9/25 and we_take_five
FanFic: Blue Ink: HouseFic50 and we_take_five: (1/1)
Title: Blue Ink
Author: Catherine
Fandom: House, M.D
Character/pairing(s): Cuddy. House, Wilson
Prompt: 034: Not Enough, and the we_take_five picture prompt. Finally.
Word Count: 4822
Rating: PG.13
A/N: Companion piece to Things Don’t Change (not necessary to read). / Mild AU / Quotations from The Little Quiet Book by Katharine Ross and Jean Hirashima.
A/N2: Huge, huge thanks to swatkat24 for going over this (several times) with red ink, and to dancing_crazy for not letting me sound ignorant. *g* Also thanks to darkrefuge for the initial beta read. I love you all.
Dedication: For Ollie. Without her, I would lose a part of me.
You don’t remember much, much in the way of who you were, before. You remember late nights, long hours-things that never changed. Things that remain the same, even now.
--
Eight days after five years, four months and you need to go. Somewhere. Anywhere. Out of your office with its calm orange walls and away from the hum the hospital makes when it sleeps. You need sun, maybe - maybe water. Maybe something other than clean and clinical, somewhere that’ll take the smell out of your skin.
‘Tijuana,’ he suggests, leering slightly. You shake your head, hide the maps, ask him what he wants.
--
Half the time he doesn’t want anything. He’s done it ever since- and you look away, out the window. You remember the park and the swing and the filtered bits of laughter, the way her hand fit in yours.
‘Cuddy.’
(His cane hits your desk; his eyes soften.)
So many times: ‘You should go home.’
You shake your head, turn, open a file. ‘I’m fine.’
He doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t leave.
--
You’re sitting on the couch in your office, maps spread out on the coffee table, tea on a coaster at your left. Blue lines and little stars and circles and small black letters. ‘I’m thinking about taking a vacation,’ you say when Wilson comes in, sits down next to you. He picks up the closest brochure, smiles, ‘Paris?’ and you shrug lightly, finger the silver star around your neck.
‘It’s a nice thought.’
‘A bit far,’ he concedes, pauses. ‘You should go.’
‘I know,’ you murmur back, but your road maps extend only to Maine, and you think that might be far enough.
--
You’ll never know about the look on Wilson’s face when he fell into House’s office that Sunday afternoon. Never know how he was pale and his breathing was short as he fumbled over words like your name and ‘complications.’
(All you remember are Braxton-Hicks and ‘we’re a little bit concerned’ and the damning notion of bed rest six weeks from your due date.
‘No work,’ the doctor said. House didn’t even try to hide his amused smirk and you glowered, earning a defensive, ‘Hey, you wanted this.’)
All you remember is the sweat along your brow and the soft weight in your arms, the way you felt when you could finally admit that it was over, safe, that the little mass with her check against your chest was yours, yours and no one else’s.
--
There are two dates that you know without a calendar. You don’t have to write them down, you don’t have to remember. They remember themselves.
--
Her favorite music was the soundtrack to The Wizard of Oz. You played it in the car and she sang along with everyone but Dorothy. ‘That’s your part, Mommy,’ she insisted, and so you sang duets on the way to the hospital.
‘She’s got you in the wrong role,’ he said, but you could only smile. You were smiling a lot, then, and you could tell it was driving him crazy.
‘Because god forbid one of us be happy,’ you said once.
‘You aren’t happy, you’re placated,’ he almost sneered, but on your desk was a little picture of you and Morgan in matching yellow dresses and yellow smiles and you knew that he knew that he’s never really believed that.
‘You’re wrong, House,’ you said, the corners of your lips curving up. ‘For once.’
--
‘Well, naturally,’ he muttered when you walked into the hospital just six weeks after she was born. You’d planned time off, assigned an interim Dean, prepared for any number of scenarios to ensure your job would still be yours when you came back.
(‘Covering your ass ten times over,’ he’d snorted, but there had been a small undercurrent of respect, almost pride, and you’d smiled broadly, almost laughed. He’d rolled his eyes: ‘Hormones.’)
But the time you thought you’d spend at home quickly became the time you both spent at the hospital, and if anyone minded talking in softer voices while she slept in the snugli around your neck, or disapproved of the way you left her in your office with a hired nanny when you visited patients, no one said a word.
You’ve spent your whole life in carefully orchestrated time, and this was no different, no different at all except that at the end of the day you had a reason to go home, and on weekends a reason to stay there.
--
Every morning you made time for hide-and-seek. Five extra minutes to pretend you didn’t know she was crouched in the tub; five to call her name, ignore the muffled giggling; five to find her, and reprimand her with tickles.
Your bathroom is still filled with laughter, with the smell of cherry shampoo and Power Ranger bubble bath.
Five years, four months, and give or take a few weeks later you had to change the color of the walls, so they weren’t purple anymore.
--
You promised House before you left that you’d clean up his messes when you got back.
You called him into your office and you promised him, over your large abdomen and swollen feet that so long as it wasn’t a pissing contest with the temporary Dean, so long as he had reasons, like always, you would handle the fallout.
He made a dramatic show out of promising (‘Do we have to spit-shake now? ‘Cause I don’t think I can handle your mommy cooties.’) and you smiled, winced as the baby kicked.
You remember because he grew so quiet, staring at the way your hands smoothed over the curve of your stomach. You shifted, looked away and started to say something, snap at him to diffuse your self-consciousness, when he looked at you, pointed awkwardly, ‘Can I-’
You paused, surprise fluttering across your face; nodded. You moved his hand, larger and warmer, to the place she always kicked. Unable to watch his face you stared at your hands over his over her; felt her kick through the vibrations in his fingers.
You dropped your arms. ‘What am I going to tell her?’ you asked quietly, watched as his hand moved slowly, fingers spread wide.
‘About the fact that you were impregnated by a spatula?’ He shrugged, moved his hand slightly higher as if tracking her motion inside you. ‘Tell her the truth.’
You sighed softly and shook your head. ‘It’s not that easy.’
‘Better than lying.’
You looked up then, caught his gaze, the softness and bitterness struggling against each other; he looked down quickly.
You were so intent on studying his face, the way the skin around his lips and eyes tightened that you didn’t notice when he brushed his hand against your breast; didn’t notice until he did it again, firmer, and you batted his hand away.
He shrugged, smirked. ‘It was worth a shot.’
--
You forgot sometimes that he was still House.
All the little moments distracted you: the way he spent more time in your office voluntarily; the way he hovered while you were pregnant; his barely concealed curiosity after she was born. You never asked him to make himself a part of your lives but he did, in his own subtle yet arrogant way and you (maybe wrongfully) came to rely on that.
But you forgot sometimes that he hadn’t really changed, wasn’t about to change. Not for you, not for your circumstances.
You remember, more than once, being late. So, so late, but he didn’t care, standing in the middle of your office, arguing even as you shoved your things in your briefcase.
‘I don’t care! You do not walk out on lawyers whose clients are suing you!’
‘I saved the guy’s life!’
‘And violated a million ethical and legal codes in the process!’
‘I always do that!’
‘Yeah, and now it’s biting you in the ass.’
He shrugged. ‘Actually, it seems to be crawling up your-’
You slammed the stack down on the desk and watched him start, too furious to be pleased.
‘This has got to stop,’ you snapped, your voice cracking with anger in the silence. ‘Because it’s not just annoying anymore, House. It’s not a few hours of lost sleep or an extra headache-it’s time I could be spending with my daughter and instead I’m here, cleaning up your mess!’
He opened his mouth to argue, to spurn you back but something stopped him (you didn’t pause long enough to figure out what).
‘Meet with the lawyers. Go through the process, like every other doctor. Do your job.’
You grabbed your coat, your keys, your bag.
‘I saved his life,’ he said again, almost a pathetic determination to get you back on his side. Your eyes narrowed and you leaned in close on your way out the door.
‘Don’t pick this fight, House. Because if I have to chose between you and her, it’s not going to be a hard decision to make.’
(You’d like to believe, even still, that it was all his fault; all his mistakes affecting you affecting her. But if you’re being honest, you know there wasn’t always someone besides yourself to blame.)
--
When she was four years old you let her light the Chanukah candles. With your hands over her small ones, you whispered soft prayers in her ear, the glow from the flame warm against your face.
She didn’t know or care what it meant, was too young to appreciate anything other than your gentle voice, the picture book of the little boy who had his own menorah.
Sometimes you spent the holidays with Wilson, shared food and family traditions; laughed when she was two and tried to eat the dreidel. Every year you invited House but every year he declined, saying he hated kids or thought Jews were boring or feared your cooking. (‘I’m too attractive for food poisoning,’ he said once, and for the rest of the day she asked you what that meant.)
When she was five Wilson took her shopping in early December, and on the last night of Chanukah they gave you a silver necklace with the Star of David.
‘I picked it out all by myself,’ she said proudly and you laughed and smiled. After four or five tries she hooked the clasp around your neck and gave you a big hug.
You haven’t taken it off since.
--
Three hundred and sixty five days and you felt like dying.
The sun was shining and the wind rustled the leaves in spirals on the ground; people were walking their dogs through the park and smiling, little boys were playing in the sandbox and all of this you imagined from your bedroom window, blinds closed and sunlight filtering though the slits.
‘It’s snowing!’ she said and jumped on your chest and off the bed and tried to reach the blinds but couldn’t, jumped back on and tugged the covers away.
Little purple mittens and a purple hat and purple scarf and toothy grin as she tried to catch snowflakes on her tongue. Oatmeal and toast and an afternoon nap while you paid bills and reviewed budget proposals and made a list of potential donors to call in the morning and a list of things you needed to buy for her birthday party.
You closed your eyes and shook your head, wiped the salt from your face and dressed. You stopped at the little flower shop down the street.
She liked gardenias because you liked them and lilies because there were some in your office and pink roses because Alfredo taught her how to plant them in the front yard.
‘Haven’t seen you here in a while,’ the owner said softly, but still loud enough to break your reverie.
‘Not much occasion,’ you murmured, then smiled as much as you could, what turned out to be flat and hollow and so you looked away, placing your request to the stem of a white daffodil.
An hour later you set the small bouquet of white and purple beside the unveiled grave with the three little stones on top. Wilson tried to hold your hand, House didn’t say a word and you couldn’t understand the Rabbi, even though the sounds and texture of his words were so familiar.
--
She was sitting at the dining room table with a bowl of cereal and fruit juice telling you about her friend Joanna in Mrs. Feller’s day camp, and how Joanna and her mommy and her daddy were going to the beach for the week (you remembered approving the vacation time) when she paused suddenly, looked up.
‘Do I have a daddy?’
You choked, tried to cover it with a cough.
‘Yes,’ you said shortly, standing quickly and busying yourself by washing your dish in the sink.
‘Where is he?’
You faltered. Shook your head and forced a smile. ‘Finish your breakfast.’
She didn’t ask again until a week later, another few weeks after that, then every couple of days. Each time you found a distraction, a reason not to answer the question.
It took House three days to figure out what was distracting you, and less than a minute to voice his opinion.
‘She’s four years old,’ you justified, slamming the cabinet drawer just a little too hard, ‘she’s not going to know-’
‘You think she’s gonna remember what you tell her when she’s four?’ he demanded, face wrinkled in his patent you’re a moron expression. You started to protest, but he shook his head. ‘The only thing she’ll remember is that you told her the truth.’
Later that night, after the housekeeper went home and after dinner and after bath time, you sat on her bed, gently combing through her hair. You sighed, asked softly, ‘You still want to know about your dad?’
She nodded, trying not to appear too eager. You stopped, turned her toward you and tried your best to explain how some people don’t find another person to spend their lives with, like Peter’s mom and dad did; how some people are all by themselves; how sometimes those people want kids anyway.
‘Was that you?”
You nodded. ‘There’s a … type of hospital, that helps people like me have kids.’
‘Like where you work?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Tommy says everyone has a mommy and a daddy,’ she said, frowning.
‘You need…a man, and a woman. Both of them donate…genetic material. It doesn’t matter if they’re married, like Tommy’s parents.’
She looked up at you hesitantly, bit her lip. ‘Gentic…?’
‘Genetic,’ you smiled. ‘To make you, it took a little bit of me, and a little bit of someone else.’
‘Who?’
‘I…’ you took a sharp breath, forced a smile. ‘The hospital that helped me… it’s very important that the names of all the people who go there are kept private.’
‘Private?’
‘It’s like a secret,’ you said. ‘A very important secret. I don’t know your… the man, and he doesn’t know me.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s… it’s very complicated.’ You grinned, then, ducked your eyes to meet hers. ‘Ask me in a year?’
She nodded, still firmly concentrating on the information. You turned her gently, picked up the comb and carefully began untangling her hair again.
‘Mommy? Will I ever get to see my daddy?’
You sighed softly into her hair. ‘I don’t know,’ you answered honestly, trying to hide the regret in your voice. ‘But you’ll always have me. Okay?’
She nodded, turned suddenly and wrapped her arms around your neck, like she knew you needed it. ‘Okay.’
--
You didn’t want to know. You didn’t want to know his name, see his face, never, ever wanted to meet him. Your psychiatrist (highly recommended by the Board) told you that facing him, hearing his side could help you move on.
You nodded but said nothing, let your eyes skim over the soft blue walls, the hanging photos. The psychiatrist said something else but his voice was distant, nothing more than a low murmur.
‘Dr. Cuddy.’
You left early and never went back.
--
‘This wasn’t his first offence,’ Stacy said, her voice sympathetic but firm. ‘He’s been arrested on DUI charges three times in the past two years; he’s done time, rehab programs. He’ll get twenty years, easy.’ Stacy sighed and her voice softened. ‘He’s not going to get away with it.’
‘I know,’ you said quietly. ‘I’m just not…’ You shook your head.
You could hear Stacy nod over the phone as you ran your fingers across her pink and white lampshade, her stuffed bunny, the yellow pillow she stole from your room when she was four.
‘I’m so sorry I can’t make the service,’ Stacy said slowly, as if afraid to break the silence. ‘Mark-’
‘It’s okay,’ you murmured, and even though you meant it, even though you understood it still came out harsh, raw. You shut your eyes tightly and tried to see anything other than her face, her grin, the dark little curls around her ears.
‘Lisa. If you need anything, anything at all…’
You could hear the regret in her voice, and it made you sick. Your grip on the phone tightened.
‘Thank you, Stacy,’ you sighed, said goodbye, stared absently through her purple blinds.
--
On her sixth birthday House showed up and you couldn’t make him leave.
It wasn’t that you wanted to but you just didn’t (don’t) understand, couldn’t decide if you thought he cared, couldn’t decide if you cared if he did.
You weren’t grateful or resentful or surprised when you found him standing in your bedroom, too tall and too out of place to be much of a comfort.
You made tea and let him pick the channel on the television. He found something mind-numbing and you both fell asleep on opposite ends on the couch, and you dreamed of overflowing bathtubs and bouquets of purple flowers and woke up gasping when the lights came through the window.
House was gone by then, and you were too exhausted to do anything but lay awake and watch the light from the television make patterns on the walls.
--
You knew everyone but you couldn’t remember their names. Some of your doctors, maybe. A few almost-friends. A woman you met in Lamaze. Your running partner from ten years ago put his hand on your elbow and said, ‘God, Lisa, I’m so sorry,’ like you hadn’t heard it before. ‘She was a beautiful little girl,’ you kept hearing and ‘So full of life’ and ‘What an absolute tragedy,’ all in hushed murmurs and never to you, exactly, just where you could hear, where they could all resonate and blend together and your head pounded and your vision kept blurring and half of you wanted to just scream, ‘You don’t know her you don’t love her!’ because it hadn’t been a week and you couldn’t understand why everyone was speaking in past-tense.
But you kept quiet, kept smiling lightly, hugging people and thanking them for their condolences until the wine was gone and the trays of food were almost empty and the low silence had started to buzz, the telltale side effect of too many people having too few words.
Wilson stayed, silently, saying only, ‘I’ve got it,’ when you tried to help him clear the table. You nodded slowly, couldn’t bring yourself to thank him, or smile, so you disappeared down the hall, turned on the shower. You found House staring at the photographs on the dresser in your bedroom.
There was an awkward pause, distracted eyes and a shuffle of feet. ‘I thought you went home,’ you said, but your mouth felt caked and dry. You stared down at the single cut in your black sweater but couldn’t remember the words that went along with it, couldn’t remember why it was there, or from when.
House shrugged, turned his eyes back to your array of expensive rings and necklaces mixed with neon plastic in pink and green and purple.
‘I came with Wilson,’ he said, and you nodded.
‘I’m going to take a shower.’
He nodded back, and neither of you moved.
--
Princeton Plainsboro had never run so smoothly as it did in the months to follow. Every filing cabinet was organized, every report read and reread, annotated, with perfectly creased pink stickie notes and cursive handwriting. In those eight months, you found a way to cut spending and increase efficiency. Much to House’s distaste you expanded the clinic and the E.R and even found a few extra dollars to hire more staff. You came in early and left late and eventually started keeping more than one spare suit in your car.
‘People are gonna start to think you’re homeless,’ he snapped once, but you couldn’t figure out why he was so angry.
You didn’t notice that everyone was holding their breath.
--
She was sitting cross-legged on a purple beanbag in the corner, cheeks red and clutching Ernie the stuffed penguin you bought before she was born. She didn’t smile, didn’t run at you like she usually did, just quietly grabbed her lunchbox and her little purse and waited for you to finish thanking Mrs. Feller.
She didn’t say anything as you tucked her into the car seat, didn’t smile back, only gave you a look that mixed hurt and anger and stubborn indignation and made your throat tighten. The drive home was silent, and the little sequins on her purple dress glittered when passing headlights struck them.
You ran a bath and added bubbles and crouched in front of her, gently undoing her braids with practiced fingertips. You tried to ask her questions about her day but were met with one-word answers and an averted gaze.
‘We put on a play,’ she said finally, accusatory. ‘You forgot.’
‘I know,’ you murmured, smoothing your hands through her hair. ‘I’m sorry, baby,’ you whispered, kissed her forehead and leant back slightly, eye to eye as she wavered. You wanted to tell her it would never happen again, that you’d never miss a recital or keep her waiting or let her down. You wanted to tell her you’d make it up to her, soon, but you knew it wouldn’t be the last time - you knew you’d be late for pick-up, that weekends would be spent with a sitter.
‘Arms up,’ you said instead, tested the water temperature before setting her in the tub; you retrieved her toys from under the sink and turned the little radio on.
--
A few weeks later you awoke to an incessant poking in your side, and opened your eyes to see House standing over you, frowning in the darkness.
You rubbed your eyes and sat up slowly, neck aching from being bent over your desk. House kept staring and you sighed and tried to clear your mind. ‘What time is it?’ you asked, and your voice sounded too rough, too distant.
‘Twelve thirty,’ he said gruffly.
Your eyes widened and your blood went warm and you stood up, ‘Oh god,’ because you couldn’t have forgotten, not again, not this late, ‘I have to go get-’
And then House’s hand on your arm was the only thing holding you up.
‘Oh,’ you gasped, and tried not to let him see the tears forming in your eyes. ‘Oh.’
‘Go home,’ he must have said, but his voice was so distant, so unreal. ‘Go home.’
--
You coughed and called her name and when she didn’t answer the silence burned your ears. You tried to move, to turn, your own pain so distant and unimportant and when you needed her most, the doctor in you vanished and you were mom in the car and mom in the ambulance and mom when they kept you outside, made you let go of her hand. You were mom when they tried to get you away from the little window and when they asked you your name and when you wouldn’t - couldn’t - move, when the doctor took off his mask. You were mom when he shook his head, and told you he was sorry.
--
You took one week after the funeral.
Seven days and seven nights you let one candle burn, hardly moved from the floor of her bedroom. You left the door unanswered, phone calls ignored. Your next-door neighbor came by every few days with a tray of comfort food that you never touched, and littered your dining room table with unopened condolences, bouquets of flowers. Wilson called as much as he dared, leaving concerned messages on your answering machine and the last time he phoned you heard, ‘Oh for-leave her alone, Florence’ and more gruff mumbling, Wilson’s stuttered apology.
The next five days you spent in silence, the little yellow dress soft between your fingers.
--
‘You’re guilt-ridden,’ he snapped once, so angry that you took a step back. ‘I don’t trust you not to do anything stupid.’
But you could only shake your head and close your eyes against the tears: ‘I’m too tired, House.’
He didn’t touch you, never laid a hand on your shoulder or pulled you into his arms. But he almost always stayed, as if waiting for you to come back.
--
There are two dates you never have to remember.
One is the day she was born, small and pink and perfect; the first day you held her; the first day you kissed her forehead; the first day you told her that you loved her.
The other: five years, four months, eight days.
--
She was singing along with the Tin Man when bright lights blinded you. Nothing slowed, nothing froze - you never saw God or Death, but your heard your baby scream, and you still wake up to that sound.
--
Wilson sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, let both arms drop to his sides. ‘He misses you,’ he said softly, desperately. ‘We all… Cuddy.’
But there was nothing there, not really. You couldn’t move.
‘I miss her.’
--
You remember sitting up in bed, pillows and blankets and her head tucked against your chest, little body curled, your arms around her turning pages of a little book. Quiet murmurs and quiet breathing and ‘Quiet is the fireplace. Quiet is a hug. Quiet is the blinking lightning bug.’
She was too old, really - she liked longer books and more complicated stories and liked to read them herself, to you; liked to wear your glasses and your heels and say things like ‘I have a board meeting’ and then giggle. She liked turning off her own light and pouring her own cereal and piling up your budget reports in the chair so she could be as tall as you. She liked packing her own backpack and remembering her own lunch and buckling her own seatbelt. But she also liked it when you carried her through the clinic, when you let her play in your office during meetings, so long as she was quiet. She liked it when you held her hand in crowded places.
And at night when it was just a little too dark and her room was just a little too big, she liked your down comforter and large pillows and open arms. She liked the softness of your voice, and you loved it when she read along with you, eyes closed with the words imprinted in her mind and breathing soft, ‘Quiet is the star. Quiet is the street. Quiet are the slippers on your feet.’ (She loved it when you grabbed her toes and made her squeal and defeated the purpose of the goodnight story.) You loved it when she nestled closer as you kissed her forehead, said goodnight; you loved falling asleep with her in your arms, and waking up the same.
--
Five years, four months and eight days later you’re sitting on the couch in your office, staring at your hands. The maps are still open, but all those black dots and blue lines have somehow blended together.
‘She’s been gone longer than she was here,’ you say quietly, because you’ve thought it over again and again but never voiced it, and you don’t know what will happen now that it’s real, now that he knows.
You hold your breath, wait for the sound of a pin. But House just nods, pauses; leans across the space and kisses you.
--
Sometimes, if you close your eyes long enough, you can still hear laughter, high pitched and soft. You can still hear story time and the bath time and the flutter of her heartbeat against your chest as you rocked her to sleep.
It’s been so long, and yet, looking at the maps spread out on the coffee table, at the half-finished cup of tea, it hasn’t been nearly long enough.
--
Five years, four months, nine days.
--
You never do take that vacation.
Title: Blue Ink
Author: Catherine
Fandom: House, M.D
Character/pairing(s): Cuddy. House, Wilson
Prompt: 034: Not Enough, and the we_take_five picture prompt. Finally.
Word Count: 4822
Rating: PG.13
A/N: Companion piece to Things Don’t Change (not necessary to read). / Mild AU / Quotations from The Little Quiet Book by Katharine Ross and Jean Hirashima.
A/N2: Huge, huge thanks to swatkat24 for going over this (several times) with red ink, and to dancing_crazy for not letting me sound ignorant. *g* Also thanks to darkrefuge for the initial beta read. I love you all.
Dedication: For Ollie. Without her, I would lose a part of me.
You don’t remember much, much in the way of who you were, before. You remember late nights, long hours-things that never changed. Things that remain the same, even now.
--
Eight days after five years, four months and you need to go. Somewhere. Anywhere. Out of your office with its calm orange walls and away from the hum the hospital makes when it sleeps. You need sun, maybe - maybe water. Maybe something other than clean and clinical, somewhere that’ll take the smell out of your skin.
‘Tijuana,’ he suggests, leering slightly. You shake your head, hide the maps, ask him what he wants.
--
Half the time he doesn’t want anything. He’s done it ever since- and you look away, out the window. You remember the park and the swing and the filtered bits of laughter, the way her hand fit in yours.
‘Cuddy.’
(His cane hits your desk; his eyes soften.)
So many times: ‘You should go home.’
You shake your head, turn, open a file. ‘I’m fine.’
He doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t leave.
--
You’re sitting on the couch in your office, maps spread out on the coffee table, tea on a coaster at your left. Blue lines and little stars and circles and small black letters. ‘I’m thinking about taking a vacation,’ you say when Wilson comes in, sits down next to you. He picks up the closest brochure, smiles, ‘Paris?’ and you shrug lightly, finger the silver star around your neck.
‘It’s a nice thought.’
‘A bit far,’ he concedes, pauses. ‘You should go.’
‘I know,’ you murmur back, but your road maps extend only to Maine, and you think that might be far enough.
--
You’ll never know about the look on Wilson’s face when he fell into House’s office that Sunday afternoon. Never know how he was pale and his breathing was short as he fumbled over words like your name and ‘complications.’
(All you remember are Braxton-Hicks and ‘we’re a little bit concerned’ and the damning notion of bed rest six weeks from your due date.
‘No work,’ the doctor said. House didn’t even try to hide his amused smirk and you glowered, earning a defensive, ‘Hey, you wanted this.’)
All you remember is the sweat along your brow and the soft weight in your arms, the way you felt when you could finally admit that it was over, safe, that the little mass with her check against your chest was yours, yours and no one else’s.
--
There are two dates that you know without a calendar. You don’t have to write them down, you don’t have to remember. They remember themselves.
--
Her favorite music was the soundtrack to The Wizard of Oz. You played it in the car and she sang along with everyone but Dorothy. ‘That’s your part, Mommy,’ she insisted, and so you sang duets on the way to the hospital.
‘She’s got you in the wrong role,’ he said, but you could only smile. You were smiling a lot, then, and you could tell it was driving him crazy.
‘Because god forbid one of us be happy,’ you said once.
‘You aren’t happy, you’re placated,’ he almost sneered, but on your desk was a little picture of you and Morgan in matching yellow dresses and yellow smiles and you knew that he knew that he’s never really believed that.
‘You’re wrong, House,’ you said, the corners of your lips curving up. ‘For once.’
--
‘Well, naturally,’ he muttered when you walked into the hospital just six weeks after she was born. You’d planned time off, assigned an interim Dean, prepared for any number of scenarios to ensure your job would still be yours when you came back.
(‘Covering your ass ten times over,’ he’d snorted, but there had been a small undercurrent of respect, almost pride, and you’d smiled broadly, almost laughed. He’d rolled his eyes: ‘Hormones.’)
But the time you thought you’d spend at home quickly became the time you both spent at the hospital, and if anyone minded talking in softer voices while she slept in the snugli around your neck, or disapproved of the way you left her in your office with a hired nanny when you visited patients, no one said a word.
You’ve spent your whole life in carefully orchestrated time, and this was no different, no different at all except that at the end of the day you had a reason to go home, and on weekends a reason to stay there.
--
Every morning you made time for hide-and-seek. Five extra minutes to pretend you didn’t know she was crouched in the tub; five to call her name, ignore the muffled giggling; five to find her, and reprimand her with tickles.
Your bathroom is still filled with laughter, with the smell of cherry shampoo and Power Ranger bubble bath.
Five years, four months, and give or take a few weeks later you had to change the color of the walls, so they weren’t purple anymore.
--
You promised House before you left that you’d clean up his messes when you got back.
You called him into your office and you promised him, over your large abdomen and swollen feet that so long as it wasn’t a pissing contest with the temporary Dean, so long as he had reasons, like always, you would handle the fallout.
He made a dramatic show out of promising (‘Do we have to spit-shake now? ‘Cause I don’t think I can handle your mommy cooties.’) and you smiled, winced as the baby kicked.
You remember because he grew so quiet, staring at the way your hands smoothed over the curve of your stomach. You shifted, looked away and started to say something, snap at him to diffuse your self-consciousness, when he looked at you, pointed awkwardly, ‘Can I-’
You paused, surprise fluttering across your face; nodded. You moved his hand, larger and warmer, to the place she always kicked. Unable to watch his face you stared at your hands over his over her; felt her kick through the vibrations in his fingers.
You dropped your arms. ‘What am I going to tell her?’ you asked quietly, watched as his hand moved slowly, fingers spread wide.
‘About the fact that you were impregnated by a spatula?’ He shrugged, moved his hand slightly higher as if tracking her motion inside you. ‘Tell her the truth.’
You sighed softly and shook your head. ‘It’s not that easy.’
‘Better than lying.’
You looked up then, caught his gaze, the softness and bitterness struggling against each other; he looked down quickly.
You were so intent on studying his face, the way the skin around his lips and eyes tightened that you didn’t notice when he brushed his hand against your breast; didn’t notice until he did it again, firmer, and you batted his hand away.
He shrugged, smirked. ‘It was worth a shot.’
--
You forgot sometimes that he was still House.
All the little moments distracted you: the way he spent more time in your office voluntarily; the way he hovered while you were pregnant; his barely concealed curiosity after she was born. You never asked him to make himself a part of your lives but he did, in his own subtle yet arrogant way and you (maybe wrongfully) came to rely on that.
But you forgot sometimes that he hadn’t really changed, wasn’t about to change. Not for you, not for your circumstances.
You remember, more than once, being late. So, so late, but he didn’t care, standing in the middle of your office, arguing even as you shoved your things in your briefcase.
‘I don’t care! You do not walk out on lawyers whose clients are suing you!’
‘I saved the guy’s life!’
‘And violated a million ethical and legal codes in the process!’
‘I always do that!’
‘Yeah, and now it’s biting you in the ass.’
He shrugged. ‘Actually, it seems to be crawling up your-’
You slammed the stack down on the desk and watched him start, too furious to be pleased.
‘This has got to stop,’ you snapped, your voice cracking with anger in the silence. ‘Because it’s not just annoying anymore, House. It’s not a few hours of lost sleep or an extra headache-it’s time I could be spending with my daughter and instead I’m here, cleaning up your mess!’
He opened his mouth to argue, to spurn you back but something stopped him (you didn’t pause long enough to figure out what).
‘Meet with the lawyers. Go through the process, like every other doctor. Do your job.’
You grabbed your coat, your keys, your bag.
‘I saved his life,’ he said again, almost a pathetic determination to get you back on his side. Your eyes narrowed and you leaned in close on your way out the door.
‘Don’t pick this fight, House. Because if I have to chose between you and her, it’s not going to be a hard decision to make.’
(You’d like to believe, even still, that it was all his fault; all his mistakes affecting you affecting her. But if you’re being honest, you know there wasn’t always someone besides yourself to blame.)
--
When she was four years old you let her light the Chanukah candles. With your hands over her small ones, you whispered soft prayers in her ear, the glow from the flame warm against your face.
She didn’t know or care what it meant, was too young to appreciate anything other than your gentle voice, the picture book of the little boy who had his own menorah.
Sometimes you spent the holidays with Wilson, shared food and family traditions; laughed when she was two and tried to eat the dreidel. Every year you invited House but every year he declined, saying he hated kids or thought Jews were boring or feared your cooking. (‘I’m too attractive for food poisoning,’ he said once, and for the rest of the day she asked you what that meant.)
When she was five Wilson took her shopping in early December, and on the last night of Chanukah they gave you a silver necklace with the Star of David.
‘I picked it out all by myself,’ she said proudly and you laughed and smiled. After four or five tries she hooked the clasp around your neck and gave you a big hug.
You haven’t taken it off since.
--
Three hundred and sixty five days and you felt like dying.
The sun was shining and the wind rustled the leaves in spirals on the ground; people were walking their dogs through the park and smiling, little boys were playing in the sandbox and all of this you imagined from your bedroom window, blinds closed and sunlight filtering though the slits.
‘It’s snowing!’ she said and jumped on your chest and off the bed and tried to reach the blinds but couldn’t, jumped back on and tugged the covers away.
Little purple mittens and a purple hat and purple scarf and toothy grin as she tried to catch snowflakes on her tongue. Oatmeal and toast and an afternoon nap while you paid bills and reviewed budget proposals and made a list of potential donors to call in the morning and a list of things you needed to buy for her birthday party.
You closed your eyes and shook your head, wiped the salt from your face and dressed. You stopped at the little flower shop down the street.
She liked gardenias because you liked them and lilies because there were some in your office and pink roses because Alfredo taught her how to plant them in the front yard.
‘Haven’t seen you here in a while,’ the owner said softly, but still loud enough to break your reverie.
‘Not much occasion,’ you murmured, then smiled as much as you could, what turned out to be flat and hollow and so you looked away, placing your request to the stem of a white daffodil.
An hour later you set the small bouquet of white and purple beside the unveiled grave with the three little stones on top. Wilson tried to hold your hand, House didn’t say a word and you couldn’t understand the Rabbi, even though the sounds and texture of his words were so familiar.
--
She was sitting at the dining room table with a bowl of cereal and fruit juice telling you about her friend Joanna in Mrs. Feller’s day camp, and how Joanna and her mommy and her daddy were going to the beach for the week (you remembered approving the vacation time) when she paused suddenly, looked up.
‘Do I have a daddy?’
You choked, tried to cover it with a cough.
‘Yes,’ you said shortly, standing quickly and busying yourself by washing your dish in the sink.
‘Where is he?’
You faltered. Shook your head and forced a smile. ‘Finish your breakfast.’
She didn’t ask again until a week later, another few weeks after that, then every couple of days. Each time you found a distraction, a reason not to answer the question.
It took House three days to figure out what was distracting you, and less than a minute to voice his opinion.
‘She’s four years old,’ you justified, slamming the cabinet drawer just a little too hard, ‘she’s not going to know-’
‘You think she’s gonna remember what you tell her when she’s four?’ he demanded, face wrinkled in his patent you’re a moron expression. You started to protest, but he shook his head. ‘The only thing she’ll remember is that you told her the truth.’
Later that night, after the housekeeper went home and after dinner and after bath time, you sat on her bed, gently combing through her hair. You sighed, asked softly, ‘You still want to know about your dad?’
She nodded, trying not to appear too eager. You stopped, turned her toward you and tried your best to explain how some people don’t find another person to spend their lives with, like Peter’s mom and dad did; how some people are all by themselves; how sometimes those people want kids anyway.
‘Was that you?”
You nodded. ‘There’s a … type of hospital, that helps people like me have kids.’
‘Like where you work?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Tommy says everyone has a mommy and a daddy,’ she said, frowning.
‘You need…a man, and a woman. Both of them donate…genetic material. It doesn’t matter if they’re married, like Tommy’s parents.’
She looked up at you hesitantly, bit her lip. ‘Gentic…?’
‘Genetic,’ you smiled. ‘To make you, it took a little bit of me, and a little bit of someone else.’
‘Who?’
‘I…’ you took a sharp breath, forced a smile. ‘The hospital that helped me… it’s very important that the names of all the people who go there are kept private.’
‘Private?’
‘It’s like a secret,’ you said. ‘A very important secret. I don’t know your… the man, and he doesn’t know me.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s… it’s very complicated.’ You grinned, then, ducked your eyes to meet hers. ‘Ask me in a year?’
She nodded, still firmly concentrating on the information. You turned her gently, picked up the comb and carefully began untangling her hair again.
‘Mommy? Will I ever get to see my daddy?’
You sighed softly into her hair. ‘I don’t know,’ you answered honestly, trying to hide the regret in your voice. ‘But you’ll always have me. Okay?’
She nodded, turned suddenly and wrapped her arms around your neck, like she knew you needed it. ‘Okay.’
--
You didn’t want to know. You didn’t want to know his name, see his face, never, ever wanted to meet him. Your psychiatrist (highly recommended by the Board) told you that facing him, hearing his side could help you move on.
You nodded but said nothing, let your eyes skim over the soft blue walls, the hanging photos. The psychiatrist said something else but his voice was distant, nothing more than a low murmur.
‘Dr. Cuddy.’
You left early and never went back.
--
‘This wasn’t his first offence,’ Stacy said, her voice sympathetic but firm. ‘He’s been arrested on DUI charges three times in the past two years; he’s done time, rehab programs. He’ll get twenty years, easy.’ Stacy sighed and her voice softened. ‘He’s not going to get away with it.’
‘I know,’ you said quietly. ‘I’m just not…’ You shook your head.
You could hear Stacy nod over the phone as you ran your fingers across her pink and white lampshade, her stuffed bunny, the yellow pillow she stole from your room when she was four.
‘I’m so sorry I can’t make the service,’ Stacy said slowly, as if afraid to break the silence. ‘Mark-’
‘It’s okay,’ you murmured, and even though you meant it, even though you understood it still came out harsh, raw. You shut your eyes tightly and tried to see anything other than her face, her grin, the dark little curls around her ears.
‘Lisa. If you need anything, anything at all…’
You could hear the regret in her voice, and it made you sick. Your grip on the phone tightened.
‘Thank you, Stacy,’ you sighed, said goodbye, stared absently through her purple blinds.
--
On her sixth birthday House showed up and you couldn’t make him leave.
It wasn’t that you wanted to but you just didn’t (don’t) understand, couldn’t decide if you thought he cared, couldn’t decide if you cared if he did.
You weren’t grateful or resentful or surprised when you found him standing in your bedroom, too tall and too out of place to be much of a comfort.
You made tea and let him pick the channel on the television. He found something mind-numbing and you both fell asleep on opposite ends on the couch, and you dreamed of overflowing bathtubs and bouquets of purple flowers and woke up gasping when the lights came through the window.
House was gone by then, and you were too exhausted to do anything but lay awake and watch the light from the television make patterns on the walls.
--
You knew everyone but you couldn’t remember their names. Some of your doctors, maybe. A few almost-friends. A woman you met in Lamaze. Your running partner from ten years ago put his hand on your elbow and said, ‘God, Lisa, I’m so sorry,’ like you hadn’t heard it before. ‘She was a beautiful little girl,’ you kept hearing and ‘So full of life’ and ‘What an absolute tragedy,’ all in hushed murmurs and never to you, exactly, just where you could hear, where they could all resonate and blend together and your head pounded and your vision kept blurring and half of you wanted to just scream, ‘You don’t know her you don’t love her!’ because it hadn’t been a week and you couldn’t understand why everyone was speaking in past-tense.
But you kept quiet, kept smiling lightly, hugging people and thanking them for their condolences until the wine was gone and the trays of food were almost empty and the low silence had started to buzz, the telltale side effect of too many people having too few words.
Wilson stayed, silently, saying only, ‘I’ve got it,’ when you tried to help him clear the table. You nodded slowly, couldn’t bring yourself to thank him, or smile, so you disappeared down the hall, turned on the shower. You found House staring at the photographs on the dresser in your bedroom.
There was an awkward pause, distracted eyes and a shuffle of feet. ‘I thought you went home,’ you said, but your mouth felt caked and dry. You stared down at the single cut in your black sweater but couldn’t remember the words that went along with it, couldn’t remember why it was there, or from when.
House shrugged, turned his eyes back to your array of expensive rings and necklaces mixed with neon plastic in pink and green and purple.
‘I came with Wilson,’ he said, and you nodded.
‘I’m going to take a shower.’
He nodded back, and neither of you moved.
--
Princeton Plainsboro had never run so smoothly as it did in the months to follow. Every filing cabinet was organized, every report read and reread, annotated, with perfectly creased pink stickie notes and cursive handwriting. In those eight months, you found a way to cut spending and increase efficiency. Much to House’s distaste you expanded the clinic and the E.R and even found a few extra dollars to hire more staff. You came in early and left late and eventually started keeping more than one spare suit in your car.
‘People are gonna start to think you’re homeless,’ he snapped once, but you couldn’t figure out why he was so angry.
You didn’t notice that everyone was holding their breath.
--
She was sitting cross-legged on a purple beanbag in the corner, cheeks red and clutching Ernie the stuffed penguin you bought before she was born. She didn’t smile, didn’t run at you like she usually did, just quietly grabbed her lunchbox and her little purse and waited for you to finish thanking Mrs. Feller.
She didn’t say anything as you tucked her into the car seat, didn’t smile back, only gave you a look that mixed hurt and anger and stubborn indignation and made your throat tighten. The drive home was silent, and the little sequins on her purple dress glittered when passing headlights struck them.
You ran a bath and added bubbles and crouched in front of her, gently undoing her braids with practiced fingertips. You tried to ask her questions about her day but were met with one-word answers and an averted gaze.
‘We put on a play,’ she said finally, accusatory. ‘You forgot.’
‘I know,’ you murmured, smoothing your hands through her hair. ‘I’m sorry, baby,’ you whispered, kissed her forehead and leant back slightly, eye to eye as she wavered. You wanted to tell her it would never happen again, that you’d never miss a recital or keep her waiting or let her down. You wanted to tell her you’d make it up to her, soon, but you knew it wouldn’t be the last time - you knew you’d be late for pick-up, that weekends would be spent with a sitter.
‘Arms up,’ you said instead, tested the water temperature before setting her in the tub; you retrieved her toys from under the sink and turned the little radio on.
--
A few weeks later you awoke to an incessant poking in your side, and opened your eyes to see House standing over you, frowning in the darkness.
You rubbed your eyes and sat up slowly, neck aching from being bent over your desk. House kept staring and you sighed and tried to clear your mind. ‘What time is it?’ you asked, and your voice sounded too rough, too distant.
‘Twelve thirty,’ he said gruffly.
Your eyes widened and your blood went warm and you stood up, ‘Oh god,’ because you couldn’t have forgotten, not again, not this late, ‘I have to go get-’
And then House’s hand on your arm was the only thing holding you up.
‘Oh,’ you gasped, and tried not to let him see the tears forming in your eyes. ‘Oh.’
‘Go home,’ he must have said, but his voice was so distant, so unreal. ‘Go home.’
--
You coughed and called her name and when she didn’t answer the silence burned your ears. You tried to move, to turn, your own pain so distant and unimportant and when you needed her most, the doctor in you vanished and you were mom in the car and mom in the ambulance and mom when they kept you outside, made you let go of her hand. You were mom when they tried to get you away from the little window and when they asked you your name and when you wouldn’t - couldn’t - move, when the doctor took off his mask. You were mom when he shook his head, and told you he was sorry.
--
You took one week after the funeral.
Seven days and seven nights you let one candle burn, hardly moved from the floor of her bedroom. You left the door unanswered, phone calls ignored. Your next-door neighbor came by every few days with a tray of comfort food that you never touched, and littered your dining room table with unopened condolences, bouquets of flowers. Wilson called as much as he dared, leaving concerned messages on your answering machine and the last time he phoned you heard, ‘Oh for-leave her alone, Florence’ and more gruff mumbling, Wilson’s stuttered apology.
The next five days you spent in silence, the little yellow dress soft between your fingers.
--
‘You’re guilt-ridden,’ he snapped once, so angry that you took a step back. ‘I don’t trust you not to do anything stupid.’
But you could only shake your head and close your eyes against the tears: ‘I’m too tired, House.’
He didn’t touch you, never laid a hand on your shoulder or pulled you into his arms. But he almost always stayed, as if waiting for you to come back.
--
There are two dates you never have to remember.
One is the day she was born, small and pink and perfect; the first day you held her; the first day you kissed her forehead; the first day you told her that you loved her.
The other: five years, four months, eight days.
--
She was singing along with the Tin Man when bright lights blinded you. Nothing slowed, nothing froze - you never saw God or Death, but your heard your baby scream, and you still wake up to that sound.
--
Wilson sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, let both arms drop to his sides. ‘He misses you,’ he said softly, desperately. ‘We all… Cuddy.’
But there was nothing there, not really. You couldn’t move.
‘I miss her.’
--
You remember sitting up in bed, pillows and blankets and her head tucked against your chest, little body curled, your arms around her turning pages of a little book. Quiet murmurs and quiet breathing and ‘Quiet is the fireplace. Quiet is a hug. Quiet is the blinking lightning bug.’
She was too old, really - she liked longer books and more complicated stories and liked to read them herself, to you; liked to wear your glasses and your heels and say things like ‘I have a board meeting’ and then giggle. She liked turning off her own light and pouring her own cereal and piling up your budget reports in the chair so she could be as tall as you. She liked packing her own backpack and remembering her own lunch and buckling her own seatbelt. But she also liked it when you carried her through the clinic, when you let her play in your office during meetings, so long as she was quiet. She liked it when you held her hand in crowded places.
And at night when it was just a little too dark and her room was just a little too big, she liked your down comforter and large pillows and open arms. She liked the softness of your voice, and you loved it when she read along with you, eyes closed with the words imprinted in her mind and breathing soft, ‘Quiet is the star. Quiet is the street. Quiet are the slippers on your feet.’ (She loved it when you grabbed her toes and made her squeal and defeated the purpose of the goodnight story.) You loved it when she nestled closer as you kissed her forehead, said goodnight; you loved falling asleep with her in your arms, and waking up the same.
--
Five years, four months and eight days later you’re sitting on the couch in your office, staring at your hands. The maps are still open, but all those black dots and blue lines have somehow blended together.
‘She’s been gone longer than she was here,’ you say quietly, because you’ve thought it over again and again but never voiced it, and you don’t know what will happen now that it’s real, now that he knows.
You hold your breath, wait for the sound of a pin. But House just nods, pauses; leans across the space and kisses you.
--
Sometimes, if you close your eyes long enough, you can still hear laughter, high pitched and soft. You can still hear story time and the bath time and the flutter of her heartbeat against your chest as you rocked her to sleep.
It’s been so long, and yet, looking at the maps spread out on the coffee table, at the half-finished cup of tea, it hasn’t been nearly long enough.
--
Five years, four months, nine days.
--
You never do take that vacation.