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Plaguing Perspectives

By

Paula Wilshe

   I don’t know that I have ever been more exhausted in my life than I was that night. It was funny; both of us had been full of energy and zip while we were out and about at the airport, dropping Judith off and all that stuff. I can’t tell you how it made me feel when the two of us were heading back toward the car, carrying on about vacations, and my grandmother, and living till ridiculous ages. We were just being ourselves, really, enjoying each other’s company. We were joking around and stuff and it was a high that I can’t describe, coming after the whole week before when I worried every time I left the hospital, that Hutch wouldn’t be there when I got back.

   It’s funny, when we were up at the gate I said something to him like, "I’m gonna take you home and tuck you in," and started tugging him toward the exit. I knew as soon as he didn’t slug me in front of all the passengers waiting to board that he was probably not feeling quite as good as he’d have liked. Realistically, how could he have been? My God, I know how I felt, and I hadn’t been through anything compared to him.

   He wanted to drive, but I nixed that idea. The last few days in the hospital, man, he was just better and better every single day, between the antibodies and the anti-viral medications they were pumping into him. But better is a relative term, you know? Better than he’d been, but not normal, nowhere near normal. He still had kind of a cough, and I’d noticed that by the end of the day, even in the hospital, his voice would get this kind of strained and breathless thing to it, like he’d used up his energy allotment for the day, and there just wasn’t anything left. Since he’d only been released from the hospital that morning, he hadn’t yet gotten out of that pattern, and by the time we hit the parking lot, he was breathing faster than he should have been, faster than I liked.

   I made some joking remark about having lived through enough near-death experiences for one week, and he just laughed and climbed into the passenger’s seat without putting up any kind of argument. He asked me if I minded if he put the window down a little, because the air smelled so good to him. Yeah, jet fuel and parking lot fumes are really something to celebrate, so I rolled my eyes and told him sure. He breathed in really slow, coughed a little bit, smiled at me like he was real pleased with himself, and maybe just a little embarrassed, then he patted me on the shoulder and settled back against the seat. My big, tough, live-for-a-hundred-forty-years partner was sound asleep before we got out of the parking lot.

   I pulled up in front of Venice Place and cut the engine, and I just sat there for a couple of minutes, rubbing my eyes and yawning. I looked over at Hutch and every bit of exhaustion I felt was totally worth it. It was the best, most satisfying kind of tired I have ever felt in my whole life. It was like he knew I was watching him, his eyes blinked open real slow, and he gave me that same brilliant smile he’d been flashing around the airport. Even in the low light from the street lamps it was visible. Actually, it sort of lit up the street, we didn’t need the streetlamps. I wondered absently if he’d switched to Pearl Drops tooth polish or something and had forgotten to mention it to me.

   "Good of you to wake up, Blondie," I told him. "I thought I was gonna have to carry you up the stairs."

   He sat up a little straighter. "I was really out, wasn’t I?" He smiled again. "Hey, listen, thanks, and good night, and just…thanks." He squeezed my shoulder, then reached for the door handle.

   "That’s it?" I asked him.

   "That’s what?" He turned back around, his expression puzzled.

   "You’re not gonna invite me upstairs to see your etchings?" I wiggled my eyebrows at him. "I bought you lunch, and all I get is…."

   He leaned over and gave me a loud, smacking smooch on the cheek. I think both of us blushed bright red. "There," he said. "That’s your good night kiss. Now go home to bed."

   "Well," I said as I opened the driver’s side door, "I don’t think so. Not tonight. You got a couch upstairs with my name written all over it." I tilted my head in the general direction of his door. "G’wan," I urged him. "Get out, let’s go."

   "Starsk…."

   He looked so serious I almost laughed in his face. "Hm?"

   "You have to be exhausted," he said earnestly. "Everything you did, and when’s the last time you really slept?"

   "I'll sleep tonight," I assured him. "On your couch."

   His voice was reed thin. "But I don’t need—"

   "Ah," I reached across the seat and tousled his hair. "But see, buddy? I do."

   He nodded his head and didn't say any more, and the two of us trudged up the steps to his apartment. We were both walking a hell of a lot slower than we had been in the airport, and by the time we hit the top step Hutch was wheezing a little bit, nothing scary, just from the exertion of the day, and from climbing the steps after the exertion of the day.

   "You want a beer or something?" he asked me, moving toward the kitchen.

   "Nope," I said, making a grab and catching his arm. "And neither do you. I want you to go get ready for bed."

   "Starsky!"

   I ignored his indignant yelp and moved to the kitchen table where he'd tossed his duffel bag a few hours before. I'd carefully zipped all his discharge instructions along with the prescriptions we'd picked up on the way home in the side pocket, and I knew there were a few he needed to take before bedtime. Hutch muttered something under his breath about being a grown up, then he shuffled off to the bathroom.

   By the time he came out, ten minutes later, he'd changed from his other clothes into a pair of ratty sweats. He came over and stood beside me, rubbing his eyes, and I swear to you he looked like a tired little kid. So much for being a grown up. I grinned at him. "Feel better now?" I asked.

   "Man," he answered with a nod. "You have no idea. My own sweats, no more hospital gown." He peered into my face. "I hate hospital gowns."

   "I don't blame you," I answered, handing him the glass of juice I had poured. "Drink this," I instructed, "and take these." I held out a handful of pills.

   He took a sip of juice, then opened his hand and peered down at the tablets in his palm. "This many?" he asked. "You sure?"

   And he'd told me to go home. For a smart and responsible guy, sometimes he just has these lapses, usually having to do with his own well-being. Lucky for him I am usually around. "I'm sure." I pointed to the little brown and yellow capsule. "This one's the antibiotic, the one next to it is a broncho-something or other for the wheezes, this one over here has to do with keeping the fever down, these here are the multi vitamins so this doesn't happen again…what?"

   He was looking at me very strangely. "Lucky for me you're around," he said dryly.

   "Damn straight." I pointed to the table. "And you've got to take this cough junk too."

   "I'd rather not take that," Hutch said around a mouthful of pills. He gulped down juice and medications in a couple of swallows. "It tastes awful and it makes me cough worse."

   "Judith says it's expected," I told him, figuring to impress him with my medical knowledge. "You're supposed to cough up all the junk that's still in your lungs."

   "That's expectorant, Starsk, I know what it is, and I don't like the way it tastes, nor do I like the fact that, as I said a minute ago, it makes me cough worse." By the time he got to the end of his haughty little diatribe, he was wheezing harder, and his voice was getting tight.

   "Drink it," I said.

   "Yes, all right," he said, reaching for the bottle. He poured a dose into the little plastic cup that had come with the bottle and downed it fast, then he handed it over to me with a wrinkle of his nose and a shudder. "Happy now?" he asked.

   "Blissful," I told him truthfully, although I made it sound like I was joking. "What do you want for dinner?"

   "I'm not hungry."

   "I didn't ask if you were hungry," I said, "I asked what you wanted for dinner." Can you believe him? Sometimes Hutch just doesn't get it.

   "But I—" He shrugged at me, as if he just didn't have the energy to argue, which I'm sure he didn't. "I'm probably out of food," he said helplessly. "I haven't been home, and…."

   "I shopped yesterday," I cut in, then I nudged him toward the couch. "Come on, Hutch, sit down before you fall down." Whenever Hutch gets that helpless can't-deal-with-anything look, I know he's reached his limit. It always breaks my heart, truth to tell, but I don't ever tell him that, I just take over so he doesn't have to think anymore. Amazingly, he usually lets me.

   He slumped down on the couch and leaned his head back against the cushion. "I'm just so fucking tired," he said in a low voice. He ran a hand down his face. "I want to feel better than this," he added, gesturing with his hand. "I'm tired of being sick."

   "I know," I said softly, "I know," and I stroked his forehead a little bit. It must have been the right thing to do, because he closed his eyes and sighed. "I understand, I really do." I made my voice as gentle as I could, there was so much emotion behind there, you know? But I had no idea if I could make Hutch hear that, feel that. "You'll do better every day," I said, "baby steps, but that's okay, 'cause we've got all the time in the world now."

   His lips curved up in a little smile, and he reached for my hand and squeezed it. He got it, I knew. "You're right," he whispered, "It's just that…."

   "It's the end of the day, Hutch, and you're exhausted," I continued. I felt his forehead with the back of my hand. "Your temperature's up a little, just like Judith said it would be for a week or so. It isn't any more than that. I promise, every day it'll get a little less, and you'll come back a little more."

   He leaned away from me and coughed harshly, then he opened one eye and fixed it on me. "I told you that stuff makes me feel worse," he said. "Feel like I'm hacking up a lung."

   I figured if he could sit there and try to make me feel guilty, I'd probably gotten through to him. "I'm tired too," I said. "So we're having soup and grilled cheese sandwiches."

   "That sounds good," he said, and closed his eye again.

   He managed to make it through a bowl and a half of soup, and about three quarters of a sandwich before he simply was too exhausted to eat. I put the bowl and plate down on the coffee table, and led him toward the sleeping alcove. I swear he just about melted into that bed, and turned over on his side. I covered him up and, as promised, tucked the covers tight around him. He buried his face in the comforter for a second, then blinked up at me. "You washed this," he said. "It smells so good."

   "You need anything else?" I asked.

   "No," he yawned deeply. "I'm good."

   Within minutes he was asleep, and feeling like the longest shift of my life was nearly over, I went back to the other room and cleaned up all the dishes, then I pulled some sheets out of the linen closet and made up the couch. I sat down and turned the TV on low, and for the first time since this nightmare had begun two weeks ago, was able to relax. There was some dumb cop show on, and the chase scene was going on and on. I turned the sound down because the siren was really loud, only then I couldn't really hear the dialogue, but the show was so ridiculous, I didn't feel like it made that much difference.

   I didn't even know I'd fallen asleep till I heard Hutch coughing behind me, trying to muffle it, but I'd been operating on alert mode for so long he could have changed breathing rhythms and I'd've been awake. I shot off the couch to where he was standing in the bathroom doorway.

   "You okay?" I asked him, rubbing his back a little bit.

   "Yeah," he wheezed a little bit, and cleared his throat. "Why'd you make me take that stuff?" he asked, all grumpy and whiny. "I told you it was going to—"

   "Don't whine," I said, rubbing up to his shoulder. "It makes you wheeze. How long have you been up? Why are you up?"

   "Can't sleep," he replied, hitching up a shoulder. "That feels really good." I pulled him toward his bed, but he resisted me, and moved back toward the couch. "I can't sleep," he repeated, "and I've been in bed for two weeks. I don't want to be in bed any more."

   "Fine," I said, as he sat down slowly on the sofa. He moved as if every part of his body ached.

   "My whole body aches," he told me. "I think it's from being in bed." He coughed again, leaning forward. "Damn it."

   I sat down beside him, wishing I could do something, anything to help him relax. He needed sleep more than anything to heal; he knew that, I knew that. "Would something hot to drink help?" I asked, starting to get up.

   "No, stay here," he said, pulling at my sleeve. "You're exhausted too." He sighed at me, and I swear there were tears in his eyes, which is really not like my partner at all over something like this. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up."

   This was getting out of hand. I was feeling bad because Hutch was feeling bad, and he was feeling worse because he thought I was feeling bad and he was making me feel worse. This was a downward spiral, and there was no way in hell I was going to get sucked into it at this hour of the night. "I'd like some tea," I said brightly, and smiled. "How about you?"    

   His mouth quirked, like he wanted to smile back, but lacked the strength to do it. "Tea sounds good," he said. "Starsky—"

   I leaned down and whispered in his ear. "Hutch? Shut up."

   So we had tea at one in the morning, just the two of us, sitting up on Hutch's couch, both of us tired beyond words. His arm was right up against my arm, and neither one of us made any move to separate. He was yawning, I was yawning, and there was some goofy Doris Day movie on the TV. Finally I pulled my arm free and started rubbing his neck and his shoulders, where I thought they might be the most stiff from lying elevated in bed. He sighed and closed his eyes.

   "Starsk?"

   "Mm hm?" I kept rubbing.

   "That really helps."

   "I'm glad, Blintz," I answered. "That's the idea." I squeezed the back of his neck to let him know I meant it.

   Before long, he leaned back and started to drift over toward me, so I just kept rubbing little circles along his upper back, and against the back of his head, and it was really weird, it was almost like I could feel the tension draining away. The tea had quieted the coughing down some, and bit by bit, he started to relax. Eventually he ended up with his head on my shoulder, and boy, after all those days of being kept on the other side of a plate glass window, I don't think anything ever felt so good to me as the weight of that drooping blond.

   "I wanna…." He said, his voice all slurry. "I was thinking I wanna visit my sister…see the kids…."

   "Absolutely, Hutch," I assured him. "Soon as you're a little stronger, we'll go visit. Your sister called me every night you know, when you were so sick."

   "She's a good girl," he murmured. "And I…I wanna go horseback riding. Haven't done that for years, you c'n come with me…."

   "I'll come watch you," I said firmly, knowing that there was no way on the face of this earth that Hutch was ever going to get me on a horse.

   "And I wanna—"

   "Hutch, sh…." I soothed him. "Get some rest, we'll talk tomorrow." I stroked his hair as light as I could. "You're so tired."

   "When you—you know, on the glass? Your name?" he said, as if I hadn't spoken.

   "Yeah?"

   "It was…" he turned his head slightly on my shoulder and looked up at me seriously. "It was the world to me. Because I knew…you were there…for me, and fighting when I couldn't."

   "You were fighting," I told him. "You fought harder than anyone I've ever known, to stay alive, to come back, to get better. You did real good, partner."

   He nodded against my shoulder, but didn't speak. I could tell he was nearly asleep, and I rested my cheek against the top of his head, and closed my own eyes. I wondered if either one of us would be able to get up in the morning after sleeping like this, but I decided that whatever backaches might come of it, that right here, right now was the place I most wanted to be. Needed to be. And so did Hutch.

   "What do you think Dobey would say," Hutch murmured, "if he saw us like this?" As tired as he was, I could hear the smile in his voice.

   "I think," I reached up and ran a hand lightly through his hair. "I think he'd say, 'Aren't they lucky?'"

   "I think," Hutch said, in the firmest, most serious voice I have ever heard. "I think he'd be right."

THE END