Chapter 119
AN: I’m gonna go ahead and apologize now for this Debbie Downer of
a part LOL. This is what I get for not
sugarcoating. =P
Nick awoke
slowly and groggily became aware that the song that had been playing in his
dream was really the ringer of his cell phone.
Once he’d realized this, he snapped into alertness and pawed for the
phone before it switched over to his voicemail.
One glance was enough to let him know who was calling, and when he
spotted her name, he anxiously flipped
open the phone and yanked it up to his ear.
“Hello?” he rasped, his voice completely hoarse from sleep. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat and tried
again. “Hello?”
On the
other end of the line, Claire giggled.
“Did I wake you, Sleeping Beauty?”
Nick
snorted. “Thought it took a kiss to wake
up Sleeping Beauty,” he said flatly.
She blew
him a loud kiss through the phone. “That
do the trick?”
Nick merely
grunted in reply.
“Well, I
know you just woke up,” Claire went on, “but it is after noon, and I was
wondering – do you feel like ice cream?”
“What?”
Nick asked, confused by this random change in conversation. Apparently his brain wasn’t awake enough to
follow her line of thought. “Ice cream?”
“Yeah… I
want ice cream! The air conditioner in
my apartment is all screwed up, and it’s friggin’ hot! Wanna go to Baskin Robbins with me?”
Nick
blinked, still a little disoriented. What
time was it? Oh yeah - according to
Claire, it was after noon. It felt
earlier, but he supposed that was about right.
He’d been sleeping a lot lately.
It had been
two months now since he’d gotten out of the hospital, but the BOOP and its
treatment still had the upper hand over him.
Dr. Mahmood hadn’t been kidding when she said it would take a few months
for his symptoms to go away. He was
getting better, but very slowly. Even
after two months, he still had to wear oxygen to do anything more than sit
still, or he would be totally out of breath.
He went for regular follow-up appointments with the pulmonologist, and
even though she said his lungs looked and sounded better each time, the
progress was not enough for him. He
couldn’t wait until he could breathe normally again.
And just as
his symptoms were gradually starting to improve, the side effects of the
steroids he was stuck taking had gotten worse.
The insomnia he had experienced for the first couple of weeks had gone
away, and he was now sleeping ten or eleven hours every night. But in its place, other effects had started
popping up.
“Nick?”
Claire’s voice broke his train of thought, and he realized he had spaced out
and never answered her invitation.
“Baskin Robbins?” Her voice held
a sing-song quality, like she was dangling the offer over his head, tempting
him to make a grab for it.
“Oh –
sorry.” Nick shook his head, trying to
collect his thoughts. He needed to wake
up and get himself together. “Um… can
you wait awhile? I could really stand to
grab a shower and get cleaned up.” He
always felt sort of oily and gross after a deep, long sleep.
Claire
laughed. “Sure. Get yourself woken up and smelling nice and
call me back when you’re ready. I can
come pick you up, if you want.”
“Okay. Call ya back in awhile,” said Nick and hung
up. Setting the phone back on his
nightstand, he sat up slowly and slid backwards until his back met the pillows
propped against the headboard of his bed.
He took a few minutes to get his bearings, then pushed back the covers
and swung his leg over the side of the mattress. He stood up carefully, trying not to get
tangled in his oxygen line, the way he had the first few mornings he’d been
home. Several times, Howie and Brian had
come running in after the thud of an oxygen tank tipping to the floor to find
Nick muttering a string of curses as he fought with the length of narrow, clear
tubing that had somehow twisted itself around various parts of his body.
Now he
pulled the oxygen canula out of his nose and set it down on his nightstand,
deciding he didn’t need it for the time being.
The hot water and steam of the shower always cleared his sinuses and
opened his lungs, making it easier to breathe.
Cautiously navigating around the clunky oxygen tank that sat next to his
bed, he reached for the lone crutch propped conveniently against the wall and
used it to help himself hop into the bathroom.
He turned
on the light and the fan and shut the door behind him as he hobbled in. The surfaces of the bathroom were still
gleaming from when the cleaning lady had been there to clean it on
Wednesday. It was now Saturday, and Nick
hadn’t done much to dirty it up in the last three days. In the smudgeless mirror, he had a crystal
clear view of his reflection.
He almost
wished the mirror were caked with grime so he wouldn’t have to look at himself,
for it was not a pretty sight. The
mental side effects of the prednisone – the insomnia, mood swings, anxiety –
had turned into physical ones that showed on his face – literally. He resembled an eighteen-year-old kid again,
with a face full of zits that all the acne creams in the world couldn’t seem to
get rid of. He’d even tried that
Proactiv stuff he’d seen on TV, vowing he’d join Jessica Simpson and Puffy as
the next celebrity spokesperson for the stuff if only it would clear his skin,
but no such luck.
And while
he’d been cute at eighteen, despite the occasional acne flare-ups, he certainly
didn’t think he was cute now. He
understood better than ever what the nurses referred to as “moon face,” because
his face had puffed out so much that that’s what it looked like – a big, round,
pale, full moon. It was not a cute
“babyface” sort of roundness either; instead, he thought it looked freakish and
unnatural, not like his own face at all.
Some of it was just swelling from water weight, but he’d also been
packing on real pounds, try as he might to avoid the weight gain. It was hard to diet because the medication
made him so hungry that he always felt like he could eat a horse, and getting
any real exercise was even more difficult because he fell out of breath so
quickly. Just getting around was enough
of a workout these days.
The extra
weight was especially obvious when he pulled off his t-shirt and shorts to get
into the shower. Much to his irritation,
most if had settled around his stomach and upper back, making him look much
heavier than usual. But he was bloated
everywhere, and it was starting to affect more than just his pride. He often wore his water leg in the shower
because it made it much easier to keep his balance, but he could no longer get
it on comfortably; its socket had become too tight for his leg. His regular prosthesis had been getting more
and more uncomfortable to wear as well, and he knew it was soon to follow. He was due to be fit for a new leg anyway,
but it was humiliating to think that he had gotten too fat to wear his old one.
Sighing, he
hauled his swollen body into the shower and turned on the water full
steam. His self-esteem evaporated right
along with the hot water as he washed himself, grimacing as his hands ran all
of the unsightly bulges his body had developed.
He really didn’t want to leave the house looking like this.
He’d become
a hermit again these last two months, staying cooped up in his house most of
the time. At first it had been because
he was sick, and going out required too much energy. This was still true, but he also didn’t want
anyone to see him like this in public.
The casual passerby wouldn’t know what he was going through; anyone who
recognized him on the streets would take one look at him and think, Wow,
that Nick Carter’s really gone to seed.
After seeing the way the tabloids trashed other celebrities, like
Kirstie Alley, who had put on weight, he didn’t want to think about what they
would print about him if they could see him now, bloated and acne-ridden. People would think he’d spent the months
after the tour doing nothing but drinking and pigging out on chocolate and
grease, even though it wasn’t true. They
didn’t know, and they wouldn’t understand that this was out of his control.
As usual,
Claire seemed to be the only one he could really rant to about all this
stuff. Howie, who was still staying in
Tampa, understood because he had seen Nick through the last two months, but
Claire could relate to it better than anyone because she had been there
herself. He hadn’t seen her much lately
because she’d either been working or with Jamie, he assumed, but he was glad
she had called. He wanted to talk to
her. He was just starting to think that
going to Baskin Robbins with her wasn’t such a good idea after all – the last
place he wanted to be spotted right now was an ice cream shop.
Nonetheless,
he eventually climbed out of the shower and hobbled back into his room to get
dressed. He’d lived in mostly sweats for
the past few weeks and didn’t even want to face the depressing prospect that
his jeans might not fit anymore, so he dug a pair of baggy track pants out of
his drawer and put those on instead, unsnapping the outside seam so that he
could get his prosthesis on easier. But
as he stood up and tried to wedge his stump into its socket, he found that he
could no longer get it to go all the way in.
The socket was too tight and pinched his skin as he tried in vain to
force it on. Finally he gave up, knowing
it was a bad idea to try to wear a leg that didn’t fit right. He would just end up with another ulcer or
worse, and then he’d be even more miserable.
Dejected,
he flopped down on his bed and pushed the useless prosthetic leg aside. As it toppled to the floor, tears of
frustration and embarrassment sprung to the corners of his eyes. He rubbed them away with his thumb and forefinger,
pinching the bridge of his nose as he struggled not to break down. Crying would only make him feel like more of
a pathetic loser.
“Why does
this fucking shit always keep happening to me?” he seethed under his breath,
through clenched teeth, deciding that getting angry over it was a more manly
way of expressing his frustration. It
just wasn’t fair. Just three months ago,
he’d been on tour, where he’d performed on stage nearly every night, to
thousands of screaming, adoring fans.
He’d felt like he was king of the world, finally on top once again,
after being knocked down over and over.
He would never be the person he’d once been, but he had finally accepted
that. His leg was gone, but he was
performing again without it, and life was good.
He felt like he’d come full circle, finally fulfilling the promise Dr.
Kingsbury had made to him years ago, as he’d sat numbly in her office, unable
to comprehend the idea of losing his leg.
“Living without your leg is better
than not living at all,” she’d told him wisely. “It isn’t the end of the world, and
although things will never be the same, you will be able to go on with not only
your life, but your career.”
He’d had
his doubts then, but in the end, she had been right. Life had gone on, and his career certainly
hadn’t died either. But at the moment,
on stage was the last place he could see himself. Just when he thought he’d finally gotten past
it all – the cancer, the amputation, everything – he’d been kicked down yet
again, and months later, he was still struggling to get back up. It was so disheartening that sometimes he
wondered if it was worth living at all.
Depression
was yet another side effect of the prednisone, and he tried to remember that
when he started thinking that maybe Dr. Kingsbury hadn’t been right after
all. Maybe not living at all would be
better than living this way. It wasn’t
even his missing leg that bothered him now; it was all of this other crap he’d
been going through. His whole body was a
mess; the missing leg was just the cherry on top.
Thoroughly
discouraged by now, he decided there was no way he was going out, not even to
meet Claire. He sighed heavily as he
reached for his phone again and held in the 5 button until the speed-dial went
through.
“Hey!” she
answered brightly. “You ready?”
Nick
swallowed and tried to keep his voice steady.
“No, um… I don’t really feel like going after all. You go and eat a triple-scoop sundae or
something for me, alright?”
There was a
pause, and then Claire whined, “Ni-ick!
I don’t wanna go pig out on ice cream alone! You should come!”
“Where’s
Jamie?” Nick asked, slightly annoyed.
Why did she want him to come anyway? Where was her fucking fiancée?
“He’s out
playing golf with his work buddies. I
don’t wanna take him anyway; he’s boring.
He’d get, like, one scoop of vanilla in a dish. I know you’d be more inventive than that.”
Nick felt
one side of his mouth turn up as he smiled a little despite himself. Still, he didn’t want to go. “Sorry.
Call Dianna or Laureen or someone.”
“Are you sure?” There was that sing-songy voice again. Nick wasn’t taking the bait this time.
“I’m sure,”
he repeated firmly.
“Alright…
well, I guess I’ll catch ya later then.”
She sounded disappointed.
Nick was
disappointed too. “Yeah, see ya,” he
said, and they hung up. Still slumped on
the side of his bed, Nick frowned down at the phone in his hand for a few
minutes, a tight feeling settling into his chest. Finally, he came out of his stupor and
returned the phone to its charger. He
picked up the oxygen canula he’d set next to it earlier and placed it back in
his nostrils, wrinkling his nose at the tickling sensation it caused. He looped the thin tubing over his ears and
reached down to turn a valve on the oxygen tank. When it came on, he inhaled a deep, cleansing
breath. Yet somehow he knew even pure
oxygen wasn’t going to get rid of the tightness that gripped his heart.
***
Nick was
still lying around on his bed when Howie knocked lightly on his door. “Hey, Nick?
You awake?” his friend called.
“Yeah!”
Nick croaked, just loud enough for Howie to hear him.
The door
opened a crack, then swung open the rest of the way. Howie came in. “Hey,” he said, looking Nick over once with
concern in his eyes. “Are you okay,
man?”
No.
I’m too much of a blimp to get my fake leg on, Nick wanted to say, but he was still
too ashamed to admit that, even to Howie.
Instead, he just shrugged.
Howie
frowned, but went ahead with what he had come to tell Nick. “Claire’s here,” he said. “She knows you’re here, and she wants to see
you. You wanna come out?”
Nick was
both annoyed and touched. So Claire had
figured out there was something wrong after all and come over to find out
what. That had to be it. A part of him just wanted to be left alone,
but he had wanted to see her, and now she was here, so he couldn’t avoid
her. Not that she would let him. He knew she wouldn’t leave without talking to
him first.
He sighed
and pulled himself into a sitting position, sucking on the oxygen. “Can you have her come in here?” he asked
Howie.
“Sure…”
said Howie, giving Nick another concerned look.
Nevertheless, he turned and left the room, returning moments later
behind Claire.
“Hey!” said
Claire as she breezed into the room. She
was carrying a bulging plastic grocery bag with her. “I told you I wanted ice cream, so…
here!” She plopped down onto the bed
next to him and set the bag between them, waiting while he looked inside.
Peering
into the bag, Nick found two half-gallon cartons of ice cream and all the
toppings needed for a good sundae – chocolate and caramel syrup, whipped cream,
nuts, sprinkles, and even a small jar of Maraschino cherries. He smiled up at her, feeling some of the
tightness in his chest ease away.
“You’re too cool, you know that?” he told her sincerely.
“I know,”
she teased with a smug grin, batting her eyelashes superiorly. Then she laughed and said, “Well, come on,
get your butt up so we can go dig into this stuff!”
Eyeing the
bag of junk food, Nick remembered why “getting his butt up” wasn’t going to be
so easy. Ice cream was the last thing he
needed right now. He hesitated and the
said, “Listen, Claire, I… I appreciate all this, but… my stomach’s kinda upset
right now…”
He avoided
her eyes, but he could tell she and Howie were both staring at him, probably
with identical worried looks. No one
spoke for a few seconds; then Howie finally said, “Well, I dunno about Nicky,
but I’ll take you up on that, Claire.
Ice cream sounds great.”
“Finally,
someone who wants ice cream!” Claire exclaimed, though her forced happy tone
did not mask the tension in her voice all that well. “Would you mind taking this stuff to the
kitchen, and I’ll be right out?” She
handed the grocery bag to Howie, who obediently took it with him, leaving Nick
and her alone.
Once Howie
was gone, Claire turned to Nick and gave him a hard look. “Is it really your stomach that’s bothering
you, or is it something else?” she asked bluntly. “You sounded weird on the phone.”
Damn her;
he knew he couldn’t hide anything from her.
Squirming under her gaze, Nick sighed and figured he might as well be
honest. She was the one person who might
understand what he was feeling; it would be stupid to try and hide those
feelings from her.
“It’s just…
this steroid shit I’m on. It’s really
messing with me,” he confessed, finally meeting her eye briefly. “I… I keep putting on weight, no matter how
hard I try to keep it off, and I look like a whale, and now I’m so fat that my
fake leg doesn’t fit me anymore.” He could have kept ranting, but then he saw
one corner of Claire’s mouth turn up.
“What?!” he demanded, feeling his blood pressure jump. “You think that’s funny?!”
“No!” she
cried quickly, her eyes widening. “No,
no… I’m sorry, Nick. No, I just… I couldn’t
help but smile a little because it’s kind of refreshing, hearing a guy talk
like that. ‘I look like a whale?’ I used to hear that out of Dianna’s mouth all
the time. I’m sure she heard it from
mine when I was on the steroids too.”
Nick
frowned, sort of confused. Was she
insinuating that he sounded like a chick now?
Claire
shook her head and looked right back into his eyes, her expression softening
and becoming more serious. “Listen, I’m
not trying to tease you; I just want you to know, I understand. I can relate to everything you’re going
through… except for the leg part. I
guess that makes it suck a lot more, huh?”
She paused, looking thoughtful.
“Have you called your prosthetist about it? I mean, he’s gotta be able to do something
for you; he can’t expect you to just go without a leg, right?”
Nick had
already planned to call the specialist who oversaw everything having to do with
his artificial leg, but he knew Ryan Emthrey’s office wasn’t open on
weekends. “Can’t call till Monday, but I
will then,” he said. Sighing, he added,
“Guess I’m fucked till then.”
She looked
around. “Well, do you have a wheelchair
somewhere around here? I know you hate
them,” she added quickly, when she saw the look on his face, “but it would come
in handy for the weekend.”
Nick
scowled. His prosthetist had suggested
buying a wheelchair for backup when he didn’t feel like wearing his prosthesis,
but he had stubbornly refused. He hadn’t
kept a wheelchair in the house since the one he’d rented right after his
amputation surgery. I don’t need one
of those. I can get around fine on my
own, he’d always thought scornfully.
But he knew Claire had a point; it was too much of a hassle trying to
walk around on crutches while dragging an oxygen tank.
“No,” he
mumbled. “Guess I better get one. They’ll probably have to make it a
double-wide.” He was pretty sure
“double-wide” referred to trailers, not wheelchairs, but whatever they called
wider-than-normal wheelchairs, he might as well invest in one because if he had
to stay on this prednisone shit long enough, he would end up looking like a
whale for real.
Claire
rolled her eyes. “Oh, shut up!” she
chided, hitting him playfully in the shoulder.
“You are not fat, Nick!
You’re big-boned!” Giggling, she
shook her head and then said seriously, “No really, most of that weight is just
bloating from the steroids. It’ll go
away once you get weaned off them. And
what’s left will come off once you’re able to get out and about more. It’s just gonna take some time. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but
what else can I say?”
She was
telling him the same kinds of things he’d already tried to tell himself, but
somehow, coming from her, they sounded more believable. He offered her a tiny smile. “You’re probably right,” he admitted. “At least I hope you’re right.”
She grinned
impishly and replied, “I’m always right!
You know that!” She winked, and
he cracked a smile.
“And always
modest too,” he added teasingly, nudging her shoulder.
“You know
it.” Smiling, she put her hand on his
arm and gave it an encouraging squeeze.
“Can we go have ice cream now?”
He smiled
back. “Only if you’ll pull this thing
while I crutch myself out there,” he replied, touching the oxygen tank with his
foot.
“I think I
can manage that,” she said, getting off the bed. “Come on, Cartman.” Nick smirked at the nickname and let her
pull him up. She found his other crutch
for him and followed behind with the oxygen as he hobbled out to the kitchen,
crutch tips squeaking against the tiled floor.
“Here, you
sit,” she said, pulling out one of the barstools at the kitchen island for him,
“and I’ll set everything out here.”
“Bag’s in
the freezer,” Howie announced, coming into the kitchen. He stopped to look between Claire and
Nick. “Everything okay?”
Claire let
Nick answer. “Yeah, things are okay,” he
replied and left it at that. He would
talk to Howie later. Right now, the
sight of all the sweets Claire was currently assembling on the island in front
of him was making him drool. “Did I
mention this shit also makes me constantly starving?” he asked her, eyeing the
two flavors of ice cream. “I could
probably eat that whole carton.”
Claire gave
him a knowing smile. “I figured you
could,” she said, setting the bottle of chocolate syrup right in front of
him. “That’s why I called you instead of
Dianna or Laureen.”
Nick smiled
back. Yet as he watched her weave her
way expertly around his kitchen, knowing just where to find the bowls, spoons,
and ice cream scoop, he couldn’t help but wonder once again why they hadn’t
worked out. Weren’t they perfect for
each other? She could read him like a
book; she knew everything about him. And
he thought he understood her pretty well too.
Why, after all they’d been through, didn’t they make it as a couple?
It was a
question to which he had never quite understood the answer, and even though
he’d tried to let it go, it continued to plague him, popping into his head at
random times like this. He’d been
feeling so down on himself lately that love was the last thing on his mind, but
still, he couldn’t help but wonder, how was he supposed to move on for good
with someone else, when Claire was the only woman with whom he thought he
belonged?
They’d been
apart for longer than they’d been together now, but he was still in love with
her. There was no point in denying it to
himself, for it became clear whenever she was around him. Especially in times like this. No matter how bad he was feeling, she always
knew how to cheer him up… and there were few other people who could do that.
He wanted
to be with her again, to spend the rest of his life with this woman. But as he watched her scoop up ice cream, he
realized it was not to be. The gleam of
the large ring on her finger as it caught the light was a constant reminder
that Claire was marrying someone else.
When I'm down on my luck and I'm searching for my soul
When I'm feeling too much and I start to lose control
When I'm down so low that even enemies don't wanna know
You still care for me, say a prayer for me, and I know
I like you hangin' around
'Cause you lift me up when I am upside down
You are my favorite sound
'Cause you're always down for
Lifting me up like an angel when I hit the ground
Feel your arms all around me when I'm feeling down
Lift me up like an angel when I hit my low
When your arms are around me
I don't wanna let you go
Let you go now
When I'm lost along way and I can't face another day
And if I stumble on the road and if I can't carry the load
And if I lose my faith, kindness, generosity
Would you hold my hand?
Say you understand my pain?
It's been a long hard road
And it's only just begun, my friend, and this I know
You helped me carry the load
'Cause you're always down for
Lifting me up like an angel when I hit the ground
Feel your arms all around me when I'm feeling down
Lift me up like an angel when I hit my low
When your arms are around me
I don't wanna let you go
- “Lift Me Up” by the Backstreet Boys
***