by J. Smith
“Erik, you don't have to apologize,” She said looking down.
“Of course I do,” Erik insisted. “You tried to do something… kind… for me, and I was completely ungrateful, and ungracious. I am sorry, Jenna,” he stated with a sheepish grin. “Again.”
Jenna couldn't help but be warmed by his offering of remorse, and she smiled, saying, “It's ok.”
Erik looked at her quizzically. “What does OK mean? Are you still upset with me?”
Jenna chuckled, “No!” she assured him. “I'm not angry. OK means the same as all right. I was simply saying that it was alright that you…reacted the way you did.”
“No it wasn't,” Erik shook his head. “But does that mean I have your forgiveness?”
Jenna was moved by the sincerity in Erik's eyes, and holding his gaze, she simply nodded and said, “Yes.”
With a relieved smile, Erik whispered, “Thank you.”
Quiet fell between them again. Eager to keep Erik in the talking mood, Jenna asked, “So how are your preparations coming? For your lessons?”
“I think…” Erik began, not really sure how to answer. In truth, his time at the piano had been a wild jumble of thoughts and inspirations, all converging on him at once into one glorious, yet completely disorganized heap. It would take time to unravel the insights that had taken root tonight, but in answer to Jenna's question, he simply said, “I have enough for a start,” and chuckled. “I've never done this before—I never taught anyone how to sing. I just…want to be able to help her,” he said, thinking of Christine. “She's so alone. She needs me.” He looked at her as he emphasized his last words, holding her gaze. He saw her eyes grow somewhat distant as she nodded and said, “I know.”
Once again, Erik felt the heat of shame build up in his chest. “Here I am again,” he said, “thinking of her while I am talking to you.” He looked at her slightly sheepishly and added, “I haven't forgotten about you, Jenna. I will find a way to get you home.”
She averted her gaze from his and nodded. Truly, he had her a bit flustered. Maybe teatime wasn't such a smart idea.
“Do you miss it?” She heard Erik ask quietly, when she remained silent. Could it be that he too wished to keep talking?
“My home?” she asked.
“Your home,” he nodded. “Your…family?”
“I don't really have a family,” she told him. “I never knew my father, and my mother died a few years ago.”
“ I am sorry to hear that, Jenna.”
“It's ok. It's just…my life,” she shrugged and smiled a little, but Erik noted that the humor did not reach her eyes. “I have no brothers and sisters, and now…” She paused for a brief moment, thinking of Jake. “I don't have a man in my life either, so…yeah. It's just me.” She gave a mirthless chuckle.
Though he did not act on it, Erik had the odd urge to reach out and touch her hand. He was consumed with a feeling that was entirely foreign to him. It was as if, even though Jenna's life had been lived over 130 years from now, he could understand her experience because it seemed somewhat…familiar. Certainly she was not a hideous deformed freak who had been continuously abused to the point that he now hid in a basement, but, somehow, she had also wound up alone.
“Your…intended?” he pressed on, recalling what she had told him the other night.
Jenna chuckled a bit at Erik's choice or words. “Well, he was my intended, but I certainly was not his!”
“Your…boyfriend then,” he clarified, using the unfamiliar phrase she had used the other night. “He took another paramour, correct?”
Jenna gave a tight smile and nodded, “Yup, bingo!”
Again, Erik did not recognize the words she used, but the meaning came through crystal clear. She had been betrayed by the one from whom she expected only love. And yet, that man had not been her husband. He marveled at how such a beautiful woman could be, as yet, unwed. “How is it that you are not married?” When Erik saw Jenna's cheeks turn red he immediately regretted his loose tongue. “Oh, Jenna, there I go again. I apologize.”
“No, Erik, it's a valid question. I know that women marry much younger in the 1800s—at an age when, in my time, frankly, we would consider them barely more than children. In the 21st century, women tend to marry much later. Most of them go to college and have jobs before they settle down with a husband and have children. But I…” She paused, taking a deep, uncomfortable breath, “I didn't really have a master career plan. I have just been unlucky. I always wanted to get married and have kids, but I've never been able to find the right man. I'm what they call,” she made quotation signs in the air with her fingers, “a loser magnet.” She shook her head in disgust. “I've always dated the guys who made me feel special—saying and doing all the right things until they got what they wanted from me, and then dumped me as soon as they found someone else they wanted even more,” she said with a faraway look in her eyes. “Jake was no different, except that I moved in with him—which was a first for me.” She looked down with a sad expression into her teacup. “At least my cat thinks I'm special.”
“Jenna,” Erik said in a hushed tone, instinctively reaching out and tilting her chin up with his hand. “You are special.” Their eyes met, and for a moment, a palpable intensity passed between them. Not understanding why he was feeling so breathless, Erik cleared his throat, saying, “You even got me to apologize three times in two days. That is more than I have apologized to anyone in my life—and believe me when I tell you I have done some things to the Persian…”
Jenna giggled, “I can only imagine.”
“Hopefully not!” Erik quipped and the mood was lightened. Once again, Jenna noticed that sweet, handsome smile light up the exposed side of Erik's face, and she felt such a strong urge to remove the mask and see the other half of that expression, regardless of what Omid had said. She reached out and let her fingertips graze the mask, as his eyes looked into hers questioningly. She knew that, no matter how strong her desire, removing that barrier was a venture for another day. So instead, she only allowed her fingers to trail down the porcelain outline of his cheek, recalling that other side of him that she did really long to know. So she asked, “Erik, will you play with me?”
Erik raised his eyebrows in surprise, “Play with you, Jenna?”
“FOR me,” she corrected herself immediately, feeling her cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. “For me. Omid told me…” she began and immediately saw his eyes roll. She giggled a little as she continued, “that you were a musical genius, and I…”
“Certainly saw no evidence of that tonight,” he said, with that self-deprecating humor that Jenna so enjoyed.
“Well, I'd like to,” she smiled.
“Come,” he said, placing down his teacup as he led her to the piano. He sat on the bench, and began to play, shifting from melody to melody. Many of the tunes were familiar to her from music classes she had taken in high school and college. Great masterpieces written by Mozart and Beethoven, Handel and Bach. But the notes were brought alive anew by Erik's virtuosity, and his passionate delivery made the old songs breathe again, as if Jenna were hearing them for the first time. After he had played for a while, Erik looked up at her with that confident twinkle that was becoming so familiar and asked, “Was that genius enough for you, Mademoiselle?”
“Well,” she began with a smile, unable to resist the urge to challenge him just a bit more. “I don't know. I still haven't heard you sing.”
“Sing!” Erik exclaimed, in mock outrage, “To be fair, Mademoiselle, you never asked me to sing.”
“Well, now I am,” she smirked and raised an eyebrow. “Sing for me! Come on, now, Monsieur. Your genius is on the line.”
“My genius, Mademoiselle?” Erik responded, playfully. “Well, if it is my genius on the line, perhaps I should not sing you any old song, but one of my original compositions.”
“Oh, I think that's an excellent idea, but I have one that's even better,” her eyes sparkled with a mischief of her
own.
“Indeed, Mademoiselle?” Erik asked, intrigued. “What could be better than one of my own compositions,” he asked with exaggerated conceit.
“An original composition,” she began, an impish twinkle in her eye, “completely improvised.”
“What?” Erik was surprised by her demands. “Lyrics and melody, composed spontaneously?”
“Exactly,” Jenna confirmed, looking directly in his eyes. “Or is that too much to ask of a genius such as yourself?”
That ambitious gleam glowed brighter in his gaze. “Hardly,” Erik asserted, playfully brushing off her concern, knowing that she was simply giving him the opportunity to work through a bit of the tangle of inspiration that had hit him earlier. “Would you care to name a theme for the composition—a topic about which I should emote in song?”
“Love,” she spoke before thinking, feeling mortified once she heard her voice say the word out loud. Oh, why had she said that?
Erik's took her suggestion in stride, however, simply stating, “Ah, I see you are trying to make this a challenge for me, suggesting a motif about which I know nothing.”
“If you would rather…” Jenna began to backpedal, feeling horribly about her thoughtlessness.
“Nonsense,” he replied lightly. “After all, a genius must strive to capture the essence of realities with which he has no experience.” And with that, he pressed his fingers to the keys, playing the first sparse, hesitant chords of what would become his improvised song.
After a few gentle progressions, Jenna playfully reminded him, “Remember, Monsieur Genius. Music and words.”
He knew she was trying to tease him good-naturedly, but since the lyrical concept had been dancing around his mind for most of the evening, he glanced her way with a crooked grin and opened his mouth to sing.
A suffocating hold
A dagger to the bone
Someone to invade your
Private space
“Erik,” Jenna commented, jokingly as she listened to the words he sang, “I think you're singing about Omid!”
He chuckled as he played the next progression of chords, and the warmth of his laughter was still somewhat evident as he began to sing the next verse of words.
Always needing more
Vexing to the core
Intruding on your sanity
With a smile upon her face
Yes, Jenna thought at the reference to Erik’s poor put upon sanity, definitely Omid. She found it funny that her demand for a love song had resulted in an ode to the friend that seemed to permanently reside under Erik's skin.
With the third verse, however, the song began to subtly build in intensity, and any resemblance to his friendship with Omid began to fade from Jenna's mind.
Someone to whom you can’t say no
Who inspires gentility in storm
And no matter how much you hide from her
She’ll want to know you. She’ll need…to know you.
Suddenly you find yourself surrounded
With feelings that you never thought you’d know
And though at first, the thought is terrifying
She is with you. She’s beside you.
You can tell that she is frightened just like you.
But you take her hand, because you know together
You’ll make it through.
The song was not done, but that was all Erik had at the moment. He looked up at Jenna, expecting a witty remark, and saw that the light, teasing expression was gone from her face. Instead, her eyes were filled with emotion.
Jenna could not articulate her reaction to the words that had issued from Erik's mouth. His song was simple, it's true, but his voice had been so full of emotion, alternating between a rich strength, and a soft vulnerability. As the tension grew in the song, the understated poignancy with which he sang tugged at Jenna's heart, knowing what she did about his childhood, about his past and his present. Beyond the words, his voice was beautiful, and it affected her in ways she could not express. And while she knew he expected some reaction, she found herself unable to do more than stare at the amazing musician before her.
“Well,” he asked, finally, his eyes looking at her expectantly.
“That was …beautiful,” she whispered.
“It's not finished,” he admitted, somewhat self-consciously.
“I'm sure it soon will be,” she replied, still staring at him with astonishment.
“So am I a genius?” he teased, hoping to get back to that light banter he had enjoyed so much earlier.
“Without a doubt,” She said with a peaceful smile, as the echoes of his voice continued to tease at her memory. She looked at him a moment longer, unable to think of anything else to say. So she whispered, “Erik, I think I'm finally going to say goodnight.”
“Oh…all right, Jenna,” he said, admittedly a little disappointed to see her go. He found that he was really enjoying their time together, but he had to remind himself that most people—apparently even those from the 21st century—needed regular sleep.
“Are you going to work a little more on your lessons?” she asked, looking for an excuse to convince herself she really should leave the room.
“Um…” Erik's mind was so far off the lessons, that he had to think a moment before comprehending what she'd said, “Perhaps.”
“Ok,” Jenna nodded. “Goodnight.”
“Jenna,” Erik called, as he watched her smile and turn to make her way toward the spare room. When she looked back to him, he reached out his hand, and giving hers a gentle squeeze, he whispered, “Goodnight.”
Jenna smiled again, and, wordlessly, walked back to her room. When she closed her door, he stared, unmoving, at his piano for a moment, trying to recapture his earlier inspirations for the lessons. After a few long moments, finding it hopeless, he got up and moved to his bookcase, thumbing through the many volumes lining the shelves. “Time travel, time travel,” he muttered to himself, “What do I have here about time travel?”
“I'm sorry, Jenna. I'm so sorry.” He was as gentle as possible, as he used tweezers to lift the thread, carefully sliding the scissors beneath the knot to open the suture. He knew this should not be hurting her, but he could not help but wince each time he used the tweezers to pull the thread out of her freshly healed skin, the soft pink coloring reminding him how delicate she was at the site of her wound. He repeated the process with every stitch, apologizing each time, until all of her sutures were removed, and he was confident that she would not bear much of a scar to remind her of the ordeal. He tore open an antiseptic wipe from the suture removal kit and used it to clean the area where the wound had been. He stopped when he saw her suddenly grimace.
“What is it, Jenna?” he asked, his eyes crinkled quizzically. “You weren't complaining when I was removing your stitches. What is it about the wipe that you don't like?” He wondered if the antiseptic burned her somehow at the site of her injury, so he brushed the wipe against her arm, but he got the same response. “Ok, it shouldn't be irritating you there,” he spoke out loud, still thinking. Taking a new wipe and rubbing it against his own skin, he felt the cool wet sensation and asked her, “Were you cold?” When, of course, he got no answer, he decided to try something he had read up on last night as he'd sat there, tickling under Red's chin before bed. He extended Jenna's right arm with one hand, and with his other, he ran his index finger slowly down the length of her arm. His touch was feather light, and when he felt her shudder, a smile broke out across his face. “Yes, Jenna,” he exclaimed, repeating the contact again, and eliciting the same response. “That's good! That's good!” He chuckled, almost overjoyed that she was showing a response to the stimulus he was trying. “Keep it up.”
He heard the knock, and turned to see Dr. James standing in the doorway.
“Dr. James, hello,” he said, in greeting.
“Sounds like there's a bit of excitement going on in here,” the Neurology Head said questioningly.
“There
is, Doctor,” he responded, his elation clear in his eyes. “She's responding.”
Dr. James looked over at the patient who was clearly still unconscious. “How so, Doctor?”
“She shuddered at my touch,” he blurted, only realizing how that sounded out loud when he saw the department head raise an eyebrow. “Um…that is to say, she shivered in response to a light stimulus I provided. I was doing some research on Coma Arousal Therapy last night,” he barreled on, wishing to divert his embarrassment. “It's a therapy regimen of extreme sensory stimulation. It's thought to aid in activating the reticular system, which you know governs consciousness. It's been known to increase the number of meaningful responses that coma patients make, and can prevent sensory deprivation, which, as you know, retards recovery and can further depress already impaired brain function. I think she would be an excellent candidate for C.A.T., since she seems to regularly respond to touch.”
“Excellent idea, Doctor,” the senior physician responded, approvingly. “See if Physical Therapy or Occupational Therapy is equipped to provide that type of treatment.”
“Actually, Doctor James,” he interjected, “I was hoping to perhaps perform it myself.”
“Doctor, I applaud your concern for your patient,” the chief began, in a dissuasive manner. “However, we do have therapists for a reason. They have their areas of expertise and we have ours. That is what you should be focusing on.”
“Understood, Dr. James,” he pressed on. “But, in truth, I find the technique fascinating, and I was hoping to make a study of Miss Wilson's reactions, and perhaps present her case at the Neurological Symposium next fall.”
Dr. James studied his subordinate carefully. He admired his determination and willingness to go the extra mile for his patient, but still, there was some cause for concern that he was taking the case too personally. “Are you certain, Doctor, that your interest in Miss Wilson's case is merely academic?”