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.
***
