Fic: Family, Friends and Other Complications, part seven
Title: Family, Friends and Other Complications
Chapter Seven: When Days Were Bad
Author: Namaste
Rating: Gen, strong House and Wilson friendship, PG
Summary: Wilson and Blythe learn something about how bad things can get, and an idea of how bad things were.
Previous chapters are here:
When Blythe Met Wilson
When Greg Got Sick
When Greg Went Home
When Stacy Left
When John and Blythe Moved
When Blythe Didn’t Meet Julie
When Days Were Bad
Wilson stood in the doorway and watched as House eased himself down onto the bed -- one hand on the mattress, the other on his cane, gripping it so tightly that the cane itself shook from the tension.
One of the interns had tracked down Wilson during a meeting, motioning to him from just outside the room and handed him a message from House’s department head.
He’d found House stretched out on the couch in the infectious diseases lounge. He’d been there for more than an hour, and had been pacing off and on before that, O’Neal had said.
“I told him he should go home, take some time.” O’Neal had never been happy with House’s work ethic before the infarction. After it, he’d been eager to adjust House’s schedule, to find him a new, ergonomic office chair, to let him come in late, to leave early, to make everything easier.
“He’s probably afraid I’ll go all ADA on his ass,” House had grumbled.
Wilson hadn’t argued the point. House was probably right. O’Neal knew his regulations, from the number of days they could keep a medicare patient in the ICU to the when he should bring in the CDC. One time Wilson spotted him reading the weight limit restrictions for the elevator, then counting the number of people inside it. Sometimes Wilson thought O’Neal expected House to quit and he was just biding his time until that day, and making sure that there were witnesses that he had done everything according to the book.
Wilson had been surprised to see House at work this morning at all. He’d been tempted to pull the covers up over his own head this morning at the sound of thunder, the flash of lightning. The morning weather report warned that temperatures would only drop more. Snow was expected before the weekend. When Wilson had stepped outside he felt the damp and chill soak through to his bones within moments. He couldn’t imagine how deeply it had cut into House.
Now he knew.
Once they were at House’s place, he bypassed the couch, headed straight for the bed.
“You have to call her,” House said. He winced as he used his left foot to force the sneaker off of his right foot, not even bothering to untie the laces. He used the tip of his cane to shove the left shoe off from his heel.
“You could call her yourself,” Wilson said, nodding toward the phone on the night stand.
House shook his head, still looking down at feet. “I can’t,” he said. He reached down with both hands to support his right leg up onto the bed. He held his breath for a moment, then glanced up at Wilson. “I don’t need your pity,” he said, his voice growing louder. “I just need you to make a damn call.”
Wilson tried to clear his face of whatever expression he’d had that had set House off. He ignored the anger he’d heard in House’s voice, figuring House was more mad at himself than at Wilson.
He checked his watch and calculated the distance between Quantico and Princeton. “I’ll call,” he said, “but they must be more than halfway here by now,” Wilson said. The Colonel had insisted on driving, rather than taking the train. He always did.
“Control issues,” House mumbled one time.
Wilson knew he’d be driving the same route as always, and that he’d probably left at the same time and would be driving the same speed. It was easy to figure out where they’d be by now.
“If they’re only halfway here, then they only have halfway to go back.” House said.
“She won’t want to go home,” Wilson pointed out. Blythe had been looking forward to spending her birthday with her son. The last time they’d talked, she told Wilson she was bringing dessert.
“Greg loves carrot cake,” she’d said.
He’d laughed and pointed out that it was her birthday, and she should be the one getting the cake, not making it. She’d laughed with him. “Well I love carrot cake too,” she’d said.
House was hunched forward on the bed now, both hands pushing down on his right thigh, working at the muscle. Wilson hung his coat on the door, then sat on the edge of the bed. He hesitated for just a moment, and House moved his hands away and lay back, allowing Wilson to work at the gnarled mass of muscle and scar tissue.
“I don’t care if she doesn’t like it,” he said.
“Yes you do,” Wilson said softly.
House took a short, sharp breath and held it. Wilson paused in the massage for a minute, then continued when House nodded.
“Your Mom has seen you in worse shape than this,” Wilson pointed out.
House put one arm across his eyes. “It’s not her,” he said, softly. “I can’t deal with him. Not now. Not today.”
Wilson could feel the muscle beneath his fingers fighting his touch, coiling into tighter circles rather than loosening beneath his hands. He pressed down harder.
“What did he do to you anyway?”
House didn’t say anything at first. He never did. But sometimes -- just for a moment -- Wilson caught a haunted look in House’s eyes at the mention of his father that left Wilson shaken and questioning every meeting he’d ever had with the man.
“Nothing,” House finally said. “Nothing important.”
Wilson nodded and concentrated on the feeling of the tissue beneath his fingers, trying to focus instead on something solid, something he could deal with. But then he sighed and stopped.
“This isn’t working,” he said. “Want to try the heating pad? Or ice?”
“No ice,” House said. “Heat.”
Wilson nodded, though House wasn’t looking at him. He went to the dresser that used to hold Stacy’s things. Now the drawers held lotions and pills: laxatives, sleeping pills, vitamins, over the counter pain relievers and half-used bottles of prescription remedies. He held up a bottle of Oxycotin, left over from a failed attempt to get House off of the Vicodin.
“You should throw these out,” he said, rattling the half-dozen pills still in the container.
“I’m saving them for a special occasion,” House said.
Wilson put them back and grabbed the heating pad.
“What should I tell her when I call?” Wilson plugged an extension cord into the wall socket, then snaked the cord past the lamp, around the guitar that had migrated to the bedroom from the living room, under the bed and finally up onto the mattress. He plugged the heating pad into it.
“Tell her anything,” House said. “Tell her I’ve got a case.”
“You want me to lie to your mother?”
“Tell her I’m sick, that won’t be a lie.”
Wilson placed the heating pad on House’s leg and let House wrap it around his thigh.
“Right,” Wilson said. “I tell her you’re sick, and she’s going to tell your father to drive faster.”
House grunted.
Wilson handed him the power switch and headed for the door. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said, and closed the door behind him.
Wilson stood in the middle of the living room, trying to think of what he could say, trying to forget how happy Blythe had been at the thought of her birthday plans. He walked across to the windows, and watched the rain come down. He pulled out his cell phone, dialed Blythe’s number.
The phone rang twice, three times. Wilson could picture her fumbling for the phone in her purse.
“Hello, James,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
“What makes you think something’s wrong?”
“Why else would you call now?”
Wilson smiled, thinking of how House always said he couldn’t lie to her. A gust of wind blew the rain hard against the windows. Maybe he didn’t have to lie. “The weather’s pretty nasty up here,” he said. “I thought I’d check and see how you were doing.”
“We’re about forty miles north of Baltimore,” she said. “How bad is it there?”
“No snow yet, but we may have sleet soon.” Not a lie, Wilson told himself. “Maybe,” he said, “maybe you should delay the trip for a few days.”
He could hear Blythe passing the word to her husband, the mumble of his voice in the background. “We’ll be fine,” she finally said. “John grew up in Ohio, and he says he knows how to drive in snow.” Wilson heard the mumble again, the Blythe, speaking to the Colonel. “Yes, dear, I believe you.”
Wilson sighed. “I’d hate to see you get stuck in a hotel,” he said.
There was no response for a few moments. “We’ve spent time in hotels before,” Blythe finally said. She paused a moment. “James, what’s going on? What’s wrong?”
Wilson shook his head. The truth then. “He’s having a bad day,” he said. “I don’t think he’s going to be up for going out for dinner tonight.”
She was quiet again. “We don’t have to go out,” she said, her voice quieter. Wilson could hear her disappointment as clearly as if she was in the same room. “How bad?”
Wilson turned, looked over at the closed bedroom door. “Pretty bad,” he said.
“And he doesn’t want to see me?”
Wilson closed his eyes, wished he hadn’t heard the hurt in her voice, but he had and he could picture her now, her eyes soft and the smile disappearing from her face. He should have told House to make his own call. “It’s not that,” he said. “It’s just ... maybe tomorrow. Maybe in a few hours he’ll be feeling better.”
He heard her conferring with the Colonel again. He couldn’t pick up the words, just the mix of their voices, hers still soft, his stronger, more emphatic. “We’re going to keep heading up,” Blythe finally said. “We’ll head to the hotel first, then play it by ear.”
Wilson nodded. It wasn’t what House wanted, but was better than nothing. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll let Greg know.”
“I’ll call you later,” Blythe said. “Goodbye, James.”
Wilson hung up and turned back to the window, wincing as another gust rattled the rain against the glass.
House made sure Wilson was there before his parents arrived. Wilson called Julie, and apologized for missing dinner. She told him she understood, then said she might go out with some friends since he wasn’t going to be there.
“Sounds good,” he’d said. “You should enjoy yourself.” He hung up and turned to House.
“You’re on defense,” House said. He was sitting on the couch, his right leg propped up on the coffee table.
“Man-to-man or zone defense?”
“Man-to-man,” House said. “You’ve got my Dad.”
“I kind of figured that one out,” Wilson said.
Wilson got up to answer the knock at the door. He heard the rattle of House’s pill bottle, and waited just long enough for House to pocket the vial again. “Ready?”
House nodded.
Wilson swung open the door. Blythe was standing there, holding a Tupperware cake carrier. It looked just like the one that his own mother had at home. “Happy Birthday,” he said, and leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek.
The Colonel walked in behind her, carrying a paper bag. Wilson took it from him. “How was the drive?” He peeked inside the bag, recognizing the take-out containers from a Chinese restaurant he’d taken Blythe to a few times.
“Not that bad,” the Colonel said. “Nothing compared to the winters in Cleveland. That was real snow.”
Wilson nodded. The Colonel stopped to take off his coat. Blythe had walked straight over to House and was leaning over him now, speaking softly. He couldn’t make out the words, but he saw House smile a little. Blythe put the cake on the cushion next to him.
“That’s for everyone now,” she said. “You have to share it.”
“Aw, Mom,” House said, using the same teasing tone that Blythe had used.
Blythe handed her coat to her husband and he hung it up, then closed the closet door. Wilson took the food to the kitchen. Blythe followed him. He put the bag on the butcher block and started removing the containers.
“So,” he heard the Colonel’s voice from the living room. “You’re a little sore today?”
“A little,” House said, his voice dark.
Blythe touched Wilson’s arm. “I’ve got this,” she said. “You should make yourself comfortable.” She nodded toward the living room. Wilson put down the box he’d been holding and walked into the living room. The Colonel was standing at the end of the coffee table, looking down at his son. House was staring at the windows, his jaw clenched tight.
“One of my roommates in college was from Cleveland,” Wilson said. He walked around the back of the couch, coming around the end to stand near the Colonel. “Every time I bitched about the weather, he used to tell me the snow was worse there than in Montreal.”
The Colonel turned away from House, looked at Wilson. He nodded. “Lake effect,” he said. “One year when I was a kid, we had drifts up to the top of the telephone poles.”
Wilson sat on the edge of the couch, on the far end from House. “You must have had a lot of snow days when you were a kid,” he said.
The Colonel looked around, then settled into the closest chair to him, which was also the furthest from House. “Not really,” he said. “Not like kids have these days. I swear down in Virginia they cancel the schools at the first snowflake, even on the base.”
“Well, they’re not used to it down there, are they?”
The Colonel leaned back, started talking about bad drivers. Wilson let him.
House didn’t eat much. Wilson wondered how bad the nausea was today, and if it was due more to the pain, or to the extra Vicodin House had been popping all afternoon. House’s plate was still more than half filled when Blythe took it away. She held it in front of him for a moment.
“I’m saving room for cake,” House said.
Blythe looked at him for a moment, then at Wilson before she took the plate away.
House leaned back against the cushions, one hand over his eyes. Wilson watched him for a moment, then turned to see the Colonel studying him. Wilson wondered if the Colonel was judging his son, finding something lacking.
Wilson stood, took a step toward the Colonel, blocking his view of House. “Maybe you can do me a favor,” he said.
The Colonel looked up at him and smiled. “Sure thing,” he said. “What is it?”
Wilson glanced toward House. “I gave Greg a ride home. We left his car over at the hospital. Can you head over there with me and drive it back here?”
“Now?”
“If you don’t mind,” Wilson said. “We can have our cake when we get back.” He turned toward House. “If you don’t mind,” he said.
House nodded. “Sounds like a great plan,” he said.
“What does?” Blythe came out of the kitchen. The Colonel stood and handed her his plate.
“Wilson and I are going to go get Greg’s car,” he said. “Save us some cake.” He kissed her on the cheek, then went to the closet.
Wilson looked at House. “You need anything else while we’re out?” House shook his head, and Wilson grabbed his own coat. “We’ll be back soon,” he said.
Wilson hunched down into his coat as he stepped outside into the cold. The rain had stopped, but the wind still seemed to blow right through him. The Colonel didn’t even seem to notice.
Wilson unlocked his car and climbed in, the Colonel only a step behind. He started the car, waited for the Colonel to buckle his seat belt, then pulled away from the curb.
“Blythe told me that Greg wasn’t taking PT anymore,” the Colonel said.
“No.” Wilson found himself bracing for whatever the Colonel was going to say, and wondering why he always agreed to run interference. “He didn’t think it was doing any good.”
“He’s paying for it now, isn’t he?”
Wilson counted to three before he answered. “He’s in pain all the time,” he said. “It’s nerve damage. No amount of physical therapy will help that.”
“He was always afraid of hard work,” the Colonel said, ignoring Wilson. “You had to push him.” He nodded, as if he had just convinced himself that he was right. “Anyone pushing him now?”
“He pushes himself,” Wilson said. He didn’t say what he wanted to say, to ask the Colonel every question House refused to answer. He could wait until House was ready to talk about it, if he ever was.
They passed a few blocks in silence, the Colonel staring out the window, Wilson gripping the steering wheel tight.
“Other people live with pain too,” the Colonel finally said.
Wilson didn’t say anything, just willed the stop light at the intersection to stay green. It didn’t.
“I don’t know why Greg thinks his pain is any different,” the Colonel said. “You’d think he’d be grateful that he’s alive, not bitching that his leg hurts.”
“It’s his pain,” Wilson said, his jaw tight. “And he’s in pain all the time. Pain that you and I don’t understand. Some days it’s just bad. Other days it’s unbelievable. Days like today?” He shook his head.
The light turned green and he sped off through the intersection. He could see the lights of PPTH a few blocks away.
The Colonel was quiet for the next block. When he spoke, his voice was softer than Wilson had ever heard before, quieter than he’d thought the man was capable of. “I know he’s in pain,” he said. “I hate seeing him like that. I hate seeing anyone like that. But for God’s sake, why can’t he stop thinking about pain and just be happy he’s alive?” He was silent for a moment, as Wilson pulled into the parking lot. “I am,” he finally said.
-------------------
Blythe had tried to sit quietly with Greg in the living room, but he had barely responded to her questions. He sat there, holding himself stiffly, as if the slightest movement might set something off. She was reminded of the days he’d sit silently at the dining room table, only speaking when John asked him a question.
“You can go and lay down, if you want,” she told him. “You don’t have to keep me entertained.”
“I’m fine,” he said. He gave her a slight smile, but it only lasted a few seconds before the smile disappeared.
Blythe got up. “I’ll just get the cake ready, then,” she said. She paused as she passed him, and placed her hand lightly on his shoulder. He cocked his head toward her. “I’m fine,” he said again, making another attempt at the smile. It held longer this time, but wasn’t there when she turned to look back at him from the kitchen.
She uncovered the cake, feeling useless. She wanted to help him, to soothe him somehow, but it had been a long time since Greg had let her to kiss whatever hurt and make it better.
Before he’d even started school John had convinced Greg that big boys didn’t cry. Greg would bite his lip, hold himself still and refuse to even admit he was hurting. At least not when it was anything important.
“Don’t baby him, Blythe,” John would say.
She trusted that he knew what he was doing. He came from a family of boys -- of men -- strong, good, military men. She only had sisters.
So Blythe believed him. She tried not to interfere, and instead she’d head into the kitchen. Make something sweet, something Greg loved, giving him comfort the only way he’d take it -- in the form of cookies or cakes or a favorite soup or just a simple peanut butter sandwich.
More than thirty years later, she thought to herself, and she was still falling into the same patterns. She cut the cake, and put four slices on four plates. It wasn’t enough, Blythe thought, but she didn’t know what else she should do.
She looked out into the living room, saw Greg sitting there alone. Always alone.
No, she remembered. Not alone. Not always. James always seemed to know what he needed, and how to help him. She’d seen the way he’d intervened with John tonight, had seen the way he could even sometimes convince Greg to do something he didn’t want to do -- either with a soft voice, or a joke, or just by asking.
James could help her learn what to do.
Greg heard the noise first, footsteps outside the door. She saw him turn toward the door as it opened and James and John came in.
“It’s starting to snow,” John said.
James was quiet, just taking their coats, hanging them up. Blythe saw him look at Greg, share some silent thought with him, saw them both nod.
“Maybe we better get to our dessert then, and head over to the hotel before things get bad,” Blythe said.
“It’s not that bad,” John said, but he took the plate she offered him.
James took one in each hand, handed one to Greg, then sat on the end of the couch again, the same spot he’d claimed before.
“We parked your car in the garage,” James told Greg. “You want your keys?”
Greg shook his head. “I’ll get them later,” he said. He took small bites of his cake, eating slowly. Blythe was used to seeing him bolt down his desserts, then ask for more. But she reminded herself that was when he was boy, before all of this happened.
John finished his cake, then excused himself and went into the bathroom. Blythe took her chance and headed into the kitchen, asking James to bring the other plates with him.
“It’s wonderful cake, Blythe, I’m glad you brought it,” he said, and put the plates in the sink. He turned to go back into the living room, but Blythe called his name, and put her hand on his arm.
“I need you to do something for me,” she said, keeping her voice soft so Greg wouldn’t hear. “I need to know what I can do for Greg. I need to know how I can help him.”
James tilted his head slightly and leaned down toward her. He looked confused. “You already do,” he said. “You help him all the time.”
“I don’t know enough. Not like you do. I can’t tell ....” she looked down for a moment, then up at James. “All I know is that every time I see him, he’s in pain.” She paused for a moment, tried to gather her thoughts again. “He’s in pain and I can’t help him. I know I can’t take his pain away from him, but I’d like to know more about what I can do. What he’ll let me do.”
James shook his head slightly. “I don’t think I know anything special,” he said, but Blythe nodded.
“Yes you do,” she said, “and I’d like to know more.” Blythe said, then smiled. “Don’t worry. I don’t expect you to tell me everything tonight. We’ve both got time.”
They turned as they heard the bathroom door opening, and John’s footsteps in the living room. James looked back at her and smiled.
“All right,” he said, and put a hand on hers. “We’ll talk later.”
Blythe nodded. “I’d like that.”
Chapter Seven: When Days Were Bad
Author: Namaste
Rating: Gen, strong House and Wilson friendship, PG
Summary: Wilson and Blythe learn something about how bad things can get, and an idea of how bad things were.
Previous chapters are here:
When Blythe Met Wilson
When Greg Got Sick
When Greg Went Home
When Stacy Left
When John and Blythe Moved
When Blythe Didn’t Meet Julie
When Days Were Bad
Wilson stood in the doorway and watched as House eased himself down onto the bed -- one hand on the mattress, the other on his cane, gripping it so tightly that the cane itself shook from the tension.
One of the interns had tracked down Wilson during a meeting, motioning to him from just outside the room and handed him a message from House’s department head.
He’d found House stretched out on the couch in the infectious diseases lounge. He’d been there for more than an hour, and had been pacing off and on before that, O’Neal had said.
“I told him he should go home, take some time.” O’Neal had never been happy with House’s work ethic before the infarction. After it, he’d been eager to adjust House’s schedule, to find him a new, ergonomic office chair, to let him come in late, to leave early, to make everything easier.
“He’s probably afraid I’ll go all ADA on his ass,” House had grumbled.
Wilson hadn’t argued the point. House was probably right. O’Neal knew his regulations, from the number of days they could keep a medicare patient in the ICU to the when he should bring in the CDC. One time Wilson spotted him reading the weight limit restrictions for the elevator, then counting the number of people inside it. Sometimes Wilson thought O’Neal expected House to quit and he was just biding his time until that day, and making sure that there were witnesses that he had done everything according to the book.
Wilson had been surprised to see House at work this morning at all. He’d been tempted to pull the covers up over his own head this morning at the sound of thunder, the flash of lightning. The morning weather report warned that temperatures would only drop more. Snow was expected before the weekend. When Wilson had stepped outside he felt the damp and chill soak through to his bones within moments. He couldn’t imagine how deeply it had cut into House.
Now he knew.
Once they were at House’s place, he bypassed the couch, headed straight for the bed.
“You have to call her,” House said. He winced as he used his left foot to force the sneaker off of his right foot, not even bothering to untie the laces. He used the tip of his cane to shove the left shoe off from his heel.
“You could call her yourself,” Wilson said, nodding toward the phone on the night stand.
House shook his head, still looking down at feet. “I can’t,” he said. He reached down with both hands to support his right leg up onto the bed. He held his breath for a moment, then glanced up at Wilson. “I don’t need your pity,” he said, his voice growing louder. “I just need you to make a damn call.”
Wilson tried to clear his face of whatever expression he’d had that had set House off. He ignored the anger he’d heard in House’s voice, figuring House was more mad at himself than at Wilson.
He checked his watch and calculated the distance between Quantico and Princeton. “I’ll call,” he said, “but they must be more than halfway here by now,” Wilson said. The Colonel had insisted on driving, rather than taking the train. He always did.
“Control issues,” House mumbled one time.
Wilson knew he’d be driving the same route as always, and that he’d probably left at the same time and would be driving the same speed. It was easy to figure out where they’d be by now.
“If they’re only halfway here, then they only have halfway to go back.” House said.
“She won’t want to go home,” Wilson pointed out. Blythe had been looking forward to spending her birthday with her son. The last time they’d talked, she told Wilson she was bringing dessert.
“Greg loves carrot cake,” she’d said.
He’d laughed and pointed out that it was her birthday, and she should be the one getting the cake, not making it. She’d laughed with him. “Well I love carrot cake too,” she’d said.
House was hunched forward on the bed now, both hands pushing down on his right thigh, working at the muscle. Wilson hung his coat on the door, then sat on the edge of the bed. He hesitated for just a moment, and House moved his hands away and lay back, allowing Wilson to work at the gnarled mass of muscle and scar tissue.
“I don’t care if she doesn’t like it,” he said.
“Yes you do,” Wilson said softly.
House took a short, sharp breath and held it. Wilson paused in the massage for a minute, then continued when House nodded.
“Your Mom has seen you in worse shape than this,” Wilson pointed out.
House put one arm across his eyes. “It’s not her,” he said, softly. “I can’t deal with him. Not now. Not today.”
Wilson could feel the muscle beneath his fingers fighting his touch, coiling into tighter circles rather than loosening beneath his hands. He pressed down harder.
“What did he do to you anyway?”
House didn’t say anything at first. He never did. But sometimes -- just for a moment -- Wilson caught a haunted look in House’s eyes at the mention of his father that left Wilson shaken and questioning every meeting he’d ever had with the man.
“Nothing,” House finally said. “Nothing important.”
Wilson nodded and concentrated on the feeling of the tissue beneath his fingers, trying to focus instead on something solid, something he could deal with. But then he sighed and stopped.
“This isn’t working,” he said. “Want to try the heating pad? Or ice?”
“No ice,” House said. “Heat.”
Wilson nodded, though House wasn’t looking at him. He went to the dresser that used to hold Stacy’s things. Now the drawers held lotions and pills: laxatives, sleeping pills, vitamins, over the counter pain relievers and half-used bottles of prescription remedies. He held up a bottle of Oxycotin, left over from a failed attempt to get House off of the Vicodin.
“You should throw these out,” he said, rattling the half-dozen pills still in the container.
“I’m saving them for a special occasion,” House said.
Wilson put them back and grabbed the heating pad.
“What should I tell her when I call?” Wilson plugged an extension cord into the wall socket, then snaked the cord past the lamp, around the guitar that had migrated to the bedroom from the living room, under the bed and finally up onto the mattress. He plugged the heating pad into it.
“Tell her anything,” House said. “Tell her I’ve got a case.”
“You want me to lie to your mother?”
“Tell her I’m sick, that won’t be a lie.”
Wilson placed the heating pad on House’s leg and let House wrap it around his thigh.
“Right,” Wilson said. “I tell her you’re sick, and she’s going to tell your father to drive faster.”
House grunted.
Wilson handed him the power switch and headed for the door. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said, and closed the door behind him.
Wilson stood in the middle of the living room, trying to think of what he could say, trying to forget how happy Blythe had been at the thought of her birthday plans. He walked across to the windows, and watched the rain come down. He pulled out his cell phone, dialed Blythe’s number.
The phone rang twice, three times. Wilson could picture her fumbling for the phone in her purse.
“Hello, James,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
“What makes you think something’s wrong?”
“Why else would you call now?”
Wilson smiled, thinking of how House always said he couldn’t lie to her. A gust of wind blew the rain hard against the windows. Maybe he didn’t have to lie. “The weather’s pretty nasty up here,” he said. “I thought I’d check and see how you were doing.”
“We’re about forty miles north of Baltimore,” she said. “How bad is it there?”
“No snow yet, but we may have sleet soon.” Not a lie, Wilson told himself. “Maybe,” he said, “maybe you should delay the trip for a few days.”
He could hear Blythe passing the word to her husband, the mumble of his voice in the background. “We’ll be fine,” she finally said. “John grew up in Ohio, and he says he knows how to drive in snow.” Wilson heard the mumble again, the Blythe, speaking to the Colonel. “Yes, dear, I believe you.”
Wilson sighed. “I’d hate to see you get stuck in a hotel,” he said.
There was no response for a few moments. “We’ve spent time in hotels before,” Blythe finally said. She paused a moment. “James, what’s going on? What’s wrong?”
Wilson shook his head. The truth then. “He’s having a bad day,” he said. “I don’t think he’s going to be up for going out for dinner tonight.”
She was quiet again. “We don’t have to go out,” she said, her voice quieter. Wilson could hear her disappointment as clearly as if she was in the same room. “How bad?”
Wilson turned, looked over at the closed bedroom door. “Pretty bad,” he said.
“And he doesn’t want to see me?”
Wilson closed his eyes, wished he hadn’t heard the hurt in her voice, but he had and he could picture her now, her eyes soft and the smile disappearing from her face. He should have told House to make his own call. “It’s not that,” he said. “It’s just ... maybe tomorrow. Maybe in a few hours he’ll be feeling better.”
He heard her conferring with the Colonel again. He couldn’t pick up the words, just the mix of their voices, hers still soft, his stronger, more emphatic. “We’re going to keep heading up,” Blythe finally said. “We’ll head to the hotel first, then play it by ear.”
Wilson nodded. It wasn’t what House wanted, but was better than nothing. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll let Greg know.”
“I’ll call you later,” Blythe said. “Goodbye, James.”
Wilson hung up and turned back to the window, wincing as another gust rattled the rain against the glass.
House made sure Wilson was there before his parents arrived. Wilson called Julie, and apologized for missing dinner. She told him she understood, then said she might go out with some friends since he wasn’t going to be there.
“Sounds good,” he’d said. “You should enjoy yourself.” He hung up and turned to House.
“You’re on defense,” House said. He was sitting on the couch, his right leg propped up on the coffee table.
“Man-to-man or zone defense?”
“Man-to-man,” House said. “You’ve got my Dad.”
“I kind of figured that one out,” Wilson said.
Wilson got up to answer the knock at the door. He heard the rattle of House’s pill bottle, and waited just long enough for House to pocket the vial again. “Ready?”
House nodded.
Wilson swung open the door. Blythe was standing there, holding a Tupperware cake carrier. It looked just like the one that his own mother had at home. “Happy Birthday,” he said, and leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek.
The Colonel walked in behind her, carrying a paper bag. Wilson took it from him. “How was the drive?” He peeked inside the bag, recognizing the take-out containers from a Chinese restaurant he’d taken Blythe to a few times.
“Not that bad,” the Colonel said. “Nothing compared to the winters in Cleveland. That was real snow.”
Wilson nodded. The Colonel stopped to take off his coat. Blythe had walked straight over to House and was leaning over him now, speaking softly. He couldn’t make out the words, but he saw House smile a little. Blythe put the cake on the cushion next to him.
“That’s for everyone now,” she said. “You have to share it.”
“Aw, Mom,” House said, using the same teasing tone that Blythe had used.
Blythe handed her coat to her husband and he hung it up, then closed the closet door. Wilson took the food to the kitchen. Blythe followed him. He put the bag on the butcher block and started removing the containers.
“So,” he heard the Colonel’s voice from the living room. “You’re a little sore today?”
“A little,” House said, his voice dark.
Blythe touched Wilson’s arm. “I’ve got this,” she said. “You should make yourself comfortable.” She nodded toward the living room. Wilson put down the box he’d been holding and walked into the living room. The Colonel was standing at the end of the coffee table, looking down at his son. House was staring at the windows, his jaw clenched tight.
“One of my roommates in college was from Cleveland,” Wilson said. He walked around the back of the couch, coming around the end to stand near the Colonel. “Every time I bitched about the weather, he used to tell me the snow was worse there than in Montreal.”
The Colonel turned away from House, looked at Wilson. He nodded. “Lake effect,” he said. “One year when I was a kid, we had drifts up to the top of the telephone poles.”
Wilson sat on the edge of the couch, on the far end from House. “You must have had a lot of snow days when you were a kid,” he said.
The Colonel looked around, then settled into the closest chair to him, which was also the furthest from House. “Not really,” he said. “Not like kids have these days. I swear down in Virginia they cancel the schools at the first snowflake, even on the base.”
“Well, they’re not used to it down there, are they?”
The Colonel leaned back, started talking about bad drivers. Wilson let him.
House didn’t eat much. Wilson wondered how bad the nausea was today, and if it was due more to the pain, or to the extra Vicodin House had been popping all afternoon. House’s plate was still more than half filled when Blythe took it away. She held it in front of him for a moment.
“I’m saving room for cake,” House said.
Blythe looked at him for a moment, then at Wilson before she took the plate away.
House leaned back against the cushions, one hand over his eyes. Wilson watched him for a moment, then turned to see the Colonel studying him. Wilson wondered if the Colonel was judging his son, finding something lacking.
Wilson stood, took a step toward the Colonel, blocking his view of House. “Maybe you can do me a favor,” he said.
The Colonel looked up at him and smiled. “Sure thing,” he said. “What is it?”
Wilson glanced toward House. “I gave Greg a ride home. We left his car over at the hospital. Can you head over there with me and drive it back here?”
“Now?”
“If you don’t mind,” Wilson said. “We can have our cake when we get back.” He turned toward House. “If you don’t mind,” he said.
House nodded. “Sounds like a great plan,” he said.
“What does?” Blythe came out of the kitchen. The Colonel stood and handed her his plate.
“Wilson and I are going to go get Greg’s car,” he said. “Save us some cake.” He kissed her on the cheek, then went to the closet.
Wilson looked at House. “You need anything else while we’re out?” House shook his head, and Wilson grabbed his own coat. “We’ll be back soon,” he said.
Wilson hunched down into his coat as he stepped outside into the cold. The rain had stopped, but the wind still seemed to blow right through him. The Colonel didn’t even seem to notice.
Wilson unlocked his car and climbed in, the Colonel only a step behind. He started the car, waited for the Colonel to buckle his seat belt, then pulled away from the curb.
“Blythe told me that Greg wasn’t taking PT anymore,” the Colonel said.
“No.” Wilson found himself bracing for whatever the Colonel was going to say, and wondering why he always agreed to run interference. “He didn’t think it was doing any good.”
“He’s paying for it now, isn’t he?”
Wilson counted to three before he answered. “He’s in pain all the time,” he said. “It’s nerve damage. No amount of physical therapy will help that.”
“He was always afraid of hard work,” the Colonel said, ignoring Wilson. “You had to push him.” He nodded, as if he had just convinced himself that he was right. “Anyone pushing him now?”
“He pushes himself,” Wilson said. He didn’t say what he wanted to say, to ask the Colonel every question House refused to answer. He could wait until House was ready to talk about it, if he ever was.
They passed a few blocks in silence, the Colonel staring out the window, Wilson gripping the steering wheel tight.
“Other people live with pain too,” the Colonel finally said.
Wilson didn’t say anything, just willed the stop light at the intersection to stay green. It didn’t.
“I don’t know why Greg thinks his pain is any different,” the Colonel said. “You’d think he’d be grateful that he’s alive, not bitching that his leg hurts.”
“It’s his pain,” Wilson said, his jaw tight. “And he’s in pain all the time. Pain that you and I don’t understand. Some days it’s just bad. Other days it’s unbelievable. Days like today?” He shook his head.
The light turned green and he sped off through the intersection. He could see the lights of PPTH a few blocks away.
The Colonel was quiet for the next block. When he spoke, his voice was softer than Wilson had ever heard before, quieter than he’d thought the man was capable of. “I know he’s in pain,” he said. “I hate seeing him like that. I hate seeing anyone like that. But for God’s sake, why can’t he stop thinking about pain and just be happy he’s alive?” He was silent for a moment, as Wilson pulled into the parking lot. “I am,” he finally said.
-------------------
Blythe had tried to sit quietly with Greg in the living room, but he had barely responded to her questions. He sat there, holding himself stiffly, as if the slightest movement might set something off. She was reminded of the days he’d sit silently at the dining room table, only speaking when John asked him a question.
“You can go and lay down, if you want,” she told him. “You don’t have to keep me entertained.”
“I’m fine,” he said. He gave her a slight smile, but it only lasted a few seconds before the smile disappeared.
Blythe got up. “I’ll just get the cake ready, then,” she said. She paused as she passed him, and placed her hand lightly on his shoulder. He cocked his head toward her. “I’m fine,” he said again, making another attempt at the smile. It held longer this time, but wasn’t there when she turned to look back at him from the kitchen.
She uncovered the cake, feeling useless. She wanted to help him, to soothe him somehow, but it had been a long time since Greg had let her to kiss whatever hurt and make it better.
Before he’d even started school John had convinced Greg that big boys didn’t cry. Greg would bite his lip, hold himself still and refuse to even admit he was hurting. At least not when it was anything important.
“Don’t baby him, Blythe,” John would say.
She trusted that he knew what he was doing. He came from a family of boys -- of men -- strong, good, military men. She only had sisters.
So Blythe believed him. She tried not to interfere, and instead she’d head into the kitchen. Make something sweet, something Greg loved, giving him comfort the only way he’d take it -- in the form of cookies or cakes or a favorite soup or just a simple peanut butter sandwich.
More than thirty years later, she thought to herself, and she was still falling into the same patterns. She cut the cake, and put four slices on four plates. It wasn’t enough, Blythe thought, but she didn’t know what else she should do.
She looked out into the living room, saw Greg sitting there alone. Always alone.
No, she remembered. Not alone. Not always. James always seemed to know what he needed, and how to help him. She’d seen the way he’d intervened with John tonight, had seen the way he could even sometimes convince Greg to do something he didn’t want to do -- either with a soft voice, or a joke, or just by asking.
James could help her learn what to do.
Greg heard the noise first, footsteps outside the door. She saw him turn toward the door as it opened and James and John came in.
“It’s starting to snow,” John said.
James was quiet, just taking their coats, hanging them up. Blythe saw him look at Greg, share some silent thought with him, saw them both nod.
“Maybe we better get to our dessert then, and head over to the hotel before things get bad,” Blythe said.
“It’s not that bad,” John said, but he took the plate she offered him.
James took one in each hand, handed one to Greg, then sat on the end of the couch again, the same spot he’d claimed before.
“We parked your car in the garage,” James told Greg. “You want your keys?”
Greg shook his head. “I’ll get them later,” he said. He took small bites of his cake, eating slowly. Blythe was used to seeing him bolt down his desserts, then ask for more. But she reminded herself that was when he was boy, before all of this happened.
John finished his cake, then excused himself and went into the bathroom. Blythe took her chance and headed into the kitchen, asking James to bring the other plates with him.
“It’s wonderful cake, Blythe, I’m glad you brought it,” he said, and put the plates in the sink. He turned to go back into the living room, but Blythe called his name, and put her hand on his arm.
“I need you to do something for me,” she said, keeping her voice soft so Greg wouldn’t hear. “I need to know what I can do for Greg. I need to know how I can help him.”
James tilted his head slightly and leaned down toward her. He looked confused. “You already do,” he said. “You help him all the time.”
“I don’t know enough. Not like you do. I can’t tell ....” she looked down for a moment, then up at James. “All I know is that every time I see him, he’s in pain.” She paused for a moment, tried to gather her thoughts again. “He’s in pain and I can’t help him. I know I can’t take his pain away from him, but I’d like to know more about what I can do. What he’ll let me do.”
James shook his head slightly. “I don’t think I know anything special,” he said, but Blythe nodded.
“Yes you do,” she said, “and I’d like to know more.” Blythe said, then smiled. “Don’t worry. I don’t expect you to tell me everything tonight. We’ve both got time.”
They turned as they heard the bathroom door opening, and John’s footsteps in the living room. James looked back at her and smiled.
“All right,” he said, and put a hand on hers. “We’ll talk later.”
Blythe nodded. “I’d like that.”