Nick
Twenty-four
hours later, not much had changed. I was
still in the hospital, still alone, and still in the dark – both figuratively
and literally.
I’d been
put through three tests that day, but the technicians told me I wouldn’t hear
the results until at least the next day.
The CT scan wasn’t bad; the hardest part had been trying to lie
perfectly still while I was inside the big, round machine that was scanning
me. The biopsy – big surprise – was a
lot worse. I figured they’d put me to
sleep, but they only sedated me a little, numbed me up, and made me lie there, perfectly
still again and perfectly still awake, while they stuck a long-ass needle in my
chest to chisel off a piece of the tumor.
“What if I
cough?” I asked, when the doctor who did the biopsy told me how important it
was for me to hold absolutely still while the needle was in – like I’d suddenly
spring off the table and start doing the “Everybody” dance with a needle
sticking out of my chest.
Without missing a beat, the doctor looked me in the eye, straight-faced, and
said, “Don’t.”
“But – what
if I have to??” I’d had a cough for
months; it seemed likely. But somehow, I
managed not to cough, and I got through the biopsy with nothing more than a
tiny hole in my skin where the needle had gone in. I touched the spot through my hospital gown;
it was tender and covered with a gauze bandage.
They’d
surprised me with the third procedure, which was called thoracentesis. I wouldn’t have had a clue what that meant
before that day, which was probably a good thing, since it involved draining
the fluid that had built up in my lungs with another long needle. This time, they had me sit up and lean over a
table while they stuck the needle into my back and drained the fluid through a
tube into a container that was sent to a lab for testing. So I had another hole and another bandage on
my back. I was sore, but I felt
better. It was a lot easier to breathe
with clear lungs.
I’d almost
be able to sleep, if I wasn’t still so freaked out. But I couldn’t relax, knowing that I might
have cancer. So I turned on the TV in my
room and flipped through the channels, trying to find something that would take
my mind off what might be wrong with me.
It was a
Tuesday night, and American Idol was
on. I’d never really watched the show
before; it seemed like we were always out of the country when it was on, and
even when we weren’t, I didn’t really get the hype. But on that night, figuring it might give me
a laugh to mock some bad singers, I left it on.
It turned
out that they were already past the funny bad audition part, so it was just the
good ones left. A guy named Lee was on stage,
singing “The Letter” by the Box Tops in a weird, sort of big band, jazz style,
complete with a brass band and three groovin’ back-up
singers. I thought it was pretty cheesy
and over the top, but go figure, the judges loved it.
“Lee, Lee,
Lee…” said Randy Jackson. “So, uh… you
know what’s cool, man? It’s cool that
you chose this kinda bluesy, soul version of this song because when I heard
what you were choosing, I was like, wow, in all of the number ones, you chose
this? But you know what, dude? You knocked it out of the box! Way to start off the show!”
Ellen DeGeneres went on some rambling analogy about a pen, and
the other girl judge talked about how much he had grown since the first time
he’d performed onstage. Only Simon Cowell said what I was thinking. “That, to me, was not a recording
performance. That was you doing
something quite corny – it was,” he insisted, as the live audience started
booing. “It actually was. You sounded good; you were bouncing around
onstage a little bit, but I think you’re kind of missing the point I was trying
to say last week about having ‘a moment.’
That doesn’t define you as a contemporary recording artist.”
Who’d have
guessed that was the guy that would end up winning?
The show
went to a commercial break and returned with Ryan Seacrest
sitting on a stool next to a pretty, dark-haired girl. “Back with you on Idol, we are celebrating chart-topping hits tonight. Here’s a cool fact: former Idols have earned
two-hundred-sixty-one Billboard number ones since the show started back in
2002. Hoping to add to that is Cary Hilst, who is sitting here.” Seacrest turned to
the girl on the stool beside his. “Cary,
with so many top songs to choose from, how did you narrow down your song choice
this week?”
“I had a
really hard time with it!” exclaimed Cary, leaning forward on her stool. “You know I like the classics, and it was
tempting to choose something from the early days of the Billboard chart, but I
was afraid of falling into a rut, ‘cause in the top sixteen, the judges told me
I was in danger of sounding too old. So
I was looking through all the number ones over the years, and I looked up the
song that was number one when I was born, July fifth, 1981. It was ‘Bette Davis Eyes’ by Kim Carnes,
which is such a great eighties song. I
did a little research and found out that that version is actually a cover; the
original was written and recorded by Jackie DeShannon
in the seventies. I listened to her
version and thought it was really jazzy and fun, so that’s the version I’m
singing tonight.”
I could
tell she was nervous by how fast she said all of that, but after the first guy,
who just sort of stood there looking half-asleep while the judges critiqued
him, I found the passion she put into her long-winded explanation
charming. It helped that she was a cute
girl – big green eyes that shone with enthusiasm as she talked, dark brown hair
curled into ringlets that bounced over her shoulders, and bright red lips that
matched the flower pinned behind one ear.
She had the look of a fifties pin-up model.
“Well, we
can’t wait to hear it,” said Seacrest. “Let’s take a look at your session with Miley.”
The show
cut to a clip of Miley Cyrus coaching Cary on her
song. When that was over, the live feed
returned to Cary, now standing in the center of the big stage, between a piano
player and the same back-up singers who had performed with the first guy. The band behind her struck up a jazzy number
that sounded nothing like “Bette Davis Eyes” to me, and the piano player joined
in with a honky tonk-style accompaniment. Only when the singer came in with the lyrics
did I recognize the song.
“Her hair is hollow gold… her lips a sweet surprise… her
hands are never cold… she’s got Bette Davis eyes. She’ll turn the music on you… and you won’t
have to think twice… she’s pure as New York snow… she’s got Bette Davis eyes…”
She had a
unique voice – not powerful, but sweet and bluesy, like an old-fashioned jazz
singer. I liked it a lot; it was
interesting to listen to.
“And she’ll tease you… she’ll unease you… all the better
just to please you. She’s precocious…
and she knows just what it… takes to make a pro blush. She’s got… Greta Garbo
stand-off sigh; she’s got… Bette Davis eyes.”
“She’s got Bette
Davis eyes,” echoed her back-up singers.
I had picked up the habit of watching for other singers’ little quirks from
Brian, who had his imitations of each us singing down pat. He kept the fans entertained at soundcheck by
acting like me, dropping to his knees and raking his hands through his hair
with a look of pure constipation on his face.
I didn’t think I was that bad, but his impressions of AJ’s slouch,
Howie’s cheesy salsa moves, and what the fans referred to as Kevin’s “turtle
dance” were pretty dead-on, so maybe I was.
“She’ll take a tumble on you… roll you like you were dice…
until you come up blue… she’s got Bette Davis eyes…”
Anyway,
after years of hanging around Brian, I’d started looking for the same things,
the signature little moves every stage performer had. I could mock Brian’s squinty-eyed,
heart-patting, foot-lifting, pointing thing at least as well as he could
imitate me. Cary, I noticed, was a
wiggler. She had this one little dance
move she did as she sang, sort of like the twist, where she’d shimmy her
shoulders and wiggle her hips, making the full skirt of her blue cocktail dress
swish around her knees. She did this in
time to the music, and it was pretty cute.
“She’ll expose you… when she blows you… off your feet with
the crumbs that she throws you. She’s
ferocious… and she knows just what it… takes to make a pro blush. All the boys… think she’s a spy; she’s got…
Bette Davis eyes. Greta Garbo stand-off sigh; she’s got… Bette Davis eyes,” she repeated,
slowing down to her finish. “Oh, Bette Davis eyes…”
“She’s got Bette
Davis eyes!” chirped the cheesy back-up singers, as the piano plucked out its
last notes.
The
audience cheered, and the camera cut to the judges. “Yo… okay, look, yo,” started Randy, once the
studio had quieted down. “Cary, Cary,
Cary… look, you know I’m a fan, but I gotta be honest, dawg. That just didn’t really work for me.” He held up his hands in defense as the
audience started booing. “Sorry, but I
dunno, man, it was just kinda weird for me.”
I blinked
at the TV; dude was even less articulate than me.
“Well,
Cary, first of all, you look great,” said Ellen, all blue eyes and smiles. “This maybe wasn’t your best performance, but
for me, it’s all about entertainment, and you know what? I was entertained. Great job.”
“This
wasn’t a bad performance, Cary,” added the third judge, Kara. “You looked like you were having fun up
there, and that’s important. Your stage
presence has really grown over the last few weeks, as you’ve gained this
experience. But now I want you to work
on choosing the right song, the kind of song that’s going to present you as a
relevant, contemporary artist. I’m
looking for that ‘moment’ from you, and this just wasn’t it.” She scrunched up her features, offering an
exaggerated, apologetic look, as some more boos rose out of the crowd.
Then it was
Simon’s turn again. “I hate to be the
bearer of more bad news,” he began, “but I agree with what Kara said about your
needing to show us you can be relevant as a modern recording artist. We’re looking for the whole package, and
that’s what’s missing from yours right now, Cary. You’re a pretty girl with a pleasant voice,
but that’s not enough to set you apart from all the other pretty girls with
pleasant voices who would love to be standing in your shoes right now. With you, everything’s just very
old-fashioned, and I know that’s the sort of style you’re going after, but what
works on stage in, say, a lounge or on a cruise ship doesn’t necessarily work
on the radio. This performance was very
cabaret, and if you want to stick around in this competition, you need to start
being more current.”
He was cut
off by the boos of the audience and the show’s theme music, as Seacrest crossed the stage to stand at Cary’s side. The number to call to vote for her appeared
onscreen, just as I heard a knock on my door.
“Vitals
check!” sang out a chipper voice, and I recognized my night nurse, a cute
Hispanic girl named Reyna, as she came in.
“Ooh, are you watching American
Idol?” she asked, craning her neck to see the TV as the show cut to another
commercial break. “Has Cary Hilst gone yet?”
“You just
missed her; she sang right before the commercials,” I replied, holding out my
arm so she could take my blood pressure.
I was used to this routine by now; it seemed like every few hours,
someone was coming to take my blood pressure, pulse, and temperature. “Why, is she your favorite?”
“We root
for her on this floor,” Reyna said, as she strapped the blood pressure cuff
around my upper arm. “Gotta support our
own, you know?”
“She works here?” I asked, surprised.
“No,” Reyna
laughed, “but she is a nurse. Nurses
stick together, you know?”
“Ah, I
see. She’s representin’.”
“That’s
right.” She put her stethoscope in the crook
of my elbow and pumped up the pressure on the cuff, squeezing my arm. “One hundred over sixty,” she said, once
she’d let the cuff deflate. She unstrapped it from my arm and dropped it back into its spot
on the wall behind my bed. “She sang one
your songs, you know.”
“Huh?”
“Cary, on Idol.
A couple weeks ago.” She took my
hand and turned it palm-up, pressing two fingers to my wrist to take my pulse.
“Really? Which one?”
“Shh,”
Reyna shushed me, staring at her watch.
I shut up, waiting for her to finish counting. She jotted something on my chart, then said,
“I can’t think of the name. It must have
been one of your newer songs, ‘cause I have the old Backstreet Boys CDs, and
it’s not on any of them.”
“Incomplete?”
I guessed. I assumed the “old” CDs meant
everything before Never Gone, and
“Incomplete” was the biggest hit we’d had since then.
“No…” She stuck a thermometer in my ear.
I started
naming off the rest of the recent singles in order. “Just Want You to Know?”
“Yeah!” Her eyes lit up. “That was it.
It was really good, too! You
should YouTube it.”
I eyed my
laptop, sitting on the tray next to my bed.
“Maybe I will.”
The
thermometer beeped, and she pulled it out of my ear. “A hundred-and-one point eight. You’re still running a temp.”
“I know,” I
muttered. “I always do at night.”
“Hm…” She pursed her lips together, looking at me
seriously. “Well, I’ll let the doc
know. That’s all I need from you for
now; I’ll let you get back to watching Idol.”
I looked up
at the TV; the show was already back on, and some pretty boy with a mop top
hair cut was butchering Queen’s “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.” “Don’t you wanna stay and watch it with
me?” I was only kidding, but I almost
wished she would. It was nice just to
have someone to talk to, someone who already knew what was going on with me but
didn’t want to discuss it.
Reyna
beamed. “Aww, you’re sweet. And if I didn’t have twenty-five other sets
of vitals to take, I so would,” she
flirted. “I’ll have to settle for watching
it on my DVR tomorrow.” She flashed me
another smile, and then she left me alone again.
I turned my
attention back to the TV. The
shaggy-haired kid was getting ripped a new one by the judges and grinning
creepily the whole time. Weird. The show went to another commercial break
after that. Jeez, it sure showed a lot
of commercials. Sighing, I looked over
at my phone. It seemed to be staring
back at me, accusingly, as if to say, Why
haven’t you called anyone yet?
Cause there’s nothing to tell yet, I thought,
rolling away from the phone. Tomorrow…
maybe tomorrow, I’d finally find out what was wrong with me.
Despite the
prospect of another restless night ahead, the thought didn’t make me eager for
morning to come. Maybe I would find out…
but maybe I was afraid to.
***
Click here to hear the song Cary sings in this chapter.