“Tell me why! Ain’t nothin’ but a heartache…”
I smiled into the rearview mirror at Mason, who was singing my song at the top of his lungs in the back seat. He had been singing it for the past four months, ever since the NKOTBSB concert. I’d even caught Dawn singing along with him a couple of times. It seemed the Backstreet Boys had gained two new fans that night.
But while the Boys went on with the rest of their tour, my life returned to normal. I drove to Louisville a few days a week to teach classes and work with aspiring singers at The Music Workshop, the academy Keith and I had founded together. When I wasn’t working, I went to physical therapy sessions at the Cardinal Hill Rehabilitation Hospital in Lexington while Mason was in preschool. I liked the routine we’d developed, but I was looking forward to having a few days off for Thanksgiving.
“I want it that way!” Mason sang as I pulled my truck into my mom’s driveway. I parked, turned off the ignition, and lowered the lift to let myself out. By the time my wheels hit the pavement, Mason had already unbuckled himself from his car seat and climbed out of the back. “Can I push?” he asked eagerly, coming up behind my chair as I wheeled myself toward the front porch.
I chuckled. “Sure, buddy. Thanks!”
Mason was only about as tall as the back of my chair, but he loved to push me around when I let him. It was hard for me to make it up the ramp leading to my mom’s porch by myself, so I appreciated the extra boost. Since he couldn’t really see where he was going, I kept my hands on my rims and guided my front wheels up the ramp while he pushed from behind, grunting with the effort.
Brian stepped out onto the porch just as we reached the top of the ramp. “Whoa, Kev, did you hire The Hulk to help you?” He put on a wide-eyed expression, pretending to be flabbergasted when Mason jumped out from behind my chair. “Mason! When did you get so strong?”
Mason just grinned.
“He’s been eatin’ his veggies,” I said, smiling as I ruffled my son’s blond hair.
“Ah, I see. So you’re like Popeye!” Brian flexed his biceps, squinted his right eye, and did his best Popeye laugh. “Ah-gah-gah-gah-gah!”
Mason giggled, but I knew he didn’t really get it. “You’re dating yourself there, cuz,” I said, chuckling – after all, it wasn’t a bad impression. “Kids today don’t know Popeye.”
Brian raised his eyebrows. “You callin’ me old? Speak for yourself!” he replied, swatting me playfully. “How many candles were there on your birthday cake this year?”
“Two,” I shot back without missing a beat.
He laughed. “Yeah… a four and a zero!”
He wasn’t wrong. My mom had made my birthday cake the previous month. She must have known I didn’t have the lung capacity to blow out forty candles before they burned the house down, so she’d kept it simple and reused the big number four candle from Mason’s birthday three months earlier.
I’d had a hard time accepting that I was actually forty years old. But, as much as I hated to admit it, there was no denying that I was firmly in the “middle-aged” stage of life now. I knew I was lucky to have made it to forty, but it was weird to realize I’d reached a decade my late wife never would – a decade my dad had never left, having died at forty-nine. I couldn’t help but think of them both that day. Holidays were always the hardest. A lump rose in my throat as I looked at my little boy. The thought of leaving him alone in the world terrified me. It took the smile right off my face, but I quickly forced it back on, reminding myself that this was supposed to be a happy day, a day to be thankful for what I still had.
Brian held the door open for Mason and me. “Y’all got anything in the truck that needs to come in?” His voice cracked, making me wonder – again – if he was getting over a cold.
“Yeah, there’s a green bean casserole on the front seat. Thanks, cuz!” I called as he went to grab it.
I wheeled myself into the house, where the rest of my family was waiting. My two older brothers, Tim and Jerald, were watching football with Brian’s father and brother, who were both named Harold. “Hey, Kev!” they all chorused as I came into the living room. “Happy Thanksgiving!”
“Happy Thanksgiving!” I glanced at the TV. “Packers still ahead?”
“Yeah, but Detroit’s finally on the board,” my cousin Harold replied. “Score’s twenty-four to eight.”
“So you’re saying there’s a chance…”
Brian came in, carrying the casserole. “This looks good, Kev,” he commented. “Did you make it yourself?”
“Sure did,” I replied proudly. Green bean casserole is about the easiest dish in the world to prepare, but when your hands don’t work the way most people’s do, nothing is that simple. Thankfully, three years of occupational therapy had taught me about plenty of tools and techniques to compensate for my paralyzed hands. With the help of my electric can opener, I’d managed to put the casserole together mostly independently.
“Wow, way to go, cuz!”
As Brian took the casserole to the kitchen, I turned to Mason. “C’mon, let’s go find Mammaw.”
We followed Brian into the large farmhouse kitchen, where we found most of the women preparing the Thanksgiving feast. My mom stood in front of the stove, stirring a pot of gravy, while Brian’s mother, my Aunt Jackie, worked at one of the counters, mashing the potatoes. Leighanne was putting marshmallows on top of a dish of candied sweet potatoes. “Oh, hi, Kevin!” she said, looking up with a smile as I came in. “Happy Thanksgiving!”
“You, too.”
My mom turned around, still holding her whisk in one hand. “There’s my baby boy!” She put the whisk back in the pot and bent down, opening her arms wide. “Come give Mammaw a hug!”
I smiled as Mason ran into her arms. She fussed over him for a few seconds before she let go and looked up again. “Hi, honey! How are you?”
“I’m good,” I replied. “How you doin’, Ma? Need any help in here?”
“Bless your heart…” She beamed at me. “No, we’re doin’ just fine in here! Why don’t you go watch the game?”
I could tell she didn’t really want me in the kitchen, where my wheelchair would just get in the way. “Okay,” I said with a shrug. “C’mon, Mason, let’s go find the other kids.”
“I think they’re back in one of the bedrooms,” Tim’s wife, Tracy, called from the dining room, where she was busy setting the table.
Sure enough, my nephew and niece, Will and Olivia, were playing with Baylee and his baby cousin, Ella, in the guest room. Harold’s wife, Annie, perched on the bed, watching while the older kids sat on the floor, rolling a rubber ball back and forth for Ella to toddle after. “Hey, y’all!” I said. “Can Mason join you?”
“Uncle Kevin!” Olivia jumped up and came over to give me and Mason hugs.
I left Mason with his cousins and went back to the living room to watch the rest of the football game with the other guys. The Packers had added to their lead with a field goal, but the Lions kept things interesting, scoring another touchdown as the clock was winding down in the fourth quarter. Unfortunately for them, there wasn’t enough time left to rally.
“Tough break, huh, Kittie Cat?” Tim said to me as we watched the Detroit players walk off the field in defeat.
I chuckled at his use of one of my old high school nicknames. Tim was four years ahead of me in school and was called “Tom Cat” when he played on the football team, so when I came along, the team called me “Kittie Cat.” I preferred “Train,” the nickname I’d earned for my tendency to run right through the opposing players, but I hadn’t been called by either name in a long time. “Man, that takes me back,” I replied, shaking my head. High school felt like a lifetime ago. But it was nice to be reminded that I hadn’t always been old and disabled, that I used to be young and athletic. I missed those days.
After the Lions finished losing to the Packers, we gathered around the dining room table for our Thanksgiving feast. My mom, the matriarch of the Littrell/Richardson family, sat at the head of the table while I parked my wheelchair in what would have been my father’s place at the opposite end. Everyone else filled the sides of the long table. Looking around, I felt grateful to be surrounded by so much love. It wasn’t often that we had the whole family together like this; some years, Tim, Harold, and Brian spent Thanksgiving with their in-laws instead. But, that year, it had worked out for everyone to end up at my mom’s house.
We bowed our heads as Brian’s father said the blessing. “Lord, we thank You for the food on our table and the people around it…”
As he led us in prayer, I tried to stay focused on what I was thankful for: my son, the rest of my family, and the independence I’d regained since I was first injured. But I couldn’t keep my thoughts from wandering to Kristin, wishing she was sitting next to me. It had been almost four years since she was taken from me, but I would never stop missing her. Time is supposed to heal all wounds, but it had only put a Band-Aid on mine. The bleeding may have stopped, but it still hurt. Most days, it was just a dull ache instead of the excruciating pain I’d felt for weeks after her death. But the holidays had a way of magnifying both joy and sorrow.
“Amen,” said Uncle Harold, snapping me back to the present as he brought the prayer to a close.
Swallowing hard, I echoed “amen” along with the others and hastily wiped my eyes before lifting my head. My mom promptly started passing dishes, urging us all to dig in before the foot got cold. I looked down at my empty plate. She had already attached the plate guard I used to scoop up my food without flinging it over the sides. Next to the plate sat a set of adaptive silverware, which had metal rings I could slide my thumb and forefinger through to help me hold onto the utensils.
“Turkey, Kev?” asked Jerald, who was sitting to my right.
“Yes, please.”
He didn’t even try to hand me the heavy platter of carved turkey, just plunked a slice onto my plate and passed it to Brian, who sat across from him. I liked to do things for myself when I could, but I didn’t protest as he continued to load my plate with a little of every dish that was passed around the table. We both knew it was faster and easier that way. I fit my knife and fork onto my fingers while he ladled gravy over my turkey and mashed potatoes.
“Where did you say Dawn was spending the day again, Kevin?” my mom asked as she fixed a plate for Mason, who was sitting down at her end of the table with Will and Olivia.
“At her folks’ house,” I replied, carefully cutting a bite of turkey.
“Ah, that’s right. I’m glad she has family around, but you know she’s always welcome here.”
I nodded. “I know, Ma. I told her that, too, but she deserves to have a day off with her own family.”
“Well, of course, she does! Where do they live?”
I swallowed a mouthful of turkey before answering. “Glasgow.”
“Glasgow?” My mom frowned, her forehead creasing in concern. “That’s a couple hours away from here, isn’t it? Is she driving all the way back tonight?”
I nodded again. “Don’t worry, Ma. She’ll be home in time to tuck me in,” I said dryly. I knew my mom only had my best interests at heart, but her constant barrage of questions got on my nerves. Clearly, she didn’t think I was capable of taking care of myself – and, in a way, she was right. Despite how much progress I’d made in my quest for independence, I still couldn’t get in and out of bed without the help of a caregiver.
Seeming to sense my annoyance, Brian cleared his throat and called down the table, “Hey, this stuffing sure is great, Aunt Ann!” His voice cracked again.
My mom beamed at the compliment. “Why, thank you!”
I flashed Brian a grateful grin. “You gettin’ sick or something, cuz? You sound a little hoarse.”
“Nah, just got a frog in my throat,” he replied, reaching for his water glass. But, seeing the way Leighanne looked at him, I could tell that wasn’t the whole truth. He was hiding something.
I worried about what it could be, but I didn’t confront him about it until after dinner. “You sure you’re okay, Brian?” I asked as the two of us sat on the back porch, enjoying some fresh air as we let our dinner digest. “I don’t wanna pry, but is something going on with your voice?”
Brian sighed and took a sip of his beer. Setting the can down on the side table next to him, he said, “I didn’t wanna bring it up at dinner, but I guess I can’t hide it anymore either, huh?”
“Hide what?” I leaned forward in my chair, looking at him closely. “What is it?”
He stared out across the brown grass of the backyard. “I’ve been dealing with this for about a year now, and it’s only gotten worse instead of better. My voice just goes out on me without warning. At first, it only happened when I was singing, but now, sometimes, I try to speak, and no sound comes out.”
Hearing his frustration, I frowned. “Have you been to a doctor? It could be vocal cord nodules.” I didn’t know much about the condition, but I’d heard of it happening to other singers in the business. Keith Urban, John Mayer, and Adele had all been in the news recently for undergoing surgery on their damaged vocal cords, which had forced them to cancel concerts. I hoped Brian wouldn’t have to do the same.
He nodded. “It’s not nodules or polyps or anything like that. I’ve been diagnosed with what’s called muscle tension dysphonia. It’s when the muscles around my vocal cords constrict and cut off the air flow – almost like they’re choking me out.”
I stared at him, my pulse pounding as I struggled to process what he was telling me. I didn’t fully understand, but the way he’d described it sort of made sense. Sometimes, his voice did have a strangled quality, as if he was trying to speak with two hands wrapped around his neck, slowly tightening. Muscle tension dysphonia. I repeated the phrase he’d used in my head, trying to commit it to memory so I could look it up later. “I’ve never even heard of that before,” I finally admitted.
Brian shook his head. “I hadn’t either.”
“What caused it?” I wondered aloud.
“It goes hand in hand with another condition called dystonia, which is a neurological thing,” he said, scratching his head. “It has to do with the way my brain sends signals to my vocal cords. Sometimes those signals get crossed and cause my vocal cords to contract involuntarily – kinda like the spasms you get in your legs.”
I looked down at my legs. They were still now, but I knew the next time I shifted my weight or transferred out of my wheelchair, they would tremble and shake like they were being shocked with an electric current. I couldn’t control the muscle spasms; they were caused by the disconnect between the top and bottom of my spinal cord when they tried to communicate across the section that had been crushed when I broke my neck. “But you’ve never had any type of neurological trauma,” I said, looking back up at Brian in confusion. “So what could have caused that?”
“Nobody really knows for sure,” he replied with a shrug. “My doctor said it could have been caused by a combination of things: stress, overuse, upper respiratory infections… I did have the swine flu a couple years ago, and part of me wonders if that’s what triggered it.”
“That’s terrifying…” I remembered when Brian was diagnosed with the H1N1 strain of the flu virus days before the Boys’ last album release, forcing them to cancel most of their promotional appearances. Could that really have been the cause of the vocal problems he was experiencing two years later? Ultimately, it didn’t matter; I was more concerned about what was being done to fix the problem. “How do they treat it?”
“Voice therapy,” he said, sighing. “It’s kinda like physical therapy for my vocal cords. I found a therapist and am gonna start sessions after the holidays. Hopefully, I can get this figured out before we go back on tour in the spring.”
“So, there’s no surgery they can do?”
He shook his head. “Honestly, I wish there was. Not that I’m in any hurry to go back under the knife, but I would do it if I thought it would help. The only other option my doctor mentioned was Botox injections into the muscles around my vocal cords, but I’m gonna try the voice therapy before I resort to drugs and needles.”
I nodded. “I would go with the more natural option, too. I hope it helps.”
“Yeah… me, too.” He took a long swig of his beer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“What have the fellas said about it?” I asked, wondering why none of them had mentioned it to me. It wasn’t like we talked every day, but I did try to keep in touch with the other guys, even if it was just through the occasional text message.
Brian let out a humorless laugh. “Nothing. They don’t know.”
“What?” I gasped. “You haven’t told them?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t get diagnosed until after the tour, and… I dunno; the timing just didn’t seem right.”
“But didn’t they notice something was wrong? I mean, no offense, but I noticed back in July. I just thought you were getting over a cold or something. But they were with you every day. Couldn’t they hear the difference in your voice?”
He shrugged. “Maybe it wasn’t as obvious to them because they were with me every day. Or maybe they did notice but didn’t wanna ask. Maybe they could tell I didn’t wanna talk about it,” he said, his voice cracking.
I frowned. Brian hadn’t always been the most forthcoming when it came to his health. It had taken him a while to open up to the other guys about the heart condition he’d been born with, and when it worsened to the point where he needed surgery to correct it, he had downplayed its seriousness, letting management push back his surgery date more than once to accommodate our tour schedule.
“You need to tell them, Brian,” I said gently.
He sighed. “I know I should. I guess I’m just hoping I won’t have to. If this voice therapy works…”
“What if it doesn’t?”
He gave me a look. “You know, this is a big thing I confided in you, Kevin. The least you could do is be positive.”
“I’m not trying to be negative here, Brian; I’m just being realistic,” I replied. “I’ve been where you are – not with my voice but with my body. I hate to break it to you, but therapy doesn’t magically fix everything. No matter how hard I work in P.T. or how hard you pray, I’m never gonna walk again.” I met his gaze, remembering how hard it had been for him to accept that reality after I got hurt. “Knowing and accepting that helped me focus my efforts on more attainable goals, like strengthening my arms enough to go from a power chair to a manual one.”
I glanced down at myself again as I moved my wheels back and forth. Sometimes, I still hated the way my body looked in a wheelchair. My belly had stuck out even before I filled it with Thanksgiving food, while my legs were thin but flabby from losing so much muscle tone over the last four years. But when I thought back to the beginning of rehab, when I could only use a sip and puff chair that I controlled with my mouth because my arms were too weak to operate a joystick, I was grateful for how far I had come.
“I’m not saying you’re never gonna get better,” I added, looking back up at Brian. “I just think it’s important to manage your expectations and prepare yourself – and the fellas – for the possibility that this might be a longer process than you’d like to admit. If a few months of therapy doesn’t fix the problem, y’all need to have a back-up plan in place.”
“What plan?” His voice rose in frustration as he raked his fingers through his thinning hair. “The guys wanna go back in the studio and start working on a new album after the tour. What are we gonna do if my voice isn’t better by then? Push everything back? I don’t wanna be the reason we delay the next album cycle.”
“Maybe you won’t be,” I said, wishing I could offer him some reassurance without giving him false hope. “Maybe the voice therapy will work. No one can predict the future. But that’s exactly why you should be talking to the guys about this now, so you can be prepared for whichever way it goes.”
“Maybe I should just quit the group,” Brian muttered under his breath.
I frowned at him. “You can’t quit.”
“Why not?” he shot back. “You did.”
“Yeah, I did, and that’s exactly why you can’t. Howie, Nick, and AJ need you. The Backstreet Boys were never meant to be a trio.”
“No, we were always meant to have five members,” said Brian, raising his eyebrows at me. “So maybe you should come back.”
“Right,” I scoffed, rolling my eyes. For a brief moment, I had considered the possibility of being a Backstreet Boy again after he had brought it up at the NKOTBSB show, but I’d quickly realized it was nothing but a pipe dream.
“No, listen.” Brian leaned forward. “Let’s say, hypothetically, my therapy doesn’t help. If I can’t contribute vocally the way I used to, we’re gonna need another strong voice to round out the harmonies. Because you’re right: the Backstreet Boys were never meant to be a trio.”
I had to admit, he had a point. But there was still an obvious problem with what he was suggesting. “Okay, so, let’s say, hypothetically, I rejoin the group to record the next album. It would be fine when we’re in the studio, but what happens when it’s time to go on tour?”
“You go on tour with us,” he said with a shrug. “So what if you can’t dance the way you used to? We could work around it. Hell, you could just sit onstage and sing my parts while I do all the dancing. The fans wouldn’t care. With your voice and my body, it’d be like getting two Backstreet Boys for the price of one.”
I chuckled at that. But Brian wasn’t joking.
“I’m serious, Kev!” he insisted. “Why not?”
“Why not?” I repeated. “I can think of a million reasons why not.”
“Name ‘em.” Brian sat back and crossed his legs, folding his hands in his lap.
I opened my mouth, gaping at him in disbelief for a few seconds before I finally came up with an answer. “Well, for one, there’s Mason. I’m the only parent he has left now; I can’t just take off on tour.”
“So you bring him along, like Leighanne and I have been doing with Baylee since he was younger than Mason,” said Brian with a shrug, as if this was the obvious solution. But I had never wanted to raise my child on the road. That was part of the reason I had left the Backstreet Boys in the first place.
“Look, I know it works for y’all, but Mason’s gonna be starting kindergarten next year, and I don’t wanna have to homeschool him on the road. I just want him to go to a regular school and have a normal childhood.”
Brian frowned. “Are you saying Baylee doesn’t have a normal childhood? Because, trust me, when we’re not on the road, he has plenty of time to play with other kids, be on sports teams, and do all the stuff you and I did as kids. And when we do take him on tour, it’s like the best field trip ever – he gets to travel the world, try new foods, learn about different cultures, and see places from his social studies book in person. It’s a great educational experience for him.”
“I know,” I said quickly. “I’m not trying to insult your parenting or anything. You guys are great parents. And if I still had a partner, I might feel differently, but it’s hard enough doing this on my own at home.”
“What about Dawn?” he asked. “Wouldn’t she come with you? Howie has his niece come on tour to help Leigh with James.”
“Well, that’s something I’d have to discuss with her. Not everyone enjoys living out of a suitcase or sleeping on a bus, you know. It’d be a big adjustment for all of us,” I said, picking up my beer with both hands to take a drink. As I set the can back down, I glanced at my watch, knowing I would need to go inside to use the bathroom soon. “Our lives run on a routine. And you know how hard it can be to stick to a schedule when you’re crossing time zones, driving to different cities every day and performing late into the night. It was hard even when I didn’t have a kid or a disability.”
Brian nodded. “I know it wouldn’t be easy, but we’d all help out with Mason and whatever else you need help with.”
“I appreciate that.” I tried to be patient, knowing he didn’t have a clue what I dealt with on a daily basis. “I just don’t think it’s very practical.”
“Okay, so that’s one reason,” said Brian, sticking up his index finger. “Just nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred ninety-nine to go. What’s the second one?”
I laughed and shook my head. “I don’t have time to list them all. I’ve gotta go pee.”
“Wait!” he said as I started to wheel myself toward the back door. “Before you go, give me one more reason why you shouldn’t come back to the group.”
I sighed, my hands hesitating on the pushrims of my wheels. “Really? C’mon, man. You think the fans are gonna wanna see me as a forty-year-old man in a wheelchair, singing ‘We’ve Got It Goin’ On’ while I roll my crippled ass around the stage? That’s just fuckin’ sad.”
“Dude, did you hear the whole crowd go crazy when you came out at the NKOTBSB show? That’s exactly what they want!”
“That’s because it was a novelty, a one-night-only thing. No one wants to see that every night.”
“Wanna bet?” Brian replied, raising his eyebrows. “Why don’t you come on our cruise next week and ask the fans what they want instead of just assuming? We’re doing a full charter this year, so there’ll be about two thousand people on board for you to poll.”
I had almost forgotten about the Backstreet Boys cruise that was setting sail for the Bahamas the following weekend. For a few seconds, I entertained the idea, thinking of how nice it would be to escape the cold and go somewhere sunny and warm. Then I came to my senses. “I appreciate the invite, cuz, but I can’t just fly to Florida and board a ship on such short notice.”
“Why not? You did for Howie’s dad’s funeral a few years ago – well, not the cruise ship, but you did fly to Florida.”
“Yes, and do you know how stressful it was to make all those travel arrangements at the last minute? I can’t just book everything online like a normal person; I have to call the airport to request assistance, call the airline to ask for an aisle chair so I can get on and off the plane, call the hotel to make sure they have a handicapped room that’s actually accessible to me, call to arrange ground transportation, and hope I have everything I need when I get to where I’m going,” I explained. “And that’s just getting there. What about the ship itself? Is it wheelchair accessible?”
“I assume so,” said Brian. “I mean, it has ramps and elevators.”
“How about available cabins with enough room to move around in my chair? Beds that are the right height to transfer in and out of? Accessible bathrooms with roll-in showers? And what about the ports of call? Would I be able to get from the ship to shore? To the beach?”
His mouth fell open. “Well, I… I don’t know all those details, but I would assume so,” he stammered.
“You can’t assume anything,” I said, shaking my head. “Again, I appreciate the thought, but it’s just not practical at this point.”
“Fair enough,” he replied hoarsely, holding up his hands. “I didn’t think about all that. But, in the future, we’d have plenty of time to figure it out before we went anywhere. Will you at least consider coming back to the group?”
I looked at him for a long time before answering, remembering how much fun I’d had being onstage with the group again back in July. Finally, I nodded. “I’ll think about it,” I agreed as I rolled back into the house.
***