To Be Loved

by HDKingsbury

This sequel to ALW's Phantom continues, with old characters and new, happy times and sad times, adventure and romance, but most of all our favorite Opera Ghost – Erik.

36. Chapter 36

To Be Loved
Chapter 36

December 12, 2010

Authors' Note: This is one of the hardest chapters we've ever written. That is all the warning I'll give. ~HD

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Death leaves a heartache no one can heal; love leaves a memory no one can steal. ~From a headstone in Ireland

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"How are you feeling?" Fru Eske was doing her best to put forward a cheerful front, but she could not help being concerned. A fever three or four days after birthing was seldom a good sign.

Christine favored the midwife with a wan smile. "I am a little tired," she sighed. "I had hoped that by now, I would be feeling well enough to start resuming normal activities."

Fru Eske sat at her patient's side and patted her hand. "Not all women respond the same. Giving birth is an arduous task. Your body needs time to recuperate." She placed the back of her hand to Christine's forehead. "You feel a bit feverish. Are you experiencing any pain?"

"No, just feeling rather lethargic."

A frown crossed the older woman's face. "Anything else? Any unusual discharge?" Christine shook her head. "Do you mind if I give you an examination?"

"Is this something serious?" Worry tinged Christine's question.

"Truthfully? I do not know. It could be nothing more than a mild fever. Such things are not unusual, you know." Fru Eske gave her patient a reassuring smile. "But I would not be a good midwife if I did not check everything out."

"Yes. Of course."

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Barely twenty minutes had passed, but to Erik, waiting helplessly below, it felt more like twenty hours. Too nervous to sit, he paced the room like a caged lion. Fru Nystrom offered him a cup of soothing tea, but he would have none of that. The sound of the door closing upstairs alerted him that the examination was concluded, and he met the midwife at the foot of the stairs. The pinched look he saw on the woman's face did not bode well.

"Can you tell me what's wrong with my wife?"

She steered him to the parlor where they could talk. At a nod from Erik, Fru Nystrom accompanied them, and the three of them sat down.

Fru Eske took a deep breath, then said, "I cannot say with any certainty. It could be nothing more than a mild fever."

Sitting still when there was trouble was not in his nature, particularly when the well-being of his beloved wife was concerned. Overcome with another burst of nervous energy, he was once again on his feet. His ears heard Fru Eske's words, but his mind was having trouble digesting their meaning. "But you don't think so. What is it that you're not telling me?"

"She is not exhibiting all the symptoms, but there is the possibility that it could be the onset of childbed fever."

Fru Nystrom gasped in shock, and Erik understood why. Childbed fever was nearly always fatal. No one knew why it struck some women and not others. No! Not Christine. Not after all they'd been through. Certainly, he had suffered enough in his lifetime. Now that they had found each other, didn't he and Christine deserve some happiness? Didn't Christine deserve the chance to watch their daughter grow up? No, this was all a mistake. His wife was only feeling a touch fatigued, nothing more.

"Söka läkare," he said, using words that Christine had taught him which he had hoped never to say. "I want a doctor to see my wife," he said. When neither the midwife nor Fru Nystrom objected, Erik grasped just how serious the situation was.

A few minutes later, he rejoined Christine. It was his intention to sit with her until the physician arrived, no matter how long that would take, and it could be a while. The round trip itself was likely to take several hours, not counting the time that would be needed to locate this Dr. Jönsson, who had been highly recommended by both women. With nothing further to do at this point, the midwife bade the Delacortes a good day and headed for home, having secured from Erik his assurance that he would send word to her as soon as the doctor arrived. Fru Delacorte was still her patient, she'd said earnestly, and she would do whatever was necessary to see that this episode of fever grew no worse.

Erik halted before entering the room. Ever since discovering that Christine was not well, he had been distressed. No, it was more than distress. The mere hint that something could happen to her had sent his emotions plummeting into a pit of dark despair. It would be so easy to give in to the madness that beckoned, but he fought back the urge. His wife needed him to be strong, and so he forced himself to smile and be cheery. He looked down on their daughter sleeping comfortably in her cradle next to the bed. He bent down and scooped her up into his arms. It helped to hold her, to take solace from her unconditional love. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he blinked.

"She is beautiful, isn't she?" He sat on the bed next to his wife, handing Aurelia to her when she held out her arms.

"Yes, she is," Christine replied.

Erik sat silent, drinking in the sight of mother and daughter. No. Nothing would happen. Everything would be fine. The doctor would laugh at their worries. This would turn out to be only a minor inconvenience. They were all over reacting. Yes, that was it. He allowed himself to chuckle in relief.

"What's so funny?"

Erik blushed slightly. He hadn't realized his laugh had been audible. "Sorry. I was just laughing at myself for being such a worrier." Somehow, confessing his fears even in this lighthearted manner made him feel a little better.

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It wasn't until the following morning that Doktor Sivgard Jönsson arrived, all the way from his hospital in Uppsala, a distance few other city doctors were willing to travel. He was an elderly man who carried himself with an air of studied detachment. Tow-headed and blue-eyed, he was fine-boned with a tall, regal stature and carried on him the faint odor of iodoform. He stepped out of the carriage, grasping his medical bag close to his side, and glanced at the house as if memorizing the details.

Erik observed him from the window of the master bedroom, noting the way the man took in his surroundings. It spoke well of him, this observation and attention to the setting. He nodded to Fru Nystrom, who had taken a seat next to Christine's sickbed, and said to his wife, "Ma petite? Dr. Jönsson has arrived. Soon, you'll be feeling yourself again."

"Honestly," she replied tersely. She was tired and irritable, which was not in keeping with her normally genial character. "I don't know what the fuss is all about. I'm feeling much better today. All I need is a little rest, I tell you."

Erik smiled indulgently. "Be that as it may, I insist that you humor me in this. If you are the slightest bit unwell, it distresses me." As quietly as possible, he left the room and slipped down the stairs just as Oskar was bringing Dr. Jönsson through the door.

Jönsson scowled upon entering the house and coming face to face with Erik. He could not contain his concerns, and regarded the master of the house with open curiosity.

Erik bristled. "This," he said, waving a hand at his mask, "is none of your concern. It is my wife who needs you, as Herr Nystrom has undoubtedly told you." He led the learned man up the stairs and opened the door to the master bedroom slowly, trying not to disturb his wife. Christine appeared to be sleeping, but her eyelids fluttered when the men entered the chamber.

Jönsson nodded at Fru Nystrom. "You may go now," he said, dismissing her curtly, "but send for Fru Eske. I want to speak to her about the case. Tell her to bring her records." His brusqueness was more than perfunctory; it was a sign of his concern for the patient.

"Of course," the good woman replied. She closed the door behind her and scurried down the stairs to send her husband for the midwife.

Perched on the side of the bed, Erik held his wife's hand and whispered softly to her. "Darling, this is Doktor Jönsson. He has come all the way from Uppsala to help you." Erik was alarmed at the change in her appearance in just this short time. Whereas last night, she had born the appearance of reasonably good health, now her face was ashen, and her lips were dry and cracked. Dark circles lined her eyes.

"I don't need a doctor," Christine said crossly. "I don't understand why there is such a fuss. I'm tired, that's all."

"Of course you are," Jönsson said genially. "You just pushed out a baby. You have every right to be tired. Would you let me examine you, if only to put your husband's mind at ease?"

Christine looked at Erik with concern. "All right," she said, as the physician cleaned his hands at the washstand.

Erik watched him like a hawk, but moved aside when Jönsson pulled out his stethoscope and placed the instrument to Christine's chest and listened for telltale signs of pathology. He smiled, satisfied that all was well, and patted her hand reassuringly.

"Why does everyone keep patting my hand?" Christine snapped, pulling away from her husband.

"Now, I need to check your tummy, to make sure all is well," the doctor said, taking note of the patient's irritability. He pushed on the top of her stomach, and grimaced when Christine let out a small groan, but ignored the low rumble that emanated from Erik.

Next, Jönsson discreetly checked the lochia for signs of infection, but finding none, he acted as though there was nothing to worry about. "This could be nothing more than a common cold," he pronounced. "I prescribe plenty of rest, and lots of nourishment. You need to build up your strength, madam. You'll be back to your old self in no time."

Erik heaved a sigh of relief. "Is there anything you can do for the fever, and for the pain?"

"We'll discuss that downstairs. In the meantime, I'm afraid Fru Delacorte will need to discontinue nursing the baby."

Christine was visibly upset by this pronouncement. "But my milk has just started to come in!"

The doctor clucked like a wet hen. "Fru Eske will bind your chest, to suppress the milk. Don't worry. This happens all the time, and babies grow up healthy and strong."

The news hit Christine hard. "If I...I mean, when I get well, I won't be able to nurse her, will I?"

"The midwife will know someone who can help, a wet nurse who can feed the baby until your housekeeper can lay in supplies. If not, goat's milk will do nicely."

"Goat's milk?" Erik asked, the question sounding stupid even to his own ears. He felt stunned. He could only imagine how this news would affect Christine. He knelt beside her and stroked her hand. "We'll take good care of Aurelia, dearest, so that you can get well. Don't worry about anything. Everything's going to be fine."

She gazed up at her husband hopefully. "I'll be better tomorrow. Just you wait and see."

A commotion downstairs signaled the arrival of Fru Eske. Oskar had made record time in fetching her back to the farmhouse, and Erik made a mental note to thank him for his efforts as he started to accompany Jönsson downstairs.

"I can find my own way," the elder man said good-naturedly. "You stay here with your wife. After Fru Eske and I have talked, I'll ask her to come stay with your wife so that you and I can have a chat."

Erik nodded, glad to see the man's back. "Did he hurt you?" he asked his wife.

"I keep telling you, I'm fine." She smiled weakly when Erik tucked the blankets around her and smoothed her hair back from her face.

He frowned, visibly worried. "Will you be all right for a few moments? I want to say goodbye to the man."

"Of course." She pursed her colorless lips. "I'm afraid I'm not at my best. You'll have to thank him for me, for coming all the way out here for nothing."

"I'll only be a moment," he promised her, and he hurried down the stairs.

Fru Eske and the physician were speaking in low tones, so engrossed in their conversation that they did not notice Erik slip into the room behind them. "Well?" he asked, startling them both with his sudden appearance. "What's wrong with my wife?"

"It's hard to say. I agree with Fru Eske that this may be nothing to worry about. I'm leaving some medicine for Fru Delacorte, which will help with the fever as well as the aches and pains she's been complaining about." He held out a bottle of laudanum. "Fru Eske will give her a dose now, to help ease any discomfort she may experience from the examination and from having her chest bound tightly." He studied Erik for a moment, apparently wondering how much he should say. "None of Fru Eske's other patients are ill…only your wife. That means if it is a touch of puerperal fever, it is spontaneous rather than epidemic. Your wife appears to be on the mend. This is good, Herr Delacorte, that she is recovering on her own. But, if there are any changes—if you have any concerns at all—I want you to send for me at once."

The midwife took the bottle of medication, then excused herself and hurried up the stairs to tend her patient.

"We can talk in the dining room," Erik told Jönsson. "Fru Nystrom has no doubt prepared a repast for you. You must be hungry after your long trip."

Jönsson's face lit up at the sight of the luncheon Anna had set out on the table. Cold meat, farmer's cheese, and shredded beets awaited them, while a warm fruit tart cooled on the windowsill with a small pitcher of fresh cream beside it. "I can't remember when I last ate. Your man brought me straight from treating my last patient, a little boy who fell out of an apple tree and dislocated his elbow. It would have been worse if he hadn't landed on his older brother. Won't you join me?" he asked his host, as the two of them sat down at the table.

Erik shook his head while Anna fussed over the two of them. "I'm not hungry," he said flatly, sounding hollow and hopeless.

"Take care of yourself, Herr Delacorte. Your wife and child are depending on you."

Erik watched as the man dug into the food. He felt leaden. Ice water ran in his veins. Never had he been as keenly aware of his responsibilities as he was at that moment.

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An hour later, the doctor was long gone. While Christine slept fitfully under the effects of the medicine, Aurelia cried for her mother. She turned her little face from side to side, searching for her mother's scent. The front of Erik's shirt was wet through and through with the baby's tears. He paced with her, patting her back and doing his best to console her. "When is the woman getting here...the woman who will feed the baby?"

Anna looked out the window. "Oskar has taken the cart for her. It shouldn't be long now. Here, give her this wet rag to suckle. I dipped it in sugar water. It will take the edge off her hunger, until the wet nurse can get here.

Erik sneered. "Sugar water. Is this the best we can do?"

"Herr Delacorte, we are doing all we can!" Anna cried.

He stared at the woman. He was numb with frustration. "First Christine's illness, and now the baby is famished. Fru Nystrom, what if they were both to…no! I mustn't think that way! It will all be over soon, and this will be nothing but a bad memory."

"Try singing to her," Anna suggested helpfully. "It may help."

Exhausted, he sat in the rocking chair near the fireplace and began to sing Christine's favorite lullaby. He had sung it to her when she first arrived at the opera, never imagining that he'd be singing the same song to their child. His child. Aurelia. The babe seemed not to notice the rasping of his voice, and sucked her fist hungrily while she listened to her father sing. She fell asleep in his arms shortly before the wet nurse arrived.

A couple of days passed. At first, it appeared as though the fever had broken and Christine would recover. There was palpable relief among the household. Erik and Christine began to count their blessings and share warm-hearted laughter over the joy of simply being together with their baby. By week's end, however, her symptoms returned, more pronounced than before. Even worse, she was beginning to exhibit signs of hallucination. Erik refused to leave her side, and Oskar went out once again to fetch the doctor.

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Christine looked around the room. Delirium had set in, and her eyes imagined things that were not there. She tried to cry out, but her voice was weak. "Raoul?" she cried, staring straight at the blond, blue-eyed Jönsson. "What are you doing here? I told you I didn't want to see you ever again."

Erik could barely hold back his own tears. He sat by her side, holding her close, willing himself to take her pain away. "Shhh. You remember Dr. Jönsson, Christine. He's here to help you."

She struggled weakly in his arms. "Go away, you silly man. I want Erik. Where's Erik? I want my Maestro."

He kissed her gently on her hand. "I'm here, love. Right here beside you."

Jönsson stepped forward and placed his bag on the night table.

"I'll need to examine her." He started to lift the blanket, but already the smell of death was strong. The examination was brief. "There's nothing I can do here, other than to make her as comfortable as possible. Nature will take its course. She'll either live...or..."

Erik desperately grasped for any other option. "That's impossible. Surely, you can do something for my wife. Some drug, perhaps. A surgical operation."

The other man shook his head sadly. "Not without causing her terrible pain...and I fear an operation is not likely to help her. If anything, it would only speed up the process already in place." He placed a sympathetic hand on Erik's shoulder. "I'm very sorry."

"But you must try!"

"Where's my baby?" Christine said, suddenly lucid. "Where is Aurelia?"

Erik fought back tears. It would not do to let his wife see how distraught he was. She was the one who was suffering; it was up to him to be brave for her. "She's safe, my darling." He did not want to tell her that the wet nurse was taking care of the baby now. "She's with...Fru Nystrom." He turned to the doctor. "How could this happen?"

"No one knows. I've known Fru Eske for many years. She is a good midwife, extremely competent, and takes all precautions. She even goes so far as to wash her hands before examining her patients or delivering a baby, something my colleagues laugh at but that I think has helped her patients come through the dangers of childbirth."

"But not my wife." He growled in frustration. "Don't talk down to me. Tell me what is happening! Exactly what is this fever?"

"It is a sepsis of the abdomen. Note the distention of the belly, the dusky color of her hands and feet. Her teeth and tongue are coated." He hesitated. "It is…an advanced case."

"What will happen? I mean, if the worst…. Will she suffer?" He was unable to finish speaking.

"She will have moments of clarity, but she may also experience some hysteria," Jönsson said grimly. "Her organs will putrefy." He stared hard at Erik before adding, "You asked me to be straight with you, so I'll be blunt. There will be pain – much more than she has yet experienced. When it is too much for the laudanum, you may use this." He extended his hand; clutched in the palm was a syringe and a packet of white powder. "I'll show you how to use it."

Erik reeled. "I know how to use it," he snapped, "and I know why you are leaving it. You mean for me to…ease her pain…to help her…to stop her suffering—forever. Damn you, curse you and your medicine!"

Dr. Jönsson patiently listened to Erik. He knew it was the man's fear speaking. He packed up his instruments and slipped out of the room, leaving Erik and Christine alone.

She called to her husband, and he staggered to her side and knelt on the floor by her bed, cooing to her in soft and gentle tones. "I'm here. Right here, beside you."

"Come closer. I…I can't see you," she whispered, and then moaned as a wave of pain swept through her. "Erik…" The effort to talk was taking a toll on her. "I don't want to die. I want to stay with you and our baby…. Hold my hand. Don't let me go."

"Shhh," he whispered softly. He wanted to scream, Fight it, Christine, fight! Never leave me! But all that he could say was, "Rest now, my darling. When you're stronger, I'll take you to the spring…we'll take our baby there. Together."

At last, he was able to get her to sleep with the help of some laudanum. A growing sense of panic immobilized him. He stared out the window at the setting sun, and began to bargain with God. "Why did You give her to me if only to take her away? She's young; she has a lifetime ahead of her—and what about the babe! What will she do without a mother? Take me, take me instead! Let me do Your bidding, anything, only let her live!

"If I had never…touched her…if I had let her go, she'd still be well and happy and…. Please, dear God, let her live, and I will…build a church…write an opera that will put Faust to shame…anything…anything You want. Just don't…please don't take her from me."

Blinded by tears, his desperation turned to anger. "You have always hated me. Without her, I am nothing but a miserable cur, but she is…she is everything that is good in the world! Punish me any way you wish, but spare Christine! Spare her, for the sake of the child! Mark my word, if Christine dies, I will curse Your name for the rest of my days."

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Over the next few days, her condition grew worse. It tore the small household apart to see such a young, vibrant woman suffer so. Erik never left her side, doing everything he could to make her comfortable. He sat looking at her, realizing the crisis was upon them. He took her wrist in his hand and felt her racing pulse, watched her chest rise and fall with rapid, shallow breaths. The slightest movement sapped all of her strength, and her body rejected their efforts to give her liquid or sustenance of any kind. The caudles that Fru Eske had brought sat forgotten on the bedside table beside Dr. Jönsson's medications. None of them had brought her any relief, other than the needle with its solution of morphia, which did little but take the edge off the pain.

Fru Nystrom had brought in fresh flowers—the first buds of spring—but no amount of perfume could mask the fetid sickroom smell that hung over the deathbed. The miasma was cast over it like a pall.

Erik knew it was only a matter of time before Death took her from him. As much as he dreaded the inevitable, it would be a blessing for to be freed from the ghastly grip of the infection that riddled his beloved's entire body. Her every muscle clenched in rigor. Gone were the roses from her cheeks, the sparkle in her eye. She had become a living wraith, waiting for release from her suffering. He cried quietly, struggling to contain the emotions welling up inside him. "This is all my fault," he muttered.

"Erik." Christine spoke, her voice very weak. "This isn't your fault. You mustn't blame yourself. I wouldn't have changed a thing we did…except I'd have married you when you first asked me."

He gasped for air, searching for an answer, but Christine found the strength to speak again.

"Take off your mask. Let me see you...one last time."

When he looked at her, he saw that her eyes were clear. He wasn't sure if he should be pleased or saddened that now that the end was near and her pain was at its worst, she was experiencing a period of lucidity. Bowing to her request, he removed the mask and wig, blinking back the tears that threatened to break forth. He sat motionless as her fingers explored every crease, every crevasse of his face.

"Don't cry, Erik."

He tried to smile. "You'll be all right, Christine," he repeated over and over, trying to convince himself of the impossible.

"No... I won't. Erik..." She paused a moment, trying to marshal what strength she had left. "Erik, you must love her...for both of us. Provide for her as I would have wanted…."

"No," he moaned, the grief too much for him to bear. "Christine, I...I can't live without you..."

"But you must, my love. Aurelia needs you." Another pause. "Erik? Will you...will you hold me?"

He cradled her in his arms and saw the smile on her face as she nestled her cheek against his shoulder. He stoked her hair with his free hand, holding her close with the other. Quiet seconds ticked by.

He finally admitted to himself that his Christine was dying, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. It was only a matter of time now before the inevitable. He groaned at the futility of it all. Despair threatened to make him insensible. He balled a fist and shook it at the ceiling, crying, "I am utterly useless!"

With eyes fever-bright and wide, Christine gazed at him curiously, too ill to think straight. "This is fine," she said calmly. "Just because you are useless, does not mean you are not helpful." She smiled weakly at him, then jerked with the agony of a spasm ripping through her abdomen yet again, and he looked at the needle on the nightstand. One more injection would be all it would take…one specially prepared injection, with all of the remaining powder, and then her suffering would be over…. But could he do it? Could he be the Angel of Death once more, for his beloved? Could he make the ultimate sacrifice—and put an end to her suffering?

"Erik," she whispered. "Sing for me."

"The medicine…I'll prepare…an injection…and then I'll sing for you."

She shook her head. "I don't want the medicine. It doesn't help. Just…sing for me. Please?"

He had no idea how he managed, but he sang the song he had once written for her, the song that spoke of the beauty of the nighttime, hard as lightning, soft as candlelight, urging her to let her spirit soar. When the last notes faded away, he looked at Christine and saw her eyes were closed. Her face was beautiful in endless slumber, and he knew that it was over.

She was gone and at peace...while in the distance, a baby cried.

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