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Author's Chapter Notes:
Better bust out the Tostitos, cause this chapter is, like, nacho cheesy. Enjoy the break from misery and angst while it lasts! ;) Thanks for reading!
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 were 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.

***


Chapter End Notes:
If you've never heard Nick's rendition of "Jailhouse Rock" from when he was a kid, you're in for a treat laugh! Click here.