The Encore Read online

  Walking down the hall, I hear Kimber call out, “Again! But this time, more jazz hands!” This year, we’ve decided to rewrite Fiddler on the Roof; seated behind an electric keyboard, my sister-in-law, Sarah (wed to Tomicah earlier this year), plunks out the introduction to “Tradition” as Levi begins his monologue. He explains our loving-if-complicated family dynamic in my grandfather’s hallmark Hungarian accent, confidently lecturing with equal parts insight, irreverence, and affection. It’s a perfect “Levi” performance. In fact, Fiddler captures the quintessence of our entire family: discovering traditions, breaking traditions, adopting traditions, and creating our own. This tradition—singing and performing together—is one of my very favorites. Slowly, we make our way through the condensed show, bickering our way toward excellence. After an hour, we’re dismissed until curtain.

  In the ballroom, Tomicah, Kimber, Levi, Corban, Liberty, and I jostle to an opening at the front of the stage. The band seems to play more furiously as we dance, spinning and clapping in time to the fiddle and mandolin. Suddenly, the music becomes muffled and darkness seeps into my peripheral vision. It’s happening again. I stagger toward a chair as the room fades to black.

  I didn’t know it at the time, but 1988 was a big year for me. It all started a few months after my fifth birthday. Dulcia and her best friend, a singer-slash-beauty queen, invited me to a local production of Humperdinck’s opera, Hansel and Gretel. I had always aspired to be something of an artist, and Mom, eight months pregnant at the time, was eager to separate me from my current medium of choice: permanent marker on the dining room wall. Dressed in my best pink crepe, we headed toward the theater as the setting sun splashed gaudy saturations across the snow-capped Rockies behind us. After I’d settled into my seat, Dulcia passed me a small piece of chocolate. It melted slightly onto my fingers as I popped it into my mouth.

  I loved to sing—children’s songs, the hymns I learn at church, the occasional Broadway standard—but opera was an entirely different affair. Mom liked to tune into the weekend broadcasts of the Metropolitan Opera, and I found them at once very loud and very boring. Now, sitting in the dark theater, I watched as stagehands silently readied the set. Shadowy trees and candy houses twinkled dimly from the dark stage. Then the lights rose and performers plunged in from stage left, bringing the giant coloring book set to life. The orchestra and opera flooded my ears, but this time I was edified instead of annoyed.

  I sat, snug and sticky in the deep red velvet chair, as rich voices washed over me. I was transfixed by a narrative that only melody could tell. I heard the difference between a dance and a lullaby, dreamy music, sad music, exciting music, and scary music. These tunes easily communicated stories lost to me amid the opera’s German lyrics. I felt the weight of responsibility that Hansel and Gretel felt for each other through the musical lines that bound them together; their joy and their terror. Slowly, it dawned on me that this music was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. I was only five, but I was a woman transformed. As I listened to Gretel’s lilting high notes, I longed to be in her place, singing center stage. An unlikely dream, but, somewhere far beneath my sticky cheeks, I knew I was meant to be a great opera singer.

  Within a few weeks of this epiphany, my family welcomed a new baby boy into our home. Nineteen inches long, eight pounds even, ten fingers and ten toes, Lincoln Justice was perfect. He was the first baby to whom I could be a proper big sister. Corban and Liberty were nearly as big as I was, but I could hold Lincoln all by myself. I’d watch over him kicking in his basket while Mom made dinner and the big kids did schoolwork.

  Weeks after Lincoln’s birth, I went to visit my grandparents in Washington, DC, for the first time. From the moment I arrived, I was smothered in love and undivided attention. Trips to the museum, introductions to staff members, and long-distance calls home made me feel particularly important. Each night at bedtime, my grandmother would kneel and pray with me.

  One night, after drifting off to sleep, visions of a heavenly place filled my head. Shell-colored light draped the space in a luminous glow, softening corners and horizons into a single gracious expanse. I sat in an enormous circle with all the world’s children, including my brothers and sisters. We were singing and playing a game. A familiar man appeared. Tall in white robes, he had a beard and a kind face. My eyes followed him as he walked toward my baby brother and touched his head. Lincoln had won the game! What an accomplishment—and Lincoln, just a baby! I glanced eagerly toward my siblings and they looked as happy as I felt. We were all grateful to be related to such a special little boy. As the man led Lincoln away to receive his prize, I beamed after him. I had no doubts that Lincoln was going exactly where he belonged.

  When morning came, I shared the dream with Mimo (dream interpretation is a special passion of hers). Yellow pad of paper in hand, my grandmother scrawled feverishly, but offered me no elucidation. The next day, we left for Denver. But I was supposed to stay for a whole week longer! Had I done something wrong? I protested, but Mimo was adamant: we were leaving.

  When we finally settled onto the plane, Mimo took my pudgy little hands in hers.

  “Charity, we are going back to Denver because of your baby brother,” she said, her dulcet Hungarian accent interrupted by nervous breaths. “He’s gone back to heaven.”

  I cocked my head. “Like in my dream?” I asked, feeling simultaneously wise and confused.

  Tears began to stream down her face. “Yes, Charity. Lincoln is in heaven.”

  Lincoln’s enviable position did not match Mimo’s sadness. Heaven was better than the best thing in the world! “Why are you crying? Heaven is a wonderful place!” I insisted, trying to comfort her.

  “It is a wonderful place,” she continued, mascara streaking her cheeks. “But Lincoln is there because he died.”

  A shock coursed down my spine. Lincoln died? How could he have died? That was something done by plants and ants and pet fish. Not baby brothers. But, looking into Mimo’s grief-shot eyes, I knew she was telling the truth. I let out a piercing scream and crumpled into a pile, snot and tears raining everywhere. Maybe if I was loud enough, God would hear me. He could fix this terrible mistake. He would bring Lincoln back and we could all be together in our beautiful big circle again! But somehow, I knew He wouldn’t do that.

  Two nights before, Dad had put the baby to sleep in his crib. When he went in to check on him an hour later, Lincoln was already gone. Sudden infant death syndrome, or SIDS, was known for many years as crib death. Even today, its exact causes remain unclear. What was clear after Lincoln’s passing was that our lives had changed. He had made death personal. My siblings and I had witnessed our healthy, happy baby brother—a little boy with our same gifts, our same potential, even our same cleft chin—snuffed out in a moment. I felt real responsibility for the first time, driven to somehow compensate for the loss of such faultless humanity.

  This turmoil established the bedrock upon which I would build my personal faith. Even when five years old, in the midst of one of the most painful experiences of my life, I felt certain of one thing: I was still Lincoln’s big sister. As devastating as his unexpected absence was, I knew it was only temporary. Eventually, I would again need to watch over him kicking his fat little legs in his basket. Perhaps never in this life, but rather in one to come. This central concept of eternal families braided with my own belief that, if I worked to realize the breadth of my potential, I would be worthy to rejoin not only the infinite expanse of humanity, but also my grandparents, my parents, my siblings, and, most of all, my perfect baby brother.

  Ten years later, I look in the bathroom mirror, smile, and pinch my cheeks a few times for color. It’s January 1998, and today is my first day of college. I had to beg my parents to let me enroll, even though it’s become a bit of a family tradition by now. Back in 1993, Mom was beginning to get nervous that the whole homeschooling thing had been a big mistake. But after Tomicah, Kimber, and Levi were all accepted to college and earning perfect gr
ades in their early teens, she stopped worrying. She and Dad say I shouldn’t rush so much—they encourage me to enjoy my freedom while I have it—but I’m adamant. I want to start, and I want to start now. Alone, I walk the thirteen blocks from our house to the Registrar’s Office at Regis University to sign up for classes. The semester begins a few months after my fourteenth birthday.

  I may be the youngest to start school in my family, but I’m also the most eager. Money is tight, so every day I wake up at 5:00 a.m. to prep bread dough before my early-morning scripture study class. When I get home, I put it in to bake for family breakfast while I get ready for school. Every day, rain, shine, or snow, I arrive to class in formal business attire—blazers, khakis, sensible pumps. I carry my books in one of Dad’s old briefcases.

  Regis is the most difficult thing I’ve ever done, but I excel. I work hard, getting perfect grades and building strong relationships with fellow students, my professors, and advisers, racking up a record of awards and scholarships along the way. After my sophomore year, I decide I want to transfer to Yale University—just like Tomicah, Kimber, and Levi before me. One would think that the cost of attending a school like Yale would be prohibitive for a family like mine. But need-blind admissions and financial aid offices are a wonderful thing when matched with academic achievement and a family of eleven kids living on a college administrator’s salary. I go out to meet the postman every day that summer, eagerly looking for a deep blue Y on every piece of mail he delivers. But when a letter finally does arrive for me, it’s a scrawny 4 x 9″ envelope—not the 9 x 11″ welcome packet I had expected. I bury the rejection in the kitchen trash.

  Over the last decade, the neighborhood has been changing. Dad bought the house I was born in—a little A-frame Victorian at 4320 Zenobia Street—while Mom was out of town. They moved here in the early eighties, when most of their peers had abandoned cities altogether. Northwest was one of Denver’s rougher corners, but the houses had character and, more than anything, Dad appreciated strong character. He knew the neighborhood was a place he and his young family could learn; where we could grow with the community and give back to it. And that’s exactly what we did. Dad always told us that the respect a person deserves is often inversely related to their worldly acclaim—the homeless woman living in our playroom had seen a lot more of life than most of the lawyers and lobbyists who visited our grandparents’ office in Washington, DC. Through example, Dad taught us to open our hearts indiscriminately to the people around us. Mom and he soon became cornerstones of our little neighborhood.

  Now eighteen, I’ve graduated from Regis with high honors and a degree in politics and economics. I know every major political mover and shaker in Colorado and I’ve already managed multiple successful legislative and political campaigns. My dad, as deeply committed to this neighborhood as anybody I know, has just won the first of two elections for Denver’s City Council. There’s a runoff between the top two vote getters next month and there’s no way to know whether we’ll win or lose. For now we’re victorious and we’ve come out to say thank you to the community with some early-morning visibility.

  Don’t go near Federal Boulevard on Cinco de Mayo. Someone always dies. The old Denver adage is proven true year after year—drunk drivers, stray bullets, and large crowds are a reliably deadly combination. But on this uncharacteristically gray May 5, we’re throwing conventional wisdom to the wind. Piling out of Gobo, our blue-and-silver stretch van, my siblings and I empty into the Walgreens parking lot on the corner of Speer and Federal.

  This hasn’t been an easy race. In fact, it’s as dirty as I’ve ever seen. Fortunately (in some respects, if not others), all of that grime has been built up by our opponents. Steady even as his family, friends, and staff roil over the latest lie being spread by the opposition, Dad calmly explains to us that he can’t claim to have integrity in his campaign literature if he gets votes by spreading rumors and exploiting fears. Sometimes I wish he wouldn’t insist on teaching us valuable lessons about character during an election, but I also know his commitment to his principles is exactly why Dad needs to be in office. I’m just nervous it might keep him from ever getting there in the first place.

  A pansy-filled median splits the busy thoroughfare in two. On the northeastern corner is a Steak N’ Eggs attached to a pawnshop with a VFW lodge next door. Across from that is a gas station next to a payday loan center followed by a tortilla factory, then a quinceañera boutique and a liquor store. Grit meets glitter meets the fluffiest, flakiest tortillas in the history of tortillas. That’s old-school Northwest Denver.

  As I distribute campaign signs to supporters and siblings, I think about the runoff. It’s a race between history, demographics, and power structures. Dad is the only candidate not backed by one of the two battling local political machines. I know he’s optimistic—he always is—but the race is going to be an uphill battle. Still, win or lose, this will be my last campaign. At least, for now.

  It will be a lot to leave behind. People always tell me how awful politics is, but I love it. I have to respect a trade that’s honest about itself. From finance to music to consumer products and manufacturing—everything is governed by politics. It’s just that other industries aren’t as willing to admit it. At least that’s what I’ve always told myself. But these campaigns—they’re like drugs. Tremendous highs, brutal comedowns.

  I’ve always known I’m going to do something big. But I only recently realized I wasn’t going to do it in politics. Last fall, a senior center wouldn’t let our candidate in to campaign. I made them an offer: if they listened to our stump speech, I’d throw in an aria for free. They changed their minds. After I’d finished my song, a cherubic old lady took my face in her hands—

  “When you sing like an angel, why are you doing the devil’s work?”

  Her words struck a chord. No, I don’t think politics is the devil’s work, but over the past months I’ve realized it’s not my work either. The longer I’m in this world, the more I worry politics are having a bigger influence on me than I’m having on them. I don’t know if I’ll ever become an opera singer, but I know I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t try.

  I finish passing out signs and take one myself. Shaking signs like pompoms, our visibility team looks more like a cheer squad than your typical grimace-and-wave politicos. People honk and hurrah as they pass us. “Show Northwest Denver how much we love them!” I shout, jumping up and down to rev the crew up. I do love Northwest Denver. This town raised me. I take two signs, pumping them up and down over my head as I jog across the thoroughfare to hand one to a latecomer across the street.

  The stopped cars are honking, waving, and cheering. They love Denver. They love Dad. We’re going to win! But all of a sudden, I’m feeling short of breath . . .

  I awake to the distant blare of ambulance sirens. Did someone die? It is Cinco de Mayo, after all. But it turns out they’re headed for me. I’ve fainted in the middle of Federal Boulevard. Quickly back on my feet, I try to reassure the crowd that has gathered around me. I’m sure it’s just dehydration. Stopping at Walgreens for a bottle of water, I shake off any lingering unease. The campaign is my priority right now—I have to focus. Two months from now, I’ll be vacationing in Hungary and celebrating Didi’s seventy-fifth birthday party. Then, I’ll have time to relax.

  Inhale. Exhale. Where am I? Lying on something cold. Hard. Muffled voices rise to hysterics as my eyes blink open. Flat on my back in the middle of the ballroom, I see a young doctor with a heavy Hungarian accent who stands above me, grabbing at my blouse. “Ve must take off her shirt!” he yells. “She eez too varm!”

  As my consciousness coalesces I frantically clutch my cardigan closed. My father yanks the young man off me as more people push toward me, hoping to help or get a better glimpse of the spectacle. “Give her some space, people! Sheesh!” Dad shouts, spreading out his long arms as makeshift crowd control.

  I insist I’m all right, but the party has already been ruined for m
y grandfather. He summarily puts the kibosh on any further carousing, no matter how carefully choreographed. I argue it’s unfair—no, blasphemous—that one little fainting spell should spoil all of the work we’ve done over the past weeks. The show must go on! Even if this is just a family production, we can’t dare violate that most cardinal rule of the theater. But my protests fall on deaf ears. There will be no performance tonight.

  Disappointed, I go downstairs to put myself together. As I return, Tamás Érdi, a blind Hungarian concert pianist, takes the stage. Sitting near my grandfather and my parents, the somber lilts of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” capture the odd pallor my fainting spell has cast over the evening. Through octaves and broken chords, I hear Didi speaking in hushed tones to Mom and Dad.

  “Nori is worried about the fainting,” he whispers, referencing his childhood friend, now an esteemed physician. “There is a serious heart condition that primarily affects women around Charity’s age.”

  This was my second fainting spell this summer. My heartbeat thuds in my ears as the pianist’s ominous reaches make their way down the keyboard. I stop myself from eavesdropping on my parents’ conversation any longer. Everything is fine, I assure myself. Maybe I could stand to lose ten pounds—twenty even. When I do that, I’ll be OK. I’m sure of it. I just need to watch what I eat and exercise more. Mom fainted when she was young. So did Dad! This isn’t anything but nerves . . . . My internal dialogue continues until it’s crowded out by applause filling the ballroom. But underneath the din of clapping, I can’t escape a foreboding sense of loss—of what, though?

  I need some air. I get up and walk toward the stairs leading to the upper deck. Dad and Didi rush toward me, each grabbing an already steady arm. In a moment, I’ve gone from robust to delicate. Dad escorts me up the narrow stairway. On deck, there’s a slight breeze. Clouds have muted August’s typical humidity, leaving behind a whisper of autumn. Again, I try to convince Dad that we should continue with the show. “Not a chance, Cherry Bear,” he answers, loving, but firm. He puts an arm around me as the boat docks. The son of one of my grandparents’ friends asks if I’d like to go out dancing with him. It doesn’t seem like a very prudent choice. At the moment, neither does staying in Hungary for conservatory.