Wilderness Therapy

777

Who needs the therapy more? Starsky or Hutch as they head to yet another cabin in the woods.

Post Sweet Revenge.

---

Then a woman said, Speak of Joy and Sorrow.
And He answered:
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your
laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being,
the more joy you can contain.

*******

And a woman spoke, saying, Tell us of Pain.
And He said:
Your pain is the breaking of the shell
that encloses your understanding.
     –From The Prophet,  by Kahlil Gibran

****************************************

I found myself flat on my back, warmth leaving my body. Turning my head, I saw Hutch kneeling next to me.

“Hold on, buddy,” he said, with a scared look on his face.

I heard Dobey screaming for an ambulance and turned my head to see him kneeling on the other side of me, both his hands on top of my chest and applying pressure. Beyond him, people were scurrying around in one giant blur, making me feel sick.

My eyes began to shut and I gasped for air.

“Starsky!” I felt Hutch’s breath, a rush of panic in my ear. “Keep your eyes open. Come on, partner. You’ve got to do this for me.”

Turning back to Hutch, I tried to say his name but words wouldn’t come; only a warm wetness came bubbling to my lips.

“No…no…no…don’t try to talk.” Hutch’s voice was muffled. “Help is coming. Just stay with me.”

A sudden severe pain in my chest and back made me arch up off the ground. My left arm went numb, yet I felt Hutch squeeze my hand.

The parking lot faded away to the image of a long black limo driving through black wrought-iron cemetery gates. The driver was Huggy, and next to him sat Hutch.

My dream changed gears again. Something was wrong. I felt strange, like I was holding onto the edge of a cliff about to lose my grip. But I wasn’t hanging from a cliff. I was standing next to a mound of dirt, dressed in a dark blue suit wearing a red and white striped tie. Hutch was there standing next to me, but I couldn’t get his attention. All I could do was watch his shoulders shake in crippling, uncontrollable sadness.

I tried to talk but a screeching ear–piercing sound brought me to my knees. I was hurt, scared, begging for every breath, and Hutch didn’t even twitch a muscle. Just stood ram-rod straight, arms at his sides, fists clenched, and stone faced.

Then the sky opened up to a bright light and a set of steep stairs appeared. Something happened to make the pain stop. I was numb, a river of ice flowing through my veins. I had the urge to climb the stairway and never look back.

Slowly, I climbed to the seventh step, but something pulled at my heart, causing me to hesitate on the eighth stair. I abruptly turned to look back at Hutch, and the pain came back. I felt dizzy, stumbling, falling, then floating, the bright light fading into darkness.

My last thought was I was glad it was me — not him.

*******************************************

The floating feeling left, and I felt myself getting real heavy. I gasped and my eyes flickered open. Realizing I’d been dreaming of what Hutch and I had come to call ‘that day’ — the day an automatic weapon pointed out a police cruiser and specially delivered three bullets to my chest.  I quickly closed my eyes, debating if I should go back to sleep. I lay very still, trying hard to remember what it was I’d  just remembered about that day.

My flashbacks and dreams were random, like a cracked kaleidoscope, surreal, and mixed-up. You’d think the events of the shooting would be permanently engraved in my mind, yet I couldn’t remember much of anything, and Hutch refused to talk about the event in any amount of detail.

My dreams were vivid enough, but the moment I woke up, most of what had happened faded into the woodwork. I always thought ‘what if’ I could change my dream world in my subconscious — therefore changing my real world — so that the shooting never took place.

All I could remember was laying flat on my back on the police parking garage ground. Lying in my own blood, cold, and in pain, and the scared look on Hutch’s face, but that was as much of my memory as I could grasp.

All I wanted to do now was to get back to my fighting weight, and fill in that huge blank white spot in my head. One minute I was laughing and licking my lips in anticipation of  my free dinner — the next I was lying in a hospital bed with tubes sticking out of places where tubes were not meant to be, and watching Hutch dance the jig with some nurse.

One minute I was up, moving, feeling the best I’d felt in years — the next — I was a prisoner and I hadn’t even done anything wrong. I couldn’t eat, drink, dress, or use the bathroom alone. One minute I was hearing good job, Starsky. At-a-boy, Starsky. Congratulations, Starsky. The next, I was hearing healing takes time, Starsky. The pain will go away, Starsky. You need to take these pills, Starsky. And if one more person told me how lucky I was — I might have to commit myself to Cabrillo for electric shock treatment. Hell, I know I was lucky. I just wanted my life back. The way it was. The way it should be. I wanted my partner back. The way he was. The way he should be.

I wasn’t so sure I liked this ‘new’ Hutch. Overprotective, edgy, pain pouring silently out of his pale blue eyes.

When I was in the hospital I had repeatedly asked Hutch about that day. He wouldn’t talk to me about the shooting. Said he wanted to block out the memories. I could always read Hutch’s mind across ten-thousand miles of ocean, desert, mountain, or telephone. It was obvious he was blaming himself. I had to get it through his head shit happened and you just sort of happened with the shit. That day was no one’s fault. Except maybe, Gunther’s.

For me, the whole incident felt like more than a lifetime ago. In reality, that day was only four short months ago, yet I still found myself flat on my back. Only this time I didn’t lay upon the cold pavement, unable to properly breathe, shot up like a paper target and bleeding my life away.

Instead, I fond myself in a small house made out of simple sticks, only one huff and one puff away from a misplaced storybook character blowing the whole damn cabin down. Okay, so I was exaggerating. The area did have a peaceful quality, surrounded by a forest of tall trees, a small pond to the left, and to the right sitting dead center of a bug infested grassy field,  a large pile of stacked logs waiting to be cut.

Hutch insisted we needed a getaway from well meaning friends, newspaper reporters, and doctors. Something with a spectacular view.  Something away from big city lights, big city sounds, dirty ghetto alleys, thick smog, blood, gunfire — and his own pain, I assumed. What I don’t think Hutch realized was you can’t escape what’s inside of you. That’d be like trying to detach from your own shadow — ain’t gonna happen.

We ended up here in a small cabin up in the foothills, where your closet neighbor was a family of fury creatures chattering in the pines. This log home was much nicer than the Dobey place, I had to admit. No kitchen sink leaks, faulty light switches, or cold showers because the hot water heater needed to be repaired, and most importantly, no Satanic witch doctors in red-hooded cloaks.

Besides all that, this cabin was only six miles down the gravel road to the nearest town; which just happened to be the home for one of the best hospitals in California. Hutch wanted all the comforts you find in the woods. Pine cones, water, trees, bugs, bushy tailed rats, and droopy-faced moose. All not far from modern day man. Just in case I should take a nose-dive and  try to step out on him again.

Hutch got exactly what he wanted — and he got it in spades.

Where the Dobey’s place was a small one bedroom cabin, with a tree in the backyard as an outhouse, this cabin was large and nearly brand new. So new you could still smell the freshly cut pine logs. There were two queen-sized beds, located in two separate and  neatly decorated bedrooms that shared a main bathroom. Hutch’s favorite room was a well-stocked gourmet kitchen.

My favorite room — if I had to choose one — was a spacious living area with a large stone wood burning fireplace, a  color television set and stereo with turntable. All the furniture in the cabin was overstuffed, the color scheme earth tones, greens, browns, and reds. I sighed. Outside, was primal and rustic, the back to nature stuff Hutch loved. Inside was warm and finely decorated. Even I was impressed. I dubbed it: The Beverly Hillbilly’s meet Daniel Boone — after ‘Ol Jeb became a millionaire.

Hutch was especially happy about the private bubbly hot tub, saying how I could relax and loosen my tight sore muscles. Private, he called the Jacuzzi. The glass enclosed back porch was surrounded by woods and wildlife — how private could that be? I didn’t need some peeping deer, bear, or moose taking notes of all my ‘Starsky’ amenities.

Hutch had cleared the ‘getaway’ with my doctor. Doctor Jamison said the fresh air and quiet would do me good. As long as I didn’t overdo things and kept up on my regimen of rest, pills, exercise, and healthy food. That is if you called sipping orange juice and mashed potatoes through a straw healthy. Seems my stomach couldn’t handle too much else yet.

I hadn’t seen Hutch happy in a long time, until he started to plan this little shindig. He said life didn’t get much better than being in the great outdoors, calling our getaway ‘wilderness therapy.’

I just called it, ‘sick.’ Yet, if fresh air and pine cones ministered to my partner’s mental recovery, and  I could skip a few physical therapy sessions — those two facts alone made the trip all seem worth while.

I knew it was morning when I peeked open one eye and looked out the window to see the mist curling around the tree trunks and drifting up off the small pond just outside my window.

That first morning stretch was still a doozy. I had gotten pretty good at hiding my pain in a great big strong box most days. I collected each twinge, stab, jab, and skipped heartbeat like I was collecting bottle caps or marbles. Stuffed the pain deep inside my box, and sat on the lid when the worst of the hurt tried to bust out. My plan worked terrific with the poking and prying doctors. Got me out of the hospital two weeks earlier than expected.

My partner was another story. If I could read him over ten thousand miles  — he could read me from another universe, galaxy, or deepest darkest black hole.

I sighed and rolled to my side. The queen-sized bed was one of the softest I’d ever slept on, much softer than my hospital bed. Still, the mattress didn’t ease my morning pain. Shifting onto my other side caused a sharp stabbing to shoot through my left shoulder.  I clinched the sheets in my right fist producing several loud grunts.

“Take it slow.” A quiet voice to my left drew my eyes slowly open.  

Hutch was already awake, sitting in a chair in a far corner of the room sheepishly smiling at me.

“Any slower and I’d be  dea –” Seeing the smile fall from Hutch’s face, I bit my lip. “What’s for breakfast?” I changed the subject, trying to show a sizable interest by licking my lips, but really not feeling hungry at all.

Hutch had been trying to pork me out for weeks now, and still, I  hadn’t even gained an ounce of my previous weight. I could tell this frustrated and worried him, but most days my stomach was like a meat grinder chopping itself up, and eating was the last thing on my mind.

“Oatmeal and juice.” Hutch stood and walked over to my bedside.

“Terrific.” I felt the corner of my lip curl in disgust. Would I ever have a taste for real food again? No more cold pizza and root beer for me.

“It’s good for you.” Hutch tousled my hair with his free hand, juggling a sketchpad with the other.

Hutch had brought along his art supplies. From blank canvases and charcoal pencils, to watercolors, and an assortment of brushes.

“What were you doing?” I gestured toward the sketchpad he flipped closed.

Hutch looked at me a moment with those big baby blues that can capture you and pull you in. “Nothing,” he finally said, stuffing the sketchpad under his arm. “Orange or apple?” he asked.

“Apple.” I slowly scooted against the headboard.

“Coming right up.” His smile was back as he gently placed a pillow behind my back and quickly left the room.

“Mmmmm,” I half groaned. “Nothing, huh? We will see about that, blondie.”

*******************************

After breakfast, Hutch and I went for our morning walk, which was usually done at a slow and steady pace and with few words. The hike was designed to build my strength up a little each day. We’d been at the cabin two out of the four weeks scheduled, and I hadn’t felt much stronger. Once, there was a time I could cover several miles in the blink of an eye. Now I felt like I could only crawl, my slowest pace since I was probably six months old. It really frustrated me.

The long and winding path we walked was narrow, the air filled with the heavy scent of Hutch’s greenhouse. The trail was lined on either side with large trees, the home of many chirping birds. The thick foliage built a canopy overhead, filtering the sun down between the leaves, causing white spots to dance and mingle upon the dry dirt like a disco ball’s lights.

‘Water and trees. Trees and water.’

Trees — I never understood them before the shooting. Now I understood them all too well. Trees had roots, and I now knew exactly what that meant. They were stuck in one spot, unable to move forward or backward, only able to sway in limbo — at the mercy of the wind. That day I was a tree. Rooted to my spot, unable to move.

Birds — I wanted to be a bird. Birds had wings, and I watched with jealousy as they sang happily and flapped their feathers, freely going wherever they desired, able to fight the wind, able to move at a moment’s notice.

Water — water could heal, or just as easily destroy.

Hutch had told me this path we walked was our own personal paradise and at the end of paradise was a large deep blue lake. I hadn’t been able to go the distance yet. Everyday we went a little farther, getting closer and closer to the edge. Hutch, all the while kept reassuring me when we finally reached the end of the path, everything that day had taken away would sink to the bottom of that lake — never to surface again. Hutch is a poet.

Poets — their souls beat faster than their hearts. The moments Hutch cherishes most are the simple things. But having a poet’s heart can also be like crashing through glass naked. Hutch crashed through glass that day. Sharp shards tumbling through his blood. My partner feels every hurt, deeply, and his guilt takes him down to the ground harder and faster than any automatic fire ever could.

Out of the corner of my eye I watched Hutch. We’d both been through hell, but I didn’t realize how badly that day had shaken Hutch until we came here. Maybe I was too involved with trying to live to notice. Hutch probably didn’t think so, but his so called ‘wilderness therapy’ was just as much for him as it was for me — more so even.

Taking three bullets in the chest was a terrifying experience. One I wouldn’t wish on anyone.  I remember feeling like I was outside myself. I could hardly see or breathe and everything echoed like I was in a deep cave. I didn’t think I was going to make it off the pavement.

But I held on to one thing — I held on to Hutch — like he had asked of me.

I overcame the seemingly impossible odds and lived. But all that ‘holding on’ to Hutch did something to my partner. His blue eyes seemed to have faded just a little bit more. His laughter was not as strong as it once was. His shoulders were just a little more hunched. His golden hair was thinning and graying along his temple. And when he walked beside me, I could feel his tension. Hutch couldn’t or wouldn’t talk much about the shooting, couldn’t just relax, couldn’t uncurl his clenched fists, not even the tiniest bit. He was a bundle of nerves, neither one of us able to escape the pain of that day. I had to live with  the pain of an imaginary knife in my chest, and Hutch, Hutch’s heart just wasn’t there like it used to be. The passion, the drive, gone, his heart broken, corroded by guilt. Didn’t he know broken hearts still beat?

“Starsky, stop staring at me,” Hutch said, breaking into my thoughts.

“Why? Ever since that day you’re always staring at me.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Hutch, we gotta talk. When did you come to think you had to be some sort of galactic super hero? Your only mission to defend the galaxy, me being the galaxy, against ruthless evil doers?”

“Starsky, you read too many comic books.”

I was tired of this new Hutch. Up and down like a roller coaster. Always on the defensive around me. Always carrying around a whip and a chair, no matter where we went. As if a pride of man-eating lions would jump out from behind a tree, a dumpster, a file cabinet, a cardboard cut-out of Mr. Wimple and his incredibly soft Charmin, and swallow me whole.

“Hutch.” I stopped in my tracks. I had to get Hutch to talk. To accept what happened. To swallow his guilt. “We need to talk about that day.”

“No. Not now,” Hutch said coolly.

“No!” I said angrily. “Not now? I’ve had it up to here…” I raised a hand to my neck and made a quick cutting motion. “…with not now. It’s always ‘not now,’ Hutch.” I stared into his eyes, face to face with the demons that threatened to devour my best friend from the inside out. “If not now…when?” One handed, I grabbed the front of his shirt in frustration.

“Starsky,” Hutch whispered softly. “Let go of my shirt.” My edgy buddy was anything but soft. He was standing next to me, but not really there. I was enjoying the view, but he was fighting the storm. Hutch’s storm. I could feel every inch of him tighten up into a tiny ball as if the seven seas in all their fury bore down on him.

I gripped tighter, knowing Hutch was restraining himself. Knowing, right now, he was stronger than me. Knowing, he could easily bat my hand away with one swipe.

“Not now,” he repeated, but didn’t move a muscle.

“When?” I asked, letting go of his shirt.

Hutch didn’t answer, just hung his head and kicked a pine cone off the dirt trail with the toe of his hiking boot.

My heart heard his answer.

Never.

This was one of the few unguarded moments since I’d left the hospital that I’d actually brought up that day. I decided to push a little further.

“Blondie, how long are you going to beat yourself up over this.” It wasn’t a question. “I got shot. You didn’t. We’re both alive.”

Hutch seemed stunned, and swayed a little as if I’d just clotheslined him.  “I know that,” he said, trying not to let his voice quiver.

“Hutch,” I said, watching my partner shrink before my eyes. Hutch is taller than me until he  hunches his shoulders in defeat — I hate when he does that. “We need to talk about what happened, blondie. I can see it’s tearing you up inside.”

“Not today.” Hutch scuffed at the dirt with his boot, this time only kicking up dust. He looked like he’d run for the border just to escape my words.

“Relax, partner,” I whispered, seeing his fists clench tighter. “It’s just me and a few unsaid words we’re talking about here.”

“Starsky.” Hutch stopped scuffing and looked at me, his facial expression anything but serene. “I … I can’t,” he muttered.

“You know my father always told me only cowards say ‘I can’t.'” The words were out of my mouth before I could think, and I watched as Hutch visibly cringed.

“Shit,” I swore under my breath, knowing I’d pushed too far. “Hutch, I didn’t mean –”

“Yes! Yes you did, Starsky,” Hutch said in a tight voice, his eyes misting over.

“Hutch, come on. You know –”

“No, I don’t know!” Hutch drew back up to his full height, his eyes no longer misty but on fire. “I need –” he pressed his lips together, turned, and took several steps away from me.

“Where are you going?”

Hutch paused, shrugged his shoulders and took in a deep breath. “Look, Starsky,” he said not turning around. “It’s not that far back to the cabin. You can make it back on your own. I need to be alone.”

“Where are you going?” I asked his back.

“The lake,” he said, in a whispery-thin voice.

Not saying another word, Hutch jogged swiftly away with swan-like grace, only his hands still scrunched in a ball pumping at his sides.

For a moment I stood beneath the trees, and the universe hushed as I watched him disappear down the winding trail. The bright sunlight had faded behind a large cloud as if Hutch had taken the golden light along with him.

I suddenly felt scared, numb, and alone. Another flashback of that day flared and rotated through my mind. Everything after I hit the ground seemed to move in slow motion, muffled, and disconnected.  Dobey was on one side of me, his hands soaked in blood — my blood.  On the other side, Hutch hovered over me. He was shaking uncontrollably, his hand trembling as he picked my hand up and held tight. I tried to say something, but a warm substance bubbled into my mouth and I choked. Hutch’s face was pale and he had a horrified look in his eyes; the kind of shocked horror you see on someone who is begging to be woken from their nightmare, but knowing that won’t happen — knowing this is no dream.

Drawing a breath to rid myself of the flashback, I stumbled back, and swayed a little off my feet. The debilitating fear and guilt I’d witnessed  in my partner’s eyes haunted me and made me sicker than any gut eating bullets ever could.

Tears formed in the corners of my eyes as I turned and took five strides back toward the cabin. Abruptly stopping, I  peered over my shoulder, for the first time realizing what every cop’s heart eventually comes to realize. There would never be a beginning without an end. No understanding without doubt, And no heroes without victims.

Hutch and I were both victims that day. I wiped the moisture from my eyes, swallowed, then turned, heading in the direction of the lake. I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t let the fact I caught an arsenal of bullets and he didn’t slip into our lives and change us forever.

*********************************************

I’d been walking for awhile now and figured I was in the home stretch, the lake couldn’t be much further. I struggled and fought the pain in my chest, feeling very tried. The wind blew and a few times I thought a gust might just snatch me up and carry me away. The birds still chirped and fluttered overhead, the sound no longer a song of joy but shrill and full of pity.

Pity for the man who could barely walk alone in the shadow of his own misery. The sun had not reappeared. Every now and again my right heel would drag in the dirt and I’d stumble. I could feel perspiration slowly roll down the sides of my face as if I’d been running a marathon. I started to wheeze, feeling out of breath, the menace of carrying around an injured lung building higher and higher making me tremble.

Me, David Starsky, a cop who put on a badge nearly a lifetime ago, who solemnly swore to uphold the laws of this country and protect the rights of others — trembling. Trembling like the leaves in the trees above me — at the mercy of the wind. And for what? Why did I tremble so?

Because I was running a mile in the blink of an eye, dragging down a cocaine dealer to the cement?

No.

Because I’d come across a bullet-riddled body lying in a twisted heap of flesh alongside the railroad tracks in the dead of night?

No.

Because the lady I loved took a bullet in the brain and died — because of me?

Hell, no!

I trembled just because my weak body wanted to get to the lake and couldn’t.

Stupid, huh?

My eyes burned with tears, and with the back of my arm I forcefully scrubbed them away, urging my fragile legs to keep moving. I needed to prove to Hutch and to myself I could do such a simple task. Besides that, Hutch and I needed to talk. I didn’t mean to let that bit about what my father told me slip out. Hutch was anything but a coward. I was the coward. I was the one who couldn’t.

Hutch, I can’t reach the towel, can you hand it to me. Hutch, I can’t get out of bed, can you lend me a hand. Hutch, I can’t sleep. Hutch, I can’t move. Hutch, I can’t make it to the john. Hutch, I can’t take the pain. Hutch, I can’t go another step. Hutch, I can’t be your partner anymore.

I couldn’t even take a simple walk to some lousy lake at the end of a lousy dirt path. I took a couple gulps of air, trying to calm my nerves, when suddenly my left leg went right while my right leg went left as if I was playing some bizarre Twister game. Both legs seemed to detach from my torso and I took a tumble to the ground. I tried to break my fall but landed first to my knees. My elbows plowed through the dirt, and my right cheek scrapped across a rock. Pain sped through me and everything blurred, my head lolling between my shoulders. Stunned, I couldn’t move, taking in breath after breath and hearing a weak mewl. The sound was like a pathetic lost kitten who’d clawed its way up a tree and now found himself stuck. Not but a moment later, I realized that pathetic lost kitten was me.

My whole body was quivering, but I managed to push myself up to my feet and stagger over to a large tree. Extending both arms, I braced myself against the rough bark of the trunk. I winced when I saw the damage I’d done to my elbows and my best pair of jeans; which now had two large holes ripped in the knees. My elbows seemed to have taken the worst of the fall, scraped raw with dirt, and leaves sticking to the blood oozing out and running down my arms. The sight of the oozing fluid sickened me.

With bodily urgency, I hung my head, trying to angle away from my shoes as I scattered half my breakfast onto the forest floor. Once again the ‘can’t’ word came to the forefront of my mind. I can’t take another step. I had no energy. My legs felt deadened, barely able to keep me standing. Everything was a muted haze. I could only cling to the tree, unable to go forward toward the lake or backward toward the cabin.

“Hutch, I can’t,” I gasped in despair.

“Starsky!” Someone shouted in an angry tone. “What the hell!” As if on cue, the distinct blond blur of my partner was at my side.

“I got jumped by a couple of flying rats,” I joked, trying to quell his anger.

“Squirrels,” Hutch corrected.

“Whatever. They got me the moment I stepped around the corner of a Sequoia. Tried to hit me up for a couple nuts.”

“What do you think you were trying to prove?” Hutch demanded grabbing me around the waist.

“Told ’em, sorry, I’m  fresh outta  nuts,” I said, purposely ignoring his question and trying to laugh, but instead ended up taking in a few rigorous breaths to control my pain.

“Sit down,” Hutch demanded, trying to ease me down. “Anything broken?”

“No.” I resisted, sick and tired of being treated like one of Hutch’s delicate flowers.

“Starsky, damnit! I’m gone for an hour and a half and look what happens. I told you to go back to the cabin. Why can’t you ever listen to me?” Hutch tried to strong-arm me to the ground. “I said, sit down.”

“I’m not a kid! And you’re not my second grade teacher!”

I fought to pull away, but Hutch seemed to tower over me, and I never was any match against my partner when he got like this. He was hot verses my cold — still I tried.

“I said get down!” he yelled angrily.

Those two words triggered a wave of panic as they zinged through my mind. Should I get down…there was no time to think…no place to go…I wouldn’t survive…but I had to make sure Hutch did… I stayed standing….took the bullets. The flashback made me go limp, and I had no choice but to allow Hutch to sit me in the dirt.

“I can take care of myself,” I sputtered in exasperation.

“You’re exhausted.”

“Jus’…needto…catch m’breath,” I slurred.

“You also need to stop bleeding.”

Those words sparked more images. Blood spilling from my body and fighting the cold fingers of death.

I shook away the sick image, seeing Hutch with that same scared look on his face.

“What’d you do to your arms?” he asked.

“Rock jumped out in front of me,” I said, being sure to keep a straight-face.

“You tripped?” Hutch glowered as he started to examine me head to toe. “Two bloody elbows, two scraped  knees, a bruised cheek, you’re out of breath and…”

“And!” I cut Hutch off. “I’m fine.”

“You’re going to the hospital!” Hutch threatened me with his index finger. “Hutch, are you crazy?”

“Technically not.”

“Look, I just skinned my elbows. I don’t need a hospital.”

“Does your chest hurt? How’s your shoulder? How long have you been like this? Do you feel any dizziness? Shortness of breath?” Hutch ticked off each question like a broken clock.

Instead of answering, I let the seconds tick by, concentrating on not breathing with shortness of breath, and giving my partner a flat vacant stare as he pitched his fit.

“Starsky, damnit, answer me.”

“No, to all the above,” I bluffed in as strong a voice as I could muster.

“Don’t patronize me,” Hutch scowled.

“Don’t baby me!” I scowled back. “I said, I’m okay. Hutch. You gotta back off I can breathe on my own — don’t need you to do it for me.”

Hutch sighed and broke eye contact, his gaze quickly darting away. I could tell he was trying to hide the hurt my words had just caused him.

“Oh, man,” I said in near whisper as a queasy-feeling agitated my stomach. For a while in the hospital, I wasn’t breathing on my own. I think at the time Hutch figured he was doing that for the both of us — still was. I felt like a real bastard. “Hutch, I’m sor–”

“Shh,” Hutch muttered, lifting both my arms to examine my elbows. “You’re pretty chewed up. Can you walk?” Hutch asked, able to finally make eye contact with me.

I cringed. I’ve seen that look before on him. Hutch was angry, tired, and defeated, but I didn’t make mention of those things, only chuckled and said, “Where’s the road?”

“You’re sitting on it, dummy,” he said, trying hard to keep a straight face. “C’mon.” Hutch pulled me up effortlessly, and I stumbled to my feet.

My coordination wasn’t very good, the blood rushing to my head, tilting me against Hutch.

 “Easy. Hold on to me,” he said gently.

“That…” I gritted my teeth. “…Is the problem,” I said under my breath.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I muttered, recognizing the debilitating sensation of pain in my chest. I tried to hide the fact my legs felt like a wet paper cup. “I’m hungry.” I changed the subject to distract him. “After lunch, do I still get dessert?”

“You’ll have to talk to the cook about that, Starsk.” Hutch gave a snort.

“That hothead?” I asked, trying to hide the stiffness in my body and ease Hutch’s worry.

“I have a gut feeling he’ll let the whole thing slide.” Hutch smiled, but I still didn’t like what I saw in his eyes

“I get that feeling too, Hutch.”

Hutch was about to put an arm around my waist to help walk me back to the cabin.

“I got it.” I stepped out of his reach.

“Okay, buddy,” Hutch said, and I could see the glint of doubt in his eyes.

For awhile we walked in silence down the sun-spotted path. Me, trying not to show how bad off I really was, and Hutch once again clenching his fists, trying not to mother me.

A sharp pain in my chest made me stop.

“Starsk, you need me to –”

“I got an itch,” I bluffed again. “Damn bugs,” I said, scratching vigorously at the fake itchiness on my forearm.

That glint of doubt was back in Hutch’s eyes, hell it never left, he knew I was faking, but my partner is the master of diplomacy.

“Damn shoe strings undone.” Hutch dropped to one knee, giving me time to get my bearings.

There’s no way to nonchalantly drive air in and out of your lungs. And there’s no way to nonchalantly untie and retie your shoes. Yet, Hutch pretended to do just that, taking his time making bunny ears and not saying a word.

I kept scratching, feeling embarrassed and thinking I couldn’t take another step, but not wanting to tell that to Hutch.

Having faked tying his shoe for an unbelievable amount of time, Hutch rose to his feet.

“Bugs are bad around here this time of year,” Hutch said, patting my tummy. “You know, Starsky, there’s a little trick to keeping them away.”

“Yeah, what’s that?” I panted.

“There’s safety in numbers. If we walk close together, and I mean really close,  they wouldn’t dare try to attack anymore.” Hutch grinned weakly. “What do you say?”

I was already in enough pain, and I know what’s in store if I didn’t buckle — narcotic induced sleep. That thought helped me to buy into my partner’s very tall tale.

“Yeah.” I frowned. “Okay.”

Shrugging, I stuffed my pride just under my thin skin.

“Ready?” Hutch raised his brows.

“Ready.”

Hutch wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me close, and took on my weight.

“You know something, Hutch,” I sighed, feeling some of the pain leave my chest as we took one slow step after another.

“What’s that, Starsk?”

“That ‘bug’ thing is just about the hokiest story I have ever heard.”

Hutch smirked. “So’s the ‘I’ve got an itch,’ ploy.”

“Good. That makes us even.”

*******************************

“Are you feeling any pain?” Hutch asked as he pulled the toilet seat down and lowered me to the lid.

“No!” I looked into his eyes and lied, “Nothing.” My stomach was doing three-quarter loops and something unpleasant was trying to creep up my parched throat.

“Nothing, huh, buddy?” Hutch used the same suspicious tone he used when we interrogated suspects.

I paused to take a breath, still looking Hutch in the eye. I could tell every protective instinct in him was on high alert. “Except for that hole you’re burning into my skull,” I added. Feeling a dribble of blood drip down my cheek, I reached over, taking a few bits of toilet paper and pressing the tissue against the side of my face.

Hutch stopped staring at me, going about the business of gathering up the supplies he would need to mend my wounds.

“Here.” He took my hand away from my cheek, the toilet paper shredding and sticking to my fingers. “Hold this there,” he ordered, pressing a peroxide-moistened washcloth against the side of my face.

“Ouch! That burns,” I complained.

“Really?” Hutch deadpanned.

I should have thrown the washcloth at him and split, but behind the angry voice rang the sound of my partner’s fear. Hutch had had enough difficulty the past few months. Watching me nearly die left a hole in his heart the size of the Titanic — I couldn’t tear that empty space open more, he’d sink for sure.

“Sorry,” I whispered and hung my head.

“Buddy…” Hutch squatted down before me, dabbing at my bloodied knees with a cotton ball.” “Don’t be sorry, just please do what I ask. Okay?”

I could have continued the argument. Hutch had to learn he couldn’t protect me forever. Instead I pasted on a smile, gave a half-salute, and said, “Okay, sir, Capt’n, sir.”

“Okay.”

Hutch groped for some gauze, and I could tell by the expression on his face he didn’t believe me. Hell, I didn’t believe me either.

Hutch performed his nursing duties smoothly and efficiently, while I handled his maneuvers with as few grunts and groans as I could manage.

I held my breath and measured Hutch’s every move. His hands shook as he continued to dab the cotton ball, cleaning up the dried blood on my arms, elbows, and then my knees. He kept his touch light and gentle but pain shot through me. Everything always hurt so much more after the shooting. I bit my lip, but Hutch’s compassion always outweighed the pain. Even in the hospital, his touch comforted me better than any syringe full of morphine could.

“You still mad?” I asked, shifting the leg he was working on.

“Nope.” Hutch shook his head. “Man, Starsk, this is going to take a long time to heal.”

“Just like you, huh?”

Hutch managed a weak grin, accepting my observation.

Hutch was torn between caring for me and allowing me some independence. I knew that. How many times in these last four months had I wished I had gotten down when he had told me to.Who knows. Things happen for a reason. Maybe if I’d gotten down — I’d be dead right now. Still, sometimes I thought anything would have been better than seeing the awful sense of guilt written on my partner’s face.

I had it easier. My pain and my wounds could be fixed with a surgeon’s blade and medication. Hutch’s wounds were invisible — like the wind.

“Hutch,” I paused wanting to say so much and not sure what I really could say. “Thanks,” was all that came out.

“It’s what friends are for.” Hutch gave a half-smile. “Listen, you think you might want something to eat, and then we can play a little chess or cards, maybe use the hot tub?”

“Just give me my pills Hutch,” I said, hearing my own defeat in my tone. “I  jus’ need to lay down on the couch a while.”

Hutch leaned against the vanity and rubbed the back of his neck, looking disappointed. His lips never moved as he stared at me, conversing without words, but I could hear his voice — a whisper in my ear.

‘Starsk, it will get better. I’m not giving up on you. Just don’t want you pushing yourself so hard.’

“‘I know you’ll never give up on me, Hutch, and that is what keeps me going. But you have to ease up on yourself.’ I replied to his unspoken words.

“I know, buddy,” he said, not surprised at all that I had read his mind. “Let’s get you to the couch for a nap, pal.” Hutch stepped away from the vanity, slipped an arm around my waist, and got me to my feet.

Realizing how weak and groggy I really was, I leaned heavily against him. Before I knew it I was lying on the couch, and Hutch was covering me with a thin blanket. He took two steps backward, biting into his lower lip, fists clenched, and observing me, as if he were studying some bizarre Vincent van Gogh  painting.

“I’m fine, Hutch.” My right hand involuntarily moving to rub the ache in my chest.

Without saying a word, Hutch plucked a throw pillow off a chair and handed the cushion to me. The simple gesture nearly made me cry.

“Get some rest,” he said, softly. “When you wake up, we can ask the chef about dessert.”

“Hot fudge sundae,” I requested, pulling the fluffy pillow against my chest, the warmth easing some of my pain.

“I think the chef can manage that.” Hutch studied me closely, unclenching a fist long enough to reach down and gently touch the side of my face that wasn’t bruised.

I knew Hutch was still furious with me, but he wouldn’t  say. Guess he figured we’d had enough drama for the day.

Through hooded eyes, I watched Hutch go to the kitchen, grab a beer from the fridge, and stalk outside.

*********************************

Thump!

Thump!

Thump!

The constant rhythmic sound made me crack open one bleary eye. Gazing up at the knotty pined cross beamed ceiling, I knew exactly where I was…

‘Wilderness therapy.’

Thump!

Thump!

Thump!

The sound continued. Either that was my heart beat or I was dreaming of a giant rabbit ….at least I hadn’t been dreaming about the shooting.

I cracked open my other bleary eye and glanced around the open floor plan, not wanting to think about getting off the couch. Knowing I’d have to listen to every screaming muscle in my body protest the move.

“Hutch?” I called out to the empty cabin.

Thump!

Thump!

Thump!

That was the only response I got. I glanced at the clock, 5 p.m.

“Shit,” I muttered, not believing how long I’d been asleep.

Glancing out a large picture window, the blue sky shone through the white puffy clouds, and the thick grass flowed gently on a breeze. Over the thumping sound I could barely hear the sound of birds chirping to one another. Just past the oversized woodpile, I saw the ethereal glow of my partner’s blond head.

“There you are,” I grunted and tussled with the blanket that had twisted around me.

Easing into a sitting position, and rubbing away the blurriness of deep sleep, I watched as Hutch time after time picked up a chunk of wood, placed the timber on a stump, raised a red-handled ax, and savagely swung the blade down at an angle, causing woodchips to fly in all directions.

Hutch had a look of sharp concentration on his beet-red face, and his shirt was sweat-soaked. The sunlight made him look pale. I could tell he was both angry and exhausted, a beast inside eating away at the very edges of his being, threatening to make him disappear. Yet, Hutch stood tall, using plenty of shoulder and arm strength. The woodpile seemed to shudder in fear each time he reached down to pick up another log to chop. I also felt puny in the shade of Hutch’s strength. Every focused swing was a direct hit, the log splitting in two, both halves thumping to the ground.

I don’t know where he summoned the energy from, but he must have been at the job for hours, as a growing pile of cut logs were neatly stacked off to his right.

Destroying something when you’re angry is a very satisfy feeling especially when you feel destroyed inside yourself. I, of all people, knew that, but I also knew demolishing something was only a quick fix to the problem. .

I cringed, listening to my conscience replay my earlier tongue lashing:

‘You know my father always told me only cowards say ‘I can’t.’

‘Hutch, you gotta back off I can breathe on my own — don’t need you to do it for me.’

Losing patience with your partner and saying the first thing that comes to your mind can create a lot of additional and unnecessary suffering. Hutch and I had suffered enough. We needed to talk, but what could I say. I was still trying to make sense of it all in my own head.

All the good times seemed like long ago, good dreams — tainted now by the bad dreams.

I took a breath and levered myself up off the couch, hoping the floor wouldn’t spin out from under me and shocked when it didn’t. Turning to go use the john, I noticed Hutch’s sketchpad sticking out from under a cushion on a chair.

With shaky hands that showed every blue vein, I leaned forward and pulled the abandoned pad out from hiding.  He’s a great artist. He can capture the world around him with a pencil. I could do the same with a camera.

I felt a little uneasy opening Hutch’s sketchpad. He wasn’t the ‘dear diary’ sort of guy, but his sketchpad was just that, moments in his life. I’ve seen Hutch’s work before. He’s showed me from time to time. But mostly he keeps his work to himself. However, curiosity had me by the balls, and I continued to flip through the pages of warm, skillfully detailed drawings sketched in number two lead pencil.

There was a portrait of Molly and Kiko tossing a ball back and forth at the park. Me, sitting next to the canal feeding the ducks under the shade of a tree. Huggy, hard at work wiping down the counter of his bar. Dobey, spatula in hand, happily anticipating his steak that he cooked out on his grill. Cal, pushing Rosie on a tire swing. Hutch and me, walking side by side arms slung over each other’s shoulders and smiling for all we were worth. Even my car earned a special entry in Hutch’s diary. She looked great. He had every detail correct right down to the license plate. Only thing wrong was the word ‘tomato’ which my dry-humored partner had handwritten across the windshield.

“Funny, Hutchinson,” I chuckled.

I flipped through a few more pages of his life’s portfolio, smiling at the happy times only to suddenly suck in a breath when I got to the last few pages. The fun loving light-hearted  pencil sketches came to an abrupt end.

I studied the next few sketches. The images were done in comic book style but left me feeling bitter and cold.

The first was a drawing of me spinning away from a spray of bullets, an overwhelming look of fear on my face.

The next  thick charcoal image was of me still rooted to my feet, overdosing on that same spray of bullets.

I could scarcely breathe as I turned page after page, not recalling any of this.

Another illustration was of me lying flat on my back on the cement, near the driver side door of my car that was chock-full of bullet holes. But one very important thing was missing — the blood. There wasn’t a drop of the stuff.

I flipped the page to see a self portrait of Hutch, and gasped, a shiver running up my spine.

This sketch was done in dark charcoal and a red colored pencil, the historical facts of the shooting completely reversed. Hutch lay on the ground, his blond head jammed in the wheel well of my car, blood swirling beneath him like a pool of water.

“Oh, my, God,” I took in a deep nauseating breath. I’d never seen so much blood, real or otherwise.

The Torino was shot up like she’d been in a war zone. Red liquid pouring out every bullet hole like wine pouring from one hundred uncorked bottles all at once. Hutch’s white jacket was red, and sodden with blood. His gun had tumbled from his hand and lay only inches from his blood-covered fingertips. Bloody foam and red bubbles leaked out his slightly parted lips and his baby  blue eyes were hollow as carved wood. I could tell just by looking at the drawing, Hutch’s body was too cold and too still to be alive. At the bottom of the paper in Hutch’s handwriting were the words:

Me. Not Thee.

I swallowed hard, my  hands shaking. Although real and hauntingly grim, the drawing was extraordinarily well detailed and clearly the best work I’d ever seen come from him.

The self-mutilating portrait was so transparent — I could feel Hutch’s guilt heft around inside my heart.

“Starsk?”

I lowered the pad and raised my eyes to meet Hutch’s questioning gaze.

He looked at the sketchpad in my hand and frowned deeply. “I-I was looking for that. Wh-where’d you find it?

“Hutch,” I said in a rougher voice than intended. “What the hell is this?”

“Don’t answer a question with a question.” Hutch stalked angrily over to take the pad from my hands. I pressed the drawings to my chest before he could. “Starsk, I didn’t want you to see those.” The intense ache in Hutch’s heart shot out his eyes, and I struggled not to flinch or look away.

“What are these?” I pointed at the drawing. “Why’d you draw these?”

“I thought — I –” The anger left Hutch’s voice, and he looked away. “You’re not ready to know yet,” he mumbled.

“Hutch, what are you talking about?” I looked at the graphic portrait again, silent until a soft sob reached my ears.

“Hutch.” I looked up. “Did you dream this?” Hutch turned back, our eyes met and my breath caught in my throat. “Tell me you dreamed this.”

“No.” He winced slightly. “It’s me. It’s real.”

Hutch reached for the pad, but I held it closer to my chest like a shield of armor. “What do you mean, no? Hutch, are you crazy? I was the one who was shot. Got the scars to prove it.”

“Starsk,” Hutch said gently, his body transforming into a ghost-like light. “You weren’t going to get down. I slid over the hood, buddy,” he said. “Pushed you to the ground.”

I stumbled a step backward. “You’re not. You can’t be. You didn’t…” A frosty chill incased my heart. “No!” Bile crept steadily up my throat. “You didn’t die. Not you,” I sobbed, my heart thumping in my ears as my knees dipped.

“I’m so sorry, buddy,” Hutch said as he faded away.

“Hutch, no.”

Thump.

“Where are you.”

Thump.

“Please.”

Thump.

“Don’t go.”

Thump.

“Hutch!”

I woke with a start, breathing hard and sitting bolt upright, my heart thumping in my ears. Fumbling with the blanket, I listened to the thumping. The sound was softer now and eerie. I glanced out the large picture window, looking out into a grassy field. Over the thumping sound, I could just barely hear the sound of birds chirping to one another. The blue sky shone through the white puffy clouds, and the thick grass flowed gently on a breeze. Just past an oversized woodpile was the sweaty form of my partner. A strange deja vu feeling came over me, watching as Hutch time after time picked up a chunk of wood, placed the timber on a stump, raised a red handled ax, and savagely swung the blade down at an angle causing woodchips to fly in all directions.

“These dreams have got to stop,” I muttered to myself.

That was the worst one yet. I rubbed my eyes with both fists, then slowly rose to quivering legs. Taking in a breath and feeling very thirsty, I put one foot in front of the other and wobbled to the kitchen. Turning on the faucet to let the water run, I reached up to get a glass, realizing I’d broken out in a cold sweat and my heart raced alongside my breath.

I squeezed my eyes shut and groaned my despair. For the second time that day the swirling black hole tried to suck me into its vortex. Instinctively I gripped the edge of the counter and dropped my chin to my chest. I fought the black beast with all I had in me, but my knees buckled and I started to go down.

Suddenly, a strong pair of hands gripped my forearms and held me in place.

“Hey, you okay?” The person who owned the hands asked.

For a moment I didn’t answer, thinking I should just let the beast swallow me. The hands tightened their lock on my arms, steadying me, and sending the black beast retreating into the depths of its cave.

“Te-terrific,” I panted.

“Starsk, what were you doing?”

“Getting a lousy glass of water,” I grumbled, opening my eyes to see Hutch looking at me with worry  –or was that sympathy.

“Starsk, go sit down and let me …”

“Don’t talk to me like that.” “What are you talking about, buddy?” he whispered gently.

“And don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“The way everyone talks to me.  The way everyone looks at me,” I growled, losing all sense of patience. “Like I’m a walking miracle. A ghost with a heartbeat where there should be none.”

At the sight of Hutch’s hurt look, I quickly glanced away from the pale blue eyes. Here it comes. Hutch will guide me back to my spot on the couch,  lower me gently to the cushions like some fragile, dyed completely pink, teacup poodle. He’ll then proceed to pour the water, and bring me two large white pills. I may as well have let the beast drag me back into the cave with it.

“Hutch.” I turned to face him again. “I’m good for noth —

“Starsk.” Hutch gave my arm a squeeze and let go. Hesitating, he took two steps backward. “Look.” His voice was strong now. “You got this handled. I need to grab a shower,” he said then turned and causally walked away.

Straightening my shoulders as much as I could, I took a few breaths and once again reached for the glass.

“Thanks, buddy,” I whispered between clenched teeth.

********************************

Hutch took his shower and two hours later we sat down at the kitchen table to eat a quiet trout dinner. What little of the fish I could eat. Hutch hadn’t brought up what had happened out on the trail, and neither did I. I was glad for that. I wanted to ignore everything about the shooting. Pretend it never happened, and go back to the way life was. A normal life, as normal as any cops life could be. Somehow, I kept thinking if I could get to that lake alone, by my own accord, things could really go  back to my other life. The life I had before the spray of bullets took me to the ground physically and my partner emotionally.

“Starsk, I know I’ve been smothering you and being over protective and I’m sorry about that.”

“Yeah. You have. But I’ve been stubborn too.”

“If I give you a little present, will you forgive me,” Hutch asked.

“You bet,” I answered. “You know how much I love presents.”  I squirmed in my seat.

Hutch reached under the table and pulled out his sketchpad. ” I drew you a –”

“Don’t!” My entire body suddenly went stiff seeing the pad. “Don’t,” I yelled, remembering my horrible dream. “I don’t want to see that!” I was up out of my chair before Hutch could even open his sketch pad.

“Starsky, what the hell is wrong with you?” Hutch pushed away from the table approaching with his artwork still in hand.

“Get that away from me!”

“I backpedaled until I was pressed against the kitchen counter. I didn’t want to see the pictures Hutch had drawn. My dream still fresh in my mind, I didn’t want Hutch to be dead.

My memory that seemed to have been mostly erased suddenly reappeared.

Friendly laughter. Fumbling for keys. A speeding police car. A black shadow poking out an open window. Scalding hot pain slicing through a chest. An echoing voice screaming ‘get down’. A tightening around my neck crushing my throat. I couldn’t breathe. My senses dimmed. I was falling. Where was Hutch? I reached under my right arm fumbling for my gun. I had to protect my partner, he was all I cared about. I called to him, but the sound was mute in my throat as I slammed to the ground, and everything was black.

“Not you, Hutch. No.” My knees caved and I slid at a dizzying speed to my ass on the kitchen tiles.

“God, Starsky.” Hutch was crouched beside me. “What is it? Starsky, talk to me.” His hands gripped my forearms and I flinched. “Easy. Easy. Take it easy. It’s just me, pal.”

Staring at the open sketchpad on the floor. The picture was of me and Hutch fishing in our favorite spot off Seaside Pier. With trembling fingers, I reached for the pad and began to flip through image after image of fun times. Good times. Relaxing times. There was no blood. No death. The last picture was one of me sleeping peacefully, my curls tousled like a mop head. I recognized the cabin bed, realizing Hutch had just recently drawn that one. I flipped through a few more pages just to be sure — blank. They were all blank. There was no gore. No Blood. No dead partner. I let out a huge sigh.

“Starsk, what’s going on?” The hand clamped over my forearm squeezed harder. “You’re scaring me here.”

“I–I thought you were dead.” I looked up into pale blue eyes, forcing the tears back. “I had a dream. You sketched a picture of the shooting. Only it wasn’t me who was dead — it was you.” Hutch’s face blurred as the tears came. “You’re head was jammed in the rear wheel well of my car, blood foaming on your lips and pouring out bullet holes. Blood everywhere. You were a ghost. Dead,” I panted, feeling like I couldn’t breathe.

“Starsk,” Hutch’s voice was whisper soft. “It wasn’t me. You know that. You’re remembering…dreaming about what happened to you, pal.”

I knew I was awake sitting on the cold tile floor of the kitchen, in the cabin, in the woods, but at the same time everything felt so dreamlike. I was afraid to move from the spot.

“Hutch, what if? What if I move and this all ends up disappearing.” I waved a hand around the cabin. “What if you really are dead?” I shuddered. “What if I’m dreaming?”

“Starsk, it’s me. You’re okay. I’m right here.” Hutch raised a hand and pressed his palm to the side of my cheek.

I closed my eyes feeling his warmth, and tried to swallow. Slowly I reopened my eyes, and glanced around the cabin, absorbing every detail.

“You’re here with me, Starsk.”

“What if?”

“Shhh.” A finger pressed to my lips. “You trust me?” I nodded. “What color are my eyes?” Hutch asked.

“Blue.”

“What color is my shirt?”

“Yellow.”

“What color is the tablecloth?”

“Red.”

“Do you dream in color, Starsky?”

“Yes.”

“You would.” Hutch rolled his eyes.

“How’d my trout taste?”

“Super-fi.”

“There you have it. You know you can’t taste in your dreams. Well?” Hutch cocked his head to one side.

“It’s a deep story,” I tired to laugh.

“Huh?”

“Never mind,” I said, realizing my partner was making sense. “Sorry, you’re stuck with a dysfunctional partner.”

“Starsky, the honeymoon was over years ago.” Hutch winked.  “Can you stand?”

“In theory.” I winced. “Give me a hand.”

Hutch slowly coaxed me to my feet and I leaned against the counter, adrenaline pumping out of my system. I looked at Hutch, uncertainty flowing through my veins. “Why won’t you tell me what happened in the parking garage?”

“Starsky.” The lines on Hutch’s face deepened. “What do you want me to say — you were shot. They told me you weren’t going to make it.” Hutch’s face went stony. “Hell, I was scared. The blood,” he half-croaked, obviously not meaning to let that slip out. “I can’t,” he whispered, and  I noticed a tear glinting in the corner of one pale blue eye, but he refused to let the drop fall.

“We’re some pair, huh, blondie?”  Hutch nodded his agreement. “How about asking the chef for that hot fudge sundae now?” I took an unsteady step away from the counter.

“Sounds good.” Hutch draped an arm over my shoulder. “Then maybe we should test drive the hot tub.We’ve been here two weeks and have not touched the thing,” Hutch said. “You and your phobia about being seen by peeping bears is ridiculous. The hot water will do your muscles a world of good.”

“A world of good sounds –” I shrugged. “Well, good.” I forced a smile, and sat back down at the table while Hutch went to scoop us our ice cream.

**************************************

Hutch left me in the hot tub with instructions not to be more than fifteen minutes while he went to tidy up the kitchen. I didn’t know why he fussed so much. He knows I live by the old cliché’ there is always someone worse off than you. Maybe not much worse, but worse. I settled into the water — never was one for a long soak in a tub, but this Jacuzzi was terrific. Water really is healing. Free from the confines of gravity, I felt light as I floated around in the effervescent bubbles, listening to the rattling of dishes and Hutch whistling to the tune of Harbor Lights.

Finding my favorite corner, I leaned my head back and stared out the glass enclosure, relaxing to the sway of the whispering pines that towered toward the sky like a ladder to heaven.

I sighed deeply, feeling as though a load of bricks had been lifted off my chest. Knots inside of knots eased as my soreness morphed into relaxation. It’s not often the pain is barely there. This was one of those special times and I closed my eyes savoring the moment, drifting, only half-conscious of time, and wondering if I’d been hanging around my partner too much and had also become a nature seeker.

I started to dream of a girl with long brown hair and pink lip glossed lips. We were on the beach and I was learning all her curves when a loud noise sounding like someone shaking a tin can full of rocks startled me. I jolted upright, my eyes darting around wildly.

“Hutch,” I sighed in relief when I saw Hutch standing over me with two tall ice-filled glasses of orange juice.

I eased my head back down, feeling a bit fuzzy and wishing I could go back to my all too short dream girl.

“Starsky!” Hutch growled, setting the two glasses on a table before turning to loom back over me. “How long have you been in there?”

“I don’t know, mommy,” I sniped, not missing Hutch’s clenched fists and that look of fear that always crossed his face — the same look that I remembered from that day

“I told you no more than fifteen minutes.” Hutch angrily glanced at his watch. “Damn you, it’s  been thirty-five.”

“So, what’s the problem,” I huffed.

“Look at yourself.”

“What?” I looked down at the scares on my chest. Same geometric pattern. Same array of blue, green, and purple colors. “I seem okay to me. Just a little more wrinkled then normal,” I chuckled.

Hutch didn’t find me amusing. I wrinkled my nose and sighed. Everything I did my partner sat in judgment of. Every little breath, every little bite to eat, every hour I slept, every pill I took, and how long I soaked in a tub, was all mentally logged and branded into Hutch’s brain.

Before I could even think to stand, Hutch was there, a hand to my bicep tugging me out of the hot tub.

“Come on out of there.”

“Geeze, Hutch, you sure know how to squelch a guy’s dream,” I chided, feeling like a two year old as I was helped out of the bubbles.

“How do you feel?” Hutch let go my arm, turning away to snatch a towel hanging over a chair.

“I feel fine.” I rotated my neck. “Water really loosens things –” Out of nowhere, I started to see strange, blue splotches twirling around. A pins and needles feeling came over me and I felt like I was falling backwards — only I was still standing. “Hutch-changed-my-mind,” I rattled, my words slurring together.

“Changed your mind about  wh –” Hutch turned, towel in hand. “– W-w-whoa, partner!” His reflexes still lightning fast, Hutch grabbed each arm and held me up before I could go down.  “Easy. Easy. Sit here,” he said in a far-off voice, maneuvering me easily around until I felt myself being lowered into a chair. “You feel like you’re going to throw up?” The question was a hazy buzz in my ear.

“A little.” I gazed dizzily into pale blue eyes.

“Relax.” Hutch pressed my head forward and rubbed the back of my neck. “Take deep breaths. Slowly, slowly.”

I barely heard Hutch ask me if I was okay, but couldn’t answer — to busy taking deep breaths and trying not to vomit.

“Here, buddy.” A glass was pressed into my hand and raised to my lips. “Drink this.” I greedily gulped at the orange juice.  “Sip it slow,” Hutch crooned.

Fainting happens way too much to me. So does Hutch and his ‘I told you so’ looks.

“Hutch,” I gasped.

“Easy, pal. Just take it easy. The feeling will pass.”

I wasn’t convinced and began to shiver. Realizing I was stark naked, I tried to reach for the towel that lay on the floor by my feet.

“Starsky, where are you going?” Hutch pulled me back. “You still feel sick?”

“No,” I panted. “Someone might see me. ‘Case you didn’t notice, Hutchinson, I’m completely exposed in a room made of clear glass — my amenities flapping in the wind.  What do you think Smokey The Bear would say?”

“From the looks of you — there goes the neighborhood.” Hutch laughed harder than I’d heard him laugh in months, reaching for the towel and handing it to me.

“Funny.” I draped the bright blue sheet around my waist.

“Come on, Starsk.” Hutch brought me to my feet. “Let’s get you and your amenities to bed, buddy.”

“Bed?” I started to complain until the room tilted at a sharp angle. “Uhhh…”I groaned, trying to find some kind of balance.

That ended Hutch’s laughter.

“Starsky!” I could feel Hutch grow tense, yet his touch gentle, arms wrapping around my mid-section in a rush to help me with my balancing act.

“Are we going in circles here?” I swiped the sweat off my forehead with my hand and stared at the wetness on my fingers.

“We’ll find out in sixty-seconds, if we end up right back here where we started,” Hutch said straight-faced, tucking me neatly against his side.

A good pair of pliers couldn’t pull us apart.

“Hutch?” “Yeah?”

“You don’t have to hold so tight.”

“Sorry.”

My stomach felt like it was in the wrong place. I tried my best to ignore it —  no way I was telling Florence Nightingale.

“Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“What do you suppose Smokey will do — now that the neighborhood has gone bad?” I asked jokingly, trying to ease Hutch’s tension.

“Probably go S.W.A.T. on us.”

“Hutch?”

“Shh, Starsky, just keep walking.”

I didn’t say another word. Not because I didn’t want to, I was just too busy trying to coax my stomach back where it belonged.

“Here we go,” Hutch said, when we finally got to my room. “Let’s get you in bed.” Adjusting my weight, Hutch pulled back the sheets. Adjusting my weight a second time, he grabbed both my wrists and lowered me down gently, as if he were shelving his grandmother’s china. “Sleep, buddy.”

“Hutch?” I leaned back into the pillows.

“Yeah?”

“I forgot to take out the garbage,” I mumbled already feeling my lids close. “‘S my job, tonight.”

“Tonight, your job is to go to sleep,” Hutch’s voice became very faint as he covered me.

“Hutch.”

“Yeah.”

“Sweet dreams.”

*******************************

Tall white sails reached for the black storm clouds as the wind heaved and snapped them to and fro. Huge wild waves boomed against the sides of the haul.  The sea wildly rushed up upon the deck, dragging its occupants over the rail and heaving them to the wooden planks, flipping, flopping, fish eyes rolling in their heads, and gills working over time as they slid from one end of the craft to the other. The wind howling through the rigging like a blood-thirsty wolf made me feel vulnerable and small, each pounding wave sounding like mortar shells in my ears. Up and down the ship went, crashing over the black sea. Crashing through a black hole. Hutch. Where was Hutch? The waves turned to sharp shards of glass threatening to slice the ship in half, whispering idle threats in my ear.

A sudden sinking sensation woke me with a start. I was breathing fast and shivering hard. I was dreaming again. Sitting up, I fumbled with the sheets that were wrapped around my waist, and  listened to the sound of my heart slow to a normal pace. Testing my limbs, I found my previous night’s  soak in the tub had given me a bit more mobility.

It was morning. I looked at the alarm clock — six am. The sun was up, the birds were chirping, and I could hear Hutch snoring in the other bedroom — sound asleep.

Pushing the sheets to the floor, I climbed slowly out of bed and padded out into the hallway.

The morning started off as any other. I sat at the kitchen table eating a small breakfast of toast, juice, and coffee. Hutch had left his sketchpad there last night. S sipping my coffee I flipped once again through the drawings. They had been everything I hadn’t expected. Each image showing moments of our lives. Moments of love. Moments of  good times. Moments of laughter, happiness, and joy. Not a single line drawn showed any sign of fear, guilt, or pain. I think drawing, for Hutch, was his way of healing himself. Slow as that healing sometimes seemed.

I sat straighter in my chair. Hutch would always need to guard over me until he could see I could do for myself. Only one way to prove my theory. I knew what I had to do, and now was the time. I got up, made a couple peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and swallowed the large pain pill I knew I would be needing soon. Still feeling the tablet scrape its way down my throat, I filled a canteen of water from the tap.

Quietly, I tiptoed down the hallway and peeked in on Hutch. He stirred uneasily, murmuring something I couldn’t understand, then fell back into a heavy sleep. Hutch wouldn’t be happy about my freedom flight, but it wasn’t like I was going to do something crazy like jump out of a plane, swim the English Channel, or climb the Empire State Building with a beautiful blond gripped in my hand. I laughed at the image, knowing I watched too much television.

Sneaking back into the kitchen, I peered out the open window. It was going to be a beautiful day. I decided I’d better scribble a short note. Opening a drawer, I quickly found a napkin and pen.

Hutch,

Don’t worry. Be back soon.

Starsky

I gathered my packed lunch, Hutch’s sketchpad and pencils, and stuffed them into a small backpack. Opening the door, I swore I could feel Hutch’s hand clamp down my shoulder.

‘Exactly where do you think you’re going?’  his disembodied voice whispered in my ear.

“I can do this, Hutch. Let me try,” I whispered out loud, gingerly closing the door behind me.

I silently snuck past a pair of tricky raccoons that had teamed up to pry the lid off last night’s garbage and made my way down the dirt road.

************************************

The ground beneath my feet was hard and level. The path was an easy flat trail, but already I was huffing and puffing from exertion.

The dirt was bathed in a golden haze, the large trees from above tossed down a few leaves, and the light breeze scattered them about, sort of like the empty thoughts scattering about through my head.

I wished I had my car. I’d have been to the lake and back by now, but guessed that would be called cheating. Besides, I had to junk the Torino. Unlike me, she didn’t make it out alive. I loved that car! She was truly the baddest car on the street. I miss our midnight rides, just me, my car, and the radio. Hutch said we’d go car shopping after this trip, but I wasn’t ready for the big sales pitch.

I stopped to swipe the sweat from my brow. The air seemed thick and made it hard to breathe.  It must be mid-morning, and I’d walked farther than I had ever done with Hutch. Maybe I was directionally challenged. The lake couldn’t be much — like a heat sensitive rocket, a sharp pain struck through my chest. The black dots were back, launching their attack, making my knees quiver. I reached out but there was no tree, no kitchen counter, and no Hutch to latch onto. I dropped to the dirt, my left side connecting with a solid smack, knocking the wind out of me. Closing my eyes, I struggled to drive breath in and out of my lungs, but they felt like they would turn inside out with each gasp.

I moaned like a wounded animal, spit dirt from my mouth, and flipped over onto my back, staring up into the trees.

“No! No!” I grimaced, feeling like my whole life depended on me getting to that lake. “I can do this.” I didn’t want to open my eyes, and thought of ten different reasons why I shouldn’t. In the end I opened them, struggling to sit up. I was close to tears and holding my left side. “I have to.” The words were barely a whisper.

I couldn’t let Hutch find me like this again. I kneaded my ribs with my fingers and concentrated on slowing my breathing down.  I carefully reached for the canteen draped over my shoulder, unscrewed the lid, and took a small drink of cold water, trying not to choke as I swallowed.

A terrific racket from above made me glance upward. A chattering of those flying rats with bushy tails jumped from tree to tree through the foliage, causing more leaves to rain down on me. What if I had their energy? What if I could leap tall buildings in a single bound? What if I could eat a lousy tostado without shooting to the porcelain thirty minutes later? What if I had taken two pain killers instead of just one before I left the cabin?  Taking one more swallow of water, I screwed the cap back on the canteen.

What was I trying to prove? Hell, I didn’t know. Did I really think getting to that lake would solve things, bring back my old life?

“Um.”  I continued to sit in the dirt, rubbing my right side.

After what felt like hours, I took in a deep breath and stubbornly got to my knees. Placing my hands flat in the dirt, I pushed off, giving myself just enough momentum to struggle to my feet. I tilted right, tilted left, staggered, caught my balance, stopped, and let out the breath I’d been holding. Somewhere between a cough and a wheeze, I proudly marched on, leaving the chattering rats behind.

The spreading branches above became less and less as I moved forward heading out of the forest. A warm breeze brought the scent of something sweet and I could hear the sound of water spilling over into water. Me and my shadow kept moving toward that sound, and I briefly wondered if my shadow could feel the same knot tied around my stomach, dragging my breakfast up my throat.

The path wound through a tangle of bushes. Mustering up what energy I had left, I stepped round the shrubbery and froze. The air here didn’t seem too cool or too hot,  the sweep of the breeze free-floated through a grassy field of sun-dried flowers. A flicker of sunlight bounced off a ripple of water, sending a sense of power to every part of my body. The lake was surrounded by large trees, giving the lake a sense of seclusion and mystery.

“You made it.” I drunkenly wavered as I watched a group of ducks cruising lazily upon the sky-mirrored water.

I groped my way around a few more bushes, plopping to sit in the cool green grass on the edge of the bank, next to a small stream that ran into the lake.

*******************************

After a few minutes of just sitting and taking in the view, I breathed easier and some of the pain in my side ebbed away. Deciding I needed to eat, I pulled my sandwich out of the backpack, hitched back on my elbows and enjoyed a relaxing lunch.

The ducks playfully chased each other around the lake. Their quack-wack-wack, water spraying everywhere, and the flapping of wings echoed all around. Eventually they settled back to lazily drifting upon the water.

Trading my canteen of water for Hutch’s sketchpad and pencils. I leaned back against a large piece of graying driftwood, opened Hutch’s pad to a blank page and used my bent knees as an easel.

I shifted my mind into neutral, letting the images come as they may.

As I sketched, I thought about being in that hospital bed with tubes protruding out of every orifice, toying with life and death. The doctors had all said I should have died. They called me a miracle, a marvel a by the seat-of-my-pants phenomenon.

I disagreed. It was none of those things. It was Hutch. I didn’t think that partner of mine even realized the effect he had on my life. Hell, if it weren’t for him I wouldn’t be here today. It wasn’t the thrusts to my chest from a stubborn doctor that brought me back — it was my best friend.

Hutch filled my lungs with life. I gave him soul credit for taking my dying heart into his hands and squeezing until the damn thing decided to beat on its own again.

There is no science behind true friendship and love.

Something suddenly swooped down and landed on my sketchpad, causing me to pull out of my reverie and stop drawing. The something that had used the sketchpad for a airstrip was a dragonfly. Its brightly colored blue wings were outstretched, as it crept along a stark dark line I had drawn, before lifting off, hovering in mid-air a second, then flying away.

I didn’t know how long I’d been drawing, nor did I realize my artwork was complete. Examining my doodle, I had to smile. When it comes to pictures, I’m better with a camera. Still, this wasn’t half bad.

A noise in the not-so-far-off distance briefly caught my attention. I twisted around. “Ooooh!” I hissed cupping a hand to my side. After listening for a long moment and seeing nothing but trees and hearing nothing but an endless chatter, I turned my attention back to my drawing. “Damn rats!”

“Starsky!” The unexpected voice of my partner made me jerk around.

“Hutch!” Wincing, I cursed the fire surging through my side.

“Who’d you think –” Hutch stumbled around a bush, completely out of breath, wrinkled green tee shirt drenched in sweat, hair a muss, and full of burrs. “A talking squirrel?”

“Busy- tailed rat,” I corrected, trying to stuff the fiery pain deep down inside.

“Do you…wanna…wanna know…what…what… I’ve just been through, buddy boy –” Hutch’s breath came in shallow gasps as he took several large, awkward steps.

“Prefer not to,” I said nonchalantly.

“Where’d…where the hell did you go?” Hutch shoved a long strand of hair out of his eyes.

“Um,” I gave an amused snort. “Right here, dummy.”

“I know, right here!” Hutch tripped over a small log and hobbled over to me.

“Why didn’t you tell me where ‘here’ was! What if? Are you hurt? How could you do this! Are you out of your mind?” He was nearly screaming, his mouth moving ten times faster than his brain.

“Hutch, I –”

“Starsky,” he panted, his face first red hot, but quickly bled pale white. “Why’d you do this — how’d you — what are you doing here?” Hutch had a really shocked and confused look on his face, like I’d made the Olympic team or something. “I had no clue where you’d gone off…..” He closed his eyes and took a shaky breath “You–you had me scared out of my mind.”

“Didn’t you get my note?” I asked, eyeing Hutch’s tightly-clenched fists.

“What note!” He demanded, trembling badly and stuffing his hands into his front jeans pockets. “There was no note.” Hutch pinned me with a such deadly stare, I thought I’d drop dead any second.

“Hutch.” I stiffened, readying myself for a fight. “I left you a note on the kitchen counter.”

Hutch’s eyes softened, allowing me to live and breathe while he considered my words for a moment.

“I didn’t even take the time to look.” He shook his head and muttered something under his breath about poor detective skills. The fight seemed to deflate from his body as he came to sit next to me, still trembling badly.

“Hey, buddy.” I reached for the canteen and unscrewed the cap. “You look like you could use something stronger but here.” I handed the canteen to Hutch. “Drink this water.”

Hutch took three huge gulps, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “Thanks.” He handed the canteen back to me.

“How’d you know I’d be at the lake?”

“Call it — call it a wild guess,” Hutch said, still trying to catch his breath

“You ran the whole way here, blondie?” I frowned. “Why?”

“Because — I have a loon for a partner!” Hutch shot me a dire look that could freeze hell. “Starsky, I should –”

“What?” I gave a shiver. “Arrest me?”

“Maybe,” Hutch said sharply.

“On what charge?”

“Stealing.”

“Stealing!” I protested. “I never stole anything in my –”

“What’s this?” Hutch pointed at the sketchpad.

“So, we’re partners. You never said I couldn’t use your notebook.”

“Oh, you borrowed it, huh?” Hutch heaved a heavy sigh, reclining back onto his elbows.

“In a sense,” I said, wanting to keep up the banter. “What’s mine is yours, right?”

Suspicious pale blue eyes glared at me. I knew Hutch wanted to lay into me for taking off on my own, but he made no attempt to say the words.

“In a sense,” Hutch agreed, busying himself by plucking a tall piece of straw from the ground. I grimaced, envisioning the taste as he clenched the stem between his teeth and began to chew.

“So,” I hedged. “You going to arrest me?”

“Forgot the handcuffs.” Hutch gave a little shrug, looking out over the lake and becoming very quiet.

I could feel his guilt and pain worming its way into my heart. Sunlight bounced off the tiny waves, gleaming like glass and tearing up my eyes. The group of quacking ducks had returned from the opposite shore. They paddled along, floating easily upon the lift and fall of each ripple. I wished things could be so easy for Hutch and me. Dragon flies flitted about, rats, I mean squirrels chattered, Hutch gnawed, and I went back to adding a few final touches to my sketch.

Finally satisfied with the result, I dragged in a breath of lake air, set my pencil down, and turned to Hutch. We both watched each other for a long moment.

Hutch smiled and sat up. “You going to let me see your work of art?” he asked, the stalk he was chewing on moving back and forth between his lips.

“No.” I playfully wiggled away, snapping the sketchpad closed and tucking the drawing under my arm. “Uhhhh,” I groaned, pressing my elbow against my bruised side. “Nice try.” I tried to smile to hide my pain

“Starsky!” Hutch yelled, spitting the stalk to the ground, his loud voice carrying out over the water.

“That’s my name.” I winced, partially from pain but mostly from my partner’s harsh voice.

“What did you do?” Hutch sat up straighter, looking angry again.

“What?” I played dumb.

“Don’t play dumb with me.” His voice was harsh. “You’re hurt.”

Hutch scooted closer to me and reached out a hand. “Hutch!” I backed away. “Don’t you want to ask me what I drew? Please,” I begged.

Come on, Hutch.’ I pleaded with my eyes. ‘Give me this.’

I was proud of making the hike to the lake on my own. Okay, so I was in pain, but it was worth every ounce of agony.

“I…I don’t — I don’t know. ” Hutch’s hand froze in mid-air. I could tell he wanted so badly to mother hen me as he’d been doing all these months

“Ask me, Hutch!” I insisted.

Hutch let his hovering hand fall away and drew in a deep breath. “Let’s see what you doodled, Starsky.”

Flipping the edges of each page, past Hutch’s grand work, I came to my meager offering and stared at my drawing with uncertainty:

Strong dark lines created huge rolling clouds that hung thick in the air above a sea born sailboat. The boats sails were open wide, flapping wildly as the ship charged head on into the raging storm. Hutch and I stood together on the deck, pressed shoulder to shoulder behind the helm. I had twirled my pencil in large circles wiggling and stirring the lead to create monster-sized waves that crashed against the ship’s hull. Jabbing dark dots filled the paper, depicting the rain pounding down. Our hair was plastered to our faces. I could almost hear the shrill whistle of the wind in my ears, could almost taste the salty water on my lips as the ship plunged up and down over the rough waters.

“I’m better with a camera,” I muttered, shyly handing the penciled sketch to Hutch.

Hutch was real quiet, regarding my drawing. I bent my head, staring at the ground. A slight breeze rose off the lake, bringing a few leaves to cascade down upon the water and fluttering my curls softly in my face. Tiny shivers raced up my spine and I suddenly felt very drained. Like I’d really been on that storm tossed ship — maybe I had.

“Starsk,” Hutch’s languid voice broke my reverie.

“Don’t tell me. I know…it’s…hor–”

“It’s beautiful.”

My head shot up to see Hutch with tears in his eyes. “Just beautiful.” His hand reached out and settled on my shoulder.

“It’s nothing like yours. I don’t even know why I drew that.”

“You were expressing the truth. Your drawing cracks the code of what you are feeling inside.”

“Huh?”

“Starsky, you have us facing the storm — head on.”

“I do?”

“You do.” Hutch looked back fondly at my sketch. “You know sometimes words are not enough. That’s why I draw. That’s why you use your camera. That’s why you drew this.” Hutch swept an excited hand over my drawing.

“It is?”

“Yes.” Hutch met my gaze.

“What does that mean?” I asked, still confused.

“It means, buddy, that often times the things most opposite to our human nature turn out to be the exact thing we need to do. It means, by expressing yourself through your drawing, you are naturally healing your soul. What were you thinking as you were drawing this?”

“I guess I wasn’t thinking of too much.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

You were unconsciously drawing That’s why you sketched this.” Hutch swept an excited hand over my drawing. “Buddy, did you know that ships at sea must turn into a storm and face the gale head on, or they will capsize?” He handed the pad back to me.

“They will?” I closed the pad and set the collection of drawings in the grass.

“You and me are facing the storm. Facing our terror and the devastation we have been through — together. Plowing through the squall, through the pain, through the suffering, through the —

“Hutch?”

“What is it, buddy?”

“You ever think about taking up the violin?”

“I better just stick with the guitar.” Hutch gave a toothy smile, his hand falling away from my shoulder. “I’m getting too soapy again, huh?”

“You gotta be the cleanest guy I know, blondie.” I gave his shoulder a light punch. “Hutch,” I said in a serious tone. “I know what you were thinking of when you were drawing all those wonderful fun times. But…” I gave a little frown. “What were you thinking of, when you were outside — yesterday — chopping wood?”

Hutch’s smile immediately dropped away, replaced by a dark shadow as he turned to face the lake.

“Partner, what is it? You can tell me,” I encouraged. “What …were… you… thinking?” I demanded.

“Starsk.” Hutch’s face was grim and he sighed. Not just any old sigh, but a heartfelt, pain-releasing sigh. “I was thinking I’m being haunted by ‘what ifs’,” he said, still staring out over the lake. “Twisted, tied up, and trapped by them.” Hutch half-turned to me, intense blue eyes looking much older than they were. “You know what I mean?”

“Yes.” I nodded. “I know.”

With a shudder, Hutch picked up the sketchpad, quietly thumbing through the pages, and I knew he was once again thinking of that day. I struggled to be patient and understanding of his silence, watching a large yellow butterfly with two peacock-blue-spots, one on each wing floating happily near the edge of the lake. The insect flitted about, landing on one flower after another. Without warning a frog jumped from behind a tall clump of grass, and with one flick of its long, sticky, tongue the butterfly was gone.

I inwardly cringed, even in the insect world you never knew when you’d be ambushed.

“What if,” Hutch gulped twice staring at my drawing once more. “What if…we never went into work that day? What if… someone had noticed those two guys in that cop car weren’t our brother cops? What if… you’d backed the Torino into that parking spot? What if… you had gotten your keys out just one second sooner?”

It was my turn to gulp, as the mental picture of me dropping my keys and reaching for my gun, only to realize I’d already hit the ground, trying to breathe while blood pumped out my arteries.

“Starsky, what if… you’d gotten down?” Hutch gave me a sideways glance, a hard angry glare appearing on his face. “Starsky… what if…what if I’d slid across the hood to stand by your side? If I hadn’t dropped and rolled like they teach you at the Academy! What if …”

“Hutch!” I yelled, jabbing a finger at Hutch’s face and stopping his breakdown like a traffic cop in the middle of a busy intersection. “You would have been blown away!” Hutch’s mouth hung open, looking really surprised. “You listen close, Hutchinson! ” I shuddered, to rid myself of the in-living-color images of that day now playing in my head. “You don’t have to be the white knight of this storybook, buddy.” I took his hand and in a low voice said, “You gotta let that image go. The white knight didn’t get a scratch on him, the best friend did. It’s not about that day anymore. It’s about this day — forward. Hutch, no more running up hills and down valleys. This day, partner, this is the day we stand and fight the ‘what if’ monster.”

“Starsky.” Hutch tried to pull his tough-guy act, tugging his hand from mine in protest, but I held tight. He had a very scared look about him. Lost, maybe confused, certainly hurt. But mostly, mostly he looked mad. Mad at himself.

“Hutch, hear me out.” I watched him swallow down a lump in his throat. “Please.”

“Okay,” he agreed, trying to be strong, but there were tears welling in his eyes.

“What happened — happened,” I continued, gently rubbing my thumb over his. “What’s to come — no one knows. All we can do is keep moving down the dirt path, and at the end of the road if we make it to the lake — terrific — if we don’t — we know we gave it our best shot, right?” Hutch shrugged. “Buddy, I know it hurts and we’re both in some kind of pain. Maybe our hearts feel broken, but they’re still beating, we’re still alive, Hutch. We just have to learn to adapt and keep the ‘what if’ monster from twisting around so much, huh?” I raised my brow and gave a curt nod, very carefully letting go the tight grip I had on his hand. “You with me on that, Hutch?”

Hutch was quiet, then said, “How’d you get to be so smart, Starsk?”

“When I met you, Hutch.” Feeling my own eyes start to water up. “Man…Hutch,” I patted his shoulder, needing to change the subject. Besides a bright idea had suddenly come to me. “Wilderness therapy is a real gold mine!” I nonchalantly swiped away the beads of sweat I felt popping out on my forehead. “We could pool our funds, buy a cabin, charge admission to our brother cops. Be cheaper then couch therapy back home.”

“Starsky, Hutch patted my shoulder in return. “You still have another two weeks here. You keep taking off like you did today… all ‘wilderness therapy’ is going to do for you is land you back in a hospital bed.” Hutch gently eased a stray curl off my forehead. “You need to pace yourself. The lake was nothing. Wait until we hike Applegate Trail,” he said sarcastically. “You’ll be in real trouble.”

“Already in real trouble,” I admitted tiredly, trying to hide a wince as all my aches and pains seemed to return. “Don’t think the chef is going to give me any dessert tonight,” I said, ducking my head, hoping Hutch’s mental alarm was broken.

“You know what, Starsk?”

“What?”

“I think you’re right.”

“It’s okay, Hutch. I’ll survive.”

“We both will.” Hutch fondly mussed my hair, prying eyes signaling me that my partner’s ‘mental alarm’ was working just fine, calculating my current condition. “Starsk, let’s head back to the cabin, huh?”

“Okay,” I readily said, not having the energy to argue and not wanting to anyway.

“You need my help?” Hutch asked.

“Nah,” I mumbled, but didn’t make the effort to move.

Taking in a breath and hoping my lungs wouldn’t explode into a ball of flames, I glanced out over the water. The quiet, glassy, surface made me feel heavy-eyed and at peace. Close by, the quacking ducks lazily paddled around the marshy cattails feeding on tiny fish. A fog started to roll in off the lake, realizing it was too early in the day for night mist, I knuckled my sleepy eyes clearing my vision.

“Hey.” I turned to Hutch.

“What’s that?” He arched a brow.

“Can you give me a hand back to the cabin?”

Hutch only smiled, not saying a word he scooted closer, hooked an arm around my back and drew me to his side. “In a minute, buddy. I gotta catch my breath.”

I was relieved. I didn’t think I had the strength to move just yet, even with his help. I gratefully put my head down on Hutch’s shoulder.

A best friend’s shoulder was more than just a place where you could rest your head. It was a place where you could rest your entire being. Where you could put down your pain and worry, find serenity, and understanding, and the strength to chase the ‘what if’ monster far away.