The Secret Door: A Phantom of the Opera Novel

by J. Smith

  “OK,” Trudeau got back to the question at hand. “You gonna be here tomorrow? I can bring Red by.”

  “That would be fine,” he muttered. “Just page me when you get here.”

  “Hey, do you mind if I bring some of her other stuff too? You know, just to get it out of the apartment? Mindy wants to start leaving stuff at my place, and she says having boxes of Jenna's things around really creeps her out.”

  He had to resist the urge to strangle the weasel. “That would be fine, Mr. Trudeau.”

  “Cool.” Trudeau turned back to Jenna and reached for her leg again.

  “Um, Mr. Trudeau,” the doctor interrupted him. “I can take it from here. You are excused.”

  “Oh,” Jake said, surprised. “Thanks, Doc!” He walked out of the room, never looking back at Jenna.

  The doctor glared after him, shaking his head. “Really, Jenna,” He asked, turning back to her, and manipulating her leg back and forth to complete the therapy he could not bear to see Trudeau perform. “What did you see in him? You deserve so much better.” He paused for a moment, moving around to her other side, lifting her arm above her head and moving it in wide circles. “No matter. I will note on the chart that I do not want him performing your therapy in the future. Besides the conflict of interest, he's simply an idiot!”

  Erik wandered through the tunnels behind the opera house walls. He had not seen anyone on his trek to release the frogs to their natural habitat, and each one had happily returned to the marsh with a grateful croak. Somehow, however, the successful mission had done nothing to improve his darkened disposition. There was no good reason for his mood to be so bleak. He had achieved his objective of harassing the bovine soprano whom he loathed. Her shrieks had been satisfying, and he could only assume that the note he left had clearly made his point that she was not to continue to bully innocent young girls in the future. He had accomplished his goal exactly as planned. Well, he thought, feeling himself sink deeper into a foul frame of mind, he had not exactly acted alone, had he? They had carried out the plan together.

  Jenna. He was forced to admit that his guest was the reason he was so ill spirited. It was not that she had done anything wrong—on the contrary, she had followed his instructions to the letter, she had marveled at his ingenuity, and she had shared in his sense of triumph. Though she had never met Carlotta and had only his word from which to form her opinion of the cow, she was clearly on his side. Once again, she had given him the impression that she enjoyed his company. Erik shook his head and scoffed at the idea. The last time you thought that, she ran, he remembered. She will run again, his inner voice warned. She told you herself—her greatest desire is to get back home. And her home was more than a world away—it would take longer than a lifetime to get there.

  “I like your smile,” she had said to him with a smile of her own. Maybe she really is insane, he thought. How could she—or anyone, for that matter—like anything about this face? His mother had loathed it from the moment of his birth. The slave girls in Persia recoiled from him, preferring death at the hand of the Shah over one night spent next to his inhuman form. Luciana had leapt to her demise rather than confront the countenance she had begged him to reveal. No, there was nothing to like about this hideous visage with which he had been cursed. The girl did not know that about which she spoke. If she did, she would denounce him for saving her from that carriage—surely preferring the crush of horse's hooves to being forced to bear his repulsive ugliness.

  He paused a moment, reaching a hand out to the wall, to steady himself against the wave of sorrow which threatened to overcome him. He could not trust her words of friendship because he understood that if she knew him—really knew the beast that he was—she would hate and despise him just like everybody else. He knew that he was destined to be forever alone, with only the occasional company of that insufferable Persian to temporarily interrupt his loneliness. He had come to accept it He had learned how to tolerate a life lived alone. But now Jenna spoke of friendship—and yet she yearned to leave.

  His heart was twisted with his own confusion when he heard the soft cries of another. He opened his eyes to his surroundings and realized that, once again, he had wandered behind the chapel. He located the fissure in the stone, and his heart first leapt, then broke apart to see the Angel, Christine, weeping again, alone on the floor.

  “Oh, Papa, it was awful, simply awful,” she whispered through tears. “She…she struck me!”

  Erik felt the rage fill him. As he gazed upon Christine, he noticed that, indeed, her cheek was reddened. Who had struck her? Who dared to lay a hand on this poor, innocent Angel?

  “She accused me, Papa, of being aligned with the Phantom.” Christine continued on. “She claimed I had gotten him to plant toads in her dressing room! Toads, Papa!”

  Erik's rage was replaced by guilt. His ridiculous plan had backfired, and now, the one he'd longed to avenge was bearing the brunt of his folly.

  “Oh, Papa, she is just a vile human being!” Her voice sounded angry now, still thick with tears, but stronger. “An evil, stupid woman! I did not put those toads in her dressing room—I'm sure it was no ghost! She is awful to everyone, and she has made so many enemies! Anyone could have done it. I am not the first girl she has called a toad! Besides,” Christine had spent her temper now, and her voice was back to the soft sad tones that so squeezed his heart. “there is no such thing as ghosts.” She paused looking down, “Or angels.” Her sobbing started anew, “Oh Papa, I am so lonely here, and the Angel of Music—he will never come.”

  Erik heard his voice before he was cognizant of what he was doing. “I'm here.”

  Christine looked up at the sound of the voice that was soft as a whisper on the wind. Had she had spent so much time talking to her dear, departed father, that she was now imagining him talking back? “Papa?”

  Erik inwardly cursed himself, realizing at that moment that he had, in fact, spoken out loud. Don't answer her, Erik! Let her think she was imagining things. Let her think her emotions simply have her overwrought.

  “No, my child. It is your Angel.” His lips loosed the silvery words as if on their own accord. “Your Angel of Music to whom you pray.” Good God! He was the one who was insane!

  “Angel?” Christine spoke, her blue eyes, full of awe, beginning to turn toward the wall behind which he stood. “Have you at last found me? How can this be?”

  Erik realized that in his haste, he had forgotten to throw his voice. Damning himself again, to the deepest bowels of hell, he threw his voice to the opposite wall, purposely taking on the ethereal quality that he knew could so easily influence others. “I have heard you call, and I have come to show you that you are not alone.”

  Her head whipped around again, looking in the direction from which he had made the sound emanate. “Oh, Angel!” She exclaimed, her voice filling with joy, “Papa swore he would send you. He swore you would come.”

  Erik let a little mirth enter his own voice now. “He did, my dear.” He made his voice bounce from wall to wall and seem to come at her from all around. “And I have.” He recalled his original goal in posing as her angel. “And I will lift your voice to great heights, and make it soar to the heavens.”

  As Christine spun round and round, trying to locate the precise source of that divine utterance, Erik caught a glimpse of the wonder on her face, and it took his breath away. Caught up in her rapture, she suddenly began to sing the sweet, soft melody he had heard her sing before. She called him her angel, her guide, her guardian. She implored him to grant her his glory—as if he had any glory to give.

  The sound of her voice was pure heaven to his ears, and Erik closed his eyes so that he could more fully delight in her song. Yes, she was untrained, but the clarity and the purity that her vocals naturally possessed were enough to make his heart thrill. Once her voice was developed by his tutelage, she would easily be able to bring him to his knees with a single note. And he almost yearned to kneel powerless before her.
>
  “Angel?” she had stopped singing, and called out to him once again, and Erik realized he had to make some answer.

  “I am here, Christine.” And as her name left his lips, he marveled at how it was perhaps the most beautiful sound he had ever uttered. “And I will be here. I will teach you. I will guide you.” And then he added, in way of warning, “But you must keep me your Secret Angel. Speak of me to no one. They will never understand.”

  “I promise, Angel.” She was facing his wall once again, and he could see that her eyes were wide with sincerity. “I will not tell a soul.”

  “Good,” Erik responded, “for I am yours, and I am yours alone.”

  13 YOU WIN

  “OK, next up is the case of Ms. Genevieve Wilson,” the Chief of Neurology, Dr. Kenneth James, began, looking up from his notes to address his team. The weekly staff meeting was a forum where all his doctors could share and discuss their cases, gaining each other’s perspectives on critical aspects of healing. It was a valuable part of the team's weekly routine, both for patient care and physician growth. Dr. James just wished that sometimes these meetings didn't take so long.

  “She's mine,” the young doctor rose to give his report. Dr. James didn't really know him well. He was new to the team this year, and he was quiet. Still, he had had a successful internship and had a reputation for making sound judgments, even if he did seem a bit idealistic at times.

  The resident began his report. “She's 27 years old, suffering from Traumatic Brain Injury. She came in Monday night after a car accident. Upon admission, her pupils were non responsive, BP elevated, and breathing slow. Tox screens showed no alcohol or drugs in her bloodstream, and CT scan did not show significant intracranial bleeding. She was unconscious upon arrival and remains so. Recent exams show her vitals to be normal, breathing better, pupillary reaction to light returning to normal. She has exhibited some simple movements. I have hopes of her waking soon. And…that's about it.” He began to sit.

  “What is the level of family involvement?” one of the other doctors on the team asked.

  The resident slowly returned to a standing position. “There has been no family involvement. She has no nearby family.”

  “Friends? Partners?” Another of his colleagues asked, as they all made notes on their patient lists.

  “Her co-workers have visited,” he explained. “She has no romantic partner.”

  “Hmm,” said Dr. Blaine Charleson, an obnoxious 3rd year resident. “She works on the 5th floor, doesn't she? I could have sworn I'd seen her around with that PT guy—you know, the short blond one?”

  He swallowed before answering, “Apparently, they have ended their relationship.”

  “Man!” Dr. Charleson commented, shaking his head. “Wish I'd known! Jenna's hot.”

  When the department chief noticed the younger resident's gaze grow dark, he cut in, “Dr. Charleson, keep it professional.”

  “I apologize, Doctor,” the senior resident responded to his boss, before asking, “So why do you think she's still in the coma?”

  Still distracted by Charleson's classless display, the new doctor asked, “Excuse me?”

  “Well, Doctor, you paint a very rosy picture of her condition, yet the fact remains, she's still in a coma. So what's your best guess?” he played with a pencil, looking up at the young doctor with a smirk.

  “I…” he cleared his throat, not exactly knowing what to say, because it was puzzling to him as well that Jenna remained unconscious. “You know, Doctor, that coma patients are very unpredictable. It's hard to say why they remain unconscious or why they awaken. We just have to give them the finest care possible and hope for the best.”

  “I see no evidence of pressure relieving surgery in her notes.” Charleson commented, looking down on the sheet in front of him.

  “That is because it was not performed.” He glared at the senior resident while trying desperately to hold on to his professionalism. “The tests did not indicate that it was necessary.”

  “Dr. James,” Charleson asked, turning to the chief, “may I ask why such a low ranking resident was assigned to a young girl with a traumatic brain injury? Don't you think she might have benefitted from having a doctor with a little more medical experience? Maybe someone who would be able to use his own intuition to better interpret the findings of the tests?”

  “Dr. Charleson,” our resident asserted before Dr James could answer. He leaned in toward the obnoxious physician, hands spread on the table before him. His irritation was obviously winning the battle with his reserve. “I have been with Miss Wilson from the moment she was admitted. I have the utmost experience with her case—which is why I am treating her in the best manner I see fit.”

  “Which is how, exactly?” Charleson calmly challenged.

  “She receives preventative physical therapy. We monitor her vitals closely. We provide sensory therapy, reading to her, talking to her…” his voice trailed off in frustration. Damn. Even to his ears, it certainly sounded like he wasn't doing much.

  “Who reads to her?” Charleson asked, meeting his eye. “Talks to her? You said yourself she has no family. Do we have paid R.N.s sitting and reading to patients now?”

  “I do,” he answered, a little more loudly than necessary. When he was only met with silence from those around him, he added in a quieter voice, “She has no one else.”

  The tension that followed was broken when his pager went off. The doctor looked at the message and sighed, “I apologize, but I have to go.” He reattached his pager to his belt and turned toward the door.

  “Highly irregular to leave in the middle of a briefing, isn’t it, Doctor?” Charleson goaded.

  He looked toward Dr. James, hoping for understanding. “It's Miss Wilson's ex-boyfriend. I arranged for him to bring her cat. I was hoping a visit with the animal might help her.”

  Dr. James looked at the young man, who truly did not deserve Charleson's posturing. “Go, Doctor. We can talk later.”

  The resident shot out of the room hastily, as Dr. James turned to Dr. Charleson, saying, “We will talk now.”

  Erik returned to the lair, looking far more relaxed than he had when he'd left it. He gracefully exited the boat and practically floated over to the sitting room where Omid and Jenna were hunched over a friendly game of Bezique. It did not go unnoticed by Omid that his friend had arrived completely empty-handed. So much for stocking the cupboards—which, as Omid knew, were perfectly well stocked to begin with. “Good evening, Jenna,” Erik greeted her with a polite smile, which she returned, happy to see him looking a little more like the man she had come to know.

  “No supplies, Erik?” Omid could not help but prod. “Were the opera's kitchen cupboards bare as well?”

  “Daroga, I see you're still here too,” Erik remarked with a raise of his eyebrow. “How delightful to know that you have not yet learned to take a hint.”

  “You know I require plain speech, my friend,” Omid teased, taking a sip from yet another glass of Erik's liquor.

  “Well then, in that case, Daroga, get…”

  “Erik!” Jenna interrupted their banter with a little chuckle. “How did it go with the frogs?”

  He looked at her a little puzzled, “The frogs?” he asked. “Well, they did fine, of course. Hopped right out into the marsh, with little prodding from me.”

  “Well, where have you been, all this time, man?” Omid asked. “You obviously were not at the kitchens, and I'm sure the frogs did not take this long to hop out of the box! Why, you were gone so long, I've just about finished your bottle of cognac.”

  Jenna shook her head back and forth, laughing at how Omid incessantly provoked Erik.

  “It's a good thing, then, that I have another bottle,” Erik replied, calmly, taking a seat at the table between Jenna and Omid, looking over their card game to determine that the state of the battle was not in Jenna's favor.

  “You do?” Omid asked, perplexed, for he had only seen the one bottle in the cab
inet. “Where is it?”

  Erik absentmindedly reached over and plucked a card from Jenna's hand using it to trump the card Omid had just played. “It is hidden.”

  “Hey!” Omid protested, though whether it was in response to Erik's move, or his answer, was not clear. “That isn't very nice!” Omid held his cards closer to his chest to protect the secrecy of his hand.

  “When have you known me to be nice, Persian?” Erik asked, smoothly playing another of Jenna's cards. Jenna smiled at the way Erik so effortlessly took over a game that had been quite perplexing to her. He was obviously a master at the diversion, being able to continue his banter with an ever more flustered Omid as he decisively crushed him in the contest. When Erik mercilessly counted up the points at the end of the match, he leaned over to Jenna and grinned, “You win.” The rakish way he said it had her suppressing an urge to hug him, as she recognized the same twinkle in his eye that had been there when he was capturing the frogs. The tension from earlier in the day, however, somewhat held her back. Still, she could not resist arching an eyebrow at him and asking, “What do I win?” Erik discerned a slight shift in the air between them and swallowed, staring back at Jenna, not exactly knowing what to say. He was almost grateful when he heard Omid clear his throat and comment, “My my, your mood has changed. What happened to lift you out of your gloom? Did Carlotta break a vocal cord?”

  Jenna noticed the mischief return to Erik's eyes as he turned toward Omid to answer, “We should be so lucky. She seems too busy breaking ear drums to worry about vocal cords.” The mischievous twinkle left Erik's eye, only to be replaced by a faraway gleam. “I saw her, Daroga,” he said on a sigh.