The Secret Door: A Phantom of the Opera Novel

by J. Smith

  Despite the heat from the fire and the flames that had just moments ago been in her heart, Jenna did feel suddenly cold. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stave off the chill, but it did not work, for this iciness was on the inside, and her attempts to warm herself were only locking its bitterness in more. It would take the arms of another to drive out the cold.

  “Your tea, My Lady.” Erik emerged from the kitchen, tea service in hand. He set down the tray on the end table and bowed low as he offered her a cup. Jenna could not help but chuckle at the absurdity of his dramatic display, and she took the cup he offered. Erik took his own cup then, and sat next to her on the settee. They sipped their tea in a comfortable silence, feeling no need to talk, because earlier actions had said all there was to say. Eventually, Erik's fingers reached tentatively for Jenna's hand, and Jenna rested her head on his shoulder. And long into the night, they sat there together and watched the flames.

  It had been at least an hour since Penny Wilson had gone to visit her niece alone, as she had requested. He had spent much of that time in Dr. James’ office, having a heart-to-heart with the Chief of Neurology.

  “I think it's time to face the fact,” the older doctor began, “That Miss Wilson might not be coming back.”

  “Doctor,” he replied, not able to look his superior in the eye, “with all due respect, there is nothing on the test results to indicate that she is so badly injured that her damage would be permanent.”

  “How about the simple fact that she is in a coma and she hasn't woken up?” Dr. James answered. “You know that the longer a patient stays in a coma, the lower the odds—”

  “I know,” he said quietly, still not looking up.

  “Few people recover consciousness fully after being in a prolonged coma,” he pressed, trying to make his young charge see reason.

  “I know,” his voice was a bit louder than necessary, his hand raking through his hair.

  “Then why did you tell her aunt that you were sure she'd regain consciousness?” A little exasperation started to enter Dr. James' voice.

  “Because I believe she will,” he insisted, finally meeting his boss's eyes. “I am not ready to give up on her yet, Doctor.”

  His eyes were full of such earnestness, such fervor. It was clear that, to him, Jenna Wilson's recovery was an absolute imperative, as if his own life depended on it. A stark realization came over Dr. James then, and he covered his face in his hands, groaning out loud, in exasperation. “Oh damn it all to hell! You're in love with her!”

  His felt his face turn bright red and cast his eyes down once more, slumping back in his chair. “I only want to help her.”

  “Her? Or you?” The Chief sighed deeply and shook his head, “You're playing a dangerous game, Doctor. Why have you never told me that you and Miss Wilson were involved?”

  “Because we weren't!” he insisted. His spirit deflated, he added, “I never had the courage to let her know how I felt.”

  Dr. James shook his head back and forth, a look of absolute vexation on his face. “Ethically, I am bound to take you off the case.”

  “Please,” the young doctor implored, his eyes desperate. “Please. I am making progress! She squeezed my hand!”

  “Reflexes, and you know it,” Dr. James countered.

  “Just give me a little more time,” he beseeched him. “Please, Dr. James. I beg you.”

  The Chief of Neurology stared at him in extreme frustration. “Look! I will keep my mouth shut about your feelings for your patient, for now, but you must conduct yourself with the utmost professionalism.”

  “Of course, Doctor,” he agreed, grateful to be given another chance. “Thank you.” He rose to exit the room.

  “Doctor,” James said to him, as his hand hovered over the door handle. “False hope is a horrible thing. For the sake of Jenna's aunt, and for your own sake, do not engage in it.”

  “I understand, Doctor,” he said, his eyes looking down.

  “There is a reason why we normally do not allow doctors to care for their loved ones. Don't make me regret my decision to let you remain on the case.”

  “I promise, I won't,” he asserted, as he turned the handle and exited the office.

  He made his way quickly to Jenna's room. He had not seen her all day, and it was beginning to drive him to distraction. He was certain Jenna's aunt would have departed by now. When he got there, however, Penny Wilson's petite figure was still clearly sitting in the chair next to the bed. She had wanted her privacy, so he remained outside the room, watching through the window, the interactions between aunt and niece.

  Penny appeared to be trying to talk to Jenna, holding her palm gently in one hand while stroking her niece's wrist with her fingers. Jenna made no reaction at all, and eventually, he could see Penny's head fall forward and her shoulders slump. A wave of sympathy for the older woman washed over him, and he began to move toward Jenna's room to offer Ms. Wilson comfort, when suddenly, a hand appeared on Penny's shoulder and he realized she was not alone.

  He shifted slightly to get a better view into her room, as Penny stood and a familiar head of blond hair came into view. Charleson! He watched, horrified, as Charleson opened his arms and pulled Penny Wilson into an embrace! Charleson stroked her hair and seemed to whisper words of comfort into her ear. Well. That would certainly explain Ms. Wilson's attitude during the meeting with Dr. James. It was suddenly clear who was acting as her informant.

  After a moment, Penny Wilson moved out of Charleson's embrace, only to take his hand as they walked from the room. He was certain to stay out of sight in the shadows, so as not to be seen. Once they were down the hall, he strode forward into Jenna's room, closing the door behind him.

  “Good evening, Jenna!” he said, forcing a bit of good humor into his voice. “Red couldn't come today—quite the busy schedule, that cat! He had a full evening planned of grooming, napping, eating, then sleeping. Sends his best, but he simply couldn't get away.”

  “I see you've been socializing with your aunt. I hope you quite enjoyed her visit.” He walked over to her bed, pulling the privacy screen, so that they could not be viewed from the hall. Taking a seat in the chair beside her, he took her hand in his, stroking lazy circles on her palm. “I'm not sure,” he said quietly, for some reason not able to look at her face, “that your aunt thinks very much of me. She seems to believe I'm not doing enough to help you. She thinks I'm just working with you to advance my career. Nonsense fed to her by Charleson, no doubt—the doctor who was just in here with her.” His voice became tense at the thought of that arrogant idiot Charleson having been able to win the trust of Jenna's only family when he could not.

  “Nothing could be further from the truth, Jenna, I promise you,” he continued with his thought. “I care nothing about advancing my career—I only said I'd publish a study to get Dr. James to agree to allow me to do the therapy on you. The only thing that matters to me—the only thing that has ever mattered to me this whole time—was to get you well.”

  He looked up at her then, leaning in close. “Jenna,” he whispered, his voice hitching in his throat, “I want you to know that I…care for you very much. I'm…never going to stop trying to get you to come back to me. I…” his voice trailed off at a loss for how to continue his sentence. He shook his head in frustration, and laid his forehead on the bed, next to hers. “Jenna, I'm trying,” he murmured more to the pillow than to her.

  He kept his head there for a moment, just drinking in her closeness, when, suddenly he felt her head shift slightly, and her cheek was pressed against his. He felt a gentle flutter in the fingers of the hand he held as well, signifying that she was squeezing his hand. Inappropriate Charleson would bellow, even though if there was any damage being done here, it was to his own vulnerable heart. Reflex James would call it. Wishful thinking. False hope. Not enough, Jenna's aunt would say, expecting a miracle overnight. They might all be right, but he didn't think so. No matter what they told him, he knew that these li
ttle gestures, these little reactions were somehow for him, somehow her way of saying to hold on—that she was coming. He lifted his head and looked at the perfectly serene expression on her face. Once again, he reached forward and smoothed the curls on her forehead, and whispered, “I will be right here, Jenna. Waiting.”

  Erik was warm. Yes, as he drifted on the edge of a dream, he felt blessed, radiating heat circulating all around him. Something soft and sweet smelling was tickling his cheek, and a pliable, yielding weight was draped across his chest. Instead of being an encumbrance, however, this burden was welcome, comforting, soothing, and he actually felt himself nestle deeper into the cushioned warmth and draw the form more tightly against him. Somewhere there was a breath, a tender sigh, which made the darkness that much more inviting, and Erik felt that if he never again opened his eyes, surrounded by that warmth, that scent, that …sigh, he would be quite happy to surrender to endless night.

  He felt the weight shift, and suddenly, there were gentle flutters, mere whispers of touch, stroking, caressing his cheek. Both cheeks. Still half clinging to his blissful slumber, Erik slowly lifted his lids to find that Jenna was the source of the sweet sensations he had been experiencing in his sleep. She was lying with him on the settee, draped comfortably over his chest. Her gaze followed the trail that her delicate fingers made across his face, so she did not immediately notice that he was looking at her. He saw her lips turned up in a sweet smile, as she beheld the sight that had heretofore only inspired terror and disgust.

  “How do you do this, Jenna?" he asked her in a hoarse whisper, still awed by the tenderness in her fingertips.

  Jenna’s fingers froze, and she met his gaze. "What?" she asked, in a sweet whisper.

  "How do you look upon me—how do you touch me—as if I were no different than anyone else?" he asked, still in disbelief as he gazed into her eyes.

  "Oh Erik,” she corrected him, softly, still gently stroking his cheek. “You are different from everyone else.” Jenna noticed a shift in Erik’s gaze and suddenly her cheeks went hot. Oh God, she had said too much. She had allowed herself to get caught up in this moment of sweet and blessed peace and now she had revealed feelings that she knew Erik could never share. With a slight sickly burn in her stomach, she began to pull away, only to feel Erik immediately tighten his arms around her.

  "No, don't go, Jenna,” he whispered imploringly. “Finally, I am warm."

  Jenna gazed into his eyes a few seconds longer, silently adoring him. Hands still placed gently on his cheeks, she smiled at him. Without even knowing what she was doing, her face began to lower, and her eyes began to close, as she moved to place a gentle kiss upon his lips.

  “Sweet Allah!” came the Persian's cry out of nowhere. “Erik!”

  Erik startled to an upright position, and Jenna, landed with a humph on the floor. “Daroga,” Erik hissed, glaring at the Persian, who was looking at him with a mixture of horror and shock. “You always have such impeccable timing,” as he leaned toward Jenna and extended his hand.

  “Well, it's not as if I could have had the doorman announce me,” Omid protested. “If you had a doorman, you likely would have killed him by now.”

  “Ahh, Daroga,” Erik seethed crossly. “You so easily steer my mind toward murder.” Jenna gazed up at him from the floor, stunned, and reached for his hand, whispering, “Erik, your mask.” His free hand self consciously covered his cheek, and as soon as Jenna was upright, she muttered, “I'll get it.”

  When Omid saw Jenna race off to her bedroom, he faced Erik again, and mouthed the words, “Her bedroom?” with wide eyes. Erik fixed on him the stare of death as he spat, “You disgust me, Persian,” disdain dripping from every syllable. He continued to glare at him, even after Jenna returned with his mask, which he immediately fastened to his face.

  Jenna's gaze darted between Erik and Omid, and found that she could look neither in the eye. Feeling embarrassed and awkward, she excused herself back to her chambers.

  “So you're going to keep her?” Omid asked, as soon as Jenna was out of earshot.

  Erik scowled at him. “She is not a pet, you fool!”

  “Ahhh, but it looks like she could be your pet,” Omid answered, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

  “Oh, good God, man, what are you saying?” Erik asked in exasperation, still slightly flustered from the rude way in which he was awakened.

  “She was laying across your chest, Erik,” Omid explained, enjoying the rosy tint that crept to his friend's impossibly pale cheek. “And you were holding her in your arms—rather tightly, it appeared. And you were smiling…”

  Erik listened to what the Daroga was saying and the sensation of luxurious warmth he'd felt in his dream came back to him. That comforting presence on his chest…had been Jenna. It was all coming back to him. They'd shared a kettle of tea last night after…well, after he'd told her everything, and she had seen his face. They'd been quietly watching the dancing flames, and he had not been able to stop himself from reaching for her hand—the only hand that had ever shown him any measure of kindness in his whole miserable existence. Then he had felt her rest her head upon his shoulder, and too overcome by all that had happened that night to speak, they had both simply remained silent.

  The fire had been very relaxing. They must have drifted off to sleep while gazing at the hearth, shifting in their slumber. Had she really found comfort lying in his arms? Her hair had tickled his cheek, her breathing had entranced him so that he never wanted to awaken, but her gentle, tender touches had coaxed him to open his eyes.

  Had he really been brazen enough to hold her, begging her not to go, when she made to disentangle from his arms? Where had he found the temerity? How could he have been so bold?

  “And your mask, Erik…” Omid continued, a devilish smirk playing at the corner of his lips, a roguish glint in his eyes. “In her bedroom? Whatever could you have been doing there?” has asked, eyebrow raised.

  Laying bare my soul, he thought to himself. “Nothing that you would understand, Persian!”

  Omid guffawed loudly, throwing his head back in amusement. “Oh, I assure you, Erik. I well understand what happens in a woman's bedroom!”

  Erik's eyes narrowed. “Jenna is a lady, Omid. Not the type of female with whom you would be used to passing time.”

  “But still, Erik,” Omid commented, “you showed her your face. That must mean something.”

  It means everything, was his first thought. He remembered that moment when he was sure she would run but instead she stayed. Her sweet acceptance. The warmth…her warmth.

  “Surely, you're not still looking for a way to send her home,” he heard Omid mutter, breaking him out of his pondering.

  Suddenly, Erik felt a pounding in his head that soured his stomach, and he knew he had to get away. “I must go upstairs and check on rehearsals,” he blurted, and without another look in Omid's direction, he rose and stormed in the direction of his boat.

  25 A DOOMED REHEARSAL

  Rehearsals were in full swing by the time Erik reached the stage. How late had we lingered in slumber, he wondered, but the memory of reclining there, on his settee with Jenna wrapped in his arms once again made his stomach feel strange and he pushed the image from his mind.

  Erik slinked above the stage in the rafters, wishing to get a closer view at how the scenery and props for the opera were coming along. Joseph Buquet, the stagehand, was slumped in a heap in the corner. Erik crept over to him soundlessly, and the smell wafting off his pathetic form was enough to make Erik's head spin. Buquet was passed out, stinking drunk, when he should have been working the flies. He would become the subject of Erik's next note to the management. Competency was required in the rigging, where inattention or carelessness could not only prove disastrous for the production, but dangerous for the actors as well. Buquet's slovenliness, coupled with his consistent lecherous behavior with the ballet rats, should be more than enough fodder for his immediate dismissal. Moving away from him
in disgust, Erik peered over onto the stage.

  They were practicing for La Principessa Guerriera and the large prop elephants were being dragged across the stage by the men in slave costumes. Carlotta was shrieking on about a trophy while brandishing a severed head in her left hand. Poor bastard, Erik thought to himself, a wry smile appearing on his lips. Probably decapitated himself just to make the screeching stop. The diva lifted both arms above her head on a high C and the bloodcurdling racket was mingled with the sound of tearing fabric.

  “Oh, non ancora!” she bellowed. “NOT again!” She placed her hand on the side of her bodice where a large hole had torn along the seam. Erik could not help but snicker softly to himself. Cows should not wear dresses, he thought. “Where is that seamstress?!” she screamed. “Seamstress! SEAMSTRESS!”

  Erik saw the mane of mahogany curls bob into view as Christine hurried to the distressed diva's side, her sewing basket on her arm. “Yes, Signora?” she said, keeping her eyes cast down in a submissive demeanor. Erik longed to reach out and tip her chin up and make her look the unpleasant soprano in the eye. Christine was inferior to no one, especially not this heifer who continued to split her seams because her vanity forced her into dresses that were at least a size too small.

  “I told you to do your job right! These seams…they rip—again!”

  “I…I…I'm sorry, Signora.” Christine stumbled over her words. “If you will just change into something else, I…”

  “No!” she spat, sticking her nose in the air. “I will not be further inconvenienced for a little girl who cannot do her job right! You will mend the tear right-a now.” The prima donna removed her hand from the busted seam, raising her arm above her head, and jutting her hefty torso toward Christine. Erik saw Christine take in a deep breath and move closer in to the diva's side. As she pushed her hair behind her head before she began her work, so unpleasantly close to Carlotta's distasteful form, Erik caught a flash of red behind her ear, and peered more closely to see the rose Jenna had left behind in his name, now tucked behind Christine's ear.