Visiting Hours, Chapter 7
Summary: House's mother Blythe is hiding a secret, and House is determined to find out what it is.
Word Count: 1,511
Warning: Spoilers for Season 5's "Birthmarks".
Disclaimer: I'm weird, not crazy.
Blythe was clearly traumatized by the choking incident, as she would not stop shaking, even as Wilson helped her carefully into the backseat. “I don’t know why that happened,” she kept saying, without blinking as she stared in a daze off into empty space, mumbling the words over and over, which, for House, on top of everything that had happened thus far, was disturbing enough on its own.
The silence in the car on the ride home was deafening. Wilson put on the radio, some lame country tune, and House tried to keep his eyes on the beautiful scenery as the colors of Fall rushed them by in a blur. A theory was beginning to unravel itself in his mind, and everything lead back to, oddly enough, his mother’s tuna-fish sandwich, which a seventy-five year old woman should never choke on so easily. Yes, there was the possibility of choking on something as soft as Wonder Bread if one had a fright, but all they were doing was having a calm meal, and his mother had been eating so slowly (and delicately, as though with extra caution) that only a two-year-old should have trouble swallowing. House rarely hoped he was wrong, but if his present suspicions were right, and the dreadful theory proved to be correct, Blythe’s life was about to go on a downhill slide very fast, and there would be nothing to stop her from going over the cliff.
Once they got back to the apartment, Blythe wondered the living room like a lost child in search of something indefinable. Wilson, with his honed skill for tact, suggested gently that Blythe go straight to bed and get some rest. Much to House’s dismay, his mother agreed without protest, and he watched at a distance as Wilson helped his mother out of her coat as though he were a parent and she were his child. The sight only served to feed House’s assumption that something was very, very wrong with his mother, and very soon she would have to confess, and he knew he didn’t want to be there to hear it.
Once Blythe was tucked away in bed, House took a seat at the kitchen table and waited for Wilson to return. Wilson came back looking exhausted himself, as though he had been through the whole ordeal instead of Blythe. “She’s sleeping,” he reported triumphantly, and sat himself down across from House with a smile.
Wilson’s casual attitude towards the whole episode was beginning to make House nervous, and only when Wilson was hiding something from him did House get nervous. He’d made the decision he was going to make the oncologist crack, dragging the truth out of him slowly until he broke in two and confessed that he knew something, because House could see it visibly in his eyes.
“Good,” House said, feigning interest in Wilson’s remark as he carefully watched Wilson pick up a newspaper and skim the front page. “You know,” he began slowly after a moment, “my mother hasn’t come to visit me in over ten years.”
“Never too late to start,” replied Wilson matter-of-factly, and at once House’s heart skipped a beat.
“She didn’t even come to visit when I had the infarction,” House declared deftly, and then sat back and watched Wilson for any sign of surprise, but: nothing. Wilson continued to go on reading the paper just as before.
“Her only son was in horrific pain, almost lost his leg due to muscle death and almost died,” he continued pointedly as the oncologist continued to passively ignore him, “and she didn’t come to visit me the whole time I was in the hospital. Neither did my dad. Not once.”
“You had Stacy,” Wilson pointed out casually, though his voice was laced with the slightest hint of guilt in his voice, “she was there for you…they figured you were being taken care of.”
“Yeah,” House nodded soberly in retrospect, “and she was the only one I can recall sitting by my bedside every day…as you were too busy, apparently, to involve yourself in my life’s most recent calamity.”
At this Wilson stopped reading and stared in disbelief. “My wife was serving me divorce papers,” Wilson said defensively, “she would barely let me leave the house, as she was irrepressibly, deathly afraid that I was cheating on her…not to mention that she hated your guts.”
Disgusted, House shook his head vehemently. “That’s beside the point, Wilson! My mother could have come to see me, but she didn’t. My welfare wasn’t important then…so there’s no reason it should be this important now.”
“Your mother loves you!” Much to House’s surprise, Wilson sounded annoyed. “She came all the way over here because she was worried about you! Maybe…maybe your dad didn’t want her to go,” Wilson added, for good measure. “Maybe he was what kept her there.”
At this, House snorted disdainfully and looked away. “Being on my father’s side…that’s really nice,” House muttered incredulously. “Great friend you are. Look, cutting to the chase, Wilson…something’s wrong. Very wrong. She’s not just here to check up on me…to make sure I’m clean….it’s simply not like her, and she’s my mother, not yours.”
All at once, Wilson’s paper dropped from his fingers. “She knows about your drug addiction?!” Wilson was mystified. “But House, how…When…” Wilson seemed beside himself with amazement. “When did you tell her?” he finally managed to ask.
“I didn’t,” House declared, and suddenly everything made sense---too much sense. “She said Nolan did…but it wasn’t Nolan,” House realized with a sharp pang of understanding, “was it?”
Wilson’s reddening face was all House needed to witness to know what the terrible truth was, and all at once his blood froze. "You told her everything,” House hissed darkly, glowering at Wilson as Wilson turned sharply away, “didn’t you.” Wilson wouldn’t look at him. “You didn’t think I would figure it out?”
Wilson didn’t say a word, and House bit back a laugh, but it managed to escaped his mouth as a half-hearted sob, and he fixed his gaze firmly at once on the floor so that Wilson couldn’t see the pain that he knew would be visible, if he were to look his (friend? former friend?) in the eye.
“She has Lambert-Eaton syndrome,” House declared gravely, “the wiring in her nervous system is all frayed and unbalanced. There’s a tumor blocking the path of the neurotransmitter that processes the information between her nerves and muscle cells, and the calcium isn’t getting to the muscle, and that’s why she’s weak. The tumor’s a carcinoma in her lung…she smoked for years, Wilson. It’s obvious and you know it: she’s got small-cell lung cancer…and you knew it all along,” House concluded soberly, without looking up, refusing to move even as the floor threatened to open up underneath him, “didn’t you.”
Wilson’s silence was a shock and House leapt to his feet, his blood curdling with rage, shouting, “You told her to tell me that Nolan had told her everything behind my back?!”
“House…” Wilson rose instantly to his feet as though he were about to give a speech, but then, as though he’d forgotten his lines, abruptly sat back down again. The oncologist looked stricken, as though he’d been the one who had suffered a blow. “I’m…sorry,” Wilson managed to emit at last, and House’s head snapped up with surprise, as those words had never fallen from James Wilson’s lips for as long as he could remember. “You’re right…she is ill, and your diagnosis is correct.”
“Well,” House half-laughed, though the words tasted sour in his mouth, “you had to know I’d figure it out sooner or later. You were willing to make me believe that my therapist had betrayed me…risk all the progress I’ve made to…to what?” House stammered in spite of himself, “to keep the illness from me for…how long? A year? Two years? Or a few months----which is probably all that she has left?”
“House----” Wilson looked ready to rise to his feet again in self-defense, but House wasn’t hearing it. He’d already stood up himself and was preparing to head for the door. Apparently Wilson had forgotten how much pain he went through each day, and House didn’t think he could handle any more.
He could hear Wilson scramble to his feet to catch up with him, calling out weakly, House, wait a second…just let me try to explain…”
“Explain what?” House snapped hotly as he violently whirled around, taking Wilson by complete surprise as he sneered triumphantly in the oncologist’s face, “How you and my mother conspired against my back?...How my one good friend betrayed me?...Made me think that everything out of my therapist’s mouth was a lie, that everything I went through at Mayfield was a scam? Risking my health and my recovery? Forget it, Wilson, this takes the cake: I’m done.” That said, House snatched his coat and helmet that was hanging on the coat rack by the door and walked out without another word, shutting the door loudly behind him.
Word Count: 1,511
Warning: Spoilers for Season 5's "Birthmarks".
Disclaimer: I'm weird, not crazy.
Blythe was clearly traumatized by the choking incident, as she would not stop shaking, even as Wilson helped her carefully into the backseat. “I don’t know why that happened,” she kept saying, without blinking as she stared in a daze off into empty space, mumbling the words over and over, which, for House, on top of everything that had happened thus far, was disturbing enough on its own.
The silence in the car on the ride home was deafening. Wilson put on the radio, some lame country tune, and House tried to keep his eyes on the beautiful scenery as the colors of Fall rushed them by in a blur. A theory was beginning to unravel itself in his mind, and everything lead back to, oddly enough, his mother’s tuna-fish sandwich, which a seventy-five year old woman should never choke on so easily. Yes, there was the possibility of choking on something as soft as Wonder Bread if one had a fright, but all they were doing was having a calm meal, and his mother had been eating so slowly (and delicately, as though with extra caution) that only a two-year-old should have trouble swallowing. House rarely hoped he was wrong, but if his present suspicions were right, and the dreadful theory proved to be correct, Blythe’s life was about to go on a downhill slide very fast, and there would be nothing to stop her from going over the cliff.
Once they got back to the apartment, Blythe wondered the living room like a lost child in search of something indefinable. Wilson, with his honed skill for tact, suggested gently that Blythe go straight to bed and get some rest. Much to House’s dismay, his mother agreed without protest, and he watched at a distance as Wilson helped his mother out of her coat as though he were a parent and she were his child. The sight only served to feed House’s assumption that something was very, very wrong with his mother, and very soon she would have to confess, and he knew he didn’t want to be there to hear it.
Once Blythe was tucked away in bed, House took a seat at the kitchen table and waited for Wilson to return. Wilson came back looking exhausted himself, as though he had been through the whole ordeal instead of Blythe. “She’s sleeping,” he reported triumphantly, and sat himself down across from House with a smile.
Wilson’s casual attitude towards the whole episode was beginning to make House nervous, and only when Wilson was hiding something from him did House get nervous. He’d made the decision he was going to make the oncologist crack, dragging the truth out of him slowly until he broke in two and confessed that he knew something, because House could see it visibly in his eyes.
“Good,” House said, feigning interest in Wilson’s remark as he carefully watched Wilson pick up a newspaper and skim the front page. “You know,” he began slowly after a moment, “my mother hasn’t come to visit me in over ten years.”
“Never too late to start,” replied Wilson matter-of-factly, and at once House’s heart skipped a beat.
“She didn’t even come to visit when I had the infarction,” House declared deftly, and then sat back and watched Wilson for any sign of surprise, but: nothing. Wilson continued to go on reading the paper just as before.
“Her only son was in horrific pain, almost lost his leg due to muscle death and almost died,” he continued pointedly as the oncologist continued to passively ignore him, “and she didn’t come to visit me the whole time I was in the hospital. Neither did my dad. Not once.”
“You had Stacy,” Wilson pointed out casually, though his voice was laced with the slightest hint of guilt in his voice, “she was there for you…they figured you were being taken care of.”
“Yeah,” House nodded soberly in retrospect, “and she was the only one I can recall sitting by my bedside every day…as you were too busy, apparently, to involve yourself in my life’s most recent calamity.”
At this Wilson stopped reading and stared in disbelief. “My wife was serving me divorce papers,” Wilson said defensively, “she would barely let me leave the house, as she was irrepressibly, deathly afraid that I was cheating on her…not to mention that she hated your guts.”
Disgusted, House shook his head vehemently. “That’s beside the point, Wilson! My mother could have come to see me, but she didn’t. My welfare wasn’t important then…so there’s no reason it should be this important now.”
“Your mother loves you!” Much to House’s surprise, Wilson sounded annoyed. “She came all the way over here because she was worried about you! Maybe…maybe your dad didn’t want her to go,” Wilson added, for good measure. “Maybe he was what kept her there.”
At this, House snorted disdainfully and looked away. “Being on my father’s side…that’s really nice,” House muttered incredulously. “Great friend you are. Look, cutting to the chase, Wilson…something’s wrong. Very wrong. She’s not just here to check up on me…to make sure I’m clean….it’s simply not like her, and she’s my mother, not yours.”
All at once, Wilson’s paper dropped from his fingers. “She knows about your drug addiction?!” Wilson was mystified. “But House, how…When…” Wilson seemed beside himself with amazement. “When did you tell her?” he finally managed to ask.
“I didn’t,” House declared, and suddenly everything made sense---too much sense. “She said Nolan did…but it wasn’t Nolan,” House realized with a sharp pang of understanding, “was it?”
Wilson’s reddening face was all House needed to witness to know what the terrible truth was, and all at once his blood froze. "You told her everything,” House hissed darkly, glowering at Wilson as Wilson turned sharply away, “didn’t you.” Wilson wouldn’t look at him. “You didn’t think I would figure it out?”
Wilson didn’t say a word, and House bit back a laugh, but it managed to escaped his mouth as a half-hearted sob, and he fixed his gaze firmly at once on the floor so that Wilson couldn’t see the pain that he knew would be visible, if he were to look his (friend? former friend?) in the eye.
“She has Lambert-Eaton syndrome,” House declared gravely, “the wiring in her nervous system is all frayed and unbalanced. There’s a tumor blocking the path of the neurotransmitter that processes the information between her nerves and muscle cells, and the calcium isn’t getting to the muscle, and that’s why she’s weak. The tumor’s a carcinoma in her lung…she smoked for years, Wilson. It’s obvious and you know it: she’s got small-cell lung cancer…and you knew it all along,” House concluded soberly, without looking up, refusing to move even as the floor threatened to open up underneath him, “didn’t you.”
Wilson’s silence was a shock and House leapt to his feet, his blood curdling with rage, shouting, “You told her to tell me that Nolan had told her everything behind my back?!”
“House…” Wilson rose instantly to his feet as though he were about to give a speech, but then, as though he’d forgotten his lines, abruptly sat back down again. The oncologist looked stricken, as though he’d been the one who had suffered a blow. “I’m…sorry,” Wilson managed to emit at last, and House’s head snapped up with surprise, as those words had never fallen from James Wilson’s lips for as long as he could remember. “You’re right…she is ill, and your diagnosis is correct.”
“Well,” House half-laughed, though the words tasted sour in his mouth, “you had to know I’d figure it out sooner or later. You were willing to make me believe that my therapist had betrayed me…risk all the progress I’ve made to…to what?” House stammered in spite of himself, “to keep the illness from me for…how long? A year? Two years? Or a few months----which is probably all that she has left?”
“House----” Wilson looked ready to rise to his feet again in self-defense, but House wasn’t hearing it. He’d already stood up himself and was preparing to head for the door. Apparently Wilson had forgotten how much pain he went through each day, and House didn’t think he could handle any more.
He could hear Wilson scramble to his feet to catch up with him, calling out weakly, House, wait a second…just let me try to explain…”
“Explain what?” House snapped hotly as he violently whirled around, taking Wilson by complete surprise as he sneered triumphantly in the oncologist’s face, “How you and my mother conspired against my back?...How my one good friend betrayed me?...Made me think that everything out of my therapist’s mouth was a lie, that everything I went through at Mayfield was a scam? Risking my health and my recovery? Forget it, Wilson, this takes the cake: I’m done.” That said, House snatched his coat and helmet that was hanging on the coat rack by the door and walked out without another word, shutting the door loudly behind him.