading for work.

People like me …

I parked in the underground garage, got out, took the last swig of coffee and hit the lock button on the remote. The horn wailed like someone was squeezing a baby pig. Most of the reserved parking spaces were still empty and my footsteps echoed loudly through the cavernous space.

I remembered the countless times I'd stopped by House's apartment to bring him to work when his leg was too painful for him to drive. I liked to be in early, and he would bitch that he had to get up early also if he wanted a ride. Most of those times I didn't give him any slack or any consideration for the fact that it was always painful for him even to get dressed … let alone be ready to go when I arrived out front. The sounds in this big garage at those times echoed loudly in the empty space: both of us in modified syncopation due to his lameness. I didn't give him any slack at those times either, although I knew he struggled to keep up with me. I always considered him my best friend, but sometimes I also thought of him as an inconvenience, and I'm sure he knew it.

The strange thing was that he never complained or asked me to slow down. I was always testing him and he knew that too. What amazed me was the fact that he would rather have cut off his damned leg and hopped after me than admit he was having difficulty, or was in too much pain to keep up the pace.

To this day he's never mentioned a word about the inhuman manner in which I treated him over the years. He has played dirty tricks on me: baited me, sabotaged my office on countless occasions, stole my food, and even poured Sacrete into my toilet.

He has never done anything that would hurt me physically … except stand and watch as I fell down a set of steps in a drunken state.

I've done far worse to him. I originated the scheme that tricked him into giving up Vicodin for a week in exchange for getting out of clinic duty for a month. Cuddy relished seeing him go through withdrawal, but it was me that had to watch while he tortured himself in overwhelming pain, working on a difficult case.

I hurt for him when I saw what he did to his hand to override the leg pain, and it was me who taped him up with adhesive tape so he could 'whack it against the wall' if the leg flared up again. When it was over, I still harassed him for being an addict. Remembering that week, I'm still ashamed of myself for allowing any of it to happen.

I gave him a hard time for not staying in rehab … the night before Christmas when his desperation drove him to steal medication prescribed for a dying patient. I could not understand why he screamed at me to : "FUCK OFF!" I was not always a party to his struggles against the pain because he would not allow me to be. I didn't understand until much later what it cost him to get up in the morning, get himself to work and struggle to make it through the day …

Would I have cut him some slack even if I had "got it" then? I turn it over and over in my head, and ultimately? I just don't know.

God, how I wish he were here so I can tell him … without actually telling him … how sorry I am.

My anger with the person he was … has melted away and left me lonely and regretful and so ashamed of myself I don't know what to do. I can't tell him "I apologize …" if he is not around to hear me say the words …

I took the elevator to the fourth floor and walked back the hallway toward my office, passing the Diagnostics suite on the way. It is dark. Eric and Robert aren't in yet, and there's no sign of Chris or any of the latest batch of newbies.

It's raining again, but I hardly notice. My thoughts keep returning to a man I may never see again. I must find him and try to make amends.

Sandy pokes her head around the corner and smiles. "Good morning, Dr. Wilson," she says. Her flawless 'work formality' is back.

I nod and keep walking …

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