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Mar. 29th, 2007 09:42 amIt was a rule of nature that disasters occurred when you least expected them. It was, in essence, what made them disasters in the first place. It was being blindsided by Fate; smacked upside the head by Destiny; or thrown beneath the bus of Bad Luck that made a manageable event into a category five disaster. It was also a rule of nature -- albeit one slightly lesser known -- that most palpable disasters happened on Thursday afternoons, just when the providence of the weekend had begun to descend. Just when you thought that you might squeak by to the end of the week without bloodshed, discord, or the roof caving in.
The unthinkable rang through on Cuddy's personal line at 3:47 pm.
She had been occupied for most of the morning and through lunch with fundraising meetings, transplant committee decisions, an hour of her budgeted clinic rotation, and a quick cup of unflavoured yogurt over the steering column of her car. She was buzzing on productivity, fired up by progress and perked by the fact that House hadn't unnecessarily amputated a patient's anything in over a week. She was as pleased as she could be and expected nothing of malice to come out of her cellphone, which buzzed an incoming call at 3:47.
"This is Lisa Cuddy."
"Lisa? This is your mother."
Cold, dripped-down-stomach feeling that stayed until well after she hung up. The walk back to the hospital buzzed, but put cold patches beneath her chin and under her arms. She plunged into a meeting and washed her hands of the phone call for a solid hour, but it returned when she dismissed the shirts and ties and went back to the quietude of her office. The sun was too warm on her back. She took off her jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. Sat, palms pressed to the top of her desk, while sorting out mental pabulum. It was another hour before she wrestled herself from her chair and down the hall to the elevators. The fourth floor was dappled in sun: House had thrown the blinds to his office wide open and the entirety of the Diagnostics suite was blazing with late afternoon light. His team was in the lounge, poring over a stack of files with their noses to paper. House himself was in his office. Cuddy saw his back throw a long, wolfish shadow on the carpet. She tapped two knuckles to the back of his door, steeled herself, and went in.
"Need to talk to you --" a glance to the glass partition, then back "-- privately."
The unthinkable rang through on Cuddy's personal line at 3:47 pm.
She had been occupied for most of the morning and through lunch with fundraising meetings, transplant committee decisions, an hour of her budgeted clinic rotation, and a quick cup of unflavoured yogurt over the steering column of her car. She was buzzing on productivity, fired up by progress and perked by the fact that House hadn't unnecessarily amputated a patient's anything in over a week. She was as pleased as she could be and expected nothing of malice to come out of her cellphone, which buzzed an incoming call at 3:47.
"This is Lisa Cuddy."
"Lisa? This is your mother."
Cold, dripped-down-stomach feeling that stayed until well after she hung up. The walk back to the hospital buzzed, but put cold patches beneath her chin and under her arms. She plunged into a meeting and washed her hands of the phone call for a solid hour, but it returned when she dismissed the shirts and ties and went back to the quietude of her office. The sun was too warm on her back. She took off her jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. Sat, palms pressed to the top of her desk, while sorting out mental pabulum. It was another hour before she wrestled herself from her chair and down the hall to the elevators. The fourth floor was dappled in sun: House had thrown the blinds to his office wide open and the entirety of the Diagnostics suite was blazing with late afternoon light. His team was in the lounge, poring over a stack of files with their noses to paper. House himself was in his office. Cuddy saw his back throw a long, wolfish shadow on the carpet. She tapped two knuckles to the back of his door, steeled herself, and went in.
"Need to talk to you --" a glance to the glass partition, then back "-- privately."
