A/N: Hello, all! Allow me to apologize for the delay, but it worked out for the better, because I was tweaking later chapters, and something happened that made me come back and edit this one, which made it better (I think). Lol.
Also, this chapter is not beta-read (I waited for my beta, but she never answered me), so please excuse any errors.
That being said, while there might be delays in updating (due to difficulties reaching my beta for editing), this story is completed. Huzzah! I have it all written offline. It's quite long, so if you don't like long, rambling stories you should back out now. Hehe.
For those of you who read chapter nine before I edited it, for those who may not have re-read it, here are some things that you may have missed that bear importance for the rest of the story:
First of all, Erik wasn't in the exam room (because that would be illegal). Instead, he eavesdropped. Muahaha!
I suggest that those of you who didn't should go read over the changes to ch 9. Nonetheless, this is perhaps the most significant change:
The doctor inquired, "You speak French?"
Christine grinned. "A little. I've been learning it at school. I'm actually the president of the French Club."
"Ah." He nodded, his heart racing. He didn't feel very well. As much as he pitied Erik, he worried for this innocent girl who seemed to have no idea how easily she endeared herself to her teacher. "Have you mentioned this to Erik?"
She laughed. "Of course! He tutors me in French—among other languages."
"That's right, yes. He's tutoring you for opera. He did mention that."
She couldn't resist asking, "What else did he say about me?"
Knowing that Erik had to be nearby, he felt uneasy as he divulged the truth. "He's quite fond of you. He thinks that you're very sweet and bright." He really wanted to warn her not to be too sweet, but it seemed too late, and he couldn't find the courage to speak when Erik had to be in the vicinity. Therefore, he tried to play it off as, "He's very fond of music, so it makes sense that he would be fond of your voice."
Christine smiled and nodded, taking it as 'Erik likes you for your voice; that's why he's fond of you'. Forgetting herself, she blurted, "I think he…I think he's lonely. I mean, it's obvious, because he lives alone—from what I gathered." Her mind warned her not to divulge that she had been to his apartment—especially with Mama Valerius in the room. "If I can brighten his day, alleviate some of his loneliness, I'm happy."
Erik thought he might have a heart attack from joy. He couldn't breathe.
'I knew it! I knew that she loved me!'
He was so happy that he felt dizzy. Of course, that could be from the fact that he wasn't breathing. His chest was tight with giddiness.
The doctor smiled but groaned on the inside. This was bad; this was dangerous. "You're a very warmhearted, compassionate girl, Miss Daaé." I hope that this doesn't spell trouble. He knew that he would need to be on his guard. "Erik could use a friend, I'll admit, but perhaps you two should keep things as they are for now—you know, as student and teacher. I don't think that it's very wise for you to…" His fear choked him. He knew that Erik would be furious, so he softened his statement. "…for you to get too close. After all, you're only in high school. You should be able to focus on more frivolous things in life, such as having fun with friends and worrying about homework." You shouldn't have to shoulder the responsibility of Erik's love, of being Erik's only tie to humanity.
Mama Valerius beamed. She loved this man! "Exactly! You took the words right from my mouth!"
Christine was hurt and quite offended—not to mention disgusted. "Are you saying that I shouldn't be Erik's friend?"
"I'm saying," he nearly sighed, "that you should focus on the present—focus on your lessons."
Her brow furrowed, and she pursed her lips. She just barely kept her anger in check. "So, I should just use him for lessons and not be his friend?"
Erik mentally cheered her on. 'Yeah! Take that!' He kept his cackling locked in his heart.
The doctor put his hand on Christine's shoulder, soothing, "Sweetheart, you're not using him. If you pay him, which I assume that you do, then that is compensation. You're not taking advantage of him; you're working with him, learning from him. He wants to help you with your career. That's what you pay him for." And if he knows what's good for him, then he'll be content with that.
Christine looked into the man's eyes. Suddenly, she began to wonder how her father would feel about Erik. Would her father like him? Would he approve? Would he be against the two of them being friends outside of their lessons? Staring into those dark eyes, she spoke in Swedish without thought.
"Pardon?" the Middle Eastern man questioned.
She smiled helplessly and shook her head. She couldn't even vocalize what she wanted to ask, because the question had been meant for her father: Would you stop me? She couldn't answer it. She knew her father, but she couldn't imagine how he would react to the situation. He probably wouldn't be pleased if she were in a relationship with Erik, but she didn't know how he might feel about just friendship.
Meanwhile, Erik longed to know what she had said in Swedish. His mind whirred so fast that he didn't stop to think of why she spoke in Swedish; it didn't occur to him that she had unconsciously taken on his mentor as her new father figure.
Shaking his head, the physician instructed his patient that he needed to finish the exam.
That being said, enjoy the story!
Chapter Ten: History: Part II
Erik caught up with the pair right as they exited the clinic. Forgetting that it was bad to reveal that he eavesdropped, he demanded, "So, is that all you were keeping from me? Your medical history?"
Christine sighed. "This is what I was afraid of."
He questioned with a frown, "What do you mean?"
"I didn't want you to know, because I didn't want you getting overly concerned."
He retorted, "Heart surgery is pretty major. It's natural to feel concern after hearing it. Not everyone realizes that you're fine."
Mama Valerius opened her mouth to object to the fact that he apparently listened in on their very private examination, but Christine pressed right on, complaining, "That's why I always make a point—if I tell people—to say it as, 'I had surgery to close a valve that's supposed to close on its own. I'm fine now.'" His head shook seemingly of its own accord, and she jabbed, "I'd say we're even. I never told you about this; you never tell me anything. Of course, now that you know about me, I'm at a disadvantage, because you pretty much know everything about me, and I know nothing about you." She turned to her guardian, requesting, "I'm pretty hungry. Let's go grab some lunch."
Erik gaped. There it was again: that thorny, subtle anger. It so easily got under his skin. He got her to pause and look at him by starting, "I…" When he had her attention, he admitted, "I'm not comfortable talking about myself. I don't want pity."
"Neither do I. That's why I never tell people about my medical history."
He challenged, "I get pity; you get adoration."
"Ha! Okay."
"You do! Everyone hears your story and finds it amazing. No one pities you."
She pointed out, "They pity me when they find out about my parents."
He smiled, conceding, "Okay. I'll give you that."
"Heh. Thanks. That's generous of you." They grinned at each other. Erik noted that her anger really was short-lived. "Wanna come to lunch?" Mama Valerius pinched her back in warning.
Uncomfortable, Erik mumbled, "I don't eat out. In fact, I rarely go out."
"You're out now! Why not stay out? You'll be coming over anyway for my lesson. Why not enjoy a lunch out?"
He shook his head. "No, thank you; I'll just meet you at your house."
Christine sighed but agreed, "Okay. See you then. Have a good afternoon…until I see you next." She laughed a little. It made him smile. He was quite relieved that she no longer harbored any ill sentiments toward him.
"I will."
Erik couldn't resist remarking while he set up the music stand, "J'aime l'idée que tu deviennes médecin. Tu es très gentille." 'I like the idea of you becoming a doctor. You're very nice.'
Surprised at the sudden French but not displeased, Christine smiled and replied, "Ce n'est pas pour moi. Je suis chanteuse." 'That's not for me. I'm a singer.' She knew that she should be upset that he eavesdropped, but she found herself flattered instead.
"Bien sûr!" 'Of course!'
While Mama Valerius frowned at all the French, Erik hoped that Christine would continue to speak it. He found her accent adorable. It was mostly American, but there was a hint of Swedish to it. All in all, her accent was quite light; her pronunciation was very good.
Getting a bit shy (and even lazy) about her French, Christine blushed and reverted to English. Erik tried not to let his disappointment show.
"You know, for a little while, because I have trouble with my upper register, I thought that I was a mezzo-soprano. Having that one teacher made me realize that I'm a soprano."
Erik scolded, "You should have realized that you weren't a mezzo when you found that you choked on low notes."
Giggles escaped her. "You know, in choir, at school, the altos have a joke with the first sopranos—'Go choke on a low note!'"
"That reminds me: In what section are you for your school choir?"
"Second soprano."
He conceded, "That's fine. It'll at least help you with ear training."
Christine sighed. "I do love melody, though. I'm not big on singing harmony—I love it when other people sing it with me, but I don't like being the one to sing the harmony; I'd rather sing the melody."
This got him grinning. "A leading lady if ever I heard one!"
Blushing, she laughed and shook her head. "No!"
Erik regarded her like she was crazy. "Excuse me? I'm not going to train you just for you to end up in the chorus or mediocre parts. If that's what you want, you're wasting my time!"
Her lips parted, and she stared at him. She couldn't think of what to say, so she offered, "Maybe I'll feel differently when I'm older."
"You will. Once you have confidence in yourself, you'll want the spotlight." She giggled and shook her head at the thought of conceitedly desiring the spotlight. Noting this, Erik added, "Right now, once we get some proper technique into you, we'll find venues for you to sing in—to build your confidence. You're too used to hiding in choirs. You need to come out of the shadows and let everyone see you."
Christine smiled, bemused at the irony. Erik seemed like the type to hide in the shadows more than she. Meanwhile, Mama Valerius was quite irritable at the fact that she agreed with him. It didn't seem fair that she could go back and forth between like and dislike, between trust and distrust.
Even with the addition of languages, the lesson seemed to fly by.
Christine felt like jumping and down with excitement. She liked the correction of "What I want you to feel is that you're not pushing air; you're pulling air. You're not, but it will keep the inhalation muscles working against the exhalation muscles so that you're not losing air, leaking air."
She also liked when he said after some warm-ups, "When I tell you 'That's right,' don't memorize what you heard; memorize what you feel."
She loved all the new knowledge gleaned from just one lesson—such as how one should roll one's R's when singing in French (as well as Italian and German) for classical songs or how "above an E, you become Italian" to prevent the nasal sound. She repeated in her mind the example that Erik gave her: '"Longtemps" becomes "la-ta"'.
In general, her vowels got picked apart piece by piece. She thought that she was good at making her vowels rich and long, but Erik honed in on her pronunciation even more.
Aside from the Italian "Caro Mio Ben," they had started on a French song: "Villanelle" by Eva Dell'Acqua. In her opinion, it was way over her head, but Erik seemed to want to challenge her, and he seemed to believe that she could handle it. She wasn't so sure, but she trusted his judgment, so she went with it. This was how he got on the subject on rolling one's R's while singing in French.
She was quite disappointed in herself. She just couldn't relax her jaw, and her mouth preferred staying closed to opening. Her shyness was to blame; because of it she "mumbled" through song. She knewthat she was airy and weak. It disgusted her. It also surprised her. She was normally so confident with her singing. Suddenly, isolated and critiqued, she was meek. Erik intimidated her; he sucked the confidence right out of her just by looking at her. She hoped that, someday, she'd get comfortable around him and that maybe it'd be the opposite—maybe he'd give her confidence instead of taking it.
It embarrassed her that Erik picked at her French, dissecting every syllable. She felt frustrated and ashamed that he had to remind her that "vu" (the past participle of the verb "to see") was pronounced quite differently from "vous". He stated this as "It's 'J'ai vu passer' and not 'J'ai vous'. It's 'I saw' and not 'I have you'." The avid French student (and perfectionist) in her wanted to punch something. She hated herself for failing to carry her good pronunciation into song.
Erik remarked, "You look angry."
She laughed. "I'm not angry. I'm just…frustrated with myself. I can say it, which makes it ridiculous that I'm having trouble singing it."
He agreed, "It's the same language." His pupil whimpered, and he chuckled. "You'll get it."
She nodded, but her frustration grew as she failed to grasp it.
Erik reminded her, "It's 'vu,' not 'vous'!" for at least the third time, making her want to stab something. They sang the first line over and over and over until he was satisfied with the pronunciation. "You must sectionalize. Once you have one part down, and only then, you move on to the next and connect it all together."
In this moment, she was pretty sure that she didn't like Erik. She forced herself to keep in mind that it was the hard work that was getting to her and not Erik himself.
To make matters worse, she squeaked on notes that she knew that she could hit—such as the G on the final syllable ("le") of "à tire-d'aile". Erik had to remind her to slide, which was still new to her. She squeaked on anything above an E.
"Release your chin! Don't lock your jaw!"
Along with Erik's reminder, she told herself to slide. The reason she squeaked was because she her cords weren't adducting properly.
She hated the song for being too hard. She hated that Erik had her speak the lines so that he could hear her pronunciation. It was so embarrassing!
Little did she know, she would later perfect it and triumph with it in a little less than a year—and again a few months after that. Her high notes would become lovely, especially the staccato section that she so loathed at this point and her cadenza. She would even take the optional embellishments instead of the simpler parts.
She didn't dare say so, but she abhorred the English song that Erik picked out for her—also in The Second Book of Soprano Solos. She thought "The Sun Whose Rays" was a stupid song. She hadn't seen the musical The Mikaido, so she had no context for it. Therefore, the song seemed dumb. It didn't help matters that she was horrible about opening up, so her high notes were closed off and not attractive. Plus, her tempo was all over the place, leaving Erik to slow down his accompaniment so that they crept by measure by measure after her initial sight-reading.
She got her biggest correction on both songs: her jaw was too tight. On the lighter side, she got the amusing correction of "It looks more natural if you show your top teeth instead of pulling your lip down over them."
While his tone amused her, she didn't want to admit that she was uncomfortable with her teeth. Her top row wasn't that bad, but her bottom row used to have crowding. Before she lucked into meeting the Valerius couple, she rarely saw a dentist (due to her father's lack of funds). What Erik saw now came after a couple of years of braces—thankfully, the ceramic kind. Her two front teeth were actually veneers. She was still paranoid that her old, stained teeth somehow showed through. The rest of her teeth weren't bad, but these two had weird flecks on them—hence, the need for veneers. With all this in mind, she found it ironic that so many people told her that she had a pretty smile. Even when her teeth hadn't been fixed, she received this compliment, which fascinated and confounded her. Were people blind? Did her optimism and pretty eyes blind them? Is that all they saw when they noticed her smiling? It didn't compute.
Erik insisted that she'd improve, but, at this point, she was quite down on herself. With her experience with the two choirs, she expected herself to be more advanced than she was. It was frustrating to find herself weaker and more ignorant than she imagined.
The experience was humbling. It made her realize that she had so much to learn, and that she shouldn't be so full of herself. She had no reason to be cocky about her voice, because she knew nothing about it. She had no right to judge other voices—or to giggle at weaker singers. Erik had pointed out this very lesson that what made singing hard was that the instrument was internal, and the singer couldn't hear what others heard. To her, this translated dismally as: You're not as good as you think you are.
It was quite funny: she went in thinking that she would impress Erik with her knowledge only to find that she knew nothing. While she could sing her heart out when alone, she was meek when singing for someone else—particularly for someone whose very purpose was to critique her. Her lack of confidence got her thinking that she really didn't think much of her voice. True, she giggled (and grimaced) at weaker singers, but, ultimately, she didn't value her voice. She blushed and got awkward whenever someone complimented her on it. She didn't consider her voice something special.
Soon, it was time for Erik to leave again, and she knew that she couldn't entice him to stay longer because he had to get back to have dinner at his place. Thus, she let him go with a hug and wishes for a pleasant evening.
"You, too. Maybe next time we'll have a violin lesson as well."
Her nose crinkled. "Maybe. I might be too nervous. I still need to get used to playing on my own before I get back in the swing of lessons."
"Understandable. I won't rush you. Take your time, and let me know when you're ready."
A smile bloomed, her lips pressing together sweetly. "I will. See you tomorrow."
"À demain." He grinned. It never failed to make her smile.
The knock on his door arrived at exactly six. Sighing, Erik stepped out of the tiny kitchen and admitted his guest. The conversation that he dreaded began once they sat at the pathetic little table (which he had cleared off for the occasion) and ate.
"So, she speaks French—and Swedish. She likes classical music and opera; she wants to be an opera singer, and she's not physically perfect. Hmm. Anything else?"
Erik muttered before taking a bite of mashed potato, "Her father was a violinist, so he taught her how to play. She also plays flute and piano."
His friend smiled wryly. "Of course. …And she likes a lot of your favorite composers."
"Plenty of people like them. They're some of the most famous composers."
A sigh escaped him. "I hope you're keeping in mind that she's seventeen."
"I am. …I'm not in love with her." When he got a snort of disbelief, he insisted, "I'm not!" The lie tasted bitter.
"She's the very definition of your perfect girl, and yet you claim that you're not in love with her. I suppose it's better if you're in denial so that you don't go breaking any laws. When you come around to it, I suggest waiting until she's at least out of high school—possibly even until she's in her twenties." He knew that there was no stopping it, so he might as well do some buffering.
Erik shook his head. "I'll just wait until I find the right moment. She already loves me. Didn't you hear her? 'Love at first sound!'" He grinned.
This disconcerted him. "Erik…I think she meant that to be quite flippant. Besides, she said that without knowing that you were eavesdropping on her! She's a friendly girl, so be careful not to misconstrue any affection she does offer you. She's still a child. She doesn't know what she wants.
"You have to set boundaries. I know that this is asking a lot of you considering your immaturity, but you have to be the adult. You can't let things get out of hand. I don't think she will, but if she does proclaim any sort of feelings for you, I'd keep your distance—at least until she's eighteen. Even then, it's risky, because, like I said, she can't possibly know what she wants. She's a very young girl. I can tell that she's very naïve. Just…be careful."
Erik chose to pretend to listen while really ignoring this sound advice. Christine loved him, and that was that. He'd wait until she graduated high school, but that was as long as he would wait. He might not even be able to wait beyond her eighteenth birthday. He didn't have anything sexual in mind, though the idea was tempting; he just wanted to start to ease her into the idea of being in a relationship with him. That wasn't so bad, was it?
The other man sighed. It was clear to see that Erik wasn't going to listen to him. Rather than spoil their evening together by bringing up the obvious fact of Erik's time in Paris (and that Christine really knew nothing about him), he chose to keep things pleasant by discussing some of the more interesting or entertaining cases that came into his clinic, keeping things generic so as to protect the privacy of his patients.
Following dinner, he had Erik lie on the floor by the door (since it allowed for the most space) so that he could work on him. The bed wouldn't provide enough of a firm surface for his treatment. He let Erik remove his things himself before the skeletal male lay face-up upon the floor. After cracking his patient's back, with Erik's elbows crossed, he started with some deep tissue at Erik's neck and shoulders, working his way up to the suboccipital. There, his fingers rubbed at the base of his skull, digging in using a circular motion. It wasn't long before he got to the things that would really help: cracking Erik's neck and resting his hands so that they applied gentle pressure to his sinuses, draining them through soft manipulation. He worked in silence, wanting Erik to be relaxed (which he would not be if the physician engaged him in conversation, because any conversation that they might have would inevitably end up with Erik on the defensive).
Erik breathed a sigh of relief as soon as he was alone in his apartment. As he cleaned up the table, he smiled, choosing to pretend that he'd just had dinner with Christine instead. She hadn't said much—because she liked to eat in quiet, and he easily respected that. They ate comfortably without much conversation. He made himself laugh by pretending that she offered to help him with the dishes. He sensed that she'd be the type to do so. He'd decline. She'd get bored with nothing to do, so she'd sing or hum while he rinsed off their dishes.
He got so into his fantasy that he began to believe it and looked up to talk to Christine. He found himself surprised to find her gone. He even went to look for her. It took far too long for him to remember that she wasn't really with him.
Wishing that he had her cell phone number, he settled for e-mailing her while listening to the recordings of her that he had. He listened to the isolated one he'd made—the full version of what was obviously one of Christine's favorite songs. He put it on loop. The Swedish made him ache, because it reminded him of her grief. However, this also made him proud. He liked that she had had that breakthrough with him. In general, he had very mixed feelings: sorrow, loneliness from missing her, pride, joy, and eagerness to see her again.
At first, he didn't know what to say to her, but then it hit him.
Dear Christine,
First of all, I would like to apologize if I made you uncomfortable by hanging around for your examination. I know how personal they can be. I hope that my presence beforehand wasn't the reason for your heart rate or blood pressure.
Second of all, I must say that I am astounded by your medical history. Yes, before you say it, I know that there are many people who have gone through more, but there are even more people who go through nothing. You truly are a survivor. Now that I've said this, I'll try not to bring it up again since admiration makes you uncomfortable.
As far as our lessons are concerned, you're already improving. You're still quite timid, but that will go away with time and practice. You had a great deal more confidence already this time compared to your first lesson. I could ALMOST hear you instead of the piano.
I eagerly anticipate the moment when you sing wholeheartedly with utmost confidence. That will be a sight to behold—breathtaking.
I suppose that you're right. I have put you at a disadvantage, but there are parts of my life of which I'm not proud. Unlike you, I don't have pride in my scars. Every scar tells a story, and mine tell tales of horror. I would hate to burden you with them. Perhaps when you're older I might. For right now, I'd rather leave you blissfully ignorant.
Have you any more scars? By my count, you have four. I understand if it's too personal a question to answer. Feel free to ignore it. I certainly wouldn't like questions concerning my health.
How did the inhaler suit you? Did it help?
Hoping you are well,
Erik
Christine sang unabashedly, her iPod headphones plugged into her computer, the earbuds jammed in her ears. For some reason, she felt like listening to "Gabriellas Sång". As she always did, she sang it with her whole heart. She particularly loved the line about how she hadn't lost herself—just left it sleeping.
As the instrumental hit, she refreshed her inbox. Her Internet was a little slow. She just finished the song when the page loaded completely, revealing that she had an e-mail from Erik.
Subject: Hello
She grinned and eagerly opened it. It made her smile anew and even laugh a little. Quite cheerful, she set to composing a reply.
Dear Erik,
Thank you for your consideration, but my blood pressure and heart rate were caused by my anxiety for examinations. Maybe when I was a baby the people in medical garb scared me? Hahaha. Probably.
That's how I like to look at it: there are people who have gone through more, so I'm not that special. I choose to ignore the latter portion of your statement, because it makes me uncomfortable. I'll acknowledge that there are people who go through less, but that doesn't make me better than them.
I don't know why, but I keep istening to "Gabriellas Sång" on loop. I've started it up again. Lol. ((runs to check that her bedroom window isn't open)) Phew! It isn't!
: D
I'm glad, because I've been "belting" it (not belting since I can't belt to save my life, but singing it wholeheartedly). Truthfully, when I sang it at your place, I kind-of tuned out your presence and just went with it. I sang it like I'm singing it now: unabashedly and like no one's listening. Hehe.
For this song, I don't mind dipping into my lower range. Luckily, it's not too low; I still sound semi-okay on the low notes. Lol.
((belts final line))
Whew! It always gets my heart racing to finish a song…usually because I've been holding a long note.
This brings me back to answering your questions. The inhaler really helped! I haven't coughed at all since I took that first hit (lol, drug terminology)!
As far as your questions concerning my scars go, uhh… ((pats self down to count them))
PDA ligation, the one on my arm, my appendectomy with the little dip/ hole below it left over from my catheter, the one on my thigh… Oh! One time, when I was a toddler, I tripped and hit my head on a rock—a pebble, probably, haha. If I slick my hair back, you can see the white spot right in the middle, at my hairline. ((rubs at it)) There's a little bump, too. If you count my cryosurgery, I've got another scar (albeit invisible). I guess the scar for my eyes is really my poor vision. Boo hoo hoo! Lol.
I'm a silly person. I'm even worse online. Online, you'll probably hear every little thought that flits through my head. 'I'm listening to this song!' 'My computer's lagging!' 'I'm hungry!' 'I have to go to the bathroom! Brb!' lol. I'll try to filter most of it out.
What the heck is that noise outside? …Okay, it stopped. That was weird.
((facepalm)) I just said I wouldn't do that, and I did. Oops!
Goodness, my e-mails ramble. I am so sorry! I'm sure you must be SO annoyed with me by now…either that or horribly amused. I hope the latter.
: D
I know I'm jumping all over the place, but lol at your little jab there – ALMOST. One of these days, I'm gonna drown out the piano. It might just take awhile to get that comfortable, though.
: P
I use emoticons way too much. I need to cut back. The way I see it, I'm expressive in real life, so I have to find some way to portray this online; hence, I use emoticons like crazy and spout "lol" like a tick. …lol.
What's the French equivalent? I thought I heard it was "mdr" – mort de rire. That's a bit of an overstatement, isn't it? "Dead from laughing!" lol. Ugh. I need to stop typing that. I'm annoying myself.
I'm listening to the song again. I can't help it. It's one of my favorites. I believe I mentioned to you that I can listen to songs over and over and not get tired – and Meg doesn't get how I can do that. The only way that she can listen to a song over and over is if she's choreographing. Even then, she tends to get tired of it.
Scrolling back up, I realized that I completely spaced out your more serious commentary about yourself. If you'll forgive me, I'd like to address it.
I know that it doesn't seem like it because I'm so silly, but I do have it in me to be mature. I know that bad things happen in the world. Allow me to take a stab in the dark using your allusions.
If you meant literally that you have scars, which you seemed to do, and that they "tell tales of horror," they are unhappy scars. (Duh! Lol.) Hmm… You traveled with gypsies who were apparently unscrupulous and would use outsiders as income. You had a mother, but you ended up with gypsies? I take it that you ran away from home? And if you ran away from home, then your home life must have sucked, which meant that your mother was not a nice woman. Grr. Hehe. Umm…hmm…
Aww! Please don't tell me that you were abused as a child! It makes sense, though.
: S
I owe you a big hug the next time I see you. XP
Anyway, if you ran away from home and joined the gypsies…weren't you an outsider? Using that logic, YOU would have been a source of income for them. I'm assuming that you had musical talent at a young age, so they used that and made you perform.
I must confess: I overheard a good chunk of the conversation between you two before my exam. Hopefully, this won't anger you (if it does, I'm sorry! …then again, you did the same, so we're even!), but my point is that you are underweight, so…you don't like eating, so…you're used to not eating?
Lol. I feel like a detective. Detective Daaé! Hahaha!
Aww! Oh, no! I'm tearing up because my brain made a connection. ((waves hands at face)) Go away, tears! Go away!
The gypsies mistreated you, didn't they? Rat bastards! Normally, I'm not one to swear, but…rat bastards! Lol.
I owe you an extra long hug now.
Now I'm curious as to how you made your escape. I know you had help, but it still must have been tricky. Hmm. Oh well. You don't have to go into that. What matters is that you're here now, and you live an okay life without people being cruel to you. Yay! Lol.
I seriously have to stop typing that. ((almost types it again))
Now that I've depressed myself with my rambling conclusions that may or may not be true, I'm going to listen to happy pop music and get cheerful again. The question is: To what do I want to listen?
Ooh! ABBA! Oh, but that might depress me, too, because it reminds me of my dad. He and I shared ABBA as a favorite band, liking both their Swedish and their English. The day that I listen to ABBA without crying is the day that I've truly moved on from my father's death. Eep! I gotta hurry along with a different thought process before I start tearing up (again)! Ugh. I'm such a crybaby! It's annoying and pathetic.
Umm…hmm…something random….
I'm not looking forward to school on Monday. Blergh. Now we'll have to work around it. It'll be okay, though. We'll meet at four o'clock so I can have time to wind down after school (and change out of my uniform).
Wednesdays, we'll either have no lessons or abbreviated ones, because I have French Club. I'm the president of it, so it's not like I can skip out every Wednesday. If I did that, there would be no club, and that's no good. Oh! I also have prayer service on Wednesday evenings, but you already know this, because you saw me there this past Wednesday.
Ooh! Hoku's a good choice! Girly, fun pop! Yay!
"What you give you will receive
So, baby, bring it all to me
And I will warm you like the sun
I always knew you were the ONE!"
Ooh! I actually sounded good (except not very pop-like, haha) on that high note – and I held it! The lessons are already paying off! Yay! Thank you!
Random note: I don't like the word "baby". I don't know why. Thankfully, no one's ever called me it. She uses it a lot in her lyrics. Grr.
By the way, the song I quoted is "Oxygen". Give it a listen if you don't think it will burn your ears. Lol.
Not that it matters, but Meg got me into Hoku. We were watching Legally Blonde, and we both decided that we liked the opening song ("Perfect Day"). Ever since then, I've been like, 'Ooh! Girly pop! Nice!'
I need to shut up already. This e-mail's getting out of hand. I'm rambling (like I said I wouldn't). I'm jealous. Your e-mails are so concise. Mine wander every which way.
Anyway, thanks for the e-mail. You've given me something to do for the last…however many minutes I've been writing this.
: D
She signed it as she signed all her e-mails—with a heart followed by her name. It didn't occur to her that this was highly inappropriate. She considered it cute and friendly.
Erik stared at his computer screen, still trying to process the crazy e-mail that he just read. It truly did "wander every which way". It made it harder to absorb. At the same time, it made him smile. It was pure Christine: sweet, rambling, ocassionally intelligent, immature because she seemed afraid to show her true maturity, and touching. She touched hearts without seeming to realize it.
His smile crumbled, and he started crying. He couldn't get the idea of her hugging him out of his mind. She'd do it—he knew that she would. She'd do it and be kind and wonderful as she said everything she needed to with just her embrace. He clutched at the back of his head, his fingers gripping at the fake hair of his wig. He didn't cry for long because he didn't want to aggravate his sinuses. He'd finally managed to get them under control; he didn't need his sinutis flaring up.
In an effort to feel closer to Christine, he listened to the song that she mentioned, keeping an open mind. It made him chuckle. It, too, was pure Christine: upbeat, sunshine, and pure love. He wouldn't mind hearing her sing it...in particular, to him. In fact, he decided that the song was actually her discreet way of telling him that she loved him. He ignored the fact that they hadn't known each other for long or that maybe she just randomly mentioned it because she was that hyper or silly. No, no. It was a message to him: she loved him, and she'd be perfectly happy with him. She was ready to be his everything, be his oxygen.
Once he finished listening to the song, he sent a quick reply to her. Given her lengthy letter, however, his e-mail ended up being rather long.
Dear Christine,
You've inspired a new composition. It's quite upbeat and pretty. I'll play it for you sometime.
How funny: I was listening to that song on loop, too. You made me love it. I'm eager to see the film containing it.
You are indeed silly, but I find it entertaining, so don't worry. If you annoyed me, I wouldn't associate with you. I'd give you the cold shoulder. Bear in mind: If you ever try to speak to me while I'm playing an instrument, and I don't reply, it's probably because I don't hear you. I'm sure you know what that's like – intense focus.
Detective Daaé indeed! You're quite perceptive. I must admit: I'm a little perturbed that you overheard us, but, in a way, I'm glad. I feel less guilty for having eavesdropped on you.
Now that we've gotten all that out of the way, we can never talk about it again – least of all in person.
I think that your ability to listen or watch things that you shared with your father comes down to your frame of mind. If you think positively while listening, remembering the good times, you should be able to enjoy the music again. It'd be a shame never to listen to your favorite band again simply because you choose to associate your sorrow with it instead of fond memories.
That arrangement of your schedule sounds fine. I'm actually quite pleased that you're in charge of your French Club. Its members must have a great deal of fun. I'm sure that you think of fun activities and manage to include everyone – including those who may not speak French as well as you do. The idea of you having a leadership role makes me smile. There is confidence in you – apparently, in your love of languages. Now we just have to figure out how to transfer that confidence into your singing. It shouldn't be too hard.
I braved listening to that song. I will confess: I rather like it. It is, as you say, "girly," but it suits you, which makes it okay. This doesn't mean that I will tolerate too much "girly" music, but I will try to keep an open mind. Please don't overload me.
Why do you always feel that you need to "shut up"? Although it takes a while to get through your "rambling," I don't mind it. It's part of who you are. That being said, don't expect me to respond quickly. I need time to sift through it. Dare I say it? "lol"!
; )
Erik
Christine literally laughed out loud at Erik's response. It made her quite giddy that she inspired a composition from him. She hoped that it was on violin. She decided that it had to be; violin seemed to be Erik's favorite instrument; it was their link (aside from singing).
She couldn't get over the fact that he said "lol". Teasing or not, it cracked her up. She ended their thread simply by saying, 'That sounds neat. I can't wait to hear it. I'm gonna go to bed. Good night!' She signed it as usual, sent it, and then logged out.
"Hmm. Pajamas or nightgown? …Nightgown!"
After taking out her one contact and cleaning her teeth, she set to belatedly brushing her hair in the bathroom adjoined to her bedroom. Her brow furrowed as she stared unseeingly at the counter. They had glossed over it, so it hadn't sunk in, but Erik had been abused—by his mother, by the gypsies. He'd been unmasked at his Juilliard graduation—what should have been the happiest moment of his life. It just didn't seem fair.
She sighed heavily, quite depressed. As she lay in bed, she pondered it more, a heavy frown in palce. "I'm so totally giving him a hug when I see him next!" It made her giggle, because Erik was still tentative about hugs…in spite of that rather creepy one in his apartment. She muttered into the darkness, her pillow muffling her voice, "Note to self: Stay out of Erik's apartment."
Finished with his composition and dealing with insomnia, Erik pondered how best to fill his time. He used his browser history and ended up back on Christine's video profile. He watched all of her violin performances. Her pinky was a little weak, but that was the only bad thing that he could find. He noticed that she rarely smiled. When she did, she did so with her lips. He wondered why until he watched a different video where she couldn't help but grin with pride. He paused the video and leaned in, peering at it. Her teeth were different. Only her top row showed, but he knew that her bottom row had to be different. The front two teeth had yellow and white flecks on them. In general, her teeth weren't as brilliantly white as they were now.
It made sense: once she fell into money thanks to the patronage of the old couple, she took advantage of it and got her teeth fixed. He didn't blame her.
Her teeth were beautiful now, but he still found her other smile just as pretty—even when he spied a moment in a video where she grinned hard enough that her bottom lip pulled down to reveal the other row of teeth. There was some crowding, but it wasn't bad. The only really noticeable thing was that one tooth—the one right next to her canine in the left quadrant—took a literal backseat to the rest of her teeth, leaving a little groove between the canine and the tooth next to the misaligned one.
He felt quite murderous as he read comments that picked on her teeth, her glasses, and her lazy left eye. There were even some people who picked on her choice of attire, calling it boring when, really, it was just casual and meant to keep focus on her playing: skirts and tops of one color; jeans with t-shirts that bore no writing or images. The majority of the comments focused on her playing (some of these gave misinformation while trying to sound smart), but there were some insecure jerks that picked apart her physical flaws.
Ultimately deciding that it would take too much effort to track down the people behind the screen names, Erik instead found a way to send these people e-mails with viruses that they were sure to open, because he hacked into the accounts of friends.
"Hehehe! Serves you right!"
Back on the profile, he noted that she had a few friends, two of which were labeled intriguingly: "PappaDaaé" and "Daaé". He went to "Daaé" first and found the profile in both Swedish and English.
The profile gave a biography of her father, mainly going into detail on the number of compositions ("over two thousand songs") and the venues at which he played. A great deal of these happened to be in his homeland.
There happened to be a note amongst all this, sharing a quote from the man:
"Inspiration comes in many forms. For me, it is my wife and child. They are the light of my life. Though my wife passed away a few years ago, her memory continues to fill my soul to the brim with music. I play for her, and I play for my amazing daughter. I play with God in my heart, hoping to give back something in return for the wonderful gifts with which He has blessed me."
At the very bottom of it all, he noted a paragraph that seemed disjointed from the rest of it:
Mr. Daaé passed away on January 22, 2006 due to lung cancer. He will be missed, but his music will live on.
He felt it deep in his gut that Christine tacked this on. Everything else had to have been written by Mr. Daaé himself (albeit in third person to make it seem like someone else wrote it, to make it sound more professional), but this…this sounded like Christine.
He began going through the files. There were so many video recordings of the man playing that he stayed up through the entire night, soaking them in.
He was quite shocked that he recognized Mr. Daaé. He knew that he had seen him once or twice around the complex. He vaguely recalled sharing an elevator with him once. His soul quivered with this realization. Christine had been in the same vicinity for years. This got him wondering in which apartment she lived, but he put the matter aside. For now, he wanted to focus on the violin playing. It didn't particularly matter where Christine had lived, because he hadn't known her then, and, more importantly, he had her now.
In the description box, there was both Swedish and English. These boxes talked about what inspired each song. Erik found himself listening to "Vals för Christine/ Waltz for Christine" over and over. He even got his violin and began to emulate it. In the description box, it said this:
My daughter has always been the greatest joy in my life. She amazes me with everything that she does. She doesn't let the world keep her down, and she always faces the day with a bright attitude and vibrant spirit (although, perhaps not as much in the early morning, for she is quite the night owl).
I wrote this waltz for her while she was in the NICU. It is my great honor that she has learned it from me and can play it herself.
I have another version of this posted where it is an audio recording of this piece set to images of Christine to mark her triumphs in the world. She is my greatest fan and the best thing in my life by far.
He was about to leave the page when he noticed a comment left by "LittleLotte". It was in Swedish, but, with the aid of an online Swedish to French dictionary, he pieced together what it said:
I love you, Daddy. I'll never get tired of hearing you play. You're the greatest dad that a girl could ever have! I'm so proud to be your daughter!
Mr. Daaé posted a comment in response:
I love you, too, my little songbird. I never get tired of playing for you. YOU are the greatest daughter that any father could ever have, and I am the one who is proud. Your kindness and gentle spirit let me know that I have done right by you, and every time you sing, I thank God for you. You are my greatest treasure.
Erik exhaled slowly, profoundly touched by their display of love. He now knew where Christine got her tenderness and generosity.
Her comment about her father being silly except when he played stuck with him. The man was very serious with his playing, which was something that he admired. It was a great contrast to see the videos under "PappaDaaé". To his supreme delight, they all featured Christine at various point in her life.
He couldn't figure out if he had seen her around the building when she was younger, because, for all he knew, she looked familiar to him because he knew her face now. He came to the conclusion that he had never actually seen her. Those sweet eyes would have stuck with him. He'd remember if he had looked into those pretty blues any earlier in life. Her face would have haunted him sooner than now.
At a young age, Christine seemed fascinated by the video recorder and treated it like a regular camera. He actually had to strain his ears to make out what her soft, little voice asked as her tiny, childish finger pointed up at the camera. "What's that red light?"She and her father spoke in English, and he wondered why. He assumed that it was because her mother must have still been alive at this point. Christine was only four or five.
She wasn't wearing her glasses in this video, but she wore them in almost every other one. He noted that her eyes looked very blue and her lips were as red as roses. She grew out of this, but her lips were still quite rosy and pretty. This got him imagining what it might be like to kiss them. Shaking his head, he refocused his attention. He couldn't afford to dwell on such thoughts.
He got to see her first violin lesson, and it warmed his heart.
She wore no glasses in this one. Her golden hair was in pigtails. She wore a red jumper dress over a long-sleeved white shirt. She had on socks but no shoes. She was so unbelievably tiny, her hands especially, that it boggled his mind. Her heart-shaped face seemed too long for her body, and it was quite angular, her chin pointy, but it allowed him to admire the fact that she had grown into it. It made her all the more striking.
The light that came on in Christine's eyes when her father presented her with her own child-sized violin took his breath away. Her father then pointed out the parts of the violin, using English while her mother (presumably) filmed the scene. Erik adored the grin that appeared on Christine's face when her father shifted her into position to stand tall and hold the instrument properly. Her eyes sparkled, and her grin dazzled him, when she produced a sound from it. It was the perfect moment, rivaling even the image of when he first saw her standing in the choir on Christmas Eve. He had known it when he first saw her, but now there was no doubt: this little angel owned his heart.
There were many videos of the camera being set aside to film the two goofing around. He learned that Mr. Daaé played the piano and the guitar as well as the violin. Somehow, he made Christine forget about the camcorder rolling; he got her to sing. Erik considered himself extremely lucky that he got to listen to the progression of her voice.
At the age of four, she had a solo—a single line, but a beautiful one—at a Christmas concert at a church in Denver. It was "Little Dummer Boy". She had the sweetest light in her eyes as she smiled and sang, "Then he smiled at me, pa rum pum pum pum! Me and my drum!" The choir finished off the song. She was timid, but the lovely quality of her voice was still there. It was pure.
One video in particular stood out to him. This one was set to private or "friends only," but he hacked into the account after a few minutes.
In this video, thirteen-year-old Christine sat on a blue couch in an apartment not unlike his own, the couch against the white wall. She wore pink, silk pajamas with odd little designs on them. Her little foot peeked out from under the quilt that sat draped across her lap. He noted that she wore long pants that matched the top. Her top was a camisole with a modest, horizontal neckline. In general, her pajamas looked cute but thin. She shivered and shifted the quilt to cover up better. She was extremely pale and looked very tired. There were shadows under her eyes. She wore no glasses in this moment.
Her father spoke in Swedish, but, oddly enough, there were English subtitles. Erik assumed that it was for posterity—or maybe it was to help the pair with their respective foreign languages. No matter the reason, he was grateful.
"I know that I probably shouldn't videotape you in this condition, but I don't think that a picture covers it. I think that you should have your birthday documented. Besides, I have a present for you, which is why I think that a mere picture won't suffice."
Erik smiled. He quite liked Mr. Daaé. He greatly reminded him of his mentor. Erik surmised that Christine's vocabulary was as good as it was not only because she read but because her father had a rather extensive vocabulary. In their case, intelligence seemed genetic.
"I'm cold," Christine complained. Her father's voice promised to turn up the heat. He set the camcorder up on a high shelf or perhaps an entertainment center so that it looked down on the girl on the couch. "Dad," the subtitles said of 'Pappa,' "where are my glasses?"
"Probably mixed in with your giant bag of stuff from the hospital." He dragged a large, plastic bag into sight, beginning to dig through it. He produced a thin, green pouch and pulled out her glasses through the opening in the side. "Here you go."
The blanket slid down as she took the glasses from him and donned them. Erik noted that her hands were bruised and had puncture marks. The soft underside of her arms proved to be in similar shape.
Christine smiled tiredly, mmurmuring in Swedish, the subtitles flashing, "Did you see when Meg braided my hair and did my make-up—and my nail polish?"
"Yes, I did. You looked very pretty."
"I've never owned make-up before. …I don't think I'll wear it much."
"Oh?"
She crinkled her nose, still fatigued, her eyelids lowered a bit. "No. It's too much of a hassle."
"That's understandable. You're pretty enough without all of it. Now, let me get your present." Christine dozed in the time that he was gone, opening her eyes and straightening her head when he returned. She offered another tired smile at him. That tired smile got wiped away as she tried to unwrap the gift. Her hands wouldn't cooperate, so her father sat and unwrapped it for her, even opening up the white box.
Christine stared into it. Tears began to fill her eyes, but she smiled. "It's too expensive!"
"Nonsense. I've been saving up for it. Besides, it's your birthday. You deserve to be spoiled a little on your birthday."
Erik heard the sound of clasps being undone, instantly recognizing the sound of an instrument case opening. His heart rate picked up, and he leaned in a little closer, craving the moment when the instrument would be revealed.
With shaky hands, the younger Christine reached in and pulled out a violin bow. Her fingertips glided along the sleek, taut horse hair. There was a bit more energy in her face—a wider smile combined with more alert eyes, though her glasses did cast shadows. When she aimed to grab the rosin, her father took the bow back and rubbed rosin on it for her. Christine lifted the violin out, gritting her teeth as if it took all of her strength to do so.
"Not too much," he warned. "You're still recovering."
She set it on her shoulder and found it too heavy in this moment. Erik attributed her trouble to the puncture wounds on her arms and hands. Her body probably also lacked strength from fighting off its ordeal.
She shook as she lowered the instrument; her father hastened to grab it and set it back in its case with the bow. She blinked as tears filled her eyes, complaining, "I can't even play."
"You'll be able to. You just need a good night's sleep. You need to rest up."
She admitted, "I feel like I haven't slept in days. I can't sleep on my back, but I had to, because I couldn't sleep on my left—the bag would weigh me down and tug on me—and I couldn't sleep on my right because of my IV. It hurt to roll over, too."
Shifting the box, he leaned in to tenderly hug her. He pulled back and stroked her hair as he replied, "I know. Well, you're home now, so you'll be much more comfortable." He kissed her temple. "Are you hungry? You're allowed to eat solid food now."
"Yeah. I didn't eat the dinner that they left me."
"I wouldn't have either. That hamburger looked gross!"
She laughed and winced, her hand going to the spot on her abdomen—it was on her right, he noted, near her hip. It made a very faint noise, alerting Erik to the fact that she probably had bandages underneath her top.
Mr. Daaé got up from his seat again but only to bend down. He retrieved the violin that looked to be the perfect size for his daughter and hoisted it. Christine grinned as he played "Happy Birthday" on it. Erik smiled as well, in love with her grin as well as the beauty of the instrument. Her father had picked a good one.
"Any requests?" the violinist prodded.
"Hmm… Play Mom's waltz." He nodded and acquiesced. Her smile began to fade as her eyelids closed. She fell asleep as he played, but he didn't notice until the end of the six-minute song.
"Oh! The video!" With a soft kiss to her forehead, the violin and bow in his hands, he moved over to turn off the camcorder. The last thing visible was his smile.
Erik decided that he'd be able to catch some sleep now that he had the image of Christine sleeping in his mind. So, he shut down his computer, humming Christine's waltz as he prepared for bed. His fatigue caught up with him, and he easily drifted off.
A/N: Whew! That chapter was a doozy!
I have to laugh at the fact that I used to hate the songs that my grandma tried to teach me in the one week that we had together ("Villanelle" and "O del mio amato ben"). Needless to say, they grew on me. I still don't like "The Sun Whose Rays".
Actually, scratch that! Apparently, it grew on me, too. Lol. I just listened to Valerie Masterson sing it. (Look it up!)
: O
I'm so jealous. I want to sing like that! I need voice lessons! XD
Please review!
Kagome-chan