The Secret Door: A Phantom of the Opera Novel

by J. Smith

“Likely not, Jenna,” Omid answered for the kitten, watching as it cuddled even closer to the girl, who had absently gathered the young cat, holding it close.

  “Why do you say that, Omid?” she asked, instinctively looking for a collar around the kitten's neck. Finding none, she looked up at her escort.

  “We have many strays in Paris, Jenna—both cats and people,” he told her, sadly. “Most never find a home. They don't last very long on the streets.”

  “Oh no,” she said in breathy reply. She looked at the little kitten again, as its blue eyes stared up at her. “Well then you're coming home with me,” she determined, standing while still holding the kitten and walking once more toward the Garnier.

  “Jenna,” Omid questioned in a hesitant tone, “Are you sure this is the best idea? Erik…”

  “Will never have problems with rats!” Jenna rationalized, continuing on, cuddling the kitten close.

  Omid smiled and followed her. He liked Jenna's way of dealing with Erik. No nerves. No fear. No hesitation, even at the prospect of his considerable temper. It seemed that in this vibrant, sweet, possibly insane girl from another time, Erik might have finally met his match.

  “Good morning, Jenna,” the young doctor said cheerily, as he once again entered her room. He was not officially working today, but he just could not wait to see her. Besides, he did not want to waste any time beginning this new form of sensory therapy. For it to be successful, all the research had indicated that it should be begun early after diagnosis and repeated often. He only hoped that he had not waited too long. “I'm back,” he said, “and I brought your favorite visitor.” He bent down and placed the cat carrier on the ground, releasing the indignant inmate with a flick of his wrist. For his trouble, he received a loud “Mrreeeooooow!” as Red swiftly ran out of the carrier and jumped up on Jenna's bed. He immediately began sauntering back and forth, tail held high, rubbing his face up against Jenna and purring contentedly just to be near his owner.

  Smiling to himself at the precocious cat, the doctor just sat there a moment and observed their reunion. Jenna was still not awake, but he was sure he could detect a certain serenity on her face as the cat nuzzled her lovingly. Were her lips upturned slightly, or was it his imagination? Suddenly, his mind wandered back to the dream he had had the night before, when his imagination had completely run away with itself. The sensations of the dream had seemed so real—her lips so soft, her body so warm, her touch so…exhilarating. He shook his head back and forth to try to come back to reality. These types of thoughts were highly unprofessional, and he was ashamed of himself for entertaining them. A woman had never before affected him this way. Sure, he had had a few dates in high school and steady girlfriends for much of college and med school, but he had never been a “ladies man.” When he had first seen Jenna, she had taken his breath away with her vitality and beauty—and he still cursed himself for not having made her acquaintance sooner. But he had been too shy, and she had been involved in a relationship—even if her idiot ex-boyfriend hadn't deserved her. And of course, even then, there had been professional decorum to consider. Now, however, she needed him, to help her get her life back—and he needed to help her get her life back, because he cared about her so much. But what if she doesn't care for you when she wakes up? asked an unkind voice in his head. What if this connection you feel toward her will only ever be in your mind? He took a deep breath against the apprehension he felt at the thought. It didn't matter, he told himself. She was his patient, and he was her doctor, and he needed to do everything he could to help her, regardless of what happens—or doesn't happen—later.

  “Jenna,” he said, clearing his throat, wishing it could be just as easy to clear his mind. “We're going to try something new today, ok?” He smiled, despite the turmoil he was still feeling inside. “We're going to play a little game of Name That Tune. Are you ready?” He paused long enough for her to answer, if she were so inclined. Jenna remained ever silent, but Red gave him a happy Meeow! “OK, Red, you can play too,” he said, jovially, masking the uncertainty in his heart. “But don't give all the answers away, OK?” The cat gave a quick Mr-reh, and sat down next to Jenna to give himself a bath.

  Reaching into his jeans pocket, he retrieved his iPhone and began to scroll through his music library. “OK, Jenna. I'm going to play some songs for you. If you know the name, feel free to shout it out,” he joked with a smile. “But if you're not feeling very talkative at the moment, try to at least smile if you like the song—maybe squeeze my hand a little,” he added quietly, loosely taking her hand in his.

  He thought back to what Jenna's head nurse had said about her musical taste. “Contemporary…” he muttered to himself, “hmmmmm …” he chose a song with loud guitars and heavy drums. He placed the phone right next to her bedside table, turning the volume up a little louder than he would normally find comfortable, just to see if the music would have any effect on her. He continued to hold her hand as the song played, but there was no response. “OK,” he said to himself. “Not a fan of that one. Let's try…” he said, choosing another, song from his library, this one a bit calmer, but still lively. “This one. Come on, Jenna. Try to guess the name. Red, no cheating.”

  “Mreow!” was the cat's only reply, as he continued to lick between his claws.

  Again, Jenna gave no response. Song after song, he remained so hopeful, but Jenna's expression never changed. She never squeezed his hand—she never so much as flinched. She didn't stroke Red's fur either, as she had the night before. He began to feel completely dejected, wondering if perhaps, she had begun to slip too far under. He felt frustration clutch his heart as he scrolled through his musical library once more. That could not be the case, he admonished himself. There had to still be a chance. He stopped at a selection he had not considered before. The soundtrack to The Phantom of the Opera. He remembered, then, that the head nurse did say Jenna was fond of Broadway musicals. It was a long shot, but it did not hurt to try. After all, this one was the longest running musical of all time. Odds were, if she liked Broadway, she would like this.

  He pressed play, not saying anything to Jenna this time, having grown so apprehensive. Once again, she had no reaction as the overture and then the first chorus number began to play. Completely crestfallen, he lowered his head and just let the music continue on. “I won't give up, Jenna,” he mumbled to himself. “I can't. I want you back too much.” But what if she doesn't want you? His thought from earlier echoed inside his head. He closed his eyes, “Somehow, Jenna. I'm going to find a way.”

  The soundtrack had advanced until the fresh, young ingénue had begun to shakily sing her first aria. With a sigh, he began to reach across to the side table, to shut off his phone, but as he did, he felt a slight pressure on his hand. He froze and looked at where his left hand was still holding hers. There! Again! Her fingers were fluttering, gently squeezing, closing around his own. “That's right, Jenna!” he gasped. “That's right, that's right! You like this music?” Her fingers squeezed a little harder, and he looked up to her face, to see that her lips had definitely curved up into a smile. “Oh, Jenna!” He gushed, “Can you hear me?” and he felt her fingers tighten once again.

  He felt his heart beat faster and his spirit lift in joy. “If you can hear me, Jenna, then hear this,” he asserted, his voice aflame with excitement. “If you like this music, I'll play it for you—every day if that's what it takes. And I'm going to keep trying, Jenna—keep trying to find ways to reach you. I will never give up on you, Jenna. I need you to come back to me.” He squeezed her hand tightly, as the music continued to play.

  Erik waited soundlessly behind the wall to the chapel. He had arrived at his destination a bit early, and the trepidation and excitement in his chest were almost too much to bear. As he'd told Jenna, he had never had a pupil before, but he was eager to spend this time molding Christine's voice, helping her to achieve her full potential. She was not meant to be a lowly seamstress, pushed around by the likes of that farm animal Ca
rlotta. No, she was meant to be lauded and praised, lifted up as first lady of the stage. That was his goal for her, even if it were not yet her goal for herself. He knew, just from the few sparse phrases of song he had already heard from her lips, that she was capable of conquering the hearts of the music loving public. And he was eager to show her how.

  He had spent much of his blessedly quiet afternoon working on his lessons, practicing the techniques he would endeavor to teach Christine, making notes of the methods that he intended to use. This was, of course, after he had ejected the intolerable Persian from his home—which was not to say that the afternoon was without its preoccupations. Jenna had elected to go along with the nuisance Daroga to leave Erik distraction-free. If he were honest with himself however, his mind had wandered, more often than he cared to admit, to her situation.

  Ever since the morning, when he had noticed her stitches mysteriously gone from her forehead, he had felt a strange sense of foreboding. She'd sworn she had not removed them, and he had obviously not done so himself, so their absence was a mystery. They could not have simply disappeared on their own, especially not at the exact time he himself was considering removing them. The entire affair was exceedingly bizarre.

  Jenna had somehow transported from 2014 back to 1884, water had somehow been involved—he was sure of it—and now her stitches had disappeared. He could not shake the feeling that it was all connected—that something was happening that was even more incomprehensible than time travel. Was such a thing even possible? And even if it were possible—time travel, or this other thing, whatever it was—why his lake? Jenna was not only from the 21st century, but also from New York. Even if she were to travel back through the centuries, why would she also travel across the sea? None of it made sense, and as Erik had tried to focus on his lessons for Christine, the mystery of Jenna's circumstance kept creeping back into his consciousness, drawing his attention from the task at hand. He had always been a very focused man, so this distraction was enough to make his head spin and then throb with a dull ache. He was just grateful the Daroga had gone, for if he had still been in the lair, jabbering on incessantly about absolutely nothing, Erik was certain his long idle lasso would have found a purpose once more.

  There was a quiet creak as the door opened across the small space, and Erik saw Christine enter the room, her cheeks pink, as if from running, her rich sepia curls bouncing freely around her shoulders. Erik suddenly wondered how soft and springy they would feel in his fingers, and an almost irresistible urge to touch them had Erik's arm reaching out before him. When he made contact with cold, hard stone, he was reminded of his foolishness. You can never touch her, Erik, he chided himself. She can never even see you. Be grateful that you are nothing but a spirit to her—an angel. She would never wish to be in your presence otherwise. Get ahold of yourself.

  Erik took a deep breath and released it on a sigh, and Christine looked up and all around, as if she'd heard.

  “Angel?” she asked, quietly, eyes wide with a hopeful, expectant expression.

  “I am here,” Erik responded, remembering to make his voice take on that ethereal quality whereby it seemed to arise from out of thin air.

  Erik watched as a smile spread over Christine's face. “I knew you'd still be here!” she positively gushed. “I'm sorry I was a bit late,” her voice turned somewhat apologetic, “La Carlotta needed more alterations on her costume—I dare say she wouldn't split so many stitches if she didn't insist upon having her bodices sewn so tight! And just as I was leaving, Meg had a tutu emergency. I never realized such things were even possible before working here. And I ran as fast as I could, and…”

  Erik was a bit amused by her tale of mishaps. “Fret not, Mon Ange'. You're here now.”

  She looked around once more, searching in vain for the source of the celestial voice. “Mon Ange'?” she repeated the appellation in confusion. “Why would you call me that? You are the Angel. Not I.”

  “Ah, but my dear,” Erik responded, his voice both otherworldly and warm, filling her with a sense of heavenly affection, “You sing like an angel. And while I am your angel, as long as you sing, you will always be mine as well.”

  If possible, her smile got even wider, and Erik felt the air leave his chest at her beauty. Oh, she was just exquisite—as magnificent as he was foul. And her beauty dispelled all rational thought from his brain, making it seem possible—even if for just a moment—that he could, in fact, be an angel for her.

  “Then shall we sing, my Angel?” she asked him sweetly, bringing him out of his daze.

  “We shall, Mon Ange',” he whispered, tenderly. “But first, we must learn the proper way to breathe.” Feeling himself a bit breathless in Christine's presence, Erik realized that he too could benefit from such a lesson.

  17 SOMEDAY MY PRINCE WILL COME

  Erik practically floated on air as he made his way back to his home. His eyes were faraway, the corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile. His heart felt light in his chest. The lesson with Christine had been filled with mostly breathing exercises and a little light vocalization, but every time he had heard her voice, his heart had skipped a beat. Christine was truly the most delicate, angelic, simply perfect woman he had ever laid eyes on. He recalled the sparkle in her azure eyes when she reached a previously unattainable note, and how her lush, sable curls danced wildly around her face when she giggled in satisfaction. And her voice. Oh her voice made him, for the first time, believe in heaven, for truly there could be no other source for such beauty. Crystalline and pure, her voice, even when simply running through scales, touched him in a way he had never been touched before. It reached directly into his soul and held him tightly in its grasp. And though he knew he could only ever be a figment of her imagination, a celestial being shaping her voice for splendor, he knew that she would always be the one to hold him under her spell.

  He arrived at the shore of his home, quickly securing the little boat in place, and was immediately met by flavorful aromas wafting from the kitchen and the sounds of conversation hushed by the closed door. There would be time for the evening meal, but neither the promise of sustenance nor the thought of company appealed to him at the moment. His heart was filled with a tide of music that threatened to overflow if he did not sit down promptly and commune with his piano. His long fingers began their tarantella with the ivory keys as his mind set forth on an imagined journey, foreseeing great possibilities for his dear angel. The Prima Donna on opening night, Christine would easily earn accolades from the adoring crowd, a cavalcade of flowers strewn at her feet, ovation after ovation after ovation. Her voice would be her majesty—and he would have the private glory of knowing that his spirit was entwined with her song, giving it fullness, beauty and life. His darkness would magnify her light—would enrich her singing—and he would see her praised as the greatest soprano ever known. Christine. Dear Christine. His…

  “MMMREEEOOOWW,” he heard as the keys sounded with a jarring dissonance. Erik gasped in surprise when, without warning, a ball of white and gray fur bounded upon the keyboard. He gawked in astonishment as the furry interloper traipsed along the keys, trailing an untuneful melody behind it, discordant tones issuing from its fumbling paws.

  Jenna and Omid swiftly emerged, unnoticed, from the kitchen as they heard the cacophony from the piano and guessed its cause. Ready to intervene to save the little kitten's life, Jenna was stopped in her tracks by Omid, who put an arm out to stop her when they saw Erik reaching out and taking the kitten gently in his grasp. “Wait, Jenna,” Omid leaned close to whisper in her ear. “Let's see how the lunatic reacts.”

  Jenna looked at him, aghast. “But Omid, the kitten!”

  Omid rolled his eyes. “He's not going to kill it, Jenna.” A glint of mischief lit up Omid's eyes, “But the temper tantrum might be good for a few laughs.”

  “What's this?” Erik asked in a hushed tone of voice, holding her up so that her little blue eyes flashed at his mismatched ones, “How did you get here,
peesh-ee?” he questioned, using the Persian diminutive for cat.

  “Mreeeow!” she mewled again, in a high, thin tone, squirming just a bit as Erik held her out, dangling over the piano.

  “Oh, Erik,” he heard Jenna's voice, as she began to rush over to collect the kitten from him. “I'm sorry she disturbed you.” She reached out to take the cat from him, but he did not hand her over.

  “Who is she?” Erik asked, still looking with wonder at the kitten.

  “Well,” Jenna began cautiously, lowering her arms back to her sides. Erik seemed to be somewhat intrigued by the little cat, but he was so given to mood swings, she could not be sure. “I found her on our way back from the market. She was hungry and alone. She had nowhere else to go.”

  “So now it appears my home has indeed become a shelter for the needy and unfortunate,” he commented drolly, still looking at the little kitten. “I suppose that is why the Daroga is here so often.”

  “You do take such good care of me, Erik,” Omid exclaimed with an indignant huff, leaning up against the wall and folding his arms across his chest at his friend's snide comment.

  “I had a dog once,” Erik commented, shifting the little kitten, so that she could rest a bit more comfortably on his arm, stroking her fur with gentle fingers. The cat closed her eyes and began to purr as he did so. “Her name was Allete…” Erik's eyes took on a wistful look, as he voice trailed at the memory.

  “I'll do all the work to take care of her,” Jenna promised quickly, still somewhat dumbfounded at the sight of Erik petting the kitten. She had been prepared for him to put up a fight, but his immediate tenderness with the cat had caught her off guard. Still, for some reason she felt the need to justify the cat's presence. “And I'll take her with me when I go home. Red could use a friend.”

  For the first time, Erik looked up at Jenna. Since his lesson with Christine, he had not thought once about Jenna's situation. He felt a slight twinge of displeasure in his chest at the reminder that he was supposed to be helping her find a way to return to her own time. He brushed it off, however, choosing instead, to comment on the apparent name she had just uttered. “Red, Jenna?”