The Encore

by Charity Tillemann-Dick

  Just as he promised, TEDMED’s producers, Marc Hodosh and Richard Saul Wurman, email me after a few days. Two phone calls later, I have my first real booking. Then there’s a gala performance in Cleveland and a keynote for a huge organ donation conference in Dallas. As the invitations pile up, I start to get excited. It’s not a return to the stages I’ve dreamed of, but it’s a start.

  July Fourth in Washington, DC. Yoni will arrive later in the afternoon from New York. He has just finished graduate school and we’ll finally be able to spend significant amounts of time in the same city. The prospect thrills me, but I can’t help but feel some apprehension as well. Yoni left job offers on the table in Chicago, and DC is as saturated a job market as exists right now. Because of concerns over health insurance, we’ve decided to not get engaged until Yoni has a job with benefits for both of us. I’m concentrated on moving toward that goal, while Yoni is more concerned about literally moving closer to me. But today, I try to put aside those concerns. The Fourth is kind of our anniversary and we finally get to celebrate together. I can’t wait.

  Yoni spends his days on the job search, but the market is still sluggish. Washington is inundated with NYC refugees of the Great Recession, and finding a suitable position is difficult. In contrast, my fall schedule is packed—I have a number of well-paying performances and speaking gigs—but I can’t help but feel dissatisfied. The path to Lincoln Center is through young artist programs and opera companies, not the conference circuit.

  By the end of the summer, Yoni has finally secured a spot on a campaign. Temporary and in another state, it’s far from ideal. But we’ve done long distance before and I know we can do it again. We rendezvous two, three, four times a month—meeting for a quick bite or for a walk in a park. The work is good for him and he’s good at it. Yoni isn’t a showman like me, but he has a knack for politics and he thrives on the campaign’s constant hum of activity.

  Meanwhile, I’m trying to ready my voice for the upcoming performances. I haven’t yet summoned the courage to go and see my New York contacts yet, but I know I’ll soon need to. Joan Dornemann, the grande dame of the Metropolitan Opera, has recently gotten back to me and asked me to come see her in September. While I’ve been improving, she needs to know I’m ready. I’m determined not to disappoint her—or myself—but it’s going to take a lot of work.

  There are a few weeks in New York where summer seems to forget fall is on her way. There are hints: the air is drying out and a few errant yellow leaves grace most trees. But it’s when we forget life is always changing that the most drastic transformations take place.

  “This weekend. Eleven a.m. I want to show you another piece,” Joan says, bidding me farewell after our first lesson in over a year. “Charity, you are very fortunate. Your voice—well—you sound better than when we were together two years ago in Israel. And your breath is coming along nicely. I’ll see you soon.”

  I kiss both of Joan’s cheeks and step into the elevator. As the door closes, so do my eyes in prayer, Dear Heavenly Father—thank you. Thank you so much.

  “It went well?” Yoni asks, leaning against the car door as I exit the building.

  “She called my voice a Stradivarius,” I whisper, tears running down my cheeks.

  I’m so very happy. It’s been one year since my transplant and I’m right on schedule. Nine months earlier, I thought this day would never come. But now, I can sing! I can really sing. My desire to return to the opera stage isn’t some pipe dream—it can still happen. I’m just now starting to believe it again. Driving home with Yoni though, I realize this small success means I have a lot of work ahead.

  My coaching with Joan sets the tone for the whole season. Early autumn is cloaked in a kind of peaceful, creative energy. While we’ve had a lovely interlude in New York, Yoni has to go back to the campaign in Delaware, and I start a self-directed vocal boot camp. Joan sends me to Renée Fleming’s voice teacher, Gerald Martin Moore, and an amazing breathing coach named Deborah Birnbaum. I reconnect with singers, directors, and conductors I haven’t seen in years. Simultaneously, I’m preparing for my presentation at TEDMED. They send me the final dates toward the end of summer. My performance falls on the one-year anniversary of awaking from my coma.

  I mention the unexpected anniversary to Marc Hodosh during a conversation about the progress of my talk. While trained as a doctor and engineer, Marc has an unexpected gift for showmanship. A few afternoons later, he calls me.

  “Charity,” he explains, “first, I want you to know that we’ve decided you should open the whole event. You’ll come onto stage. You sing an aria and everyone in the room is going to be saying to themselves, ‘That was great, but why is an opera singer performing to open a medical conference?’ And the first thing you need to say is: ‘Exactly one year ago, I woke up from a monthlong coma after having undergone a double-lung transplant.’ The rest of the talk sounds perfect and I love that you’ll end it with a song. But if you start it like that, their jaws will drop to the floor. It will be amazing.”

  He’s right and I know it.

  My collaborations invigorate me. Knowing Yoni is only a few hours’ drive away eases a great deal of stress. We talk multiple times a day about everything happening in our lives. It’s a magical, easy season of kinship and wonder, which, it seems, is only going to get better.

  L. Frank Baum wrote much of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz in the Hotel del Coronado, and more than a dozen movies were filmed on the resort’s sprawling property. Pulling up to the hotel, I understand why. Memories of black-and-white movies turn Technicolor; blue sea, golden sand, white walls, and iconic red roofs dominate sight lines while the grand pagodalike turret looks like a dream come to life. The whole place is something out of an American fairy tale. I’ve spent the past weeks performing in Cleveland and Milwaukee and, as I step out of the taxi now, I feel prepared for tonight’s TEDMED performance. Mike Bates—the Yamaha executive from my March performance in Cleveland—greets me at the door.

  “Welcome to paradise, kiddo,” he says, spreading his arms wide and smiling.

  Mike escorts me inside. The old, dark wood interior contrasts against the airy exteriors. As we walk through the spacious lobby, Mike chats absentmindedly—

  “I almost got myself in big trouble with this one,” he explains. “I called to tell them about you and how great you were gonna be, and Richard called me back and says, ‘F— you!’ about twenty times, telling me I’m not his producer and they aren’t going to have you. But, kiddo, you wowed ’em both when you guys talked. And you’ll wow them now!”

  The insight makes my stomach somersault as we make our way into the grand ballroom, where we meet Marc. He helps me onto the stage, and the room is buzzing with activity as nearly fifty members of the production team and hotel staff prepare for tomorrow’s big event. I wish Mike had kept me in the dark about Mr. Wurman’s response to me—now, I can’t help but feel I might be in hostile territory.

  I begin to rethink. I had wanted to start off a cappella—no accompaniment. But while the effect is much more dramatic, it’s also treacherous. If I start flat or sharp or go off-key during the cadenza, there’s no way to hide it. No. Whatever the risks, I assure myself, the impact will be worth it. As I step onto the stage, one of the sound engineers hands me a microphone.

  “Thank you, but I don’t generally use microphones,” I explain.

  I have a pet theory that the placement of microphones too close to the face is a major reason opera has fallen from popular favor. Close amplification of opera singers flattens sound waves that carry the classically trained voice great distances, but sound technicians with backgrounds in rock and pop tend to put a disproportionate value on volume. I want this audience to feel the sensation of a raw voice vibrating against them—just like I had when I saw Hansel and Gretel as a little girl. I know how transformative it can be.

  “Ha. You must not understand, lady,” the technician shoots back. “The sound, it all gets lost under this rotund
a—it’s a huge room. And it will be filled with nearly a thousand people!”

  “Would it be all right,” I ask, smiling as broadly as I can, “if I just tried it once without the mic first?”

  “We need to record . . .” he begins to protest, shaking his head.

  “Just once! I promise I’ll turn the mic on if you still think it’s necessary afterward.”

  He relents and I begin to sing. As my trill lands on the high B-flat, the entire room freezes. People stop speaking midsentence. I continue, and several take seats in the semiconstructed audience space as my voice coats the room’s every surface with sound. As I finish the aria, a white-haired man I don’t recognize approaches me.

  “Opera in blue jeans! Why hasn’t the Met thought of this?” He wipes a tear from his face as he walks toward the stage. “You’ll have to wear this same outfit tonight. People are going to be in a state of total disbelief. Disbelief!” he repeats, grasping my hands in his.

  Who is this man and why is he telling me what to wear?

  “This is Richard Saul Wurman,” introduces Marc, “founder of TED.” Ah. That answers that. I tense for a moment, remembering my earlier conversation with Mike. Briefly introducing myself and thanking them both, I’m grateful when our conversation is cut short—

  “I’ve gotta steal her away, guys,” interrupts the sound engineer. “She obviously doesn’t need the mic, but we still need to figure out how to record her.”

  We settle on a recording mic with dead speakers, and I head back to my room to prepare. The dress I had planned to wear is much more casual than my usual evening gowns, but blue jeans it ain’t. I decide it can’t hurt to take Richard’s advice. Mercina, who arrived with Mom during my rehearsal, is skeptical. Eminently presentable from the moment she could button her own buttons, we sometimes joke that she was adopted because she’s so different from the rest of us, her haphazard family. Mercina has a special gift for making things lovely—however hopeless the task seems at first. Immediately, she undertakes to make me shine.

  I smile as she pulls out the hotel ironing board to starch a plain white oxford shirt, then moves on to selecting shoes and jewelry. Grateful to have Mercina managing my image, I focus on my speech—repeating the talk to myself over and over again in the bathroom, figuring out my emphases and intonations.

  All of a sudden, it’s showtime.

  Glimpsing out from behind the curtain, I mostly notice the cameras. They’re everywhere: one on a giant arm that swings up, down, left, and right; a few on platforms in front of the stage; several wandering around backstage—they’re inescapable. I take a seat and continue to recite my words to myself. I’m not nervous. Of course there will be mistakes, but I’m as prepared as I’ll ever be. I stand and practice pacing back and forth on my five-inch heels, hoping I won’t fall during the talk.

  “Two minutes,” calls the stage director.

  Dearest Father, I am so grateful to be here. Please bless me to bring glory to thy name by singing exquisitely and performing in a way that touches the hearts and souls of those who are in attendance today.

  “Exactly one year ago, on October twenty-sixth,” I begin, “I woke up from a monthlong coma after undergoing a double-lung transplant.”

  Audible gasps are followed by applause. My cadenza is pitch perfect and the opening line hits the audience just how Marc had envisioned. Weaving my tale of medicine and music, I feel simultaneously terrified and invigorated. I can’t spot Mom in the crowd, so instead I look to the front row, where Sonia, a woman I chatted with in the washroom just before my performance, sits beaming. Every time I feel nervous or unsure, her smile encourages me through the next paragraph.

  Soon, I’m giving my final pronouncement—a critique of fear-based medicine. I conclude with a message to Dr. Barst, the New York doctor who forbade me from singing after my diagnosis. Death comes to everyone, I declare, and no one can know when. A diagnosis isn’t a death sentence, and doctors and patients should aim to live whatever life they have meaningfully—placing a higher value on happiness than on any pill.

  When I finish, the crowd jumps to its feet, remaining there until I begin to sing again. I feel like my voice is as resonant as it has ever been.

  After the performance, the group around me parts as Richard approaches. “I know TED. I founded TED. In all my years at TED, this was, without a doubt, the best opening I’ve ever had.” He’s glowing. “Tonight, you will come to my birthday party. It’s very exclusive, but you can bring your mother.”

  I guess that means he likes me now?

  That night, Mom and I walk into his birthday party. Elton John staples ring out from his fire-red piano. As I walk toward the table, I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Could you hold this for me,” requests a man in a dark suit.

  As I grasp onto the nearly empty wineglass, the bottom begins to feel hot. Then, with a twist of the goblet, the stem bends into a knot.

  “How did he do that?!” Mom exclaims beside me.

  The man smiles enigmatically and steps back into the crowd. Later, we learn he’s a famed mentalist. Continuing into the room, exotic foods, performers, and beautiful artwork fill every space. I stand still for a moment, taking in this fantasy-come-to-life.

  “Excuse me,” a man’s voice interrupts. “I have to introduce myself.”

  I do a double take. Strapping, Asian, and obviously older than me, the man is handsome, but perhaps not double-take handsome. No. I’m shocked because I’ve met this man before. During my coma.

  “My name is Lee.” I nearly stop him to explain I already know his name, but I realize that might come off a bit strong. Instead, I do my best to act normal. “I know you get this all of the time,” he continues, “but I find you extremely attractive.”

  I blush at his forwardness. “It’s nice to meet you too,” I stammer, nearly dumbstruck.

  My post-transplant coma was like a portal into an alternate universe. And in that universe, Lee and I had built a life together with my career as its centerpiece. As we speak now, it’s undeniable there’s something electric between us. Almost otherworldly. After a few minutes, I’m pulled away from our conversation to sing a birthday song. As Mom and I leave for the next party we’ve been invited to, Lee grabs my arm and places his card in my hand.

  “How can I find you?” he asks.

  I jot down my info for him, but really I’m relieved to go.

  As we make our way through the vast resort, we pass a few of the parties we’ve been invited to join. Popping our heads in to say hello, we make slow progress toward our final destination—a dinner hosted by a famous venture capitalist. We step inside and find our seats.

  “I thought I’d lost you!” shouts someone from across the room.

  It’s Lee.

  We’re seated at different tables, but a knot starts to form in my stomach.

  “Mom,” I whisper, “can I leave early?”

  “Why?” she demands. “We’re having such a lovely time!”

  “Yes,” I agree, “but I was asked to sing again tomorrow morning. I should get to bed.” It’s a thin excuse, but it will have to do.

  Lee catches my eye from across the dining room, but I avoid his gaze. It might only have been a dream, but I know where this leads, and it’s not to happiness. I walk back to my room as quickly as I can.

  “How’d it go, baby?” Yoni asks from the other end of the phone. “Martha Stewart, Steve Case, everyone was tweeting about the talk. Word on the street is you’re amazing.”

  “Seriously? That’s crazy!” I take a breath. “My night was—well—interesting . . . I met this guy from my dream.”

  Yoni pauses. “At least he’s not the guy of your dreams?”

  I laugh.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Lee something or other.”

  Yoni responds with his full name.

  “How did you know that?!” I ask.

  “I didn’t, but he’s been all over the financial papers in the past week.” Yon
i pauses again. “You know, he’s one of the wealthiest people in the world?”

  Silence. Then Yoni scoffs.

  “Why am I barely even surprised?” he says, sounding almost defeated.

  I gave up on really breaking up with Yoni after it landed me in the hospital. We make so little sense as a couple, I figure fate is the only thing strong enough to keep holding us together. I know Yoni doesn’t believe that. He’s always been worried that we’d date for years, abstinently working our way toward marriage when, just before we make it official, I’d leave him to be someone else’s trophy wife. Considering we regularly almost break up and it’s never about anyone else, I find this fear ridiculous. But for the first time, I understand his paranoia. There’s silence on the line for a few more moments.

  “I love you,” I say.

  We say good night.

  My performance the next morning is a big hit. In this little world of big people, I feel like a celebrity. This conference is like a fantasy grown-up version of summer camp, and like summer camp, it feels like it ends too soon. But I have to get back to work, with performances and auditions spread across the country.

  I’m not performing in the operas I’ve been trained to perform. Instead, I’m performing the opera of my own life, using the great arias to articulate what words alone could never say. It’s a different path than the one I’d imagined for myself, but, in the same breath, it suits me. I still hope to return to the opera stage one day. But, at this moment, I can’t imagine being happier.