The Secret Door: A Phantom of the Opera Novel

by J. Smith

  “You did,” he responded dryly, stating the obvious.

  “And,” Omid continued, completely ignoring Erik's remark, “I got the one on the false book that said Erik's Cognac, right before I opened the cover and my hand got snatched by…by…shackles!”

  Erik snickered and goaded, “You missed the one on the dining table that said “Give up now, you foolish Persian.”

  “I saw that one,” Omid spat back, “But I ignored it.”

  “A pity.” Erik clucked his tongue in mock sympathy, “I tried to warn you, Daroga.”

  “You made your point, fiend!” Omid growled, “Now release me!”

  “Gladly,” Erik said with amusement. He reached behind the bookshelf and flipped a hidden switch, and the shackles that had ensnared Omid's wrist instantly opened, unceremoniously dumping him onto the floor. “That should teach you to steal my alcohol!” Erik smirked, as he watched Omid pick himself up off the floor.

  “Well, it's not as if you ever drink it!” Omid snapped, dusting off his trousers and straightening his tie. “Why do you even keep it here?”

  Erik shrugged nonchalantly. “Entrapment.”

  Omid huffed, his voice raising an octave in outrage. “So you admit it! I…”

  “Oh, do quiet down, Persian!” Erik reproved, with a roll of his eyes. “My fingers are getting itchy!”

  Jenna watched the exchange with amusement. Once again, Erik was in his element—his mischievous scheme against poor Omid having brought out his sense of fun and adventure. This was the Erik she enjoyed, and she felt her irritation with him begin to melt away as she watched him lift his arm and easily reach the bottle of amber liquid on top of the shelf. He walked over to the liquor cabinet and poured a glass, taking mercy on the hapless Persian. “Here you go, Daroga.” Erik handed over the goblet of brandy to Omid, who drank deeply.

  When he finished his drink, Omid made his way back over to the bottle, and poured himself a refill. “Where have you two been?” he demanded, as he threw his head back and drank.

  “I just finished my lesson with Christine,” Erik answered.

  “Well, you weren't there all day!” Omid remarked, dabbing his mouth with a handkerchief. “Just what did you do to Carlotta? The opera house is all a twitter about the Phantom again.”

  “Let's just say,” Erik responded, that wicked gleam coming back into his eyes, “she had a rather hair-raising experience.” He glanced over at Jenna and she could not help but giggle. Her heart jumped a little in her chest when she saw the glint in his eye grow brighter.

  Omid looked between the two and rolled his eyes. “I think you are corrupting our guest, Erik.”

  “No,” Jenna answered Omid while looking at Erik. “I was pretty corrupt before I met him.”

  Erik met Jenna's eyes, and flashed her a small smile. In that moment, the previous stress between them was gone.

  “Well, wherever the source of the corruption lies, Erik,” Omid informed, shaking his head, “you may wish to tone it down.”

  Erik sighed at the silly Persian. “Whatever for, Daroga?” he asked, removing his cloak and hat and laying them on the settee until he could hang them up in his wardrobe. “Carlotta deserves far more than what I do to her. She is a wicked, hateful woman.”

  “Nevertheless,” Omid returned. “She is the prima donna. And she has vowed not to continue as such if the Phantom is not stopped.”

  Erik rolled his eyes. “Oh please, Omid. That cow will never willingly relinquish her position on the stage.” He helped Jenna remove her cloak, and laid it next to his. “Phantom or no Phantom, she cannot resist an opportunity to deafen the masses with her unconscionable caterwauling.”

  “Regardless, Erik,” Omid swirled the brandy in his glass as he tried to make Erik see reason. “The managers may take her seriously and start…poking around down here.”

  “Bumbling fools!” Erik muttered under his breath. “They would never make it past the traps.”

  “I hear she even demanded they stop paying your salary.”

  “They wouldn't dare!” Erik responded, completely unaffected by what he considered Omid's hysterical warnings. He sat down on the piano bench and flexed his fingers. “They know if they did that, a disaster beyond their imagination would occur.”

  “Still Erik,” Omid warned as he took another sip of his drink. “I wouldn't push it too far. You know Carlotta can have temper tantrums. If she refuses to go on, even temporarily, there is no one who can take her place. The opera will lose a lot of money if they had to refund all those tickets, and they might not be able to afford to pay your salary.”

  A smile crossed Erik's face as he began to play softly. He remembered the angel with whom he'd spent a portion of the afternoon. How beautiful and pure was her voice! How warm and inviting was her smile. There will soon be someone who could take Carlotta's place, he thought to himself. And that someone is Christine.

  The power of a glance has been so much abused in love stories, that it has come to be disbelieved in. Few people dare now to say that two beings have fallen in love because they have looked at each other. Yet it is in this way that love begins, and in this way only. [i]

  He closed the book he had been reading her, his eyes becoming too tired to continue. The room was dark, save for the small reading lamp situated above her hospital bed. He had spent all of his free moments with Jenna today. He took her for a walk in the courtyard, so that she could get some fresh air. He'd sat with her during his break and talked to her about the mundane things that filled his day. And he'd stayed with her, long after his shift had ended, just reading to her, so that she would not have to lay here alone. Even now, when he knew he should be heading home—that he should have headed home hours ago—he lingered, watching her breathe, admiring the way her strawberry curls fell over her face.

  …It is in this way that love begins…It was crazy, he knew. He'd barely spoken to her before the accident, but as he looked at her now, he absolutely could no longer deny that what he had just read in the book was true. No matter how unlikely it seemed, even to himself, he knew how he felt about Jenna. It had started many months ago with just one look—a glance shared over a patient, a smile shared after a mutual task completed. He had started falling in love with Jenna from the moment he'd seen her his first day at the hospital. But he had not believed, for, truly, …few people dare now to say that two beings have fallen in love because they have looked at each other. So, it had proven his singular talent to let unimportant things get in the way, so that he could shove aside this burgeoning feeling that a look had led him to love—a glance had led him to devotion. He should have spoken to her, asked her to dinner, let her know he was interested. If he had, things might have been so very different now.

  He took her hand in his, stroking the palm gently, thinking of all the reasons why falling in love just from a look should be impossible. Yet the words he'd just read kept coming back to him… .It is in this way that love begins, and in this way only.

  Jenna sat on the cushioned chair in her room, reading quietly to herself. It had been a long day, both when they had been navigating the opera house, and later when Omid decided to stay for dinner, after discovering there was once again liquor in the lair. When Erik had returned to the piano, after the Persian had taken his leave, Jenna perused Erik's book shelf and chose a book whose story was familiar to her from back in her own time. Victor Hugo's Les Misérables—the classic tale about love and redemption set with the June Rebellion as a backdrop—would have been published just about two decades prior, she thought to herself, as she eagerly turned each page. She remembered hearing the music from the stage show that, while different from the novel, had been extremely popular while she was growing up. Jenna had always been so moved by the plight of poor Eponine. She had dearly loved the hero Marius but he had only ever thought of her as a good friend, while he gave his heart to the beautiful Cosette after only seeing her once. His love for Cosette did not sway Eponine's own heart, and she even went
so far as to lay down her life for her beloved Marius so that he could be safe.

  Growing up, Jenna had often wondered what it was about Cosette that was so special. Yes, she was beautiful, but what else had Marius known about her when he decided she was his true love? He had known Eponine so much longer. Why could he not return her affections? Why did he have to fall for the fair Cosette after only one glance, when he had a perfectly good woman wanting to love him all along? How was he so blind that he could only recognize her love for him when it was too late?

  A gentle rapping on her door startled Jenna out of her musings. “Jenna?” Erik called softly, questioning if he could open the door.

  “Come in, Erik,” Jenna called out, surprised to hear his voice.

  The door opened slowly, and Erik entered, carrying a cup of tea. He swallowed audibly before beginning. “I thought you might like to have some tea to soothe your throat,” he said, quietly, holding the cup outward to her, his eyes slightly downcast.

  “To soothe my throat?” she asked in confusion, standing up and taking the tea from him.

  “Yes,” he said, shyly, still not exactly meeting her eyes. “After your coughing spell this afternoon, I thought tea might do you some good.”

  “Oh,” she said simply, feeling guilty at the way she'd manipulated his actions earlier, and how angry her coughing had made him. She took a sip of the tea, which was steaming and rich, and all at once she and Erik locked eyes.

  “I'm sorry,” they both said at once.

  “What for?” they asked in unison.

  Each looked at the other and laughed lightly at the way their minds both seemed to be set on the same things. Erik quietly led Jenna into the sitting room, where he motioned for her to sit on the settee before joining her. “I apologize for being cross with you about the coughing when I should have been concerned.”

  “I apologize…” Jenna began, not wanting to lie, but also not wanting to admit that she had tricked him.

  “No, please,” he stopped her by holding up his hand. “Hear me out. I should not have been so cross with you…”

  “Erik…” Jenna interrupted him.

  “Mademoiselle, please,” he admonished her. “Do not interrupt me when I am trying to apologize to you. It is difficult enough to do as it is.”

  Jenna opened her mouth to tell him he truly did not have to apologize—that her cough had been a ruse and that she had deceived him. But when she looked in his eyes so full of genuine penitence and sincerity, the words froze on her lips, and instead she took a sip of her tea.

  “I should have showed concern for you,” he finally continued, when he realized Jenna was no longer going to cut him off. “Instead I only showed ire. For that, I apologize.”

  “It's alright, Erik,” she responded, still feeling horribly delinquent.

  “It is not, alright—the way I treated you,” he insisted. “But…Jenna…Christine cannot begin to suspect that I am not actually an angel.”

  Jenna looked into his eyes, and saw the desperation that lay behind his remorse for being rude to her.

  “Erik,” she asked him gently. “Why?”

  “Why?” he asked her, in disbelief at her simple question. “Because if she knew, she would only run from me.”

  Jenna's eyes narrowed and she shook her head. “Why on earth would you think that, Erik? She hung on your every word as if she adored you.”

  “It is the angel she adores,” Erik supplied, looking down sadly. “Not the real me.”

  “Well, that's because she doesn't know you.” Jenna tried to make him see reason. “If you would go to her, and not hide behind a wall…”

  “She would run,” Erik said shortly. “She would flee in terror to find that her angel was really more demon than saint, more monster than man.”

  “Why…” Jenna asked, shaking her head, her heart feeling tight in her chest, “Why do you say that about yourself, Erik?”

  Erik chuckled sadly, closing his eyes, “Because I know the truth,” he whispered, sardonically. “I know what lies behind the mask.”

  Jenna only stared at him, sympathetically, as Erik rose from the settee. “You have had a long day, Jenna. Perhaps it is time you finish your tea so you can rest.” He walked off, then, in the direction of his own room, leaving Jenna to ponder exactly how bad his deformity could be, that it would cause Erik to believe himself a monster.

  22 AN ANGEL’S BETRAYAL

  “Doctor, this is Penny Wilson, Jenna Wilson's aunt,” Dr. James said, as he introduced the woman who held her hand out politely to shake his. The young doctor took her hand, shaking it firmly, and trying his best to muster a smile. He had hoped for more time before having to meet with Jenna's aunt. He had wanted to be able to tell her that he had made great strides in Jenna's treatment, but he simply needed more time.

  “It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Wilson,” he said, motioning for her to take a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs near the Chief of Neurology's desk. Once she was seated, he sat down across from her.

  “The pleasure is mine, Doctor,” Penny Wilson replied. “Although the pleasure would be greater,” she continued, “if you could tell me my niece had opened her eyes.”

  “That would be a pleasure for both of us,” he agreed, looking down.

  “Doctor,” Penny began, shifting herself in her chair so that her upper body appeared straight and strong. “Can you tell me why my niece hasn't woken up? What is going on with her case?”

  “Well,” he began, frustrated with the small amount of information he could give this woman, who only had her niece's best interest at heart. “Coma cases are very complicated. It's very difficult to say when a patient will come out of such a state.”

  “In fact,” Dr. James interjected, from behind his large oak desk, “Many patients never fully regain consciousness.”

  “But I do not believe that is the case with Miss Wilson,” the young doctor added quickly, as much to convince himself as to convince Jenna's aunt. “I fully believe that she will come back to us.”

  Dr. James sighed heavily, as Penny Wilson surveyed Jenna's doctor. He seemed so earnest, so sure of Jenna's recovery. Did he truly have faith that her niece would be ok, or was he, as Blaine had intimated, more concerned with advancing his career than he was with her niece's well being? “Doctor,” she began, carefully. “You seem so sure that my niece will regain consciousness. But what are you doing to make it happen?”

  “Well,” he replied, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “I have begun a new form of therapy on Miss Wilson, one in which we stimulate her senses to try to provoke conscious responses. The hope is that with enough sensory stimulation, the patient will desire consciousness and work harder to achieve it.”

  “Are you saying my niece wants to be in a coma, Doctor?” Jenna's aunt asked haughtily.

  “Well, no,” he corrected, getting uncomfortable and feeling sweat begin to form on his forehead. “What I am saying is that it has been difficult to find the right motivation to help pull her back into consciousness. Her most recent romantic relationship had just ended, and she has no family nearby—”

  “Are you questioning my involvement in my niece's care?” Penny Wilson retorted, her guilty conscience finding accusation in his words.

  “Ms. Wilson,” Dr. James began, to try to smooth the situation. “I am certain that Dr.—”

  “I never meant any insult, Ms. Wilson,” The young doctor jumped in to defend himself. “But you simply were not here. You don't live here. It's perfectly understandable. Nevertheless, I had to try to find some way to reach her.”

  “And are you reaching her?” she asked, still a bit uncertain. He seemed so sincerely concerned, but Blaine had said…

  He took a deep breath, and his eyes took on a guarded look, which made it clear that his progress was not all that he had hoped. “Ms. Wilson, we have had some progress…”

  “Like what?” she demanded, curious to see what this doctor listed as progress.

 
“She occasionally squeezes my hand when I ask her to,” he began quietly. “She reacts positively to certain pieces of music. Her fingers will stroke her cat's fur when I bring him to visit. She seemed to enjoy the scent of the flowers you sent her…” His voice trailed off, all too aware of how inadequate the level of progress seemed. “Look, I know it does not seem like much, but these things take time…”

  “Doctor,” Penny Wilson asked, incredulously. “I was informed that surgery to relieve cranial pressure is usually the first course of treatment. Why didn't you do that?”

  Informed by whom, he thought to himself. But out loud, he answered, “I did not think the inter-cranial pressure was serious enough to warrant that. I still don't.”

  “Well, if she wasn't that badly hurt,” the aunt persisted, “why isn't she waking up?”

  He looked at her defeated. That certainly was the question. He knew that coma recovery was little more than a waiting game—making sure other symptoms didn't develop while the brain took its time returning to consciousness. But for family—for loved ones—the wait was long and arduous. And he was feeling the strain himself, for he wanted nothing more than to be able to look into Jenna's eyes and finally tell her of his feelings for her. But he was not having much luck making that happen.

  “I don't know,” he finally admitted to Jenna's aunt.

  “I see,” she looked away from him, obviously unhappy with his answer. “May I see my niece?”

  “Of course,” he began, rising from his chair. “I'd be happy to take you…”

  “I think I'd like to see her alone,” she said, coldly.

  “Of course,” he answered, casting his eyes downward and writing Jenna's room number on a piece of paper.

  Penny Wilson stood and silently walked out of the room, taking many of the young doctor's hopes with her.