“No, that’s only every few times I come, thank God,” Nick muttered. “Come down here in about six weeks if you wanna see me go through that torture again.”
Brian frowned, but didn’t reply. They rode in silence for a few minutes, Nick enjoying the peace and quiet. He tried to focus on that rather than the moving car and passing scenery; it only made him queasy.
It was his first round of the new chemo on his own, out of the hospital, and already, he could tell it was going to be pure hell. He could feel the sickness creeping up on him, and they had barely gotten out of the parking deck. He cursed the potent chemicals flowing into his bloodstream by way of the catheter, cursed their very existence.
It just wasn’t fair – he had felt so good coming here, and now he felt so bad, and it was only going to get worse. He had a long week ahead of him and could only look forward to a week from that day, when he would be free of the chemo and back to feeling fairly decent, or as decent as a person with cancer could feel, he supposed.
He slumped over against the door, pressing his cheek up to the cool window glass. It felt good on his skin, which had grown hot and sweaty as the nausea worsened. He closed his eyes, the darkness soothing.
It was only a matter of minutes before Brian glanced over and noticed his change in posture.
“You all right, Nick?” he asked, a tremor of fear rocking his voice.
“Yeah,” Nick murmured, not moving. “Just a little woozy.”
“Well, are you gonna be okay? You need me to stop?” Brian’s voice rose with mild panic as he fired concerned questions at his sick friend.
A weak chuckle escaped Nick’s throat. “Nah, I’m good for now,” he replied lethargically. A moment later, as nausea rippled through his system, he mumbled, “Just please hurry, ‘kay?”
“I’m tryin’, buddy,” Brian assured him worriedly. Giving Nick a sidelong glance, he added, “Whatever you do, don’t throw up in the jeep, all right? The rental place’ll probably charge me big bucks if I bring it back all puke-stained and smelling like ass.”
Nick smiled wanly. “I’ll try not to.”
But that got harder and harder to do as they got closer and closer to Nick’s beachside residence. As soon as Brian had parked in the drive, Nick was out of the car, staggering dizzily up the walkway to the front door, desperate to get to a bathroom.
He didn’t make it.
Leaning off one side of the porch, he heaved and retched into the landscaping. Almost instantaneously, Brian had leapt out of the car and sprinted up to his side. Now he stood with one arm on Nick’s back, rubbing it in small circles as Nick threw up.
“Thanks,” Nick mumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he straightened himself.
“Come on, buddy,” Brian said softly, guiding Nick into the house. He walked Nick slowly up the staircase and into his bedroom, where he pulled back the sheets and light comforter covering Nick’s king-sized waterbed and eased him down into it.
“You don’t gotta tuck me in, Brian, I’m a big boy now,” Nick murmured hazily, drawing a hand over his pale, sweaty face.
“Lie still,” whispered Brian. “I’ll be right back.” He ducked into Nick’s bathroom, where he retrieved a clean washcloth from the linen cupboard and dampened it with cool water. He brought it back into the bedroom and handed it to Nick. “For your face.”
“Thanks.” Nick took the cloth and dragged it slowly over his face with one trembling hand, savoring the clean, cool moisture against his perspiring skin. Brian took it when he was finished, leaving it draped over the bathroom faucet to dry.
“You can go back to the hotel now if you want,” Nick said when he came back into the bedroom. He knew Brian would probably protest, but he would rather be alone, crappy as he was feeling and embarrassed as he was to be seen so weak and miserable. It wasn’t like Brian had never seen him throw up before; in fact, it had been a group joke for years now that Nick had the weakest immune system of any of the Backstreet Boys – he was always coming down with something or the other. But no one, certainly not Nick himself, had ever dreamed that he would come down with this, cancer of all things.
Brian shook his head mulishly, just as Nick knew he would. “No,” he said firmly. “Sorry, Nick, but I’m not leaving yet. You’re sick and weak, and there’s no way you should be up here all by yourself. If something were to happen...”
“Bri, nothing’s gonna happen,” Nick said irritably, but he knew it was a lost cause. Mellow as he usually was, Brian could be extremely stubborn when it came to certain things, and Nick’s well-being was one of those things.
Brian only smiled. “Sorry,” he repeated flatly. “Tell you what – I’ll just go out on your balcony, okay? That way you can be alone and get some rest. If you need me, just call, I’ll hear you.”
Nick nodded. That sounded reasonable. “Okay,” he relented. He watched as Brian unlocked the curtained french doors that opened up onto a small balcony overlooking the backyard and Nick’s private beach, which led right out into the ocean.
It was a beautiful view, and for a fleeting moment, Nick felt almost envious, wanting to go out and enjoy it with his best friend. He recalled sitting out there many an afternoon, letting the hot sun bronze his skin and the oceanic breeze ruffle his hair, inhaling the salty scent of the sea. But today, the heat and the bright sunlight would only irritate him, he had no hair left for the wind to tease, and the stench of salt and fish would probably just worsen his nausea. Better to stay inside, in the darkened, air-conditioned sanctuary that was his bedroom.
He watched as Brian pulled the door shut behind him and disappeared behind the lightweight drapes, which provided a barricade against the afternoon sunlight which streamed brilliantly through the windowed doors. Then he closed his eyes, willing sleep to take him away, to deaden his nausea and camouflage his weakness.
But it didn’t happen.
Kept awake by his discomfort and the threat of throwing up, he lay flat on his back, unable to toss and turn for fear of unsettling his already unsettled stomach. He became aware of a bad taste in his mouth, the sour taste of vomit, and he swallowed hard, trying to wash it away. His throat felt dry and parched, and swallowing was difficult. He needed a glass of water.
For a moment, he considered calling Brian, but then he decided that was stupid – the bathroom was just a few feet away, and he always kept a drinking glass by the sink, too lazy to go downstairs to the kitchen for a drink in the middle of the night. Very slowly, he sat up and gingerly swung his long legs over the side of the bed and set his feet on the floor. He sat there a moment, waiting for the vertigo he felt to go away, and then he stood up, clinging to the bed with one hand to keep from losing his balance. Chemo really took a lot out of him, he realized yet again, as he padded slowly across the lushly carpeted floor.
He made it to the bathroom and filled the small glass with tap water. He took a sip, swished it around his mouth, and spat it out into the sink. Then he took a long swallow from the glass, which helped immensely. He downed the water, hoping it was not a mistake to drink so much, set the glass back down on the counter, and shuffled back out again. His stomach churned precariously with each step, but he told himself fiercely, You’re not gonna puke... you’ll feel better once you’re lying still again...
Mind over matter, right? That’s all there was to it.
He reached his bed and climbed slowly into it, lying perfectly still until the soft rocking of the waterbed ceased. And amazingly, the rocking of his stomach ceased along with it. Relieved, he closed his eyes again, concentrating on sleep.
And finally, it took him.
***
