The Secret Door: A Phantom of the Opera Novel

by J. Smith

  Erik had often wondered why women's fashions required so many complicated layers, but in that moment he discovered the true reason. It was to forestall the sweet Elysium, that earthly paradise that occurs when a man first gazes upon his woman's breasts. Though deft at many things, Erik's trembling fingers stumbled and erred as he tried to free her sweet flesh from the confines of its clothing. When Jenna noticed a look of despair cross his face, she removed her hands briefly from his person so that she could help him achieve his goal. Bodice unbuttoned and pushed away, Erik muttered a brief prayer of thanks that Jenna had never taken to wearing a corset. He gazed at her body, so beautiful to behold, and slowly, gently, he pulled her shift away.

  When she was bare to him, Erik swallowed hard, feeling a shudder run through his entire body at her sheer loveliness. He looked up into her eyes, as if to beg the privilege to touch her, but when Jenna gently smiled and whispered, “Please, Erik. Touch me,” he found all the encouragement he needed. Almost reverently, Erik reached forth a shaking hand to touch the now unfettered treasure that was presented before him, luxuriating in her breast's silken texture, delighting in its warmth. “Jenna,” he marveled in wonder as his hands continued to knead and explore, “You are so soft. And yet,” he added, as he delicately pinched the nibs in the center of each breast, “here you are so hard.”

  “It is because of you, Erik,” she told him, her voice a ragged and harsh whisper. “Because of the desire you inspire in me.”

  Erik moaned and lowered his lashes as he bent to take one of her pink pearls between his lips. As he sucked her into his mouth, Jenna could not hold back a cry of sheer abandon as she threw her head back and clutched him closer to her. “Erik,” she whimpered, “Oh, Erik.”

  “My Jenna,” he moaned against her breast at the sound of longing in her voice, “you make such sweet music.” Too far gone to make any reply, she simply shifted her body so that she was straddling his hips. With her skirts hiked up, so that there were only his trousers and her pantalets between them, she pulled his head up so she could once again claim him with her lips. Pressing her breasts firmly against his bare chest, she wrapped him tightly in her arms as she ground herself against him. “Oh, Jenna,” he whimpered, his body raging for release from this exquisite torture. “You have truly shown me the magic of an embrace.”

  “Erik,” she moaned, pressing his head against her throat as his lips once again began a fevered journey down her neck. “I could die in your arms.”

  Erik took a moment to look deeply into her eyes. When her lashes lifted and she stared right back at him, he said to her in an imploring tone, “I would rather you live in them.”

  Jenna whimpered at the implication of those words and pulled him desperately back to her lips. When they were each heaving and gasping for air, she trailed her finger down to the closure of his trousers, now stretched and tight with his need. “Make love to me Erik,” she entreated when she met with the proof of his undeniable desire.

  “Truly, Jenna?” Erik murmured, sure that he was dying due to the heaven of her touch.

  “Truly, my Erik,” Jenna whispered, gazing adoringly into his eyes, bringing her hand to once again cup his misshapen cheek. “Make us one.”

  If Erik had been capable of rational thought, in that moment he would have realized that indeed, he was acting under the influence of some elusive emotion—the same one that had been tugging at his soul every time Jenna looked at him, smiled at him, touched him. In that moment before the two were to become one, logical consideration would have proven, without a doubt, that this woman had become a partner to him, a confidant, a mate. This was the woman who took the curse of his face and somehow made him judge it a blessing, just in the way she looked at him. This was the woman who took the pain in his heart and turned it into laughter. With the proper analysis, it would have been obvious that if this was to be the culmination of his lifetime of sorrows, he would gladly go through each one again, a thousand times over, if it meant he would one day reach this moment with this extraordinary woman. But with Jenna astride him, touching his face, holding him so blessedly close to her nearly naked body, Erik was not capable of thought. He could only feel. And everything he felt in his heart told him he loved her.

  Before uniting them, Erik reached up and cupped her face in his hands, whispering, “Jenna. My Jenna,” and brought her forward for a kiss. He felt Jenna begin to fumble with the fasteners of his trousers, until she suddenly began to tremble. At first he thought it was in reaction to their passion, but then he realized that her lips had gone slack and the tremors had become violent. “Jenna?” he called, all vestiges of his desire being replaced with concern, as her head lolled to the side, and the shaking consistently got worse. He pulled her face to him to look into her eyes, and noticed, with horror, that they had rolled back into her head.

  “Jenna,” Erik was now frantic trying to get through to her. He lifted her gently in his arms and laid her down on the settee, kneeling beside her and stroking her face as her body continued to convulse. “Jenna, please,” he implored her to answer him, taking one of her hands in his and squeezing it firmly, tears flooding his eyes. “Jenna, please don't leave me. Please come back,” he begged.

  When the tremors had finally subsided, Jenna lay unconscious on the settee. Covering her to her neck with a blanket that Omid had placed nearby, Erik pushed her hair away from her eyes, and gently stroked her cheek. “Oh, my Jenna,” he cried, as he lowered his head to her chest and sobbed. “What have I done?

  The nurse ran into him, out of breath, in the hall. “Doctor, come quick!” she panted, grabbing him by the arm. “It's Miss Wilson. We have an emergency.” He began to run, reaching Jenna's room far before she did. Throwing open the door, he found another nurse observing Jenna, who was thrashing wildly in the bed, her body bucking violently off the mattress. Her skin was blue, her jaw was tight, and her breathing came in shallow, labored breaths.

  “My God, Jenna!” He exclaimed, as he rushed to her bedside, checking the blood pressure monitor, which indicated that her level was through the roof. “How long has she been like this?” he demanded, reaching for the oxygen mask stowed above her bed and turning up the level to 100.

  “It's been going on for the last five minutes or so, Doctor,” she responded, as she watched him frantically place it on her face, his hands trembling.

  “We're going to need to medicate her to stop it. Get a push of Midazolam ready, stat! And we're going to need some Sodium Nitro for her BP,” he ordered. “And a crash cart in case of—”

  “Yes, Doctor,” she said, as she rushed from the room to ready the medication.

  Once alone with her, he battled his urge to take her into his arms, to hold her and whisper sweet words to calm the spasms, knowing as a doctor, that he could not touch her, for fear of injuring her overly laboring muscles. He raked his fingers through his hair as he felt the panic course through his veins. Dear God, what had happened? When he last saw her, she had been resting comfortably, not responding, but not showing any signs of distress. What on earth had changed to cause this reaction in her?

  As the nurses rushed in, pushing the crash cart and brandishing syringes, he felt the tears spring to his eyes. He was a doctor—a neurologist! Yet he felt so useless in this moment, as he waited to see if the drugs would have their desired effect and ease her body's turbulent state. He had dealt with convulsing patients before, but seeing Jenna like this, her body so fragile and unstable, was killing him.

  “Jenna,” he whispered, knowing that she could not hear him, in the flurry of activity happening all around her, and even if she could, it would be no use. “Jenna, please don't leave me. Please come back!” And his tears began to fall.

  33 BROKEN

  He walked down the stairs from his room—well, bounded, really, might be a better word, considering the exuberance of youth and the novelty of being allowed into the main part of the home. His mother's friend Miss Devereaux had come for dinner, and he had been wa
rned that he was to be on his best behavior. “No fussing with your mask, Erik,” his mother had warned him in her sternest tones that morning when delivering his breakfast. “If you are to be allowed out of your room, it is to remain on your face at all times. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Mother,” he said noticing the customary way her pretty mouth sneered and her shoulders shivered a bit when he used that word.

  “Yes, Ma'am, Child!” she snapped at him. “You shall refer to me as ma'am.”

  “Yes, Ma'am,” he responded, too delighted about the evening to come to drop his head as was his habit when his mother snapped at him.

  As she had turned to exit his room, he called out to her, “Ma'am?”

  Once again, he saw her shoulders tighten as she stopped, and, not turning back to him asked, “What, Erik?”

  “Why will I be eating dinner downstairs tonight with you and Miss Devereaux,” he asked in his childish wonder, “instead of here in my room as I usually do?”

  Still not turning to look at him, his mother answered, “Because today marks five years since the day that you were born. Miss Devereaux thinks that is something to be celebrated,” she added as she walked out of the room and closed the door.

  Five years since the day he was born! That meant it was his birthday! Erik had read about birthdays in some of the books his mother had left with him. Birthdays were days of treats and of presents—of songs and of candles and smothering hugs. Is that what would be awaiting him tonight when he went down to the dining room and ate with his mother and Miss Devereaux? Would this be a birthday party? Would his mother agree to a gift?

  “Erik!” his mother had called through the door when it was time for their dinner. It had only taken him a moment to reach the door, since he had been pacing back and forth, imagining birthday cake and fancy paper and presents, but she had not waited, preferring to turn the latch and continue on her way, allowing him to find his own way down stairs.

  Miss Devereaux was there and held a brightly wrapped package in her hand. His mother said he should open it later, but Miss Devereaux said he could have it now, earning an eye roll from his mother, as she left the room to bring out the meal. His present—his first one ever—was a book on magic tricks with a special section dedicated to ventriloquism. He remembered to thank Miss Devereaux without his Mother even having to threaten him, and he immediately sat down and began to turn the pages. When his Mother emerged from the kitchen with a tray full of food, he was forced to put the book away so that they could eat, and Miss Devereaux was scolded for spoiling him.

  Dinner had been delicious, and there was a sweet torte afterward—of which his mother allowed him a few bites—but there were no candles for him to blow out, no songs sung for him, and he had begun to notice that the book from Miss Devereaux had been the only thing in the room wrapped with pretty paper. “Ma'am,” he asked, in anticipation of her gift, “do you have a birthday present for me?”

  His mother bristled and looked at him in anger. “You ungrateful brat!” she spat, as she glared at him with flashing eyes. “I slave all day making a nice dinner, I let you have a bite of torte, and I even let you eat here in the dining room, instead of on the floor upstairs in your usual spot, and you have the nerve to ask me for a present?”

  He noticed Miss Devereaux gawk at his mother in horror, and he felt angry. His mother's friend, who was barely more than a stranger to him, had seen fit to give him a gift, but not his mother. Not his own mother.

  In the books which she so regularly shoved under his door—to keep him occupied, she explained—there were always scenes of families who spent time together, who did things together, who celebrated birthdays and gave their children presents. In the books, there were mothers who loved their children—and who showed them they did. All mothers loved their children, did they not?

  “Mother,” he asked, finding the courage to look into her angry eyes.

  “Ma'am!” she barked at him, raising her hand.

  “Mother,” he insisted, not feeling inclined to be obedient if she would not grant his wish. “Will you give me something for my birthday?”

  He could tell that she was about to snap—about to yell at him again, or perhaps even hit him. But Miss Devereaux cajoled, in a gentle voice, “It is his birthday, Bernadette. Do not be so cross.”

  His mother took a deep breath, and closed her eyes for a moment before looking at him and asking through clenched teeth, “What is it that you want, Erik?”

  He looked at her, his mismatched gaze wide, as if assessing if it was true—if his mother would truly be willing to indulge him, just this once. “Mother,” he said in a pleading tone, beseeching her with his eyes to grant his birthday wish—a wish he had secretly harbored for the whole of his little life. “I would like a kiss.”

  His punishment was swift as her hand flew across his face and knocked him off the chair on which he had been sitting. “Insolent boy!” she shrieked, as Miss Devereaux scrambled from her seat to try to get to him. She was too late, however, because before she could reach him, his mother was at his side in a rage, her arms squeezing his shoulders tightly, shaking him violently as she screamed. “How dare you ask for the one thing you know I can never give? Do you wish to taunt me, devil child? Do you wish to prove to me how inferior I am to other mothers? I was aware of that on the day you were born, when I spawned a demon instead of a babe! I cannot kiss you Erik! Nobody will ever kiss you! You are a monster! YOUR TOUCH IS POISON!” Miss Devereaux was finally able to pull his mother off of him, and by the time she turned to comfort the boy, he had already scrambled up the stairs toward his room, the slam of the door a moment later not nearly as loud as the endless refrain that played and replayed in his head. You are a monster, Erik. YOUR TOUCH IS POISON.

  When Jenna's tremors had finally died down and the nurses had left her room to start setting the chaos on the floor aright, he sat there a few quiet moments more, simply staring at her and stroking her hair. He thanked God that the medicines had worked and that Jenna had stabilized and was merely unconscious once more. Yet, as he gazed at her, the oxygen mask still covering her nose and mouth, making her breathing come easier, he got the distinct impression that something had changed. “Jenna,” he whispered, “Why do you suddenly feel so much farther away?” Eventually, he rose from his vigil beside her bed and made his way to the nurse's station, taking her chart with him. He flipped to the most recent entries and scanned the notes on the page, his eyes crinkling, as he flipped the pages in a backwards direction. Looking up, he saw Jenna's nurse, and called her over. “Maureen,” he asked in a quizzical tone. “When did Miss Wilson receive her last dose of Zolpidem?”

  “Oh, that was discontinued yesterday,” she told him matter-of-factly. “Dr. Charleson wrote the order.” She turned the page and pointed to the uneven scrawl that indeed stopped the medication.

  “Alright,” he said nodding, still scanning the page, “but when was she given her taper down dose?”

  “Taper down dose?” The nurse asked.

  “Yes,” the doctor said, “you cannot stop Zolpidem cold turkey. You have to taper the dose over several weeks.”

  The nurse began to look confused. “I spoke with Dr. Charleson myself yesterday. He said the family was demanding that she immediately be taken off of the drug, stating that it has been ineffective and detrimental to her recovery. Oh wait,” she said, suddenly, looking behind him. He turned and followed her gaze to see Charleson and a colleague laughing and walking down the hall. Charleson moved right past Jenna's room, never even stopping to check in on his patient who had just had a severe acute neurological episode. “There he is now,” the nurse said. “You can ask him about this yourself.”

  “I see. Thank you Maureen,” he said, and the nurse smiled and went on her way.

  He rose from his chair and placed Jenna's chart on the desk. He made his way to the elevator where Charleson and his colleague were waiting, apparently discussing something more important than his patient's lif
e, since they did not see him walk up.

  “Charleson, I need to talk to you,” he interrupted, his voice cold as ice.

  Dr. Charleson momentarily looked confused, but upon turning and seeing who it was, he rolled his eyes and a bored expression came over his face. “Oh. It's you. Look I really don't have time for—”

  “Could we talk in private, Doctor?” he said tightly.

  “I don't really have anything to say to you, Doctor.”

  “Well, I have plenty to say to you!”

  “Look,” he began, looking at his watch, “send it in an email, because—”

  Suddenly, Charleson felt himself picked up by the lapels of his lab coat and shoved up against the wall. “I suggest you make the time to listen to me, Charleson! Just like it would have been nice for you to take the time to check on your patient who could have died this afternoon.”

  Charleson looked at him in confusion, “What are you talking about?”

  “Miss Wilson—”

  “You can have your little pet back, Doctor,” Charleson sneered. “I recused myself from Miss Wilson's case.”

  “I wish you had done that before you discontinued the Zolpidem,” he seethed through clenched teeth, shaking Charleson a bit by the collar.

  Charleson rolled his eyes. “I did exactly what you and Penny wanted. I thought you'd be glad. Now get your hands off of me before I—”

  “You know you can't discontinue Zolpidem cold turkey! It has to be tapered or else it can cause withdrawal symptoms.”

  Charleson shook his head, “That type of reaction is very rare.”

  The younger doctor brought his face very close to Charleson's and through clenched teeth, he spat, “Well, I just spent a half hour in Miss Wilson's room because she was convulsing uncontrollably. She was cyanotic and her blood pressure was dangerously high. She needed medication just to stop the seizing and to prevent her from going into cardiac arrest, and she is currently hooked up to an oxygen machine to help her breathe. I do not care that the reaction is rare, Doctor. It happened to her!”