Some Lies Blythe Told and One She Didn't    The House Fan Fiction
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  Some Lies Blythe Told and One She Didn't 
 by Wayland  

 Some lies Blythe told and one she didn't

The woman's head jerked up from the magazine she had clearly not been
reading, anxiety etched in every line of her face and reflected in the
rather striking blue eyes. She inhabited that ill defined area beyond
middle age. Clearly rather more than that; she was not yet old. In the
hospital bed which was the focus of her concerns lay her son. Even
allowing for the fact that a patient in ICU is unlikely to be looking
their best, it was apparent that only a short span of years separated
them. Blythe had been barely seventeen when she gave birth to her only
child.

She lied when she assured her mother that her friendship with the
burningly ambitious young Marine stationed in their home town was not
"getting too serious for a young lady of sixteen". She lied when she told
her best friend at high school that they had not got beyond second base.
She lied when her Home Ec. teacher found her crouched over the toilet in
the washroom after she had run out of class for the third time that week,
and asked her, in shocked tones, if it was just possible she might be
pregnant.

Smalltown U.S.A. in the late fifties was not the time or place to be an
unwed sixteen year old. If you were an exceptionally bright sixteen year
old, who carried the hopes of the whole family to be the first one to go
away, not just to college, but to an outstandingly good one, well that was
just too bad. Your neighbours would pretend ignorance of the situation but
you knew what they were thinking; that cleverness in a daughter was all
very well, but chastity, even a measure of ignorance, was far better than
bringing shame on one's parents. 

She had wanted to scream out her frustration and fear. The loss of the
prized scholarship, the end of all her hopes of a career and life outside
the safe but dull environment of her home town; in exchange, the necessary
marriage to satisfy convention to the young man who both thrilled and
alarmed her, for she sensed in him an iron resolve to do things his way.
She was certain that the acquisition of a wife and child before he reached
twenty- one had not been in his head. A split condom had spoiled his
plans, too.

A year later saw them in a base far from her home. There were other
newly-weds and teenage moms. Marriage while in your teens was more common
then, especially for those couples destined to remain in the lower ranks
but John had already been singled out as one to watch as a potential high
flyer. Most young men of his ability steered clear of domestic
entanglements which might hamper their progress until they had established
themselves. Blythe knew, felt it herself, as she tried to make friends
with the other young wives on the base, that they did not really fit in,
she least of all. Her interests, in astronomy and classical music, in the
little time she had free after caring for husband and child, drew only
stares when she was unguarded enough to mention them .

Her husband said little but she sensed his resentment. She resolved to
support him as fully as she could in his career, to learn as much about
the life he had chosen as possible, to negate the damage she and the baby
had done. She followed current affairs and had political opinions and
views of her own; had been encouraged at school and at home to express
them. That was why, when she made a witty and well informed comment to a
group of his officers at a social gathering, and Blythe noticed a
hardening of her husband's features, she thought no more of it. He only
hit her that one time, when they got home, and he scarcely left a mark.

Later, sobbing on the phone to her mother, she met with much less sympathy
than she had expected. "Most men don't want a woman with a smart mouth",
she said, matter -of- factly. "The sooner you accept that, the easier it
will be for you". Such a comment made her wonder about her parents'
relationship, something that had never crossed her mind before.

So she concentrated on the origin and salvation of her woes, her baby son.
With his restlessness and often fretful crying and his apparently
insatiable hunger, he wasn't the easiest baby in the world but he was
absolutely hers and when she looked into the bright blue eyes, almost
comically large in the little face, she saw the future of which she had
been cheated, staring back at her.

John, beyond masculine pride in having produced a son, took relatively
little interest in the day to day concerns of bringing up a child. Neither
his temperament nor the norms of the time demanded it, and his eyes were
set firmly on progression up the ladder. A lengthy posting abroad which
could make or break him career-wise, took him away from his infant son and
returned him to find his quarters occupied not just by his wife but
another, distinct personality, small in stature, certainly, but large in
impact. He determined to reassert control in his own sphere.

It was a real joy to her, the seemingly effortless way in which her small
son absorbed the world around him. Unlike many mothers, tired perhaps or
bored by the ceaseless questions of their offspring, Blythe never palmed
her son off with the easy answer or sought to deflect him from his
questioning with a toy or candy. She took the educative aspect of her
parenthood as seriously as the physical care she expended on her child.
All her frustrated intellectual ambition was poured into her day to day
life with him and he rewarded her efforts beyond her wildest hopes.

She had always been blessed with a good memory, was known as a `quick
study'. Little Greg showed every evidence of being the same. It was hard
to disguise from other moms the fact that her child could read and ask
awkward questions of quite complex subjects before his contemporaries were
out of diapers, but so it was.

Her husband had more ambiguous feelings about his son's obvious
giftedmess. He was himself a smart man but this owed more to pure hard
work than innate brilliance. He was suspicious of things that came too
easily. He would rather his son was known for his diligence than for sheer
exceptional cleverness. Effort was everything.

When it was borne in upon him that the boy expended virtually no effort on
things in which he took little interest but still managed to achieve
creditable grades, that in fact his son, as he grew, began apparently to
disdain those things which he held most dear- teamwork, playing the game,
following orders (from him at least) without question, he did not know who
he was most disappointed in, his son or the boy's mother for warping his
character away from being the true son of a true Marine.

At first the father- son relationship seemed normal enough; a little
stiff, perhaps but that was the personality of the man. Not he the father
who would come whooping through the gate at the end of duty and scoop the
child up in his arms to swing him above his head or tickle him, as Greg
had seen other fathers do, but he did teach him how to hold a baseball bat
and ride his bike, something his mother seemed hopeless at. It was not
until around the beginning of third grade, and another of Blythe's lies,
this time on her son's behalf, that things really went sour.

John was insistent on routines around the house, routines in which Gregory
had his share. From the day John had come home to see his wife putting the
boy's things away in the toybox when he was old enough, he considered, to
do it himself, he could see the kid would be spoiled when he was away. He
drew up a list of chores which grew longer as the seasons passed, ignoring
his efficient wife's protestations that it wasn't really necessary when
she scarcely had enough to do herself now Greg was no longer a baby.(He
had refused point blank to let her do a part-time course at the local
college.) He questioned his son closely every evening when he was home
about the status of those chores.

Greg was no more eager than the average small boy to spend his evenings
polishing shoes or his father's sports trophies or one of the other
seemingly pointless tasks which none of his contemporaries seemed to be
required to do in such quantity, but there was always a faint undercurrent
of anxiety he didn't understand about his mother when she asked him if he
had done them. The time that he forgot to sweep the yard and instead went
to his room to read and heard his father's voice raised in anger; that
time when he heard his mother lie to cover up the fact that he had
forgotten, that was a revelation. He suddenly understood-his mother was
afraid, not for herself, surely, for she was a grownup, but for him.

His ever eager curiosity was roused more than the realisation that his
father did not seem to love him like his Mom surprised him. He observed
them carefully, like he watched the family of birds in the big date palm
in the yard . He saw for the first time that his mother did not always
speak her mind as plainly before his father as in front of her friends,
that she was sparing in the details of her day, that her otherwise acute
observations and joking manner were turned right down in volume. Who she
was seemed to haemorrhage (he had just discovered this word) away in his
presence.

It was inevitable that as Gregory grew, his understanding of the dynamics
of his parents' relationship became more profound. What a very bright
eight year old could recognise was as nothing to the scalpel sharp mind
scarified by teenage angst and fuelled by hormones. His mother's seeming
obliviousness to his father's occasional but terrifying punishment of him
for some misdemeanour hurt him far more than what he would later learn to
think of as the `abuse' itself. While he dimly understood that she felt it
would only make matters worse if she intervened, even that to some extent
she went along with the `only discipline will keep that boy out of
trouble' line of argument, he wanted some acknowledgement from her of what
had taken place. Instead, there was only silence.

Gregory was sixteen; tall, lanky, with hands and feet that appeared not to
belong to him, when he discovered the circumstances of his birth. Blythe,
out of character it seemed for such a rational woman, had always been
rather vague about her age when birthdays came round, and her son, having
heard other kids say their Moms cut years off their age or said "over 21"
if asked , thought nothing of it. It was just something women did,
apparently, even his mother.

He was snooping when he came across it; a habit roundly condemned by his
father but one which no number of ice baths had seemed to cure him of, and
now of course that same father silently weighed up the height and wiry
strength of his former victim. The `it' he found was the letter Blythe had
received at the age he was now, congratulating her on her scholarship and
confirming her future college place a year earlier than was usual because
of her outstanding grades. 

Wherever they travelled in the world, she had never been able to part with
that letter. On more than one occasion in the intervening years she had
looked on it with bitterness, when John was particularly difficult to
manage, (and she had learned to manage him, with all the subtle flattery
and manipulation learned by women over the millennia,) or when the more
problematic subject of her son was causing her heartache. She was
uncertain if John knew she kept it still. He would have seen it as vanity,
she supposed but she had done all she could over the years to conform to
his idea of the military wife and if he knew he never mentioned it.

Blythe was preparing the evening meal, moving around the kitchen with her
usual unhurried grace when she was confronted by her son, holding the
letter out to her in a hand which shook a little with suppressed
excitement, or was it fear? She couldn't tell. "You didn't go to college."
"No", she agreed. "But, but ..there?" he breathed. She didn't answer,
turning away to attend to a pan on the stove. He read the letter again,
this time taking in the significance of its date and the oblique reference
to her age. "Mom.." he began. "My plans changed," she said. "It was me,
wasn't it ? He had to marry you and that explains...." He broke off as
Blythe rounded on him fiercely. "You are not to speak of your father in
that way. He has always worked so hard for both of us, seen so much horror
in Vietnam, it's no wonder if he is sometimes a little.." she searched for
the word she wanted "...demanding of you."

The boy scoffed openly "Next you are going to tell me that he really,
really loves me and just can't show it." Blythe opened her mouth to say
just that when she connected with her son's intense gaze, a mixture of
anger, deep humiliation and hurt. The lie died on her lips. "I'm going
out", he said. The door banged behind him. She slumped on the stool beside
the stove. It was bound to come out sooner or later. She just hadn't
expected it to be on her 34th birthday.

88888888888888888888

"I'm fine. Did you think I was dead?" She spoke with a measure of her
son's famed tartness. "Er..no" said the young woman who had gently shaken
her awake, looking at her with concern in her eyes "It's just that you
have been asleep for a long time and ...and I have a message from your
husband. He wanted to tell you his flight from Paris is delayed- there's a
baggage handlers' strike."

John won't appreciate that, she thought, he's little enough time for the
French anyway. She thanked the Fates that made her choose to make her
excuses from this particular reunion for ex Marine colleagues. It was bad
enough to be here and see him lying so still, attached to every
conceivable drip and monitor, but to be the other side of the Atlantic and
unable to reach him was unthinkable.

She looked again at the young woman whose gaze had momentarily left hers
and was fixed on the figure in the bed. "I've met you before. Don't you
work with my son, Dr...?" 

Cameron, Allison" supplied the immunologist, quietly. "Yes, I do".

Blythe looked at her watch. Much more time had passed than she thought.
She had been in a reverie, going over all the incidents of Greg's
childhood, trying to reassure herself that it would be all right again
this time; then tiredness had overcome anxiety, and she had fallen asleep.
She said "I have been sitting here thinking of when Greg was a baby. I
expect you have difficulty in imagining that he was ever a child."

Real amusement replaced the serious set of the young woman's mouth for a
moment. "No, not really", she said.

The older woman revised her first impression slightly. Perhaps there was
more to her than first met the eye. She had evidently survived the rigours
of medical school and more before working for her son and she imagined
that he might well be more than just the usual demanding head of
department. She wondered what Greg thought of her. She was pretty, even
beautiful, with luminous green eyes and flawless skin as well as the now
requisite thinness. Petite brunettes had always appealed to Greg, she
knew. She remembered his first serious crush, not that he had ever told
her of course.

She thought of Stacey, and sighed. She couldn't find it in her heart to
blame her for what she had done; she knew she too, would have done
anything to keep him alive, no matter what the stubborn boy said.

"Do you like my son?", she asked with an almost imperceptible stress on
the word "like". Cameron looked at her, startled for a moment.

 "He's my boss", she said simply. She showed only a natural degree of
embarrassment at being asked such a question by his mother. It occurred to
her that here was the source of House's famous curiosity, or nosiness, if
you preferred, as many did, to call it that, when Blythe followed her
question up with "Do you have a family?" She was careful not to say
`husband', one never knew these days. It was all so different now. Thank
God.

"No" said Cameron. She paused. There was clearly more to come, but she
changed her mind. "No".

"Plenty of time" said Blythe, "you're still very young". Cameron looked in
a considering manner at her questioner and then transferred her attention
to the man in the bed. She made no comment but her unspoken thought
bounced off the ICU's walls. "I'm thirty four", she said.

Blythe stood, a little stiffly, from all the hours of sitting. Cameron
guessed she must be on her way to the restroom. "Why don't you go get
something to eat? I'll find you if he wakes up again", she said. Blythe
nodded. "I won't be long".

"Good ol' Mom." A voice thready with disuse snapped Cameron's attention
back to the bed. "Always shows up to rally the troops." The undercurrent
of sarcasm was there still, but subdued by drugs and physical weakness.

"Your father's on his way too." No response to this except the shuttered
look with which she had become familiar.

"Thirty four", he repeated as though the previous exchange had not taken
place. She looked a question; he knew perfectly well how old she was; he
had everybody's resume off pat, even when he pretended not to.

"When Mom was thirty four I was coming up seventeen", he said. 

"Well, that's not ....so unusual."

"When you had a scholarship to Vassar?"

"Oh." There did not seem to be anything else to say to this. She
remembered her own brush with destiny at much the same age, the unalloyed
feeling of relief , of escape from seemingly impossible decisions made for
her by the show of blood in the toilet bowl.

"Things have changed. And I'm sure there were compensations." She looked
at him with a glint of amusement in her eyes. If there was one thing she
was sure of, he must have been a handful; still was come to that.

An expression of mingled impatience and annoyance crossed his features.
"Yeah, I'm her life's work, I'm sure she's proud." His bitterness was
open. He stared at her as though he was not the one to start this line of
conversation and she was the one asking intrusive questions. She held his
gaze, not knowing what he wanted from her. Once before, when he had failed
to wriggle out of a meeting with them , he had commented to her unbidden,
about his parents. "They seem perfectly pleasant don't they? They are." Or
something to that effect, she couldn't recall precisely. Only that then he
had spoken of his father's inability to let you tell a lie, ever, and that
it was "a pretty crappy quality in a dad."

There had to be more to it than that.

She moved to his side, reaching out to check the dressing on his neck,
which had oozed slightly. "I'll get the nurse to change that for you", she
murmured.

"Keep him away from me". The "please" was spoken in his eyes. Cameron
nodded. She knew he wasn't referring to the nurse. 

"You're in luck. The French baggage handlers are on your side." He visibly
relaxed and when Blythe returned a few moments later he was apparently
asleep again. 

"Did he wake?" 

"No", said Cameron.

It was as well neither woman was looking at the patient at that moment, or
they might have noticed the flicker of a satisfied smile on his lips. He
took that moment, as Cameron left the room, to stir and say to his mother,
"Hi Mom. Back again? How nice."

end  
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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
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no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement
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