I knew I should have told the guys the truth when the door was open, when I had the chance to come clean. It wouldn’t have comforted them to find out I had Stage IV cancer instead of a cocaine addiction, but at least they might have been sympathetic, instead of pissed off at me. I didn’t want their sympathy, though, so I put up with their anger instead.
The next four days were the hardest part of the tour. We made our way up the California coastline, doing a show a night, four in a row – five, if you counted our performance at the gay pride parade in San Francisco. The good part about being so busy was that the guys and I didn’t have much of a chance to keep arguing about whether or not I was doing drugs; we were forced to set aside our differences and be professional. The bad part was that I was struggling just to keep up.
For weeks, I’d been using caffeine to counteract the fatigue that the chemo caused. But now, with the guys and Cary all watching me like hawks, I couldn’t rely on Red Bull anymore. I didn’t want to. Blacking out like that, feeling my heart speeding out of control, and having to be shocked to slow it down again had scared the shit out of me. I never wanted to experience anything like that again. But without the boost of caffeine, I was exhausted all the time.
Our first day in California was supposed to be a chemo day – the intrathecal kind, which meant an injection into my spine and a full day of lying flat to avoid the spinal headache that would follow if I didn’t. But we had a show in Temecula that night, and I begged Cary to let me skive off chemo. “Please… I won’t be able to perform,” I said, sounding like a little kid asking to stay home sick from school – except that I guess what I was doing was the opposite.
I expected a lecture about how the chemo schedule was more important than the concert schedule, and how my health should come first, so I was really surprised when Cary nodded and said, “I think we should wait a few days.” When I raised my eyebrows, shocked at how easily she’d agreed, she added, “Your blood counts are low. Giving you more chemo now will just kill off more of the healthy cells, and you’ll be more susceptible to infection. Let’s just worry about getting you through the next few shows, and then you can finish off this cycle.”
I could have kissed her. She even called Dr. Submarine, who actually agreed with her that delaying the treatment by a few days would probably help more than hurt. Cary was making good on her promise to get me through the rest of the tour, so I had to keep up my end of the bargain, too. But it was hard, even harder than I’d anticipated.
By Monday, the day of our second show in San Francisco, I was totally beat. While the other guys spent our free morning out and about in the city, I lay around in my hotel room, and when we got to the venue, I lay around on my tour bus. I didn’t get up until I absolutely had to, until Cary was saying, “Nick, it’s almost time for the soundcheck party.”
“Kay… I’m coming,” I mumbled, dragging myself out of my bunk. “I just wanna brush my teeth first…”
I felt like I was wading through quicksand on the short walk to the bathroom at the back of the bus. My feet felt heavy, like I was wearing shoes made of cinderblocks, and my legs seemed slow and weak. I might as well have been trying to walk in the wrong direction on one of those moving sidewalks they have at airports; I put all my energy into each step just to keep myself moving forward. How in the hell was I going to dance tonight, feeling like this?
I pulled myself into the bathroom, leaning heavily on the wall, and turned on the light. It was not very forgiving to my reflection in the mirror. My face looked pale, like something had come along and drained the life out of me. In a way, I guess it had, only that thing wasn’t some kind of bloodsucking creature, like a vampire. Its name was chemo.
I reached for the toothbrush I’d left perched on the edge of the sink. It felt like a five-pound weight in my hand. The toothpaste was even worse; it took all of my strength just to squeeze a little dab of it onto the brush. It almost wasn’t worth it, but whatever I’ve said before about the ancient Egyptians having perfect teeth without brushing, I still don’t like to sing with bad breath. So I dragged the toothbrush back and forth across my teeth a few times, swished the toothpaste foam around in my mouth, and spat into the sink. My spit was the color of Christmas cookie frosting – light green from the toothpaste, with swirls of light red from the blood. My gums bled every time I brushed my teeth now, even if I tried to brush lightly. They were getting pretty sore.
I rinsed my mouth and the brush and then shut off the water. As I straightened up and turned to leave the bathroom, I got dizzy all of a sudden. I had to grab the sink with one hand and the wall with the other to keep myself upright. My heart was pounding hard, and for a scary few seconds, I was afraid I was having another arrhythmia, like I’d had from the caffeine. I stood there in the doorway for a minute and put my hand over my chest, feeling my own heart beat. It wasn’t beating crazy this time, racing and skipping around like it had before, but I still didn’t like the feel of it thudding against my palm.
I just need to lie down for a few more minutes, I thought, give it a chance to calm down. I staggered weakly back to my bunk, swaying with dizziness, and collapsed onto the thin mattress. It felt so good to lie down again; I closed my eyes, wishing I didn’t have to get back up.
“Nick?” I heard a soft whisper in my ear and a light hand on my shoulder. I opened one eye, and Cary was kneeling next to my bunk, looking at me with concern. “You really don’t feel good, do you?”
I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt good. There was no use lying about it, not to her. “No,” I croaked. “I feel like shit. I’m so fucking tired…”
She pressed her hand to my forehead, tracing over my eyebrows with her fingertips. It felt so nice, I closed my eyes again. “You can’t do the show like this,” I heard her say. “What do you want me to do?”
“I dunno…”
“Well, we have to figure out something. Someone’s gonna come looking for you if you don’t go in there for soundcheck in the next few minutes.”
I just groaned. I didn’t have the energy to think of a lie, or to even care that I couldn’t. I almost felt like throwing in the towel and telling her, “I give up. Just go tell the guys the truth. Tell them I can’t perform tonight and why.”
But before I could get around to forming the words, Cary said, “I think you’re just severely anemic, Nick. Your blood counts are low, and that’s why you’re feeling so bad. If you would just let me take you to the hospital, they could give you a transfusion, and I bet you’d feel a lot better.”
Something in her tone of voice made me open my eyes again and look at her. She was looking back at me hopefully. It was like she wanted me to be able to perform that night. She was on my side. Somehow, the realization gave me some strength. “Do you think there’s time before the show?” I asked. “Would I be able to perform tonight?”
“If I’m right, and that’s all it is, you might be able to. We’d need to leave now, though. You’d have to skip the soundcheck party. Can you do that?”
“I don’t have much of a choice,” I mumbled. “I can’t go in there like this.”
Cary sighed. “Finally, we agree.” She stood up and started pacing back and forth outside my bunk. “I know,” she said after a minute or so. “The guys think I’m diabetic, right? So, if my blood sugar suddenly skyrocketed, and I couldn’t get it under control, I’d need to go to the ER. You, as the ‘concerned boyfriend,’ would insist on going with me to make sure I’m okay. They’ll buy that, won’t they?”
I smiled. “Listen to you, you little mastermind… plotting and scheming and coming up with lies… I’m a bad influence on you.”
A guilty look came over her face, which was turning red. “You’re right… this is horrible. I hate having to lie. We should just tell them-”
“No,” I interrupted, before she could finish. “We’ll tell them exactly what you said. It’s good. They’ll buy it. And at least then hopefully I can get through tonight’s show.”
Just like that, we’d switched back to our old roles; Cary was the uncertain one, and I was determined. If I didn’t make it to the show tonight, if I had to tell the guys the truth, I might never get another chance to perform. I had to try her idea; if it worked, I’d at least buy myself more time. “C’mon,” I said, struggling into a sitting position again. “Let’s go.”
Cary looked like she wished she’d never suggested the plan, but she went along with it anyway. I had to hand it to her – not only was she clever, but she was a pretty good actress, too. When we walked into the theater together, she was holding onto me, doubled over, like she was the one who needed support, instead of the other way around.
“Guys, Cary’s sick,” I said to Brian, Howie, and AJ, who were messing around backstage while they waited for the VIPs to be brought in.
They all looked at her in concern, and I was glad she was playing it up – it took their attention off of me and how sick I looked. “What’s wrong?” Howie was the first to ask.
“It’s my diabetes,” Cary answered shakily. “My blood sugar’s all out of whack; I think I might be in keto. I need to go the ER, right now.”
I could tell she was acting – her voice was just a little too weak and wavery, like someone who’s faking sick on the phone – but the guys totally bought it. If I hadn’t known better, I probably would have, too. She knew enough about what she was talking about to be convincing.
“Should we call an ambulance?” Brian asked.
Cary shook her head, maybe a little too quickly. “No, we can catch a cab outside. I’ll be alright; I just need to get my insulin level regulated.”
“I’m going with her,” I added, to explain the “we.” “I’ll be back by showtime.”
I saw the way the guys exchanged glances, but then Brian said, “Go. We’ll cover for you.”
Howie nodded in agreement. “Call us when you know something, okay?”
“Sure,” I replied.
“Hang in there, Cary,” Howie added, squeezing her arm.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
It was as simple as that. We walked out of the theater, past a few fans who were still lurking by the backstage door, and hailed a cab. Once the taxi had pulled away from the venue, I leaned my head back against the seat and let out my breath in a sigh of relief. I felt an overwhelming sense of déjà vu as I heard Cary tell the driver, “We need to go to the nearest hospital, please.”
I turned my head towards her. “You were good back there.”
Her face got red. “Don’t say that. And don’t make me do that again. I know it was my idea, but I felt awful lying to them like that, faking an emergency. We should have just told them the truth.”
“Drop the cancer bomb on them right before a couple hundred fans came in for soundcheck? Yeah, right. That would have been a shitty thing to do – to the guys and the fans. It’s better this way,” I insisted.
She sighed. “You have to tell them the truth, Nick. You have to. I think you should do it tonight, after the show. We’ve got a day off tomorrow; it would give everyone some time to deal with this and decide what to do.”
I knew she was right. But just thinking about it made my stomach hurt. “We’ll see,” I muttered, staring out the window.
***
At the hospital, they drew my blood and ordered a complete blood count. The results weren’t a surprise to anyone, especially Cary, who had called it all along. My counts were low across the board – red cells, white cells, and platelets.
The doctor agreed to give me a transfusion, so while we should have been getting ready for the show, Cary and I sat around in a little room in the emergency department, while a bag of blood ran in through my port. “Sorry about all this,” I apologized, when I realized it should have been about time for her to take the stage. “You’re supposed to be performing right now, not stuck here with me.”
She shrugged. “I wouldn’t have been able to go on anyway, after almost dying of ketoacidosis.” A mischievous smile came over her face, and she winked at me. I had no idea what that big word meant, but she added, “That happened to Crystal on Idol, you know. That’s where I got the idea. The guys and the girls had to switch nights one week, in the semi-finals, ‘cause she was in the hospital. She wasn’t supposed to perform, but she did anyway, the next night. She’s almost as stubborn as you.”
“Passionate,” I countered. “I like the word ‘passionate’ better.”
“Passionately stupid,” Cary giggled.
“Hey, now…” I gestured down at the IV line running into my chest. “I’m here, aren’t I? I’m doing this. And you didn’t even have to twist my arm this time.”
“’Cause you knew you would have collapsed onstage tonight if you didn’t.”
She was right, of course. There was no way I would have made it through the show, feeling as bad as I had been. I was starting to feel better, though, as the healthy blood circulated through my body, boosting my counts. It was better than Red Bull. “I’m like a vampire,” I joked, then put on my best Transylvanian accent. “I must have blood for strength.” Cary giggled again, and I added, “I’m a scary vampire, not one of those sparkly kind. But still sexy. Scary, yet sexy… like Dracula. Or Kiefer Sutherland.”
Cary was grinning. “You’re Kiefer Sutherland, not Edward Cullen. Gotcha.”
I bared my teeth for her and gave her my most piercing, smoldering stare. Instead of being seduced, though, she just giggled again. I guess the fact that I was lying in a brightly lit hospital room with a tube of blood hanging out of my chest kind of ruined the sexiness. Oh well.
Cary’s attention returned to her phone, which she had been messing around with off and on ever since we’d gotten there. I’d figured she was just checking texts or playing Snake or something, until she announced, “Well, the news has made it online. The fans are freaking out.”
“What?”
She waved her phone. “Someone posted on a message board that you weren’t at soundcheck. There’s a whole thread of frantic speculation about what could be wrong.”
“Oh, great,” I groaned. I shouldn’t have been surprised; of course fans would be upset I was a no-show at the soundcheck party. I guess I just hadn’t expected to cause a panic or anything. “What are they saying?”
“Apparently the guys just said you had a ‘family emergency,’ so first they were worrying about which Carter was sick or hurt. Then they decided that, since none of your family’s on the road with you, and you’re too far to just run home and still make it back for the show – I guess the guys promised you’d be back – and it wouldn’t make sense for you to skip soundcheck just to deal with something on the phone, it must involve your girlfriend…” Her face got pink. “…who they think is me.”
“Heh, them too, huh?” I smirked, remembering the days when any girl I was spotted with in public – even my own sister – was instantly assumed to be my girlfriend. In some ways, not much had changed since then.
Cary nodded, her face turning pink again. “Ever since Salt Lake City.”
I remembered the emergency trip to the hospital, the fans in the hotel lobby who had watched us leave together, the pictures online the next day of Cary in her pajamas with her arm around me, and the rumors that I’d had some kind of overdose. I didn’t want to know what they were saying about that.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “They’ll chill out once I make it back for the concert.” But even then, I figured some fans would still be pissed – the fans who had bought VIP just to meet me. They were the ones I’d really let down. I felt bad about that, but I thought, They’ll feel worse once they know why.
It was only a matter of time before they found out the truth. I could feel my secret starting to unravel and knew I couldn’t keep it together much longer. It was only going to get harder to cover up, the more the chemo messed up my body and the worse I felt. There would be more incidents like the one in Salt Lake City and the one today, and we couldn’t use Cary’s fake diabetes to excuse them all. My only saving grace was that it was the last week of the tour. Just four more shows to get through, and then I could go home and get the rest I desperately needed.
We made it back to the venue with only ten minutes to spare, just enough time for me to throw on my stage clothes and meet up with the guys backstage. “It’s about time,” grumbled AJ, giving me an annoyed look.
“I told you I was on my way,” I replied, putting my earpiece in, while one of our sound guys hooked up my mic. I had texted Brian from the cab to let them know I was almost there.
“How’s Cary?” Howie was the first to ask.
“She’s okay. She’s resting on the tour bus.” I was eager to change the subject. “Did the crowd get restless without an opening act?” Through the curtains, I could hear them chanting, “Backstreet Boys! Backstreet Boys!”
Howie shrugged. “No more than usual. Lani DJed a set and got them fired up, so it was okay.”
None of them mentioned any fans freaking out at soundcheck, and I didn’t ask. But word must have spread through the theater that I hadn’t been there, because when the four of us jumped through the screen during “Everybody,” we got a bigger reaction than we had all tour – impressive, considering the place only held about two thousand people.
Maybe it just seemed magnified to me because, for the first time in the last six shows, I was actually happy to be onstage. The blood transfusion had worked its magic, and I felt reenergized, revitalized. I soaked up the screams and gave it my all, performing like it was my very last show. I guess, in a way, I thought it might end up being my last show, because once it was over, I knew what I had to do.
It wasn’t until I got on the bus that I made up my mind to actually do it, though. Cary wasn’t waiting for me up front like she usually was. I thought that was weird, especially since she hadn’t watched the show; I figured she’d be dying to know how it had gone. “Missed you in the audience tonight!” I called, as I walked back to the bunks – my way of apologizing, I guess, for making her miss the show.
The curtain was drawn around her bunk, which was also weird. Had she gotten so bored, she’d gone to bed early? It couldn’t be much past eleven. “Cary?” I said her name quietly, pulling the curtain aside just enough to peek in. At first, I thought she was asleep – she was lying on her side, her back to me, the covers pulled up around her. But underneath them, I saw the glow of her cell phone, which told me she’d just been using it before shoving it under the sheets. She wanted me to think she was asleep. That was weird, too. Usually we sat up and talked for awhile after a show, especially when we were just riding back to a hotel. I frowned. “Cary?” I asked again. “You okay?” I waited a few seconds, and when she didn’t answer, I called her bluff. “I know you’re not asleep…”
That did it. “How was the show?” she asked, without rolling over. Her voice sounded funny.
“Fine… good, actually. You were right. The transfusion helped a ton; I feel great. What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing. I just need some alone time.”
“You just had, like, two hours of alone time,” I pointed out. “What happened?”
With a sigh, she finally rolled over, and I could see that she’d been crying. Her eyes were puffy, and her face was all red and blotchy. “See for yourself,” she said, handing me her cell phone.
I hit a button to brighten the screen. She was on Twitter, looking at her @replies. I didn’t have to scroll long to see why she was upset. Among the messages wishing her well and hoping that she felt better soon, there were tweets saying bitter, downright hateful things like, “@CaryHilst i cant believe u made nick miss soundcheck just cuz u were ‘sick’! grow up u selfish bitch! hes to good 4 u! u dont deserve him!” and “@CaryHilst whateverz wrong with u, i hope u die from it! it better of been a life or death sitch 4 u to make nick bail on his fans that way!”
I sighed, too, and sat down on the edge of her bunk, tossing the phone down beside me. “Don’t even think twice about crap like that,” I told her. “Those so-called ‘fans’ are just unhappy with their own lives and insanely jealous of the life they think you have with me. Which, as we both know, is no fantasy.”
She let out some hybrid between a giggle and a sob. “I know,” she said. “I know it’s stupid to get upset over this; I know it’s not even close to the truth, and if they knew the real story, they’d be singing a different tune, but still… it’s not fun to be hated, whether it’s for a good reason or not. I’ve been getting tweets like this since those pictures of us going to the hospital went up last week, but I got hit with a ton tonight, and it just got to me.”
I squirmed uncomfortably. “I’m sorry you’re having to put up with that kind of shit. Welcome to life as Nick Carter’s girlfriend,” I said flatly. I love my fans, but sometimes I hate the crazy ones for pulling this kind of shit. Every serious girlfriend I’ve ever had has had to deal with it – Mandy, Paris, Julie, Lauren, and all the flings in between. None of them deserved it – well, maybe Paris – but definitely not Cary. She wasn’t even my girlfriend, and it was my fault for making people think she was.
Cary sniffed. “Yeah, well, it sucks getting that much crap without any perks.”
“Perks?” I raised my eyebrows and smirked, making her blush.
“Never mind,” she said quickly. “I’m just tired of this… this double life we’re living – having to sneak around and pretend and lie to people. That’s not me, and I think it’s just really starting to get to me.” She sat up, wiping her eyes.
I didn’t know what to say, except, “I’m sorry.” And I was. I was the one who had been selfish, getting her involved in my own “double life” and making her lie for me and take care of me and put up with the guys and my crazy fans thinking she was no good for me. In reality, it was the other way around – she was way too good for me. She was everything I had hoped she would be and more – not just a good nurse who could give me my chemo and keep my secret, but a good friend who was patient and understanding and sweet. It took someone special to put up with me and my bullshit as long as she had, without complaining. And now that she was, I knew I had taken this whole thing too far.
It was getting to me, too. I didn’t like lying to my closest friends any more than I liked them thinking I was some lame-ass druggie. Being on tour wasn’t fun anymore. Really, I wasn’t sure it had ever been fun – not this leg, at least. There had been a few good times on the road, but they were few and far between all the times I’d lain around on my bus, avoiding the guys while I got chemo, and the times I’d chugged Red Bull in my dressing room, trying to fight off fatigue and get myself energized for a show. Even performing wasn’t fun when I was too sick and tired to enjoy it. I had taken this way too far. Cary was right, just like she always was, just like she’d been all along. It was time to come clean.
I remembered what she had said earlier: “You have to tell them the truth, Nick. You have to. I think you should do it tonight, after the show. We’ve got a day off tomorrow; it would give everyone some time to deal with this and decide what to do.”
Before she could suggest it again, I added, “I’m gonna tell the guys. Tonight.”
She raised her eyebrows, looking at me skeptically. “For real?”
I swallowed hard. “For real.” And to prove it, I got out my own cell phone and sent a text message to Brian, AJ, and Howie. “When we get back to the hotel, will you guys meet me in my room?” it said. “I got something to tell you.”
***
