Thanks to MadLizzy for continuing on this journey with me.

Enjoy!

It became a routine.

Every morning and evening, she'd visit Raoul at the hospital. She would tell him about her day…ask him how he was feeling…if he needed anything…anything at all. He was making very slow improvement; the pain had become less severe, which meant he wasn't under the constant sleep-inducing effects of painkillers. There'd been little progress as far as his mobility was concerned, but Christine knew that could take months or years. The remnants of a stunned expression were still engraved into his face, as though he still couldn't believe what had happened to him.

Theresa and Henry were looking over their insurance options and conversing with the medical staff concerning how to begin the long recovery process. Christine felt that she had little to contribute to these discussions. With Raoul's prodding, she returned to her accompanist position. It wasn't for the money; Christine simply needed some endeavor on which to focus. Nothing good was coming out of hours spent staring out the kitchen window, worrying over Raoul and her father. And, suddenly, music became a sort of savior.

One day, she went to her father's house, plopped in front of an electric piano, snapped a pair of headphones over her ears, and drifted into an endless sea of notes. The piano was situated in what was supposed to be a formal dining room. As she and her father weren't exactly formal people, usually eating in front of the television, the space had evolved into her music room.

Her father enjoyed hearing her play; he'd even dabbled on the piano and guitar in his younger days. Of course, that didn't mean he wanted to hear Moonlight Sonata or Lacrimosa as his favorite football team was scoring a game-winning touchdown. The headphones allowed for compromise. Christine also liked how no one had to hear her when she was starting a new piece—and making a million mistakes.

In the days following Raoul's accident, she would sometimes play for hours, either repeating the same song until she had it perfected or jumping from one piece to the next. She played soft modern ballads, classics, Broadway pieces, songs from operas, ragtime, and even tried to make up a few of her own. The last never came out that well; she'd never been much of a composer.

Still, the music of the geniuses from the past and present kept her occupied.

One late afternoon, her dad walked up behind her and placed a hand on her right shoulder. Christine hit a wrong key and nearly slid off the bench in surprise. Seeing who it was, she slipped the earphones off and stared up at him, little black notes still dotting her vision.

"Woah." Charles Daae put his palms up. "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you."

She brushed her hair out of her face; the room seemed too warm. "Sorry. I guess I was…involved."

"I haven't seen you play like this in a while."

"Yeah. Outside of practicing for the children's theatre, I don't have as much time." While Christine hadn't consciously missed playing only for herself, she had forgotten that feeling of being swept away and mindless.

"Well, I didn't mean to bother you. But you skipped lunch. I didn't think you'd wanna miss dinner, too."

"Oh my God. What time is it?"

"About five-thirty."

She jumped up with a groan. "How could it be that late? Ugh! It feels like it should still be morning. I'll fix you dinner, and then I'm running over to the hospital."

"You don't have to worry about my dinner," he protested. "I'm a grown man."

"If I leave, you'll end up ordering a sausage pizza. I'll make you a salad and some chicken breast." She walked toward the kitchen, her eyes briefly falling on some photographs atop a shelf built into the walls. There was her mother, who had died of a cerebral hemorrhage when Christine was barely two. In the picture, she was wearing an oversized dark blue sweater, and a puffy blonde perm was sweeping over her shoulders. Christine thought she looked more like an eighties sitcom character than a mother; she had no memory of the real person.

Nearby was a picture of Christine and Raoul on their wedding day-complete with the white strapless dress right out of a fairy tale, handsome black tuxedo, and dozens of pink and white flowers arranged behind them. That one made Christine's heart jump.

She pulled out several plastic sacks of vegetables from the fridge and opened the one with two cucumbers. Taking a peeler, she began to remove the dark-green skin. "Dad?"

"Yeah?" He'd take a seat at the kitchen table and was flipping through an auto magazine.

"Sometimes I don't always know what to say to Raoul. I tell him he'll walk again soon. But, with some of things we've learned, what if…." It was difficult to say aloud.

"He doesn't," her father finished.

"Is it wrong to tell him that he will? I don't know what to do." After the cucumber was peeled and chopped, she dug the knife into a tomato, watching as the transparent juice squished out onto the paper towel.

He was silent, head tilted to the side. "I don't know. Nothing ever wrong with hope; sometimes that's all anyone has. But maybe it'd be better if you said you'd be there for him…encouraged him…." She nodded in agreement. "Any idea on the extent of the injury yet?"

"Yeah." The doctor's grim words returned to his mind. "His legs…aren't good." A lump formed in her throat as she scattered a mixture of lettuce and spinach leaves onto a plate.

"I see. Well, I've known some amputees that are doing just fine. They go about their lives like anyone else."

"Right." She arranged the carrots, cucumbers, and tomatoes over the bed of green. Now it looked like a vegetable flower garden; Christine smiled at it and then felt silly. Picking the plate up, she placed it in front of her father.

"What? Now I don't get dressing?"

"I'm getting there." She pulled out a bottle of low-fat Ranch and a fork. After tossing the items at him in a semi-playful manner, she took out a glass tray of honey-glazed chicken breasts from the previous dinner and slipped them into the oven. With a sigh, she sat across from him and placed her chin in her hands. "The doctors keeping saying there's a good chance he won't walk unless there's new breakthroughs. Other functions-we're not sure yet. And the pain. There could be chronic pain."

He slowly nodded in understanding. "Yeah. Lots of complications with that type of injury."

"I've told you we're going to move into his parents' house for a while."

"Probably for the best," he replied. "I know you're not fond of Theresa; the woman is pretty shrill. But I'd hate to think of you handling this by yourself. Hell, I'd be over there every day trying to help you myself."

"I know. It feels like everything is spinning out of control. I can't do anything. I feel so useless."

"You can cook—kind of," he gently joked. She half-glared. Her father had a hard time being serious about anything. While she was crying over her first breakup in high school, he had walked into her room wearing a squeaky red clown nose.

Okay. So it'd made her giggle. It was still completely inappropriate.

"I'm kidding, honey," he continued. "You know that. I feel helpless, too, I guess. This is a rough situation, especially for two young people. But we can't do anything except see how it plays out. Raoul has both you and his family. You have a lot of help, if you need it."

She nodded. "You're right. We're better off than a lot of people in these circumstances. I guess I'll-" Her vibrating phone interrupted her, and she pulled it out of her pocket. "Hello?"

"Christine?" Phillip was on the other end.

"Yes?" Her voice shook as she remembered the last time he'd called her.

"I've got some news. It's looking like Raoul might be able to leave the hospital within a week."

"Really?"

"Yeah. He can get all the care and rest he needs at the house; we'll hire some medical staff and physical therapists. And bring him back to the hospital for tests. Anyway, we don't know all the details yet, but I thought you'd want to know."

"Wait," she said. "I thought he was supposed to go to a special center for physical therapy first."

"Well, he has had some therapy at the hospital. And Mom thought it would be better to bring him home as soon as possible. Raoul wants to be home. We can hire therapists. We can hire anyone who'll help."

"All right," she replied, knowing they were wealthy enough to do that sort of thing. "Well, that's wonderful. I know how unhappy he is there."

"Yeah. We thought it was for the best."

"I'll be down there in about thirty minutes. Thanks, Phillip."

"No problem. See you later."

She hung up. "He's coming home! He's coming—Dad!" Her father had gotten up and was sneaking a miniature chocolate bar from a kitchen drawer.

He folded the candy into his fist. "Just a little dessert."

"But it's bad for you."

"I read a study that said chocolate is good for the heart." He slowly unwrapped it and slid the brown rectangle into his mouth. And then he changed the subject. "So you have good news?"

She sighed in frustration. There was a part of her that wanted to lock her husband and her father up in a tiny room so that they couldn't hurt themselves anymore.

And so they couldn't leave her.

She knew the routine.

He'd sent her a letter with the specifics.

Juanita's. Seven p.m. Anne requested a table in their normally reserved section, explaining that she became nervous in the midst of larger crowds. The hostess nodded, spoke to a manager, and then led her into the quieter, carpeted room.

"Can I have the table at the back?" she asked. "By the mirror?"

"Sure, ma'am." The young woman placed a menu beside the ketchup bottle and left Anne by herself.

After quickly glancing around, she took a seat with her back to the mirror and slid her purse beneath the wooden chair. She folded her hands atop the table and took a deep breath. When a waiter arrived, Anne ordered iced tea and Juanita's Famous Enchilada Trio. It was mainly for appearances; her stomach was too knotted to actually eat anything.

Seven fifteen ticked by; seven thirty loomed. Cheers exploded from the bar, probably either brought on by a touchdown or a home run.

A shiver started at the base of her neck and traveled to the bottom of her spine. She folded her arms around herself. They needed to turn the air conditioning down.

The pink piñata hanging to her right seemed to be staring at her; she couldn't tell whether it was a horse or a unicorn. Was it missing an ear, or was that a horn? Or maybe it was a little hat….

"Anne. Anne. Anne."

She closed her eyes as her heart rate increased. The tenor voice was impossible to forget. "Erik," she murmured in reply.

He popped out of nowhere and slid in across from her, his head tilted to the side. She guessed he had come in through a back or side door. Then again, Erik could walk through a front door unnoticed. His back was now toward the entrance, but the mirror behind her allowed him to see the entire room. Erik always wanted to be one step ahead of everyone else.

The yellow eyes studied her. "You seem older, Anne. Not that I am one to speak of appearances."

"Well, I am getting old," she replied. With the dark hat, she could barely see his face—or rather the mask that looked like a face. He appeared the same, though. Thin as ever. Clad in black. Almost sinewy.

"Not so old in years," he chided. "You only wear yourself down."

"How are you, Erik?" she softly asked, directing the conversation away from herself.

"Well," he replied. "I am well. And you? How are you?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

The young waiter entered with a tray of food and set the steaming plate in front of her. He blinked twice at Erik as he handed her the iced tea, nearly spilling the drink. "Um…can I get you anything, Sir?"

"No."

"Okay, then. Can I get you anything else, Ma'am?" The poor boy looked like he wanted to escape.

"No. I'm fine for the evening, thank you. I'll pay up front. Have a good night."

He gratefully nodded and left. Anne stared down at the melted cheese and green sauce before poking it with her fork. "Do you want any?" she asked Erik.

"No."

She slowly cut off a piece of corn tortilla drenched in the chili and took a bite. Erik merely watched her. Anne set the fork down as the spices burned her tongue and quickly took a sip of tea. "I'm not all that hungry, actually."

"Yes. I only suggested you order so we do not seem odd. I did not expect you to eat the food. It is ghastly."

"Oh." She pushed the plate away from herself.

"How is Meg?"

Anne swallowed, never liking it when her daughter was brought into the conversation. Meg and Erik existed in two separate worlds, and she never wanted those worlds to collide. "She's fine. Growing up."

"Ah. Well, inform her she'll be an empress someday with no worries." He paused and held an index finger up. "Speaking of which…." He pulled something from his pocket, and she nearly ducked out of the way. Erik laughed. "You are so skittish, Anne." In his extended hand were several hundred dollar bills. "Here is a beginning to her empire."

She eyed it and leaned away. "Erik, I don't want your money."

His eyes narrowed. "And why not?"

"I don't need it. Meg and I are fine as it is."

He laughed again, but it was less pleasant. "But you must have a new shirt. That one is about to unravel like a ball of yarn. Take my gift to you. You have done so much for Erik over the years."

"I'm happy to help you; you don't need to repay me."

He crossed his arms, still holding the money. "Why do you always refuse my gifts?"

"You know why," she stated in resignation. "The money…I don't…I can't accept where it came from. I don't even want to know where it came from."

"Ha! You will meet with me in the ghettos, but you will not accept my gifts. Dear Anne, you never change. Who cares where it came from? It is merely ugly designs printed on paper that society decided has value. And it is yours now."

"I don't want it." She wiped her mouth with the cloth napkin and sat up straight, gathering some courage. "Have you been doing anything good for yourself?"

"I am always good."

"If you had only taken a couple of courses like I asked, you would be-"

He leaned forward, and she nearly lurched back. "I tried, Anne. You remembered I tried."

"Erik," she said in a hushed voice. "You didn't try! You burned that man's house to the ground!"

"Professor Buquet wished for me to show my work," Erik calmly explained. "I could do those silly calculations in my head, and he demanded that I show my work. He mocked me; he criticized and scorned me; he failed me. So I showed him my work. There is no greater display of chemistry at work than pyrotechnics."

"You could have killed him."

"Thank you for that information, Anne. I would be lost if you did not notify me of these matters."

The sarcasm grated at her, and his eyes were making her shiver. Why did she ever agree to meet with this man…this wanted criminal who did nothing but mock her?

Because you remember the boy…the lonely boy drinking orange juice at your kitchen table with nothing in the world….

You let them take him away!

No!

She ignored the sting in her heart. Erik continued to speak. "Still, it was a rather reckless thing to do. I am much more careful now." He waved his hand to the side as though shooing away a fly. "Anyhow, why must we bring up the ridiculous past? Let us speak of the future, of more pleasant topics. Like fortune." He thrust the money at her. "Now take it. And there will be more to come as soon as I choose my next path."

"No."

With his eyes still upon her, he reached beneath the table and discreetly dropped the money on the floor. A nearby air conditioner jiggled the bills and threatened to blow them away.

"Erik!" she exclaimed in dismay. Anne reached down and grappled for the money. After she had managed to grab all of the hundreds, she attempted to hand them back to him.

"No, no," he said with a wag of his index finger. "You keep them or you drop them. I will not take them back. Perhaps the waiters will find that sum of money to be of use."

Anne stared at the bills as her mind argued with itself. Meg. Meg could use a few new clothes and shoes. And if there was anything left over, the charities could have it. Yes, the charities would make the money pure again.

Defeated, she tucked the bills into the pocket of her worn jeans. Although she couldn't see Erik's expression, victory sparkled in his eyes. She ignored it. "So have you returned to the piano at all?"

"No. It is difficult to carry the instrument around the country." He said it with good humor. Now that she'd taken the money, Erik had calmed. "Yes…you were good to introduce me to that. There is nothing quite like music. It is truly invigorating."

"I'd love to hear you play again."

"Perhaps someday that can be arranged. We can barter, no? Do you still make chicken parmigiana?"

"Occasionally."

"I have never found one quite like it."

She weakly smiled. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"And you should," he replied, bony hands folded together. "Yes, a song for a meal. But there is never enough time, is there? I can never stay anywhere for too long, you see? It is an unrelenting itch to keep traveling forward."

"It must be nice to have that freedom," she softly replied. She wasn't about to mention that he probably felt that way because he'd never had a place to call home. Erik strongly disliked being analyzed, referring to all psychiatrists as 'society's tapeworms.' "But it'd be nice if you could settle down, too, you know?"

He shrugged. "There is nothing worth settling down for. People who settle down have become bored with life and are waiting to die." She started to argue with him, but he continued. "You will not give me away, will you, Anne? Not that you could. Not that I trust you enough; I really cannot trust anyone that much. Otherwise I would not be alive, you understand? But I wish to hear you say that you will not. It makes me feel calmed."

"I won't give you away. I just…I wish…."

"Do not expend your wishes on me. I do not need them. Spend them on little Meg. Give her my best."

"All right, Erik."

"You are so good." She couldn't tell if he was mocking her again. "I will accumulate wealth and help you retire, how is that?"

"Only if you accumulate it by honest means…."

He laughed again. "Aha. Honest." Erik glanced at the mirror. "I had best go before our room is crowded by a hoard of people and their screaming infants." He hopped up. "Goodnight, Anne. I may find you again before I leave."

She stood as well, her head only coming up to his shoulders. Taking a shaking hand, she rested it on his narrow arm. "Erik. For the love of God, please take care of yourself. Think about what you're doing. For my sake."

He stared at her hand. It may have been a trick of the light, but she swore he even tilted his cheek toward it. A few surreal seconds passed by, and they remained in that position. "Goodnight," he repeated and then vanished.

Alone in the room now, Anne was oblivious to the noisy family that entered. As she walked toward the front of the restaurant to pay the bill, sidestepping an overturned drink on the floor, her mind wandered to the past again.

The other children had always run around playing, fighting, and screaming at the top of their lungs. But Erik would only sit in the kitchen, watching her as she cleaned or made dinner. Sometimes he would share tidbits of knowledge with her. She'd wanted to feed him because he was nearly emaciated—not that it ever really helped.

And even as the years passed…after he'd left for some time…when she discovered some of his activities…she hadn't been able to report him.

There'd been times when Erik had stressed her so much that she'd hated him.

But then she usually hated herself even more.

And….

And the next time he came, she'd bring him the chicken parmigiana.

Christine remembered when her father had last left the hospital. He nearly dove out of the wheelchair and onto the asphalt, climbing into the passenger seat of her car and ordering her to 'get me the hell out of here.'

It wasn't like that this time.

Still too weak to even sit in a wheelchair, Raoul was rolled on a half-upright stretcher and into a white private ambulance. Theresa walked on one side, and Christine stayed on the other. Christine watched Raoul's expression, searching for any signs of discomfort, as Theresa barked orders to the medical staff. Somewhere Phillip and Henry walked behind them, only prepared to step in if the situation became too heated.

Christine had stayed back as a room was prepared for her husband at the enormous Chagny house. From a visual perspective, she adored the home. It was pure white and three stories tall, with pillars in the front and a yard filled with weeping willows, rose gardens, and a cherub-decorated fountain. The bedrooms were spacious and contained fireplaces and balconies. Raoul's father had an office that looked like a library, filled with shelves of books, three computers, and even a secretary's desk.

From a personal perspective, she'd never felt completely welcome there, and so the home put an uneasy feeling in her stomach. She would miss the cozier house that she and Raoul shared.

But it wasn't forever…. That was what Christine had to tell herself over these next months.

When the process was over-when the furniture was moved and Raoul was resting as comfortably as possible in a custom mechanical bed—his bedroom resembled a hospital room. Various painkillers, muscle relaxants, and other drugs were lined up in a nearby cabinet. There were stacks of papers and pamphlets that gave instructions on what to do in certain situations and emergencies. In the beginning, there would be round-the-clock care. Pneumonia and infections remained serious concerns.

After everyone else, including Theresa, had finally left, Christine started to sit down beside him.

"Hey," Raoul softly began, squinting at her. "Would you mind closing the blinds?"

"Oh! Sure!" Theresa had opened them, explaining that Raoul should have some sunlight.

"Thanks." He relaxed back onto the pillow. The exhaustion from the day was evident on his features.

After shutting the blinds, she climbed atop the covers beside him and gently wrapped an arm around his waist. "I'm glad we can do this again. Some of those nurses were always ready to bite my head off."

"Yeah," he murmured. "Phillip referred to one of them as Nurse Ratched."

She softly giggled. "How are you feeling?"

"Just kind of wiped out."

"But no pain?" She tilted her head so she could stare at his face.

"Not too much. I think they've got me on everything under the sun."

"As long as it helps."

He stroked his hand along her arm. "Your birthday is coming up, huh?"

"Oh. I hadn't even thought of it." It was the truth.

"I'd made reservations months ago…."

"Oh, Raoul. Don't even think about that right now. I can cancel them in a second."

"We should still do something."

She shook her head. "I'm just happy you're here. I don't want anything. I promise." Christine carefully leaned over for a kiss, afraid that she might hurt him. They lay there together for a while, the air conditioner humming quietly above them.

Theresa entered at one point, glanced at them, glared at the blinds, and then repeatedly asked Raoul if he needed anything.

He finally said, "Mom, thanks, but I want to rest with my wife for a while. I want some peace. All right?"

Theresa finally left.

"Is there anything you need?" Christine asked awhile later, putting her head up.

"Well…nah. I'm fine."

"Tell me!"

"This is going to sound kind of weird, but…there's a piano in the room next to us. It's kind of like an upstairs den, remember?"

"Yeah. I've been in there."

He gave her a close-lipped smile. "Could you play me something?"

Her eyes widened. "Sure! I'd be happy to. That's really all you want?"

"Yeah. I've missed hearing you."

She kissed him on the cheek and hopped up, slightly confused but thankful that she could do something for him. And she could do it fairly well. Christine began with Ave Maria, thinking the melody would relax him.

It was only in time that she fully understood why Raoul often requested it of her.

Music was the only drug that wasn't in the cabinet.

And so she played for him.