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The multiple pictures scattered across the kitchen counter were illuminated by the sunlight coming through the window. A smile captured in ink, a few sticks and circles making small people holding hands with a badly drawn house in the background. She kept staring at those pieces of paper and printed family photographs, a bad feeling settling in her stomach and making its way all the way to her chest.
A faint giggle came from the living room, birds were singing outside her window, the TV was on and talking about the latest news, but time still felt frozen somehow.
House was dead.
Cameron called earlier that morning while she was in the middle of grocery shopping, Rachel picking out which cereal box she would want, while her mama took the call. Ever since that moment, everything went… Numb. A small humming took charge, and all the colors went a little less saturated for a moment, her vision went a bit blurry, but it wasn’t tears.
She didn’t cry. Oddly enough, she was struggling with tears around death ever since she was fourteen.
Her body worked on autopilot. Finish her list, pay, strap Rachel in her car seat, drive home, store groceries, give Rachel some snacks, and let her play in the living room as she supposedly would start on lunch. Instead of that, her body mechanically pushed her towards the wooden box stored in her closet in the highest shelf, filled with pictures, drawings, and letters.
Guilt crept into every second as she glanced carefully over each photograph, well-manicured nails tracing the shape of her father’s smile on a specific picture of him holding her as a newborn in his arms. There was a genuine happiness in his eyes, something so true and deep that she simply couldn’t understand how she managed to fuck this up.
There was a time when he would look at her and feel nothing but pride, unconditional love and bliss. When did he stop feeling that? Was it her fault? She tried to rationalize it. She looked at Rachel and felt the same things, and couldn’t imagine a world where her little girl would be the one to blame for any bad feelings she had.
But again, she could not rationalize the idea of hanging herself and leaving Rachel alone.
It was still too vivid in her head, even after over 20 years, she could still remember how he was hanging when she found him, and how Julia’s scream was so loud and shrieking that she heard the same humming noise she had heard back at the grocery store.
Time passed, people moved on, and even after all this time, she was still sitting here just as frozen in time as his smiles on those pictures. The way he wrote her name, his handwriting beautifully forming her name as he wrote a letter to his mother informing her that she was born and was a beautiful, chubby little girl weighing 4 kg, and who had the strongest cry he had ever seen.
He wrote down how happy he was, and there was a specific part that she kept rereading, where he said, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt happier in my life. I suppose that’s how you felt when I was born, like life suddenly had meaning again. And the meaning is to stick around to raise this beautiful girl.”
Well, so much for sticking around.
The bad and the good memories kept tangling themselves like ivy in her brain, her father’s smile mixing with how she threw away her tennis uniform because she couldn’t dress that outfit again without remembering standing there and watching him above them.
No fourteen year old child should have to go through this. She remembered vaguely having a nice day, her sister and her fighting in the car during the drive home over some stupid throw at their practice and their mother taking Julia’s side, as usual. It pissed off Lisa enough to make her throw her backpack and racket dramatically on the couch, storming off to the basement to look for her father.
She expected the usual.
Most days, he would be there, working on some random carpentry project like a new folding chair for their garden or another shelf for her growing book collection. The Fleetwood Mac album would be playing in the background, or some Aerosmith…
She would barge in and start complaining. He would grin and nod towards the old couch her mother had thrown there because it didn’t fit the fancy new carpet she had bought. Lisa had always preferred this couch, it was more comfortable and had a bright green color that matched her father’s carpentry projects somehow.
So she would lie there, legs up and hands on her stomach, a huge pout on her lips as the words came flooding through her with no filter, saying everything she held back, the comforting sound of her father’s saw and his occasional inputs and humming in agreement made her feel heard.
He was a good listener. He would pay attention to her, differently from her mother, he was the adult in all situations, and she could just be the kid. Lisa could lie there and listen to her father’s advice, listen to his input on all of her problems — and how every single one seemed so simple to understand after he broke it down for her.
He had always been good at fixing things.
But on that specific day, there was no music, which was weird. The door was stuck, as if someone had put a chair behind the handle. She tried to open it, knocked, and yelled for him to open up. In her already upset state, Lisa felt her eyes watering a bit with frustration.
With a particularly irritated groan and a hard slap to the door, she wiped them off so her mother wouldn’t see them and went back upstairs, feet stomping harshly on the wooden stairs.
“Where’s dad?” She asked bluntly, staring at her mother with crossed arms.
Arlene Cuddy wasn’t a nice woman. She was the first mean girl Lisa ever had to deal with in her life, often throwing backhanded compliments and passive-aggressive takes on everything she did with her life. Julia was nicer, in a way, but she was just eleven and too naive to see through her mother’s false gentleness.
“Well, isn’t he downstairs, dear?” There was a hint of malice well hidden in her voice behind the niceness, as if she was baiting Lisa to blow up at her and she could play the victim all over again.
“You know he isn’t.” Lisa gritted her teeth. Her mother had heard her slamming against the door and yelling for her father for at least three minutes.
“Then I don’t know. Hopefully, he went outside for some fresh air,” She shrugged, chopping vegetables on a cutting board that he had done for her. “He sure needs it, stuck inside there all day listening to that depressing music…”
Lisa had already stopped hearing after she said she didn’t know. She turned her back on her mother, deciding to check other rooms after him, then the gardens. She even went outside to make sure he wasn’t chatting with a neighbor nearby or anything like that.
It was a Saturday morning, which meant he didn’t leave for work. Maybe groceries, or going to the shop to buy something for another project… Still, something wasn’t sitting right with her. There was a bad feeling down her gut, the same instinct she learned to lean on through the years, who kept telling her this wasn’t right, it didn’t make sense.
She had never been one to ignore her gut feelings, but at that moment, it felt safer to just wait. Lisa went to her bedroom and read a few chapters of her book, listened to some music, drew another sketch of a cool flower she saw the other day from memory…
Then lunchtime came, and he still wasn’t home.
“He can get the leftovers once he’s home,” was all that Arlene said, with a shrug, while she served Julia’s plate.
It didn’t suit him. He wasn’t the type to leave the house, let alone be outside for so long and skip meals. The gut feeling was slowly turning into downright anxiety, and she went down the stairs again. She forced the door, called out for him again. No answer.
She pressed her shoulder against the door, hearing it creak as she put on her weight against it. The door gave in, finally, and it opened with a loud thumping sound of a chair falling to the floor as she pushed it open.
He was just hanging there. Floating, spinning slowly. Her eyes widened in terror and her vision got blurry, but she didn’t remember crying at that moment, just standing there and staring, completely terrified. She also didn’t hear the small footsteps from the stairs, and the scream her little sister left out that still terrified her to this day.
Something briefly clicked in her head, and she pulled her younger sister to her arms, forcing her to hide her face into her chest. She squeezed Julia tightly and heard the girl sob and cry desperately, wheezing for air, but she just stood there staring as tears fell down her cheeks in complete silence.
This memory had been burned into her brain, molded her, shaped her as her father had shaped his other projects. Sitting here now, staring at the words carefully written on his letter, feeling as if a piece of paper was mocking her.
“I don’t think I’ve ever felt happier in my life.”
She had a couple of missed calls from Julia accumulating in her inbox, and a single text from her mother. Her phone was well forgotten at the counter, and she didn’t even glance at it in the last few hours. Instead, she got up and muted it, searching her music library instead for one of the two playlists she had set and pressing shuffle play on her Stevie Nicks favorite songs.
Her father had the biggest collection of rock records she had known back then. He would put those on while he worked, and she had the vague memory of being a little girl and hearing him sing Landslide as a lullaby before bed.
She still sang it to Rachel after she had a nightmare sometimes.
It was supposed to be comforting, but at the moment the first chords and drums started, she realized how bad a decision it was. Dreams started playing, the same song that made her think of House so many times before. Surely, some big force of the universe must be out to get her. Her eyes closed briefly, finger hovering over the pause button, but unable to do it as the melodic voice sang about a breakup filled with loneliness and resentment.
“Mommy?” Lisa was halfway through the song when the tiny voice came from the kitchen door. Instinctively, her finger pressed the button and stopped the song before it had the chance to hit the second chorus.
“Yes, sweetie?”
Rachel had a small frown, trying to piece together pieces of a puzzle far too complex for her to understand at her young age. Instead, she held onto the hem of her skirt, twisting the fabric between her fingers.
“Why are you crying?”
Lisa hesitated for a moment, an awkward silence hanging between for no less than a minute, until she gathered herself again, clearing her throat and putting down the phone.
“Well, I… I was seeing pictures of your grandpa,” She didn’t mention House, partly because it felt cruel to tell Rachel about his death.
Her daughter still asked her for a few months after they had broken up if he would be back someday. She wrote him a letter and a drawing that Lisa kept hidden in that same wooden box, buried beneath all of her father’s memories.
“Want to come see them with me?” She offered, and the little girl nodded, hurrying to her mother’s side. Lisa picked her up easily and adjusted her into her lap, wrapping her arms around Rachel to keep her from shuffling too much and falling.
The first picture she offered was her and her dad at a baseball game. She was small, a few years older than her own daughter is now, with a huge smile on her lips and a helmet a bit too large for her head. A man in his mid-thirties kneeled next to her, holding out a bouquet filled with roses far too big for her to hold herself. Still, he had plucked a small rose somewhere behind her ear, peeking out from her helmet and hair.
He always loved baseball. Seeing his daughter’s first game meant the world to him, even if she lost, because he knew that deep down, she was doing that to make him proud. Everything she ever did in her life so far was to make him proud. Her throat burned a little as she pressed her lips together for a moment, gathering courage to explain to Rachel what had happened on that day of the photograph.
“This is you?” Her smart girl quickly pointed to the child with the baseball bat, smiling at the photo. Lisa nodded in agreement, but she didn’t see it.
“Yes, that’s me. I had lost my first baseball game, and your grandpa brought me flowers. We went for ice cream afterwards.”
“But you lost,” Rachel pointed out, and she let out a sad smile.
“He used to be happy even if I lost. He was just happy to be with me, like I’m always happy to be with you,” Her voice sounded a bit strained by the way her throat was starting to ache, but she only squeezed Rachel tighter into her arms, pressing a kiss to her hair.
“Where’s grandpa?” She pointed out again, a very reasonable question for a child who hadn’t quite grasped the concept of death. Still, it sent a sharp pain right through Lisa’s heart.
“He’s… Well, he’s gone, sweetheart.” It was a way to put it. Tiptoeing around the subject of death was never one of her biggest strengths. “When I was little, he got really hurt and… He’s not with us anymore.”
It was a stretch to say Rachel understood exactly what she meant by that, but she understood the easy part: her grandpa wasn’t here anymore, and her mama was sad about it.
“Can’t we go visit?” Her innocent tone made Lisa chuckle, a couple of shy tears leaving her eyes. She didn’t bother to brush them off this time.
“Not exactly…” It had been a while since she visited her father’s grave.
It had been Father’s Day, and she brought the usual bouquet of roses she always did. She stood there for a long time, staring at the grave, and then his little dandelion started telling him all about her life. She always told him about Rachel and how she always tried to be good for her, like he taught her to be.
Even now, she aimed to make him proud. Proud of her as a doctor, as a person, and now, proud of her as a parent. She only had him for fourteen years, but those fourteen years were the best of her life because she had him to take care of her. She hoped she made him proud by caring for people as he cared for her.
She should have cared for him, too. Maybe he wouldn’t be dead if she did.
She should have cared for House.
It was a strange karma to always lose the men she loved most in the most raw, gut-wrenching ways.
Maybe she didn’t make her daddy proud, because she left House without looking back and now he’s dead. The worst part is that now she knows exactly how she screwed up everything. It all felt like too much at once, guilt gnawing at her guts as she stared at the pictures, knowing deep down inside that box was buried a letter addressed to Gregory House from Rachel Cuddy.
“You know what?” She forced herself to interrupt the spiraling thoughts taking her deep down into a rabbit hole, squeezing her daughter’s leg slightly. “Let’s go. Let’s go visit grandpa and bring him some flowers, okay?”
Rachel had many questions, as most children would have in this situation. What flowers will we bring? Did he like flowers? Did he like drawing? And she tried to answer all of them as best as she could.
They would bring roses. Yes, he liked flowers. Yes, he used to enjoy drawing.
Rachel thought for a moment. “Can we play with him?”
“No, sweetheart. We can’t.” Her mother shook her head softly.
“Why not?”
Lisa felt her stomach turn, her grip on the steering wheel tightening. This wasn’t easy to explain, since Rachel had never seen or lost anyone before. Part of her wanted to shield her daughter from the most awful pain she had ever felt in her entire life, but she couldn’t hide this forever.
“He died,” she said, feeling her chest tight, trying to be as gentle as possible. “We can’t see him or play with him anymore. He’s not alive anymore.”
Rachel had other questions. Still, when she saw her mother’s eyes through the rearview mirror, the sadness in her eyes made her stay silent. She wasn’t sure why, but could tell her mommy was sad. A small pang in her stomach made the child shuffle into her car seat.
“Did I make you sad?” The little girl asked quietly, and Lisa immediately shook her head, a bit too emphatically.
“No, of course not, sweetheart. I’m just sad because I miss him. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Rachel stayed quiet for the rest of the drive, which was shorter than expected. They had a quick stop at a flower shop, where Lisa chose the prettiest rose bouquet she could find and allowed Rachel to choose another type of flower she wanted, and the kid immediately chose sunflowers.
They walked side to side, with the little girl holding her mother’s hand and eyeing everything with curiosity, her nose wrinkling with the bad smell and complaining about it to her mother once or twice. They stopped at a place not far from the entrance, covered by a few trees and surrounded by other graves. The tombstone read,
In Loving Memory of Ezra Cuddy
1939 - 1980
Beloved father
Cherished husband
Forever in our memories
The grass was greener than she’d expected. It was a sunny day, even though the trees offered comfortable shade for them to stand under, and a chill breeze passed by every now and then. A big bouquet was resting peacefully in her right hand, so she quietly leaned in to put it over the grass in front of the grave, and it mixed perfectly well with the dandelions growing around the memorial.
A long, comfortable silence settled as some robins sang in the background and leaves swayed with the wind, passing them by. Right here, holding her daughter’s hand and watching dandelions fly away from her father’s grave, she felt… Hope. Even after all those years, being here still felt like lying on the old couch in the basement, watching her father work, and being comforted by him.
Standing here, watching the flowers go, and the birds sing a soft song, she could feel him caring for her, even now.
Maybe, deep down, she was starting to understand that it hadn’t been her fault.
She was only fourteen.
House’s death wasn’t her fault either — she fought for him until the very end.
Lisa took two fingers to her lips, then pressed the kiss against the stone, her eyes closing tightly as emotions threatened to overflow her. Still, she whispered, “I’m sorry, daddy,” before pulling back.
She held back her tears as best as she could, even if they were just fleeting down her eyelashes, and tugged at Rachel’s hand gently.
“Let’s go, Rachel.”