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Chapter 119


AN: I’m gonna go ahead and apologize now for this Debbie Downer of a part LOL. This is what I get for not sugarcoating. =P


Nick awoke slowly and groggily became aware that the song that had been playing in his dream was really the ringer of his cell phone. Once he’d realized this, he snapped into alertness and pawed for the phone before it switched over to his voicemail. One glance was enough to let him know who was calling, and when he spotted her name, he anxiously flipped open the phone and yanked it up to his ear. “Hello?” he rasped, his voice completely hoarse from sleep. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat and tried again. “Hello?”

On the other end of the line, Claire giggled. “Did I wake you, Sleeping Beauty?”

Nick snorted. “Thought it took a kiss to wake up Sleeping Beauty,” he said flatly.

She blew him a loud kiss through the phone. “That do the trick?”

Nick merely grunted in reply.

“Well, I know you just woke up,” Claire went on, “but it is after noon, and I was wondering – do you feel like ice cream?”

“What?” Nick asked, confused by this random change in conversation. Apparently his brain wasn’t awake enough to follow her line of thought. “Ice cream?”

“Yeah… I want ice cream! The air conditioner in my apartment is all screwed up, and it’s friggin’ hot! Wanna go to Baskin Robbins with me?”

Nick blinked, still a little disoriented. What time was it? Oh yeah - according to Claire, it was after noon. It felt earlier, but he supposed that was about right. He’d been sleeping a lot lately.

It had been two months now since he’d gotten out of the hospital, but the BOOP and its treatment still had the upper hand over him. Dr. Mahmood hadn’t been kidding when she said it would take a few months for his symptoms to go away. He was getting better, but very slowly. Even after two months, he still had to wear oxygen to do anything more than sit still, or he would be totally out of breath. He went for regular follow-up appointments with the pulmonologist, and even though she said his lungs looked and sounded better each time, the progress was not enough for him. He couldn’t wait until he could breathe normally again.

And just as his symptoms were gradually starting to improve, the side effects of the steroids he was stuck taking had gotten worse. The insomnia he had experienced for the first couple of weeks had gone away, and he was now sleeping ten or eleven hours every night. But in its place, other effects had started popping up.

“Nick?” Claire’s voice broke his train of thought, and he realized he had spaced out and never answered her invitation. “Baskin Robbins?” Her voice held a sing-song quality, like she was dangling the offer over his head, tempting him to make a grab for it.

“Oh – sorry.” Nick shook his head, trying to collect his thoughts. He needed to wake up and get himself together. “Um… can you wait awhile? I could really stand to grab a shower and get cleaned up.” He always felt sort of oily and gross after a deep, long sleep.

Claire laughed. “Sure. Get yourself woken up and smelling nice and call me back when you’re ready. I can come pick you up, if you want.”

“Okay. Call ya back in awhile,” said Nick and hung up. Setting the phone back on his nightstand, he sat up slowly and slid backwards until his back met the pillows propped against the headboard of his bed. He took a few minutes to get his bearings, then pushed back the covers and swung his leg over the side of the mattress. He stood up carefully, trying not to get tangled in his oxygen line, the way he had the first few mornings he’d been home. Several times, Howie and Brian had come running in after the thud of an oxygen tank tipping to the floor to find Nick muttering a string of curses as he fought with the length of narrow, clear tubing that had somehow twisted itself around various parts of his body.

Now he pulled the oxygen canula out of his nose and set it down on his nightstand, deciding he didn’t need it for the time being. The hot water and steam of the shower always cleared his sinuses and opened his lungs, making it easier to breathe. Cautiously navigating around the clunky oxygen tank that sat next to his bed, he reached for the lone crutch propped conveniently against the wall and used it to help himself hop into the bathroom.

He turned on the light and the fan and shut the door behind him as he hobbled in. The surfaces of the bathroom were still gleaming from when the cleaning lady had been there to clean it on Wednesday. It was now Saturday, and Nick hadn’t done much to dirty it up in the last three days. In the smudgeless mirror, he had a crystal clear view of his reflection.

He almost wished the mirror were caked with grime so he wouldn’t have to look at himself, for it was not a pretty sight. The mental side effects of the prednisone – the insomnia, mood swings, anxiety – had turned into physical ones that showed on his face – literally. He resembled an eighteen-year-old kid again, with a face full of zits that all the acne creams in the world couldn’t seem to get rid of. He’d even tried that Proactiv stuff he’d seen on TV, vowing he’d join Jessica Simpson and Puffy as the next celebrity spokesperson for the stuff if only it would clear his skin, but no such luck.

And while he’d been cute at eighteen, despite the occasional acne flare-ups, he certainly didn’t think he was cute now. He understood better than ever what the nurses referred to as “moon face,” because his face had puffed out so much that that’s what it looked like – a big, round, pale, full moon. It was not a cute “babyface” sort of roundness either; instead, he thought it looked freakish and unnatural, not like his own face at all. Some of it was just swelling from water weight, but he’d also been packing on real pounds, try as he might to avoid the weight gain. It was hard to diet because the medication made him so hungry that he always felt like he could eat a horse, and getting any real exercise was even more difficult because he fell out of breath so quickly. Just getting around was enough of a workout these days.

The extra weight was especially obvious when he pulled off his t-shirt and shorts to get into the shower. Much to his irritation, most if had settled around his stomach and upper back, making him look much heavier than usual. But he was bloated everywhere, and it was starting to affect more than just his pride. He often wore his water leg in the shower because it made it much easier to keep his balance, but he could no longer get it on comfortably; its socket had become too tight for his leg. His regular prosthesis had been getting more and more uncomfortable to wear as well, and he knew it was soon to follow. He was due to be fit for a new leg anyway, but it was humiliating to think that he had gotten too fat to wear his old one.

Sighing, he hauled his swollen body into the shower and turned on the water full steam. His self-esteem evaporated right along with the hot water as he washed himself, grimacing as his hands ran all of the unsightly bulges his body had developed. He really didn’t want to leave the house looking like this.

He’d become a hermit again these last two months, staying cooped up in his house most of the time. At first it had been because he was sick, and going out required too much energy. This was still true, but he also didn’t want anyone to see him like this in public. The casual passerby wouldn’t know what he was going through; anyone who recognized him on the streets would take one look at him and think, Wow, that Nick Carter’s really gone to seed. After seeing the way the tabloids trashed other celebrities, like Kirstie Alley, who had put on weight, he didn’t want to think about what they would print about him if they could see him now, bloated and acne-ridden. People would think he’d spent the months after the tour doing nothing but drinking and pigging out on chocolate and grease, even though it wasn’t true. They didn’t know, and they wouldn’t understand that this was out of his control.

As usual, Claire seemed to be the only one he could really rant to about all this stuff. Howie, who was still staying in Tampa, understood because he had seen Nick through the last two months, but Claire could relate to it better than anyone because she had been there herself. He hadn’t seen her much lately because she’d either been working or with Jamie, he assumed, but he was glad she had called. He wanted to talk to her. He was just starting to think that going to Baskin Robbins with her wasn’t such a good idea after all – the last place he wanted to be spotted right now was an ice cream shop.

Nonetheless, he eventually climbed out of the shower and hobbled back into his room to get dressed. He’d lived in mostly sweats for the past few weeks and didn’t even want to face the depressing prospect that his jeans might not fit anymore, so he dug a pair of baggy track pants out of his drawer and put those on instead, unsnapping the outside seam so that he could get his prosthesis on easier. But as he stood up and tried to wedge his stump into its socket, he found that he could no longer get it to go all the way in. The socket was too tight and pinched his skin as he tried in vain to force it on. Finally he gave up, knowing it was a bad idea to try to wear a leg that didn’t fit right. He would just end up with another ulcer or worse, and then he’d be even more miserable.

Dejected, he flopped down on his bed and pushed the useless prosthetic leg aside. As it toppled to the floor, tears of frustration and embarrassment sprung to the corners of his eyes. He rubbed them away with his thumb and forefinger, pinching the bridge of his nose as he struggled not to break down. Crying would only make him feel like more of a pathetic loser.

“Why does this fucking shit always keep happening to me?” he seethed under his breath, through clenched teeth, deciding that getting angry over it was a more manly way of expressing his frustration. It just wasn’t fair. Just three months ago, he’d been on tour, where he’d performed on stage nearly every night, to thousands of screaming, adoring fans. He’d felt like he was king of the world, finally on top once again, after being knocked down over and over. He would never be the person he’d once been, but he had finally accepted that. His leg was gone, but he was performing again without it, and life was good. He felt like he’d come full circle, finally fulfilling the promise Dr. Kingsbury had made to him years ago, as he’d sat numbly in her office, unable to comprehend the idea of losing his leg.

“Living without your leg is better than not living at all,” she’d told him wisely. “It isn’t the end of the world, and although things will never be the same, you will be able to go on with not only your life, but your career.”

He’d had his doubts then, but in the end, she had been right. Life had gone on, and his career certainly hadn’t died either. But at the moment, on stage was the last place he could see himself. Just when he thought he’d finally gotten past it all – the cancer, the amputation, everything – he’d been kicked down yet again, and months later, he was still struggling to get back up. It was so disheartening that sometimes he wondered if it was worth living at all.

Depression was yet another side effect of the prednisone, and he tried to remember that when he started thinking that maybe Dr. Kingsbury hadn’t been right after all. Maybe not living at all would be better than living this way. It wasn’t even his missing leg that bothered him now; it was all of this other crap he’d been going through. His whole body was a mess; the missing leg was just the cherry on top.

Thoroughly discouraged by now, he decided there was no way he was going out, not even to meet Claire. He sighed heavily as he reached for his phone again and held in the 5 button until the speed-dial went through.

“Hey!” she answered brightly. “You ready?”

Nick swallowed and tried to keep his voice steady. “No, um… I don’t really feel like going after all. You go and eat a triple-scoop sundae or something for me, alright?”

There was a pause, and then Claire whined, “Ni-ick! I don’t wanna go pig out on ice cream alone! You should come!”

“Where’s Jamie?” Nick asked, slightly annoyed. Why did she want him to come anyway? Where was her fucking fiancée?

“He’s out playing golf with his work buddies. I don’t wanna take him anyway; he’s boring. He’d get, like, one scoop of vanilla in a dish. I know you’d be more inventive than that.”

Nick felt one side of his mouth turn up as he smiled a little despite himself. Still, he didn’t want to go. “Sorry. Call Dianna or Laureen or someone.”

“Are you sure?” There was that sing-songy voice again. Nick wasn’t taking the bait this time.

“I’m sure,” he repeated firmly.

“Alright… well, I guess I’ll catch ya later then.” She sounded disappointed.

Nick was disappointed too. “Yeah, see ya,” he said, and they hung up. Still slumped on the side of his bed, Nick frowned down at the phone in his hand for a few minutes, a tight feeling settling into his chest. Finally, he came out of his stupor and returned the phone to its charger. He picked up the oxygen canula he’d set next to it earlier and placed it back in his nostrils, wrinkling his nose at the tickling sensation it caused. He looped the thin tubing over his ears and reached down to turn a valve on the oxygen tank. When it came on, he inhaled a deep, cleansing breath. Yet somehow he knew even pure oxygen wasn’t going to get rid of the tightness that gripped his heart.

***

Nick was still lying around on his bed when Howie knocked lightly on his door. “Hey, Nick? You awake?” his friend called.

“Yeah!” Nick croaked, just loud enough for Howie to hear him.

The door opened a crack, then swung open the rest of the way. Howie came in. “Hey,” he said, looking Nick over once with concern in his eyes. “Are you okay, man?”

No. I’m too much of a blimp to get my fake leg on, Nick wanted to say, but he was still too ashamed to admit that, even to Howie. Instead, he just shrugged.

Howie frowned, but went ahead with what he had come to tell Nick. “Claire’s here,” he said. “She knows you’re here, and she wants to see you. You wanna come out?”

Nick was both annoyed and touched. So Claire had figured out there was something wrong after all and come over to find out what. That had to be it. A part of him just wanted to be left alone, but he had wanted to see her, and now she was here, so he couldn’t avoid her. Not that she would let him. He knew she wouldn’t leave without talking to him first.

He sighed and pulled himself into a sitting position, sucking on the oxygen. “Can you have her come in here?” he asked Howie.

“Sure…” said Howie, giving Nick another concerned look. Nevertheless, he turned and left the room, returning moments later behind Claire.

“Hey!” said Claire as she breezed into the room. She was carrying a bulging plastic grocery bag with her. “I told you I wanted ice cream, so… here!” She plopped down onto the bed next to him and set the bag between them, waiting while he looked inside.

Peering into the bag, Nick found two half-gallon cartons of ice cream and all the toppings needed for a good sundae – chocolate and caramel syrup, whipped cream, nuts, sprinkles, and even a small jar of Maraschino cherries. He smiled up at her, feeling some of the tightness in his chest ease away. “You’re too cool, you know that?” he told her sincerely.

“I know,” she teased with a smug grin, batting her eyelashes superiorly. Then she laughed and said, “Well, come on, get your butt up so we can go dig into this stuff!”

Eyeing the bag of junk food, Nick remembered why “getting his butt up” wasn’t going to be so easy. Ice cream was the last thing he needed right now. He hesitated and the said, “Listen, Claire, I… I appreciate all this, but… my stomach’s kinda upset right now…”

He avoided her eyes, but he could tell she and Howie were both staring at him, probably with identical worried looks. No one spoke for a few seconds; then Howie finally said, “Well, I dunno about Nicky, but I’ll take you up on that, Claire. Ice cream sounds great.”

“Finally, someone who wants ice cream!” Claire exclaimed, though her forced happy tone did not mask the tension in her voice all that well. “Would you mind taking this stuff to the kitchen, and I’ll be right out?” She handed the grocery bag to Howie, who obediently took it with him, leaving Nick and her alone.

Once Howie was gone, Claire turned to Nick and gave him a hard look. “Is it really your stomach that’s bothering you, or is it something else?” she asked bluntly. “You sounded weird on the phone.”

Damn her; he knew he couldn’t hide anything from her. Squirming under her gaze, Nick sighed and figured he might as well be honest. She was the one person who might understand what he was feeling; it would be stupid to try and hide those feelings from her.

“It’s just… this steroid shit I’m on. It’s really messing with me,” he confessed, finally meeting her eye briefly. “I… I keep putting on weight, no matter how hard I try to keep it off, and I look like a whale, and now I’m so fat that my fake leg doesn’t fit me anymore.” He could have kept ranting, but then he saw one corner of Claire’s mouth turn up. “What?!” he demanded, feeling his blood pressure jump. “You think that’s funny?!”

“No!” she cried quickly, her eyes widening. “No, no… I’m sorry, Nick. No, I just… I couldn’t help but smile a little because it’s kind of refreshing, hearing a guy talk like that. ‘I look like a whale?’ I used to hear that out of Dianna’s mouth all the time. I’m sure she heard it from mine when I was on the steroids too.”

Nick frowned, sort of confused. Was she insinuating that he sounded like a chick now?

Claire shook her head and looked right back into his eyes, her expression softening and becoming more serious. “Listen, I’m not trying to tease you; I just want you to know, I understand. I can relate to everything you’re going through… except for the leg part. I guess that makes it suck a lot more, huh?” She paused, looking thoughtful. “Have you called your prosthetist about it? I mean, he’s gotta be able to do something for you; he can’t expect you to just go without a leg, right?”

Nick had already planned to call the specialist who oversaw everything having to do with his artificial leg, but he knew Ryan Emthrey’s office wasn’t open on weekends. “Can’t call till Monday, but I will then,” he said. Sighing, he added, “Guess I’m fucked till then.”

She looked around. “Well, do you have a wheelchair somewhere around here? I know you hate them,” she added quickly, when she saw the look on his face, “but it would come in handy for the weekend.”

Nick scowled. His prosthetist had suggested buying a wheelchair for backup when he didn’t feel like wearing his prosthesis, but he had stubbornly refused. He hadn’t kept a wheelchair in the house since the one he’d rented right after his amputation surgery. I don’t need one of those. I can get around fine on my own, he’d always thought scornfully. But he knew Claire had a point; it was too much of a hassle trying to walk around on crutches while dragging an oxygen tank.

“No,” he mumbled. “Guess I better get one. They’ll probably have to make it a double-wide.” He was pretty sure “double-wide” referred to trailers, not wheelchairs, but whatever they called wider-than-normal wheelchairs, he might as well invest in one because if he had to stay on this prednisone shit long enough, he would end up looking like a whale for real.

Claire rolled her eyes. “Oh, shut up!” she chided, hitting him playfully in the shoulder. “You are not fat, Nick! You’re big-boned!” Giggling, she shook her head and then said seriously, “No really, most of that weight is just bloating from the steroids. It’ll go away once you get weaned off them. And what’s left will come off once you’re able to get out and about more. It’s just gonna take some time. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but what else can I say?”

She was telling him the same kinds of things he’d already tried to tell himself, but somehow, coming from her, they sounded more believable. He offered her a tiny smile. “You’re probably right,” he admitted. “At least I hope you’re right.”

She grinned impishly and replied, “I’m always right! You know that!” She winked, and he cracked a smile.

“And always modest too,” he added teasingly, nudging her shoulder.

“You know it.” Smiling, she put her hand on his arm and gave it an encouraging squeeze. “Can we go have ice cream now?”

He smiled back. “Only if you’ll pull this thing while I crutch myself out there,” he replied, touching the oxygen tank with his foot.

“I think I can manage that,” she said, getting off the bed. “Come on, Cartman.” Nick smirked at the nickname and let her pull him up. She found his other crutch for him and followed behind with the oxygen as he hobbled out to the kitchen, crutch tips squeaking against the tiled floor.

“Here, you sit,” she said, pulling out one of the barstools at the kitchen island for him, “and I’ll set everything out here.”

“Bag’s in the freezer,” Howie announced, coming into the kitchen. He stopped to look between Claire and Nick. “Everything okay?”

Claire let Nick answer. “Yeah, things are okay,” he replied and left it at that. He would talk to Howie later. Right now, the sight of all the sweets Claire was currently assembling on the island in front of him was making him drool. “Did I mention this shit also makes me constantly starving?” he asked her, eyeing the two flavors of ice cream. “I could probably eat that whole carton.”

Claire gave him a knowing smile. “I figured you could,” she said, setting the bottle of chocolate syrup right in front of him. “That’s why I called you instead of Dianna or Laureen.”

Nick smiled back. Yet as he watched her weave her way expertly around his kitchen, knowing just where to find the bowls, spoons, and ice cream scoop, he couldn’t help but wonder once again why they hadn’t worked out. Weren’t they perfect for each other? She could read him like a book; she knew everything about him. And he thought he understood her pretty well too. Why, after all they’d been through, didn’t they make it as a couple?

It was a question to which he had never quite understood the answer, and even though he’d tried to let it go, it continued to plague him, popping into his head at random times like this. He’d been feeling so down on himself lately that love was the last thing on his mind, but still, he couldn’t help but wonder, how was he supposed to move on for good with someone else, when Claire was the only woman with whom he thought he belonged?

They’d been apart for longer than they’d been together now, but he was still in love with her. There was no point in denying it to himself, for it became clear whenever she was around him. Especially in times like this. No matter how bad he was feeling, she always knew how to cheer him up… and there were few other people who could do that.

He wanted to be with her again, to spend the rest of his life with this woman. But as he watched her scoop up ice cream, he realized it was not to be. The gleam of the large ring on her finger as it caught the light was a constant reminder that Claire was marrying someone else.


When I'm down on my luck and I'm searching for my soul
When I'm feeling too much and I start to lose control
When I'm down so low that even enemies don't wanna know
You still care for me, say a prayer for me, and I know

I like you hangin' around
'Cause you lift me up when I am upside down
You are my favorite sound
'Cause you're always down for

Lifting me up like an angel when I hit the ground
Feel your arms all around me when I'm feeling down
Lift me up like an angel when I hit my low
When your arms are around me
I don't wanna let you go
Let you go now

When I'm lost along way and I can't face another day
And if I stumble on the road and if I can't carry the load
And if I lose my faith, kindness, generosity
Would you hold my hand?
Say you understand my pain?

It's been a long hard road
And it's only just begun, my friend, and this I know
You helped me carry the load
'Cause you're always down for

Lifting me up like an angel when I hit the ground
Feel your arms all around me when I'm feeling down
Lift me up like an angel when I hit my low
When your arms are around me
I don't wanna let you go

- “Lift Me Up” by the Backstreet Boys


***