The Secret Door: A Phantom of the Opera Novel

by J. Smith

  “I see,” Erik commented shortly, expecting that that would be the end of the topic. But to his great annoyance, Christine continued to prattle on.

  “Oh, Angel, it is going to be such fun. There will be a grand banquet and champagne! And everyone will be in a mask! And there will be dancing!” Christine began sashaying across the floor, as if in an imaginary waltz. “I may not even know who I will be dancing with!” Christine seemed to realize something, and as if in surprise, she added, “Perhaps the Vicomte! Meg says he is very handsome indeed.”

  Erik felt his lip snarl. He had had quite enough of her drivel about this dance! “Christine,” he began, cutting in and trying to redirect the lesson to singing.

  “Or perhaps,” she continued, her voice softening a bit in shyness, “you?”

  “Christine!” Erik responded to her unexpected comment curtly. “I am an angel. You know I cannot dance with you.”

  Christine cast her eyes down in equal parts embarrassment and disappointment. “I understand, my Angel. I just… there is no one I would wish to dance with more…”

  “Oh, but you did say the Vicomte was very handsome indeed,” he interjected in irritation. “I am sure you would most prefer to dance with him. Of course,” he continued scathingly, once again trying to focus her wandering mind to the task at hand, “as a future prima donna, all of your energies should be directed toward song—not dance.”

  “Yes, Angel.” she hung her head in shame.

  “Now then,” he began fresh, “On your vanity, you will find a new aria. I shall inform the managers that you will be singing it on opening night. I would like to work on it with you now.”

  Christine crossed over to her dressing table, where indeed, she found the score. She read it over quickly, the disappointment over her Angel's scolding beginning to fade as she heard the resplendent melody in her mind. “Angel, this is glorious.”

  “Thank you Christine.” Erik dismissed her praise quickly. “Now, shall we begin? I will count two measures and you come in on one.”

  Christine listened as her Angel set the beat, and, at the appointed time, came in with the lilting melody, sweet and pure. She sang the first verse through, the joy of the tune pouring from her lips, before Erik stopped her, saying, “Expression, Christine. Sing with more emotion.”

  Surprised, Christine simply said, “I'm sorry, Angel. Shall I begin again?”

  “Yes, please.”

  When Christine began the song with the same amount of joie de vivre as she had the last time, Erik stopped her immediately. “Christine, think about the words,” he commanded, impatience beginning to color his tone. “Make the song come alive.”

  “I had hoped I was, Angel,” she said, a bit dejected. “I am singing of the sweet love affair that the singer is remembering—of the joy and happiness she felt during the time spent in her lover's presence.”

  “You are looking at it all wrong, Christine,” he admonished in exasperation. “This song is not about the joyful carefree feelings of a love affair. It is about the desperate wish that the lover has that he be remembered when love is lost.”

  “But Angel,” Christine responded, confused. “The music is so light—so airy…”

  “It is irony, Mademoiselle,” Erik insisted, in a huff. “It belies the absolute despair the lover feels at the apparently doomed relationship. He knows they must part, and yet he knows he will never forget her. He is begging her to promise she will not forget him either, so that they can at least be united in their memories, together in their hearts.”

  “Angel,” Christine began quietly, a bit unnerved by the frantic way in which her angel was speaking. His voice was not its usual rich, booming baritone, but rather a desperate, frenzied jumble of syllables, that for a celestial being, did not make any sense. She did not understand the change in him, and she was about to tell him. “I don't understand…”

  “Have you never lost someone, Christine,” Erik blurted out, his voice now a hoarse bark, “who meant the entire world to you?”

  The raw emotion in his voice caught them both by surprise, and each stood breathless, motionless for a moment, until Christine made her simple, quiet reply. “My Papa.”

  Erik felt a thousand blades pierce his heart at the recognition of his complete idiocy. “Christine, forgive me,” he implored. “Please forgive me. I am so sorry. I was uncouth, and rude, and I apologize.”

  Christine looked down at the floor, “Angel, you do not seem quite yourself today.”

  Erik closed his eyes and shook his head. “No, I suppose I am not quite feeling myself today, my dear.”

  “But…” she looked up in confusion, to the spirit she believed was with her in the room. “You are an angel…”

  “Even angels can sometimes bruise their wings,” Erik sighed. “Christine, you sang beautifully. You always do. I may have brought this music to you, but as the prima donna, you have to bring it to life—in whichever way you see fit. We shall work on it more tomorrow, when I promise, I shall be my usual, angelic self. But for now, I think it best I should take my leave.”

  “Alright, Angel.” Christine said again, still sounding so unsure.

  Erik's heart hurt at the sadness he now saw in Christine's eyes. It reminded him of another pair of sad eyes that were also his doing. “Christine,” he whispered, his voice taking on that supernatural, shimmery tone for the first time that night, “I will be with you at the ball. I will be watching over you. I am always watching over you.”

  Once again, he saw Christine's eyes glimmer, for the first time since his insensitivity had doused her inner flame. “Thank you my Angel!” she said, with a smile.

  “Goodnight, my dear,” Erik whispered, as he soundlessly closed the panel behind the mirror, and began his journey back home. He had more amends to make and another pair of eyes to brighten.

  The hour was late, and there was no light on in Jenna's room, except for the soft glow of the bedside reading lamp that made her niece's hair glisten like copper. Penny gazed into the window and watched as the young doctor held her hand between both of his. She knew his shift had ended long ago, but still he sat here, keeping Jenna company, making sure she was not alone. Blaine had taken her out hours ago for a movie and a quick dinner. They had then spent some time in her hotel room, she was not proud to admit, before he left for his apartment, claiming an early shift at the hospital the next morning. That was when she had gotten the urge to go visit Jenna. She had spent hours being entertained and romanced, and all that time, he had been here, with her niece, holding her hand.

  She knew he did not agree with the treatment she had insisted upon for her Jenna. She knew he felt it was actually holding her back. He was getting nothing from Jenna any longer—no squeezes, no smiles. And yet, his resolve never faltered. His heart remained true. She was humbled that her niece inspired such devotion in the young physician. She quietly opened the door to tell him so, when she realized he was speaking. Silently, she stood by the door, listening as the young man poured out his heart to a love who was not listening.

  “Jenna forgive me, please forgive me,” he whispered, with red rimmed eyes. “I did everything I could for you, but it seems to all be for nothing. Charleson has won—he got what he wanted. I don't even know why he wanted it, but he got it, and I—” he paused, taking a deep breath “—and you—got nothing.”

  He bowed his head low and shook it back and forth a few times before continuing. “God, I wish I had told you, Jenna, how my head turned every time you walked in a room—how my heart leapt whenever I would catch you smile. You were so beautiful, so vibrant. And I was so socially backward that I couldn't talk to you. I just didn't know what to say. But now, if I had the chance, I would tell you, Jenna. I would tell you how beautifully your hair shines in the lamplight, and how the fire in your eyes drives me wild. I would tell you that your laugh sounds like music, and that the skin on your hand feels like the softest silk. I would not be like the other guys, Jenna. I would proudly take you
out to plays, or fancy dinners. I would feed your cat,” he chuckled softly, “I do feed your cat.”

  He reached one hand forward and smoothed the hair on her brow. “And at night, I would hold you. And whisper sweet promises in your ear that I'd have every intention of keeping when the daylight came. I would kiss you and caress you and never let you go.

  “And I know if you are hearing this, it is not what you are used to hearing from me. I like to keep it light, keep it funny, to make you feel like you have something to come back to. But Jenna, tonight I want to tell you exactly what you have to come back to. Me. Please come back for me, Jenna. I love you. And I just want you to give me a chance to show you how much. Please come back to me, Jenna. Please, come back.”

  Penny saw the doctor lean forward and place his forehead against Jenna's, his back trembling slightly in what she assumed were quiet tears. She shut the door soundlessly and leaned back against it for support. She pulled a handkerchief out of her purse, using it to wipe away the tears that had sprung up in her own eyes. Oh that poor man!

  When she had come here, she had not seen her niece for so many years that she had barely recognized her. But she had immediately started making decisions for her, as if she had any real right. For so long, she had been an aunt to her niece in name only, and even now, when her deceased sister's only daughter lay motionless in a hospital bed, she had allowed herself to be wined and dined into having a meaningless affair with one of her doctors, while the other one had kept a sad, lonely vigil at her bedside. What was she doing to this poor man? What was she doing to her niece?

  Penny dabbed at her eyes again with the cloth. She had had enough. Tomorrow she was telling Blaine that it all had to stop. The medication had to stop. Their relationship had to stop. And she needed to start focusing her attention on her niece and this poor, sweet doctor who was so selflessly in love with her.

  Omid witnessed Jenna stare in the direction that Erik's boat had gone. Long after it was out of view, still she stared, almost as if she thought somehow that her unbroken gaze would magically bring the vessel home, and turn back time to before whatever had happened between them to make Erik so irate. Finally, she crossed the room, and slumped down despondently on Erik's reading chair—and Omid could have sworn he'd seen her take a deep sniff of the leather, before tears began to well in her eyes.

  “Jenna,” Omid asked gently, closing the distance between them and kneeling down on the floor in front of her. “What's wrong?”

  “This is not the way this day was supposed to have gone, Omid.” Jenna told him sadly, shaking her head and holding her hands up in a gesture of defeat. “I just don't understand him.”

  “Erik?” He asked, as if to clarify. “Nobody understands Erik. You just have to learn to survive him. Your best bet is to smile and nod and drink lots of whiskey,” he quipped, trying to lighten the mood. And though a thin smile played upon her lips, the tears that had gathered in her eyes began to fall, and Omid found himself at a loss for ways to help this sweet young girl who was now crying for his friend. “Tell me, Jenna,” he'd urged, taking one of her hands in his. “What happened?”

  “I only wanted to be with him, Omid,” she sniffed, shaking her head back and forth. “I only wanted to be with him.” When the Persian still gazed up at her, confusion coloring his face, Jenna heaved a deep sigh and launched into her tale, recounting her sickness in the morning, and her misguided decision that led to the disaster of the afternoon.

  As Omid listened to her describe the frustrating, and at times horrifying, events of the day, he was struck by the bond that had developed between this surprise visitor and his extremely antisocial friend. Erik had allowed her to become a part of his daily routine and Omid marveled at the actual partnership that seemed to have been forged between the two. Though Erik had taught him the way down to the lair, it had only come after years of acquaintance and shared adversity—and grudgingly at that. Erik had never allowed Omid to accompany him on any of his jaunts in the opera house, and yet, Jenna had become his constant companion—so much so that he had even been willing to forego hearing Christine in rehearsals in favor of staying back and caring for Jenna. Did neither of them recognize the significance of that fact? Were they both really so blind to what was right in front of them? While each of them, in their own way, had been so focused on Erik's relationship with Christine, their own relationship had blossomed into something strange and new—something that could be wonderful if they would only let it.

  When Jenna's story had drawn to a close, she gazed off into the fire, and tears wet her lashes anew. “He didn't believe me, Omid,” she whimpered in a soft voice, her eyes still locked on the fire, which held memories of such tenderness between them. “When I told him I missed him. Why didn't he believe me?”

  Again, Omid was wonderstruck that, after all the events of her harrowing day, including the near brutalization by Buquet, the fact that Erik didn't believe her was the thing that upset her the most. He squeezed the hand he still held in his own and very gently asked, “Jenna, why did you make him leave to go to rehearsal?”

  “Because, Omid,” she sighed, as if the reason was the most obvious one in the world, “he would not have been very pleased with me if he had missed Christine sing.”

  “Jenna,” Omid corrected her kindly, “he was choosing to forgo hearing Christine sing, because he wanted to stay and care for you. You were not preventing him from going. He was putting you first.”

  Jenna stared at Omid in silence for a few moments. “He chose me…” she whispered finally, comprehension slowly lighting her eyes. When Omid simply smiled and nodded, Jenna continued, “And I pushed him away. That's why he was so angry when I told him I missed him.”

  “Those words would be hard for him to believe under the best of circumstances, my dear,” Omid confirmed. “But after the tensions of the morning and afternoon, I believe he just snapped. He was trying to do what you wanted, by leaving, but if I know Erik, he probably feels as if he was somehow to blame for the danger that befell you because he was not there.”

  The sorrow that now contorted the young girl's face was almost too much for Omid to bear. “Now, now, Jenna,” Omid patted the hand he was holding with his other hand. “Just give him time. He will come around.”

  It was at that moment that a shadow fell over the room, and Jenna and Omid both looked up to see Erik standing tall at the edge of the rug, taking in the scene before him. His gaze was locked on Jenna's from the moment their eyes met, and Omid was barely an afterthought as he commanded, “Daroga, leave us.”

  Omid turned back to Jenna, squeezing her hand once more and asking “Are you alright?”

  “I am, Omid,” she nodded, never shifting her gaze from Erik's as she murmured, “Thank you. You should go.”

  Omid rose from the floor, and with a gentle pat to Jenna's back, he crossed to the passage by the kitchen from which he could take his leave.

  Jenna stood, when they were alone, and they stared into each other’s eyes for a silent moment more. Then, all at once, they closed the distance between them, and with hands clasped, each in the other’s, they both spilled apologies for their thoughtless actions and begged each other’s forgiveness.

  “I'm sorry—”

  “I'm so sorry—”

  “Forgive me for my rudeness—”

  “Forgive me for my stupidity—”

  “Jenna…” he whispered, and her heart flopped in her chest. His eyes said so much more as he guided her over to the settee and sat down beside her, never letting go of her hands. “Jenna I was wrong for being so angry.”

  “No, Erik,” she interrupted. “I understand. I never should have traversed the tunnels without you. It was thoughtless. It was stupid…”

  “It was dangerous, Jenna. So dangerous, and I…” Erik paused, realizing that with his next words he would be exposing a part of himself that he had never before revealed to another person. But just as with his past—just as with his face—he trusted her to
understand. With a deep breath, and a shaky voice, he admitted, “I was so afraid.”

  “Afraid, Erik?” she looked at him quizzically.

  “Afraid,” he said again, admitting a vulnerability he himself had only recently realized he possessed. “When I saw Buquet, with his filthy hands all over you, I wanted blood, Jenna. I was going to kill him—I was going to return to my murderous ways.”

  “But you didn't,” Jenna was quick to point out.

  “But I would have, Jenna. Because at that moment, through the rage, through the bloodlust, I was so afraid.” He paused slightly, his eyes entreating her to understand before he continued. “Of losing you.”

  Jenna just stared at him, dumbstruck, at that declaration. “Oh, Erik,” she whispered when she once again found the breath to speak.

  “Jenna, if anything had happened…” he continued, and to her horror, Jenna saw that he was shaking. “I would never have forgiven myself.”

  So it was as Omid said. Erik blamed himself for her carelessness. “Shhhhh, Erik,” she whispered, as she freed one of her hands from his and used it to cup his cheek. “I'm here. I'm still here.”

  “I am not ready, Jenna,” he looked at her, his eyes dark with emotions that he could not yet articulate. “I'm not ready to let you go.”

  “You don't have to, Erik,” she murmured, pulling him close as he rested his head on her shoulder. “I'm here,” she assured him, stroking her fingers through his hair. “I'm still here.”

  Neither knew how long they sat there, the comforts of each other’s arms chasing away the demons of the day. They had not lost each other, as they each had feared. But in the back of both of their minds was the knowledge that one day—one day soon—they would. And that made their mutual need to be together seem so much more urgent.

  After a time, when she felt Erik's heartbeat calm and his breathing return to normal, Jenna asked him, “So, how did your lesson go?” Erik sighed and pulled a bit away from her, but his eyes looked much more relaxed as he said, “In truth, it was not the most productive lesson, Jenna. I was not in the best of spirits, and I argued with Christine about the interpretation of a new aria I wrote.”