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 wrung 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 a while. 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 a while, 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 a while, 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.
***
