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From Womb To Tomb
by Jackyblu
Set during House's recovery period after the shooting, this is a speculation of his relationship with his mother. Thanks to my friend Tegabee in Aussieland for the beta!
It should be noted for the purpose of this story `football' does not mean the American version, but soccer.
*
I know he loves me. He says so whenever we talk. I wish he wasn't so distant. He doesn't mean to be. He can't help it. He was so hurt. He's still hurt. I wish I could ease that for him. Sometimes he calls me and says nothing. I know that's when he wants comforting. I just talk. He listens letting the sound of my voice wash over him. It might be that his leg hurts. It might be that he's lonely. The reason doesn't matter. He needs me. We are on the phone for an hour or more. His part in the conversation is "Hello Mom." "I love you." And "Goodbye." It is all he can offer. It's all I need to hear. He is my soul. I am so proud of him. I don't know why bad things keep happening to him and it breaks my heart.
John thinks that Greg should be grateful for what he has. He's alive and that should be enough. John saw too much in the service of his country and its hardened him. He taught Greg early in life that "big boys don't cry". He pushed Greg into every inter-service competition he could. We moved so much when Greg was young. John thought that sports were the best way for him to 'fit in'. I thank God that Greg was such a natural athlete. When he did well, John was pleased. It was a connection between them. When Greg did poorly he would sulk. John would ignore him.
His father was gone a lot. That would leave Greg and I. Greg poured himself into his studies. He had a voracious curiosity. Still does.
I would buy him puzzles when he was small. He would complete them quickly and easily. I bought him more complex and adult puzzles and mazes to occupy his mind. He never failed to find the answers. I was so proud.
The worst night of my life involved a puzzle that Greg couldn't find the answer to and one I wish he hadn't.
John was stationed in England. Greg was twelve. Because of John's previous posting in Egypt when Greg was eight, the ancient Egyptians held a particular fascination for him. I took him to an exhibit on ancient Egypt that came to London. Greg took a rubbing from a stone slate there. He worked for weeks with books from the library to decipher the hieroglyphics. I told him that men from University had taken years to make sense of it, but Greg was impatient with himself for what he perceived to be his slow progress.
One evening John came home late. He had stayed at the Officer's Club with members of his squad to celebrate the engagement of the youngest member of his team.
John had never been much of a drinker. Social drinking for special occasions was one thing. Drinking to excess was morally bankrupt.
He came home and kissed me unsteadily, and apologized for being late. "Why John House, of all people!"
"Sorry Blythe. Guess I over did it tonight." He looked sheepish.
"I should say you did Fly-boy. Off to bed with you." I laughed.
He laughed too and saluted me. "Yes Ma'am." He kissed me again and went toward our bedroom. On his way down the hall he stopped at Greg's door. The anger that flashed was terrible. John threw the door open. "Are you crying?"
Greg was so startled he said, "No." The frustration of not having solved the rubbing in four weeks time had momentarily over-whelmed him. He had let out a sob of frustration, and his father had heard.
John was so angry. The crying was one thing, but the obvious lie put him over the top. He demanded that Greg stand and face him. My son is no coward. He stood and faced his father knowing fully what was coming.
I was at the doorway to Greg's room when John struck him. He backhanded Greg across the face hard with his right hand. His Marine Corps insignia ring caught Greg along the right side of his nose and left a gouge there. Greg stood his ground, which infuriated his father. He struck our twelve-year-old boy again breaking his nose and knocking him off his feet. I screamed and my devoted drunken husband told me to "Shut up!" Then blocked my way to my bleeding son.
Greg struggled to a sitting position his face covered in blood.
"Don't you dare cry!"
"I won't!"
"Men don't cry! I didn't raise you to cry!"
"You didn't raise me at all. Mom did. She's the only one who gives a damn about me!"
John raised his hand again.
"Come on Dad...give me your best shot." Greg's eyes were full of defiance.
It happened so fast. My boy hardened into a man in that moment. The child that was Greg was gone. John must have seen it too. He dropped his hand and stared at the fire in Greg's blue eyes. He turned to leave the room. As he passed me I saw a glimmer of respect in his eyes for his son.
I rushed to Greg and fell to my knees beside him, grabbing the sheet from his bed to staunch the flow from his bleeding nose. I wanted to cuddle him, to hold him to me and ease his pain. Greg was having none of it. He firmly but gently pushed me away and took the sheet and held a corner to his nose.
"You're going to remind me that he was drunk. That he doesn't normally drink and that he loves me."
My answer surprised him. "No. I'll never tell you that."
Greg looked at me with eyes that crushed my heart; reminding me forcibly that before me sat my twelve-year-old son.
"Did he ever love me?" Greg asked.
"Your father wasn't happy about the pregnancy, but abortion wasn't an option. Not in the military and not in the late fifties."
Greg dropped his eyes a moment. His mother had just told him he was unwanted. I reached out and gently lifted his chin until he was looking at me again. "I was thrilled to be pregnant. You were the only thing I ever desperately wanted." Greg smiled a little. "When you were born your father went to the 'O' Club and passed out cigars and announced to everyone that he had a son! He named you Gregory after his father."
"When did I become a disappointment to him?"
"You've seldom disappointed him."
I can see it in his eyes. He is working it out. His father is another puzzle and Greg needs to solve it. When the answer comes, I can read it on his face. His eyes open wide and his eyebrows arch up. Then his eyes cloud and his face closes to hide the hurt he feels. This is the first time I have seen this mask on my son. It won't be the last. He will keep it in his pocket for the rest of his life.
"He's indifferent to me. I don't disappoint him because I simply don't occur to him. I am a stranger living in his house like a roomer." He dabs his nose with the sheet. "Today he noticed me. Oh boy, did he notice me!" Greg smiled and winced while he continued to dab his nose.
I would have laughed had I not been fighting tears. This was the first glimpse into Greg's immerging wit.
"I disappointed him today. I'll never do it again, and he'll never lay a hand on me again, or you. I swear that!"
I can't help myself. I lean over and kiss his forehead. He let's me. We understand each other.
Why didn't I stand up to John? Why did I let him strike the love of my soul? Why do I shy away from confrontation and hide discomfort with humor?
I guess I am as easy for Greg to read as he is for me.
"Mom, he wasn't thinking straight. He might have hurt you if you tried to stop him."
"Still..."
"No!" Greg the adult was back. "He won't remember much of this tomorrow, although the evidence will be staring at him across the breakfast table. He will be filled with remorse, which he will cloister in silence. Status quo. That's how we'll get through this."
He's aged ten years in this one night. Greg was always more advanced than his contemporaries. We moved so often that he never had time to develop friendships. He developed his mind and body instead. Over tall, thin and gangly as a boy, Greg would be thirteen next month. The silhouette of the young man he would become was beginning to immerge.
His large blue eyes could convey anything. When he was surprised they were huge, when angry he could make them so narrow. When suspicious he would squint and cut them to one side. When exasperated he would throw them heavenward or roll them. Greg could pull faces or use his eyes to make me laugh. Soon a young girl would be calling my son's eyes 'dreamy'.
He was growing into his body as well. His shoulders were broadening and his chest was filling out. His arms and legs were muscular from La Crosse, football, rowing, fencing, and all other manner of sports his father signed him up for. Now that we were in England, Greg was playing cricket, and was a natural bowler according to his coach. This was no surprise to me, although I was the crazy 'Yank' mom in the stands cheering for my son and not having the faintest idea what was happening on the pitch. I knew Greg would excel at anything he tried.
John insisted that Greg keep his thick chestnut brown hair short. When it was long it tended to curl. I thought it was endearing. Greg said it was too impractical for sports. But I think that secretly he wished he could wear it a bit more like the other boys at school.
His complexion was mercifully clear. Greg shied away from eating anything that he didn't feel was 'good for him'. He was very picky and careful about his diet. My God, how that had changed!
Most noticeably for a mother is when her little boy 'develops' into a man.
Greg's voice, which was sweet and clear one evening, was rich and warm the next morning. No embarrassing 'cracking' or highs and lows. It simply changed to the quality of warm brandy overnight.
Greg got up from the floor. How long had we been sitting there? I am stiff. He offers me his hand. I take it and he helps me to my feet. I keep hold of it and lead him to the bathroom. When we get there he allows me to check his face. His nose is definitely broken. I'll need to run him to the base hospital. The gouge on the side of his nose is deep and will leave a scar. That makes me sad. Greg turns his profile to the mirror.
"Adds character I think. I'll tell people it's a war wound."
"Greg..." I warn.
He gives me the 'huge eye' look. "What? You want people to think I had a ghastly rampant zit?" He raises one eyebrow pulling a face that makes me laugh.
"How about telling people you got it playing rugby?"
"Not bad. Oh, how about a fight? I was defending a lady's honor."
"That's good," I say wetting and then ringing out a towel to use to clean him up. "How many assailants?"
"Two, unless I could make three sound convincing?"
"Three might be a bit much. Stick with two."
"Okay, but they were bigger than me."
"Sweetheart, you're five foot ten inches at nearly thirteen years old. How much bigger could they have been?" I say teasing him.
"You know, full grown men. Rugby players!"
"Ah," I say pressing the cool damp cloth to his nose. He winces but continues thinking up his story. This is so familiar to me. Whenever anything unpleasant happens with Greg, I need to find a diversion for him. The story is perfect and I encourage him to continue.
"I was coming home from the library."
"After endless hours researching the ancient Egyptians and their ciphers."
"By special request of...Oxford?"
"Cambridge?"
"Harvard!" We declare in unison. Greg so wants to be ivy-league.
"Anyway, I happen upon a woman who is having her handbag stolen."
"How old a woman?" I ask. I point at his shirt and snap my fingers indicating that I want him to give it to me so that I can soak it in cold water to get the blood out before it stains. I would like to do his jeans as well, but that would exceed the boundaries between a mother and her teenaged son.
"I was thinking old. Your age at least." He grins wickedly at me.
I pull a sour face and stick my tongue out at him. He laughs. I can always make Greg laugh, and he can make me. We are by and away each other's favorite audience.
He pulls the shirt over his head and I am surprised to note the smattering of hair growing in the pits of his arms. I am bemused but try to stay casual. I can't help but notice the definition of his pectoral muscles. I am afraid I'll embarrass him, so I take the shirt and turn quickly to the sink. He can read me like a book.
"What's wrong? Are you mad at me? I was joshing about the age thing you know."
"Of course I know when you're joshing me."
"We're okay?"
"Of course we are, don't be silly." Misdirection is called for here. "This shirt is a mess. I hope I can get it clean." I'm not lying.
Greg looks thoughtful, but fortunately he becomes involved in the story we're trying to create and he accepts my explanation. "So this old woman is having her handbag stolen by two rugby hooligans?" I ask.
"Right! So I came walking up and tell them to leave her alone!"
"Just like that? Leave her alone?"
"What's wrong with that?"
"Not very, I don't know...macho?"
"How about; 'Get your fucking hands off her'?"
"Gregory! I am appalled."
"You know that would be so much more convincing if you weren't grinning like an idiot."
I look at him through the mirror. Yes my grinning face is pretty plain to see. "Wiseass."
"Jerk."
"Moron."
"Old broad."
"Young snot."
"Decrepit old woman."
"Sod off!"
"Mom! I am appalled."
Which would be more convincing if he wasn't grinning proudly at me. I ring out the shirt fairly confident that I have rescued it from the bin. I take the shirt into the laundry and pick up a fresh blue one for Greg. He follows me and takes the shirt. "See you in the kitchen," I say. I leave him to put it on.
When Greg comes in I am stirring a pot of milk on the stove, sugar, salt and cocoa tin on the counter. He sits at the table. This is our private ritual. Just Greg and I sipping hot cocoa and talking of anything that comes into our minds. I love this part of our relationship. I hope it never changes.
When I place the mug in front of him he looks up at me with an odd expression on his face. I sit across from him with my mug.
"Mom?"
"Yes dear?"
"Nothing will ever change between us will it?"
"Never," I assure him smiling with tears in my eyes. Oh my God, he always found a way to the most vulnerable place of my heart.
"Even if I move away? When I go to college or where ever."
"Never. I'll always love you Greg. I always have. From womb to tomb, I'll always love you."
He smiles at me and sips his cocoa. "Will you make me cocoa?"
"Of course." I smile back at him. "So you are about to thrash the two villains."
*
I am so grateful that Greg has James as a friend. James calls me from time to time to let me know how Greg is.
He called the day Greg was shot. I wanted so badly to talk to my son immediately, to hear his voice. James said he would keep me posted on how the surgery went. I sat at the kitchen table with a mug of cocoa, which I couldn't seem to drink; my throat was so tight, I couldn't seem to stop my eyes from tearing or my hands from shaking. James called again to let me know that Greg was all right. I wanted to fly to Princeton. A mother's heart wants to hold their child when he is in pain. James told me to wait. Greg needed to sort this out in his own mind first; he would call when he was ready. He must have been ready today.
We've talked...I've talked for over two hours. I know he's listening because he occasionally chuckles, sighs, or stifles a cry at my reminiscences. My throat is sore and I am growing weary of talking. I stop for a moment and sip some tea.
"Mom?"
"Yes Greg?"
"Can you come for a visit?"
"Of course I can. When?"
"Soon. You can stay at my place."
I'm fighting tears now. "All right. I'll come out in two weeks, okay?"
"Can you make it sooner?"
"Wednesday?"
"Perfect. I'll book your flight. I have a couple of new scars to invent stories for."
"Being shot by a crazed gunman isn't good enough for you?"
"Not nearly! We can do so much better."
"Yes we can!" I declare.
He gets quiet and I begin to worry. "Greg? What is it honey?"
"Will you make me cocoa?"
"Of course I will."
"Mom?"
"Yes?"
"I love you."
"I love you too Greg, from womb to tomb. I always have and I always will." The tears are rolling down my face now.
"I know Mom. I'll call you tomorrow with the plane reservations. Bye."
"Talk to you tomorrow. Bye dear." The phone disconnects. Sitting in my living room in Florida, I take another sip of tea and wipe my streaming eyes.
I know that in his living room in New Jersey, my son is doing the same thing.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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