In the midst of this convoluted mourning process, I get a call from a buddy from my campaigning days. He asks if I’m free to grab lunch. I readily assent, eager to go over old war stories together. He may have been born in Israel, but Yoni Doron is a Long Island boy. Dark eyes, black hair, with an accent like fresh rye, he’s excellent company. As we finish up our meal, I’m already flipping through a mental catalogue of friends, looking for a nice Jewish girl to set him up with—I just know he’s going to make someone very happy one day.
A little less than two months later, at the end of March 2008, I return to Budapest. Mimo and Shiloh will spend the summer together during his internship on the Hill, so I’m free to resume my fellowship. I unlock the door of my apartment to find everything as I left it, bed unmade and sheet music strewn across the piano. It’s been four years since I’ve been back to Denver, and this little flat has become the closest thing to home I have. I grow herbs on the balconet outside of the living room. They usually die (I have a notoriously brown thumb) but I keep trying. Feral cats congregate in the grassy court behind the apartment building; I always leave out extra food for them because it makes me feel like I have pets again. I’ve yet to finish mourning Didi, but I’m glad to be caring for my small corner of the world again. Opening the door to the cold night air, I water my struggling little garden then head to the bathroom to mix my medication. I attach it to my pump and fall asleep, exhausted.
The phone is ringing. Slowly, my eyes open as I wipe crusty spit from the side of my mouth. Who on earth calls at 7:00 a.m. on a Sunday? Partially rousing myself, I stumble toward the receiver in the living room but miss the call—voicemail picks up just before I do. I turn to go brush my teeth when the phone starts ringing again. It’s my older sister, Kimber.
Three years older, Kimber is my best friend. She is effortless when I’m overworked, content when I’m restless, measured when I’m over the top; our inverse personalities balance each other perfectly. Even though she has a full life—married and working as a junior PR executive in New York with a baby on the way—we still find time to talk.
But today, her voice is too even.
“Are you sitting down?” she asks.
I bang my shin on an ottoman as I trip toward the couch. “Ow. Yes. OK. I’m sitting down.”
“Dad’s been in a car accident. No one else was hurt.” If I were more awake, perhaps I’d hear the pain underscoring the calm of her voice.
“What? Is he going to be all right?” I ask, rubbing my bruised leg.
“He’s seriously burned, but the doctors say he could still survive.” The harshness of those words knocks any remnant of sleep from my mind, replacing it with cold terror—
“. . . Could still survive?!”
“He has third-degree burns over eighty percent of his body, Chary. They say that’s just within the threshold for possible recovery.”
“I’m booking a ticket home.”
“Charity . . .” she replies, her pitch softening as mine rises.
“Kimi, I’m booking a ticket!”
Kimber puts Tomicah on the line. He’s slightly less mollifying—
“Charity—”
“I don’t care about the stupid altitude, Tomicah!”
“I know you don’t. I understand. You’re scared. We’re all scared. But if he’s going to get through this, we need to focus on what’s best for Dad. Mom needs to focus on what’s best for Dad. If you come back to Denver right now, Chary, we all know she won’t be able to do that. You’ll get sick, Mom will get distracted, and Dad’s care will suffer because of it.”
“But—”
“I’m sorry, Chary.”
I drop the receiver and slide from the couch onto the floor, sobbing. I’m furious at Tomicah for being right. In Denver, my already struggling lungs have to work harder to oxygenate my blood with thin mountain air, giving my overworked heart even less support to pump; if I go now, I’ll only be in the way. I’m angry at PH for making me feel so powerless.
I call home every day. Details begin to filter in: Dad had been driving home from the mountains when the front wheel of his minivan jammed. The car rolled off the highway and down a steep embankment, bursting into flames at the bottom. Dad was able to drag himself away from the wreck, and some good Samaritans with a fire extinguisher in their trunk put out the flames and called an ambulance. But significant damage had already been done.
Dad is stable, but unresponsive. The only way to manage the pain from the burns is to place him in a medically induced coma. Mom has barely left his side since he was admitted to the hospital. The little kids have set up camp in the lobby of the burn clinic—snack wrappers and algebra books accumulating around their well-worn chairs as they wait to update the rest of us with news from Mom or the nurses.
A week after his accident, Dad is showing signs of improvement. He’s fighting hard, and it’s starting to look like he might win. The doctors begin to discuss his recovery. They warn that his life will be different. His mobility will be impaired. His hands won’t be able to grip his tools or signature purple-ink pens like they used to. His face—the shining eyes, button nose, and handsome cleft chin—won’t be recognizable. But that won’t cow him. Dad has always been an ingenious fixer. To him, something being broken has always been an opportunity to improve on the original design. We all know he’ll take this bushel of lemons and come up with a recipe for lemonade that no one’s ever thought of before.
But almost as soon as we begin to feel hope again, Dad’s situation turns. It’s his lungs. They were burned worse than the doctors thought, and they’re deteriorating quickly. Ten days after his car accident, Dad’s lungs fail, filling with fluid. There’s nothing the doctors can do. Mom and my sisters and brothers sing hymns around Dad’s hospital bed as the numbers on his bedside monitor tick down to zeros.
I’m tired of exile. I fly back to Denver for the funeral. Over a thousand people attend, each one with their own story about how Dad served them, sat with them, counseled them. Each of the kids has prepared a memory or a scripture verse to share. As the service approaches its close, Mom takes her place behind the pulpit. She stands silent for a few moments, then begins to sing an old song by the Seekers. Unlike her children, Mom has never been a singer. Her voice is soft, husky, and cracked from grief. But I’ve yet to hear a more powerful performance in all my life. Beside me and behind me, tears streak down hundreds of cheeks; I’ve lost my father, but I, along with everybody in this room, now mourn the love of my mother’s life. “I could search the whole world over / Until my life is through / But I know I’ll never find another you.”
As we make our way to the cemetery, her melodic elegy hangs in the air like the scent of autumn: at once, impossibly beautiful and melancholy. Just a few weeks before, as we worked together arranging Didi’s funeral, Dad told me how much he appreciated the simplicity of a Jewish burial. Today, my brothers and my uncle bear him to rest in a plain pine casket. Underneath a blaze of Colorado sunshine, we say goodbye to Dad for the last time in this life.
For a week after the funeral, it’s almost like we’re all young again—playing dress-up, chasing the dogs around the house, going for walks around Rocky Mountain Lake. But every night at dinner the seat at the head of the table remains empty and the sunroom is filled to bursting with wilting flower arrangements. Deep down, we know home will never be the same again.
April is nearly over. I’m in no state, physically or mentally, to start rehearsals again. I cancel my European engagements and return to be with family in DC. My heart simply can’t bear Colorado any longer.
ACT I, SCENE 3:
Violetta
Violetta, who has suffered from tuberculosis, reflects on her unexpected feelings of love toward Alfredo, the sincere and kind man who has kept her company during her illness. Convinced that she is not destined for true love, she vows to live a life focused on earthly accomplishment and freedom.
Lui che modesto e vigile
Modest an
d watchful, he
folleggiare di gioia in gioia . . .
flit from joy to joy . . .
all’egre soglie ascese,
visited me when I was ill
E nuova febbre accese
and ignited a new fever by
Destandomi all’amor.
awakening my love.
. . . Follie! Follie! Delirio vano è questo! . . .
. . . Madness! Madness! This is vain delirium! . . .
. . . Sempre libera degg’io
. . . Always free, I must
Folleggiare di gioia en gioia . . .
flit from joy to joy . . .
—GIUSEPPE VERDI, LA TRAVIATA
Back in DC, Yoni reaches out to me again. I invite him to Mimo’s annual Fourth of July party at the national Capitol, figuring it will be the perfect place to introduce him to some of my single girlfriends. But as fireworks shimmer over the Washington Monument, Yoni takes my hand.
His timing is terrible. The very next morning, I leave for a monthlong music festival in Tel Aviv. I’m working with the grande dame of the Metropolitan Opera, Joan Dornemann, and her team of conductors, directors, and coaches. She’s tough as nails, but no one knows or loves opera better than her. Every night, without fail, I come home to a phone call from Yoni. Talking with him is somehow familiar, but he’s unlike anyone I’ve ever known before. He’s confident yet humble—the type of person who boasts about being the captain of his high school football team, then in the same breath explains how he helped to maintain its title as the Losingest Team in New York State history. He’s happy, kind, and unashamed. I ask him about what he wants to accomplish with his life, and he responds after a thoughtful pause—“I want a house by a lake where my wife and I can grow old together.” In the midst of the desperately lofty ambitions that populate the opera world (mine included), talking to him is a much-needed release—like taking off my heels after a long day of performing. I can talk to him about singing, work, PH, my family—nothing seems to faze him. Yoni is comfortable, both with himself and with me.
As my program nears its end, Yoni asks me to visit him in New York. I tell him no. The next day, I change my mind. I’ve already booked a ticket to DC, but my red-eye flight has a layover at JFK. I decide to pack a change of clothes in my carry-on and jump ship in NYC. Yoni arrives at the airport just as the sun crests the city’s distant skyline. I practically sleepwalk into the car and drift off as we drive along the Long Island Expressway.
I awake, disoriented. Where am I? A strange bedroom with bare walls. I open the curtains to reveal a winding street. To the left, a cul-de-sac, to the right, a seemingly endless row of identical split-level midcentury homes . . . . Long Island? Ah. Yoni’s house. Slowly, my morning comes back to me. The flight from Tel Aviv. Fixing my makeup in the airport bathroom. How late Yoni was picking me up. Meeting his mom. His sister—and how much she already seemed to know about me . . . . Were waffles involved? There’s a knock at the door. It’s Yoni. He’s made plans for the afternoon. I wash up, change my medicine, and meet him downstairs.
The list of acceptable first dates for someone with PH is notably short. My diet’s extreme restrictions on salt, combined with recent tummy sensitivity due to a hike in my Flolan dosage, makes eating out uncomfortable. I generally avoid crowds and their accompanying germs, so that rules out most performances. Sports are nearly impossible. Hiking, a no-can-do. Just walking at a normal pace can be hard. A plain cup of tea is one of the few options unlikely to land me in the hospital. Maybe that’s why I’ve turned down so many second dates—I’m always wondering if I’ll outlive another outing.
Yoni and I catch a train into the city. He sits smiling next to me, but I can’t help but feel trepidation. Is this really a good idea? We arrive in the city and Yoni charges up the subway stairs. I nervously, slowly follow behind. He looks around for three or four minutes, then turns around and charges back down into the subway. We see City Hall, Union Square, his favorite bagel shop, a random park, all in a similar fashion. It’s not clear whether we’re on an unconventional sightseeing trip or just plain lost. When I ask Yoni to slow down, he grabs my hand and drags me behind him. Does he think I’m flirting?! At the top of yet another set of stairs, my world begins to spin and tunnel. “Yoni!” I yank my hand away from his, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. “I don’t think you understand. I really need to slow down.”
He stops, walks back, and wraps me in his arms—holding me for a moment as people stream out of the subway around us. Then he kisses my head and something electric passes through my body. I tell myself it must be static.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “There are just so many things I want to show you.”
We stop for dinner in Little Italy. I try to navigate the menu of heavy pastas and salty pizzas, but even my plain salad leaves me feeling queasy. I end up packing most of it up in a takeaway container. My stomach settles a bit as we continue down the Bowery. We walk in silence, palms loosely pressed and fingers laced together. The August night is just cool enough that the warmth of Yoni’s hand is welcome. A quiet euphoria sets in.
Every few blocks, I remind myself of all the reasons this can’t be right: He’s not Mormon. My health is failing. We live in different cities—soon to be different continents (I’ll be returning to Europe at the start of autumn, and Yoni to Chicago). He was late to the airport. I’ve never been in a real relationship before, but this one must have too much going against it to ever work out. I don’t know how many more chances I’ll have for romance, but I’d rather never start something with Yoni in the first place than have it end badly. I decide it’s best to cut it off right here and now—
“Yoni, thank you for the evening, but I think we should just be friends. I like you. I care about you, but trust me—there’s no future for us. You do not want to date me.”
“What are you talking about?” he asks, laughing.
The monologue I’ve been piecing together in my head since our train ride spills from my lips, “I won’t have sex with you. I don’t drink and, if I were dating you, I’d expect you not to drink either. My family is crazy demanding and time consuming. And on top of all that, I’m dying. You’re great, but I don’t want to play around anymore. I’ll never have kids . . . I probably wouldn’t even live until a wedding. Not that either of us are even thinking about that, of course. You’re charming and handsome and young. You have everything ahead of you. You really, really don’t want to date me, Yoni. I’m way too complicated.”
Yoni pulls me toward him. In a panic I tuck my head into my neck like a turtle and his chin collides with my eye. Both of us laughing now, he takes a deep breath and slips two fingers beneath my chin to guide my lips to his. We kiss and I evaporate into the warm summer night along with the steam, smells, and shouts of the city around us.
Stopping, we gaze into one another’s eyes for a moment before crossing the street. Then, right in the middle of the crosswalk, Yoni grabs hold of my waist and kisses me again. It’s intoxicating. So much so that I realize I’m going to barf. I push him away and stumble toward the other side of the street, grabbing for the takeaway bag from the restaurant. Yoni shoves it into my hands just in time for my dinner to be reunited with its leftovers. He runs to buy a bottle of water for me as a homeless woman with her cart shakes her head at me kindly.
“Already, honey bear?” she tsks, in disbelief. She thinks I’m drunk (and not on love).
The next morning, there’s a knock on the door of the guest bedroom at Yoni’s parents’ home. I pull the door open just wide enough to see Yoni on the other side, smiling nervously.
“I just want to make sure you’re all right,” he says.
I smile, nodding my head yes. Leaning into the crack in the door, he presses his lips against mine. I look into his eyes and smile for just a moment before I shut the door, lean back against it, and slide to the ground.
Through the door, Yoni tells me he loves me.
Even though we’ve been
friends for years, I barely know him. Other than the random occasional lunch, we haven’t spent significant time together since the campaign we met on. It seems crazy—almost inconceivable—that he would say something so big so soon. But even stranger is the fact that I love him too. Despite the religion and the airport and the PH. It’s complicated and early. But I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. So this is what all those divas die for, I think to myself. I totally get it now. This is love. Soon, Yoni and I will be back in different cities leading very different lives. Maybe I’ll never see him again after this weekend. But even if it only lasts for a few days, there’s no denying this is the real thing. When I see Yoni later that morning, I tell him I love him too.
When I return to Baltimore a few days later, there is another heart catheterization. The emotional trauma of 2008 has taken a serious physical toll. The right side of my heart is nearly four times too big and its function is seriously impaired. For the first time since we’ve met, Dr. Girgis grounds me. I can’t return to Europe, and I have to cancel my performance schedule for the rest of the year.
I move back in with Mimo and Yoni leaves for Chicago to begin graduate school. I’ve never fallen in love with an actual person before, and I’m not sure how best to proceed. Shouldn’t Yoni have a family? A real life? Maybe I could find someone who shares my passion for music or at least my faith or just continue not having to worry about more family than I already have. Reluctantly, Yoni agrees that we’ll date other people. If neither of us find someone we want to be with more than each other, then we can try to make the long-distance thing work.
With nothing else to do, I go to receptions, parties, church, and catch up with old friends. I start dating again, more to pass the time than anything else and to keep my side of my deal. Some of the men are Mormon, some aren’t. Some are people I’ve known for years and others I’ve just met. At first, it’s fun. But soon enough I can’t help but notice that it doesn’t feel right. Somehow, Yoni and I are just a natural fit. In comparison, anything else feels forced. By October, going out with others brings on pangs of guilt. A month later, when Yoni and I see each other again, we decide to be exclusive.
The Encore Page 6