Healer's Choice Page 8

  “Daaaad. I am not going to tell that story.”

  “Then I will,” offered Annette helpfully. “It was near the end of Norman’s career with the Philadelphia Orchestra. He had been the featured player in a violin concerto at the Philadelphia Academy of Music and the performance had been a particularly good one. Regan was, what would you say Martin, 5 years old? Anyway, it was her first concert and she was so excited to be there. We had tried to prepare as best we could but apparently she hadn’t quite understood the whole concert etiquette thing entirely. So naturally after the concerto, Norman rose to take his bows and we all stood to give him an ovation. Suddenly, I realized that Regan wasn’t there. At first, I was terrified but then I was both relieved and embarrassed to discover that she was onstage hugging her grandfather.”

  Everyone else at the table had been regaled with this story countless times before so they all chuckled predictably, but I had to hold in some pretty serious laughter as I envisioned the little girl who didn’t realize the faux pas she was committing in the middle of the very serious grown-up concert.

  “I’m sure she was just so proud of her grandfather,” I ventured in an attempt not to make too much fun of someone whom I really did not want to offend. Regan blushed in spite of how many times the story had been told.

  “No, but it gets better,” Annette continued as she took a sip of her coffee, “Regan somehow found a live microphone that she could reach and said for the entire Academy of Music, ‘that’s my Grampa’. The entire audience gave HER a standing ovation.”

  “Thus ended my stage career and began my exciting vocation in the insurance business,” concluded Regan helpfully.

  After everyone had finished laughing at Regan’s expense, Morgan decided to pose a direct question to me.

  “Just exactly what are your intentions towards my sister?”

  I thought the question was a bit presumptuous, and I thought she was at least half-joking, so I tried to deflect it.

  “Well, I thought that Regan and I would just gradually get to know one another, maybe exchange Christmas cards, hopefully one day be good friends”.

  She wasn’t going to let me off the hook, “No, I didn’t mean Regan, I meant Jillian.”

  “Oh, sorry about that. Well, you know we just met a short time ago. But I will admit that I’ve never met anyone who has made me feel like Jillian has. On the other hand, both of us have pretty uncertain career paths right now, so we just have to take it one step at a time.””

  Morgan was unimpressed with what I thought was a pretty heartfelt but diplomatic answer and she turned her commentary towards the object of my affections.

  “You know, Jill, doctor’s wives have to get used to being pretty lonely. Their husbands work nights, weekends and holidays. On the other hand, they make quite a bit of money, so I guess that makes up for it to some degree…”

  I could tell that Jillian and Morgan had been sparring partners in the past since Jillian was ready to swing right back,

  “Morgan, I don’t remember announcing an engagement. When I do, I’m fairly certain there will be standing room for you at the back of the church.”

  “Now, Jill, there’s no reason to get angry, I’m your oldest sister and I’m only looking out for your future happiness…”

  “MY FUTURE HAPPINESS? Now there’s a laugh. If you were interested in my future happiness, why did you set me up with that dork Harvey Fishwell?”

  “Harvey,” Morgan bristled, “is a respected entrepreneur in this community and has had tremendous economic success..”

  “He has a small chain of drycleaners, thinks that McDonald’s is gourmet cuisine and smells like the laundry his clients bring him before he cleans it.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers, Jill. When I saw that you were spending so much time chasing rainbows with that silly music thing that you weren’t finding a decent man, I thought I should step in and assist.”

  “Thanks but no thanks for your assistance, Morgan. Dad, Mom, I’m going to show Carlos where his room is and then get some sleep. The funeral is early tomorrow and I’m really tired.”

  “Nice to have met you all,” I announced brightly as I was led from the room.

  Chapter 33

  Jillian showed me the guest room and stuck out her tongue in a sisterly gesture of affection toward Morgan who was not in close enough proximity to appreciate it.

  “Well, that went well,” I observed sarcastically, “I’m hope I’m not being graded on that part of the audition.”

  She leaned in and kissed me with surprising fervor for someone who was grieving.

  “I alone will judge your auditions, Sir. As for my sister, Morgan is married, gainfully employed and pregnant,” she said ticking off each accomplishment on her fingers, “to her that is the life experience trifecta. I, on the other hand, have an impossible dream of orchestral performance, I am single and have no prospect of producing a legitimate child in the forseeable future. She therefore feels sorry for me.”

  “Ah, but she is mistaken,” I countered, “thou art beautiful, destined for greatness as a violinist and frankly I don’t see why guys haven’t fallen for you all the time.”

  “Well, she is right about one thing, in my single-minded pursuit of success, I have neglected my romantic life a little.” She looked pensive for a moment and continued. “There is something that Morgan said that bothered me a little, though. Is it true what she said about doctor’s wives? I mean, I know it sounds really random to ask so early in a relationship but I was just wondering, you know, hypothetically…”

  I laughed a little then pondered that one for a moment. “It is true that physicians are not 9-5 type workers because illness and injury tend to happen kind of inconveniently. It depends on the specialty but from what I’ve seen so far, pretty much everyone at least works some evenings, some Saturdays and at least takes telephone call on some Sundays and holidays. Specialties like the emergency room or surgery tend to work all day on certain Sundays or holidays. In fact, lifestyle realities like that are part of how we choose a specialty.”

  I continued, “Your sister is wrong about one thing, though.”

  “Oh, really? What is that?”

  “It isn’t money that comforts the spouses of physicians during those long hours apart.”

  “What is it then?”

  “Well...let’s just say that given our prowess as lovers, we’re worth waiting for.”

  Jillian said in mock exasperation, “You did not just say that.”

  I encircled her waist and drew her towards me with what I hoped was a devilish smile, “This is all evidence-based with double blind randomized clinical trials to prove it. I would be more than happy to provide a demonstration…”

  “Carlos, my parents and my sisters are right downstairs. If I don’t go down and say good-night in a few minutes it’s going to be pretty embarrassing.”

  “I don’t think they would want to stand in the way of your scientific enlightenment,” I whispered, as I gently closed the door.

  Chapter 34

  Saturday dawned cool and rainy. I got up early and dressed in grey trousers, a white starched shirt, navy blue blazer and tie and black polished wing tip leather shoes. I didn’t even own a black suit to wear to the funeral. I had breakfast in the kitchen with Jillian and her parents, but I made up an excuse to drive my own car to the church for the funeral mass. I felt like I was intruding at an intensely personal family time as they prepared to lay her grandfather to rest.

  As I drove into the parking lot of Trinity Episcopal Church, I was surprised to see so many cars already there. I was early, but could barely find a seat in the last row of pews at the back of the historic stone edifice. Right away I recognized my old mentor Dr. Greco holding hands with his wife. Also present were the surviving members of the Retirement With Strings Attached Players whom I had heard play Vivaldi with Jillian at the Weinkopf house—it seemed so long ago now.

  The funeral service proceeded according to a
format not unlike the Roman Catholic mass I knew so well, but there were also interludes for commentary by friends and family members. One oddity was that sitting on the (thankfully closed) casket was a single object—a violin which the mass bulletin noted was an authentic instrument crafted by a violin-maker from Naples, Italy named Nicolo Gagliano in about 1761. Initially, I wasn’t sure if the violin was actually meant to accompany Norman Weinkopf into the afterlife like a pharaoh of ancient Egypt or whether its presence was somehow symbolic.

  It wasn’t long before Martin Weinkopf stood and strode to the lectern to explain:

  “It was the final wish of my father that his favorite violin be placed on the casket at his funeral and that, just prior to his interment, I read this letter to all assembled. No one except my father and his attorney has seen what he has written herein until this moment.”

  “To my family and friends: If this letter is being read to you by my son Martin, I must presume that I have passed on to glory and it is the day of my funeral. On the other hand, Morgan and Regan, if you are snooping around my desk again and I am still alive, please put the letter back in the envelope immediately and place it back in my desk until I am fully and properly dead.”

  A nervous chuckle went around the church.

  “I have had a marvelous and full life but I was never blessed with a conventional faith. I have always believed that the life energy of my being was and is music. That is why my Gagliano is on the casket today. I would have bought a Stradivarius, but Martin insisted on four years at Haverford instead of a more economical college so I could only afford the Gagliano.”

  A little more laughter erupted.

  “I have known the great love of a too-soon departed wife, a wonderful son and daughter-in-law and three granddaughters of whom I am proud beyond words. Since I have no true religion to guide me, I believe that beyond the memories held by those I love, any life eternal for me lies in music. And so, my dear dear Jillian, it is clear that it has always been you who understood that a soul might be transported by music. From the moment I taught you to hold the violin, handle the bow and place your fingers upon the strings, I hoped to create a legacy that would live in you through the magic and wonder of music. If my soul lives on anywhere, it is in that Gagliano violin.”

  At that moment, Martin looked up and directly into Jillian’s eyes.

  “And that is why, Jillian, you must go now and claim that violin as your own.”

  A murmur went through the church and her eyes brimmed with tears as Jillian started, almost reluctantly, to walk down the aisle toward the casket. Martin concluded the letter as she held the beautiful polished heirloom instrument and her eyes shone bright and sad and determined.

  “Jill, inasmuch as I can ever believe in an afterlife, you may now hold my very soul in your hands. Please do not feel I am pressuring you into performing on the stage. Whether the music you play is a lullaby for your children, a few notes to enjoy by yourself or a concerto for thousands of adoring symphony-goers, every melody and every arpeggio means that I truly live on. I love you always. Grandfather Norman.”

  Chapter 35

  After the interment and a luncheon, Jillian and I had only a few moments to pack and then get on the road to Philadelphia. She gave her family a hug and a kiss and before long we were on our way. We drove northward on US 15 out of Maryland and then turned east on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. For a while we sat in silence. At one point she reached over and covered my right hand with her left one and I was again amazed by the emotion she could stir in me with a simple gesture.

  “Thank you so much for coming to the funeral,” she finally said, “it meant a lot.”

  “I was honored to be there for you,” I replied and added, “and you must have felt pretty honored when your grandfather bequeathed you his violin. Will you actually play it someday?”

  “I might,” she mused, “because the tone is amazing. But you don’t just pick up someone else’s instrument and start performing with it. It’s more than just a tool. It’s more like a partner. You have to figure out if the two of you really fit with one another. Plus, it’s a little intimidating to play a violin that’s worth over $150,000.”

  The car nearly swerved onto the shoulder of the road as I tried not to react to that little revelation.

  “Are you serious? For one violin?”

  “Sure,” she smirked at my show of musical ignorance. “The Stradivarius my grandfather joked about in his letter would have been worth at least 2 million since there are only about 650 left worldwide.”

  Now that I knew I was going out with a rich girl, I decided to change the subject. “You’ve had a really long day. Are you sure you’re going to be up for this recital?”

  She actually laughed, “Are you kidding? After Grandfather’s equivalent of a ‘win one for the gipper’ speech from the afterlife could I do anything else? Seriously, Carlos, Grandfather was right. He’s with me and I feel his energy inspiring me forward. This is something I’ve wanted all my life. Besides, you’re going to be in the audience. If you can’t rise to the occasion to impress your boyfriend, you’re in serious trouble.”

  We parked near the recital hall and Jillian grabbed her instrument case and ornate performing gown to change into while I headed inside to see the auditorium. It was pretty impressive. There was red velvet carpet everywhere, crystal chandeliers and various performers looking dashing in tuxedos or sequined formal dresses. Evidently other students were giving recitals this evening also and some of their friends and families were in attendance. For a moment, I felt bad that Martin and Annette couldn’t come but it was simply too soon after the funeral—there would be other recitals. Jillian said that there were other types of visitors and evaluators on hand but didn’t explain much more about what that meant.

  There was a palpable buzz of excitement in the audience as each performer was introduced. Then he or she would turn to the audience, give a brief nod to any accompanying musician, and begin to play. I looked around the audience at the faces of those who, like me, were here to support someone up on stage. Each of us was hoping that our particular loved one was going to make it big—either as an ensemble player in a major orchestra or even as a featured solo performer. The combined expressions of worry, hope, faith and sheer determination were something to see.

  When Jillian walked on stage it seemed as if she was gliding. She gave the audience one of her trademark melt the room smiles and gave a polite bow acknowledging the welcoming applause. She positioned her instrument and her bow and began to play.

  Now I’m no music critic, and there’s no doubt I was totally biased, but I was completely blown away by her performance—and I couldn’t even tell you what she played that day. The good news is that the ensuing thunderous applause suggested that the audience and evaluators had a similar opinion.

  Afterwards, the performers came out to greet the audience and I saw Jillian quickly beckoned by a group of rather serious-looking well-dressed men and women. They gestured for her to sit down and spoke to her for about 15 minutes. They smiled but nothing particularly overwhelming seemed to be going on. Then they shook hands and parted ways. Jillian then walked over to me and gave me a hug with a completely unreadable expression.

  “Wait a minute,” I blurted out, “What just happened over there?”

  “Carlos, I need to congratulate the other performers and then I’ll tell you.”

  “Don’t I even get a hint?”

  “You need to wait”

  Jillian then went and congratulated every one of the other recital students for what seemed like an eternity. When asked by her fellow performers what the impromptu meeting was all about she deferred and made some noises about some “future opportunities”.

  It was only when everyone had filed out, she had changed into street clothes and I think the custodial staff was vacuuming the acres of red velvet carpet that she finally told me.

  She looked from side to side in an exaggerated pantomime of determini
ng we were truly alone and then began jumping up and down.

  “Carlos, I did it, I did it!”

  “What exactly did you do?”

  “Well, the first man to talk with me is the musical director of the Philadelphia Orchestra. One of the violinists is going out on maternity leave and they need someone to sub in for her. I’m one of three students selected to take a two week gig!”

  “Ohmigod, congratulations!” I said as I hugged her right off the ground.

  “Actually, Carlos, it isn’t that uncommon for fourth year conservatory students to substitute in for concert instrumentalists in the Symphony. In fact, that isn’t even the BIG news.”

  “You mean there’s bigger news than that?”

  “Yep. The bigger news is that I’ve been selected for a violin competition in Vienna, Austria. The winner gets a big leg up on a career as a soloist.”

  “That’s so amazing! But why didn’t you want to tell me earlier?”

  “Carlos, those students worked so hard for that recital. They may one day be stars or they may take jobs outside of the music field entirely. The one thing I did not want to do was brag on their big night.”

  “Jillian, your grandfather would be really proud—and not just of the music.”

  “Aw shucks, Dr. Vega. Now don’t you need to get back to Baltimore before they bust your butt back to orderly or something?”

  “Now you are showing your lack of knowledge of the medical field. ‘They’ cannot demote me like that unless I do something really irresponsible—like fail to give you a truly memorable kiss good night.”

  It was at that moment that she kissed me—and I realized that I would be doing the remembering for the rest of the night.

  Chapter 36

  When I returned to Metro after the funeral and the recital, I found out that I wasn’t going to escape Royce Cunningham’s wrath completely for missing two days of my sub-internship. As I worked feverishly to catch up prior to morning report on Monday, I passed by Althea Johnson in a dimly lit hallway before dawn.

  “Well, Loverboy,” she began, “I was able to protect you from a full-blown encounter with Hurricane Cunningham, but your little excursion over the weekend is still going to cost you.”