“Heart Sight”

Chapter Three

I woke up after four hours of uninterrupted sleep, the sun creeping in through the window blinds. I felt lousy, my back protesting the cramped night spent in the unyielding hospital chair, and the rest of me aching from the face plant I did last night. Last night? Nope, it wasn’t just a bad dream like I’d hoped. I was grateful I hadn’t replayed the explosion over and over in my dreams, as is often the case. But then again, the waking nightmare I found us in was bad enough.

I had to stop thinking like that. Starsky looked horrible: his face still an angry red, still swathed in bandages; but he was still breathing, still alive, and they said he was going to be okay. Everything else I could deal with as it came.

Like what if the doctors were wrong. Like what if my partner wouldn’t be able to see again. I can’t begin to tell you what that thought did to me--if Starsky were permanently blind. I wondered what it would do to him. Not to us, but to him. Nothing would change our friendship, but would he change? How could he not? Being a cop was all he ever wanted to be. And the other things he loved to do--photography, ship building, driving… What if he could never drive the Tomato again?

I looked across to the gauze that encased half of Starsky’s head and imagined sightless blue eyes. A sourness rose up in my throat. How many times had I depended on their expressiveness to tell me what Starsky couldn’t or wouldn’t say? On the job, when stealth was critical, his eyes would often warn me of what lay ahead. Or what he was thinking. My partner’s eyes were as fathomless and as changing as the ocean: indigo when he was happy, the color of a storm when he was angry or frustrated, cobalt when he was hurting.

When I looked into my partner’s eyes, I could see myself reflected there, not like in a mirror, but how he saw me, and I liked that a far sight better than how I saw myself most days. I wished Starsky would wake up so I could focus on something more than the “what ifs” that haunted me.

I was grateful when Huggy arrived. He made it well before visiting hours began, a bag of bagels and thermos of coffee in tow. He managed to sweet talk the nurse on duty from throwing him out with a bribe of a bagel with extra cream cheese. I don’t know how he does it sometimes. He couldn’t stay long, but I appreciated the diversion.

Captain Dobey came right as visiting hours began and gave both my unconscious partner and me a critical once over. I still refused to leave Starsky alone at that point, and Dobey never asked me to. Instead, he simply handed over my gym bag containing a fresh set of clothes and what I needed for a quick shower and shave. I never remembered to ask how he got into my apartment, since I had gotten out of the habit of leaving my key above the doorframe.

Naturally, Starsky was temporarily taken off the duty roster, and Dobey pulled us from the homicide we’d been working on for the last week. I opted for sick days rather than a reassignment, both the captain and I knowing I would draw on my vacation time, or take a leave of absence if necessary, for the duration of Starsky’s recuperation.

The hospital must have taken pity on me (or else the captain pulled a few strings), because later Starsky was moved to a room with a second, unoccupied bed. He had spent the majority of the day in a medically induced sleep, and the doctors assured me that it was the body’s way of healing, and what he needed most. The trio of them stopped by periodically, checking on Starsky’s condition, making the typical physician’s responses of “hmm” (how many years of medical school does it take them to master that?), making notations on his chart and assuring me everything was going along “nicely”. By mid-afternoon they removed the claw-like bandages from his pink hands and changed his script from morphine to something a little less potent. His eyes, they assured me, would just need some time for the steroids to do their job. Amazing things, the eyes, they said. Quite capable of almost healing themselves, they said.

All I knew was that I wanted those blues looking back at me.

I spent the rest of the day by Starsky’s bedside reading (out loud, to the amusement of the nursing staff) and letting some of the summer sun filtering in through the window blinds soak into my aching muscles. I still wasn’t one hundred percent convinced Starsky was going to be okay, not until he woke up and started griping at me, but for some reason I was oddly content just to sit nearby, watching him sleep.

I don’t remember what I read, but the day passed quickly.

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The sunset that evening was spectacular, the sky a Monet’s blend of lavenders and pinks, and I wished for the umpteenth time that Starsky’s eyes would heal quickly. He was progressing within the trio’s expectations and they had removed the oxygen.

I hadn’t even realized that I’d been humming to myself until I stopped when I heard Starsky shifting on the bed. One swollen hand lifted and lay back down on his chest, and his head turned in my direction.

I softly called his name, hopeful against my better judgement.

Starsky’s face was still a vibrant pink and his features were tense. His eyebrows knit together and he shook his head as if a fly was buzzing near him. If it was anything like I had experienced, I knew his ears would probably still feel a bit fuzzy or, at least, a ringing remained. Ah, but if this were the case, it was another step toward healing. I said his name a bit louder as I approached the bed. This time, he definitely turned in my direction and his hands came up to the pads covering his eyes.

“Whoa, there, pal. Take it easy.” I sat down on the bed next to him and startled him. I gently pulled his hands away from his face by his forearms, not wanting to add to his pain by grappling with his still inflamed skin. “Starsk, can you hear me?”

I could tell he was still disoriented, but he nodded. He licked his lips and tried to respond, but nothing made it past his throat. He grimaced and his hands automatically went up to his neck.

“Starsk, you’re gonna be okay,” I told him. I placed a hand on his shoulder, and his hand that had been gingerly touching his neck came down to rest on top of mine. “You’re in the hospital, buddy, but the doctors say you’re gonna be just fine. Do you understand?”

He tried to speak again, but the pain stopped him, so he settled for nodding. I could see he was getting frustrated and maybe a little distressed, so I punched the button for the nurse. “Take it easy, Starsk. I know you’re probably a little out of it right now, but I’m right here. I won’t go anywhere.”

His face relaxed minutely, then his hands came up to his ears and he tilted his head to one side, as if it hurt him. “Starsk? Can you still hear me?”

He nodded, and even with the bandages I could see him scowl, telling me that he was becoming more and more alert. He probably didn’t think much of his progress, but I could have done cartwheels around the room knowing his hearing seemed to be in the process of returning. A glimmer of hope surfaced with the thought that perhaps sight and speech were not too far behind.

Once more, his hands reached up to touch the pads on his eyes and his throat, and I could understand his unasked questions: // Why? What happened? //

“There was an explosion, Starsk. Do you remember it?”

Starsky’s brows furrowed again as he shook his head a little.

“You will. We were helping with an accident on the freeway when it happened.” I gripped his arm to reassure him. “Don’t worry about that now, though, okay? What’s important is that you’re going to be okay. A little singed, but the doctors said nothing’s permanent, just trust me.”

I could tell he was hurting by now, and probably more than just a little scared. Who wouldn’t be? Still, he settled back on the bed, trusting me to have told him the truth and to take care of things. It’s an incredible responsibility and privilege--that kind of trust. I hope I never do anything to betray it.

The duty nurse quickly walked in and assessed the situation. I explained that Starsky had been awake for a few moments and seemed to be in some discomfort. She talked to him a bit, getting him to respond with a jerk of his head to her questions, and his responses seemed to please her.

She checked his chart and injected an additional something into the IV. After giving my shoulder a brief squeeze, the nurse left, promising to update our trio of doctors. Starsky relaxed against his pillows, and I placed my hand on his forearm until I thought he had fallen back to sleep. As I began to move away, he surprised me by pulling on my arm to draw me toward him, though his grip was weak. I followed him willingly.

Starsky gingerly let his hand travel up to my face and touched my mouth. He then brought it down to my chest, letting his gauze-wrapped fingers remain over my heart before returning it to rest over his own. I understood him as clearly as if he had spoken out loud: // You sang for me and my heart heard it. //

His hand returned to my face, my mouth, and again, I understood him. I began to sing softly and he rested his hands on his stomach, his face relaxing even more as he absorbed each note. It didn’t take long for him to fall back to sleep, but I continued singing well into the night because my heart was so full, and the song there refused to be silenced.

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I think we both slept better that night. I sure woke up feeling a far sight better. Of course, it helped having a bed to stretch out on rather than one of the hospital’s sadistic chairs. I was even surprised to find Starsky sitting up in bed, sipping a little water. He must have heard the bed creak (or was that my back?), because he immediately turned in my direction expectantly and raised an eyebrow: // Hutch? //

“Yeah, it’s me. Morning.” He nodded in agreement, though I’m sure he still felt lousy. “How you feeling?”

He shrugged and tilted his head, not even trying to speak yet. I asked if his throat was sore and he gave a little nod in agreement. I’m sure he was sore all over. The blast had thrown him several yards, slamming him flat on his back. He was literally covered with bruises. But I knew I wouldn’t get any more out of him about the pain he might be experiencing, even if he could talk. That’s another of the weird contradictions that makes up my partner. I’ve seen him beaten to a pulp, shot, stabbed, and any assortment of major catastrophes, and he won’t say a word. Bellamy’s poison was ripping his guts up and he only once broke down and uttered, “It hurts, Hutch. Oh God, it hurts.” Of course, then I wasn’t too sure he only meant the physical pain. Ah, but a hangnail or case of the sniffles, and it’s all I can do to shut him up about it.

“Are you remembering anything more about what happened, yet?” I was trying to keep my questions to “yes” or “no” answers. He nodded. “Do you remember the explosion?”

Again, he nodded. Starsky seemed to think for a moment, then extended his hand toward the floor, palm down. I wasn’t sure what he was getting at. “Help me out here, Starsk. Your hand? What is it?”

He shook his head, mildly frustrated. He then brought both hands vertically in front of him. They had removed the bandages, but I could tell the swollen and raw skin was still sore and hampering his movements. He made an hourglass shape--ah, a woman! Why should that surprise me? “The nurse?”

I got up to get the buzzer to call for her, but he shook his head. He did the woman shape again, then continued to pantomime holding a baby. His left hand continued to the side of the bed, indicating two different heights--the heights of children: // The family at the accident. //

“I’m with you now. They’re all okay, Starsk. The little boy’s gonna be fine. He got some first- and second-degree burns on his back and head, but the doctors say he’ll be all right. They also said that you probably saved his life, partner.”

He scowled at this, not being able to imagine how he had made a difference. “They said the force of the explosion would have propelled him forward so hard that it probably would have staved in his skull. Because you had him in your grip, at least when the explosion happened, you absorbed the majority of the shock wave for him.”

Starsk just gave a little nod: // You’d do the same thing. // So typical of him.

He spent the rest of the morning dozing. He was actually able to manage some chicken broth and jello for lunch, but by the expression on his face, I could imagine that he was devising ways to puree a burrito.

The trio of doctors came in around two o’clock, which was a grateful interruption from my reading Starsky the newspaper. After a few pokes and prods and a quick examination of his eyes and throat (followed by the accompanying chorus of “hmms”), Dr. Engles concluded perhaps in a day or two, Starsky could finish his recuperation at home with daily office visits. Starsky’s response was to fling off the covers and swing his legs over the edge of the bed, then turn in my direction expectantly with his hand extended: // Let’s have some clothes, pal. //

The doctors agreed Starsky could go home--tomorrow, or the day after--but for now, they wanted to keep him a bit longer for observation to monitor the reduction of swelling in his airway, the blood clots, and check for any fluids in his lungs. I asked them a barrage of questions, making sure Starsky’s release would in no way endanger him further. This earned me one heck of a scowl from my partner, but I shuddered at the thought of a relapse of the injuries. The trio assured me that if he continued to progress as well as he had, there was little likelihood of that. None of us mentioned the fact that the blood clots might not dissolve with the steroids, or that fluids would overtake the space they left, leaving my partner permanently blind, and I wasn’t going to bring it up.

We spent the remainder of the day passing time with the dozen or so visitors from the station that came through, none of them blessedly staying too long, as Starsky was tiring easily, as was I. The day climaxed when the mother of the three children came in to thank Starsky, but when she saw his condition, she burst into tears, which seemed to unnerve him. He looked to me for help, and I quietly ushered her out of the room, thanking her for stopping by, and assuring her that Starsky would be just fine, given a little time for healing.

When I came back into the room, Starsky looked miserable. It was as if, up until then, he was able to keep up the pretense that everything was fine, that he wasn’t worried, and he was sure his vision would quickly return. But now…

“What is it, Starsk?”

He shook his head and tried to speak, but his abused throat wouldn’t allow the passage of sound. The face I knew so well transformed into stone, his jaw rigidly clenched. He was purposefully shutting down, refusing to deal with whatever he was feeling, whatever was scaring him.

I sat down on the bed next to his legs. “C’mon, now. Don’t do that. This isn’t over yet.”

A little flair of frustrated anger snorted out of him as he threw up his arms: // Exactly. I WANT this to be over! //

Ah. “I know, pal. It’s just gonna take a little time, that’s all. Give the steroids time to do their work.”

His face softened a bit, as he let his fears creep out of the box he tried to stuff them into. His hands raised up slightly, beseechingly: // But, what if…? //

“Hey, hey…let’s not worry about the ‘what ifs’ until we have to, all right? Starsk?”

He breathed deeply and exhaled, which seemed to relax the tension in his face and shoulders a bit. His nod was resigned, probably more for my benefit than a reflection of his own optimism.

But it was a start.

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I could tell Starsky was nervous as we made our way down the hospital corridor. I was content to let the day nurse push the wheelchair, even though it wasn’t the most chivalrous thing to do, I suppose. So, don’t tell my mother. For some reason I felt better walking beside my partner, rather than pushing him from behind, and I think he did, too. By the time we got to the main floor where I signed his release forms, Starsky was agitatedly fussing, and trying not to show it.

I placed my hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “So, what do you think? You ready to bust out of here?”

Still unable to speak much, he gave me a snort: // Are you kidding? //

“That’s what I figured.” I took the handles of the chair and rolled him toward the double doors leading to the parking lot. As soon as we made it out the door, Starsky put a hand up to stop me. I paused and waited. Starsky seemed to be doing a dozen things at once: smelling the fresh breeze after days of the hospital’s filtered air, hearing the sounds coming from the street, feeling the morning sun against his skin. But more than that, I knew there were a whole lot of thoughts and fears going through his head. It was bad enough, being blind and unable to speak in the hospital where he was fairly protected and cared for, but now, out here…it was a whole new ballgame.

Starsky pulled the pair of sunglasses he had “told” me to bring and slipped them on over his padded eyes. They didn’t completely cover the telltale gauze, but at least masked them from a casual glance in his direction. He straightened himself in the chair and folded his hands in his lap before giving me a terse nod.

I gripped Starsky’s shoulder again, just to remind him that he wasn’t alone in this. He glanced up at me with that grin of his that mocks his own fears, and we both knew no matter what lay ahead, we would handle it together.

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Chapter Four