namaste | New Fic: Blythe's Story Chapter 32

Title: Blythe's Story, Chapter 32 of 32
Author: Namaste
Summary: "So that was Greg," Phil said. "Not exactly what I was expecting."
"He never was," Blythe said.
PG, about 1,100 words.
Author’s Note: What began as a look at House's early life, based on information from the episode "Birthmarks," now winds up back at "Birthmarks." Spoilers for that episode, obviously. My thanks to everyone who stuck with this through a little more than 32,000 words. To start at the beginning go here: Chapter One. Chapters are linked.

Blythe watched them walk out to the car together, Greg seeming to stay a half-step ahead of James despite the cane and a touch of added stiffness she guessed came from too many hours cramped into the front seat.

They hadn't stayed long, hadn't even stayed long enough for Blythe to introduce him to some of John's friends, or to say hello to Sarah. That was probably Greg's plan, and the best she should have hoped for. James had spent the few spare minutes they had apologizing again and again – to her, to the chaplain, to the funeral home director. He'd given the funeral home a blank check, told the director to let him know if there were any other damages to pay for.

Greg had just settled himself on a chair and watched James, a satisfied smile on his face.

"I didn't do anything," he'd told Blythe when she saw the window. "Honest."

John would have been mortified, but that didn't matter. Not anymore. Greg had walked out of the room looking better than he had when she'd seen him just moments earlier. He somehow even seemed younger. She could see the boy he had once been clearly for the first time in years. If the window and a few curious looks and whispers were the last pieces of collateral damage in his war with John, they were worth the price.

James had apologized again before they left. Greg had given her a hug, then paused a moment, looked down into her eyes.

"Don't worry," she'd told him, and tried to smile. "I'll be all right."

His eyes narrowed, his head turned slightly to the side. She recognized the look he had whenever he was working out some problem in his head. Finally he nodded. "You'll be fine," he said.

Now Blythe lingered at the door a moment longer, watched as Greg eased himself down into the car and said something to James just before the engine started and they pulled away. She watched the silver sedan ease slowly down the road, then turn left at the corner and pass out of sight.

"So that was Greg."

Blythe turned, and saw Phil standing just behind her, looking past her to the empty street. She nodded.

"Not exactly what I expected," he said.

"He never was," Blythe said.

The mourners were gathered in small groups – the retired offers telling stories on one side of the room, her sister and brother-in-law gathering cards from the flowers and plants scattered around the room, her nieces looking over the photo albums that Blythe brought from home showing the three of them in so many different places.

"Did they give you a date for the burial yet?" Phil's voice was soft. He'd somehow managed to lose the harsh cadences of Marine speech since he'd retired. John never had.

"Next week," she said, "but you don't have to come. I told them I didn't need a graveside service. This was enough."

John had been pleased when he'd been granted permission for burial at Arlington. There were so many men dying overseas these days that they were starting to ration spaces, carefully selecting each new occupant. He saw it as some kind of validation for his years of service, like a medal or service ribbon.

"Of course he's happy," Greg had said when she'd told him. "It's the ultimate officer's club."

Greg had always found some excuse not to come and visit: patients, conferences, meetings. There had been a couple of weeks during the spring when she suspected he'd been sick – his voice sounding weak when she got him on the phone – but he'd never told her anything about it, and she'd decided not to push too hard. She was already watching John lose his battle day after day. She didn't think she could have borne the grief if the last meeting between John and Greg had ended in another fight.

Instead, she'd call, telling Greg what was happening, and use those few moments on the phone with him to escape, and remind herself of what else her life had brought her.

He'd tell her about some patient, or make up some story that would make her smile. Once he'd put the phone down and let her listen while he played a Schubert piece that he knew she loved.

Some of the men were leaving now, and they stopped on the way out to shake Blythe's hand, tell her again that they were sorry for her loss, tell her that John had been a good man.

Phil lingered, waited as the nieces left, as the officers and their wives left. He'd come alone. The last she'd heard, his latest marriage was shaky, and he was finding retirement too quiet for his taste.

The funeral home staff began quietly picking up the folding chairs, moving them into other rooms, where they were needed for other services. Phil finally picked up his coat, held it in his hands as he walked over to Blythe.

"I should get going," he said. "Are you going to be all right?"

Blythe remembered the certainty in Greg's eyes, the way he'd looked deep into her and seen something there. She felt herself draw strength from the memory. "I'll be fine."

Phil took two steps toward the door, then stopped, stood there for a moment, and turned back. He leaned down toward Blythe.

"This probably isn't the time or the place, but I don't know when we'll see each other again," he started, then took a breath. He looked around. No one else there. "I've always wondered," he whispered. "Greg, was he --" he looked around again, leaned down further. "Was he mine?"

It was the question she'd always expected, and the one no one ever asked. It was the one she used to fear. The one that used to keep her up at night. She could tell Phil now, clear her conscience. Sweep clean the one lie that had defined her life. She glanced over, saw John lying still in the open casket, saw the spot where Greg had been, where he'd finally accepted what John had meant in his life. She thought of John holding Greg when he was a baby, of John teaching him to swim, and how to ride a bike. She thought of picnics and fights and football games, and the day that Greg graduated from medical school -- and how John had cried when he thought no one was watching.

The truth was, one night meant nothing. There was nothing to lie about.

"John was Greg's father. He always was," she said, "and he always will be."

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pwcorgigirl.livejournal.com

That last conversation left a huge lump in my throat. I love how she lets go of the "one lie that had defined her life," Greg playing the Schubert and Wilson leaving the funeral home director a blank check. This has been such a lovely series.

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