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namasteTitle: Family, Friends and Other Complications
Chapter Nineteen When Greg Called At Christmas
Author: Namaste
Rating: Gen, strong House and Wilson friendship, PG
Summary: Somehow, Blythe knows something is wrong.
Warning and Author’s Note: Spoilers through “Merry Little Christmas,” if you aren’t familiar with what happens there, you may be lost. And, by the way, this is the penultimate chapter. Unless something drastic happens to change my mind, we’ve got just one more to go.
Sample: Blythe listened to the recording again. Something sounded wrong, off key almost, but she couldn’t say what. The sound of Greg’s voice sent shivers down her spine. There was something there in the gaps, in the silences, in the spaces between Greg’s words, and Blythe couldn’t quite make it out.
Previous chapters are linked 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
When They Weren’t Together
When John Took Blythe to Paris
When Wilson Lived With House
When Greg Was Shot
When Blythe Met Steve McQueen
When Greg Got Better
When Greg Got Worse
When Greg Called At Christmas
It was late when Blythe and John got home.
“It’s not late, it’s early,” John said. “It’s past midnight. That makes it early morning.”
“But we haven’t been to bed,” Blythe said. She smiled at the old argument. “That makes it late.”
John chuckled slightly and reached across the car seat in the dark to squeeze her hand. “Merry Christmas.”
Blythe smiled. She lifted their joined hands and kissed the back of his hand. “Merry Christmas.”
Somehow, in the past couple of years, they’d built themselves a tradition: Christmas Eve dinner at her sister’s -- complete with Sarah’s grandchildren anxious to open presents -- then a Midnight service. Neither John nor Blythe were ever religious, but Blythe loved singing carols in the church Sarah attended. The lights were always turned low, and the candles at each window and at each pew flickered in time with the music as the congregation sang out and breathed in.
She had looked over at one point to see John, stooped over to share a hymnal with Sarah’s six-year-old granddaughter Lizzie. He leaned down to whisper something into her ear and she giggled.
On the way home, they’d stopped near a park. John turned off the engine and held her hand as they walked out toward the water -- another new tradition. They sat and listened to the waves lapping against the shore.
There’d been a full moon, and John stared out across the water.
“It would have been nice to have had a daughter,” he said.
Blythe turned to look at him. They almost never talked about other children, and John had never been the one to even bring up the subject. At first she thought it was because he was disappointed in her, disappointed that she couldn’t have any more babies after Greg. Then she realized he wasn’t upset with her, he just didn’t want her to feel bad, so he never mentioned it.
“Not instead of Greg,” John said, just in case she’d misunderstood. She hadn’t.
They’d once discussed adoption, but Blythe had seen how hard the constant moves were for Greg, and she didn’t know if it would be fair to force that life onto another child, and she never talked of it again.
“A girl would have been nice,” Blythe said. She remembered the way Lizzie had latched on to John six months ago when he fixed her bicycle, and how she kept bringing him other things to fix every time she saw him: the tangled string of her yo-yo, the leaky water gun, the old doll with an arm that had come loose. Each time John had quietly found some way to mend them, though he’d only laughed and told her that she was on her own when she told him that her computer was broken.
Blythe smiled. “If we’d had a little girl, she would have had you wrapped around her little finger.”
“You say that like it would have been a bad thing.” John wrapped one arm around Blythe and pulled her close. She felt him kiss her forehead.
Whenever she’d allowed herself to daydream about the other children they’d never had, she’d usually imagined another boy, someone for Greg to play with, someone to grow up with. Someone who would be there for him now. Someone like James.
But a girl would have been nice too. With a daughter, maybe John would have allowed himself to show his softer side more often. Maybe he wouldn’t have worried so much about setting the stern example for Greg, and instead learned how to relax and be gentle.
They sat on the bench for a few minutes more, until Blythe shivered, and John led the way back to the car. He turned up the heater and turned toward home.
The answering machine was blinking red in the kitchen, and Blythe hit the button.
“Hi Mom.” Blythe smiled when she heard Greg’s voice. “I guess you guys are already up at Aunt Sarah’s.”
John poured himself a glass of water and paused to listen.
“I suppose Dad’s already into the eggnog and you’re suffering through another dried out turkey.”
“We both suffered,” John muttered, then chuckled as Blythe shushed him.
The tape was quiet for a moment, and she thought maybe Greg had hung up, but then his voice continued. “Just wanted to say Merry Christmas,” he said, then the sound of the phone hanging up.
“Merry Christmas,” John said. He swallowed down the last of his water and put the empty glass next to the sink. “I’m going to bed. Are you coming?”
Blythe hit “play” on the machine. “In a minute.” She listened to the recording again. Something sounded wrong, off key almost, but she couldn’t say what. The sound of Greg’s voice sent shivers down her spine.
The same few words echoed through the kitchen again. There was something there in the gaps, in the silences, in the spaces between Greg’s words, and Blythe couldn’t quite make it out.
She listened again.
“You’re not going to try and call him now, are you?” John had changed into his pajamas and stood in the hallway, the light behind him. “It’s after two o’clock.”
Blythe shook her head. “No.”
She paused with her finger over the machine, but didn’t press the button again. She didn’t delete the message either. Blythe nearly asked John if Greg sounded all right to him, but didn’t. John had never been very good at listening to the silence, at hearing what it was that Greg wasn’t saying.
She managed to put off calling Greg until 8 a.m. John was still asleep when she picked up her phone and called his number. The answering machine picked up.
“Hi honey,” she said, “I guess you’re out. I hope it’s not problems with a patient again. I just wanted to say Merry Christmas. Call me when you get home.” Blythe paused just a moment. “Love you,” she said, and hung up.
She was about to make omelets for their Christmas brunch when she picked up the phone and tried again. Still no answer. She left another message.
At 11 a.m., she tried his cell phone. He didn’t pick up. His office phone rang through to the voice mail.
Blythe told herself that Greg was just busy, but she couldn’t shake the sound of his voice: quiet and alone.
She told herself that she wouldn’t bother James. Not this time. She’d barely spoken to him in months. He was never at Greg’s place whenever she called, and the few times she’d mentioned his name, Greg had just mumbled that he’d hadn’t seen him.
“Wilson’s got a lot on his mind,” he’d said. “He’s too busy worrying about things that are none of his business.”
Blythe hadn’t been able to bring herself to ask if they’d fought. She was afraid of what the answer would be.
But as autumn turned darker and colder, she began to feel as if she had no idea what was happening in Greg’s life. He’d been in a bad mood during nearly every call, barely speaking at all, and telling her nothing of what was going on.
“I’ve been busy,” he’d say.
“It’s nothing important,” he’d say.
“I’m just tired,” he’d say, followed by, “no reason” when she’d ask why.
If he had been in the same room with her, he would have only shrugged at every question, and not said anything at all.
Blythe wondered if this was how John had felt for so many years -- left somewhere on the outside of his son’s life, trying to see what was happening through narrow cracks.
She finally gave in and dialed James’ number. His cell phone rang three times before he picked it up.
“Hello?”
He sounded like he’d been sleeping, and Blythe told herself that she shouldn’t have bothered him. He’d probably been working late at the hospital. Maybe Greg had been there late too.
“Hello, James, I’m sorry to bother you.”
“Blythe, hello,” he said. “Merry Christmas.”
“Thank you.” She nearly wished him a Merry Christmas too, then remembered he was Jewish. She wondered if he would have been offended if she’d said it. She didn’t think so. “Happy holidays,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“James, I’m sorry, I know you’ve probably been busy all night and I don’t want to bother you ...”
“You’re not a bother.”
“Thank you, but I’m wondering, have you seen Greg?”
James was quiet for a moment. “Not since yesterday.” His voice was darker and quieter. He was hiding something -- something he didn’t want to talk about to anyone, Blythe guessed. “Why?”
“He left a message here last night,” she said. “It’s probably nothing, but it seemed ... strange.”
“Strange how?”
“I don’t know if I can explain it.” Blythe sat at the kitchen table. John had the TV on in the living room and was flipping past news stations. “He said he was calling to wish us a Merry Christmas, but it wasn’t what he said, it was how he said it.”
James was quiet again.
“Something felt ...” Blythe considered her words. “Something felt wrong. And now he’s not answering any of his phones.”
“He ... he had a ... a bad case,” James said after a moment. “Maybe he took his phone off the hook.” It didn’t sound like he believed his own words.
He took a deep breath and Blythe could hear his footsteps as he crossed a room. “I’ll check in on him.”
“James, I don’t want to put you out.”
“It’s not a problem,” he said. “I don’t have anything else going on. I should probably do it anyway.”
Blythe wondered why it was James sounded like the idea of seeing Greg was a burden, a chore -- something he had to do, rather than something he wanted to, but she didn’t want to know the answer. She felt her mood turn darker at the idea of both James and Greg alone, both so far from home.
“Thank you,” she said, but somehow she didn’t feel any better after she hung up.
------------
Wilson couldn’t remember driving away from House’s place. All he could see when he tried to remember anything about the past hour was House looking up at him blearily, the empty pill bottle with his patient’s name on it, the puddle of vomit with barely digested pills in it.
Then there was nothing but emotions -- anger and disgust and guilt -- and he knew he had to get out before he did something stupid -- something even more stupid than he’d done until now.
By the time he realized where he was, he was sitting in his car, in the driveway of his old house. It was vacant now too, the real estate agent’s sign on the lawn. Even Julie had run away, had left him behind.
He leaned his head against the steering wheel, his hands were gripping the wheel so tightly he could feel the tension up into his forearms. When he finally let go, his hands shook and he jammed them into his coat pockets.
Everything had gone wrong. Everything was going wrong. Everything was wrong.
Wilson couldn’t remember the last time he’d managed to do something right. The last time he’d felt good. Hell, he couldn’t even name the last time he hadn’t felt like crap.
And now he’d screwed up again. Left House on his own floor, in a puddle of his own waste.
“I trust you James.” How many times had Blythe said that to him? How many times had he lied and told her he could handle everything? Wilson idly thought that she hadn’t said it this time, and he thought maybe she’d known what had been happening, had picked up on every mistake he’d made and was expecting him to fail again.
Wilson knew he should get back to check on House. He knew he shouldn’t have left him there in the first place. But he hadn’t been able to stop himself, and now he didn’t seem able to spare the energy to start the engine and turn back.
He wasn’t sure when it all went bad, when he lost control. Tritter was like a cancer. Every time Wilson thought they’d cut him out, he’d recur in another place. He beat every treatment. And now he’d metastasized, and was spreading everywhere. He was Stage IV gone wild.
Wilson thought he’d finally come up with the solution that would kill the cancer, eliminate the danger. But House wouldn’t accept the deal, like a worn-down patient refusing treatment.
Wilson sat back and looked at the house he and Julie had shared -- a two-story colonial with a slate roof, clapboard siding painted a pale yellow and an oversized yard with big trees. She’d convinced him that they should buy a big place, so they’d have plenty of room for parties.
“And children,” she’d said the first time they looked at it. “You’ll make a good father.”
Wilson closed his eyes. Good thing they never had kids. He’d probably screw that up too, and they’d end up resenting him just like House and his Dad.
For a moment, Wilson felt something like sympathy for John House. He remembered every dire warning that John had ever given about trying to deal with his son, about trying to reason with him, trying to discipline him, trying to make him do anything. Then he shook his head and let the feeling pass. No one deserved John’s brand of discipline. Maybe House’s asinine behavior now was nothing more than a way he’d found to cope with John in the first place.
Wilson told himself again that he should get back to House, to check on him, but he still didn’t start the car. He was afraid of what would happen if House was still there, still needed his help, and he didn’t know if he had anything left to give.
Sometimes Wilson felt as if he was dangling over a cliff, hanging onto a rope with one hand and trying to pull himself up, while House dangled from the other, pulling them both down. And now he’d reached the point where he had to decide whether he could do anything other than let House fall, and save himself, or give in and tumble down with House.
He opened his eyes and took another look at the house. It was empty, dark and bare. Every other place on the block was lit up for the holiday. When he looked to the right, he could just make out the Stewarts through their picture window -- one of the kids was running past, Eddie was reading something, the lights were blinking on the tree.
Wilson took a deep breath and blew it out. He took another breath. He took his hands out of his pockets, reached for the ignition and started the car.
Wilson knocked on the door and took out his key. He wouldn’t be surprised if he walked in to find House still passed out on the floor. He also wouldn’t be surprised if House slammed the door in his face. He tried to ignore the voice in the back of his head saying that House could be worse than he imagined -- after all, he’d left House in the middle of an OD, though Wilson kept trying to tell himself that most of the pills were in the slick of vomit on the floor.
He heard House’s uneven step on the other side of the door and put the key back in his pocket.
House pulled open the door and leaned on it. He didn’t say anything, just glared at him. Wilson noticed House’s eyes were dark, but firmly focused and he let himself let go of his worry.
Anger replaced it.
“Call your mother,” Wilson said, and turned to leave.
“You do it.” House’s voice was rough, and Wilson briefly wondered if his throat was sore. He told himself that House deserved the pain.
“No,” he said.
“C’mon,” House said. “I’ve been sick and she’ll figure it out. We don’t want her to worry, now do ...”
“No,” Wilson repeated. He took a step back toward House. “I’m done. I’m through. You screwed this up, you need to deal with this yourself.”
House stared at him and Wilson knew he was judging just how far he could push him.
“I mean it,” Wilson said. “I’m through with the lies and the bullshit and the mind games.”
“What do you expect me to do?” House asked, and Wilson shook his head. They both knew what he had to do. “What am I supposed to say to her?”
Wilson stared down at the tile in the entry way. “I don’t care,” he said, then sighed as he realized that was true. He wanted to care -- he knew he should care -- but somehow Blythe had become just one more burden, just one thing that he couldn’t handle, just one more thing to pull him down.
“She’s your mother, House. Lie to her, tell her the truth, I don’t care.”
Wilson turned and left. He didn’t look back.
-----------
Blythe wasn’t hungry, but went through the motions getting Christmas dinner ready. She didn’t have to think. She and John had made a standing rib roast their own quiet holiday feast more than fifteen years ago.
“Better than turkey any day,” John had said the first year they had it, and Blythe had agreed.
Every year, they’d eat late in the afternoon. John would find some Christmas music on the radio, and they’d exchange presents during dessert.
John offered to peel the potatoes while Blythe made the salad.
“Thank you,” she said, then stood in the middle of the kitchen, holding a tomato and trying to remember what she should do next.
“Are you still thinking about that call last night?” Blythe turned to see John watching here.
She shrugged. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Of course it’s nothing,” John said, and turned back to his potatoes. “If anything was wrong Wilson would have called.”
Blythe nodded but didn’t say anything. She hadn’t told John anything about her worries for James. She told herself that he wouldn’t understand, but maybe it was because if he thought Greg and James were fighting, he would have blamed Greg, and she didn’t want to choose sides.
She jumped when the phone rang and grabbed a towel to dry her hands. She picked it up before it rang a second time.
“Merry Christmas.” Greg’s voice sounded rough, but Blythe smiled when she heard it.
“Merry Christmas, Greg. How are you doing?”
“I’m OK.”
“You don’t sound OK.”
He chuckled slightly, but the sound was dark and Blythe didn’t hear any humor in it. “I swallowed something that didn’t agree with me.”
“But you’re going to be OK?”
“I slept it off,” Greg said. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“That’s all right.” Blythe tried to quiet the emotions that gripped her stomach. Nothing worked. Instead she only worried more. She turned to John. He’d stopped peeling and was watching her. She nodded and he smiled slightly. “You can take it easy today, right?”
“Sure.” She heard him take a deep breath. “I’ve just got something I need to do. I don’t want to do it, but I think I have to.”
“Something important?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“For a patient?”
He was quiet for a moment. “Kind of.”
“Then I know you’ll do the right thing,” she said. “You always do.”
Blythe heard John snort, but she didn’t look at him. She could hear Greg moving around as he spoke, heard the sound of a door opening, then closing, something zipping open, then shut.
“I just wanted to let you know that I’m OK,” he said. He was quiet for a moment. “I might not get a chance to call you again for a while.”
“Are you going someplace?”
“Maybe.”
Blythe felt her stomach clench tighter. She turned slightly away from John, in case he could read the emotions on her face.
“Don’t you know?”
“Not exactly.”
Blythe nearly asked him why, but didn’t. She knew he’d never answer her.
“All right. You be careful, right?”
“Yeah.” She heard the jangle of keys. “I’ve got to go,” he said.
“All right. Goodbye, Greg. I love you.”
He didn’t answer her, and Blythe could only listen to the silence as he hung up the phone.
Chapter Nineteen When Greg Called At Christmas
Author: Namaste
Rating: Gen, strong House and Wilson friendship, PG
Summary: Somehow, Blythe knows something is wrong.
Warning and Author’s Note: Spoilers through “Merry Little Christmas,” if you aren’t familiar with what happens there, you may be lost. And, by the way, this is the penultimate chapter. Unless something drastic happens to change my mind, we’ve got just one more to go.
Sample: Blythe listened to the recording again. Something sounded wrong, off key almost, but she couldn’t say what. The sound of Greg’s voice sent shivers down her spine. There was something there in the gaps, in the silences, in the spaces between Greg’s words, and Blythe couldn’t quite make it out.
Previous chapters are linked 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
When They Weren’t Together
When John Took Blythe to Paris
When Wilson Lived With House
When Greg Was Shot
When Blythe Met Steve McQueen
When Greg Got Better
When Greg Got Worse
When Greg Called At Christmas
It was late when Blythe and John got home.
“It’s not late, it’s early,” John said. “It’s past midnight. That makes it early morning.”
“But we haven’t been to bed,” Blythe said. She smiled at the old argument. “That makes it late.”
John chuckled slightly and reached across the car seat in the dark to squeeze her hand. “Merry Christmas.”
Blythe smiled. She lifted their joined hands and kissed the back of his hand. “Merry Christmas.”
Somehow, in the past couple of years, they’d built themselves a tradition: Christmas Eve dinner at her sister’s -- complete with Sarah’s grandchildren anxious to open presents -- then a Midnight service. Neither John nor Blythe were ever religious, but Blythe loved singing carols in the church Sarah attended. The lights were always turned low, and the candles at each window and at each pew flickered in time with the music as the congregation sang out and breathed in.
She had looked over at one point to see John, stooped over to share a hymnal with Sarah’s six-year-old granddaughter Lizzie. He leaned down to whisper something into her ear and she giggled.
On the way home, they’d stopped near a park. John turned off the engine and held her hand as they walked out toward the water -- another new tradition. They sat and listened to the waves lapping against the shore.
There’d been a full moon, and John stared out across the water.
“It would have been nice to have had a daughter,” he said.
Blythe turned to look at him. They almost never talked about other children, and John had never been the one to even bring up the subject. At first she thought it was because he was disappointed in her, disappointed that she couldn’t have any more babies after Greg. Then she realized he wasn’t upset with her, he just didn’t want her to feel bad, so he never mentioned it.
“Not instead of Greg,” John said, just in case she’d misunderstood. She hadn’t.
They’d once discussed adoption, but Blythe had seen how hard the constant moves were for Greg, and she didn’t know if it would be fair to force that life onto another child, and she never talked of it again.
“A girl would have been nice,” Blythe said. She remembered the way Lizzie had latched on to John six months ago when he fixed her bicycle, and how she kept bringing him other things to fix every time she saw him: the tangled string of her yo-yo, the leaky water gun, the old doll with an arm that had come loose. Each time John had quietly found some way to mend them, though he’d only laughed and told her that she was on her own when she told him that her computer was broken.
Blythe smiled. “If we’d had a little girl, she would have had you wrapped around her little finger.”
“You say that like it would have been a bad thing.” John wrapped one arm around Blythe and pulled her close. She felt him kiss her forehead.
Whenever she’d allowed herself to daydream about the other children they’d never had, she’d usually imagined another boy, someone for Greg to play with, someone to grow up with. Someone who would be there for him now. Someone like James.
But a girl would have been nice too. With a daughter, maybe John would have allowed himself to show his softer side more often. Maybe he wouldn’t have worried so much about setting the stern example for Greg, and instead learned how to relax and be gentle.
They sat on the bench for a few minutes more, until Blythe shivered, and John led the way back to the car. He turned up the heater and turned toward home.
The answering machine was blinking red in the kitchen, and Blythe hit the button.
“Hi Mom.” Blythe smiled when she heard Greg’s voice. “I guess you guys are already up at Aunt Sarah’s.”
John poured himself a glass of water and paused to listen.
“I suppose Dad’s already into the eggnog and you’re suffering through another dried out turkey.”
“We both suffered,” John muttered, then chuckled as Blythe shushed him.
The tape was quiet for a moment, and she thought maybe Greg had hung up, but then his voice continued. “Just wanted to say Merry Christmas,” he said, then the sound of the phone hanging up.
“Merry Christmas,” John said. He swallowed down the last of his water and put the empty glass next to the sink. “I’m going to bed. Are you coming?”
Blythe hit “play” on the machine. “In a minute.” She listened to the recording again. Something sounded wrong, off key almost, but she couldn’t say what. The sound of Greg’s voice sent shivers down her spine.
The same few words echoed through the kitchen again. There was something there in the gaps, in the silences, in the spaces between Greg’s words, and Blythe couldn’t quite make it out.
She listened again.
“You’re not going to try and call him now, are you?” John had changed into his pajamas and stood in the hallway, the light behind him. “It’s after two o’clock.”
Blythe shook her head. “No.”
She paused with her finger over the machine, but didn’t press the button again. She didn’t delete the message either. Blythe nearly asked John if Greg sounded all right to him, but didn’t. John had never been very good at listening to the silence, at hearing what it was that Greg wasn’t saying.
She managed to put off calling Greg until 8 a.m. John was still asleep when she picked up her phone and called his number. The answering machine picked up.
“Hi honey,” she said, “I guess you’re out. I hope it’s not problems with a patient again. I just wanted to say Merry Christmas. Call me when you get home.” Blythe paused just a moment. “Love you,” she said, and hung up.
She was about to make omelets for their Christmas brunch when she picked up the phone and tried again. Still no answer. She left another message.
At 11 a.m., she tried his cell phone. He didn’t pick up. His office phone rang through to the voice mail.
Blythe told herself that Greg was just busy, but she couldn’t shake the sound of his voice: quiet and alone.
She told herself that she wouldn’t bother James. Not this time. She’d barely spoken to him in months. He was never at Greg’s place whenever she called, and the few times she’d mentioned his name, Greg had just mumbled that he’d hadn’t seen him.
“Wilson’s got a lot on his mind,” he’d said. “He’s too busy worrying about things that are none of his business.”
Blythe hadn’t been able to bring herself to ask if they’d fought. She was afraid of what the answer would be.
But as autumn turned darker and colder, she began to feel as if she had no idea what was happening in Greg’s life. He’d been in a bad mood during nearly every call, barely speaking at all, and telling her nothing of what was going on.
“I’ve been busy,” he’d say.
“It’s nothing important,” he’d say.
“I’m just tired,” he’d say, followed by, “no reason” when she’d ask why.
If he had been in the same room with her, he would have only shrugged at every question, and not said anything at all.
Blythe wondered if this was how John had felt for so many years -- left somewhere on the outside of his son’s life, trying to see what was happening through narrow cracks.
She finally gave in and dialed James’ number. His cell phone rang three times before he picked it up.
“Hello?”
He sounded like he’d been sleeping, and Blythe told herself that she shouldn’t have bothered him. He’d probably been working late at the hospital. Maybe Greg had been there late too.
“Hello, James, I’m sorry to bother you.”
“Blythe, hello,” he said. “Merry Christmas.”
“Thank you.” She nearly wished him a Merry Christmas too, then remembered he was Jewish. She wondered if he would have been offended if she’d said it. She didn’t think so. “Happy holidays,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“James, I’m sorry, I know you’ve probably been busy all night and I don’t want to bother you ...”
“You’re not a bother.”
“Thank you, but I’m wondering, have you seen Greg?”
James was quiet for a moment. “Not since yesterday.” His voice was darker and quieter. He was hiding something -- something he didn’t want to talk about to anyone, Blythe guessed. “Why?”
“He left a message here last night,” she said. “It’s probably nothing, but it seemed ... strange.”
“Strange how?”
“I don’t know if I can explain it.” Blythe sat at the kitchen table. John had the TV on in the living room and was flipping past news stations. “He said he was calling to wish us a Merry Christmas, but it wasn’t what he said, it was how he said it.”
James was quiet again.
“Something felt ...” Blythe considered her words. “Something felt wrong. And now he’s not answering any of his phones.”
“He ... he had a ... a bad case,” James said after a moment. “Maybe he took his phone off the hook.” It didn’t sound like he believed his own words.
He took a deep breath and Blythe could hear his footsteps as he crossed a room. “I’ll check in on him.”
“James, I don’t want to put you out.”
“It’s not a problem,” he said. “I don’t have anything else going on. I should probably do it anyway.”
Blythe wondered why it was James sounded like the idea of seeing Greg was a burden, a chore -- something he had to do, rather than something he wanted to, but she didn’t want to know the answer. She felt her mood turn darker at the idea of both James and Greg alone, both so far from home.
“Thank you,” she said, but somehow she didn’t feel any better after she hung up.
------------
Wilson couldn’t remember driving away from House’s place. All he could see when he tried to remember anything about the past hour was House looking up at him blearily, the empty pill bottle with his patient’s name on it, the puddle of vomit with barely digested pills in it.
Then there was nothing but emotions -- anger and disgust and guilt -- and he knew he had to get out before he did something stupid -- something even more stupid than he’d done until now.
By the time he realized where he was, he was sitting in his car, in the driveway of his old house. It was vacant now too, the real estate agent’s sign on the lawn. Even Julie had run away, had left him behind.
He leaned his head against the steering wheel, his hands were gripping the wheel so tightly he could feel the tension up into his forearms. When he finally let go, his hands shook and he jammed them into his coat pockets.
Everything had gone wrong. Everything was going wrong. Everything was wrong.
Wilson couldn’t remember the last time he’d managed to do something right. The last time he’d felt good. Hell, he couldn’t even name the last time he hadn’t felt like crap.
And now he’d screwed up again. Left House on his own floor, in a puddle of his own waste.
“I trust you James.” How many times had Blythe said that to him? How many times had he lied and told her he could handle everything? Wilson idly thought that she hadn’t said it this time, and he thought maybe she’d known what had been happening, had picked up on every mistake he’d made and was expecting him to fail again.
Wilson knew he should get back to check on House. He knew he shouldn’t have left him there in the first place. But he hadn’t been able to stop himself, and now he didn’t seem able to spare the energy to start the engine and turn back.
He wasn’t sure when it all went bad, when he lost control. Tritter was like a cancer. Every time Wilson thought they’d cut him out, he’d recur in another place. He beat every treatment. And now he’d metastasized, and was spreading everywhere. He was Stage IV gone wild.
Wilson thought he’d finally come up with the solution that would kill the cancer, eliminate the danger. But House wouldn’t accept the deal, like a worn-down patient refusing treatment.
Wilson sat back and looked at the house he and Julie had shared -- a two-story colonial with a slate roof, clapboard siding painted a pale yellow and an oversized yard with big trees. She’d convinced him that they should buy a big place, so they’d have plenty of room for parties.
“And children,” she’d said the first time they looked at it. “You’ll make a good father.”
Wilson closed his eyes. Good thing they never had kids. He’d probably screw that up too, and they’d end up resenting him just like House and his Dad.
For a moment, Wilson felt something like sympathy for John House. He remembered every dire warning that John had ever given about trying to deal with his son, about trying to reason with him, trying to discipline him, trying to make him do anything. Then he shook his head and let the feeling pass. No one deserved John’s brand of discipline. Maybe House’s asinine behavior now was nothing more than a way he’d found to cope with John in the first place.
Wilson told himself again that he should get back to House, to check on him, but he still didn’t start the car. He was afraid of what would happen if House was still there, still needed his help, and he didn’t know if he had anything left to give.
Sometimes Wilson felt as if he was dangling over a cliff, hanging onto a rope with one hand and trying to pull himself up, while House dangled from the other, pulling them both down. And now he’d reached the point where he had to decide whether he could do anything other than let House fall, and save himself, or give in and tumble down with House.
He opened his eyes and took another look at the house. It was empty, dark and bare. Every other place on the block was lit up for the holiday. When he looked to the right, he could just make out the Stewarts through their picture window -- one of the kids was running past, Eddie was reading something, the lights were blinking on the tree.
Wilson took a deep breath and blew it out. He took another breath. He took his hands out of his pockets, reached for the ignition and started the car.
Wilson knocked on the door and took out his key. He wouldn’t be surprised if he walked in to find House still passed out on the floor. He also wouldn’t be surprised if House slammed the door in his face. He tried to ignore the voice in the back of his head saying that House could be worse than he imagined -- after all, he’d left House in the middle of an OD, though Wilson kept trying to tell himself that most of the pills were in the slick of vomit on the floor.
He heard House’s uneven step on the other side of the door and put the key back in his pocket.
House pulled open the door and leaned on it. He didn’t say anything, just glared at him. Wilson noticed House’s eyes were dark, but firmly focused and he let himself let go of his worry.
Anger replaced it.
“Call your mother,” Wilson said, and turned to leave.
“You do it.” House’s voice was rough, and Wilson briefly wondered if his throat was sore. He told himself that House deserved the pain.
“No,” he said.
“C’mon,” House said. “I’ve been sick and she’ll figure it out. We don’t want her to worry, now do ...”
“No,” Wilson repeated. He took a step back toward House. “I’m done. I’m through. You screwed this up, you need to deal with this yourself.”
House stared at him and Wilson knew he was judging just how far he could push him.
“I mean it,” Wilson said. “I’m through with the lies and the bullshit and the mind games.”
“What do you expect me to do?” House asked, and Wilson shook his head. They both knew what he had to do. “What am I supposed to say to her?”
Wilson stared down at the tile in the entry way. “I don’t care,” he said, then sighed as he realized that was true. He wanted to care -- he knew he should care -- but somehow Blythe had become just one more burden, just one thing that he couldn’t handle, just one more thing to pull him down.
“She’s your mother, House. Lie to her, tell her the truth, I don’t care.”
Wilson turned and left. He didn’t look back.
-----------
Blythe wasn’t hungry, but went through the motions getting Christmas dinner ready. She didn’t have to think. She and John had made a standing rib roast their own quiet holiday feast more than fifteen years ago.
“Better than turkey any day,” John had said the first year they had it, and Blythe had agreed.
Every year, they’d eat late in the afternoon. John would find some Christmas music on the radio, and they’d exchange presents during dessert.
John offered to peel the potatoes while Blythe made the salad.
“Thank you,” she said, then stood in the middle of the kitchen, holding a tomato and trying to remember what she should do next.
“Are you still thinking about that call last night?” Blythe turned to see John watching here.
She shrugged. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Of course it’s nothing,” John said, and turned back to his potatoes. “If anything was wrong Wilson would have called.”
Blythe nodded but didn’t say anything. She hadn’t told John anything about her worries for James. She told herself that he wouldn’t understand, but maybe it was because if he thought Greg and James were fighting, he would have blamed Greg, and she didn’t want to choose sides.
She jumped when the phone rang and grabbed a towel to dry her hands. She picked it up before it rang a second time.
“Merry Christmas.” Greg’s voice sounded rough, but Blythe smiled when she heard it.
“Merry Christmas, Greg. How are you doing?”
“I’m OK.”
“You don’t sound OK.”
He chuckled slightly, but the sound was dark and Blythe didn’t hear any humor in it. “I swallowed something that didn’t agree with me.”
“But you’re going to be OK?”
“I slept it off,” Greg said. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“That’s all right.” Blythe tried to quiet the emotions that gripped her stomach. Nothing worked. Instead she only worried more. She turned to John. He’d stopped peeling and was watching her. She nodded and he smiled slightly. “You can take it easy today, right?”
“Sure.” She heard him take a deep breath. “I’ve just got something I need to do. I don’t want to do it, but I think I have to.”
“Something important?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“For a patient?”
He was quiet for a moment. “Kind of.”
“Then I know you’ll do the right thing,” she said. “You always do.”
Blythe heard John snort, but she didn’t look at him. She could hear Greg moving around as he spoke, heard the sound of a door opening, then closing, something zipping open, then shut.
“I just wanted to let you know that I’m OK,” he said. He was quiet for a moment. “I might not get a chance to call you again for a while.”
“Are you going someplace?”
“Maybe.”
Blythe felt her stomach clench tighter. She turned slightly away from John, in case he could read the emotions on her face.
“Don’t you know?”
“Not exactly.”
Blythe nearly asked him why, but didn’t. She knew he’d never answer her.
“All right. You be careful, right?”
“Yeah.” She heard the jangle of keys. “I’ve got to go,” he said.
“All right. Goodbye, Greg. I love you.”
He didn’t answer her, and Blythe could only listen to the silence as he hung up the phone.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-20 11:52 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-21 01:57 am (UTC)But there are a lot of people who aren't as "religious" about attending church. I knew a Unitarian church which didn't have Sunday morning services in the summer because everyone preferred to be "worshiping God" outside.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-21 01:58 am (UTC)Obviously.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-21 04:40 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-21 04:37 am (UTC)But it seems to me that most Protestant religions though have, not looser services by any means, but more flexible, in that they vary from church to church, town to town - the churches form their own schedules for services and the ministers look at the passages they want to look at and how much time. And maybe individuals can decide how much of that they want to attend, and that'll partly depend on where they live and stuff... But Catholics, everywhere you go around the world, they're doing the same thing, that's what I meant. It's basically a requirement to be a "good Catholic" - or used to be.
My point is, if John were Catholic, I can't see him not going to church every Sunday, being the kind of person he is - even if he just vaguely believed but didn't give much thought to it, and his main motivation was just wanting to do what he's supposed to do, and defining himself as the religion he was raised with. I don't think he's radical enough to decide he didn't need to go to church to still be a good Christian (if he were Catholic). But he's not, so... lol Ok, I guess I don't really have a point. Just explaining where my thinking was coming from. lol