Piecing together a wounded heart
Chapter 1
The Hospital Room
Christine Daaë sat alone in the dimly lighted room where Charles lay with a compress on his forehead. Her father had been on life-support for two days now and she and her mother had done everything they could to keep him alive. Dr. Wilson had come into her father's room the night before and told Lotte in heavily accented French (her English was not very good) that he believed her husband was brain-dead and it was time to pull the plug. Christine, in the limited French she understood from her classes only got the words, "dead, pull plug". She had wept so hard that night that her mother had told her that she could stay with her father that night. Lotte had then, (upon her daughter's request) returned home to sleep, leaving the girl with her ailing father. She sat by him looking for the entire world like a beautiful angel kneeling by the sickbed of a man she awaits to escort to heaven.
She was a child really, only sixteen, but beautiful none-the-less, the true definition of beauty. Her long chocolate hair, pale as her mother Lotte, with the blue eyes of her father always bright with innocence and naivety that was she was cursed with at birth. Charles Daaë was a handsome man, blonde and curly-haired like his Christine. It was easy to see that she was his daughter, mostly because he told everyone. No, the whole of London knew that she was Christine Daaë, the famed beauty of the good man who was everything a woman could want.
Charles was a world-bestselling novelist who was most famous for his famed book about Little Lotte and the Angel of Music, entitled Everything and Nothing. His book was the newest thing in London and of course everyone knew the story. They were tales of a man who was deformed and horribly ugly but could sing like an angel and Lotte an orphan whose head was always in the clouds. How she loved the man for his voice, but knew nothing about him and in the end he left her alone for a man she knew before him, driving him so mad with love and rage that he was forced to let her go and she did. Only to leave the poor deformed man who loved her to go on alone in the world.
Publishers and critics alike often begged Charles to write a sequel, but his book, as he often said, needed no sequel, not that anything did. Her father had always hated sequels and when people asked him what his inspiration was he would always take out his cellphone and flash the wallpaper that was a photograph of him, Lotte and his daughter. 'This is my daughter,' he would say, 'yes, my daughter believe it or not. She is my wife's image is she not?' When they said that she was indeed the image of his lovely wife he would grin in that charming way and say, 'She's little Lotte, my baby is my inspiration.'
Christine had often told him that she did not like it when he said 'believe it or not' that she found it mocking, but he always laughed at her and said, 'ah but I say that because you are so beautiful and my child I as you know am no more than a sentimental old man.' She would laugh at that and then she would go to do her arithmetic with his help of course. He was there for her when she wanted to learn to play the violin and never missed a single performance she had. He was there when she graduated eighth-grade as Valid Victorian.
When she took ballet he was there right beside her mother, turning his cellphone off and telling all his publisher and editors to leave him be while he watched his Little Lotte. Charles had always been an unstoppable man, charmer in every sense, a man who was loved by all who knew him, the kind of man who just lived to love and gave his best at it every day. That was how he used to be; before three days ago, now he was lying on the chemical-smelling bed of St. Almond Street hospital, looking pale and sick. A monitor beeping above him and IVs galore with wires protruding from him, his breathing labored and weak.
The soft pattering of feet came to her ears and when she turned she saw her mother pulling off her sweatshirt and winter gloves. Her makeup was smeared as though she had been crying, the beeping of the monitor beeping eerily. Christine looked over at her and felt the tears coming to her eyes, the nurse brought in the food and Christine took the Jell-O and threw it into the trashcan. She could not stand the sight of it, her father had always made Jell-O when it rained and she did not want to see it. After a minute she tossed the whole tray in the garbage because there was always the nagging thought that her father would never eat again….
"Christine, baby, come here." Her mother's voice was soft.
She did as she was told, going to her mother who wrapped her arms around her, shaking and trying not to cry for her sake. That was something she loved about her mother, so strong and gentle even when her heart shattered.
"Let go mum, cry…" she whispered knowing that she needed to.
"No, he hated it when I cried." Lotte whispered, though her voice was strained.
"Bloody hell mum- excuse the language- but he's unconscious, do you really think he cares?" Christine asked and immediately regretted it.
Lotte cried then, crumbling to her knees and covering her face with her hands, her daughter felt a stab of remorse. "Oh mon ange, s'il vous plaît, s'il vous plaît ne pas dire de telles choses!" Christine sighed, knowing for the first time just how much pain she was in. When her mother started to speak in only French she was in agony that she could no longer hide.
"Mum…Mummy…" she whispered leaning down to take her into her arms.
The older woman held her for a long moment and then they heard the sound of a cough and then a wheeze. Turning the two women saw forget-me-not eyes looking worriedly at them and the two of them went over to the bed where her father lay. Lotte smiled weakly through her tears, stroking the blonde curls from his sweaty forehead. He raised his hand to cover hers with bumpy fingers calloused from the constant tapping of the laptop keyboard.
"Little Lotte, "he wheezed, then turned to his wife, "Charlotte, my Lotte, my dark-haired beauty."
"Yes Charlie, I'm here, Christine's here too." She whispered kissing the corner of his mouth.
He weakly turned his head just enough to give her a sorry attempt at a kiss, and Christine could see sweat dripping from his forehead at the simple excursion. Charles lifted his hand to beckon her over and when Christine came and sat by the bed he smiled. Taking her hand in his he used the rest of his strength to stroke Lotte's hair. Christine waited with him as she prayed that he would be okay, tugging at the zipper of her coat, a nervous habit that meant she was troubled or frightened and one that drove her mother nuts.
"Christine, baby, I want you to do something for me," her father wheezed.
"Yes papa?" she asked.
"Remember the vocal lessons you took?" he asked her, she nodded, "Sing me that song that won you the lead in choir that love song…"
She nodded, how could Christine deny him this, a simple trivial thing like a song to carry him off. Christine blinked hard, knowing it may be his last request, closing her eyes she froze hoping she had not forgotten the words. For a moment fearing that she had in her distress she was shattered to think that she must deny her father this, but opening her eyes she gazed into his blue eyes, that pleading look and just like magic the lyrics came flooding back. The teenager began in a shaky voice that grew in confidence every time her father smiled, or weakly brushed her knuckles with his thumb.
"What'll I do when you Are far away And I'm so blue, What'll I do? What'll I do when I Am wondering who is kissing you, what'll I do?
What'll I do with just, a photograph to tell my troubles to? When I'm alone with only dreams of you that won't come true, what'll I do? When I'm alone with only dreams of you that won't come true, what'll I do?"
Charles sighed in content with his daughter's voice, "Thank you Little Lotte that was beautiful, "he coughed harshly, "God is good, he let me wake long enough to say goodbye. Forgive the boy I died for; promise me you will forgive him. Remember to follow your dreams Little Lotte and that I am always there even if you cannot see me."
His wife nodded, but Christine made no move to agree, she could not forgive the one who had stolen her father no matter what the circumstances. Her father was leaving her forever and she did not care if he was there in spirit where she could not touch him. Then he breathed in and let out the 'rattle' of his dying breath, the monitor went off, beeeeep, beeeeep, Lotte had begun to cry, and the nurse came in to turn of the cold florescent light above his bed. Christine knelt down by her weeping mother to take her in her arms but said nothing. She knew that no amount of comforting words would help her this father had passed on into the next world.