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Filling the Holes
by Mer
James Wilson learned to cook the first time his mother "went on vacation." At least that was how his father explained it when he came home from school one day and found himself suddenly down one parent. James was only 12 years old, so he accepted the explanation. His older brother Michael had laughed in disbelief, but he was already working his own way towards a permanent vacation from the family, and he didn't care enough to argue.
After a week of eating cereal, peanut butter sandwiches and takeout, James pulled down his mother's Joy of Cooking and surveyed the contents of the kitchen cupboards for possibilities. His first attempt at spaghetti sauce was a disappointment when he was forced to substitute tomato soup for tomato paste, but his father kissed him on the forehead and told him he was proud of him. The next day they went grocery shopping together and James was almost happy.
When his mother returned at the end of a month, looking relaxed and happy and exactly like she'd been on vacation ("She wasn't on vacation," Michael whispered viciously. "She left because she hates you."), James had begun improvising his own recipes. He liked taking individual ingredients and mixing them into something new and unique. It was like alchemy.
When James elected to take Home Economics instead of Industrial Education in Grade 8, Michael called him a pansy, but his mother bought him La Methode by Jacques Pepin. He slept with it under his pillow the next time she went away and learned how to make sauce reductions. He didn't much like the sewing portion of the course, but even Michael was grateful when James was able to fix up the knife tear in his letterman's jacket before his father noticed.
This time, his mother didn't look happy and relaxed when she returned. He made pot roast her first night home, with roasted rosemary potatoes and glazed carrots. When he placed the platter on the dining room table, she started to cry. James didn't need Michael to tell him they weren't tears of joy. He stood bewildered, oven mitts still covering his hands, wondering what he'd done wrong. "I'm sorry," he whispered, trying to keep his voice steady. "I just wanted to do something for you."
Helen Wilson wiped her eyes with her napkin. "But what do I do for you?" she asked, her voice taut with regret.
James knew instinctively that if he said the wrong thing, there would be another, longer vacation. He looked at the meal he'd made; he looked at his mother, a stranger in her own home. "You love me," he said simply.
She held out her arms, tears still glistening in her eyes, and he leaned awkwardly into her embrace. Sometime during the past month he had grown taller than her and her body felt fragile under his hands; bones too prominent, skin too loose on the flesh. Then her arms tightened around him and she reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, just like she'd done when he was little and woke frightened from a nightmare.
"That's right," she whispered in his ear. "I do."
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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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