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 of 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 of 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 haircut 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.
***
