by Karen Welch
Dearest, most impossible Emily,
I apologize if my letter upset you, but I do not apologize for anything I said, however outrageous you may have found my suggestions. If you think to so easily discourage me with your well-phrased arguments, you have underestimated me and my attraction to you.
Emily, I realize there are obstacles to overcome. The greatest of these is the lack of time at present, as I have far too many commitments scheduled over the next few months. But I'm quite confident that I would never grow bored with you, and only when time becomes available for us to spend together will I be able to convince you of that. Likewise, you should have the opportunity to become thoroughly bored with me if that should prove to be the case. In the meantime, please don't cut yourself off from me. If you're not comfortable as yet with the contemplation of a future together, we won't discuss it now. I'm willing to wait, but I will not pretend I don't have hope for such a future.
There is something you must understand concerning my memory of you. During the weeks and months following the accident, as I slowly began to heal, my mind was paralyzed with the fear that I would never regain the use of my arm. I was terrified that I would never play again, that not only was my career over but my life as well. I was certain that if I failed to recover, I would lose everything. I knew what was expected of me; and while everyone around me was willing to help, I feared that if I could not continue, they would eventually leave me. I know only too well that I could never survive on my own. I only have this one thing, my music, and without that I would be worth nothing, to myself or anyone else.
During those first weeks, you were always with me, Emily, in my dreams and even when I was awake. Your face seemed to drift at the edge of my consciousness, and your voice was always in my head. You sustained me, comforted me, encouraged me. I could not understand who you were other than some angel sent to keep me from falling into total despair. I would fall asleep (and you must understand I slept much of each day) hoping you would be there. I was so desperately in need of your sweet consolation. As I began to get stronger, you came less and less; and I was bereft, powerless to summon you and still so in need of your comfort.
Eventually, I had to accept that I had lost you entirely. Can you imagine what unspeakable joy I felt when you stood before me, when I could in reality look into your eyes and hear your voice? And now by some greater miracle I was at long last able to touch you? If I had known how to pray for such a thing, my prayer would have been answered at that moment.
Emily, I promise I would never force myself on you. But when you tell me you might wish for things to be different, that you would not send me away without hope, I know there is every chance we will overcome these differences and find that common ground you say does not exist. In fact, I believe if we care enough, we will create such a place for ourselves. You are a person of faith. You say you believe in a plan for our lives, that God himself has acted in both our lives already. If you truly believe that, how can you cut him out of the future we might have together? Isn't it possible for him to work even greater miracles if that is part of his plan? I don't pretend to know much of such things, but I am willing to give him a chance. He has allowed me to find you again; is that not miraculous? Already, I am a better man for knowing you. After hearing what you told me of that day, I am convinced there was more than just a frightened girl and a half-dead boy involved in changing both our lives forever. I, for one, am eager to see what he might have in store for us, even if you choose to look away.
Emily, I will see you, as soon as I possibly can. In the meantime, I choose to continue to pour my heart into these letters you so brilliantly conceived. Please write back to me, just to let me know you have not completely given up. Have faith in yourself and in me. We can only try our best; and if we fail, wewill find a way to accept that and move on. If we hesitate now, we will never know what might have been.
All my best,
Your devoted Stani
Emily let the tears fall, as she read his description of the weeks following the accident. And she was stung by the truth of his challenge. She did believe in a divine plan for her life. How arrogant of her to see it only in her own narrow terms. Why did he have the power to move her when they should still be virtual strangers? But his closing words, so closely echoing her father's, at last broke her resolve. Yes, if they hesitated, they would fail; and if they took the risk, on faith, perhaps there was the slimmest chance they might find a place to share. She was still confused, skeptical, but she knew she would not try to turn him away again.
Dear Stani,
I’ll be brief, as I’m preparing to leave home for an extended case. Please accept my apology for trying to discourage you. I thought I was doing what would in the long run be best for us. I see now that I am not so wise after all. You have shown me clearly that I was arrogant and short-sighted. I will write more once I am settled. In the meantime, I am committed to keeping faith and will no longer hesitate to believe in what might come to us in time.
Most humbly yours,
Emily
When her note arrived, Stani was packing to leave New York. He had slept little the past few nights, and his nerves were jangled with anxiety and fatigue. He was still reeling from an argument with Milo, an argument he had prepared for and in fact felt he’d won. Nonetheless, any conflict left him doubting himself, questioning his own judgment. His relief at her response was almost physical. He had risked everything in that last letter, and now he knew he would have a chance with her after all. As he and John set off from the city, he commented with a sigh that life was full of unexpected opportunities if one knew where to look.
“Like perhaps looking to the hills, from whence comes help, or some such thing? How is your friend?”
“She's willing to be my friend, John, my very good friend. She won’t desert me after all. I have to find some way to get back there, soon.” He stared out the window at the horizon, as if hoping to see the answer there. “These weeks ahead, this tour and what we're doing, are you ready for the changes?”
“Of course. How did you do with Milo? And you should know I could hear at least the tone of the conversation. From the sound of things, you held your own.”
“I did, though not without cost. But then I heard from Emily, and it didn't matter so much. She has this power to lift me up, make me better. I can't explain it, but she opens my eyes to things I never knew were there. She makes me want to deserve her, live up to her. I was so afraid she was going to turn away from me, but something I said seems to have changed her mind. I can't lose her again. I won't. Help me, will you? Keep me together, until I can get back there to her.”
“I'll do my best, lad. Sounds to me like she's already doing a pretty good job. Here you are, defying Milo and going on with what you want. She's made you stronger, Stani. That's what loving a woman will do for a man. Not that I'm saying you're in love with her.”
“Say it, John. If it's possible for such a poor excuse for a man to fall in love, I have. Now I just have to figure out what to do about it.”
Chapter Thirty-five
Dear Stani,
I am convinced that even if I wanted to (which I confess I do not) I wouldn’t be able to keep you out of my thoughts. Wherever I go now, it seems you are there.
As I think I told you, my patient, Mae, is a lifelong lover of classical music. She has brought a large part of her collection to Crestview and we listen to music at least once every day. This morning she asked me to play the Bruch Violin Concerto #1. Of course, the artist was. . .you guessed it! But that was the least of it. It turns out the record was sent to her by a friend, Peg Shannon, who apparently is a very close friend of yours as well. Mae told me how her friend Peg had taken you on as a “cause,” raising the money for your first tour, and how she had nursed you after the accident. I listened to all of this through the most awful pounding in my ears, hoping I wasn't turning every imaginable shade of red.
Mae, it turns out, had even seen you perfor
m when you were still just a teenager. She describes you as a remarkable talent, a charismatic performer, and very popular with the ladies. As she was telling me this, I was gawking at your photograph on the record jacket. My, but—as Mae pointed out—you are a nice looking young man! I can see why the ladies, of any age, might find you appealing. Mae asked me, in the midst of my gawking, if I was familiar with you, popular as you are, and I managed to mumble something to the effect that yes, I thought I had heard of you.
Imagine how I felt as your music played, and she told me these things, as if I knew nothing about you. Of course, the story of Peg Shannon was new to me. Is she the friend you mentioned who saved you from being “an even greater disaster?”
Things here are going well although I’m still a little bit homesick. Crestview is an amazing place, more like a resort than a hospital. Quite a few celebrities come here for “treatment of undisclosed illnesses,” things like detox and plastic surgery. As a private nurse, I have my own little apartment, get my meals from the gourmet kitchen, and take my leisure in the indoor pool or on the extensive, beautifully manicured grounds. It hardly seems fair that they also pay me handsomely to suffer all this luxury. Not that I don't work, I do. Ten-hour shifts that, depending on the patient, could be an eternity. But Mae is a joy. I spend a good part of each day reading to her, and of course listening to music. She loves to reminisce about the places she's visited (all over the world) and the amazing life she's been privileged to lead. Unfortunately, she’s very ill and will never go home again. But she seems content with her situation, and it’s an honor for me to be here with her.
You must be traveling all over the country. Your letters have each been postmarked from different cities. How long will you be on tour this time?
I think a great deal about what you said about a future together. It seems strange to consider such a thing when we don't even know when we'll see each other again. I like to think of myself as a patient person; but when it comes to you, I seem to be completely lacking in patience. I want to sit and talk with you, not wait for a letter to come in the mail. (Not that I have to wait all that long. You’re a wonderfully prolific pen pal!)
This coming weekend, I'm off duty. I'll be so glad to go home, even for a short time. I always look forward to waking in my own bed and watching the sunrise. The rhythm of life there is so calming. (Believe it or not, I can be a bit mercurial at times myself.) I love the profound quiet and the wide-openness, which I think must be totally foreign to a city dweller like yourself.
Will there ever be a time when I can introduce you to the things I love about my life there? Simple things like the ever-shifting sunlight and the sky at night, the smell of coming rain, the color of the soil just after it's been plowed. There is a time of day, right after sunset, when everything seems to glow, as if holding on to the light for just a few moments more. Then the stars begin to show themselves, one by one. Gradually, the night creatures begin to sing, and the darkness descends, until everything is in shadow. It is such a tranquil time, when I feel I must stop, just breathe and listen, and be very still. I try to imagine you with me in those moments. I believe two people could be truly united in that kind of peace. I remember my father and mother, sitting together on the porch in the twilight, not saying a word but somehow in communion with one another. After my mother was gone, my father would sit in that same spot, and I think he could feel her there with him. It seemed to give him great comfort.
Stani, why do you inspire me to write such things? I'm afraid none of what I've said will make any sense to you. But if we are to take risks, I will risk sharing these thoughts with you.
Wherever you are, take care of yourself.
Impatiently yours,
Emily
Dearest impatient, inspired Emily,
You have shaken me to the core. That you would imagine us together in such a beautiful moment, that you wish for a time to share these treasures with me, causes me to tremble with the most fearful hope. Emily, does this mean that you begin to picture us together as I do? Perhaps it is not I who inspires you, but rather your feelings for me? Think on this, you have gone from the certainty of our having no future whatsoever to the desire to share the most sacred moments of your day with me. What can that mean? Can you put a name to that desire? I will refrain from naming it myself until you can do so.
As to the coincidence of your patient and her friendship with Peg, what can I say except that it is indeed a small world? Peg has a reputation for knowing all the right people. She raises money for all sorts of charities, as well as for deserving young artists and musicians. She came on board at just the right time to turn me from a total misfit into whatever I am perceived to be today, be that remarkable or charismatic or whatever other adjectives the critics find to use. What you see today, from my clothes to my hair, even the way I walk, is in some way due to Peg's influence. She's a magician as well as a lovely woman, and she has indeed given me a great deal of her time and attention, for which I will be eternally grateful.
How do you feel about nursing patients who will, as you say, never go home? I would think it depressing, but I don't hear that in your letter. How can you find joy in forming a relationship with a woman whose life is about to end? I don't doubt that you do; I just want to understand the means by which you avoid the obvious sadness in such a brief friendship.
You can't know how thrilled I am to hear that you’re impatient. I am trying to arrange some time, and I promise I'll let you know as soon as I can do so. In the meantime, know that I spend a great deal of time, as I travel around in cars from place to place, as I sit in hotel rooms for hours on end, just imagining you with me. I try to picture your face in the darkness of the audience, wish for you to be waiting for me as I leave the stage, long to hear you say my name as I enter an empty room. I realize these places are nothing compared to the beauty you describe, but they are where I am; and I would have you with me if only to bring some of that beauty into my world of cars and hotels and concert halls.
I find myself envious of your sense of belonging to one place, your intimacy with your home. You asked me once where I lived and I don't think I gave you an answer. The truth is I don't really live anywhere. I still have a room in the apartment I shared with Milo and Jana in New York. It's where I get my mail and the address I give to shopkeepers and tailors when there are things to be delivered. Since so much of the time I'm traveling, there seems little need for more than that. But now that I've seen a real home, I find myself longing for such a place. I've always told myself that I am most at home when I'm performing. If I have anything to compare to what you describe, it is the place I sometimes go when I am playing my best, when everything has come together, the energy of the orchestra and the focus of the audience, and there is only the music, everywhere at once. That has been what I called home for a very long time, what I feared I might have lost after the accident. But home is a place to be shared, is it not? A place to turn for comfort and security? I don't know how to go about finding such a place for myself, but I'm determined to begin searching.
Please continue to write often. My mail is sent by courier to wherever I'm headed next. The first thing I look for when I arrive is your letter.
All my best,
Stani
Dear Stani,
I can't imagine what sort of life you're having, traveling so much. Are you getting enough rest and eating regularly? How can you sleep, every night in a different bed? I find I have trouble here at Crestview, and my apartment is very cozy; it just isn't home.
You ask about nursing terminal patients. I have seen death now enough to know that it is a part of living. My job is to provide care and comfort to my patients, no matter the prognosis. My mother died at home after a long illness, and the nurses who came to care for her became like members of our family. I think I learned from them that in some cases death is the only healing to be hoped for.
There is so much to learn from people, at any time in their lives, but it s
eems at the end they have a special kind of wisdom to share. Being with Mae, I have learned that no matter how privileged a life there is still sorrow and loss, in her case, the loss of a child. Her only son was killed in 1944, his plane shot down over Germany, yet she has talked about him as though he were still alive. She has dealt with his loss by remembering him in life rather than dwelling on the tragedy of his death. She told me today that she wanted to come to the mountains to die because she felt closer to him here. As a boy, he had especially loved spending time at the family cabin in the Blue Ridge; and I believe she can still sense him here.
She is very near the end I think, and seems to be at peace. She said she wanted to fill her ears with the music and words she had loved in life, to take the sounds with her to the other side. I find that a beautiful expectation, don't you? The idea that the things we love most will be with us gives a greater definition to the concept of Heaven. At any rate, she's found real comfort in her books and music, and I’ve shared in that experience. This case has been one of the most rewarding of my career so far. I've been blessed by my time here and yes, I will feel the loss when she passes.
You should know that I cried when I read your description of the place you call home. I think what you experience must be intensely spiritual, but at the same time it sounds transient and lonely. How can you know when you'll be there again if it depends on all those things, the orchestra and the audience? My home is so solid and constant, always the same earth and walls. It's been the same all my life. Like an old friend, it waits for me to return and welcomes me when I've been away. I hope you will eventually find that kind of place, that your search will be successful.