Cary
I knocked
lightly on the bathroom door.
“Nick? Can I come in?”
A few seconds
passed before he answered. Finally, I
heard his muffled voice say, “Just go back to your room, Cary. You don’t wanna be here for this.” He sounded miserable.
“Trust me,
I’ve seen worse.”
Puke
doesn’t bother me. Working in a nursing
home, I’ve gotten used to the various unpleasant odors the human body
emits. As far as excrements go, I’d take
vomit over urine, feces, or pus any day.
Once you’ve lanced an infected bedsore, changed a pair of soiled
Depends, or put in a foley catheter for a patient
who’s lost control of her bladder, vomit is like cake. (Partially digested cake, mixed with stomach
acid.) Seriously, though, to me, the
sound of it is worse than the sight or smell.
So just
standing outside the door, listening to him throw up and not doing anything to
help, was killing me. But, as much as I
respected his privacy, I wasn’t about to go to bed and just leave him, either.
“I’m coming
in,” I announced, and tried the knob. I
knew he hadn’t had time to lock it, and sure enough, it turned in my hand. I opened the door, and there was Nick,
slumped on the bathroom floor in front of the toilet, one hand gripping the
seat for support while he hung his head over the bowl. He wasn’t actually vomiting anymore, but he
must have been nauseous enough to still feel on the verge of it, because he
didn’t even look up when I let myself in.
Without a
word, I turned on the faucet and ran the water until it was warm. I wet one of the hotel’s white washcloths and
rung it out so it was merely damp and not dripping. “Thanks,” Nick croaked when I handed it to
him, using it to wipe his mouth.
“Sure. How about some water?”
He
shrugged. “Not sure if I can keep it
down.”
“You should
at least try. You need to stay
hydrated.” I turned on the cold water
and filled a plastic cup for him. He
took a tentative sip, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing.
Almost
instantly, he gagged and started retching again, his upper body seeming to
convulse with the force of it as he pulled himself up onto his knees and leaned
over the toilet bowl. The water came
right back up again, along with the drinks he’d had at the club and whatever
else was left in his stomach. I ran the
faucet again to mask the sound of it splashing into the toilet water and rinsed
the washcloth. Once he’d been reduced to
dry heaves, I sat down on the rim of the bathtub next to him and put my hand on
his back, rubbing it as soothingly as I could until the heaves subsided, too.
“So much
for that Zofran, huh?” I sighed, giving him back the
damp cloth.
“Ugh,” he
groaned, swiping his mouth with it and setting it aside. “If the cancer doesn’t kill me, this shit’s
going to.”
My heart
broke for him. It was terrible, watching
him get sick and knowing how bad he must have felt, wishing there was something
more I could do and feeling helpless because there wasn’t. I’d already given him the prescribed dose of antiemetic; it had been in his system for at least half an
hour. If that hadn’t worked, there
wasn’t much else that would. The
vomiting was his body’s natural response to the chemicals that were essentially
poisoning it. “I’m sorry,” I said
softly. “I wish I could make it
stop. What else can I do?”
He shook
his head. “Nothing. You should go to bed. It’s late.”
“I’m not gonna
leave you here like this,” I insisted.
Then I got an idea. “I’m just
gonna go get some ice. Can I take your
key so I can let myself back in?”
“It’s on
the dresser.”
“Okay. I’ll be right back.”
I found the
key card and his ice bucket and took both with me down the hall and around the
corner to the ice machine. There were
several vending machines there, as well, which gave me another idea. I filled the bucket, then went back to my own
room to get a few dollar bills out of my wallet. When I returned to Nick’s suite a few minutes
later, I was carrying not only the bucket of ice, but two bottles of Gatorade
and a roll of peppermints.
“Maybe this
will help,” I said, setting everything down on the bathroom counter. “Peppermints are supposed to help soothe your
stomach.” I peeled off the wrapper
around the mints. “And you should try
drinking some Gatorade, if you can keep it down, so you don’t get dehydrated. It’s got electrolytes in it, so it’s better
than water for replacing fluids. If it
won’t stay down, you can suck on ice chips.”
Nick
managed a weak smile. “Thanks, Nurse
Cary,” he said sarcastically, but I knew he meant it.
I gave him
a mint, and he sucked on that for awhile.
When a few minutes had passed without him getting sick again, I held up
the two bottles of Gatorade. “Yellow or
blue?”
“Blue,” he
decided. I twisted open the cap and
handed him the bottle. He took a sip and
swallowed thoughtfully. “If I puke this
up, it’ll look like that blue crap they put in toilet water,” he said.
I
laughed. “Lovely.”
I took the
humor as a sign that he was starting to feel better, and sure enough, after a
few more minutes had passed, he picked himself up from the floor tiles. “Maybe I’ll try to go back to bed.”
“Good
idea.” I followed him out of the
bathroom. “I better hang out for awhile,
just in case.” With the way he tended to
sleep on his back, I worried about him choking on his vomit while he slept.
He nodded,
climbing back into bed. He set the chemo
pump back in its place on the bedside table and lay down, pulling the covers up
around him. The lights were all off,
except for a lamp in the corner. I left
it on, in case he needed to get up again.
But this time, he lay still, and after awhile, I heard his breathing
deepen and even out.
Relieved
that he was finally asleep, but not reassured that he wouldn’t aspirate, I
fought sleep myself. I was utterly
drained, but I didn’t dare go back to my room and leave him alone the rest of
the night. So I curled up on the
loveseat and spent the rest of the night there.
***
Nick was
still asleep when I woke up. I had no
idea what time it was; with the blackout shades pulled down over the windows,
it was still dark in the room, except for the lone lamp we’d left on in the
corner. It felt like I’d been sleeping a
long time, though. My back and legs felt
stiff, as I rolled off the tiny loveseat I’d slept on and stood up, stretching
gratefully.
I crept
over to Nick’s bedside, checking the time on the alarm clock. Sure enough, it was going on nine
o’clock. The sun had been up for
hours. I looked down at Nick. He was sleeping on his side, clutching one of
his pillows like a security blanket. For
a few seconds, I watched the covers rise and fall as he breathed; then I
checked the chemo pump to make sure the drip was still working. Everything seemed fine. If he had gotten up in the night to throw up,
I’d slept right through it, but I didn’t think he had. I’m a pretty light sleeper, especially in a
strange place, on an uncomfortable piece of furniture. I would have woken up. I was relieved he had managed to sleep
through the night. Maybe, after the
initial shock, his body had adjusted to the chemo. Hopefully, today would be better.
The hotel
had a continental breakfast until ten, so I decided I would get dressed and go
down to grab some breakfast. I snagged
Nick’s room key again, so I could let myself back in without waking him, and
snuck out of the room. Well, I tried to
sneak, anyway. But I took so much care
to make sure the door closed absolutely quietly, I didn’t pay any attention to
the elevator when it dinged at the end of our floor or the soft footsteps
coming up the carpeted hallway. When I
turned around, there was Howie, sauntering towards his room with a big plate of
breakfast and an even bigger grin on his face.
“Good
morning, Cary,” he said cheerfully, winking at me.
I felt my
face heat up. Oh my god, are you kidding me?? was my inner reaction. Had this really just happened again? “Morning!” I squeaked.
“Sleep
well?” he asked, a hint of teasing in his tone.
Far from Brian’s look of disapproval, Howie just looked amused.
Great, now
it was official: all of the Backstreet
Boys thought Nick and I had hooked up.
And if they thought so, then their wives would think so, and soon, the
whole tour would know. Or think they knew, anyway. But maybe Nick had a point; maybe it would be
better if that was all they thought was going on. I couldn’t imagine how much it would hurt
them to know what was really happening.
And even if I thought they should
know, I wasn’t going to be the one to tell them. That was up to Nick.
So, I
played along. “Eh… not really. We were up pretty late. I’m sore now,” I added, giggling, as I rubbed
my lower back. The funny thing was, it was
all the truth, but I knew Howie would take it to mean something completely
different.
He laughed,
wrinkling up his nose. “Oookay, sorry I
asked!” But he grinned and added, “See
you later, Cary,” as he walked past me.
I finished
the walk of shame to my room without running into anyone else – not that it
would have mattered, at that point. I
had just solidified my role as the next gold-digging fame whore to seduce Nick
Carter – in their minds, at least. I
tried not to let that bother me, but of course, it did. I felt almost sick with disappointment as I
slowly took off my pajamas and pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. I dragged a brush through my unruly hair,
trying to tame it as much as possible before pulling it back into a bushy
ponytail. Then I crammed on a pair of
flip-flops and trudged downstairs.
I could
smell bacon when I stepped out of the elevator in the hotel lobby. I followed the scent all the way into the
dining room, where a big breakfast buffet was set up. That cheered me up a little. I was on my way across the room to get into
the serving line, when I heard someone call my name. “Cary?”
I looked
all around for someone I recognized, until I spotted a couple of girls waving
enthusiastically at me. I’d never seen
them before in my life. But I noticed
that they were wearing Backstreet Boys t-shirts, so I walked over to their
table. “Hi,” I said, offering what I
hoped was a friendly smile.
“Oh my
gosh, it is you!” gushed the girl in the white “Straight Through My Heart” tee,
turning to her friend. “See, I told you
it was her!”
“We loved
your performance last night!” the other girl added, equally gushy. “You are so lucky you get to tour with
BSB! You like their music, right?”
This time,
I smiled easily. “Love it!” I replied. “I’ve been a fan of them forever. And thank you; that means a lot!”
“Sure! I thought you did; I watched you on American Idol,” said the first
girl. “It was great to see someone
perform one of the Boys’ songs on the show.
Doesn’t happen very often.”
“I know,” I
agreed. “I wanted to show them some
love.”
The girls
both grinned. “So what’s it like being
on tour with them? Do you get to
actually, like, hang out with them much?” asked the second girl, who was
wearing a black tour shirt.
“Oh my
gosh, we just saw Howie!” interrupted her friend, before I could think of how
to answer. “He came down right before
you did! We got him to come over and
talk to us for a few minutes, too, and he was sooo nice! He signed my shirt, see?” She twisted around in her chair so I could
see Howie’s autograph on her back. “I
always carry a Sharpie in my purse when I go to concerts, just in case. It finally paid off! Hey, will you sign it, too?”
“Yeah,
sure!” I replied, caught by surprise.
The girl whipped a black marker out of her purse and handed it to
me. I came around behind her and
scrawled my name opposite Howie’s. It
felt surreal to be signing autographs on the same canvas as a Backstreet Boy.
“Thank you
so much!” she squealed.
“Can we get
a picture with you?” asked the friend, without missing a beat. She looked at her friend. “Get out your camera!”
“Oh, yeah,
good idea!” The girl scrambled to find
her camera in her bag.
“Sure,” I
agreed, laughing. They got up and found
someone at a nearby table to take the picture, and the three of us posed with
our arms around each other, me in the middle.
I put on a big smile as the camera flashed in my face.
“Thank you
sooo much!” both girls gushed, as they released me.
“Sure, no
problem. It was nice to meet you,” I
replied, taking a step away and hoping they’d let me leave without talking my
ear off.
They took
the cue and replied, “You too!!” Then
they sat back down at their table, while I went to get in line at the
buffet. I couldn’t keep the smile off my
face; the fan encounter had cheered me up a lot. I wondered if Nick still got that feeling
when he met fans, or if he found the whole thing old and annoying by now. I would have to ask him sometime.
I made my
way through the serving line, filling up two plates. One I piled high with scrambled eggs, bacon
and sausage links, and hash browns. On
the other, I put only bland foods – a bran muffin, a couple pieces of dry
toast, a miniature box of Corn Flakes.
Hopefully, Nick would be able to keep something down. I had no more hands left to carry drinks, but
that was okay; Nick could drink the rest of the Gatorade, and I could make
coffee in the room.
I let
myself back into Nick’s suite, juggling the two plates, which I set down on the
table in the corner. “Whatcha got?” a
deep voice asked, and I nearly jumped.
Spinning around, I saw that Nick was sitting up in bed, looking like
he’d just woken up, but awake, nonetheless.
“Breakfast,”
I said, smiling. “Do you feel like eating?”
He
considered this for a moment. “Yeah,
I’ll try,” he agreed finally.
I brought
over the plate with the muffin and cereal.
“Try some of this first. If you
think you can handle more, I’ll share my bacon and eggs.”
“Ohh, I see
how it is,” he joked, eyeing my plate on the other side of the room. “You get all the good stuff and bring me the
tasteless crap.”
I
laughed. “Let’s just see if you can keep
this down.”
He nodded,
nibbling at his toast. “You know the one
good thing about this chemo schedule?” he asked, chewing thoughtfully.
“What?”
“That other
stuff you gave me, the other m-named one, is a steroid, right? So it’s supposed to give me, like, a crazy
appetite and make me gain all kinds of weight.
Except that methotrexate shit makes me sick to
my stomach so I can’t eat. So they kinda
cancel each other out, right?”
I
smiled. “Sounds like my idea of torture,
feeling hungry and nauseous at the same time, but glad you can see the positive
side of things.”
He
chuckled. “That’s me, always lookin’ on
the bright side,” he said sarcastically.
“Seriously, this whole thing is like one big contradiction. I’m sick with cancer, but the treatment makes
me sicker. It makes no fucking sense.”
“It’s
helping, too, though,” I pointed out.
Now it was my turn to be optimistic.
“Your tests in the hospital showed that it’s working. So it’s worth it, right?”
“I
guess.” He took another bite of toast,
brushing crumbs off his bare chest. I
saw his fingers hesitate near the port, where the thin IV line snaked out and
all the way over to the pump on his bedside table. He was looking down at it in disgust. “They need to just find a better way to cure
it, once and for all.”
I nodded,
and out of nowhere, I thought of my mother.
“You’re right,” I said, swallowing the lump that had risen in my
throat. “They do.”
“You should
get on that, Cary. Put all that medical
training to good use.” He winked at
me. “I’ll record a charity single to
fund your research, and you discover the cure for cancer, okay?”
I
laughed. “Okay, Nick. Sounds like a plan. I’ll get right on that.” If
only it were that simple, I thought.
***