Cary
The arch of
purple and white balloons, swaying gently in the breeze against the backdrop of
blue sky, always made for a beautiful sight.
On that day, it was made even more beautiful by the presence of Nick standing
beside me.
He looked
good, dressed for the occasion in a t-shirt and shorts, a baseball cap pulled
low over his head, a pair of sunglasses tucked into his collar. “Perfect day for this,” he remarked, tilting
his face up toward the sun.
“Yeah, it really
is,” I agreed, relieved that it wasn’t scorching hot or rainy. “The middle of July isn’t really the best
time to hold this; we’re lucky it’s only eighty-seven now. It’ll get cooler tonight.”
“Yeah, and
it’s still cooler than LA right now,” he replied, grinning at me.
Nick had
been in a great mood ever since I’d picked him up at the airport. The relief over his remission seemed to have
sunk in, and he was all smiles. I knew
the decision about his treatment was still weighing on him, but he had insisted
that we not talk about it yet, wanting to enjoy himself and forget about his
cancer for once.
Of course,
it was hard not to think about cancer when we found ourselves surrounded by
it. Everywhere I looked, there were
reminders. White signs displayed cancer
prevention tips and statistics from the American Cancer society. Team posters and homemade t-shirts carried
slogans about beating cancer and pictures of loved ones who had not. Men and women of all ages walked around in
the purple t-shirts designated for survivors.
“Wait here
a sec,” I told Nick, as we passed the survivors tent. I trotted into the tent, spoke to one of the
committee members, and came back carrying two t-shirts. One was a purple survivor shirt, the other a
regular white Relay shirt, like the one I was wearing, with the word HOPE printed across the front in big
purple letters. “Which one?” I asked,
holding both out for Nick.
He gave me
a look before snatching the white one.
“Are you kidding? I haven’t even
told my family. I can’t be seen walking
around in one of the purple ones.”
I had
figured as much. “Next year, then,” I
said lightly, turning to take the survivor shirt back.
On our way
to find my team’s campsite, I couldn’t resist asking, “When do you think you’ll
tell everyone else?”
Nick was
quiet for a few seconds, looking down at his feet as he walked. Finally, he replied, “I dunno. I was waiting to see what kind of news I got
from the doctor. I guess now that I can
say I’m in remission, I should tell them soon, huh?”
I
nodded. “I think you should. Starting with your family. They deserve to know before the rest of the
world.”
He
snorted. “That’s all the Carter family
needs, is more drama. Can you imagine my
mom’s reaction?”
I didn’t
know what to say to that. Obviously, I’d
never met his mother, but everyone knew Jane Carter was no June Cleaver. Still, I couldn’t help but think, At least you still have a mom. I knew better than to say it, though.
It was a
relief to see my dad waving at us from under a big, white canopy in a far
corner of the big parking lot. Most of
the Relays in the area were held at high schools, so relayers could walk or jog
around the track, but ours always took place at the local community
college. The college didn’t have its own
track, so they marked off a makeshift one in the parking lot, and we walked
around that. The team campsites were
positioned around the perimeter of the lot, with the big tents for different
American Cancer Society services located closer to the main building. Food and bathrooms were located inside, which
was a relief in the July heat.
We made our
way over to the campsite, where some of my teammates, people I’d known since I
was a child, sat in a circle of lawn chairs under the canopy. I saw my dad’s pick-up truck parked off to
one side and our tent pitched in the grass at the edge of the lot. Not everyone camped out overnight, but since
we were walking so late, we usually did.
I dropped
my backpack and said hello to everyone, introducing them all to Nick. They were all polite and friendly, but since
most of them were close to my dad’s age, no one made a big fuss over him. Nick seemed fine with that.
I threw our
stuff into the cab of my dad’s truck, and when I came back, I caught him
looking at the faded banner stretched across one side of the canopy. Carol’s
Cancer Crusaders, it said, the words painted in teal. Teal is the official color for ovarian cancer
awareness, but it was also one of my mom’s favorite colors. I had made the banner for our team as a
teenager, before one of our first Relays, and I was amazed it had lasted this
long. My dad kept it in a special place,
folded up on a shelf in his garage, and only brought it out once a year for
this occasion.
“Your mom?”
Nick asked, leaning closer to the banner.
There was an old picture of her attached to the banner, one from her
last year of life; she was puffy and bald, her head covered by a bright scarf,
but her smile was as radiant as ever.
Even now, twenty years later, looking at it put a lump in my
throat. This was one of the days every
year – along with her birthday and mine, my parents’ anniversary, the
anniversary of her death, and all the major holidays – that I thought of her and
missed her the most.
I cleared
my throat. “Yeah. We started our team in honor of her.”
He didn’t
look at me, continuing to study the banner.
“Her name was Carol?”
“Yeah,” I
said again, smiling. “I’m named after
her. Carol… Carolyn.”
“That’s
neat,” he replied.
“Thanks. I think so, too.” I didn’t tell him about how I’d sometimes
felt sorry for my dad, having been left to raise me alone after she died. I was practically a clone of my mother, at
least in looks, with almost the same name.
I knew it hadn’t been easy for him, that first year or so after her
death, to look me in the face and call me by name. Even now, I wouldn’t have been surprised if
he saw my mom every time he looked at me.
It was the reason I’d spent so much time with my grandparents, my
mother’s parents, after she died. They
had become like a second set of parents to me, because my dad didn’t handle
grief well, and there had been a time when parenting me alone had been too
painful. He had come around, of course,
and taken back the responsibility as my grandparents got older and moved into
the nursing home, and these days, he and I were closer than ever. Really, he was the only family I had left,
which made me think more and more about the need to settle down and start a
family of my own.
I cleared
my throat again and looked over at Nick, suddenly anxious to change the
subject. “You wanna walk around for
awhile, check out the tents? Find some
fans to sign autographs for? I’m sure
there are some lurking around here somewhere.”
He
laughed. “I’m sure you’re right. But yeah, sounds good. Just lemme change my shirt first, so I look
like I belong.” He grinned and loped off
behind my dad’s truck to take off his t-shirt, keeping his back turned so no
one caught a glimpse of his portacath.
When he came back, he was wearing the Relay tee. “What do you think?” he asked, spreading his
arms for me to see.
I gave him
a thumbs up. “You look ready to relay
now.” Then I added quickly, “But
seriously, don’t feel like you have to stay all night and walk with me. I can drive you back to my apartment any time
you want, if you get tired or start feeling sick.”
He held up
his hand, shushing me. “Cool it with the
nurse crap. None of that tonight. I’m fine, alright? I’m totally up for hanging out and having fun
and getting in a good workout, so let’s go.”
With that, he strode off across the parking lot, leaving me to chase
after him.
I caught
up, and we walked a lap around the lot, stopping to look at the other teams’
tents and check out the various other activities that were going on. Sure enough, quite a few fans found us, and
Nick stopped to talk and sign autographs and take pictures with them. The girls who approached him were polite and
respectful, even to me. I knew there
were still rumors swirling about my relationship with Nick and that many of his
fans weren’t such big fans of me, but no matter what they might have thought,
they seemed to realize it wasn’t the place to be petty or rude.
After
wandering around outside for awhile with groups of girls tailing Nick like he
was the Pied Piper, we finally shook off the fans and went inside to eat dinner
with my dad. By the time we were done,
the opening ceremony was about to start, so we made our way back out to the parking
lot, where a speaker was announcing all of the teams.
One by one,
each team paraded out onto the designated track and stopped to pose while
someone took our picture. Nick tried to
step out of the picture, but I threw an arm around his waist and reeled him
back in. “Consider yourself an honorary
team member,” I told him through my teeth, as we smiled for the camera.
Once all of
the teams had been introduced, we lined the track for the survivors’ lap,
clapping to show our support as each survivor’s name was read. The survivors trooped around the track, an
impressive mass of purple. Many of them
were elderly, but more than a few were surprisingly young. Some of them rode in wheelchairs or golf
carts or walked with the aid of a walker or cane. I saw one man limping along on a prosthetic
leg. Some were noticeably frail or bald
from chemo underneath their hats and scarves, but others looked perfectly
fine. It made me wonder if they were
long-term survivors who had beaten the odds and finished treatment years ago,
or if they were like Nick – healthy-looking on the outside, still sick and
fighting the disease on the inside.
I glanced
at Nick and saw his jaw tighten as he watched them walk past us. I wondered what was going through his
head. Acting on impulse, I reached down
and found his hand, slipping my fingers through his and squeezing it
lightly. “Next year,” I whispered, for
only him to hear. “You can come back and
walk with them next year.”
He looked
over at me, but didn’t reply. I couldn’t
read his expression underneath his baseball cap, but I hung onto his hand until
all of the names had been read, and he didn’t pull away.
When the
opening ceremony was over, it was my turn to take the stage. I got a great introduction. “And now, ladies and gentleman,” said the emcee
for the evening, “We have a real treat for you.
To kick off the entertainment portion of the night, we have a talented
young lady who was born and raised right here in Macon County and, earlier this
year, made it all the way to the top twelve on American Idol. She’s also
part of a team here tonight, Carol’s Cancer Crusaders, and she tells me that
Relay for Life is a cause that’s near and dear to her heart. Please welcome to the stage, Miss Cary
Hilst.”
I was
actually surprised at the round of applause I got when I walked to the center
of the portable stage that had been set up in the middle of the parking
lot. The few rows of folding chairs in
front were completely filled, and behind them, clusters of people were still
milling around to watch. I had a feeling
they were waiting for Nick, but I’d take whatever audience I could get. Usually, people were too busy walking or
checking out the raffles and silent auctions and other activities to pay much
attention to the entertainment; it was mostly background noise. But tonight, it seemed, we’d drawn a crowd
that wanted to listen.
I played my
set from the Backstreet tour, including “Just Want You to Know” and two of my
original songs. I also covered “Bridge
Over Troubled Water” on keyboard and one of my personal favorites, Israel
Kamakawiwo’ole’s medley of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and “Wonderful World”
on the ukulele.
To me, the
latter was the perfect song for the occasion – uplifting, but a little sad,
too. I had first played it in public at
my grandfather’s funeral, as a way of honoring the man who had taught me to
play the uke in the first place. He had
learned himself during the second World War, when he was stationed in Hawaii,
and when his fingers became too arthritic to play anymore, he had passed his
instrument on to me. I closed my eyes as
I strummed it, singing, “Somewhere over
the rainbow… blue birds fly… and the dreams that you dream of, dreams really do
come true… oo-oo-ooh…”
There were
no rainbows all the way across the sky that evening, but there was a beautiful
sunset that was so bright and so vivid, it almost brought tears to my
eyes. “Thank you,” I murmured into the
microphone when I was finished, swallowing away the lump in my throat. “Now I’d like to turn the stage over to a
friend of mine, who I think you’ll all recognize. He came all the way from California to
perform here tonight for free, as a favor to me. So please make his time worthwhile and give a
warm welcome to Nick Carter!”
Nick
grinned almost embarrassedly as he loped across the makeshift stage, his guitar
slung over his back. I turned over my
stool to him and retreated to the audience, eager to watch his set. He’d brought along a backing track, but did
most of his songs acoustic, accompanying himself on the guitar as he sang
Backstreet classics like “As Long As You Love Me,” “I Want It That Way,” and
“Shape of My Heart,” as well as some of his solo stuff, such as “Who Needs the
World” and “I Got You.” He played for
almost an hour, until it was completely dark and almost time for the Luminaria
ceremony.
He kept his
small audience hooked until then, and when he finally stepped off the small
stage, they cheered louder than I would have thought possible. There were plenty of fans present, I knew,
girls who had come miles just to see him, but I saw middle-aged women in Relay
tees and old men in purple survivor shirts who gave him an enthusiastic round
of applause, too. I shouldn’t have been
surprised. Nick could charm any crowd.
“You were
amazing,” I told him, when he found me afterwards. “Thanks for doing this.”
He gave a
nod, grinning. “Thanks for asking
me. It was fun – and for a good cause.”
I glanced
around at the luminaries being lit all around the parking lot, at all the
purple shirts I saw in the crowd of people still milling around, and finally
back at Nick. Then I nodded, too. “Definitely,” I agreed.
***