Chapter Thirteen
Eroica was determined that if her cellist were there, he was not going to miss her. She donned a red, Spanish-style dress, with lots of ruffles. Her curled hair she pulled up loosely and fastened with two red, satin-covered combs. Then she tied a thin, matching satin ribbon around her neck. She looked fabulous, but she worried that she had overdone it. She felt more ready to go to a bullfight than the symphony. And she had nerves that matched.
When Mark came to pick her up, she hardly looked at him. She threw on her coat, grabbed her purse, and got into his car without even waiting for him to open the door for her. The car ride to Symphony Hall was a long, silent one. Eroica was visibly anxious. Mark tried several times to involve her in conversation, but to no avail. So he gave up, and Eroica continued to dream of the hoped-for events of the evening.
They arrived at Symphony Hall in plenty of time, so Eroica went backstage with Mark. Her dark brown eyes flashed with the anticipation of meeting her cellist. She had no idea that she had caught the attention of every unmarried male symphony member. Mark was envied by all of them. But he was as much a stranger to Eroica, right then, as the rest of them.
Soon enough, Eroica’s face took on a look of disappointment. She went back with the rest of the audience and waited for the concert to begin. But for Eroica, the concert was over. Her cellist was not there.
As the music began, Eroica’s imagination took over. This time though, all that she could see was herself alone. Alone as the rest of the world ushered in the Second Coming. Alone as the saints established Zion on the earth. Alone as families lived together forever. She knew that she was wrong to feel this way, but her heart ached, and she couldn’t make it stop. She never wanted to come to another concert again.
She was angry with herself for breaking her resolve and getting so carried away. Too angry even to cry. She must put all of this nonsense where it belonged—in the past. Once again she resolved to do so, but it didn’t make her heart ache any less.
When Mark met Eroica after the concert was over, she was no longer the bold Spanish rose, full of hope. She was now a forgotten flower, with nothing left to hope for. They headed back to Provo, neither one having said more than was necessary. Eroica, knowing that she wasn’t on a date, and not caring either way, took the ribbon from around her neck, and the combs from her hair. She ran her fingers through her hair, and let it fall around her shoulders.
“Why do people bother to get so dressed up anyway?” She muttered to herself as she tossed her finery into her purse. “It’s too cold outside for anyone to have to wear a dress and Sunday shoes.”
“Are you cold?” asked Mark as he turned up the heater.
“Yes! I’m freezing! And I don’t handle being cold. I don’t know why the saints couldn’t have settled in Florida.”
“You’re right,” Mark laughed, “You don’t handle cold weather very well.”
She shot Mark one of her fiery glances, but then she laughed.
“Eroica,” Mark ventured, not at all sure what would come of it, “What happened tonight? Were you looking for someone?”
Eroica let out a long, slow sigh. “Was it that obvious? Yes, I guess I was looking for someone.”
“Are you willing to tell me about it?”
“Well, it does make it easier knowing that we are just friends, and that we aren’t dating. Although I worry sometimes that I say too much and wind up sounding foolish.”
“You never sound foolish to me. Except,” he laughed, “When you say that you wish the saints had settled in Florida. That’s kind of nutty. So, who were you looking for? Was it anyone that I would know?”
“It’s a strange story that goes back to when I was fifteen years old. I met someone at a music camp. The Deseret Music Camp, in fact. He was waiting for his mission call, and I didn’t know anything about the Church. I met him the day before I flew home. Well, I can’t say that I met him, actually. All that I knew about him was that he played the cello. I didn’t even know his name. I still don’t. But I do know that I am supposed to marry him. At least I thought I was. But I can’t find him anywhere.
“After I graduated from high school I came to the Deseret College of Music, hoping to meet him here. And every summer I went to concerts all over the east coast looking for him. When I lived in Germany I went to performances all over Europe thinking that maybe he belonged to a foreign symphony. But he has disappeared.”
“What makes you so sure that you are supposed to marry him?” Mark asked.
“I don’t know how to explain that. I can’t even explain it to myself. I just know it, just like I know that the Church is true.”
“But,” protested Mark, “Why would God let you know at age fifteen who you are supposed to marry, when it’s a huge struggle for everyone else? People waste whole paychecks and practice time and study time and time they could be doing anything else, out on what they hope will be the perfect date. And they discover within the first five minutes that they could never marry the person they are with, and they are stuck for the rest of the evening.”
“So what are you trying to tell me, Mark,” she said laughing, “That I’m not the perfect date? Oh, that’s right. We’re not dating. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten.
“Well,” she continued, “I wondered that, too. And as my teenage years went by, I did see a reason for it. I went to church and all of the activities and firesides. I followed all of the rules like a good Mormon girl. But I wasn’t a Mormon girl. Everyone was nice to me, but it didn’t change the fact that I hadn’t been baptized yet. I couldn’t have a calling, and I couldn’t take the sacrament.
“When I turned sixteen I thought the phone would ring off the wall with Mormon boys wanting to ask me out. But it didn’t. That was okay, though. Lots of girls didn’t get asked out when they turned sixteen. But when I turned seventeen and eighteen and nineteen and was still not dating, I couldn’t help but realize that no Mormon boy who was getting ready to go on a mission was going to start dating a nonmember. None of this mattered though, because I knew that someday I would marry a good Mormon boy. I had met him. I knew he existed.”
“Okay Eroica, so you have seen lots of cellists since you began this quest. What if you met him and you didn’t recognize him?”
“That would never happen. I know I would recognize him. I just know it.”
“But what if he had been in a car accident and had major reconstructive surgery done to his face?”
“You are getting carried away with supposing,” she laughed. “You are right. I might not recognize his face. It has been seven years, and I only saw him briefly then. But it doesn’t matter what he looks like. It will be our spirits that recognize each other. And we will know that we made promises to each other long before we met on earth. And when we meet again everything will make sense, and everything will be perfect.”
There was a long pause as Mark drove and Eroica dreamed.
“One last thought, and then I’ll stop quizzing you,” he said. “What if he didn’t have the same experience that you had? What if he doesn’t even remember you? Or maybe he did have a similar experience as yours, but he couldn’t find you so he married someone else. It’s possible that he could have left the Church, or even died.”
“All right, all right,” Eroica stopped him. “Of course I’ve thought through all of those things. And more. But what am I supposed to do? It’s not as if I’m turning down any number of marriage proposals. Who have I dated this semester? The campus flirt. And you know how that went. At least I have a shattered dream to hold onto while I spend my life teaching other people’s children how to play the piano.”
“Eroica, it can’t be as bleak as that. There is so much for you to do in life. You’ll find your way in the world. Besides, you are much too young and pretty to give up on the idea of marriage. Keep dreaming, Eroica. You might be surprised with
what’s in store for you.”
“Okay, Mark,” Eroica fired back, “It’s your turn. You’ve been off your mission for how many years now?”
“Ugh, I know what’s coming,” he sighed. “Five years.”
“So why is one of the most eligible returned missionaries on campus not married? There must be someone. Is she off at a different school? Or will she just not marry you?”
“Well, I’m pretty confident that she will marry me,” he smiled.
“So there is someone. Tell me about her. What kind of girl strikes the fancy of the nicest man on campus?”
“You’re making fun of me. That’s just everyone’s way of saying that I can’t make up my mind. But I have. And I think that you would like her. She has the most sparkling eyes. She doesn’t know it, but she can’t hide her feelings from me. I see it all in her eyes. I know when she is happy, frustrated, upset, grateful. She thinks she is hiding it all from me, but I know her too well. And someday I will marry her.”
Eroica immediately knew who he was talking about—Allisun Miller. Nobody had eyes like hers. She was beautiful and she was young. Eroica had, several times, heard Mark call her “Sunshine”. Nobody else called her that. They seemed perfect for each other.
“But why someday?” she asked. “Why not now?”
“She’s not ready. She still has a few things to experience. And I don’t want to rush her. When the time is right, everything will fall into place. At least, I’m counting on it happening that way. And if it doesn’t, then I’ll build a studio next to yours and spend the rest of my life teaching other people’s children how to play the cello.”
Eroica laughed along with Mark, but that comfortable feeling had gone. Of course Mark had someone in mind to marry. Why shouldn’t he? And why should this bother her? After all, she had just told him about her cellist. But what was she holding onto? A dream. And Mark was real. No, Mark was a dream also. He had Allisun. Besides, she and Mark were just friends. And it would always be that way. Nothing more.
Heartstrings Page 13
