“Wow… so this is how the other half lives, huh?” Dawn looked around in amazement as she drove slowly up the long, winding driveway that led to the Littrell estate. To our left, the neat landscaping gave way to a thicket of tall trees, many of which had lost their leaves for the winter. To the right was a small lake, its murky water reflecting the weak rays of late afternoon sunlight that filtered through the trees. The house sat straight ahead, a sweeping, two-story, white stucco chateau. Nestled in a wooded area on the outskirts of Alpharetta, Georgia, the expansive piece of property had been Brian and Leighanne’s own private sanctuary for the past twelve years.
“Technically, only one fourth of the other Backstreet Boys live like this,” I replied with a chuckle. “Brian bought and paid for this place right at our peak, between the release of our two biggest albums. We had just settled our lawsuit with Lou Pearlman and were making millions, so I think he wanted to show off a bit by buying his bride-to-be a big, baller mansion. It makes the rest of our homes look pretty small and simple by comparison.”
Dawn shook her head. “I would never use the words ‘small’ or ‘simple’ to describe your house.”
“Wait till you see the inside of this one,” I said, smiling as we pulled up in front of the Littrells’ house.
Dawn parked the van in the circle drive. “It’s gonna be fun getting you up and down all those steps,” she said with a pointed look at the curved double staircase leading to the front porch.
“Yeah… why do you think we don’t come down here for more holidays?” I replied, feeling a surge of anxiety as I followed her gaze to the front door. “Way too many stairs.”
“You’d think they could afford to install a ramp,” she grumbled, shutting off the engine.
“Don’t repeat that to Cousin Brian,” I told Mason as Dawn climbed out of the driver’s seat and came around to unbuckle me from the back. “It was nice of him and Leighanne to invite us down for their Super Bowl party. We need to be gracious guests.”
“But Dawn’s right, Daddy,” Mason said with a frown. “Why didn’t they add a ramp for you?”
Because it would ruin the curb appeal, I thought, smirking to myself. It was funny because the Littrells’ house couldn’t even be seen from the road. But I had a feeling that Leighanne, in particular, would hate the look of a portable ramp junking up her elegant front entrance – and she would never allow Brian to spoil its perfect symmetry by putting in a permanent one.
“Most people’s homes don’t have ramps, buddy,” I replied instead. “The world isn’t always accessible to folks in wheelchairs. But it’s okay – Dawn and Brian should be able to bump me up the stairs.”
Brian must have been watching for us because he appeared on the front porch just as I was wheeling myself out of my van. “Hey, y’all!” he called, waving. “Happy Super Bowl Sunday!”
“Back at ya, cuz!” I rolled across the paved driveway to the bottom of the steps as Brian bounded down them. “Thanks for having us.”
“You know you’re always welcome.” He gripped my shoulder. “How was your drive down here?”
“Not bad at all.” I glanced back at Dawn, who nodded in agreement. “We had to get up early, but we made good time.” It was almost a straight shot down I-75 to get to Brian’s neck of the woods, a route that took us through mostly small towns and rural areas rather than major cities with heavy traffic. If it weren’t for the fact that it took six hours, I would have brought my truck and done the driving myself, but I was worried my arms would get too tired. I hadn’t forgotten how exhausting my trip to Nashville with Natalie had been, and that was only half as far as Alpharetta.
“Yeah, you did! You’re the first ones here.”
“That was the plan. I didn’t want an audience watching you and Dawn drag my ass up and down the stairs,” I admitted with a grin.
“Speaking of which, you better refresh my memory on the best way to do that,” Brian said, glancing back at the stone steps behind him.
“First, Dawn has to take off my anti-tip bars, so you can tip me backwards. Then, one of you will grab my push handles while the other holds onto my front wheels, and you’ll bump me up each step – ideally without dropping me,” I explained with a wry grin.
“We won’t drop you,” he promised. “A head injury is no way to kick off a Super Bowl party. Plus, Leighanne would kill me if we got blood stains all over the front steps.”
I laughed uneasily. But, despite his joking, Brian proved to be a good help to Dawn, taking my top half and going backward up the steps while she handled the bottom half and went forward. He did most of the heavy lifting, which I’m sure Dawn appreciated, given the fact that she was still getting over the flu. She claimed to be feeling better than she had the week before, but she had a lingering cough and seemed to get winded during the most rigorous parts of my morning routine. By the time we reached the top of the stairs, she was breathing hard. I could hear her panting as she bent down behind me to put the anti-tip bars back on my chair. “You okay?” I asked her when she straightened up.
She nodded. “Yup. All good.”
Leighanne and Baylee were waiting to greet us at the front door. “Welcome to Littrellville! We’re so glad y’all could come!” Leighanne bent down to give me a one-armed hug, then stepped back to let us inside.
Baylee said a quick hello, then ran off to show Mason his bedroom while Leighanne took Dawn on a tour of the rest of the house. I followed along for the downstairs portion, doing my best to navigate around the oriental rugs that decorated nearly every room without bumping into the expensive furniture or knocking over any breakable antiques. I hoped my tires weren’t tracking dirt through the house.
When the women walked up the curved staircase to see the second story, I went with Brian into the living room, where the large flatscreen TV was already tuned to the pre-game coverage. I found a spot to park my chair among the furniture, figuring I could transfer to the couch right before the game if there was enough room for me. “How many people are coming to this party, anyway?” I asked Brian.
“It’ll be a pretty small group, just our friends Curtis and Jodi and a few other couples,” he replied. “I invited the rest of the fellas, but I knew they probably wouldn’t come. Well, I thought Nick might if he was gonna be in this part of the country, but it sounds like he and Lauren are in L.A. right now, not Nashville. You know AJ couldn’t care less about football; he’s happier staying home with his family. And Leigh’s only, like, two weeks away from her due date, so Howie didn’t wanna leave her home alone with James or risk a long drive. But I’m glad you came. It’s too bad Natalie couldn’t make it.”
I nodded, not bothering to tell him that I had only agreed to come because I’d thought Natalie would be with me. “Yeah… too bad the Falcons couldn’t make it this far either. But it should be a good game between the Ravens and the 49ers.”
“Who ya rootin’ for?” he wanted to know.
“Ravens,” I replied without hesitation. “Gotta root for the underdogs, ya know?” The San Francisco 49ers were favored to win, especially after defeating the top-seeded Atlanta Falcons in the NFC Championship game, but that wasn’t the only reason I was siding with the Baltimore Ravens. Since my injury, I had come to see black birds as a symbol of hope and perseverance, so it only made sense for me to support the team with one as their mascot.
“Agreed. East coast all the way.” Brian smiled. “You remember the last time the Ravens played in the Super Bowl?”
“Sure do,” I said, smiling back. “It was a pretty memorable way for us to celebrate Nick’s twenty-first birthday, by singing the national anthem at the Super Bowl in his hometown.”
“Man… I can’t believe that was twelve years ago,” said Brian. “In some ways, it seems like yesterday, but it also feels like forever ago.”
I nodded, knowing just what he meant. “A lot has happened in the last twelve years.”
“Yeah…” He let the word hang in the air, leaving the rest unsaid. Neither of us needed to list it all out loud, but I thought about how much my life had changed since 2001. I’d left the Backstreet Boys and come back six years later. I’d become a father, a widower, and a wheelchair user in less than six months. There was a part of me that would have given anything to go back to that moment, to be the Kevin Richardson who had stood on the field at Raymond James Stadium alongside his bandmates, belting out “The Star-Spangled Banner” for a crowd of seventy thousand people that included his beautiful new wife, Kristin. I could still remember being that version of myself, yet my memories felt like they had come from another life, like they belonged to a completely different person – and, in many ways, they had.
I wasn’t the same person anymore. But, then, I supposed none of us were. Brian, Howie, AJ, and Nick had changed, too. They’d all been through highs and lows: new albums, new relationships, marriages, babies, break-ups, family drama, health problems, legal troubles, addiction, rehab, loss, grief…
Looking at Brian as he sat in the lavishly-furnished living room of his extravagant home, I couldn’t help but envy him a little. Of the five of us, he’d undoubtedly had it the easiest over the last decade. But even his charmed life was not without its struggles. I knew there was probably a part of him that would also have given anything to go back to that moment, to be the Brian Littrell with the beautiful voice that had led us through so many other renditions of our national anthem.
Clearing my throat, I said, “So, how’s it been going with your voice therapy?”
He shrugged. “It’s goin’. Honestly, I’m not sure if it’s made much of a difference. I don’t feel like my voice has gotten any better… but it hasn’t gotten worse either, so that’s something, I guess.”
“I get it,” I said, nodding. “I feel the same way about my physical therapy. I still go a few times a week to get a good workout and help me maintain as much function as I can, but I haven’t made any real improvement since my recovery plateaued about four years ago. I know I’m not gonna get any better at this point. I just don’t wanna get any worse.”
He gave me a tight-lipped smile that looked more like a grimace. “How long did it take you to accept the fact that you were never gonna walk again?”
I snorted. “Not nearly as long as it took you to accept it.” I returned his crooked smile, remembering the blind optimism he had clung to for months after my injury. “I pretty much knew the day the doctor told me my paralysis was permanent.”
“Knowing and accepting are two different things,” Brian pointed out.
“No, you’re right,” I conceded cautiously, wondering where he was going with this. “But, still, I gave up on walking again a long time ago. That was never the goal.” I held my breath as I waited for his response, hoping he wasn’t about to start preaching about the power of prayer and the possibility that I might still make a miraculous recovery someday. It had been a long time since I’d had that kind of conversation with him, and I sure as hell didn’t want to have another one at his Super Bowl party.
Brian sighed and raked a hand through his thinning hair. “So maybe I should just give up on getting my old voice back, huh?”
Suddenly, I understood where he was coming from, the connection he’d made in his mind. “No,” I said quickly, shaking my head. “Listen, cuz: I can relate to what you’ve been going through in some ways, but I didn’t mean to compare your situation to mine as if we were both in the same boat – because we’re not. I have a complete injury. No amount of therapy – or prayers, for that matter – can fix my spinal cord. That’s a fact. But no doctor’s ever told you that your vocal cords are permanently damaged, right? I mean, they can’t even tell you what caused this condition in the first place – right?”
“Right,” he replied in a whisper. “No one really knows for sure.”
“Exactly. No one knows,” I repeated, fixing him with a firm look. “So don’t give up. Keep doing the therapy. It may not improve your condition, but if it can prevent it from getting worse, that’s still better than nothing.”
Brian nodded. “Yeah… you’re right. It’s just frustrating when you put in the work and don’t see the results you want.”
“I understand. Believe me, I do.” My mind immediately flashed back to the rehabilitation hospital, where he and the other guys had witnessed one of my muscle spasms for the first time. Nick had just finished transferring me from my bed to my wheelchair when my left leg twitched. Not knowing any better, Brian had taken the involuntary movement as a sign that some nerve signals were making it through my crushed spinal cord. Even after I’d explained spasticity to him, he’d encouraged me to try moving my leg again on my own. I remembered the resentment I’d felt at being told to “try again,” as if I simply hadn’t been putting forth enough effort to overcome my paralysis before. It was beyond frustrating.
“But lemme go back to the idea of goals for a sec,” I added upon sudden inspiration. “Functional goals – that’s a term I learned in rehab. The therapists I worked with there didn’t try to treat my quadriplegia; they taught me ways to deal with it. My legs don’t work anymore, so I learned how to drive a wheelchair. My fingers don’t work, so I learned how to use tenodesis and adaptive tools. I can’t control my bladder or bowel, so I learned how to cath myself and trained my body to take a shit at the same time every other day.” Seeing him flinch, I paused. “Sorry if that’s TMI. It sucks, trust me, but I don’t have a choice. These are the cards I’ve been dealt. I’m never getting my old body back, so it was either learn how to live in this one or… die, I guess.”
A lump swelled in my throat as I thought about those first few months after the accident. Some days, the choice to die had seemed much more appealing than the choice to live with my disability. Thankfully, I had moved past that mindset.
Swallowing hard, I said, “My point is, if therapy doesn’t seem to be making any difference for you, maybe you should focus less on fixing the problem and more on finding ways to work around it. Practice singing techniques that don’t create so much muscle tension around your vocal cords. Figure out the sweet spot in your range where you can sing comfortably without your voice breaking and stay in it as much as possible. Forget about trying to get your old voice back and learn how to get the most out of the voice you have now.”
Brian nodded again. “That’s good advice,” he replied hoarsely. “Thanks, Kev.”
“Can I bring anyone a beer?” Leighanne asked as she ushered Dawn into the living room.
Brian raised his hand at once. “Me! Thanks, baby.”
“I’d love one, too – in a koozie, if you’ve got one. Makes it easier for me to hold onto.”
“Of course! We gotcha, Kev.” Leighanne gave me an indulgent grin, her blue eyes twinkling. Then she turned to Dawn. “And how about you, Dawn? Are you a beer drinker?”
“I am,” Dawn replied hesitantly, “but I have to drive everyone back to the hotel tonight.” She glanced over at me, as if asking my permission. It caught me by surprise at first – after all, she was a grown woman, five years older than me. I wasn’t her father. But, technically, I was her employer, and my son and I would be the ones riding in the back of the van with her behind the wheel.
“But that won’t be for hours! You can have one or two, right?” Leighanne followed her gaze, raising her eyebrows at me.
“Sure, she can,” I said quickly. “Go ahead, Dawn, have a beer – or two, if you want. I trust you to know your limit.” I locked eyes with her, trying to let her know that I meant what I said. It wasn’t like we never drank together at home, but that was different – neither of us had to drive then. Dawn knew that drinking and driving was a touchy subject for me, considering it was a drunk driver who had caused the accident that killed Kristin, crippled me, and left Mason motherless. But I wasn’t going to let my past trauma stop either of us from indulging a little during the Super Bowl.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
I nodded, flashing her a reassuring smile. “Yeah. Leighanne’s right – we won’t be leaving here until late. If you have one or two before halftime, it’ll be out of your system by the end of the game.”
“All right… if you say so, boss,” she said, winking as she smiled back at me.
“Four beers, coming right up!” Leighanne chirped, bustling back into the kitchen.
“I’d better go help her carry them,” said Dawn, turning to follow her.
“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Brian stopped her with a wave of his hand. “Believe me – my wife can handle four beers. She’s the hostess with the mostess; she absolutely loves to entertain. Come over here and have a seat.” He smiled and motioned for Dawn to join him on the large couch. “Let someone else serve you for once.”
Dawn laughed. “Well, if you insist,” she said, sitting down. “You have a beautiful home, Brian.”
“Thanks!” He grinned. “We like it.”
Leighanne came back, carrying a tray with four cans of Miller Lite. As she handed me mine in a blue Kentucky Wildcats koozie, I saw that she had already popped the tab open and placed a bendy straw in the hole for me. “Look at that – she even remembered the straw,” I said to Dawn, impressed. “Thanks, Leigh!”
By the time we’d finished our first round of beers, the rest of the party guests had arrived, and the big game was about to begin. I stayed in my wheelchair to watch the first quarter, balancing a plate of snacks on my lap and praying my legs didn’t spasm and send it flying to the floor.
Mason sat on the oriental rug at my feet, picking at a plate of finger foods as he tried to follow the action on the field. I was glad he was finally old enough to understand the basics of football. Ever since I’d found out I was having a son, I had looked forward to bonding with him over my favorite sport, the same way my father and I had when I was a kid. Mason had been watching Chiefs and Wildcats games with me since he was a baby, but since both of my teams were terrible, being a football fan was often more frustrating than it was fun for either of us. It had only taken a few weeks for Natalie to turn him into a Falcons and Bulldogs fan. Even I had to admit that her favorite teams were more fun to root for than mine. They actually won most of their games.
“The Ravens are almost like the Falcons, right, Dad?” Mason asked, turning around to talk to me as Baltimore drove the ball down the field. “They’re both birds.”
I chuckled. “Yeah, I guess that’s true, bud. All the more reason to root for them.”
By halftime, the Ravens had a commanding 21-6 lead over the 49ers. Mason and Baylee quickly grew bored with the halftime show, but the adults in the room enjoyed watching Beyonce and Destiny’s Child perform.
“One of these years, we need a Backstreet Boys halftime show,” Brian’s friend Curtis commented during the commercial break that followed. “When are they gonna ask y’all?”
“They actually gave us the choice between the halftime show and the national anthem back in 2001,” Brian said, glancing over at me.
I nodded, adding, “At the time, we felt that singing the anthem was the bigger honor, so we chose that. But, hell, if I’d known I was gonna end up in this chair, I would have done the damn halftime show while I could still dance. I doubt we’ll ever have that opportunity again.”
“Never say never, Kev.” Brian grinned. “This next album could be our big comeback!”
“Remember how they had a bunch of old rock bands play the halftime show for years after Justin Timberlake flashed Janet Jackson’s boob for the whole world to see?” said Dawn, smirking. “That could be you guys someday.”
Brian laughed. “Yeah, maybe they’re just waiting until we’re all in wheelchairs.” He put on a wheezy old man’s voice as he pretended to wheel himself across an imaginary stage. “Jam on ‘cause Backstreet’s got it. C’mon now, everybody. We’ve got it goin’ on for years…”
I chuckled at his impression, but my laughter faded quickly when I realized he had gotten the idea for it from me. “Really? C’mon, man,” I could recall saying to him the Thanksgiving before last, when he had first tried to talk me into rejoining the group. “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.”
Fourteen months later, that horrifying fantasy was about to become a reality. We were just a few months away from our first rehearsal for the tour, which was scheduled to begin toward the end of summer. The album would be released by then; we just had to put the finishing touches on it, finalize the tracklist, and choose the first single. We had a photo shoot scheduled for the end of February, and we were going back to the studio the first week in March for one more recording session with our old friend Max Martin. It was all coming together… and I was terrified. Despite the work we’d already put in during the weeks we’d spent in the studio and all the TV appearances and live performances we’d done since, I didn’t feel ready for a full tour. There were still so many details left to work out, and the lingering uncertainty filled me with anxiety.
But this wasn’t the time to worry about the future. I tried to focus on the football game instead, returning my attention to the TV for the kickoff to start the second half. Within seconds, I had forgotten all about the tour as I watched one of the Ravens’ receivers field the kick in the endzone and run the ball all the way down the field for a record-breaking 109-yard touchdown, bringing the score to 28-6. The room went wild. As Mason jumped up and down in front of me, I imagined Natalie’s friend Jared and his boyfriend from San Francisco watching in stunned disbelief with their jaws on the floor.
But, despite a blackout that delayed the game for half an hour soon after that play – or perhaps because of it – the 49ers rallied, scoring two touchdowns and a field goal in the third quarter. They had a chance to tie it up after another touchdown in the fourth, but their two-point conversion attempt failed. In the end, the Ravens held on to their lead, winning the game with a final score of 34-31.
We were the last ones to leave after the postgame show, waiting until everyone else was gone for Brian to help Dawn bump me down the front steps. Having stopped drinking at halftime, Dawn seemed tired but otherwise fine as she bent down to put the anti-tip bars back on my chair.
I looked up at Brian. “Thanks again for inviting us. It was a good game!”
“Yeah, it was,” he agreed. “I wish y’all didn’t have to drive home tomorrow. We could’ve found something else to do together.”
“Maybe we could meet for breakfast if you want,” I offered, “but we’re planning to be on the road before noon, so we can make it home by dinner time. I wanna make sure Mason’s well-rested and ready for school the next morning, especially since he won’t be there tomorrow.”
“Eh, playing hooky for one day won’t hurt. I bet he won’t be the only absent kid in his class the day after the Super Bowl,” said Brian with a smile.
“Maybe not, but he’s already missed a few other days because he was traveling with me,” I admitted, feeling guilty. “And he’s gonna miss next Monday, too. We’re taking a ski trip to Aspen next weekend – me, Mason, Dawn, and Natalie.”
“Nice! First time hitting the slopes since you got hurt?”
I nodded. “I’m a little nervous but looking forward to trying adaptive skiing. Just pray I don’t fall and break my neck again.”
“Oh, you’ll be fine, Kevin. I’m the one you should be worried about,” Dawn said sheepishly as she straightened up beside me. “I’ve never been skiing before.”
“Better stick to the bunny slopes ‘til you get the hang of it,” Brian told her. “But that sounds like fun. I hope y’all have the best time!”
“Thanks. I’m sure we will,” she said, smiling at me. I smiled back, not knowing how the next few days would change our plans.
***