Cary
Hambelina
was draped across the foot of my bed when I woke up the next morning; I
accidentally kicked her trying to untangle myself from the covers. It was early, and I hadn’t slept nearly long
enough, but I was anxious to get up and start the day. I threw my legs over the side of my bed and
sat on the edge of the sagging mattress, its springs broken from too much
jumping on the bed, to pull on the pajama bottoms I’d kicked off the night
before.
I tiptoed
out of my room, pausing in the hall to listen.
My dad’s door was open; he’d always been an early bird, up at the crack
of dawn even on weekends. Nick’s door
was closed, and when I pressed my ear up to it, I heard nothing; he was still
asleep. I padded up the hall, the floor
creaking in all the usual places beneath my bare feet.
My dad was
in his recliner again, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose,
engrossed in the morning paper.
“’Morning, Dad,” I announced my presence, and he looked up in surprise,
fumbling with his paper.
“’Morning,
sweetheart! I didn’t hear you get up.”
I
smiled. “I was quiet. I didn’t wanna wake Nick. I was gonna make us all some breakfast – have
you eaten yet?”
“Oh, I had
a Pop-Tart earlier, but you know me; I could always go for seconds.” He grinned back, looking so pleased to have
me home.
I went into
the kitchen and rummaged around, taking inventory of the ingredients he had in
the house. Belgian waffles sounded good,
but of course, he had no berries or whipped cream, and who knew where the
waffle iron was buried. Collecting dust
in the far reaches of some bottom cupboard, probably, but I wasn’t brave enough
to go digging for it. He did have butter
and syrup, and even a bunch of ripe bananas, so I settled for banana pancakes
instead.
I turned on
the little transistor radio that sat in the windowsill and sang along to the
oldies station while I mixed up the batter and dropped it in spoonfuls onto a
hot griddle. I’ve always loved cooking. I learned from the best – my mom’s mother,
who was the perfect fifties housewife well into the nineties. She always had a hot, homemade meal on the
table for her husband and their four children, and she passed her traditional
values, as well as her recipes, onto me.
I could appreciate the sense of satisfaction it must have given her to
take care of her family. Like her, I was
a nurturer at heart, and I think being the “woman of the house” from the age of
nine up had just ingrained it in me even more.
I was
flipping pancakes, singing along to “Jailhouse Rock,” when Nick wandered into
the kitchen. I didn’t even notice him at
first; I had my back turned and was dancing around in front of the stove, using
my spatula like a microphone, while I waited for my pancakes to brown. When I did a little twirl and found him
standing there behind me, my heart almost stopped. It skipped a beat, anyway. I stopped dead, too, feeling my face heat up,
but Nick didn’t miss a beat. Where I’d
stopped singing, he started.
“Number forty-seven said to number three… You’re the cutest
jailbird I ever did see,” he sang, his eyes sparkling dangerously at me. “I sure
would be delighted with your company…”
He wiggled his eyebrows and beckoned me forward with one finger, a
smirky “come hither” look on his face. “Come on and do the jailhouse rock with me,
let’s rock…”
He held out
his hand, and when I took it, he pulled me out into the middle of the kitchen
floor and started doing his best Elvis impression – hips gyrating, leg shaking,
lip curling, singing along the whole time.
“…Everybody, let’s rock… everybody
in the whole cell block was dancin’ to the jailhouse rock…”
I couldn’t
understand how he could look so silly and yet so sexy at the same time. But he was in such a playful mood, I also
couldn’t help but play along. I did my
best twist, twisting all the way down to the linoleum and back up again.
By the time
the song was over, we were both out of breath, and the pancakes were
burning. “You must be feeling good this
morning,” I said, flipping the pancakes onto a plate, dark brown side
down. “I didn’t know you were an Elvis
fan.”
“Oh, come
on, baby… everybody loves the King,” he said, in a pretty terrible attempt at
an Elvis voice. “My mom used to make me
perform that song when I was a kid.”
I giggled. “Did she make you a little Elvis suit? With a white cape?”
He
grimaced. “No… thank god. I wore some pretty cheesy-ass stuff, though.”
“I know…
I’ve seen footage on YouTube,” I laughed.
“Ugh,” he
groaned, rolling his eyes. “I told you,
don’t go there. Don’t even wanna hear
about it.”
“How ‘bout
some breakfast, then?” I shut off the
burner on the stove and carried the plate of pancakes to the kitchen
table. “Dad!” I called into the living
room. “Pancakes are ready!”
It was
weird sitting down to breakfast with my dad and Nick Carter. Because I still thought of him that way
sometimes… Nick Carter, the Backstreet Boy, instead of just Nick. Most days, when it was just him and me on the
tour bus, I could pretend he was just a regular guy. But at night, when I saw him perform, it was
impossible to forget that he was a superstar, and I was, at most, a former
reality TV contestant, enjoying a small extension to my fifteen minutes of
fame. Even out of his stage clothes, in
pajama pants and a baggy t-shirt, he looked out of place in my dad’s kitchen.
But if he
felt that way, he didn’t show it. He
made conversation and complimented my cooking and thanked my dad profusely for
letting him stay, acting as if he’d spent the night in a real bed and breakfast. He may well have really been acting; I’d seen
firsthand how he could charm anyone and lie his way out of anything. But he seemed genuine enough.
After
breakfast, we got dressed and packed up our stuff again, setting our bags by
the front door. Then the two of us piled
back into the rental car, and I drove us to the nursing home where I had worked
before leaving for California. Idyllwood
Manor was not as stately or idyllic as its name suggested, but I had enjoyed it
there. It was a big brick building,
situated around an inner courtyard with a patio and gardens. There were three wings, designated by the
level and kind of care the residents who lived there needed. “We’ve undergone a huge renovation the last
five years,” I told Nick, as I led him through the main entrance, “trying to
follow more of the ‘greenhouse’ model to make the facility feel more like a
home and less like a hospital.”
“It’s
nice,” he said, looking around the lobby.
I showed him
through the dining room, which was being cleaned up in between the breakfast
and lunch hours, and the lounge, which was full of comfortable couches and
armchairs and had a huge tropical fish tank built into one wall and a
floor-to-ceiling bird cage in the corner.
Our residents and their visiting families loved to sit and watch the
animals. Even Nick stopped to look at
the fish tank. I wandered over to the
birds, who were all named for famous singers from the golden age – there was
Ella, Etta, Billie, Louis, Sinatra, Dizzy, and Duke. I was admiring them, when I heard someone
say, “Cary?”
I
recognized that voice and turned around, grinning at Nancy, the nursing
director. I had known her since I was a
teenager, in the days when my grandparents lived at Idyllwood, and I came to
visit and sing for the residents. She
had always had a motherly presence – nurturing and organized – and I’m sure she
had put in a good word for me when I applied for my position there. “Hi, Nancy!” I said, scurrying over for a
hug.
“Why didn’t
you tell us you were coming?” she fussed over me. “I thought you’d be in Chicago! Some of the girls traded shifts so they could
drive up to your show tonight.”
“I just
came home for the night. We’re heading
back up there in a couple of hours,” I replied.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nick turn around when I said “we’re,”
so I beckoned him over. “I brought a
guest along. Nancy, meet Nick
Carter. Nick, this is Nancy Tomlin, our
nursing director.”
Nancy’s
eyes lit up in recognition, and she eagerly pumped Nick’s hand. “Welcome, Nick. We’re so pleased to have you drop by for a
visit.” Then she looked from him to me. “Since we have two touring musicians in the
house… would you be up for singing for the residents this morning?”
I looked at
Nick, and he looked back at me. Your call, I thought, giving him a
pointed look.
He got the
message. Smiling at Nancy, he replied,
“Sure, we’d love to.”
She
beamed. “Wonderful! Cary will show you to the activity room, and
I’ll have the staff round up some of our residents.” She bustled off, and I turned to Nick.
“You’re
sweet to do this,” I said.
He shrugged
off the compliment. “Eh, it’s good
practice for tonight.”
“Like you
need it.” I laughed. “Come on, this way.” I took him into the activity room, which was
a big space set up with card tables and chessboard tables, crafting stations,
and shuffleboard courts built into the floor.
There was also a piano in the corner, which I’d played many times
before. I pulled out the bench and sat
down, tinkering a bit on the keys to warm up my fingers. “What are you gonna sing?” I asked Nick.
He looked
back at me. “What can you play?”
I thought
over the Backstreet Boys songs I knew on piano.
Most of the ones that were actually meant for the piano were pretty
depressing: “Incomplete,” “Shattered,”
“Lose It All,” “Do I Have to Cry for You?”… “What about ‘Weird World’?” I
suggested. Well, maybe it wasn’t the
most uplifting song, either, but at least it sounded happy.
“’Weird
World’?” He seemed to consider it for a
moment, then nodded. “Yeah, alright.”
We waited
while the residents started trickling in, many of them pushed in wheelchairs by
nursing assistants. I said hello to the
ones I knew, residents and staff alike, and introduced Nick. I could tell most of the old people had no
clue who he was – granted, some of them didn’t remember me either, even though
it had only been a couple of months since I’d last worked there – but the
younger nurses did, and some of them were giggly and starstruck around him.
Once
everyone was seated, Nancy got up in front of the little audience and said,
“Folks, we have a real treat for you this morning. One of our own, Cary Hilst, is back for a quick
visit before she goes back on tour with the music group The Backstreet Boys.”
“Oh, my
granddaughter likes them…” murmured an elderly woman in the second row to the
woman sitting next to her.
“She’s
brought a special guest with her – Nick Carter, from The Backstreet Boys!”
There was
scattered applause, mostly from the staff.
“Who?” one of the old men blurted out loudly, his bushy eyebrows
furrowing as he squinted up at Nick. I
glanced over at Nick; he was grinning.
“They have
a concert tonight in Chicago, but they’ve graciously agreed to put on an
impromptu performance for us this morning.”
The staff
started another round of applause, which most of the residents politely joined
in. I looked at Nick and mouthed “You
first,” then went to sit at the piano.
Nick
actually looked sort of unsure of himself, standing there in the middle of the
room without a microphone. He shifted
his weight from foot to foot, grinning nervously at the little crowd in front
of him, while I flexed my fingers and hoped I wouldn’t screw up the
accompaniment of “Weird World” too badly.
I kept my
fingers light on the keys, plunking out the bouncy chord progression, and as
soon as Nick started singing, he was back in his element. He bounced along with me as he sang, “The sun is over the city, but it’s an
orange day. There is reason for lookin’
up, but I’m feelin’ down. You see, I’ve
got to catch a plane, but won’t buy a ticket, ‘cause it’s hard to just stop
when you’re spinnin’ around…” He
paced back and forth as he sang, making eye contact with each member of his
audience. “It’s a weird world, don’t you know it?
It’s a weird world, and it won’t slow down. It’s a weird world, no matter how you roll
it. Hey, hey, hey… sweet baby, there’s a
way to stand up and fight it. Hey, hey,
hey… never give up, and don’t let it wear out… your love…”
His
falsetto gave me chills, just like it did when he sang “This Is Us” every night
on stage. My fingers stumbled, and I hit
a clunker on the keyboard, but quickly found the right chords again. I don’t know if it was my screw-up that threw
Nick off, or if he simply blanked on the lyrics, but he didn’t come in on the
second verse. I looked up from the
piano, still playing, and he was staring back at me with a sheepish grin. I giggled to myself and repeated the last few
measures of accompaniment before I started singing, “Sent a message to a G.I. in the desert. Said ‘thank you man for bringin’ another
dawn…’”
I saw
Nick’s face light up and smooth out, and his voice joined mine with the harmony
traditionally sung by Kevin. “…Back here it’s her and me, and we’re
havin’ our first baby… and he’s out there, takin’ ‘em on.” That was my favorite line of the song; it
reminded me of my grandparents, who had met during the war and started their
family not long afterwards – first my Uncle Jim, then Uncle Mike, then Uncle
Dave, and, finally, my mother.
“I’m closin’ my eyes, but I’m startin’ to see, while he’s
lookin’ at you, she’s lookin at me. The
only thing he does is just keep me away from you…” sang Nick on the
bridge, gesturing with his hands to make up for the lack of a microphone to
hold onto. “Sure, part of this place would cheer if I die, but don’t let him take
away your beautiful smile… Take away your beautiful smile…” My chills came back as he went high
again. “Take away your… beautiful smile… Hey, hey, hey…”
When he was
finished, our little audience clapped again, louder this time. There was smiles on most of the residents’
faces. Nick came over to me and
muttered, “Thanks for the save.”
I
grinned. “You can count on your fans to
know the lyrics to your songs better than you do.”
He
laughed. “Hey, that wasn’t too bad,
considering I haven’t sung that song in, like, four years…”
“And no
rehearsal either,” I pointed out. “I thought
it was pretty dang good.”
He
smiled. “Yeah, well, you sing something
next.”
I ran
through a list of my original songs in my head, but in the end, I chose
something I thought most of the old folks would know, a song that was not mine,
but was just as special to me. I had
performed it in the Top 16 on American
Idol, and I wanted to perform it again now.
My fingers moved down the keyboard, striking chords and arpeggios I had
memorized off a yellowed piece of sheet music a long time ago. I knew most people would recognize the song
from the piano arrangement, and sure enough, when I looked up, I saw smiles on
some of the faces in the audience.
My fingers
moving gently over the keys, I opened my mouth and softly sang, “When you’re weary… feeling small… when
tears are in your eyes, I will dry them off… I’m on your side… Oh, when times
get rough… and friends just can’t be found, like a bridge over troubled water…
I will lay me down, like a bridge over troubled water… I will lay me down…”
“Bridge
Over Troubled Water” was one of my mother’s favorite songs. As I played the accompaniment, I could still
hear her playing the same arrangement on our old, out-of-tune piano at
home. She had been musical, too, a
lovely pianist, and had pushed me to take lessons. After her death, I’d inherited her collection
of sheet music and taken it upon myself to learn all of her favorites, the
pieces I remembered her playing the most.
I knew them all by heart now, and even though it was silly, I liked to
think that she could look down on me and smile when she heard me play them.
“When you’re down and out… when you’re on the street… when
evening falls so hard, I will comfort you… I’ll take your part… Oh, when
darkness comes… and pain is all around…” I glanced from the piano and caught Nick’s
gaze. He gave me a crooked, tight-lipped
smile. My throat swelled, but I forced
myself to keep on singing, “Like a bridge
over troubled water… I will lay me down, like a bridge over troubled water… I
will lay me down…”
In my
mind’s eye, I could see my mom, her curtain of dark hair falling in her face as
she leaned over the piano, her hands flying up and down the keyboard, fingers
stretching to hit the right chords. That
was how I liked to remember her – not bald, like she’d been before she had
died, too frail to sit up at the piano, her fingers too stiff and swollen from
her medications to play.
“Sail on, silver girl… sail on by,” I sang, and the
familiar lyrics felt almost like reassurance, words of encouragement from my
mother’s spirit. “Your time has come to shine… all your dreams are on their way… see how
they shine…” Letting my voice grow
louder and stronger as the accompaniment crescendoed, I closed my eyes, and my
thoughts turned back to Nick. “Oh, if you need a friend… I’m sailing right
behind… like a bridge over troubled water… I will ease your mind… like a bridge
over troubled water… I will ease your mind…”
Our tiny
audience broke out in applause as my hands came off the piano. I smiled, stood, gave a little bow. For a moment, it felt like old times, like I
was the same high-school girl I’d been when I used to come for them – not the
same exact people, but the residents who had been there when my grandparents
were still alive. It was weird to
realize I’d be performing on the big stage, in front of a crowd of four
thousand in Highland Park that night.
When it was
time to go, I said goodbye to those I knew, and they wished me good luck for
the show that night and the rest of the tour.
On our way out, Nick and I passed a frail figure, hunched over in a
wheelchair that was parked in front of the fish tank in the lounge. At first, it was almost impossible to tell
whether the person was a man or a woman; their back was to us, their face
turned toward the fish tank. The bald,
skeletal head suggested an old man, but when I noticed the flowered nightgown
falling off the bony, stooped shoulders, I realized it was a woman. Her posture made her look ninety years old,
but then she turned and looked over her shoulder at us, and I saw that her face
did not have the wrinkles of age, but the smoothness of youth. She couldn’t be older than forty. But I felt like I was looking into the face
of death – pale white, almost translucent skin stretched thin over her gaunt
skull, and big, black hollows where her eyes were sunken into their
sockets. It was like seeing a ghost –
not because she looked like death, but because she looked like my mother. Or, at least, the way my mother had looked at
the end of her life.
I forced
myself to smile what I hoped was a pleasant smile and say, “Good morning.” But my voice sounded shriller than usual, and
when the breath rushed out of me, I felt deflated. For a moment, it seemed like all the air had
been sucked out of the room around me; I couldn’t breathe. It was an old, familiar feeling, the feeling
I’d gotten when I’d been around terminally ill children and their families in
the hospital. It was the reason I had
been so eager to quit working there.
Because
almost all of the residents in the nursing home were elderly, I sometimes
forgot that Idyllwood Manor accepted other patients, too – younger adults with
mental or physical handicaps and illnesses so severe, they could not live
independently. Sometimes they had no
families to care for them, or sometimes their families just couldn’t do
it. Whichever was the case with this
woman, two things were clear: one, she
had advanced cancer, and two, she was far too young to be dying in a nursing
home. I swallowed hard as I continued
past her, thinking of my mother, who had died at the age of thirty. I was barely a year shy of thirty,
myself. Nick was thirty.
I snuck a
glance at him. The look on his face
matched the feeling inside me. The sight
of the emaciated woman had shaken him as much as it had me. But when he looked at her, I knew he hadn’t
been picturing my mother. He had
probably been picturing himself that way.
Without a
word, I reached over and grabbed his hand.
It was clammy. I gave it a
squeeze, trying to reassure him. After a
second, I felt his fingers curl around my thumb, squeezing back. Neither of us spoke, but we held hands the
whole way out to the car.
***