“Heart Sight”

Chapter Four

Getting Starsky used to his apartment under the current circumstances was easier than I’d thought. Walking around the small space with him brought back memories of the guilt that absolutely tormented Starsky when he accidentally shot Emily, temporarily blinding her. It was a horrible, horrible time in our lives, and one best left forgotten. I felt miserable, watching him wander around his place, his hands outstretched in front of him as he made his way around. What if…

I can’t tell you how many times I had to force myself not to dwell on the “what ifs”.

Ah, but Starsky always kept up a brave front, if not for himself, then for me. People at the station had commended me for taking care of him, encouraging him, but honestly, it was a two-way street all the way.

The doctors had told me we could take off the pads covering Starsky’s eyes the first night home. Just before Starsky was ready for bed, he sat down in his fan chair expectantly, then pointed up at the gauze. I sat down on the coffee table and unwound his bandages, and gently peeled away the round pads.

Starsky slowly opened his eyes.

I know what we both expected. We were both hoping that, somehow, miraculously, the medications had worked far more rapidly than anticipated and he would be able to simply open his eyes and see me.

The familiar dark blue eyes darted around the room, desperately trying to see anything: figures, shadows, light, something. But there was nothing. My partner’s sad smile told me as much: // Not yet.

I felt my heart constrict when I looked into those sightless, cobalt eyes. To never have him see again, to never feel him looking back at me…I couldn’t bear it.

I gripped his shoulder to assure him. “We just need to give it time, that’s all.”

He nodded and sighed a bit, then lifted his face back toward me and gave me a brave smile that didn’t quite cover the fear that tensed his face. His hand came up and gripped my arm, assuring me. Without my help, he made his way into the bedroom alcove and got into the sweats he sleeps in. I asked him if he needed anything before I got into the shower, and he shook his head, waving me off: // No thanks, good night. //

I shut the bathroom door and turned on the shower. Then, under the noise of the pounding water, I leaned against the sink and cried.

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The next week passed by slowly. I thought my partner would be scaling the walls, but Starsky slept a lot, and I read and played my guitar. We killed time by playing things like “twenty questions” and guessing games with one of his stupid trivia books. It’s funny how the simple things like these that used to annoy me to no end during stakeouts became a balm to us both. I think we were in a bit of denial of what could or might happen. The doctors were optimistic, so we simply held on to that. I reminded Starsky we’d faced worse odds and came out on top. There was no reason to doubt our luck yet.

About the third night at home, the outburst I had been waiting for finally came. He’d been too patient, too compliant, too accepting of the situation, and it was all very unStarskylike.

He’d headed for the shower after I went out for a run. Stretching my legs and burning off a little of my pent up energy felt better than it had in a long time, so I opted for another mile. By the time I reached the top of Starsky’s apartment stairs, I was breathing heavier than I would have liked, but it was worth it. As soon as I walked in the door, I knew something was wrong.

I could hear water running, but it came from the kitchen, not the bathroom. I quickly crossed through the living room and found a state of chaos, with Starsky standing at the sink, running his hand under cold water.

It didn’t take much of a detective to figure out what had happened.

Coffee and grounds were splashed all over the counter top and stove, but the percolator was not nearby. A quick glance found the now dented appliance lying across the room, the wall bearing testimony as to where it struck when it was thrown, the remaining coffee and grounds staining the paint. A coffee cup and the sugar bowl lay broken on the floor near an overturned chair.

I quietly called out Starsky’s name and asked him if he was all right. He jerked his head once but otherwise ignored me. I set the chair upright and crossed to him. Grabbing him by both arms, I turned him around so I could see how bad the burn on his palm was. He wasn’t having any of my concern, though. Both hands came quickly up in-between my arms and thrust them away: // I can manage! //

Yeah, right.

Starsky stormed out of the kitchen--his face the epitome of independent rage--right into the wall dividing the rooms, face first.

I turned to watch him just as he did it and tried to call out a warning, but he was already connecting with the plaster. It was enough to stagger him back, and he stumbled down to the floor. Independence be damned, I knelt in front of him, placing a hand on his arm.

Starsky placed his elbows on his knees, and his uninjured hand covered his face. I could feel him shaking with frustration, futility and anger. He looked so lost, so untouchable. After a minute, I helped him to his feet and he let me lead him to the couch. I winced as he simply sat there, staring into nothingness. A vibrant shiner was already started on his right cheekbone, darkening his eye. Just what he needed.

I got out a wash cloth and some ice. He let me examine his hand, and I was grateful to see it was only a minor burn on top of the already puckered skin. Still, I guided his burned left hand to hold the ice on the right side of his face: two treatments for the price of one. “If it’s any consolation, you ought to see the other guy.”

That at least earned me a hoarse chuckle, and I returned to the kitchen to clean up the mess.

Later that night, Dobey stopped by with the pretext of having me sign a few reports, but we all knew he was checking up on us. I went to retrieve him a beer from the kitchen when I heard him ask Starsky how he had gotten the shiner. I walked back into the room to see Starsky assume an air of the martyred victim and point in my direction. I about choked on my own beer when I saw the look Dobey gave me. “Now, just a minute!”

Starsky sighed dramatically and melted on the couch. The captain’s face contorted in anger. “Hutchinson! What’s wrong with you? Of all the irresponsible things you’ve ever done, this tops them all!” His voice continued to escalate as he dressed me down. “What kind of man are you to strike a defenseless soul like your partner? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. As a matter of fact, I’d have you up on charges so fast your head would be swimming if I were a complete moron and believed this load of crap for an instant!”

The smug expression on Starsky’s faced lingered only a second after Dobey’s diatribe rang through the room and his words sunk in. His smirk changed to a look of disgust as he held out his hand in my direction: // Quit laughing and give me a beer. //

I gave him a soda instead, and the rest of the night passed peaceably.

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The next few days were quiet, and our time together had it’s own soothing qualities. Starsky’s voice began to show signs of a comeback, but all he could manage was an incredibly raspy whisper in short stints. The specialist told him to keep his communications brief and limited, giving the damaged tissue and vocal chords time to heal.

More than once I’d catch Starsky staring out the window into the sun. I’m sure he could feel the warmth on his face, but I know he was trying to see its light. He didn’t stare long, afraid of damaging his eyes, and each time I saw him do it, it always felt like I had a fist clenched around my heart.

Communicating had been a bit awkward earlier in the week, but we got the hang of it. We’ve rarely needed words anyway, him and me. But there were always the times when he’d get bored, and just wanted to “talk”. Now, since my partner’s a bit of a ham, he was always naturally good at charades. Unsurprisingly, this aided us both during these times when he needed to “tell” me something. He was usually pretty clear making his needs known, but I goaded him when I could by feigning ignorance and responding with things like, “Three syllables, sounds like…caterpillar?” Boy, did he get ticked off at me more than once.

We had tried having him write on a large pad of paper at the hospital. This occasionally worked when he needed to explain something and hand gestures were inadequate. Unfortunately, Starsky’s handwriting is atrocious at the best of times, trying at the worst. Compound that with his current lack of direction on the page, and it was like trying to read a drunken monkey’s scribblings.

I think I about pushed him over the edge one night at dinner. I had promised myself I wouldn’t take advantage of his current disabilities (well, not much anyway), but I couldn’t help myself.

I had made spaghetti. Being the kind man that I am, I even cut Starsky’s portion up into something more manageable, rather than watch him battle the pasta with a fork and spoon, spinning it into a ball and stuffing it in the gaping maw that passes for his mouth. A kitchen towel was crammed into the front of his shirt as a barrier against any errant sauce. Apparently, though, I hadn’t cut the pasta small enough, because Starsky managed to have a fairly long strand slap him on the side of his face, leaving a trail, as he shoveled in the first “solid” food he’d had in weeks. Now, that really wasn’t all that funny. But then, somehow, in the process of wiping away the sauce with his napkin, a piece of spaghetti that had stuck to the cloth was transferred to Starsky’s hair, just over his ear. Proud of being able to take care of the mess on his own, Starsky obliviously resumed eating, the pasta arrogantly dangling from one wild curl.

That was funny.

I about choked trying not to laugh. With his vision gone, Starsky’s hearing was far too acute and he knew immediately I was laughing. At him. Placing his fork down, he gave me a dirty look and waited expectantly.

Well, I know I can be a real jerk sometimes, and now was not the time to be laughing at my partner. I finally got myself under control and managed to explain to him that he had pasta hanging from the side of his head.

Starsky gave me a look that left no room for doubt of his intent and began searching his mass of curls for the lost pasta. The fact that he missed it every time sent me over the edge. I’m sure the pressure of the last week set me off more than the renegade dinner, but regardless, I was soon laughing so hard, I couldn’t catch my breath.

Like I said, Starsky’s hearing was incredibly sensitive right now, and I’m sure it aided him in nailing me in the chest with a forkful of spaghetti. Before I could settle myself, a second missile was sent my way, but this time I ducked, and dinner hit the wall with a resounding “splat”.

When I looked up, Starsky was grinning back at me like a Cheshire cat and silently called me something I can’t repeat in polite company.

The rest of dinner passed without incident. However, the next morning, I woke up to find a new blob of congealed spaghetti stuck to my forehead.

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After the second week, we were both getting more than a little stir crazy. Starsky’s reddened tone had faded, looking more and more like mild sunburn. The aches and pains that had plagued us both from the blast had faded along with our bruises. I made a few court appearances throughout the week on some of our existing cases, and Huggy stopped by to keep Starsky amused. I knew my partner was bored out of his mind, and I was running out of ideas.

His visits to the specialist went without incident and were virtually uneventful beyond the doctors’ repetitious “wait and see” diagnosis. So, we waited until he could see.

One afternoon after a light lunch, Starsky whispered hoarsely that he wanted to stretch his legs. We changed into shorts and threw a six pack in a cooler (he was allowed one, I got the other five--not all at once, don’t worry). A quick drive through midday traffic took us across town, but the park seemed to a bit too crowded for both our tastes. I headed for the beach. We agreed the fresh ocean air felt great on our faces as we cruised along the shoreline.

It took awhile, but I found a fairly secluded area and parked the Torino. Starsky got out and immediately kicked off his shoes and yanked off his socks. His face lit up like a little kid’s as the sand crept up between his wiggling toes. I came over beside him and tossed his shoes back into the car, along with mine. I told him our little excursion wasn’t a free ride and that he’d have to help carrier the cooler. He instantly knew this was my way of guiding him down the beach without his having to hold onto my arm like we had been doing while going to his doctor’s appointments. There, among similar injuries, it somehow didn’t seem like big deal--his holding my elbow as we walked down the long hallways. But here in public, well, I wanted him to feel like he was maintaining his dignity and independence. Besides, my partner was not blind. Just…temporarily… Well, you know what I’m getting at.

Starsky nodded and took up one side of the cooler, and we set off at his pace toward the sound of the waves rolling gently onto the shore. His face seemed to relax a bit as his head turned wonderingly toward the cries of the gulls overhead, then toward the children playing in the distance. I hadn’t even noticed how tense his face had been until it visibly relaxed here.

I let Starsky know we were close enough and we set the cooler down, along with the old blanket I’d brought. I laid it out and told Starsky he could sit, but he shook his head and began walking toward the waves. I watched him carefully, noticing how his movements were slow and a bit cautious, but not overly hesitant. My fearless partner. The beach there was quite sandy, with very few rocks to trip him or hurt his feet. Starsky stopped when he felt the sand become firm and damp. A look thrown back in my direction was all the invitation I needed to join him.

Starsky heard me approach, then waved an arm toward the skyline. He kept his face out toward the ocean for a moment, then turned it back to me with a smile, eyebrows lifted expectantly: // Describe it to me. //

I swear, I could have bawled right then and there. There was a lonely beauty where the sea met the sky. The ocean was the color of my partner’s eyes. My partner’s sightless eyes…

I swallowed hard and tried to keep my voice light as I described the colors of the masterpiece before me, but I knew he heard what I was feeling. I kept my face toward the ocean as I spoke, but his hand on my shoulder interrupted my monologue. Starsky gripped it once, then let his fingers weave into the fabric of my shirt and pulled me along as he turned and jogged away!

While he couldn’t manage the sound, Starsky’s face lit up with laughter as he ran--backwards, no less--down the shoreline, dragging me in tow. Weeks of pent-up energy and frustration cried out for release. When he felt I had caught up with him, he turned and began running in earnest. I paced myself along side him and reached out to grab his arm, to guide him, but I stopped myself. There was an expression of fierce joy on Starsky’s face at the ability to move freely again. I kept close to his side, within arm’s reach if he needed me. The pace was easy, more like a moderate jog, because I knew Starsky’s lungs and throat couldn’t handle too much exertion yet. As we made our way down the beach, I would call out, “Head to your left, there’s driftwood coming up,” or “the sand in the stretch ahead looks soft, careful”. He’d nod and follow my direction, trusting me not to hold him back or even lead him, but to simply run beside him and keep him safe. That kind of trust is an incredible privilege and an awesome responsibility.

I let my partner run as far as he wanted.

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Chapter Five