by J. Smith
Before long, the orchestra had assembled, and the maestro gave the upsweep of his baton to start their warm-ups. They were clumsy, and they were out of sync, and as Erik listened, he mentally composed the notes he would be leaving on the managers' desks, delineating every flaw, as well as his proposed solutions, to ensure that the Garnier did not become the laughing stock of France. Erik had saved them from becoming so time and again, and now that he thought of it, an increase of his salary was long overdue.
But as Erik noted each string in need of tuning, or each woodwind in need of a new reed, he glanced over at Jenna, and saw a look of pure rapture on her face. Her lips were slightly open, and her eyes were misty with unshed tears. Her body seemed pull slightly forward, toward the music, drawn by the song, and when the winds lifted up onto that slightly flatter Bb, her lids fluttered closed and a solitary tear finally escaped. For a single moment, it was enough to take his breath away.
Without thinking, Erik used his forefinger to lift her chin, and direct her face toward his. Her eyes opened and met his gaze. “It's beautiful, Erik,” she whispered, her eyes glistening with sublime joy.
In that moment in time, Erik envied Jenna her less than astute ear for music—her ability to listen without hearing every imperfection, every blemish on the complexion of the song. It was clear that Jenna was affected by music, but she did not demand that impeccable precision for which Erik strove. She could brush aside every impurity—every maculation—until she felt the spirit of the song. And she could love it, flaws and all—and think it was beautiful.
“Yes,” Erik whispered back to her, eyes still locked with hers, “I suppose it is.” Erik used a long finger to brush away the tear that was trailing down her cheek, and for a moment neither of them breathed.
“Ahhh—a-aaah Aaaaaa-a-aaaaaaaaaah—a-a-a-aaaaaaa-aa-aa-aa-aaaa-AAAAAAAAH!” Came a loud caterwaul from the front of the auditorium. Jenna jumped and Erik had to take a step back to avoid being jostled.
“Good Lord,” Jenna exclaimed, looking at Erik in worry. “Is she injured?”
Jenna saw Erik choke back what looked like a laugh, and before answering, Erik held out his hand, asking her with his eyes for permission to grasp it. Jenna took his hand and Erik pulled her back behind the wall, where he took in a deep breath and answered, “No!” his voice thick with humor. “That is what she calls singing!”
Jenna turned from him and once again looked back in the direction of the stage. “Oh, good heavens! No wonder you don't linger here often.”
Suddenly the music stopped, and a hideous shriek was heard from the stage. “Sciocchi! You once again botched my entrance! Buffoni!” Carlotta stormed off the stage, muttering the whole time, “I cannot-a work like-a this!”
“Ugh!” Jenna said, in disgust, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. “She makes my skin crawl.”
“Yes,” Erik said dryly, still looking in the direction in which the diva had stormed. He was getting an idea.
“It is a beautiful day, Miss Wilson,” he said, pushing her door open. “And you and I are going to take full advantage of it,” he continued, rolling the wheelchair into the room. He walked over to the side of her bed and gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Are you feeling up to a field trip?” he smiled sweetly at her, wishing with his whole heart that she would answer him, but knowing that they were not quite at that point. “Well, whether you are or not, we're going on one.”
He positioned the wheelchair next to her bed and set the brakes. Turning back to Jenna, he pulled down the covers on her bed and bent over, placing one arm around her back, the other below her knees. He lifted her from the bed, and despite his intentions to remain completely professional, he could not help but take a moment to savor how exquisite she felt within his arms. He imagined a day when he would hold her in his embrace, just like this, her own arms wrapped around his neck, their lips fused in a kiss. He would carry her over the threshold of their home, and into their room, and never breaking their kiss, he would lower them both onto the bed…
He shook his head, to clear his mind of the wildly inappropriate fantasy. “One step at a time, Jenna,” he murmured out loud, as he gently lowered her into the chair. It pained him to fasten the restraints around her body, but he knew they were a necessity to keep her safe. When she was fastened in, he draped a blanket over her legs before taking his spot behind her and pushing her chair out into the hallway. They rode the elevator down to the ground floor, where he waved and smiled to other doctors and nurses, as he navigated them toward the door to the garden.
“Do you smell that, Jenna?” he asked, as he pushed her down the paved pathways which wound around bushes and flowering trees. “Fresh air! Even here in New York! It's kind of rare, as you know,” he smiled as he continued pushing. As they meandered through the garden, he continued to blabber on about everything and nothing, telling her about his day, telling her how loud Red had been the night before, commenting on the weather, listening to bird song. It was a nice, calming break from the hectic afternoon for the doctor, who had no idea that he was being watched from the observation deck, several floors above.
“So that is my niece,” asked the petite, slender woman with the sleek blond hair cut and clear blue eyes. “It's been so long since I’ve seen Rhonda's child, I barely recognize her.”
“Yes, Ms. Wilson,” the Neurology resident confirmed. “That is definitely your niece Jenna.”
“How is she doing,” she asked, not taking her eyes off the young woman in the wheelchair, nor the young doctor who seemed to be happily taking her out for an afternoon stroll.
“Well, it's difficult to say, Ms. Wilson,” he spoke shrewdly. “She has yet to regain consciousness. With coma patients, the longer they stay under, the harder it is for them to recover.”
“Isn't there anything that can be done?” she asked, concerned. She did not want to lose her sister's only child.
“Well,” he began, “Normally, it is customary to take the patient into surgery—or at least to drill boreholes into the skull around the affected area of the brain, to relieve the pressure.” He noticed her balk at the thought. “But her doctor felt that such a procedure was not necessary.”
“Is that him,” she inquired, gesturing toward the young man so dutifully pushing her niece around the courtyard.
“Indeed,” the resident replied, disdain dripping from each syllable. “That is her doctor, if you wish to call him that. He is trying a new form of therapy. One in which he squeezes her hand and plays her songs, and, apparently, takes her for walks in the sun.” He watched with contempt as the wheelchair's progress stopped for a moment. Jenna’s doctor leaned over one of the rose bushes, and plucked a single rose, careful to snap the thorns off of the stem. He turned to face Jenna, and presented the rose to her. After a few moments of kneeling there in front of a coma patient, holding out the rose, as if she was actually going to take it, the young doctor leaned in and tucked it behind her ear, adjusting her curls as he did so.
“They seem close,” Jenna's aunt commented, a small smile turned up her lips, as she watched the scene unfold before her.
“They barely knew each other before she became his patient,” the resident snarled.
The woman started at the tone of his voice, and he quickly reminded himself to keep his demeanor professional. “Ms. Wilson,” he finally said, addressing her directly, no longer watching the scene below. “Would you care to accompany me to dinner?”
The older Wilson looked shocked. “Dr. Charleson, I am nearly old enough to be your mother!”
“Beauty knows no age, Penny. May I call you Penny?” he asked, laying on the charm.
“Of course,” she answered, put a little off guard by the handsome young doctor.
“Come with me to dinner, Penny,” Charleson asked again, this time taking her hand. “We could discuss your dear niece's case further over a nice meal and a good Merlot.”
“I'd like that,” she relented with a smile, “Dr. Charleson.”
“Really, Erik,” Jenna commented, as she gathered her skirts once more to bend low and retrieve her quarry. They had slipped quietly into the wardrobe room after their visit to Box 5 so that Jenna could retrieve more suitable attire for this part of their adventure. She, Erik explained, would have to take the lead in this, since it was still daylight. He had given her privacy while she changed, slipping away briefly, he told her, so that he could make a delivery to the managers—she assumed it had something to do with the reason they were paying him. They'd hastened to the boat, when he'd returned, and once again found their way to the little marsh behind the opera, which they had visited the other night. “I should just accept that outings with you will never be simple, shouldn't I,” she stated, as she reached toward the underside of a leaf and quickly captured another small brown creature. It was a good thing she wasn't squeamish.
“I don't know what you're complaining about, Jenna,” Erik replied softly from the shadows in which he was concealing himself, making his voice sound as if it were directly next to her ear. “I took you to the opera just this morning.”
Jenna glared at Erik in his hiding place beneath a tree, and when she heard his laughter bubbling up in her ear, she flicked her hand as if she were shooing away an insect, looking directly at him as she muttered the word “gnats!” This only made Erik's laughter louder, and Jenna stalked off in the other direction to continue gathering her prey, before Erik could see the broad smile that spread over her own features.
Jenna couldn't help but laugh, even if she were the good-natured butt of Erik's joke. Being with him was exhilarating. Whether they were skulking around the opera house, or working together on one of his schemes—even when they fought—there was something about spending time with him that ignited a spark in her soul. When she was with Erik, she could almost forget that she was wearing a floor length dress with petticoats, or that the glow in the sitting room came from candlelight and not a TV. When she was with Erik, it was easy to forget that she didn't belong here, that she had somehow been thrust out of time into a strange world that didn't really seem so very strange, as long as he was in it. When she was with Erik, it was easy to feel at home.
But she wasn't at home, she thought, the smile fading from her face. She knew that Erik had been hard at work trying to find some way to get her back to her time. She had complete faith that with his help she would soon find herself back in New York City, with its endless hustle and never-ending noise. And there, in the midst of over eight million other people, she would once again find herself truly and completely alone.
“Jenna,” Erik called, from his spot in the shadows. “I think we have enough.”
Jenna took a deep breath and composed herself before turning and joining him beneath the tree, her valuable targets in the jar in her hands.
“Let's go, Jenna,” Erik said, taking her hand to steady her on the way back to the boat. “We have a delivery to make.”
“How is your steak?” Dr. Charleson asked from across the table, as he looked up from cutting into his own filet to catch her blue eyes.
“Oh, it's delicious,” Penny answered from across the table. “Thank you again, Dr. Charleson—you didn't have to do this.”
“It's my pleasure, Penny,” he responded with a smile. “And please call me Blaine.”
Penny smiled, a blush entering her cheeks, and said, “Alright. Blaine.” She felt foolish, for she really was old enough to be this young doctor's mother, but she enjoyed the attention he was lavishing upon her. She had never married and had been without the companionship of a man for many years. This young doctor was charming and charismatic—so what if she let him buy her a meal at one of New York's finest restaurants and tell her a little about her niece's case.
After seeing him so devotedly wheeling Jenna around the hospital courtyard, she'd wanted to meet her niece's actual doctor—but Dr. Charleson, who'd been the first person to greet her when she'd arrived in the Neurology Department, advised against it. It was late, he'd said, and the young doctor had a reputation for clocking out early. Charleson had convinced her to join him for dinner that night. She could always meet with Jenna's doctor in the morning, and besides, he had some insights into her niece's case that he'd be happy to share with her over dinner.
So she sat here, savoring a perfectly grilled steak, and a fragrant glass of wine, enjoying the elegant atmosphere and the light conversation that the handsome doctor—Blaine—was making. But it really was time that she ask him about her niece since Jenna, after all, was her reason for being here.
“So, really, Blaine,” she asked, sipping her merlot, “how is my niece?”
A dark look of concern entered the doctor's eyes as he looked at her. “Penny, it would be a lie to tell you that I have much hope for her. Coma patients,” he continued, “require immediate, aggressive care in order to improve. I don't feel that Miss Wilson received that at the time of her accident.”
“What do you mean, Blaine?” Penny asked, her eyes narrowed in confusion, her head swimming at the idea that Jenna might not be receiving the proper care.
“Well, Penny, Jenna was brought into the ER when the first year resident was on duty. He's well intentioned but not experienced enough, in my opinion, to handle a case of traumatic brain injury. He did not do surgery to relieve the pressure—believing it was not necessary. He basically allows her to linger in her hospital bed and keeps her company in the name of treating her. He reads to her in lieu of surgery. He plays her music instead of giving her medicines. I don't see anything he's doing for her that is medically legitimate, Penny. And I worry that Miss Wilson is suffering for his lack of experience.”
“Well,” Penny asked in outrage, her voice starting to tremble, “Why is he still on her case? Why is he being allowed to mistreat her in this way?”
“He convinced Dr. James that he was trying some new technique called Coma Arousal Therapy, in which he stimulates her senses to try to rouse her back to consciousness. He wants to be published.” He took a deep breath before he continued. “Penny, I think he's essentially making her a case study, through which he can advance his career.”
Penny placed her fork down on the napkin next to her plate, suddenly losing her appetite. She didn't know what to say about everything she was hearing. If it was true, she was horrified that her niece was getting such terrible care. Jenna was her departed sister's only child. Rhonda had always had such a rough life, but she'd loved her daughter immensely. Penny couldn't bear to think that Jenna wasn't receiving the best of care.
Yet, it was so hard to believe that everything Blaine was telling her was true. She had observed Jenna and her doctor in the courtyard. If she had not known he was her physician, she would have thought him a lover, with all of the care he had been showing her. Still, Blaine had no reason to tell her these things if they weren't true, did he? What would he gain by lying?
Penny took another sip of her wine, and looked across the table at the handsome young doctor who was her dinner date. She had a lot of thinking to do. She had to figure out what was best for the only family she had left.
Erik peered into the dressing room before opening the mirror entryway and guiding Jenna in. As before, the room was a barely controlled chaos, with cosmetics and baubles and luxurious clothing strewn about in all directions. Flowers which had apparently been tossed onto the stage by adoring, but tone-deaf admirers, crowded into vases and pots around the floor. Erik crept to the mannequins on which the diva set her headpieces. “She will be using this one today,” he told Jenna, as he lifted up an intricately curled auburn wig. “It is part of the costume for La Principessa Guerriera. Carlotta loves to be in full dress when she sashays around during rehearsals.”
Erik reached into his cloak to retrieve the small container of honey he had pilfered from the kitchens on the way in. He drizzled a barely noticeable amount onto the wig. He then held his hand out for Jenna's glass jar. Carefully, he unscrewed the lid, and tilt
ed the opening over onto the false hair, positioning it to make certain that all the contents fell directly onto the hairpiece and not onto the floor, confident that the honey would keep them there for the time being. Erik then reached into his cape and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper, which he tucked among the layers of the wig. When he was done, it was completely unnoticeable, and Erik placed the headpiece back on the mannequin to await its owner's return.
As they quickly retreated back toward the mirror, Erik paused at one of the vases and plucked a single red rose. “For your part in our little adventure, my lady,” he bowed low at the waist, offering Jenna the flower. Taking the rose from him, and tucking it behind her ear, she smiled brightly and gave Erik a little curtsey, saying, “Thank you, kind sir.” Then they hastily flew through the mirror, because they could hear motion outside the door.
Carlotta flounced inside her dressing room, going at once to the fur covered chaise. “O, non ne posso più” she whimpered, as she collapsed dramatically onto the lounge, holding the back of one of her hands to her forehead, trailing the other one on the ground. “O, non posso andare avanti,” she lamented her ability to continue with the apparently strenuous rehearsals. She lay there for a few long moments, drawn out by her sniveling and mewling, while Erik and Jenna fought to control their laughter behind the wall. “Oh, ma devo,” she exclaimed at length, when even she, perhaps, had grown tired of her own whining. “They need me, so I must.” She hefted herself upright and walked over to the row of gowns. Once again, Erik averted his eyes, as Carlotta changed into the colorful red, green, and gold gown that she wore in La Principessa Guerriera. Jenna nudged him when Carlotta was done, and they both watched as she reached for her auburn wig.