“God... this... sucks,” he choked, as he doubled over an emesis basin, purging the contents of his stomach.
“I know, sweetie,” whispered Nichole, one of the nurses, who comfortingly rubbed his back in small circles as he vomited. “Just let it all out.”
He didn’t seem to be having any trouble doing that; his body was going to let it all out whether he wanted to or not.
The intense sensation of nausea lasted the entire day, accompanied by frequent bouts of vomiting. Around 5:30 that evening, an orderly brought in Nick’s dinner tray.
“No thanks,” he muttered weakly as the orderly set the tray of covered dishes upon the tray attached to Nick’s bed.
“You should try to eat something,” the orderly advised.
“I’ll just puke it right back up again,” Nick retorted sullenly, trying to hold his breath to avoid inhaling the scent of food, knowing it would probably just set off his stomach again. “Can’t you just take it away? It’s making me sick.”
“Sorry, not yet. Try to eat; you might be surprised,” the orderly replied casually and left.
Glaring at the tray in front of him, Nick let out a breath and was immediately greeted with an odd smell that reminded him of dirty dishwater and wet dog. Appetizing. Deciding to not reveal the mystery that lay beneath the covers on all of the plates, he pushed the tray away and rolled over so that he could not see it. Out of sight, out of mind, right?
Wrong.
Within seconds, he was retching into the basin again, not sure whether it was the food or just the chemo that had triggered the vomiting again. Wiping his mouth off with a tissue, he collapsed miserably back into bed and rang for a nurse to come rinse the basin, only to have him dirty it up again in a few minutes.
A young nurse that he had not seen before appeared in his doorway right away, almost too soon. She didn’t look any older than him, and he felt his cheeks go red, embarrassed to be seen in that condition by one of his peers. The middle-aged nurses he did not mind; they were like mothers to him, and they understood. But to younger generations, he was Nick Carter, the Backstreet Boy, the celebrity. He was not supposed to be lying in a hospital bed, mostly bald and puking nonstop.
“Here,” he mumbled, holding the filled basin out toward her without looking at her.
“Oh! S-sure! I-I can rinse that out for you.” He felt her take the basin from his hand and chanced a look at her, only to catch the look of surprise on her pretty, young face.
“Sorry, guess you’re not used to this.” He gave her a wan smile.
“Oh, no, it’s... it’s not that,” she said quickly. “I just came b-because, um, well, I know you’re not accepting phone calls, but B-Brian Littrell called, and he begged me to come see if you would take his call.” She said this last bit very fast, and he noticed her face turning bright red. He recognized the starstruck look of a fan and smiled, relaxing a bit.
“Oh. Well, thank you. Yeah, I’ll take his call.”
She grinned. “Okay. Here you go.” She picked up the phone from the bedside table, pressed a button, and handed it to him.
“Hello?”
“Nick, finally! You wouldn’t believe the hoops I had to jump through just to get you to answer!” came Brian’s Kentucky drawl.
Nick laughed weakly and said, “Just a minute, Rok.” Cupping his hand over the mouthpiece, he asked the nurse, “Would you get me a pen when you bring that back?”
“Oh, sure!” She hurried away with his basin.
Smiling slightly, Nick put the phone back to his ear. “’Kay, I’m here. Sorry, one of the nurses is a fan.”
Brian chuckled. “Yeah, must be the one I talked to. I had to sing to her over the freaking phone to get her to believe who I was and come get you to talk to me.”
Nick laughed. “Did you really?”
“Sure did.”
The nurse came back then and gave Nick the empty basin and the pen with a hurried, “There you go.”
Blushing, she started to turn away and leave again, but Nick mumbled a quick, “Hang on again, Bri,” and said to the nurse, “Hey, wait a minute.”
She turned back. “Yeah?”
He swung his tray in front of him, grabbed the napkin from his dinner plate, and checked her nametag. Samantha was her name. Smiling, he scribbled a quick note to her on the napkin and scrawled his signature across the bottom, handing it to her along with the pen.
Glancing down at it, she grinned and whispered, “Thank you!”
“No problem, hon,” he replied, managing a slightly feeble version of the Carter half-smile that he knew his adoring female fans all loved so much. The look on her face was priceless and brought a genuine smile to his own as she uttered another empathetic thanks and left the room, positively glowing.
Once he was alone, he brought the phone back up and said, “’Kay, I’m back. I just signed her a quick autograph.”
“That was nice of you.”
“Well, you know me,” Nick muttered sarcastically. “So, what’s up?”
“That’s what I was calling you for. Nothing much is going on here; Leigh’s finishing up dinner, and Baylee’s playing here in front of me, and I thought I’d call and check up on you. How you doing?”
“Eh... okay...” Nick said slowly.
Brian could see right through him, even over the phone. “Yeah, right. You don’t sound like you’re okay. How are you really?” he pressed.
“To be honest? Sick. I never knew a person could throw up so much in one day,” Nick admitted, seeing no point in trying to hide the truth from his best friend any longer.
“Aww... Nick, are you sure you don’t me or somebody to come down there?”
How many times was he going to ask this? “For the last time, no,” Nick replied, half irritated, half flattered that Brian cared so much. “Jeez, Brian, I think you’re turning into your cousin.”
“NOOO!” Brian screamed in mock horror, and Nick laughed.
They say laughter is the best medicine, but all that jostling wasn’t really too good for his stomach. Suddenly very queasy, Nick choked out, “Oh God, hang on,” tossed the phone down, and leaned over the clean basin once more, vomiting a pale yellow solution of stomach acid and not much else, for he hadn’t eaten a thing all day. It burned as it went up his throat and left a bitter taste in his mouth, which he rinsed out with water. He carefully set the basin aside and picked up the phone again. “Sorry,” he said weakly.
“Are you okay? Were you just throwing up, Nick?”
“Maybe...”
“Nick... God, somebody should be there with you. You know, your mother should be with you. Why isn’t she?”
“Cause she don’t know I’m here, and I don’t want her to. I don’t talk to her anymore.”
Brian sighed heavily. “You are so damn stubborn. Well, listen, I know you probably feel like crap now, so I’ll let you go. Try to get some sleep, and feel better, okay? Call if you need anything.”
“Okay,” Nick replied. “Bye, Bri.”
“Bye, Nick.”
They hung up, and Nick lay down in bed, waiting desperately for his stomach to settle.
At some point, he must have fallen asleep, for when he closed his eyes, it was growing dark, and when he opened them again, it was light. He wondered vaguely if he had been given something to make him sleep. Still groggy, he looked around the room and was startled to see a figure slumped in a chair in the corner of the room. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he stared in astonishment.
“Mom?”
***
