The Encore

by Charity Tillemann-Dick

  “Mom wants to,” he insists. “It will be beautiful. You, your family—you won’t have to do a thing and the food will be great!” he assures me with all of the enthusiasm of an eight-year-old boy persuading his parents to take in a stray dog.

  Reluctantly, I agree to his plan. I know this is part of why I love him so much—his enthusiasm. His positivity. His willingness to let me be me. Yoni doesn’t always understand what I do, but he understands why I do it. It’s the same “why” that makes me want to spend my life with him. It defies logic and explanation. It’s love. Our wedding day, the earthly trappings of our union, will doubtless leave a lot to be desired. But our relationship is already so much more than seating charts and flower arrangements. In a few weeks’ time, Yoni and I will be sealed together for time and all eternity. As I inch my way closer to mortality’s edge, as my sphere of concern necessarily narrows, I know more than ever that nothing else really matters.

  Boarding a dual propeller plane in Boston, the pilot tucks my suitcase of medicine in the rear cabin. Yoni and I are on our way to a private party with Anita and Toby Cosgrove, the CEO of the Cleveland Clinic, on Nantucket Island. The ocean glitters below like the sequin dress I’ve brought for my performance this evening. With Yoni’s arm around me and a small condenser wheezing oxygen into my nose, I feel immeasurably safer than I did flying to Denver a few weeks before. We land and debark. An airline employee heads into the plane to unload the few pieces of luggage in the cabin, but when he finishes, a few of us remain luggage-less.

  “If your luggage isn’t here already, it will be waiting inside,” calls the young man.

  “But we need her bag,” Yoni insists nervously. “There’s important medication in there.”

  “It’ll be inside,” the young man repeats nonchalantly.

  “It was in the cabin,” reiterates Yoni, more adamantly. “I would rather get it now.”

  “Inside, sir,” the kid responds with a New England chill.

  “I don’t think you understand—she’ll die without that medication—”

  “Honey,” I interrupt as sweetly as I can, “I don’t think he’d lie to us. Let’s pick it up inside.”

  Yoni looks at me and then the young man nervously. “It better be in there,” he mutters as I take his arm.

  I’m surprised by his curt behavior. As long as wedding planning isn’t involved, Yoni is usually the picture of a nice guy. But you couldn’t tell it on that tarmac.

  We get inside and, within minutes, all of the other passengers have their bags. Still, my suitcase remains missing. Yoni approaches the young woman manning the door to the runway and explains the situation. She ignores him.

  “Excuse me,” he says, slightly raising his voice, “I have to get to that plane before it takes off. Her medication was left in the cabin. She’ll die without it.”

  “OK, sir. Just wait a minute,” she replies languidly.

  “Can’t I just go back out there? I can see the plane—it’s 100 feet away . . .”

  “No,” she drawls. “Just go over there and wait.”

  Yoni comes back over to me, sitting on the edge of the baggage carousel as my cannula wheezes into my nose. We watch as the woman does nothing. Actually, nothing. She’s not helping other passengers. She’s not using the phone. She’s not even fidgeting. She leans, immobile, on her podium. Minutes tick by. Finally, Yoni goes back over.

  “I’ve been waiting for nearly fifteen minutes. I spoke to the pilot. I know he’s headed back to Boston today. She will die without that medication!” he’s almost shouting now.

  “Yeah,” the clerk replies, staring at him blankly. “Well, you’re going to have to wait.”

  “I am not going to let her die because you won’t pick up the phone!” he yells.

  Rolling her eyes, she picks up the receiver. “I’m picking up the phone. Happy?”

  “Now please dial the captain or security or whoever you need to call,” he directs.

  Another passenger comes up to me. “Excuse me, but you really need to learn how to control him. This is just uncomfortable for everyone here.”

  I try to explain—“I’m sorry, but I really will die if I don’t get those medications.”

  “Look. You’re not in New York anymore.” As she says this she casts side eyes at Yoni over by the console. “People come here to go on vacation. Not to deal with your problems.” She walks away before I can reply.

  Thirty more minutes pass. Yoni’s righteous indignation would make Mom proud, but it doesn’t seem to be making much progress in getting my meds back. The girl appears to be on hold. In such a tiny airport, certainly there’s more someone could be doing to help?

  Suddenly, our plane’s propellers begin to spin. “THAT PLANE IS LEAVING,” Yoni screams. “She is not dying because of your incompetence!”

  Shocked into actual action, the girl flashes her pass in front of a scanner and walks onto the tarmac, away from the now-departing plane. Unbeknownst to her, Yoni slides through the door behind her and runs toward the plane waving his arms—

  “STOP!! I NEED THAT MEDICINE!! DO NOT TAKE OFF!!” he screams over and over again. It’s exactly what Mom would have done in this situation.

  Within seconds the entire Nantucket Airport police force (all three of them) is barreling toward Yoni. Two of them tackle him while the third cuffs his arms behind his back. As they drag him off of the tarmac, he never stops yelling. “STOP THAT PLANE! She’ll die without her medicine.”

  Nantucket hasn’t seen this much action since Hurricane Earl last year. Everyone at the baggage claim freezes as the drama unfolds. On one hand, I’m mortified. On the other, this is as sweet and pure a token of love as I ever could receive from my fastidiously rule-respecting companion. The only problem is now I don’t know where my meds or Yoni went.

  Ever chivalrous, Yoni is holding everything of mine. I have no money, no wallet, no medications, no itinerary, and no phone. I’ve been waiting nearly an hour, and I start to worry about getting to my performance. If they return my purse, I’ll happily post bail for my jailbird. After nearly two hours, a large policeman approaches me.

  “Are you here with Mr. Doron?” he demands.

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “I’ve gotta run a background check—you know, make sure he’s not on any terrorist watch lists—but we’re probably gonna let him go.” I breathe a half sigh of relief, though I still don’t know what’s happened to my medication. The officer continues, “You know, he can’t pull stuff like that in airports. People are afraid enough of flying. But, boy, that kid really loves you.”

  I smile gratefully. I’m about to ask about my meds when the officer adds—

  “Oh. And the plane is turning around now. You’ll get your medicine.”

  With that he walks through a thick white door. Within the hour, Yoni is out of the holding cell and the plane has returned with my suitcase. We’ll even make my performance in time.

  It’s a great success. I’m glad for the opportunity to again thank the institution that saved my life nearly two years ago. After his earlier display of devotion on the tarmac, contrasted against his boorish wedding planning, I wonder if the clinic has saved my relationship with Yoni too.

  Details about the Lincoln Center performance have been intermittent and a little sketchy, but as the weeks roll by, more information presents itself. It’s a artistic gala, with a guest list of heads of state, CEOs, and artistic leaders. Among others, I’ll be headlining with Jessye Norman, Joshua Bell, Steve Martin, Morgan Freeman, and Patti LaBelle. It’s beyond anything I could have hoped to imagine.

  But back in Washington, my condition continues to deteriorate. Every day, it’s harder to breathe. Yoni has a new job at a well-known Washington think tank, but his hours are more befitting an investment bank than an NGO. Mercina and Glorianna have started their first semester after transferring to Yale, and Mom and Zen have temporarily relocated to DC to be with me.

  By the second week of September, I c
an do little more than sit in a corner and try to breathe. Still, inexplicably, I can sing. Once a day. I pull myself up to full stature, belt out the aria from La Traviata I’m slated to perform at Lincoln Center, then crumple back onto the couch as soon as I hit the final, resounding high note. I know there’s no way I can perform like this.

  I call Dr. Budev to explain my situation. I’ve already been on the transplant list for two months, and she explains that it’s unlikely she can help. But she promises to try and do something if I come to Cleveland.

  The next morning, Zenith carries me through the cold rain and places me in the backseat of my car with an oxygen condenser. My debut is in a week and my wedding is days after that. Mom carries my wedding dress to the car—just in case we don’t get back to Washington beforehand. As Mom drives the seven hours to Cleveland, I’m sure I won’t leave again until I receive a match or die waiting.

  As dusk turns to dark, I decide to be at peace with having come so close to making my childhood dream come true. We arrive in Cleveland around midnight and I’m immediately given a complex cocktail of steroids, antibiotics, and only God and my medical personnel know what else.

  In the morning, I awake to an unanticipated and very welcome visitor: my appetite. Within the next forty-eight hours, something I never expected happens: I get better. I’m still far from well, but by the weekend my doctors are discussing my release. I figure, if there’s ever going to be a moment to broach my upcoming performances, this is it. After careful consideration, my doctors decide they’ll try to get me out in time.

  An intravenous PICC line is inserted into my left bicep and a nurse shows Zenith how to administer my complicated concoction of meds every two hours. We’re released from the hospital at 6:00 p.m.—giving Mom enough time to drive us to Philadelphia overnight for a conference opening before heading to New York for my Lincoln Center dress rehearsal.

  Violent sheets of rain fall down onto the windshield, battering what little traffic there is to travel at sluggish speeds. It’s amazing we’re moving at all, but at thirty miles per hour, we won’t reach Philadelphia until morning. As we inch along the dark, flooded highway, my mother and I alternate occasional bursts of uncomfortable laughter.

  “How did they let us leave the hospital?!” she scoffs, shaking her head.

  “Mom,” I reply, “I think I need to be institutionalized—I belong in an insane asylum. Honestly, though, how am I doing this to myself—to you?!”

  Then the manic laughter starts again before we refocus on the road and Laura Hillenbrand’s Unbreakable blaring over the car speakers.

  We pull into the parking lot of an empty McDonald’s and rouse Zenith. He sterilizes the mouth of the tubing and flushes my line. Then he attaches a bottle-shaped container of steroids to the PICC and we roll slowly back onto the highway.

  Dawn approaches as Philadelphia’s skyline spreads out before us. We pull under the portico of Philadelphia’s Grand Hyatt Hotel at 4:30 in the morning. A bellman waits with a wheelchair and Zenith helps me out of the car and rolls me into the ornate lobby.

  At 7:00 a.m., the phone rings. I’m set to go on at 9:00 a.m. Still exhausted from the long drive, Mom gets up to iron my salmon suit as I try to nurse my parched vocal cords with lemons, honey, and herbal tea. I groggily put on makeup and pull back my hair into a barely presentable bun. At 8:30, my minder arrives to escort the three of us to the ballroom. I’m sucking down oxygen until the last possible moment, removing my cannulation only as I step onstage. I stand to sing my aria, then sit to share my story of triumph over death and illness. When I finish, Zenith, Mom, and I return to the hotel room and collapse in sleep. Three hours later, the hotel phone rings again.

  “Hello,” I answer, barely conscious.

  “Chary, where are you?!” shouts Yoni on the other end.

  “Asleep. Why?”

  “Where are you asleep?” he asks more tentatively.

  “My hotel room.”

  “Your hotel room in New York?” he asks.

  “No,” I say, perking up slightly. “Should I be?”

  “Your dress rehearsal is at 5:00 p.m.—that’s two hours from now!” he’s yelling again.

  Only half awake, Zenith, Mom, and I trundle back into the car and weave our way through traffic. Following my phone’s GPS, we drive down frontage roads, underneath highways and on side roads, through subdevelopments and residential neighborhoods. The clock is ticking ever closer to five. Occasionally, we’ll pass underneath the highway where stationary cars blare horns and brake lights.

  “I don’t know how we’re going to do this,” I admit to Mom. Picking up my phone, I call the stage manager at Lincoln Center. “I am so sorry,” I say. “We’re lost somewhere in New Jersey. I don’t think we’ll make it.”

  Just then, the GPS directs us back onto an empty highway. We blaze through the Lincoln Tunnel and, almost before I realize it, we’re in the city.

  “We might get there,” I tell the stage manager, calling again. “But is there any way we could get a wheelchair downstairs?”

  Mom rounds the corner at West 65th Street and we pull up to the stage door just after 5:00 p.m. Zenith runs in, grabs the wheelchair, and I carefully lower myself in, clutching my oxygen condenser. “Go! Go! Straight, to the right and in through the big white doors,” directs the stage manager.

  Zenith zooms down the vast corridors and a stagehand beckons us through a set of huge doors. We head into darkness, navigating a mass of cords and electrical wiring until we see the klieg lights. Just then, the orchestra begins to play the famous introduction for Violetta’s aria and Zenith wheels me onto the stage.

  White lights glare and, after a moment, I see them reflect off two pairs of glasses in the house.

  It’s not too late. I’m here. I’m at Lincoln Center.

  Sempre libera. “Always free.” The irony is palpable. As I extricate myself from the wheelchair, I become tangled in my oxygen tubing. Finally, I stand, tethered to a breathing machine and attached to intravenous medications. My oxygen condenser hisses to my introduction like an offbeat metronome. But as I start to sing, my voice bounces off the pulsing strings behind me. As the sound edges heavenward, I become more open—more free.

  About halfway through the first verse, the oxygen falls off my face. But I continue to sing, and it’s easier than before. Pulling air into my lungs, I engage every muscle in my body. As I let the air out, half of those muscles relax while the other half keep my rib cage and pelvic floor expanded. Being so sick, I pull out every technique I’ve learned over the past decade. Each is vital. I finish and the hall rings out with hollow applause from the stage manager, the music director, the conductor, and the orchestra. We run the aria once more and I feel more alive than I have in months.

  Afterward, Zen wheels me to my dressing room. There are famous actors, singers, dancers, musicians, and opera stars wherever I look. It feels like a joyous climax before the heroine’s tragic death. My goal is to outsmart the tragedy. Finally finished for the day, we head back to check into our hotel room.

  The next morning, I realize that the only gown I have with me is my wedding dress. I’m just grateful Mom thought to pack it! We arrive at the theater and the costume director works up a sleeve out of panty hose to secure the tubing trailing from my upper arm. As the makeup artists do their magic, he sews a creamy white pashmina to the shoulder of my wedding dress.

  The show’s director has gotten me a handful of obstructed-view seats, and they’re all filled. Mercina and Glorianna have taken the train down from New Haven. Tomicah arrives after a meeting at the UN. Levi and Liberty are in town for work. Then, of course, I have my indefatigable companions, Zenith and Mom. Altogether, six of my siblings are here with me, and JaLynn Prince has come as Mom’s date. Yoni’s job has once again kept him from being with me, but I can’t even find the time to be sad about it.

  My hair is piled high atop my head and doused with spray. I’m ready. Glorianna and Zen, who have stayed in the dres
sing room, help me into my wheelchair and we make our way backstage. As I wait in the wings, Joshua Bell plays Massenet’s achingly beautiful “Méditation” from Thaïs. Dancers’ footsteps sparkle across the stage like the thousand incandescent lightbulbs which make up the set. I focus on breathing deep into my lungs.

  The violin and the dancers skip their way up a delicate cadenza until the sighing, longing upward tenutos beg the bow to hold each note for just a moment longer before tumbling back down the scale. A week ago, this was an impossible moment. And I know I didn’t get here alone. I think about my father and my grandfather. About my incredible mother. My brothers and sisters. I think of all they’ve sacrificed to help me reach this moment. I think about my friends and teachers scattered across the globe, and I think about Yoni too. I think of my doctors and my nurses, about the IV hanging out of my arm and the young woman whose death brought me back to life. I think of the lungs I’m rejecting. I think of the breath they’ve given me. I am about to make my Lincoln Center debut. It’s a miracle. But it’s not just one. A thousand and one miracles have paved this most unlikely of paths. As the violin jumps higher and higher, it resolves downward into exquisite melancholy. It’s wondrous to have a dream; to work for it; to fight for it. Catching it—realizing it—can be a treacherous task, often mired in disappointment. The last, sustained note sounds like a beautiful, distant whisper and I realize that for these few minutes, this world has been as perfect as I could have hoped for. This is my dream and I have nothing but peace.

  The dancers swoosh past me and I hear the orchestra begin to play. I take off my oxygen, stand up from my wheelchair, and walk onto the stage.

  This is no dream. This is real. I begin to sing. There is nothing but the darkness, the music, breath, and air. I know I’m dying, but I’ve never felt so alive.