Fic: Family, Friends and Other Complications, Part 11
Title: Family, Friends and Other Complications
Chapter Eleven: When Greg Went For A Visit
Author: Namaste
Rating: Gen, strong House and Wilson friendship, PG
Summary: It seemed like a good idea to Wilson. It would be just a short visit -- a vacation for House, a few days somewhere warm. House called it an idiotic plan. Wilson should have listened to him.
Find links to previous chapters inside.
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
When Greg Got His Department
When Days Were Good
When John Retired
When Greg Went For A Visit
The first weeks after Greg left for college, Blythe wrote him long letters, filled with stories about where she had gone, about the gossip around the base, about John’s newest assignments. They were the same things they would have talked about in the kitchen while he did his homework at the table, and she cooked dinner.
Every time John saw the letters, he‘d just shake his head. “Don’t expect an answer,” he’d said.
She didn’t. Just writing down the words made her feel closer to Greg, no matter how far away he was. It was enough to know that he read them.
And he did read them.
“Is that the same Katherine who didn’t know the difference between Seoul and Singapore?” Greg had asked during one summer break as Blythe told him about a friend who had a habit of getting lost on the base -- repeating a detail she’d mentioned only in her letters.
Now, far away from him again, she fell into the same routine.
Blythe wrote him from Pensacola that John had taken up golf again, that she had started volunteering at the library’s used book store, that she found fresh strawberries at the farmer’s market.
And he still read them. Sometimes she even got answers -- though not the way she’d expected.
“Greg showed me the photos of your roses,” James wrote in a brief note just after they’d moved. “I’m glad you have room there for your garden.”
It was just a few words, scribbled down on stationery with the hospital’s logo and James’ name inscribed in the upper left corner, but as she read it, she could picture both of them in Greg’s office, or maybe in the cafeteria. She could see Greg handing over the letter and the picture, the two of them laughing about something, Greg making some excuse to get James to pay for lunch.
Blythe could see it all, and for a moment, she felt like she had never left.
She sent James a card for his birthday, then something for his anniversary, then a card when she watched the sailboats one afternoon, and remembered one of his stories of a trip he’d taken a few years ago.
Unlike Greg, James wrote back. It was just a few lines, but he’d pass along some story about Greg that made her smile. It was James who told her that Greg had a new doctor working for him, a young man from Australia.
“I’ve met his father before,” James wrote. “If the son is as brilliant as his father, Greg will be happy.”
It was James who mentioned that Greg had another paper published, and even sent her a copy. She didn’t really understand all of it, but she smiled to see his name there on the front page.
It was James who suggested that she try email. “He spends a lot of time on the computer, sometimes even for work,” he wrote.
He was right. Blythe would send off an email, and nearly half the time, Greg responded. It wasn’t much -- sometimes just a few words in response to a story -- but it seemed to shorten the distance between them even more.
“Dad needs to take golf lessons,” he wrote after she told him that John had lost three balls in the water, “but he’ll never admit it.”
“Wilson says hello,” he wrote one day, and Blythe could imagine James slouched down in a chair across from Greg’s desk.
But sometimes the distance seemed further than she could imagine. Blythe found herself checking the weather forecasts for Princeton as summer slid into fall and she remembered how the ice and snow made Greg’s leg ache even more.
She heard a snatch of Bach one day, and wished she could hear Greg play.
Sometimes, knowing how far apart they really were made her heart ache -- and for more than just Greg.
“Hello?”
Blythe doublechecked the number she had dialed. “James?” she asked, “Is that you?”
“Yeah.” He sounded tired and worn out.
Blythe looked at the clock. It was before ten on a Sunday morning. “What’s wrong?” If James was there, Greg must be sick. Maybe he was hurt again. Maybe that explained the rough sound of James’ voice.
“Nothing’s wrong,” James said.
Maybe Greg had fallen on the ice. Maybe he’d needed some help.
Blythe heard Greg’s voice on the other end of the line, asking who was on the phone, then the soft thumps of the phone as it passed from one hand to another.
“You’re up early,” Greg said.
“Are you all right?” Blythe asked. He sounded good, but he’d tried to fool her before.
“I’m fine.”
“Why is James there? Have you been sick?”
She heard Greg sigh. “Everyone’s fine.”
“But ...”
“Wilson, tell my mother I’m OK.”
“He’s fine, Blythe.” James voice came from somewhere near Greg. It still sounded rough to her ears.
Blythe didn’t say anything for a moment and tried to decide whether to believe her son or her instincts.
“Wilson’s just here because he was too drunk to drive home last night,” Greg finally said.
“House,” James groaned.
“Of course he decided to get drunk because he’s been fighting with the little woman and didn’t want to go home in the first place,” Greg continued. Blythe could hear James mumble something in the background. “Is it just me, or could there be a connection between those two events?”
She heard movement in the background, the scrape of a chair, the shuffle of someone getting up and walking across the floor. “Don’t use all the hot water,” Greg called across the apartment.
Blythe didn’t know whether to believe him. It didn’t sound like James, but then sometimes she reminded herself that she didn’t know everything about James, as much as she cared about him. She still had problems believing he’d been married and divorced twice already. She’d even had problems believing the few things James had admitted about those marriages.
“How are you doing?” Greg’s voice broke through her thoughts and she shook herself back to the conversation.
“Fine,” she said. “We’re both fine.” Blythe remembered the reason why she’d picked up the phone, worry about how Greg was handling the latest cold snap. It didn’t seem to be as important now.
“I’m fine, you’re fine, Dad’s fine. I suppose that covers everything,” Greg said. “Thanks for the wake-up call.”
“Greg, don’t joke about this.” Blythe knew her frustration was seeping into her voice. She didn’t care.
“About what?”
“About James. Is something wrong?”
He sighed and she heard him walking, the soft sound of his footsteps, then the thump of his cane. “You shouldn’t worry,” he said. “Wilson just needs to blow off steam every once in a while.” Blythe recognized the hiss of a coffee maker as it started to brew. “How are the kids at the library, are you keeping them in line?”
Greg wasn’t as good at changing the subject as James. Blythe still wanted to know what was going on, but then she reminded herself that she wasn’t James’ mother. It wasn’t her place to tell him what he should do. “Your father’s complaining that I’m bringing home too many books from work.” She decided she’d play along, for now. If James and Greg wanted to insist that everything was fine, there wasn’t much she could do. Not from nearly 1,000 miles away.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Greg said. “Tell him you’ll buy all the books you want.” Greg sounded relieved to be on a new topic. “I’ll send you some money to buy even more, if you want.”
“I think he’ll adjust,” Blythe said. “I pointed out that he could take up woodworking for a new hobby and make me some bookshelves.”
Greg chuckled, and she felt her tension ease -- just slightly.
James sent her an e-mail a few days later, apologizing if he’d worried her. She assured him that she was fine, though her worries hadn’t faded.
At Christmas, Blythe invited Greg to visit. “It’s warm here,” she said, knowing that snow had already fallen twice in New Jersey in the past month.
“It’s hard to get time off during the holidays,” Greg said. “You know how it is.”
He promised to check the vacation schedule, but she noticed how carefully he avoided making any promises to actually ask for time off.
On Christmas morning, Blythe woke early and sat in the living room with a cup of coffee. The room was silent, and it was still dark outside. She remembered when Greg was a boy, how he’d run into the living room and count the presents under the tree -- when she was able to find a tree -- or on the table, when they were in Japan or Egypt or somewhere else with different Christmas traditions.
She plugged in the lights for the Christmas tree they’d bought two weeks earlier -- she’d insisted a real pine, not the artificial one that John wanted. She watched the lights blink on and off: red and green and white and blue bulbs casting shadows around the room.
She called Greg at a little before noon, before they left for dinner at her sister’s. He sounded tired, and she wondered if the cold weather was wearing him down, or if he’d been telling her the truth when he’d said he had to fill in for someone else at the hospital overnight.
Blythe told him about his cousins who were in town for the holiday, and about the pies she’d made for dessert.
“I hate to think of you all alone up there,” she said.
“I won’t be,” Greg said. “Wilson’s forcing me to go to his place for dinner. He says he needs some moral support to deal with his in-laws.”
“That’ll be nice.”
“No it won’t. Julie comes from a family of accountants.”
Blythe smiled. “Maybe the food will be good.”
“I doubt it.”
It was James who reassured her that Greg would be fine after he slipped on some ice, and James who told her that Greg wasn’t answering his phone because he didn’t want to talk to anyone after he lost a patient.
“He’s mad at himself,” James said as he explained why Greg had hung up on her, then unplugged the phone. “He thinks he should have been able to save her.”
“Could he have?”
James sighed. “No,” he said. “Not by the time she was referred to his office. It was too late.”
Blythe didn’t bother asking why Greg blamed himself. Anytime he cared about something he cared too much.
Blythe remembered Greg’s hours of sulking after his team -- in whatever sport he was interested in at the time -- lost. Sometimes he’d shut himself in his room and barely talk to anyone for days. Sometimes he’d throw himself harder into practice, coming home bruised and bloodied. One day he came home with his skin scraped raw from a tumble on the cinder track trying to take the hurdles faster.
And it was James who mentioned that Greg would be in Atlanta early in the spring.
“He’s got a meeting at the CDC offices,” James said, and Blythe found herself calculating the distance there from Pensacola.
“Blythe?” She realized that James had asked a question.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was just thinking.”
“That’s all right,” James said. “What about?”
“I was thinking that maybe I could meet him in Atlanta, even for a few hours,” she said. “It’s not far. Not really.”
James told her it would be nice, and maybe she should think about it.
A few days later, he called and said he had another plan. It had been cold, he said, and Greg had been joking about going somewhere warm for a few days.
“Maybe he could come down there,” James said. “He hasn’t had a real vacation since before ...” Blythe knew what he meant, even if he didn’t finish the sentence.
She heard John in the hallway, coming back from a lunch with some of the other retired officers. “Do you really think he’d come?”
“Maybe.”
He had a plan. Blythe didn’t understand all of it at first, but finally the details came together. Greg would drive down after the meeting and have a few days there . “He can stay at a hotel,” James said. And James would drive up after spending a few days with his wife’s family at their condo in Siesta Key and fly home with Greg after the weekend.
“That way I can tell him I need the excuse to get away from the in-laws early, so he’ll agree to stick around to do me a favor,” James said.
“It sounds complicated.” Blythe wasn’t sure if that plan was a fib on her behalf, or an excuse for him. Either way, it could convince Greg to come for a few days.
“But it’ll work,” James said. “Trust me.”
Blythe thought for a minute, then smiled. “I always have.”
-----------
Wilson drove north, then west through Florida’s panhandle uncertain what he’d find in Pensacola. House hadn’t wanted to go. He’d called Wilson’s plan “idiotic,” then called Wilson an idiot for coming up with it. He agreed to it only when Wilson agreed to another side trip.
“Alabama,” he’d said.
Wilson had stared at him. “What’s in Alabama?”
“The blues,” House said. “You know what Alabama has that no place else has? W.C. Handy, Big Mama Thornton and Pinetop Smith.”
“Aren’t they dead?”
“Not their music.”
Wilson hadn’t argued. He didn’t care where they went. He was just happy that House had agreed to go anywhere.
Before the infarction, Greg was always going somewhere. There were new things to do, and new places to go. After the infarction, that changed. Leaving home took too much energy, he’d say, complaining there was nothing worth the effort. At least when Blythe used to come into town, House would do something. He’s take her new places. He’d smile for her benefit, and laugh at her jokes.
Now, he found more and more excuses to stay put. To skip staff meetings. To stay in his office -- or in Wilson’s. Rather than going out to dinner, he’d have food delivered.
And House didn’t want to talk about it either. “Don’t nag,” he’d said once when Wilson tried to get him to go out to the Japanese restaurant where House had taken Blythe.
“I need an interpreter to know what to order,” Wilson had said.
House just shook his head. “Wrestlemania is on Pay Per View. I don’t want to miss it.”
Blythe had called Wilson when House arrived in Pensacola, saying he looked: “tired and cranky.”
“So the same as usual, right?” Wilson asked, and she laughed.
Wilson followed her instructions from the freeway toward the water. It was dark and he drove slowly, watching for street signs. He found their condo complex, then their building -- set back slightly from the road, but close enough to the water that he could see the reflection of the full moon split into a thousand pieces by the small waves.
He stepped out of the car, shivering at the colder temperatures in northern Florida than he’d been used to further south.
Wilson smiled when the door opened, but then he noticed how Blythe’s eyes were red and swollen and how she held damp tissues in her hand.
“Have you talked to him?” she asked.
Wilson shook his head. “What’s wrong?”
“He’s too damn sensitive for his own good.” John’s voice boomed out from behind Blythe, and Wilson looked past her to see John in the living room.
“They...” Blythe shook her head, “they had an argument.”
“All I did was ask a simple question,” John said. Wilson stepped into the condo and watched John pace from one end of the room to the other. He was wearing a golf shirt and khaki pants, but held himself as tightly as he had when he was on base, and in uniform.
“Greg walked out,” Blythe said. “His car is still here, and he isn’t answering his phone.”
“How long ago?”
“Nearly two hours.”
Wilson stepped into John’s path. “What did you fight about?”
“It was nothing,” John said. “And it wasn’t a fight. It was a question.”
Wilson took a breath, held it and counted to five. “It must have been something.” He turned to Blythe, who shook her head.
“I was in the kitchen.” She tried to smile, but it didn’t take. She dabbed at the corner of her eye. “Things had been going so well. John was going to take him over to the putting green, ask Greg for some pointers. I thought, maybe, that things were good.”
Wilson turned back to John, who had started pacing again, this time in a shorter loop -- four steps to the window, four steps back to where Wilson stood.
“There’s this kid I’ve seen over at the club,” John finally said. “Nice guy. He was a captain. He lost a leg in Afghanistan.”
Wilson closed his eyes. He could picture the look on House’s face, the way he’d shut down whenever anyone asked anything about his leg.
“You should see this guy’s new leg. It’s state of the art,” John continued. “He can walk, he can run -- hell, he’s training for a marathon.”
He stopped pacing and looked at Wilson. “All I wanted to know is why Greg wouldn’t even think about letting them ...” He shook his head. “If he’s in pain all the time, wouldn’t that be better?”
Blythe turned away, but Wilson could see her wiping her eyes again. “It’s not that simple,” he said.
“That’s the same thing Greg said,” John said. “That’s what he always says.” He put his hands on his hips and stared at the carpet. “Sometimes I think he likes being a miserable pain in the ass. He’d rather be in pain, because it gives him an excuse to ignore anything he doesn’t want to do.”
Wilson walked away from John, trying to put some distance between them, trying not to lose his own temper. John should have known better, he thought, but then John never seemed to know better. He’d claim to love his son, then find fault in him. Sometimes Wilson wondered if the man ever thought of House as anything more than a reflection on himself.
“He yelled for a while, then he walked out,” John said. He nodded toward Blythe. “Now he’s got his mother all upset.”
Wilson didn’t bother pointing out that John was the one making her cry now. He ignored him and walked over to Blythe, and put a hand her shoulder.
“He probably just needed to blow off some steam,” he said.
She nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“I’ll take a look around outside. Maybe he’ll answer my call.”
Blythe was wiping away another tear as he walked out the door.
Wilson stood next to his rental car. He wasn’t sure where to go, or where to look. If he was home, he’d check out House’s apartment, he thought, or maybe just the nearest bar. He looked up and shrugged. A bar was as good a choice as any.
He walked out to the main road. He could see the lights of a diner to the left and a convenience store to the right. He pulled out his phone and dialed House’s cell number. He heard it ring, then a faint echo of the buzz of House’s ring tone from somewhere nearby. He took his own phone away from his ear and listened for the buzz again. He followed its sound across the street to the marina, then turned left.
He saw House’s dark shape on a bench maybe twenty yards away. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. He didn’t look up as Wilson approached, just stared out at the sailboats and motorboats as they bobbed in the water at their moorings.
“I told you this was a stupid idea,” House said.
Wilson shrugged and sat next to him. “Looks like you were right.”
House reached down to the six-pack on the ground beneath the bench. “What took you so long?” He handed Wilson a beer. Wilson looked at the label. Coors. Wilson wondered if House had intentionally bought his father’s brand, or if there just hadn’t been much of a choice at the store. “I figured Mom hit speed dial as soon as I left.”
Wilson shook his head and opened the bottle. “Maybe she thought you’d come back on your own.”
House stared out at the water again. “I’m not going back in there.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
Wilson zipped up his jacket. “It’s cold out here. You been here the whole time?”
House nodded. “Don’t whine, it’s not that cold.” He spoke with a slight accent -- John’s accent. “A little cold never hurt anyone.” House took a drink. “It’ll make a man out of you.” There was something dark in the inflection and in the meaning behind the words, and Wilson felt a shiver pass through him that had nothing to do with the temperature.
Wilson looked out at the boats. There was a sloop tied up at the end of the dock, and he remembered how his father had taught him how to handle the ropes when he was a boy: his large hands on top of his son’s sliding them over the rough braided texture, helping him haul the mainsail, then letting him handle the foresail on his own.
“You’re the son my father wanted,” House said softly, and Wilson turned to see him looking at him. “You could have made him happy. I never could.”
Wilson shook his head and took a drink. “Sometimes I think nothing makes your father happy.”
House smiled for just a moment, then it was gone. He shrugged. “At least my Mom would have been happy.”
“Your mother is happy,” Wilson said. “You make her happy.” He turned slightly toward House, but House was staring out at the water again.
“No I don’t,” he said. “She deserves better.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Wilson said. “Your Mom loves you.”
“Yeah, well, she also loves my father.” House drank down the rest of his beer and reached for another. “Maybe she just has lousy taste.”
Chapter Eleven: When Greg Went For A Visit
Author: Namaste
Rating: Gen, strong House and Wilson friendship, PG
Summary: It seemed like a good idea to Wilson. It would be just a short visit -- a vacation for House, a few days somewhere warm. House called it an idiotic plan. Wilson should have listened to him.
Find links to previous chapters inside.
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
When Greg Got His Department
When Days Were Good
When John Retired
When Greg Went For A Visit
The first weeks after Greg left for college, Blythe wrote him long letters, filled with stories about where she had gone, about the gossip around the base, about John’s newest assignments. They were the same things they would have talked about in the kitchen while he did his homework at the table, and she cooked dinner.
Every time John saw the letters, he‘d just shake his head. “Don’t expect an answer,” he’d said.
She didn’t. Just writing down the words made her feel closer to Greg, no matter how far away he was. It was enough to know that he read them.
And he did read them.
“Is that the same Katherine who didn’t know the difference between Seoul and Singapore?” Greg had asked during one summer break as Blythe told him about a friend who had a habit of getting lost on the base -- repeating a detail she’d mentioned only in her letters.
Now, far away from him again, she fell into the same routine.
Blythe wrote him from Pensacola that John had taken up golf again, that she had started volunteering at the library’s used book store, that she found fresh strawberries at the farmer’s market.
And he still read them. Sometimes she even got answers -- though not the way she’d expected.
“Greg showed me the photos of your roses,” James wrote in a brief note just after they’d moved. “I’m glad you have room there for your garden.”
It was just a few words, scribbled down on stationery with the hospital’s logo and James’ name inscribed in the upper left corner, but as she read it, she could picture both of them in Greg’s office, or maybe in the cafeteria. She could see Greg handing over the letter and the picture, the two of them laughing about something, Greg making some excuse to get James to pay for lunch.
Blythe could see it all, and for a moment, she felt like she had never left.
She sent James a card for his birthday, then something for his anniversary, then a card when she watched the sailboats one afternoon, and remembered one of his stories of a trip he’d taken a few years ago.
Unlike Greg, James wrote back. It was just a few lines, but he’d pass along some story about Greg that made her smile. It was James who told her that Greg had a new doctor working for him, a young man from Australia.
“I’ve met his father before,” James wrote. “If the son is as brilliant as his father, Greg will be happy.”
It was James who mentioned that Greg had another paper published, and even sent her a copy. She didn’t really understand all of it, but she smiled to see his name there on the front page.
It was James who suggested that she try email. “He spends a lot of time on the computer, sometimes even for work,” he wrote.
He was right. Blythe would send off an email, and nearly half the time, Greg responded. It wasn’t much -- sometimes just a few words in response to a story -- but it seemed to shorten the distance between them even more.
“Dad needs to take golf lessons,” he wrote after she told him that John had lost three balls in the water, “but he’ll never admit it.”
“Wilson says hello,” he wrote one day, and Blythe could imagine James slouched down in a chair across from Greg’s desk.
But sometimes the distance seemed further than she could imagine. Blythe found herself checking the weather forecasts for Princeton as summer slid into fall and she remembered how the ice and snow made Greg’s leg ache even more.
She heard a snatch of Bach one day, and wished she could hear Greg play.
Sometimes, knowing how far apart they really were made her heart ache -- and for more than just Greg.
“Hello?”
Blythe doublechecked the number she had dialed. “James?” she asked, “Is that you?”
“Yeah.” He sounded tired and worn out.
Blythe looked at the clock. It was before ten on a Sunday morning. “What’s wrong?” If James was there, Greg must be sick. Maybe he was hurt again. Maybe that explained the rough sound of James’ voice.
“Nothing’s wrong,” James said.
Maybe Greg had fallen on the ice. Maybe he’d needed some help.
Blythe heard Greg’s voice on the other end of the line, asking who was on the phone, then the soft thumps of the phone as it passed from one hand to another.
“You’re up early,” Greg said.
“Are you all right?” Blythe asked. He sounded good, but he’d tried to fool her before.
“I’m fine.”
“Why is James there? Have you been sick?”
She heard Greg sigh. “Everyone’s fine.”
“But ...”
“Wilson, tell my mother I’m OK.”
“He’s fine, Blythe.” James voice came from somewhere near Greg. It still sounded rough to her ears.
Blythe didn’t say anything for a moment and tried to decide whether to believe her son or her instincts.
“Wilson’s just here because he was too drunk to drive home last night,” Greg finally said.
“House,” James groaned.
“Of course he decided to get drunk because he’s been fighting with the little woman and didn’t want to go home in the first place,” Greg continued. Blythe could hear James mumble something in the background. “Is it just me, or could there be a connection between those two events?”
She heard movement in the background, the scrape of a chair, the shuffle of someone getting up and walking across the floor. “Don’t use all the hot water,” Greg called across the apartment.
Blythe didn’t know whether to believe him. It didn’t sound like James, but then sometimes she reminded herself that she didn’t know everything about James, as much as she cared about him. She still had problems believing he’d been married and divorced twice already. She’d even had problems believing the few things James had admitted about those marriages.
“How are you doing?” Greg’s voice broke through her thoughts and she shook herself back to the conversation.
“Fine,” she said. “We’re both fine.” Blythe remembered the reason why she’d picked up the phone, worry about how Greg was handling the latest cold snap. It didn’t seem to be as important now.
“I’m fine, you’re fine, Dad’s fine. I suppose that covers everything,” Greg said. “Thanks for the wake-up call.”
“Greg, don’t joke about this.” Blythe knew her frustration was seeping into her voice. She didn’t care.
“About what?”
“About James. Is something wrong?”
He sighed and she heard him walking, the soft sound of his footsteps, then the thump of his cane. “You shouldn’t worry,” he said. “Wilson just needs to blow off steam every once in a while.” Blythe recognized the hiss of a coffee maker as it started to brew. “How are the kids at the library, are you keeping them in line?”
Greg wasn’t as good at changing the subject as James. Blythe still wanted to know what was going on, but then she reminded herself that she wasn’t James’ mother. It wasn’t her place to tell him what he should do. “Your father’s complaining that I’m bringing home too many books from work.” She decided she’d play along, for now. If James and Greg wanted to insist that everything was fine, there wasn’t much she could do. Not from nearly 1,000 miles away.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Greg said. “Tell him you’ll buy all the books you want.” Greg sounded relieved to be on a new topic. “I’ll send you some money to buy even more, if you want.”
“I think he’ll adjust,” Blythe said. “I pointed out that he could take up woodworking for a new hobby and make me some bookshelves.”
Greg chuckled, and she felt her tension ease -- just slightly.
James sent her an e-mail a few days later, apologizing if he’d worried her. She assured him that she was fine, though her worries hadn’t faded.
At Christmas, Blythe invited Greg to visit. “It’s warm here,” she said, knowing that snow had already fallen twice in New Jersey in the past month.
“It’s hard to get time off during the holidays,” Greg said. “You know how it is.”
He promised to check the vacation schedule, but she noticed how carefully he avoided making any promises to actually ask for time off.
On Christmas morning, Blythe woke early and sat in the living room with a cup of coffee. The room was silent, and it was still dark outside. She remembered when Greg was a boy, how he’d run into the living room and count the presents under the tree -- when she was able to find a tree -- or on the table, when they were in Japan or Egypt or somewhere else with different Christmas traditions.
She plugged in the lights for the Christmas tree they’d bought two weeks earlier -- she’d insisted a real pine, not the artificial one that John wanted. She watched the lights blink on and off: red and green and white and blue bulbs casting shadows around the room.
She called Greg at a little before noon, before they left for dinner at her sister’s. He sounded tired, and she wondered if the cold weather was wearing him down, or if he’d been telling her the truth when he’d said he had to fill in for someone else at the hospital overnight.
Blythe told him about his cousins who were in town for the holiday, and about the pies she’d made for dessert.
“I hate to think of you all alone up there,” she said.
“I won’t be,” Greg said. “Wilson’s forcing me to go to his place for dinner. He says he needs some moral support to deal with his in-laws.”
“That’ll be nice.”
“No it won’t. Julie comes from a family of accountants.”
Blythe smiled. “Maybe the food will be good.”
“I doubt it.”
It was James who reassured her that Greg would be fine after he slipped on some ice, and James who told her that Greg wasn’t answering his phone because he didn’t want to talk to anyone after he lost a patient.
“He’s mad at himself,” James said as he explained why Greg had hung up on her, then unplugged the phone. “He thinks he should have been able to save her.”
“Could he have?”
James sighed. “No,” he said. “Not by the time she was referred to his office. It was too late.”
Blythe didn’t bother asking why Greg blamed himself. Anytime he cared about something he cared too much.
Blythe remembered Greg’s hours of sulking after his team -- in whatever sport he was interested in at the time -- lost. Sometimes he’d shut himself in his room and barely talk to anyone for days. Sometimes he’d throw himself harder into practice, coming home bruised and bloodied. One day he came home with his skin scraped raw from a tumble on the cinder track trying to take the hurdles faster.
And it was James who mentioned that Greg would be in Atlanta early in the spring.
“He’s got a meeting at the CDC offices,” James said, and Blythe found herself calculating the distance there from Pensacola.
“Blythe?” She realized that James had asked a question.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was just thinking.”
“That’s all right,” James said. “What about?”
“I was thinking that maybe I could meet him in Atlanta, even for a few hours,” she said. “It’s not far. Not really.”
James told her it would be nice, and maybe she should think about it.
A few days later, he called and said he had another plan. It had been cold, he said, and Greg had been joking about going somewhere warm for a few days.
“Maybe he could come down there,” James said. “He hasn’t had a real vacation since before ...” Blythe knew what he meant, even if he didn’t finish the sentence.
She heard John in the hallway, coming back from a lunch with some of the other retired officers. “Do you really think he’d come?”
“Maybe.”
He had a plan. Blythe didn’t understand all of it at first, but finally the details came together. Greg would drive down after the meeting and have a few days there . “He can stay at a hotel,” James said. And James would drive up after spending a few days with his wife’s family at their condo in Siesta Key and fly home with Greg after the weekend.
“That way I can tell him I need the excuse to get away from the in-laws early, so he’ll agree to stick around to do me a favor,” James said.
“It sounds complicated.” Blythe wasn’t sure if that plan was a fib on her behalf, or an excuse for him. Either way, it could convince Greg to come for a few days.
“But it’ll work,” James said. “Trust me.”
Blythe thought for a minute, then smiled. “I always have.”
-----------
Wilson drove north, then west through Florida’s panhandle uncertain what he’d find in Pensacola. House hadn’t wanted to go. He’d called Wilson’s plan “idiotic,” then called Wilson an idiot for coming up with it. He agreed to it only when Wilson agreed to another side trip.
“Alabama,” he’d said.
Wilson had stared at him. “What’s in Alabama?”
“The blues,” House said. “You know what Alabama has that no place else has? W.C. Handy, Big Mama Thornton and Pinetop Smith.”
“Aren’t they dead?”
“Not their music.”
Wilson hadn’t argued. He didn’t care where they went. He was just happy that House had agreed to go anywhere.
Before the infarction, Greg was always going somewhere. There were new things to do, and new places to go. After the infarction, that changed. Leaving home took too much energy, he’d say, complaining there was nothing worth the effort. At least when Blythe used to come into town, House would do something. He’s take her new places. He’d smile for her benefit, and laugh at her jokes.
Now, he found more and more excuses to stay put. To skip staff meetings. To stay in his office -- or in Wilson’s. Rather than going out to dinner, he’d have food delivered.
And House didn’t want to talk about it either. “Don’t nag,” he’d said once when Wilson tried to get him to go out to the Japanese restaurant where House had taken Blythe.
“I need an interpreter to know what to order,” Wilson had said.
House just shook his head. “Wrestlemania is on Pay Per View. I don’t want to miss it.”
Blythe had called Wilson when House arrived in Pensacola, saying he looked: “tired and cranky.”
“So the same as usual, right?” Wilson asked, and she laughed.
Wilson followed her instructions from the freeway toward the water. It was dark and he drove slowly, watching for street signs. He found their condo complex, then their building -- set back slightly from the road, but close enough to the water that he could see the reflection of the full moon split into a thousand pieces by the small waves.
He stepped out of the car, shivering at the colder temperatures in northern Florida than he’d been used to further south.
Wilson smiled when the door opened, but then he noticed how Blythe’s eyes were red and swollen and how she held damp tissues in her hand.
“Have you talked to him?” she asked.
Wilson shook his head. “What’s wrong?”
“He’s too damn sensitive for his own good.” John’s voice boomed out from behind Blythe, and Wilson looked past her to see John in the living room.
“They...” Blythe shook her head, “they had an argument.”
“All I did was ask a simple question,” John said. Wilson stepped into the condo and watched John pace from one end of the room to the other. He was wearing a golf shirt and khaki pants, but held himself as tightly as he had when he was on base, and in uniform.
“Greg walked out,” Blythe said. “His car is still here, and he isn’t answering his phone.”
“How long ago?”
“Nearly two hours.”
Wilson stepped into John’s path. “What did you fight about?”
“It was nothing,” John said. “And it wasn’t a fight. It was a question.”
Wilson took a breath, held it and counted to five. “It must have been something.” He turned to Blythe, who shook her head.
“I was in the kitchen.” She tried to smile, but it didn’t take. She dabbed at the corner of her eye. “Things had been going so well. John was going to take him over to the putting green, ask Greg for some pointers. I thought, maybe, that things were good.”
Wilson turned back to John, who had started pacing again, this time in a shorter loop -- four steps to the window, four steps back to where Wilson stood.
“There’s this kid I’ve seen over at the club,” John finally said. “Nice guy. He was a captain. He lost a leg in Afghanistan.”
Wilson closed his eyes. He could picture the look on House’s face, the way he’d shut down whenever anyone asked anything about his leg.
“You should see this guy’s new leg. It’s state of the art,” John continued. “He can walk, he can run -- hell, he’s training for a marathon.”
He stopped pacing and looked at Wilson. “All I wanted to know is why Greg wouldn’t even think about letting them ...” He shook his head. “If he’s in pain all the time, wouldn’t that be better?”
Blythe turned away, but Wilson could see her wiping her eyes again. “It’s not that simple,” he said.
“That’s the same thing Greg said,” John said. “That’s what he always says.” He put his hands on his hips and stared at the carpet. “Sometimes I think he likes being a miserable pain in the ass. He’d rather be in pain, because it gives him an excuse to ignore anything he doesn’t want to do.”
Wilson walked away from John, trying to put some distance between them, trying not to lose his own temper. John should have known better, he thought, but then John never seemed to know better. He’d claim to love his son, then find fault in him. Sometimes Wilson wondered if the man ever thought of House as anything more than a reflection on himself.
“He yelled for a while, then he walked out,” John said. He nodded toward Blythe. “Now he’s got his mother all upset.”
Wilson didn’t bother pointing out that John was the one making her cry now. He ignored him and walked over to Blythe, and put a hand her shoulder.
“He probably just needed to blow off some steam,” he said.
She nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“I’ll take a look around outside. Maybe he’ll answer my call.”
Blythe was wiping away another tear as he walked out the door.
Wilson stood next to his rental car. He wasn’t sure where to go, or where to look. If he was home, he’d check out House’s apartment, he thought, or maybe just the nearest bar. He looked up and shrugged. A bar was as good a choice as any.
He walked out to the main road. He could see the lights of a diner to the left and a convenience store to the right. He pulled out his phone and dialed House’s cell number. He heard it ring, then a faint echo of the buzz of House’s ring tone from somewhere nearby. He took his own phone away from his ear and listened for the buzz again. He followed its sound across the street to the marina, then turned left.
He saw House’s dark shape on a bench maybe twenty yards away. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. He didn’t look up as Wilson approached, just stared out at the sailboats and motorboats as they bobbed in the water at their moorings.
“I told you this was a stupid idea,” House said.
Wilson shrugged and sat next to him. “Looks like you were right.”
House reached down to the six-pack on the ground beneath the bench. “What took you so long?” He handed Wilson a beer. Wilson looked at the label. Coors. Wilson wondered if House had intentionally bought his father’s brand, or if there just hadn’t been much of a choice at the store. “I figured Mom hit speed dial as soon as I left.”
Wilson shook his head and opened the bottle. “Maybe she thought you’d come back on your own.”
House stared out at the water again. “I’m not going back in there.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
Wilson zipped up his jacket. “It’s cold out here. You been here the whole time?”
House nodded. “Don’t whine, it’s not that cold.” He spoke with a slight accent -- John’s accent. “A little cold never hurt anyone.” House took a drink. “It’ll make a man out of you.” There was something dark in the inflection and in the meaning behind the words, and Wilson felt a shiver pass through him that had nothing to do with the temperature.
Wilson looked out at the boats. There was a sloop tied up at the end of the dock, and he remembered how his father had taught him how to handle the ropes when he was a boy: his large hands on top of his son’s sliding them over the rough braided texture, helping him haul the mainsail, then letting him handle the foresail on his own.
“You’re the son my father wanted,” House said softly, and Wilson turned to see him looking at him. “You could have made him happy. I never could.”
Wilson shook his head and took a drink. “Sometimes I think nothing makes your father happy.”
House smiled for just a moment, then it was gone. He shrugged. “At least my Mom would have been happy.”
“Your mother is happy,” Wilson said. “You make her happy.” He turned slightly toward House, but House was staring out at the water again.
“No I don’t,” he said. “She deserves better.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Wilson said. “Your Mom loves you.”
“Yeah, well, she also loves my father.” House drank down the rest of his beer and reached for another. “Maybe she just has lousy taste.”