Drive By Beta, Part II
Aug. 19th, 2007 11:46 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
namasteOK, so I've been playing with the concepts some of you gave me, and before I fully commit, wanted to get feedback as to the general feel of it -- specifically if the concept involving dreams, Stacy, Crandall, et al works -- as well as any more specific concrit you've got.
It looks like I'll be breaking this up into chapters, but I'm not wholly commited to that, if you have other ideas. This would basically be the first two chapters, probably with two more to come. I'll be tweaking language, wording and such, so this would probably qualify as draft 1.5. I'm also not certain if I've got enough to establish House pushing Crandall away here, of if I need to ramp that up a little more, so anything any of you have in that area will help.
Right now it's got he working title of The Past Is The Present (It's The Future Too) mosty because I was rewatching "Long Day's Journey into Night" (the Jack Lemmon, Kevin Spacey, Peter Gallagher, Bethel Leslie version). But that's a bit of a mouthful, so that may change.
Any and all feedback/concrit appreciated.
He dreamed he was in Egypt. He was nine years old, and had fallen asleep in the shade of the pyramids in the middle of the day. He could feel a drop of sweat making its way down the side of his face. It tickled, and he wanted to wipe it away, but moving took too much energy, his arms felt too heavy.
“Greg?”
He heard her voice, but she was far away.
“Greg?”
A little closer this time. He wondered why she was moving. It was too hot to move.
He felt a hand touch his cheek, then a cool cloth wiping away the sweat. It felt good, and he sighed, turned toward her. A sharp stab of pain shot out from his leg as he tried to move and he heard himself whimper. He woke, feeling the soft sand that had been under his back in the dream harden into the hospital mattress.
He opened his eyes, and saw Stacy looking down at him.
“Greg?” She pulled her hand away from his face, but hesitated with it still in the air, as if she wasn’t sure if he’d allow her touch. Since he’d woken from the surgery, she’d kept her distance, rarely holding his hand, and then only maintaining a soft contact, a light grip around his fingers as if she was unsure how he’d react.
House looked away, unable to look at her, not knowing what he should say, not knowing what she expected him to say. He’d walk away, if he could.
“I was sleeping,” he said. “You woke me up.”
Stacy put her hand on the rail. House could see her knuckles turn white as she gripped the plastic. “You were hot,” she said. “I was worried that the fever was back.”
“Let the doctors worry about that. You shouldn’t be thinking about any of my medical issues anymore.”
Stacy released the rail, put her hands in her lap. She sat back.
House closed his eyes, tried to will himself back into the dream, away from the pain. But the pain was here now, and it wouldn’t be ignored.
“I was going to go get some lunch,” Stacy said. “I thought I’d pick up some soup from the deli. Lisa said it would be all right for you to have some too.”
House shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”
“You weren’t hungry at breakfast either.” She leaned forward again, but kept her hands on her lap. “You need to eat.”
“You’re not my mother.”
“Would you eat something if she asked you to? She’ll do it.”
House didn’t answer, just closed his eyes again. Soft sand, he thought. Hot wind. The scent of Egypt in his nose -- of camels and fat tourists and diggers at the excavation sites. He took a deep breath but only picked up the cool air conditioned scent of the hospital, the smell of cleansers and his own flesh. He wanted to take a shower, to stand there under his own power and feel the water washing over his skin, over his legs. The sponges and lukewarm water the nurses carried into his room each day were no good.
“Greg?” He heard the chair creak as Stacy pushed herself up, heard her steps as she moved toward the door, heard the door slide open. “Are you sure you don’t need anything?”
He was quiet, didn’t even bother to shake his head, just listened to her walk out the door.
“You should talk to her,” Wilson said that night, after Stacy had gone home, after the nurse had hung another bag of IV antibiotics, another bag of Ringers, and taken away his untouched dinner tray.
“I have,” House said. He studied the way the fluid dripped from the IV tube into his arm, a steady mixture of sodium, potassium, calcium and antibiotics measured out drop by drop. If he wanted to, he could calculate the dosages, determine how much of each medication was in each drop.
“Not really,” Wilson said. “Not about what matters.”
House found himself counting the drops ... one, two, three, four. It was easier than doing the calculations. It was like counting sheep, mindless, effortless. His head felt congested, stuffed full of pain meds and antibiotics and sedatives. He didn’t want to think about what Stacy had done. It was easier not to think. Counting was all he could handle.
Wilson leaned forward. “She thinks you hate her,” he said.
House turned away from the IV line, looked over at Wilson. The window was dark behind Wilson’s head, the late summer sun already dropped below the horizon. He hadn’t noticed when the sun set, when the hours slipped from unending day to an unending night. “Maybe I do,” he said.
Wilson shook his head. “No you don’t.”
“Just what I need,” House said, “someone else telling me how to live my life.”
“I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”
“Don’t be so sure.” House turned back to watching the IV drip.
One. Two. Three. Four. He remembered the old game, pulling the petals off of daisies, and updated it with each drop. “I hate her,” he thought to himself with the first drop. “I hate her not.” Drip. “I hate her.” Drip. “I hate her not.” Drip.
“House.” He heard Wilson’s voice, but didn’t look up.
“She hates me,” he thought to himself, changing the game. Drip. “She hates me not.” Drip. Maybe if he kept count until the bag emptied he’d finally have an answer.
“House?”
“What?” He stopped counting, forced himself to turn away. Wilson was staring at him, as if he was trying to read House’s mind. He leaned forward, didn’t show any of the hesitation Stacy did, didn’t show the sorrow that was always on his mother’s face.
“It’s going to be all right, you know,” he said. “You’ll figure it out, you and Stacy.”
“You don’t know that.”
“She loves you, and one of these days, you’re going to remember that you love her too.”
“You don’t know that, either.”
House turned away from him and looked at the door, hoping to see the nurse coming through with his evening meds. He wished he still had the PDA pump, but Cuddy had said it was time to get off the morphine, find something else. He’d still been doped up at the time, and like an idiot, he’d agreed with her.
“You’ve got another thirty minutes to go,” Wilson said as he checked his watch. He looked at House again, glanced up at the numbers on the monitor behind House’s shoulder. “I could get her now, if you want.”
House wanted to tell him no, to tell him that he could wait, that he could handle the pain for a little longer. It would have been a lie. He wanted to see the white cup in the nurse’s hand when she walked through the door, to see the small white Percocet tablets and the smaller sleeping pill that let him make it through the night. He wanted to swallow them down, feel the real world grow fuzzy, let it slip away along with every question he didn’t know how to answer.
He nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Great.”
Wilson got up, slid the door open and stepped out. House watched him turn left, toward the nurses’ station, then disappear from view. He looked at the IV again. Drip. One. Drip. Two. Drip. Three. Drip. Four.
House dreamed he was in Mississippi, lying in the back of Crandall’s car, trying to sleep as Crandall hit every bump in the road. It was dark and the windows were open, the hot, moist Delta air streaming through the windows, spinning in humid whirlwinds over his body.
He rolled onto his side and wiped the sweat off his face with a t-shirt someone had thrown into the back of the car a day or two before. He wasn’t sure if it was his or Crandall’s. He was pretty sure there wasn’t much of a difference anymore.
He felt the car shudder and gravel pinged up against the sheet metal. It jerked suddenly to the left.
“Jesus, Crandall, you trying to kill us?”
“Sorry,” Crandall shouted back, his voice blending with the roar of the wind and the creaking of the rusted floorboards.
“If you’re going to fall asleep, just pull over,” House said, “or let me drive.”
“I’m not falling asleep,” Crandall said. “There was something on the road. A dog, or a skunk or something.”
“You can’t tell the difference?”
“I was concentrating on not hitting it, rather than identifying it, G-Man.”
House pushed himself up until he was sitting with his back against the hard vinyl behind the passenger’s seat. Crandall hit another bump and his head banged against the window. “Jesus, Crandall.”
“Sorry.”
“Pull over and let me drive,” House said. “I’m not going to be able to sleep anyway.”
“What, and listen to you bitch some more about that test you’ve got next week, and how you’re not going to have time to study if we don’t break every speed limit on the way back? No way.” House felt the car pick up speed as Crandall spoke. “If you were smart, you’d just blow it off. It’s just a test.”
Crandall hit another bump, and House heard the springs squeak under him. “Or better yet, quit school,” Crandall yelled from the front seat. “Come back on the road full time.”
House sighed, slumped against the upholstery. He could smell freshly turned earth, and guessed that there was a freshly planted field somewhere out there in the dark. “I can’t quit.”
“Just for a while,” Crandall said. “The band’s really coming together now. Jack’s brother-in-law says he knows a guy who thinks he can get us some time in the studio. The world needs a jazz musician more than it needs another doctor.”
“I’ll remind you of that next time I have to drag you into an emergency room with a broken nose.”
“I’m serious, G-Man. Doctors are a dime a dozen, but real musicians -- we’re a dying breed.”
“Right,” House said. “That’s because we’re all broke and starving to death.”
Crandall was nearing the crest of the hill, the engine whining as he tried to push it harder. House saw the headlights of an approaching car in the other lane, saw them come closer. The other car topped the hill first and its headlights dropped down, the high beams glaring through Crandall’s car.
House raised his arm to block the light.
“Sorry about that, Dr. House.” The voice wasn’t Crandall’s. House cracked his eyes open and saw the tall form of the night nurse in the bright light of the fluorescents bulb next to his bed -- Randy or Ricky or something. “I was hoping this could wait until morning, but Dr. Cuddy left specific orders.”
The nurse hung a fresh IV bag on the stand, then flicked off the light. “You try to get some more sleep.” The nurse walked around the end of the bed in the dim light from the hall. “I’ll leave you alone now,” he said, and slid the door closed.
----
He was ten years old, and holding a baseball, the cover scuffed and stained. He tried to stretch his fingers along the seams to match the way his father had shown him. Maybe if he could, he could finally throw it hard enough, far enough, straight enough.
He cocked his arm back and threw, groaning when his muscles coiled, then released. He watched as the ball dropped off course, landing short of the target.
“Harder Greg, like I showed you,” Dad said, then picked up the ball and walked back to the mound.
Greg took off his cap and wiped the sweat off his forehead. He wanted to tell Dad that it was too hot to practice, but Dad would only say that he should be grateful that he was taking the time to coach him.
“Most fathers don’t care about helping their sons,” Dad would say, “but I do.”
Dad stepped up next to him and showed him again how to hold the ball, his fingers wrapping around the leather. “Now, do it again.”
Greg held the ball, cocked his arm and threw, his muscles aching with the motion. The ball fell even shorter this time.
Dad handed him another ball.
“How many more?” Greg asked.
“You complaining?”
“No, sir. It’s just ...” he couldn’t bring himself to look up at his father. Instead he looked down, noticed that Dad’s dress shoes had gotten dusty. He wondered if he’d have to shine them tonight. “My arm hurts,” he said.
“Of course it does,” Dad said. “You’re working your muscles. You’ve got to hurt if you’re going to get better, right?”
Greg nodded.
Dad held out the ball. “You ready?”
Greg stared at it.
“You ready?” It wasn’t Dad’s voice anymore.
House blinked and the ball disappeared. He blinked again and the baseball diamond faded away.
“Dr. House?”
He blinked again and saw his foot placed on a circular balance board, the grass and dirt replaced by gray linoleum.
“Maybe we should take a break.” House looked up at the therapist. Laura something, or Laurie, or Laurel. Wilson probably knew.
He shook his head. “I was daydreaming,” he said. He’d taken more Percocet before the session, so he’d be ready. Maybe that was a mistake. “Let ‘s get this over with.”
She stared at him for a moment before she finally nodded. “OK, let’s go counter clockwise this time.”
House knew what he was supposed to do: gently rotate the disc in a steady circle until all the edges touched the floor. He even knew why: to train his lower leg muscles to compensate for movement he’d lost forever from the missing quad muscles.
Knowing didn’t help. He moved smoothly along the inner edge, working his way from his toes back toward his heel. Then it stopped, his muscles unable and unwilling to follow his commands.
“Take your time,” the therapist said.
House gripped the edge of the table where he sat, feeling the rough pad under his palm, the steel frame under his fingers. He took a deep breath and pushed. What was left of his quad let out a sharp twinge, and he felt the board jump forward, moving in a jerking spasm before coming to rest again.
She pasted on a smile. “That’s good,” she said. “That’s getting better.”
House didn’t say anything about the lie they both knew she’d told.
“One more time,” she said.
House was looking at the floor, at the blue board, willing his leg to complete the circle when he heard her steps, the rhythm he’d noticed that first night when she crossed the room to him -- steady, sure, certain, uncompromising -- the way she walked telling everyone she knew what she wanted, and how to get it.
Stacy.
The tips of her navy blue pumps came into his line of vision, and he looked away, concentrated on the edge of the board. He pushed, felt the pain, but the board didn’t move. He tried again, his breath catching in his throat as he held back a groan. It gave a slight jump forward, but stopped again.
“That’s enough for now,” Lauren or Laura or Laurie said. She bent down and reached forward, one hand on the balance board, the other hovered just off to the left of his ankle. She looked up at him, her eyebrows raised in an unspoken question.
House glanced over, saw Stacy watching him. He looked down, still feeling her gaze, certain she saw through him. “I can do it,” he said.
He braced his left leg against the floor and let go of the table, sliding both hands under his right leg and lifted. He felt his hamstring tighten, but the rest of his leg was useless and limp. He hated the way it hung there under his grip. The therapist slid the board out from beneath his foot, then helped him lower it to the floor. She smiled up at him. “Good job,” she said.
House grabbed the table again for support. He hated this, feeling weak, relying on someone else for everything.
“I’ll give you a few minutes,” Laurie or Lauren or Laura said, and was gone.
House finally looked over at Stacy. She seemed to take his look as an invitation and sat next to him. “Hey,” she said.
House glanced over at her, at the way she crossed one leg casually over the other, the way she was able to sit there, without thinking about it, without planning each move.
He looked back down at his own body, thinking he could see the damage to his leg even through the thick cotton of his sweat pants, the way he held his left leg sturdily against the floor, the way the heel of his right foot didn’t quite touch the ground, the way he was afraid that if he let go of the table, he’d lose his balance.
“Why are you here?” He looked over at Stacy. She was wearing the dark blue suit she usually wore when she had a court date and wanted to impress someone, her makeup perfect, her nails with a fresh coat of light red polish.
“I wanted to see you.”
“I don’t,” he said, and looked away again, out across the room instead, with its padded tables and balance bars and exercise equipment tucked into every corner. “I already told you that. I don’t want you coming to my sessions.”
Stacy shook her head slightly. “One of your therapists told me I should come. He said it was important that I learn more about what you’ll need once you get home.”
“If it’s important, I’ll tell you what you need to know.” House wished he could leave, but his crutches were against the wall, with Stacy between him and them. “I’ve told you already. I don’t want you talking to my doctors any more.”
House saw Stacy flinch. She looked away for a moment, and he wondered if she’d walk away. He wondered if he’d be happy if she did.
She looked back at him. “You let James come.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it different because he’s James? Or because he’s not me?”
“You already know the answer to that,” he said.
Stacy uncrossed her legs, leaned toward him. “I’m not going to let you do this.”
“Do what?” House knew he’d raised his voice, and saw one of the therapists take a few steps toward them, then stop. He wondered how many fights they’d seen in that room, how many arguments.
“I won’t be ignored,” Stacy said.
House didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at her. She wanted a fight. She loved to argue, to push her point, to force others to concede to her will. It was what made her a good lawyer, and he’d seen the way her eyes would shine when she had a court date, just the anticipation of what she’d say, how she’d refute the words tossed out by the other side. Their best sex was always after they’d fought.
If she wanted a fight, he wouldn’t give it to her.
“You can’t shut me out forever,” she said.
If it had been a bet, House would have taken it.
“What did you say to Stacy?” Wilson asked that night when he showed up in House’s room with a bag of White Castle sliders and fries.
“Nothing.” House reached inside the bag, took out two more burgers.
“You made her cry.”
House shrugged. “It wasn’t anything I said.”
Wilson unwrapped a burger, and sat staring at it. “This is disgusting,” he said. “My arteries are clogging just looking at it.” Wilson hated White Castle. The only time he’d ever go was when House dragged him there after the bars closed -- after one of his flings -- when he was too drunk and too mad at himself to go home to Bonnie.
“So don’t eat it,” House said, and grabbed Wilson’s burger. He wasn’t hungry, but it was better than listening to another lecture.
Wilson watched him chew and swallow. He looked in the bag but didn’t take out another burger. Instead he wadded up the empty wrapper and tossed it in the garbage can.
House finished off the burger and leaned back. He knew there were more in the bag, but he let them sit. He caught the look in Wilson’s eye that he was disappointed he hadn’t eaten more, but he didn’t say anything. Instead he leaned back too, both of them slouched back on the sofa that House suspected Cuddy had wrangled from a residents’ break room.
“She’s only trying to help, you know,” Wilson said.
House turned to look at him. “I think she’s helped enough.”
Wilson shook his head slightly, but didn’t argue.
“So what’s going to happen when you go home, you planning on not speaking to her then too?”
House shrugged. “Maybe.”
Sometimes he could almost convince himself that it would work out when he got home. When he was home, everything would be normal again -- almost everything maybe. Maybe they could ignore everything that had gone to hell.
“Talking won’t change anything,” House said.
Wilson turned to look at him. “And if you don’t do anything, then nothing’s going to change either.”
House leaned forward and put both hands under his leg. He lifted it up and managed to slide his foot off the coffee table and onto the floor. “Maybe there’s been enough change,” he said.
House dreamed he was on stage. He recognized the piano under his fingers, the crappy upright at the bar on 12th with a B flat key above middle C that had a tendency to stick when it was hot and humid outside. And it was always hot under the lights.
Crandall was behind the beat, like he always was when he’d been drinking too much and it was late in the last set. House felt like leaving him hanging there, seeing how much worse he’d get before everything fell apart, but Jamerson stepped in to take his solo and let Crandall off the hook. House eased into the key change and followed Jamerson down Green Dolphin street.
House wiped the sweat off his face when they finally ended. Crandall walked over, his sax in one hand, the case in the other. He plopped the case down on the bench beside House.
“Listen to that,” he said, and pointed out toward the dark room where House could hear a few scattering bits of applause. “That’s like a drug. Don’t tell me you’re going to give that up.”
“It’s pretty lousy quality if it’s a drug. Reminds me of that time you tried to grow your own marijuana.”
“That was good stuff.”
“It was crap, and you’re a lightweight.” House stood and took his jacket from the chair at the back of the stage.
He stepped away from the piano, away from the stage, away from Crandall. One last night, he’d told him. One last time.
“You’ll be back tomorrow, right?”
House turned to see Crandall following him, still closing his case. “I leave in the morning, you know that.”
“Come on. One more show -- or two. We’ve got the Firefly next week.”
House spun around, nearly hitting Crandall. “Next weekend I’ll be buying books and kissing up to a whole new set of professors, since you screwed up everything here.”
“Hey, I didn’t screw up anything.”
“You’re the one who said I should cheat.”
“I didn’t tell you to get caught,” Crandall said. “Besides, you could have studied before you came out for the gig.”
House didn’t want to admit he was right, but he’d been busy making up for missed lab hours before the trip south. He’d planned on catching up sometime before the trip back, but Crandall had dragged him out to one bar, then another. “You’ll love this place,” he’d said, sometime after 3 a.m. “It’s the real thing. They said that Robert Johnson even played here back in the day.”
He’d been wrong. It was just another crappy hole in the wall with another crappy story they piled on thick to lure in idiots like Crandall.
Everything went to hell after that. The internship was gone, his grades and credits for a year yanked out from him. All he had now was the promise of a fresh start at Michigan.
And Crandall.
“Quit now, and you’ll be sorry,” Crandall said, holding House back when he tried to leave. “The Firefly, G-Man. They want us. They know talent. They know we’re going places.”
“It’s a 20-minute opening spot in the middle of the week,” House said. “The only reason you got the call is that their regulars are out of town.”
“Doesn’t matter. Once they hear us, we’re in.” Crandall leaned toward him. “We need you, G. We’ll never find another piano player in time.”
“But I don’t need you,” House said, and turned away, ignoring Crandall’s fingers on his sleeve.
He made it six steps toward the door before Crandall caught up with him.
“I suppose we could grab Jules for Tuesday. He’s not that bad,” he said. “How about we grab lunch before you go? I’ll buy.”
House shook his head. “I’m leaving first thing.” He’d wanted to leave two days ago, but let Crandall talk him into sticking around long enough for the Saturday gig. He’d packed everything he’d need, leaving everything else behind.
“So let’s grab something now.”
House shook his head and kept walking, making his way past the small tables. The house lights had been turned up and the last few stragglers were making their way out of the room.
Crandall grabbed his arm again, pulling him around. “At least give me your address,” he said.
“Why?”
Crandall couldn’t hide the the confusion on his face. He never could. “Why? So I can track you down when I’m up there. We’re still friends, right?”
House stared at him. The only thing they’d ever had in common was the music. And now that was gone. He turned and walked away.
“Admit it, G-man, you’re going to miss me when I’m gone,” Crandall shouted after him.
House turned to take one last look back: the tiny room with its low ceilings turned a pale yellow by years of cigarette smoke, the mismatched seats, the tables stained by whiskey, beer and wine.
And Crandall, standing in the center of it all.
House blinked, and he was gone. Instead she was there -- in her navy blue suit and pumps.
“You’re going to miss her too,” Crandall’s voice whispered in his ear.
House startled awake, opening his eyes to the semidarkness of the hospital room. He couldn’t tell what time it was, or how long he’d been sleeping. He could still smell the grease from Wilson’s burgers and heard the low murmur from nurses as they passed by his door.
He rolled onto his back. He hadn’t seen Crandall for more than ten years, hadn’t thought of him for nearly that long. Now Crandall wouldn’t leave House alone. It didn’t make sense.
He reached down with one hand to adjust his leg to a more comfortable position. The pain wasn’t too bad yet. He might be able to make it through the night without another pill.
House lay back against the thin pillows. Dreams, he thought. Nightmares. Side effects. It wasn’t Crandall, it was the pills.
He’d talk to Cuddy in the morning, get her to switch out the Percocet for something else. Something that worked. Something that would let him sleep. He took a deep breath, tried to quiet his mind. Something different. That’s all he needed. Something new.
It looks like I'll be breaking this up into chapters, but I'm not wholly commited to that, if you have other ideas. This would basically be the first two chapters, probably with two more to come. I'll be tweaking language, wording and such, so this would probably qualify as draft 1.5. I'm also not certain if I've got enough to establish House pushing Crandall away here, of if I need to ramp that up a little more, so anything any of you have in that area will help.
Right now it's got he working title of The Past Is The Present (It's The Future Too) mosty because I was rewatching "Long Day's Journey into Night" (the Jack Lemmon, Kevin Spacey, Peter Gallagher, Bethel Leslie version). But that's a bit of a mouthful, so that may change.
Any and all feedback/concrit appreciated.
He dreamed he was in Egypt. He was nine years old, and had fallen asleep in the shade of the pyramids in the middle of the day. He could feel a drop of sweat making its way down the side of his face. It tickled, and he wanted to wipe it away, but moving took too much energy, his arms felt too heavy.
“Greg?”
He heard her voice, but she was far away.
“Greg?”
A little closer this time. He wondered why she was moving. It was too hot to move.
He felt a hand touch his cheek, then a cool cloth wiping away the sweat. It felt good, and he sighed, turned toward her. A sharp stab of pain shot out from his leg as he tried to move and he heard himself whimper. He woke, feeling the soft sand that had been under his back in the dream harden into the hospital mattress.
He opened his eyes, and saw Stacy looking down at him.
“Greg?” She pulled her hand away from his face, but hesitated with it still in the air, as if she wasn’t sure if he’d allow her touch. Since he’d woken from the surgery, she’d kept her distance, rarely holding his hand, and then only maintaining a soft contact, a light grip around his fingers as if she was unsure how he’d react.
House looked away, unable to look at her, not knowing what he should say, not knowing what she expected him to say. He’d walk away, if he could.
“I was sleeping,” he said. “You woke me up.”
Stacy put her hand on the rail. House could see her knuckles turn white as she gripped the plastic. “You were hot,” she said. “I was worried that the fever was back.”
“Let the doctors worry about that. You shouldn’t be thinking about any of my medical issues anymore.”
Stacy released the rail, put her hands in her lap. She sat back.
House closed his eyes, tried to will himself back into the dream, away from the pain. But the pain was here now, and it wouldn’t be ignored.
“I was going to go get some lunch,” Stacy said. “I thought I’d pick up some soup from the deli. Lisa said it would be all right for you to have some too.”
House shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”
“You weren’t hungry at breakfast either.” She leaned forward again, but kept her hands on her lap. “You need to eat.”
“You’re not my mother.”
“Would you eat something if she asked you to? She’ll do it.”
House didn’t answer, just closed his eyes again. Soft sand, he thought. Hot wind. The scent of Egypt in his nose -- of camels and fat tourists and diggers at the excavation sites. He took a deep breath but only picked up the cool air conditioned scent of the hospital, the smell of cleansers and his own flesh. He wanted to take a shower, to stand there under his own power and feel the water washing over his skin, over his legs. The sponges and lukewarm water the nurses carried into his room each day were no good.
“Greg?” He heard the chair creak as Stacy pushed herself up, heard her steps as she moved toward the door, heard the door slide open. “Are you sure you don’t need anything?”
He was quiet, didn’t even bother to shake his head, just listened to her walk out the door.
“You should talk to her,” Wilson said that night, after Stacy had gone home, after the nurse had hung another bag of IV antibiotics, another bag of Ringers, and taken away his untouched dinner tray.
“I have,” House said. He studied the way the fluid dripped from the IV tube into his arm, a steady mixture of sodium, potassium, calcium and antibiotics measured out drop by drop. If he wanted to, he could calculate the dosages, determine how much of each medication was in each drop.
“Not really,” Wilson said. “Not about what matters.”
House found himself counting the drops ... one, two, three, four. It was easier than doing the calculations. It was like counting sheep, mindless, effortless. His head felt congested, stuffed full of pain meds and antibiotics and sedatives. He didn’t want to think about what Stacy had done. It was easier not to think. Counting was all he could handle.
Wilson leaned forward. “She thinks you hate her,” he said.
House turned away from the IV line, looked over at Wilson. The window was dark behind Wilson’s head, the late summer sun already dropped below the horizon. He hadn’t noticed when the sun set, when the hours slipped from unending day to an unending night. “Maybe I do,” he said.
Wilson shook his head. “No you don’t.”
“Just what I need,” House said, “someone else telling me how to live my life.”
“I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”
“Don’t be so sure.” House turned back to watching the IV drip.
One. Two. Three. Four. He remembered the old game, pulling the petals off of daisies, and updated it with each drop. “I hate her,” he thought to himself with the first drop. “I hate her not.” Drip. “I hate her.” Drip. “I hate her not.” Drip.
“House.” He heard Wilson’s voice, but didn’t look up.
“She hates me,” he thought to himself, changing the game. Drip. “She hates me not.” Drip. Maybe if he kept count until the bag emptied he’d finally have an answer.
“House?”
“What?” He stopped counting, forced himself to turn away. Wilson was staring at him, as if he was trying to read House’s mind. He leaned forward, didn’t show any of the hesitation Stacy did, didn’t show the sorrow that was always on his mother’s face.
“It’s going to be all right, you know,” he said. “You’ll figure it out, you and Stacy.”
“You don’t know that.”
“She loves you, and one of these days, you’re going to remember that you love her too.”
“You don’t know that, either.”
House turned away from him and looked at the door, hoping to see the nurse coming through with his evening meds. He wished he still had the PDA pump, but Cuddy had said it was time to get off the morphine, find something else. He’d still been doped up at the time, and like an idiot, he’d agreed with her.
“You’ve got another thirty minutes to go,” Wilson said as he checked his watch. He looked at House again, glanced up at the numbers on the monitor behind House’s shoulder. “I could get her now, if you want.”
House wanted to tell him no, to tell him that he could wait, that he could handle the pain for a little longer. It would have been a lie. He wanted to see the white cup in the nurse’s hand when she walked through the door, to see the small white Percocet tablets and the smaller sleeping pill that let him make it through the night. He wanted to swallow them down, feel the real world grow fuzzy, let it slip away along with every question he didn’t know how to answer.
He nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Great.”
Wilson got up, slid the door open and stepped out. House watched him turn left, toward the nurses’ station, then disappear from view. He looked at the IV again. Drip. One. Drip. Two. Drip. Three. Drip. Four.
House dreamed he was in Mississippi, lying in the back of Crandall’s car, trying to sleep as Crandall hit every bump in the road. It was dark and the windows were open, the hot, moist Delta air streaming through the windows, spinning in humid whirlwinds over his body.
He rolled onto his side and wiped the sweat off his face with a t-shirt someone had thrown into the back of the car a day or two before. He wasn’t sure if it was his or Crandall’s. He was pretty sure there wasn’t much of a difference anymore.
He felt the car shudder and gravel pinged up against the sheet metal. It jerked suddenly to the left.
“Jesus, Crandall, you trying to kill us?”
“Sorry,” Crandall shouted back, his voice blending with the roar of the wind and the creaking of the rusted floorboards.
“If you’re going to fall asleep, just pull over,” House said, “or let me drive.”
“I’m not falling asleep,” Crandall said. “There was something on the road. A dog, or a skunk or something.”
“You can’t tell the difference?”
“I was concentrating on not hitting it, rather than identifying it, G-Man.”
House pushed himself up until he was sitting with his back against the hard vinyl behind the passenger’s seat. Crandall hit another bump and his head banged against the window. “Jesus, Crandall.”
“Sorry.”
“Pull over and let me drive,” House said. “I’m not going to be able to sleep anyway.”
“What, and listen to you bitch some more about that test you’ve got next week, and how you’re not going to have time to study if we don’t break every speed limit on the way back? No way.” House felt the car pick up speed as Crandall spoke. “If you were smart, you’d just blow it off. It’s just a test.”
Crandall hit another bump, and House heard the springs squeak under him. “Or better yet, quit school,” Crandall yelled from the front seat. “Come back on the road full time.”
House sighed, slumped against the upholstery. He could smell freshly turned earth, and guessed that there was a freshly planted field somewhere out there in the dark. “I can’t quit.”
“Just for a while,” Crandall said. “The band’s really coming together now. Jack’s brother-in-law says he knows a guy who thinks he can get us some time in the studio. The world needs a jazz musician more than it needs another doctor.”
“I’ll remind you of that next time I have to drag you into an emergency room with a broken nose.”
“I’m serious, G-Man. Doctors are a dime a dozen, but real musicians -- we’re a dying breed.”
“Right,” House said. “That’s because we’re all broke and starving to death.”
Crandall was nearing the crest of the hill, the engine whining as he tried to push it harder. House saw the headlights of an approaching car in the other lane, saw them come closer. The other car topped the hill first and its headlights dropped down, the high beams glaring through Crandall’s car.
House raised his arm to block the light.
“Sorry about that, Dr. House.” The voice wasn’t Crandall’s. House cracked his eyes open and saw the tall form of the night nurse in the bright light of the fluorescents bulb next to his bed -- Randy or Ricky or something. “I was hoping this could wait until morning, but Dr. Cuddy left specific orders.”
The nurse hung a fresh IV bag on the stand, then flicked off the light. “You try to get some more sleep.” The nurse walked around the end of the bed in the dim light from the hall. “I’ll leave you alone now,” he said, and slid the door closed.
----
He was ten years old, and holding a baseball, the cover scuffed and stained. He tried to stretch his fingers along the seams to match the way his father had shown him. Maybe if he could, he could finally throw it hard enough, far enough, straight enough.
He cocked his arm back and threw, groaning when his muscles coiled, then released. He watched as the ball dropped off course, landing short of the target.
“Harder Greg, like I showed you,” Dad said, then picked up the ball and walked back to the mound.
Greg took off his cap and wiped the sweat off his forehead. He wanted to tell Dad that it was too hot to practice, but Dad would only say that he should be grateful that he was taking the time to coach him.
“Most fathers don’t care about helping their sons,” Dad would say, “but I do.”
Dad stepped up next to him and showed him again how to hold the ball, his fingers wrapping around the leather. “Now, do it again.”
Greg held the ball, cocked his arm and threw, his muscles aching with the motion. The ball fell even shorter this time.
Dad handed him another ball.
“How many more?” Greg asked.
“You complaining?”
“No, sir. It’s just ...” he couldn’t bring himself to look up at his father. Instead he looked down, noticed that Dad’s dress shoes had gotten dusty. He wondered if he’d have to shine them tonight. “My arm hurts,” he said.
“Of course it does,” Dad said. “You’re working your muscles. You’ve got to hurt if you’re going to get better, right?”
Greg nodded.
Dad held out the ball. “You ready?”
Greg stared at it.
“You ready?” It wasn’t Dad’s voice anymore.
House blinked and the ball disappeared. He blinked again and the baseball diamond faded away.
“Dr. House?”
He blinked again and saw his foot placed on a circular balance board, the grass and dirt replaced by gray linoleum.
“Maybe we should take a break.” House looked up at the therapist. Laura something, or Laurie, or Laurel. Wilson probably knew.
He shook his head. “I was daydreaming,” he said. He’d taken more Percocet before the session, so he’d be ready. Maybe that was a mistake. “Let ‘s get this over with.”
She stared at him for a moment before she finally nodded. “OK, let’s go counter clockwise this time.”
House knew what he was supposed to do: gently rotate the disc in a steady circle until all the edges touched the floor. He even knew why: to train his lower leg muscles to compensate for movement he’d lost forever from the missing quad muscles.
Knowing didn’t help. He moved smoothly along the inner edge, working his way from his toes back toward his heel. Then it stopped, his muscles unable and unwilling to follow his commands.
“Take your time,” the therapist said.
House gripped the edge of the table where he sat, feeling the rough pad under his palm, the steel frame under his fingers. He took a deep breath and pushed. What was left of his quad let out a sharp twinge, and he felt the board jump forward, moving in a jerking spasm before coming to rest again.
She pasted on a smile. “That’s good,” she said. “That’s getting better.”
House didn’t say anything about the lie they both knew she’d told.
“One more time,” she said.
House was looking at the floor, at the blue board, willing his leg to complete the circle when he heard her steps, the rhythm he’d noticed that first night when she crossed the room to him -- steady, sure, certain, uncompromising -- the way she walked telling everyone she knew what she wanted, and how to get it.
Stacy.
The tips of her navy blue pumps came into his line of vision, and he looked away, concentrated on the edge of the board. He pushed, felt the pain, but the board didn’t move. He tried again, his breath catching in his throat as he held back a groan. It gave a slight jump forward, but stopped again.
“That’s enough for now,” Lauren or Laura or Laurie said. She bent down and reached forward, one hand on the balance board, the other hovered just off to the left of his ankle. She looked up at him, her eyebrows raised in an unspoken question.
House glanced over, saw Stacy watching him. He looked down, still feeling her gaze, certain she saw through him. “I can do it,” he said.
He braced his left leg against the floor and let go of the table, sliding both hands under his right leg and lifted. He felt his hamstring tighten, but the rest of his leg was useless and limp. He hated the way it hung there under his grip. The therapist slid the board out from beneath his foot, then helped him lower it to the floor. She smiled up at him. “Good job,” she said.
House grabbed the table again for support. He hated this, feeling weak, relying on someone else for everything.
“I’ll give you a few minutes,” Laurie or Lauren or Laura said, and was gone.
House finally looked over at Stacy. She seemed to take his look as an invitation and sat next to him. “Hey,” she said.
House glanced over at her, at the way she crossed one leg casually over the other, the way she was able to sit there, without thinking about it, without planning each move.
He looked back down at his own body, thinking he could see the damage to his leg even through the thick cotton of his sweat pants, the way he held his left leg sturdily against the floor, the way the heel of his right foot didn’t quite touch the ground, the way he was afraid that if he let go of the table, he’d lose his balance.
“Why are you here?” He looked over at Stacy. She was wearing the dark blue suit she usually wore when she had a court date and wanted to impress someone, her makeup perfect, her nails with a fresh coat of light red polish.
“I wanted to see you.”
“I don’t,” he said, and looked away again, out across the room instead, with its padded tables and balance bars and exercise equipment tucked into every corner. “I already told you that. I don’t want you coming to my sessions.”
Stacy shook her head slightly. “One of your therapists told me I should come. He said it was important that I learn more about what you’ll need once you get home.”
“If it’s important, I’ll tell you what you need to know.” House wished he could leave, but his crutches were against the wall, with Stacy between him and them. “I’ve told you already. I don’t want you talking to my doctors any more.”
House saw Stacy flinch. She looked away for a moment, and he wondered if she’d walk away. He wondered if he’d be happy if she did.
She looked back at him. “You let James come.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it different because he’s James? Or because he’s not me?”
“You already know the answer to that,” he said.
Stacy uncrossed her legs, leaned toward him. “I’m not going to let you do this.”
“Do what?” House knew he’d raised his voice, and saw one of the therapists take a few steps toward them, then stop. He wondered how many fights they’d seen in that room, how many arguments.
“I won’t be ignored,” Stacy said.
House didn’t say anything, didn’t even look at her. She wanted a fight. She loved to argue, to push her point, to force others to concede to her will. It was what made her a good lawyer, and he’d seen the way her eyes would shine when she had a court date, just the anticipation of what she’d say, how she’d refute the words tossed out by the other side. Their best sex was always after they’d fought.
If she wanted a fight, he wouldn’t give it to her.
“You can’t shut me out forever,” she said.
If it had been a bet, House would have taken it.
“What did you say to Stacy?” Wilson asked that night when he showed up in House’s room with a bag of White Castle sliders and fries.
“Nothing.” House reached inside the bag, took out two more burgers.
“You made her cry.”
House shrugged. “It wasn’t anything I said.”
Wilson unwrapped a burger, and sat staring at it. “This is disgusting,” he said. “My arteries are clogging just looking at it.” Wilson hated White Castle. The only time he’d ever go was when House dragged him there after the bars closed -- after one of his flings -- when he was too drunk and too mad at himself to go home to Bonnie.
“So don’t eat it,” House said, and grabbed Wilson’s burger. He wasn’t hungry, but it was better than listening to another lecture.
Wilson watched him chew and swallow. He looked in the bag but didn’t take out another burger. Instead he wadded up the empty wrapper and tossed it in the garbage can.
House finished off the burger and leaned back. He knew there were more in the bag, but he let them sit. He caught the look in Wilson’s eye that he was disappointed he hadn’t eaten more, but he didn’t say anything. Instead he leaned back too, both of them slouched back on the sofa that House suspected Cuddy had wrangled from a residents’ break room.
“She’s only trying to help, you know,” Wilson said.
House turned to look at him. “I think she’s helped enough.”
Wilson shook his head slightly, but didn’t argue.
“So what’s going to happen when you go home, you planning on not speaking to her then too?”
House shrugged. “Maybe.”
Sometimes he could almost convince himself that it would work out when he got home. When he was home, everything would be normal again -- almost everything maybe. Maybe they could ignore everything that had gone to hell.
“Talking won’t change anything,” House said.
Wilson turned to look at him. “And if you don’t do anything, then nothing’s going to change either.”
House leaned forward and put both hands under his leg. He lifted it up and managed to slide his foot off the coffee table and onto the floor. “Maybe there’s been enough change,” he said.
House dreamed he was on stage. He recognized the piano under his fingers, the crappy upright at the bar on 12th with a B flat key above middle C that had a tendency to stick when it was hot and humid outside. And it was always hot under the lights.
Crandall was behind the beat, like he always was when he’d been drinking too much and it was late in the last set. House felt like leaving him hanging there, seeing how much worse he’d get before everything fell apart, but Jamerson stepped in to take his solo and let Crandall off the hook. House eased into the key change and followed Jamerson down Green Dolphin street.
House wiped the sweat off his face when they finally ended. Crandall walked over, his sax in one hand, the case in the other. He plopped the case down on the bench beside House.
“Listen to that,” he said, and pointed out toward the dark room where House could hear a few scattering bits of applause. “That’s like a drug. Don’t tell me you’re going to give that up.”
“It’s pretty lousy quality if it’s a drug. Reminds me of that time you tried to grow your own marijuana.”
“That was good stuff.”
“It was crap, and you’re a lightweight.” House stood and took his jacket from the chair at the back of the stage.
He stepped away from the piano, away from the stage, away from Crandall. One last night, he’d told him. One last time.
“You’ll be back tomorrow, right?”
House turned to see Crandall following him, still closing his case. “I leave in the morning, you know that.”
“Come on. One more show -- or two. We’ve got the Firefly next week.”
House spun around, nearly hitting Crandall. “Next weekend I’ll be buying books and kissing up to a whole new set of professors, since you screwed up everything here.”
“Hey, I didn’t screw up anything.”
“You’re the one who said I should cheat.”
“I didn’t tell you to get caught,” Crandall said. “Besides, you could have studied before you came out for the gig.”
House didn’t want to admit he was right, but he’d been busy making up for missed lab hours before the trip south. He’d planned on catching up sometime before the trip back, but Crandall had dragged him out to one bar, then another. “You’ll love this place,” he’d said, sometime after 3 a.m. “It’s the real thing. They said that Robert Johnson even played here back in the day.”
He’d been wrong. It was just another crappy hole in the wall with another crappy story they piled on thick to lure in idiots like Crandall.
Everything went to hell after that. The internship was gone, his grades and credits for a year yanked out from him. All he had now was the promise of a fresh start at Michigan.
And Crandall.
“Quit now, and you’ll be sorry,” Crandall said, holding House back when he tried to leave. “The Firefly, G-Man. They want us. They know talent. They know we’re going places.”
“It’s a 20-minute opening spot in the middle of the week,” House said. “The only reason you got the call is that their regulars are out of town.”
“Doesn’t matter. Once they hear us, we’re in.” Crandall leaned toward him. “We need you, G. We’ll never find another piano player in time.”
“But I don’t need you,” House said, and turned away, ignoring Crandall’s fingers on his sleeve.
He made it six steps toward the door before Crandall caught up with him.
“I suppose we could grab Jules for Tuesday. He’s not that bad,” he said. “How about we grab lunch before you go? I’ll buy.”
House shook his head. “I’m leaving first thing.” He’d wanted to leave two days ago, but let Crandall talk him into sticking around long enough for the Saturday gig. He’d packed everything he’d need, leaving everything else behind.
“So let’s grab something now.”
House shook his head and kept walking, making his way past the small tables. The house lights had been turned up and the last few stragglers were making their way out of the room.
Crandall grabbed his arm again, pulling him around. “At least give me your address,” he said.
“Why?”
Crandall couldn’t hide the the confusion on his face. He never could. “Why? So I can track you down when I’m up there. We’re still friends, right?”
House stared at him. The only thing they’d ever had in common was the music. And now that was gone. He turned and walked away.
“Admit it, G-man, you’re going to miss me when I’m gone,” Crandall shouted after him.
House turned to take one last look back: the tiny room with its low ceilings turned a pale yellow by years of cigarette smoke, the mismatched seats, the tables stained by whiskey, beer and wine.
And Crandall, standing in the center of it all.
House blinked, and he was gone. Instead she was there -- in her navy blue suit and pumps.
“You’re going to miss her too,” Crandall’s voice whispered in his ear.
House startled awake, opening his eyes to the semidarkness of the hospital room. He couldn’t tell what time it was, or how long he’d been sleeping. He could still smell the grease from Wilson’s burgers and heard the low murmur from nurses as they passed by his door.
He rolled onto his back. He hadn’t seen Crandall for more than ten years, hadn’t thought of him for nearly that long. Now Crandall wouldn’t leave House alone. It didn’t make sense.
He reached down with one hand to adjust his leg to a more comfortable position. The pain wasn’t too bad yet. He might be able to make it through the night without another pill.
House lay back against the thin pillows. Dreams, he thought. Nightmares. Side effects. It wasn’t Crandall, it was the pills.
He’d talk to Cuddy in the morning, get her to switch out the Percocet for something else. Something that worked. Something that would let him sleep. He took a deep breath, tried to quiet his mind. Something different. That’s all he needed. Something new.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-19 08:32 pm (UTC)Crandall is a bit like Wilson here, in that he refuses to let himself be pushed away, but their personalities are completely different: easy-going optimistic Crandall as opposed to the ever-careful, sometimes optimistic Wilson. As the other two male characters in this piece, it's a neat sort of contrast.
I don't think you need to ramp up House's reasons for pushing Crandall away. House as a fully grown adult does not tolerate fools at all, and Crandall's sloppy attitude gives him good enough reason for leaving him behind.
The little PT daydream about trying, and failing, to learn to throw a ball well enough to please his father is a nice foreshadowing of what Wilson said on-screen about how House is a disappointment to his father. At ten, he still would have been trying to please him, and that scene's a little bit heartbreaking.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-19 09:33 pm (UTC)A more direct comparison between Wilson and Crandall will come up in the final chapter, as I have it planned, showing while there are some similarities between them, Wilson simply has a tenacity that Crandall lacked -- that he sees beneath the facade in ways that Crandall couldn't, perhaps because Crandall knew a younger version of House, or he was younger himself then.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-19 11:19 pm (UTC)I think it’s enough. There’s a good progression between the first and second dream. In the first, House seems increasingly exasperated with Crandall. The second has an undercurrent of simmering resentment – and a touch of frustration. The latter in particular parallels House’s feelings towards Stacy very well. And now I’ll leave these tortured sentences alone.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-20 12:38 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-20 06:20 am (UTC)"If he wanted to, he could calculate the dosages, determine how much of each medication was in each drop." How House is that???!!! Spot on.... :lol
The games that you play when there's nothing else to get you through the endless hours... very real.
"to see the small white Percocet tablets and the smaller sleeping pill that let him make it through the night." He obviously has less annoyingly demanding nurses than many.... :lol Would he take the sleeping pill? Would he be that willing to give control away, esp. now, esp. when he likely knows the drawbacks of them? Just curious....
"let it slip away along with every question he didn’t know how to answer." love it....
"“I’ll remind you of that next time I have to drag you into an emergency room with a broken nose.”" :lol
"the high beams glaring through Crandall’s car.
House raised his arm to block the light.
“Sorry about that, Dr. House.” " LOVE the transition!!! I was totally surprised when it changed back to the present day... well done!
Also, as an aside, when I was in hospital, every few hours I would be awoken for a vitals check, nights included, which is one of the reasons I suggest he might not bother w/the sleeping pill. If they aren't going to let you, oh, sleep, there seems very little point to the whole affair.
"“You can’t shut me out forever,” she said.
If it had been a bet, House would have taken it."
OUCH! This whole section is just so appropriately painful....
"House shrugged. “It wasn’t anything I said.”" Oh, so true... although, as is also so typical, that's not the whole tale, although the strictest truth. I love how you do lines like this....
"The only time he’d ever go was when House dragged him there after the bars closed -- after one of his flings -- when he was too drunk and too mad at himself to go home to Bonnie." Ok, maybe I'm simply being tired and dense, but to me the 'his flings' needs a bit more thought to attribute properly than the average line in your stories, breaking the flow. Maybe rephrase, to make it more obvious what's happening to whom when?
"House leaned forward and put both hands under his leg. He lifted it up and managed to slide his foot off the coffee table and onto the floor. “Maybe there’s been enough change,” he said." There are days you want to climb into a story and smack House - this is def. one of them.... Why is it that some of the smartest people can also be the most stupid???
"He recognized the piano under his fingers, the crappy upright at the bar on 12th with a B flat key above middle C that had a tendency to stick when it was hot and humid outside. " You define places by your passions... I love the way he remembers the pianos....
"“But I don’t need you,” House said, and turned away, ignoring Crandall’s fingers on his sleeve." Echoes of futures past???
"“You’re going to miss her too,” Crandall’s voice whispered in his ear." Yes, one's unconscious is frequently wiser than one might think. Too bad more of us don't listen to it.... :lol
"Something different. That’s all he needed. Something new." Well, he's got that in spades, all right. Dude needs to make up his mind about what he wants. Which I gather is rather the point....
Thank'ee's again for another loverly section! I really like where you are going with this... it's really starting to come together.
-Katrina
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-20 06:37 am (UTC)And to answer your actual question... I think the flow works well as a reflection of what is going on between the past/present/future.... (Hadn't thought about the theme of loss, but it's there, and it makes so much sense for it to be that way... having a big *duh!* moment now....) And, now that I think about it, the relationships don't stay pure and right either... that, whether intentional or no, the crippling need for perfection taints them as well, making it so he CAN'T stay and fix them, even if he wanted to, an inevitable flow towards being everything he fears becoming.
No, I wouldn't change the House/Crandall... I agree w/the others, House does not have a lot of patience for fools and losers, and Crandall strikes me as a bit of both. It works quite well as it stands. And he would take out his anger at the result that came from him listening to Crandall ON Crandall... shades of the future there too.
Don't think you have the title yet, though... there's something better out there, if you keep searching. The one you suggest is, imo, not nearly powerful enough to match with this amazing story you are weaving....
-Katrina
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-20 11:00 am (UTC)Oh, and as to the sleeping pill thing, I've only got him taking in shortly after losing the morphine pump, so he's still, in my mind at least, transitioning.
Suggestions about the title? Everything I think of dealing with dreams sounds to fluffy to me. Possibly something more along the lines of echoes rather than dreams, since its moments of his past that his subconscious is bringing up?
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-20 09:09 pm (UTC)Most welcome!
Got'cha... yes, the corollary to the art of medicine is the art of being a patient... and it is a skill they do not teach in school. :lol
Hmmm... will think on it. Echoes rather than dreams, I def. agree, 'Echoes of Futures Past' keeps coming to me, although I am not sure whether that is because of hearing the line somewhere else or whether it should be the title... perhaps a bit of both.
In any case, something that conveys that tangling of time, as the past/present/future come together in a snarl of threads from the standing just outside oneself that comes with major illness and strong narcotics... and all that can be done is to unravel things as best one can.
Will keep thinking....
-Katrina
PS - Something else I just noticed... I like the way you have the Egypt set off in the beginning. I think it works better to continue that theme. For the longer pieces, setting the first paragraph works fine. I did a test drive in Word and it seems to make sense, but it is, of course, up to you. In any case, some form of consistency would be good, whatever form you end up choosing. -K
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-20 10:09 pm (UTC)But then I still don't like the title "Tracking Time," but that was a temporary title that stuck.