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Testing

By

Paula Wilshe

   "Testing, one, two, three." I turn off the tape recorder and hit the rewind button. It’s weird. For the couple of seconds it takes, it’s almost like the squeaking is in harmony with the beeps and dings of the heart monitor that my partner is hooked up to, here, in this room with me.

   Right now, to me, that heart monitor sounds like a symphony. It’s beautiful and complete, this blend of sound that sings to me, "He’s alive," over and over. One of these days when Starsky is better, I'll tell him that. You know what he’ll say? I do. He’ll give a little snort and his eyes will be sparkling. He’ll say, "Yeah, it’s got a great beat, but can you dance to it?"

   I can, buddy.

   I hit the play button and listen. "Testing, one, two, three." Jesus Christ, I sound like a dork. Well, at least I know it’s working. Okay. I clear my throat, pick up the microphone, and push down "play" and "record" at the same time.

   "Starsk, I—" Oh, for God’s sake. Stage fright. No, that’s not it; I don’t know what it is.

   This wasn’t my idea, you know. One of the nurses actually thought of it, one of the girls who works night shift. She’s been awfully nice. She told me that sometimes, when someone’s almost died like Starsky did, even though they’re unconscious, they can still hear things. She told me that sometimes the voices of people who love them, or familiar, favorite music can actually help them to start waking up. And I love him. And I want him to wake up. But I don’t think I’m up to listening to Latin Disco right now, so the voice he’s going to get is mine.

   I’m not sure if I believe all of that, what the nurse said, to tell you the truth. No one’s sure yet if Starsk is going to make it. I have this feeling that the nurse is trying to help me as much as she’s trying to help him. I had a psych course or two in college, and I suspect she thinks I should get my feelings out and into words, maybe say all the things I’ve ever wanted to say to him, should have said to him, just in case I never get the chance to talk with him again.

   Okay, that’s terrific. How am I supposed to make this damned tape for him if I’m all weepy again? At least in a hospital you can always find a box of Kleenex, and I snatch one out and drag it across my eyes. I’m not usually this emotional, honest I’m not. I mean, I think I’m fairly sensitive, sure, but I don’t usually burst into tears at the drop of a hat like I have been today.

   On the other hand, I don’t remember ever having a couple of days like this before. I—really—I don’t remember the last time I slept. I think I’m running on empty between flailing around trying to figure out how the fuck this happened to us, and who’s responsible for it, and trying to spend as much time here as I can, in case Starsky—you know—in case he doesn’t make it.

   I sit up straighter in the chair. He has to make it. And I’ve got to pull myself together.

   I take a deep breath and turn on the tape recorder again. "Hey, Starsk," I say softly. "It’s me. Hutch." Oh, God, that was stupid. What did I say that for? Like he isn’t gonna recognize my voice without my telling him who I am. Ah, screw it. I start again.

   "It’s Hutch, Starsk, and I—I—well, I’m sitting here next to you right now making this stupid tape because, well, I, um, I don’t really know what else to do. What I want to do is talk to you. I want to tell you about the case, and how I’m busy banging my head against a brick wall trying like hell to find out how this happened to us—I mean, to you. And there are a few other things I think I need to—want to—uh...."

   I wonder if he’s going to notice the pauses if I stop and start the tape a bunch of times. Who am I kidding? Starsk is a sharp guy, he doesn’t miss a trick. Remind me to burn the thing once he’s awake and he’s feeling better. He’s probably going to laugh his head off about this when he listens to it anyway. I would if it were me.

   No. Actually, I don’t think I would.

   Honestly? I don’t think he will either. He’ll understand.

   "Anyhow," I laugh nervously. "Here we are, partner, you and me. You’re lying there asleep and I’m—I’m—what the hell am I doing, Starsk?" I clear my throat again and wipe my eyes. He’s going to wonder what’s wrong with my voice. I'll tell him it’s my allergy flaring up from all the weird flower arrangements in the hospital. He’ll know that’s not true. This is the ICU. There aren’t any flowers here. He’ll listen to what I just said a minute ago and he’ll know that I’m more scared than I’ve ever been in my life. I’m so scared I can’t even—.

   I put down the microphone and I pace around the room a couple of times. There was a nurse sitting here for a while, but I guess she’s on her break. Maybe she was trying to give us a little time alone. Maybe the other nurse talked to her. I don’t know.

   I can’t even define what it is I’m feeling right now, isn’t that ridiculous? I hurt. I just hurt so bad.

   Whenever I’m hurting, Starsky’s always the one who—and he–except that isn’t an option this time.

   I’m angry, too, I know that. Irrationally, probably. But wouldn’t you be, if it were your partner and you and he were—you know–like Starsky and me?

   I mean, I can’t even picture what my world might be like without him. The thought of it is tearing me apart. That first night, I expected him to die. They said he was dying, told me he was going to die. I felt as if someone had sucked all of the air out of me, all of the blood, whatever is it that makes me me. When he was still alive the next morning, I think the doctors were as surprised as I was.

   We’ve been partners for just—for years and years, and—even before that we were friends. I mean, half the time I don’t know where I end and he begins. It’s hard to explain that, I know. We’re family to each other. More than family. More than–just more.

   I ache everywhere. My heart aches. You know how people always say that? I always thought it was just an expression. It isn’t.

   I sit down again, and I pick up the microphone. I flick it on. I flick it off. All I can think about right this minute are all the times over the years that I’ve been a real shit to him. I’ve yelled at him, made fun of him, been grouchy at him when he hasn’t even done anything wrong. To be truthful, he’s done the same things to me, but when somebody’s lying in front of you, and they might die, well, you can’t really be thinking about things like that.

   Besides, when he does that to me, it’s because he can. I’m the one person who understands, the one on whom he can take out his frustrations without the fear that I’m going to stop being his friend, stop loving him, overreact, or take it personally.

   I’m glad I didn’t record that, what I just said. If Starsky heard me say that he’d sit up and yell and me and tell me to stop being a dumb blond.

   I wonder what he would do, if the situation here were reversed. I know he would carry it off a lot better than I am, that’s for sure. He’s got a lot of class, my partner, and a lot of grace. And he’s smarter than I am in so many, many ways. I learn from him each and every day. Have I ever actually said that to him?

   I try again. "Hey, Starsk, you know what?" I’m so glad they took him off the vent. At least he’s breathing on his own, that’s something, right? His bottom lip is all chapped, though, and I run my thumb across it gently, feeling the roughness, the dryness where it rubbed, where the tape was. That’s got to be uncomfortable. I could get some Vaseline for that, or some Chapstick.

   I reach up, then, and brush my fingers through the dark curls that are just every which way today. I need to remember to bring him a comb or something tomorrow. Because he’ll still be here tomorrow. Won’t he? "I have no idea why I’m doing this, Starsk. I feel like the biggest geek in the world, sitting here next to you, talking to you, talking into this tape recorder. Talking to you doesn’t make me feel like a geek, that’s not what I mean, but I’m sure you get that. Or you will. When you wake up." I lean over, up against the bed, watching him. "Right?"

   I continue, and my voice is a lot softer. "Could you wake up, Starsk? Could you do that for me? Because I’m—I’m just real close to losing it here." I take a deep breath and the words rush out of me before I am able to stop them. "I know how much you hate soapy scenes, Starsk, but I d-d-don’t—" Fucking stutter, damn it. Try again.

   "We’ve been together a long time, haven’t we, buddy? I think we’ve lasted longer than most marriages do, honestly. I wonder why that is? Maybe because I’m one hell of a good guy, and a souper cop." I smile down at him. "But so are you, Starsk. It clicked with us right from the beginning and it’s—I don’t know—weird, because we’re so different in so many ways. But yet there’s always been that—I mean—I respect you, Starsk. You’re the smartest person I know, and the cleverest when it comes to—to—you know—pretty much everything." I lean down real close to his ear. "Particularly Latin dancing." That makes me laugh. "No one can dip like Ramon, huh, Starsk? Well, I can do it, but I'll take out half the chorus line in the process."

   I clear my throat yet again. "It’s like, sometimes we get so caught up in the day to day stuff we’re doing that we don’t ever address the real issues, I guess, talk about the things that really matter to both of us. But since I’ve been agonizing over what I want to say here," I say softly, closing my eyes, "I’ve come to a couple of conclusions about us. "I think there are a lot of things about you and me, me and thee, that go without having to be verbalized. We pick up the pieces for each other, over the big stuff, you know?" My eyes are still closed, but they still hurt, they burn, and I rub them hard, then drop my hand back to rest on Starsky’s head. "Terry, Gillian, Forest, Pardee, those idiots in the Italian restaurant, all those times we—I—and what I’m trying to say, I think, is—" This is ridiculous. I’m babbling.

   "Even though we don’t always say those things, define those things, they’re there. Every single day they’re there. It can be something as complex as tearing the world apart to find each other when one of us is in trouble, like—I don’t know, when Marcus had you, or when I was trapped down in that canyon a couple of years ago, but it’s also the simple things, those little gestures—like—the thoughtful things, the way you stopped at that crazy deli on Melrose and bought me chicken soup a few weeks ago when I was coming down with the flu. We always do that stuff for each other, and we always have."

   "I guess that’s one of the things that’s the hardest for me to take right now." I laugh harshly. "Like the rest of this isn’t bad enough. There is nothing I can do about this. Nothing. Not a thing. I’m helpless. My hands are tied. My heart is—"

   My voice is real quiet, and I know it sounds full of tears. That’s because it is, and Starsky will know that.

   "The thing is, Starsk, that what I’d like most of all in the world right now is for this not to have happened. I want to have you back. I know that’s a lot to ask of you right now. Maybe it’s too much. I know that if you come back now, after all this, things might not be the same—for you, for us. It might take a long time till they are, if they ever are. I can’t lie to you about that. I won’t lie to you."

   "But whatever the limitations are, the restrictions—I'll be right there with you, helping you, fighting alongside you, doing everything I can to make the pain go away, to make things be as much like they were as I possibly can. We can make it work, I promise."

   My voice is hitching now, and it’s hard to get the words out. It’s hard to think them even without trying to say them loud enough that he could possibly understand them around the tears and the grief that I can’t push back any longer. One more shuddering breath.

   "But, Starsk," I trail my fingers across his forehead, and down the side of his head. I give his shoulder a little squeeze so he knows that I mean what I’m saying. I do mean it. "If you c-c-can’t, if it’s too much and you need to go, it’s—I—I understand. Whatever you n-n-need to do, you do, you go if you have to, and I'll be right there to back you up because," I can’t see now, because my eyes are just—I run my hand over my face, hard, and I wipe the tears on my jeans. I rest my chin on Starsky’s arm, and I know my voice is almost a squeak. Deep breath. "I'll be right there to back you, Starsk, because that’s what partners do. Okay?" I turn off the tape recorder.

   Suddenly my eyes are dry. How did that happen? I squeeze his shoulder again, and I sit up a little straighter, blinking. I can see out into the hallway, and the nurse is coming back in. I give her a nod, and she sits down with her book, where she was sitting before. I wrap the microphone cord around the tape recorder, and ease it into the bedside drawer.

   I’m sitting here, looking down, wondering what his decision is going to be. "I don’t know what to do, Starsk," I say. "I’m pushin’ the odds. I don’t know what to do." It’s funny. After all that? Now I can’t quite look at his face. I think I’m afraid to see something there that I don’t want to see, like he’s going to do what I just gave him permission to do. I glance down, real quick, and then look away again. "I mean, what if…what if."

   I sigh. "Oh, man, what’m I talkin’ about?" I get up and start to move around the bed. I’m sore, and cramped, and I feel defeated. "What am I talkin’ about?"

   I turn around and look back and—his eyes—they’re—I can’t—are they–open? Looking at me? Blinking? I’m—I don’t–

   "–Starsk?" I say, in a voice that doesn’t even sound like me. "Starsky?"

THE END