namaste

New Fic: Family, Friends and Other Complications
Chapter Four: When Stacy Left
Author: Namaste
Rating: Gen, PG
Summary:
Blythe felt her frustration build. “James, just ... just tell me,” she said. “Did Stacy leave?”

James was silent for a few moments, then sighed. “Yes,” he said. “How did you know?”

“Mother’s intuition,” Blythe said. She had hoped to keep her tone light, but her words sounded hollow even to her own ears. “When?”

Previous chapters are here:
When Blythe Met Wilson
When Greg Got Sick
When Greg Went Home

Note: For those of you avoiding all spoilers, the story is safe, but some discussion comes up in the comments on the vague outlines of upcoming spoilers.

When Stacy Left

Blythe stared at the piece of black plastic on her table. The numbers were still backlit from the call she’d just made. James had been right. She had been able to keep in touch. But she’d found that she still no idea what was going on.

She’d called at least five times during the weekend, each time leaving a message. She’d told herself not to panic, that maybe this meant that Greg and Stacy had gone out, that it must be good that Greg was away from the house more.

But Saturday slipped into Sunday and they hadn’t called back. Sunday tumbled into Monday morning, and still nothing. She lay awake in bed, listening to John’s snores, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about what might have happened. She told herself that James would have called if something bad happened.

She sat with John as he ate breakfast, and nodded when he assured her that everything was fine, that she was worked up over nothing. Finally she tried Greg’s office, but he didn’t answer there either. She finally got through to the department’s secretary who said she’d seen him that morning. Blythe knew that should have made her feel better, but instead she worried about why he’d avoided her calls.

There was no answer at Stacy’s office, and when she finally got Stacy on her cell, she didn’t find any peace.

“You should talk to Greg,” Stacy said.

“Stacy, what’s going on? Is Greg all right?,” Blythe had asked, holding the phone closer to her ear. “Please, tell me.”

She heard Stacy take a deep breath on the other side of the line, on the other side of the country. “He was fine when I saw him,” she finally said. “Maybe he’ll have something to say to you when you finally reach him.”

Blythe let the phone sit on the table while she filled her coffee cup again. She stared at the phone, black with silver trim, a high technology contrast to the white lace tablecloth she’d bought in Greece, when Greg was still just a little boy.

Stacy had a tablecloth like it, one of her mother’s heirlooms. Blythe remembered seeing it the last time they’d been in Princeton, when Greg and Stacy barely seemed to speak to each other, when even James hadn’t been able to smooth out the rough edges of Greg’s mood.

The few times she overheard Greg and Stacy’s conversations, the words were harsh, and she wondered what had happened that led to those arguments, and what came after. She followed those thoughts until she could guess what must have happened now. Blythe put her mug down on the tablecloth. She wondered if Stacy had taken her lace keepsakes with her when she packed.

Blythe picked up the phone, scrolled through the numbers in the memory and made another call.

She listened to the ring at the other end, and told herself that she wasn’t going behind Greg’s back. She just needed answers, and if Greg wasn’t going to provide them, then ...

“This is James Wilson.” Blythe smiled to hear his voice.

“James, good morning,” she said. “This is Blythe. I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

He hesitated for just a moment before he answered. “Of course not,” he said. “How are you?”

Blythe closed her eyes, decided to get to the point. “Worried,” she said. “Greg wasn’t answering his phone this weekend, and Stacy won’t give me a straight answer.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. She heard the squeak of furniture and she could picture him in his office -- his white coat, clean white shirt, a dark tie hanging loosely from his collar -- as he leaned back in his desk chair.

“You should really talk to Greg,” he finally said. “I’ll track him down and have him call you.”

Blythe felt her frustration build. “James, just ... just tell me,” she said. “Did Stacy leave?”

James was silent for a few moments, then sighed. “Yes,” he said. “How did you know?”

“Mother’s intuition,” Blythe said. She had hoped to keep her tone light, but her words sounded hollow even to her own ears. “When?”

“Friday,” James said. “She moved into her mother’s old place.”

Blythe had never been there, but had a snapshot that had been taken there -- Greg on the porch, smiling in the sun, the ocean filling the horizon behind him. James had taken the photo, and Blythe often wondered what he’d said that made Greg laugh, let him look so happy in that moment.

“How’s Greg?” Blythe asked.

She heard the chair squeak again as James moved. “I won’t lie and tell you everything’s fine,” he said, “but he’s doing better than I’d expected.”

“But worse that you’d hoped?”

Blythe took his silence as his answer.

“John and I were going to come out to visit in a couple of weeks,” she said. “We could come earlier.”

“No,” James said. “I don’t think you need to do that ...”

“I know we don’t need to.”

“I think,” he said, then seemed to collect his thoughts. “I think he needs some time.” Blythe heard him shift again. “I know you want to be here, but I’m not sure he’s ready to deal with any ... company just now.”

Blythe felt sorrow replace the worry she’d been feeling earlier. She wondered if it was possible for her own heart to break in sympathy with the way Greg must be feeling.

“I’ll talk to him, get him to call you,” James was saying. “If you still want to come after you talk, let me know. I’ll make sure he’s ... presentable.”

Blythe looked down at the lace tablecloth again, traced the shapes against the dark wood of the table. “No, that’s all right,” she said. “I trust you, James.”

“All right. I’ll track him down, try to get him to call you soon,” James said. She could hear him moving again. “If you don’t hear from him by tonight, let me know. I’ll get him to call if I have to dial the phone myself.”

Blythe smiled a little at that. “And how are you going to get him to talk?”

“Give me time, I’ll think of something,” he said, and Blythe giggled for just a moment to think of the number of times she had tried to think of some way to get Greg to be quiet.

“All right,” she said. “Tell him I’ll have my phone with me, so he can call anytime. And James?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” she said. “Again.”

--------------

John House answered the door to his son’s home, and held out his hand to shake Wilson’s as he stepped inside.

“Good to see you,” he said.

Wilson nodded. “You’re early,” he said.

“Tailwind,” the Colonel said.

Wilson looked across the room and into the kitchen. He could see House leaning against the butcher block table, shaking his head. Blythe crossed the kitchen between them, pen and paper in her hand.

“Wilson, tell her I’m not starving to death,” House called across the rooms.

“If you’re smart, you’ll stay out of this one,” the Colonel muttered to him, and sat on the couch.

“You’ve lost weight,” Blythe was saying to House, “and you don’t have any food in the house at all.”

Wilson walked up to the kitchen, but stopped at the entrance and leaned against the door frame. Blythe had a cupboard door open, and he could see a few cans of something inside -- vegetables, if he remembered the way Stacy had the kitchen stocked.

“I don’t have food because I’ve been eating it,” House was saying.

Wilson didn’t comment. Blythe was right, House had lost more weight since Stacy left. Not much, but on top of what he’d lost after the infarction, it added up. He’d noticed the change in the past few weeks, and he could only imagine how surprised Blythe must have been to see him. He wondered if he should have warned her.

Blythe turned from the cupboard to look at House. She narrowed her eyes, and House sighed and looked away.

Wilson smiled. He was glad he hadn’t said anything to Blythe. This looked like it could be interesting. Besides, maybe Blythe could make an impact when he couldn’t

“It’s not nice to lie to your mother, Greg,” she said, and House slumped back against the counter. “Have you been eating anything besides sandwiches?”

“I like sandwiches,” House said. He bounced the tip of his cane against the floor.

“You’re a doctor, you know better,” she said. Blythe walked across to the butcher block and wrote a few things on the paper. Wilson wasn’t close enough to see the details, but could make out two rows of neat handwriting.

“And you’re not helping,” she said, turning to Wilson. “What, you couldn’t get him to take care of himself?”

Wilson opened his mouth to apologize, but wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say.

“Warned you,” the Colonel mumbled from the couch.

House smiled and nodded. “Some friend you are,” he said.

“Don’t try to blame him,” Blythe said, turning her attention back on her son. “I’m sure James did everything he could, but you were just too stubborn.”

She turned away from both of them and took her note over to the refrigerator. As she peered inside House caught Wilson’s eye.

“You should see her when she really gets angry,” he said, and Wilson grinned.

“I am angry,” Blythe said without looking at either of them.

House shook his head. Wilson noticed he appeared more at ease than he had for weeks. The haunted look that had been in his eyes was gone.

“You’re out of milk.”

“Just finished it off this morning,” House said.

Blythe turned and looked at him.

“Yesterday morning,” House said, and winced. “Maybe a day or two before that? I didn’t really notice.”

Blythe closed the refrigerator and went back to the table. She wrote a few more things down on the right side of the list.

“You don’t need to do my grocery shopping for me,” House said.

“I do if I’m going to make you some things to eat other than dry cereal and peanut butter,” she said.

“Mom,” House protested, but Blythe stepped up to him.

“It’s called comfort food for a reason, Greg,” she said, softly. “Let me do this for you, please?”

House shrugged, and Blythe smiled.

“Good,” she said. “And I’m not shopping, your father is.”

Blythe picked up her list and handed it to Wilson. “Can you give him a hand?”

Wilson took the list. He glanced up at House, who just gave another shrug. He looked at Blythe. “Please,” she whispered, the tone only slightly different from what she’d used on House. Wilson was pretty sure she wanted the time alone with her son more than the groceries.

“Sure.” Maybe Blythe could get House at least to admit that he missed Stacy. He had refused to say anything beyond a few angry shouts so far.

Wilson took one look at Blythe’s list and decided to head over to the supermarket on Fifth. Things could be pricier there, but they’d have everything she asked for. He studied the items again as the Colonel got a cart: Greek cheese, Asian spices, Italian olives. He wondered how much Blythe had adapted her cooking style over the years to match both her son’s tastes and their family’s travels.

“Good, she’s making peach pie.” the Colonel looked at the list over Wilson’s shoulder. “It was her mother’s recipe, but Blythe’s is better.”

They started down the aisles, Wilson checking off each item as they put it in the basket, the Colonel directing him on which brands Blythe preferred.

“Sometimes I go shopping with her,” he said, and smiled a little. Wilson was reminded of the quiet grin that House would sometimes have when he was lost in thought. “It gives us a chance to spend time together, and I don’t have to make any decisions.”

Wilson handed over the list and let the Colonel take over.

He pushed the cart and the Colonel talked a little about the trip as they made their way along the aisles. He kept up a steady flow of easy conversation, about spring training -- he followed Cleveland, he said -- about the weather back in California, about how Blythe liked to find some plot of dirt to plant a few flowers, no matter where they were housed.

He watched as Wilson put a bag of potato chips in the cart. They weren’t on the list, but Wilson knew House liked them.

“I never liked Stacy,” the Colonel suddenly said, and Wilson turned to look at him. He wondered if there was a reason why he’d decided to make that particular announcement in the frozen foods aisle.

“She was always passing judgment on people,” he continued. Wilson thought to himself that the Colonel did the same thing, but didn’t say anything. “She never thought I was good enough for Greg, which I didn’t mind so much, but I got the idea that she never thought Blythe was good enough for him either, and I couldn’t stand that.”

The Colonel rounded the end of the aisle, past the ice cream and the frozen pizza and Wilson followed him. The Colonel stopped in front of the beer cooler, and reached in for a six-pack of Coors. Wilson found himself thinking that House didn’t like the brand, but then he reached in again and pulled out a six-pack of Heineken.

“Stacy was selfish, and stuck up,” the Colonel said.

He put both six packs of beer on the bottom of the cart, then turned toward Wilson.

“But she saved Greg’s life, when he was too stubborn to save himself,” he said. “And I’ll always be grateful to her for that. Maybe you could thank her for me, if you ever hear from her.”

Wilson nodded. “I will,” he promised.

The cart was overflowing by the time they made it past the dairy case and into line for the cashier. Wilson hoped that Blythe was having some success back at the apartment, and that he wouldn’t end up throwing half of the groceries out a month from now, when House fell back into bad habits.

The Colonel pulled out his wallet before Wilson could move to pay for anything. “I’ve got it,” he said, and peeled off a couple of fifty dollar bills and a few twenties to cover the bill.

The bags filled the trunk, and Wilson had to shift some emergency supplies to fit everything into the space. He finally slammed down the lid.

“That everything?” The Colonel checked Blythe’s list and nodded.

Wilson unlocked the doors and they both climbed in.

“You’re a good friend, Wilson,” the Colonel said, before Wilson turned the ignition key.

Wilson sat back. “So is Greg,” he said.

“Good,” the Colonel said. “I’m glad to hear that.”

He was quiet again, so Wilson started the car and backed out his parking space. He guessed it was the closest to a compliment that the man would ever give, though he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to make of it.

“I’m not going to pretend that I understand my son,” the Colonel said, as they pulled onto the main street. “Maybe I never have. Guess I never will.”

“He’s not easy to get to know,” Wilson said.

“His mother’s always understood him. Maybe I missed too much when he was growing up.” The Colonel turned to Wilson. “But knowing that he’s got a friend like you, makes me think that maybe I didn’t screw everything up with him.”

Wilson weighed the few things House had told him about his father, and compared them to what he’d seen of the man himself. He still wasn’t sure what to think of John House. He shrugged and turned onto House’s street.

“Maybe,” he said, “maybe things aren’t as screwed up as you think.”