The Encore

by Charity Tillemann-Dick

  I’m just curious, what will happen?

  Turning on the water in the sink and the shower to muffle the noise, I brace myself against the counter and begin to sing. I’ve chosen Puccini’s simple yet exquisite tomato-sauce aria: “O mio babbino caro.”

  The first notes sound thin, but all right. Then, I go up for the high A natural.

  Just air.

  I try the phrase again. Same result.

  If I just sing the A alone?

  Nothing.

  I’m humiliated, but at least only privately. Opera obviously isn’t working out. Maybe Zen’s right. Maybe it’s time for me to try my hand at folk or jazz or musical theater. Maybe there just isn’t room in opera for someone like me.

  Putting on makeup is exhausting. How haven’t I realized that before now? Lining my upper eyelid, my right bicep gives out and I rest my arm on the vanity when Mom walks into the room.

  “Chary,” Mom croons, “how are you?”

  “Better today. Sorry about my little breakdown yesterday,” I reply.

  “Don’t be silly,” she insists. “. . . Chary?” The tone of her voice becomes sheepish all of a sudden.

  “Yes?”

  “Well,” she continues, “I got a call from Jeanne at the Cleveland Clinic.”

  “Oh! I hope you gave her my love!”

  “Of course, of course . . .” Mom trails off. There’s a beat of silence.

  “Why did she call? Just to catch up?” I ask.

  “Not exactly,” she responds cautiously.

  I leave the bathroom door open as I apply mascara to my other eye. Mom speaks a little louder.

  “She asked if you would come back to Cleveland to perform for your doctors . . .”

  “Of course!” I say. “I’d love to. Maybe in a year. I think I’ll be ready in a year.”

  “She was hoping you could do it a bit sooner,” Mom goads hesitantly.

  “Mom. I’ll never be taken seriously again as a singer if I’m not at my best for my first major performance. And anyway, people will enjoy it much more if I’m really in shape vocally,” I say, moving on to my hair.

  “But Jeanne’s been so good to us—she was so good to you!”

  Of course, Mom’s right about that . . .

  “. . . I told her you’d perform at the clinic in three months.”

  I turn to face her, eyebrows raised.

  The words tumble out of her now. “Chary, the clinic has been very good to us and I think we owe this to them. If it wasn’t for Dr. McCurry and Dr. Budev, you wouldn’t be alive! And I have a feeling this could be a very important opportunity for you.”

  “Mom, you know, I wasn’t planning to perform for a while.”

  Quiet for a moment, a tired smile makes its way across her face.

  “Charity,” she says, taking my gaunt shoulders in her hands, “I know if you have something to work toward, you’ll do it. I know you’ll do it. And these people were so good to us! They did so much for us. We owe this to them.”

  Looking into Mom’s glistening eyes, I see the pain of her father’s death. Of Dad’s death. Of my illness and transplant. I see hours spent on her knees making pacts with God to win back my life. I see nights spent crying. I see months spent away from her home and her young children. I love my doctors—I respect what they’ve done for me—but I don’t need to sing for them. Nor do I need to sing for some faceless, hypercritical musical intelligentsia. I need to sing for Mom. I need her to know that she didn’t just keep me from dying—she saved my life. And that means I need to sing.

  “OK, Mom. I’ll do it.”

  I’ll do it for you.

  If I’m going to perform in three months, I need to move up my timeline. I email my old voice teacher, Cathy, and we schedule a lesson. The night before our first session, I pick up a call from Yoni. Finishing up his final semester of grad school in Chicago, he calls me in between his classes and before he goes to bed.

  “Are you nervous,” he asks, knowing how wary I am of fellow singers’ judgment.

  “I’m just so worried I’ll go in there and she’ll tell me not to do this performance. I mean, Mom would be so disappointed,” I add, unwilling to admit that I’ve begun to look forward to it too.

  “But you trust her?”

  “Totally,” I reply, recalling her fateful advice for me to stay in Hungary so many years before.

  “Baby,” Yoni says after a pause, “I miss you. So much.”

  “Oh, Yoni. I miss you too. I’d like to talk all night. But my lesson is early and you have class in the morning . . .”

  “. . . What if we just don’t hang up? I can wake you when I get up for school?”

  I smilingly consent and slowly drift off, phone still pressed to my ear.

  “Chary? Chaaaaarity . . .”

  I stretch out and rub my eyes. Where’s Yoni?

  “Chary! You have to take your meds!” Yoni is now shouting at me from the receiver, which has become tangled in the sheets beside me during the night. I pick it up and, finally, we say a hurried goodbye to each other. Then I rush to take my medications and dress for my lesson with Cathy.

  I haven’t had a proper voice lesson in over a year and a half. Headed south on I-25 toward the University of Denver’s Lamont School of Music, I’m a ball of nerves—equal parts dread and excitement. When I exit onto University Boulevard, my angst materializes in a knot lodged between my shoulders. Snaking through the monumental building, I finally make my way down the second-floor hallway to Cathy’s studio. I wait in front of her heavy wood door for just a few extra moments.

  Cathy welcomes me into a studio with sparkling wooden floors and soaring ceilings. Large windows overlook the school’s grand atrium while score-filled bookshelves line the walls. Framed portraits of past students smile down at Cathy as she sits in the back corner of the room, just like she’d sat when I first met her a decade earlier. Looking at me, her big brown eyes flash. “Charity!” she exclaims. “It is so good to see you!”

  I feel nervous. Awkward—like it’s my first voice lesson all over again. It’s as if all the concert halls I’d packed and the orchestras I’d performed with never even existed. But maybe this isn’t terrible. Maybe this will be like starting with a vocal blank slate. But in a good way. Maybe I’ll just relearn everything even better than I had before. I’m so wound up in my own thoughts I nearly forget to greet Cathy.

  “. . . Charity?”

  “It’s good to see you too!” I offer quickly, still distracted.

  “You’re . . .” she pauses, “. . . so thin!”

  “Oh, well—there’s nothing like organ failure for weight loss!” I reply without thinking. For a moment, she looks mortified. Then we begin to laugh together, still not altogether comfortable.

  “Well,” she says resolutely. “We’ll have time to catch up later. Shall we vocalize?”

  We make our way up and down the scale. Before the transplant, I’d had a range of over four octaves. Now, my voice cracks a full octave below high C. I used to know every note I sang just by the way it felt. Now, I can’t even tell when I’m off-pitch. As I gulp down breaths in the middle of the short five-note scales, I wonder how on earth I thought I could ever do this again. I’m already twenty-six. It will take years to regain what I’ve lost. By then, I’ll have aged out of every young artist program or competition. And returning to Europe? Out of the question. It was a mistake to think otherwise.

  Cathy stops me. “Do you know ‘Home,’ from Phantom?”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” I admit.

  “It’s not Phantom of the Opera. It’s the one by Yeston and Kopit. Take a look. I think it will fit your voice nicely right now.”

  She opens the book and I sight-read through the song. It tells the story of a girl who only feels at home in the midst of music. While it’s extremely different from the arias to which I’m accustomed, Cathy’s right. Somehow, the tessitura—how the music sits in my vocal range—is perfect for me exactly where I am.
Even a cursory read-through makes me feel like a singer again. It’s not as complex as Bellini, but, singing it, I feel confident. I feel at home.

  ACT III, SCENE 1:

  Philine

  Philine has been performing in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. When it ends, she comes into the garden still in her costume. A small crowd sings her praises, and she regales them with yet another performance.

  Oui, pour ce soir

  Yes, for tonight

  je suis reine des fées!

  I am queen of the fairies!

  Voici mon sceptre d’or

  Here is my golden scepter,

  et voici mes trophées!

  and here are my trophies!

  Je suis Titania la blonde.

  I am Titania the fair.

  Je suis Titania, fille de l’air!

  I am Titania, daughter of the air!

  En riant, je parcours le monde

  Laughing, I traverse the world

  plus vive que l’oiseau,

  more lively than the bird,

  plus prompte que l’éclair!

  more quick than the flash of lightning!

  Ah! Je parcours le monde!

  Ah! I traverse the world!

  —AMBROISE THOMAS, MIGNON

  It’s 3:00 a.m. and I can’t sleep. Today, May 25, 2010, I’ll perform for the first time with my new lungs. Today, it will be the first time an opera singer has performed with someone else’s lungs.

  Mom and I arrived yesterday evening. I think of the last time we were in Cleveland together—of our tiny ICU nook, her lounge chair, and my hot hospital sand mattress. She now sleeps beside me in the king-size bed, snuggled into downy hotel pillows. But I can’t get my heart to slow down. It’s been a long year and so much has been lost and regained. The work required to get here is almost unfathomable and now that I’ve arrived, my body doesn’t want to miss a moment of it—not even to sleep. I feel ready, but I also feel nervous and terribly excited.

  The performance for my doctors is a much larger event than I anticipated. Every year, the Cleveland Clinic holds a Patient Experience Summit. Scott Simon from NPR and I will close out the festivities. The clinic flew Mom and me out from Denver together. Mercina, Shiloh, Zenith, and Glorianna are following behind us by car.

  My cell phone rings. It’s Mercina. They’re here! Trying not to wake Mom, I tiptoe out of the hotel room and make my way down to the mezzanine to let the kids in through an unmanned side door. Creeping back toward the room, we do our best to be inconspicuous. Crammed into the previously cavernous hotel room, everybody falls slowly to sleep. Everyone except me.

  Inhale. Exhale.

  Finally morning. I sneak down to the lobby for breakfast, careful not to wake any of the snoozing bodies surrounding me. Undressed and unshowered, I put the hood up on my sweatshirt to mask my appearance. A beautiful buffet has been spread for the summit’s attendees; I start helping myself.

  “Excuse me,” chimes one of the organizers, tapping lightly on my shoulder, “this is a private event.” I turn my head, smiling broadly.

  “Oh! I didn’t recognize you!” She steps back in shock.

  “I’m hoping that no one else does, either!”

  As she walks away, I fill my kangaroo pocket with pastries, fruits, muffins, rolls, jams, and butter. On the elevator, fellow riders regard me—standing in the corner, hood up, pockets bulging—suspiciously. As the floors tick off, I remember how, as a little girl, it so humiliated me when my grandmother would sneak food from galas and receptions into her purse. I smile at my own ridiculous (and obviously inherited) display of food hoarding.

  Back in the hotel room, I arrange the pilfered breakfast on a windowsill. Then I pull on some slacks and head down to my dress rehearsal. Just as I reach the door, Mercina begins to rouse.

  “There’s breakfast on the table,” I whisper. “If Mom wants to come, tell her I’m practicing downstairs.”

  My sister groggily nods and I make my way down to the dress rehearsal. There, I meet Joela for the first time since I was in the hospital. Among other things, Joela is the principal pianist and keyboardist for the Cleveland Orchestra. Expert in everything from organ and celesta to harpsichord and accordion, Joela was a child prodigy and remains a virtuoso. We met in 2005 when I debuted at Severance Hall and have been dear friends ever since. It is wonderful to sing with her again and she goes over every note with me to be sure my voice is sitting in the ideal place on each pitch.

  I walk back to my hotel room, invigorated. I coat my lips in a rose lipstick, then layer a gold shade on top of that. I line my eyes and rouge my cheeks. I pull up my burnished gold skirt and button the matching jacket, then bring my now-plentiful hair back into a simple chignon. As I pass the full-length mirror, I have to stop. It’s only been three months since I got out of the hospital, but it seems like a lifetime ago. Three months ago, I could hardly breathe, I could hardly eat, I could hardly walk, and I certainly couldn’t sing. Three months ago, I was sure I would never get better. Looking at the reflection gazing back at me now, though, I can only think that I’ve never looked prettier.

  Stepping onto the platform, Dr. Pettersson—the senior lung transplant surgeon at the clinic—helps me onto the stage and I take care not to trip. This is only the third time I’ve been in high heels since the surgery and my feet constantly tingle from nerve damage. Greeting the old surgeon with a kiss on his cheek, I turn toward the audience. Bright lights blind me and, for a moment, the stage and I are the only things in the room.

  The pinched introduction of the piano begins and I know Joela is once again by my side. As the broken VII chord sounds, I breathe in. Just as the dominant note plays, I say a silent prayer:

  Oh my dear Father. Bless me to sing gloriously.

  With that, I begin “O mio babbino caro,” the aria I had tried to sing so unsuccessfully in my bathroom three months before. As I navigate the octave jumps in the score, I understand Lauretta’s dilemma for the first time. There are things we each know belong in our lives and, sometimes, it doesn’t matter whether they make sense or not. With Lauretta, it was a man. I’d started off caring about my music, but my list was growing. The older I got, the more I realized that my entire life was a series of things that—to an outside observer—made absolutely no sense. My faith. My career. My boyfriend. But life isn’t lived through observation. You don’t perform by sitting in the audience. Love is a noun and a verb. It is something I just have to do. Same as Lauretta. To anyone else, her devotion seems like the definition of recklessness. But actually experiencing love is the only thing in this world that makes any sense. As this epiphany fills my mind, I sing the last, pleading words of the aria. Approaching the final note, I’m filled with gratitude for these lungs, for my family, for my doctors, for my donor. My life. I hold the final note for as long as my breath carries it, coming off just as Joela finishes the final arpeggio.

  A brief moment of silence, then the audience jumps to their feet and applauds seemingly endlessly. Only now do I realize how enormous the room is, and there’s not an empty space in it. There are over a thousand faces looking up at me—many striped with tears.

  I sing a few more songs. The crowd’s reception is heady. I thank my doctors, my nurses, and my mother, then exit stage right. Waiting for me outside of the ballroom, production crews and journalists descend with questions, cameras, flashes, and microphones. An avalanche of people floods out from the hall, joining the well-intentioned melee. My little brothers and sisters buffer me against the press of the crowd as we stumble toward a quieter room away from the fray. As we walk off, a man with white hair and a goatee grabs my hand, placing a card in it—

  “I have an amazing performance for you this fall. It will change your life.”

  I nod, smiling halfheartedly. With so many people, I’m nervous about germs. Wouldn’t it be ironic if I caught a virus while singing for my doctors? My brothers and sisters must be thinking the same thing, and their collective pace aroun
d me quickens.

  “Email me!” the man shouts as my siblings push me away from the crowd. “Don’t forget!” he calls, shaking his finger.

  Within days, my performance has gone viral—showing up in newspapers and newscasts across the globe. I have to admit, it’s exciting. Mom and I unwittingly collected a giant pile of business cards after the performance. Back in Denver, I go through them, sending promised emails to each one of the well-wishers. Most of the replies come from administrators, doctors, and hospital workers. And then I get a note from a senior executive at Yamaha Music Corporation.

  Hey kiddo. I’m the guy with the goatee from your performance the other day. Just so you know: in a few days, you’ll be receiving an email from the producer of a major event taking place this fall. He works with the founder of TED. They’re working on TEDMED and you’ll be amazing for it. Make sure to get back to him. Look for me at the conference. I’ll still be the guy with the goatee!

  I have two important questions. Marching upstairs to the living room, I announce: “I think I’m going to sing for someone named Ted. Just ‘Ted.’ But who is this guy anyway and why does he spell his name in capital letters?”

  “Wait. Did you say TED?” Glorianna, rarely star struck, looks at me like I’m from another planet.

  “Yes?” I say nervously.

  “Like, capital T-E-D? That TED?”

  I nod.

  “Oh. TED’s awesome. That’s awesome. You’ll be awesome . . . or you’ll suck,” she concludes with a snort.

  The information, though minimal, is at once exciting and discouraging. Later, on the phone with Yoni, I look up the TED website. Turns out he’s an “it,” not a “he.” TED is an acronym for technology, entertainment, and design—an elite conference that brings together experts, artists, and luminaries for one giant show where everyone performs in eighteen minutes or less. TEDMED is its medically oriented counterpart. The list of presenters reads like a who’s who of medicine, business, music, the arts, and design. And the conference isn’t just expensive, it’s exclusive. There’s a long, involved application process for any person already willing to spend thousands of dollars for the privilege of attending. I’ve attended my share of Washington soirees with my grandfather, but this is an entirely different animal.