The Miniature Orchestra of Gnomes, Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Stroller Options
He would have stood by her, of course. Deep down inside, he’d never been that much of a bastard, he would have paid up. She had been the first woman he’d managed to sustain an interest in for countless years but still. It had been a whirlwind, over before it began, and he’d figured the conception must have occurred that second time; he could remember it in pretty spectacular detail, the haste, the need. And then he’d heard nothing from her; for months he’d wondered what he had done wrong, what she had expected him to change. Then he’d processed it, forgotten her, moved on - at least, that’s what he’d told Wilson.
Out of the blue, the phone-call had come; she was on the table, the baby needed to be delivered, she wouldn’t survive, it was an emergency, did they have permission? And he’d answered half professional half civilian, and wondered, what baby? Where?
He’d found himself on a plane to LAX, she’d gone there, chasing some dream, putting some distance between them and the chance it could have worked. On landing he’d taken a cab straight to Cedars-Sinai, followed the signage and found himself staring at her lifeless body, laid out in expectation of his arrival. There was nobody else who would have come. He was surprised by the changes in her, or the poorly remembered details he’d mistaken.
Then he’d been ushered out, shocked, led by the elbow toward the NICU. They’d handed him a gown, told him to wait. He’d sat, like a hollow space, wondering how life had brought him here, to a baby, his baby.
And then he had found himself sitting in a supremely uncomfortable chair meant for nursing mothers, a raw squalling infant placed in the crook of his arm. Tubes surrounded him, in his nose, from his tiny arms, a blue cap on his head, tiny diaper and a hospital issue blanket. The child was alone, no provision had been made for his unexpected and premature arrival.
House had guessed him to be two months under-cooked. Not a bad survival rate, no likely lasting damage; just the collapse of his mother’s body.
But he had known, right there and then. This was his child.
At a loss, no idea where even to begin thinking about it, he’d checked into a hotel, called Cuddy and asked for some leave. For once she hadn’t pushed him, probably because for the second time in his life, he’d been straight with her, no underlying scheme or plan. Then he went back to the hospital, nurses shoved leaflets into his hands, lists of things to buy for your newborn, books to read, advice heaped upon advice, a maelstrom of shopping options it was impossible to see through.
So he’d started at the top. He went to the store, swarmed by matronly ladies happy to take the cash he couldn’t care less about spending. Onesies, diapers - all impossibly small; a car seat, stroller all chosen for ease, for his height, for the cane. Formula, bibs, pacifiers, bottles and teats, more onesies in a bigger size. He would grow, they told him. Before you know it, they said, curiosity almost killing them in their need to know. Then a huge order, shipped to his home address: a crib, blankets, sheets, an intense monitor part-designed by NASA, more onesies, hats, mits, snowsuits, formula. He’d gone in as he’d come out, numb, out of place.
He’d gone back to the hospital, stared at the baby through the NICU window. The baby slept, occasional myoclonic jerks, involuntary responses to whatever was going on in his tiny brain. And weeks had passed, he’d gone down there each day, dutiful, helpless and he’d held him, watched him. Discussions of the baby’s development happened on a daily basis, for once House didn’t throw his weight around, he’d listened, no zebras here, just a baby born too soon.
Eventually the day had come. He’d taken the car seat, a bag of supplies, a blanket and he’d dressed the baby, loaded him into the seat. He’d thanked the doctors, the nurses and he’d left with the baby, ready to face the first week of fulltime parenthood. A week at the hotel to be near the hospital, just in case; and then the flight home, a whole world of difficult he was unprepared for. He had the birth certificate, his own name in the space under ‘father’, he had the seat, he had the travel formula, he had the baby. Then there was the cane; they’d taken that, transformed the whole thing into a circus of golf buggies and escorts and special assistance, and House had burned with embarrassment and the baby had slept through it all.
The flight passed with the baby asleep, House staring straight ahead at the in-flight screen, and then the rigmarole had kicked in again upon landing, the golf buggy, the assistance and then Wilson.
He’d taken a deep, steadying breath, dropped his head and nodded tightly at Wilson.
“My car is in the lot.”
“I know. Thought you might need a friend.” Wilson had replied, actually the best possible outcome.
They’d loaded a cart with House’s cases, loaded the baby into the stroller House had stowed and headed on out to the parking lot. House fumbled with seatbelt straps, the base unit and finally clipped the baby into place. Suddenly aware of the responsibility, he’d driven home, slower than he’d ever gone before, crawling all the way back to Princeton, to his apartment, no idea of the state he’d left it in two months prior. Wilson had followed, just as slow, just as awed by the child and by the idea of House as a father. He’d called Cuddy from the car, given her an update, reassured her that House was still in one piece, the baby was real and that actually, he seemed to be doing okay.
They’d unloaded the luggage into House’s apartment, filing it with the baby equipment House had brought from LA, adding to the order that he’d placed back when the baby was born, all magically unpacked, assembled and placed in the most likely end-point; crib next to the bed, swing in the living room. Baby blue the new accent around the place, even a balloon from PPTH, a handful of cards congratulating House like he’d actually had some kind of say in the whole thing.
Then the baby had started to squirm and House knew he would need to be fed in the next few minutes. He’d rooted in the diaper bag, found the travel carton of formula he’d saved and a fresh bottle. Wilson had watched, amazed, for once speechless and completely out of his comfort zone. But House was okay, the child was still alive, they were home, ready to start their life back in Princeton.
All of this House remembered minute by minute, cursed and blessed in equal measure by his excellent memory.
He sipped at his beer, aged blues on the turntable, fire low in the grate ready to die down for the night. Sam slept in his bed, untroubled by his arrival in the world, the craziness that spiraled out around his tiny body in the incubator. House was calm in his reverie, the tumult of those early years behind them, Sam just about growing into his personality, and pretty good company, a pretty great kid. Samuel House: excellent kid.