Love Will Continue

"Maestro," Erik calls out as he and Christine enter the theater from the lobby.

At Erik's insistence, she has been working with the orchestra conductor to select a number of songs that would appeal to an audience come to dance, not to hear a concert. Much as she wants to sing again, she has not entirely warmed to the situation.

Still, what better place to be than an amusement park – her emotions a roller coaster ride these few weeks since she realized she was pregnant. Today was a perfect example of the variations. Upon awakening, she was pleased the morning illness dogging her had stopped. Erik arrived early and she was able to keep the food down, although her appetite was absent. Both of them were anxious and excited to be applying for their marriage license. Still, after so many days of doing relatively little, the activity has her irritable.

"Mr. Y…Madame Daae, good afternoon." Rudolph Eisenstadt – an immigrant from Germany – shares some of Erik's features – dark hair, even though Erik's is a wig, unusual eyes – grey rather than amber – graceful hands – hands that held the attention of the audience as much as the music he was directing. A perfectionist, particularly when it came to the music his orchestra produced. His sense of music always presented a balanced repertoire for those who often came in from Manhattan to dance.

"Thank you for meeting us here, I apologize for our being late," Erik says as they approach the pit, his long legs picking up speed due to the incline of the aisle.

"Erik, slow down, please," she says under her breath.

"Oh, my dear, I am sorry," he says, abruptly stopping, causing her to trip on his foot.

"I said slow down, not stop." Pulling away from his grasp, she steadies herself on the back of one of the red plush seats. "I am just fatigued…a lack of rest and too much excitement. Everything feels so closed in."

Her abrupt move, throws him off balance and he loses his footing on the red and gold carpeting.

"Are you two all right?" the conductor asks, but he, too, finds himself stumbling. He grabs onto Erik's arm…the two men tumble to the floor.

Christine bursts out laughing at the heap of tangled long legs and arms lying at her feet. "So much for excessive dignity," she chortles. "You look so funny. I am sorry, Professor. Erik is always so concerned about his appearance and you are a close second, I am afraid."

Another round of laughter takes her over with tears rolling down her cheeks at the glares both men throw at her, until they, too, realize how ridiculous the entire situation is. Erik breaks the tension with his own laugh, one seldom heard by most people – often surprising himself. A combination of a dog barking and a goose honking. The shock of the sound is enough to rouse the conductor from his own distress.

"Since my lady appears to be fine – which was my greatest concern..." His eyes seek hers. A frown creases his forehead at her response of a weak smile – any sign of humor gone – her face drawn as she bites her lower lip. "I believe we two men, should get to our feet and attempt to reclaim some of our dignity before anyone else comes in to see us rolling around on the floor."

Rudolph grunts his consent as he regains his footing, dusting off his tailored black pants, held up with striped suspenders. A white dress shirt is open at the collar with the sleeves rolled up revealing muscular hirsute forearms. Offering a hand to Erik, he pulls him up, keeping hold to shake once the former Opera Ghost is on his feet.

Taking Christine by the arm, Erik pats Rudolph on the back as the three make their way to the stage. "Are you all right? Do you wish to go home?" he whispers to her.

"No, I am fine…as I said, just a little fatigued," she says. "We have already kept the professor waiting – I do not wish to inconvenience him anymore."

"If you are certain." Squeezing her hand, he leads her up the stairs to the stage. "As I was going to say in apology for our tardiness, we paid a visit to City Hall to acquire our marriage license and found a longer line than we anticipated."

In all actuality, upon their arrival, they were surrounded by people who knew them from Phantasma. Many heard of the masked Mr. Y, but never expected to meet him. Now here he was with the diva whose voice was that of an angel. Scraps of paper, envelopes and other bits of paper were thrust at them, begging for autographs. Despite his grumbling about crowds and time, she could see the pleasure in his eyes. She supposed, in all his years, he was never approached with such welcome, and while the crush of people was intimidating, he appeared to be taking pleasure in being complimented and admired – not only for his sake, but hers.

"So the wedding is to happen?"

"Yes," Christine says. "You have been most kind listening to my babbling about the party and the music and when we would be able to actually have a wedding."

"I could not be happier for both of you. As to your performing with the orchestra…" the conductor continues, riffling through the small stack of sheet music Erik lays on top of the grand piano. "What might work the best is to have a single instrument accompany you, while the rest of the orchestra is taking their break. We do not have to limit it to piano – trumpet, clarinet, saxophone…violin – can all be suitable – even exciting for your audience – and the artists, allowing them to showcase themselves."

"I know this is quite a change from the symphonic orchestras you are accustomed to," Erik says.

"I am grateful to work at all, Mr. Y," he says. "The world is not always a pleasant place for Jews. Things go well for a while, but then an old rulers dies and a new one steps in. So many of my friends were emigrating, I simply followed their lead."

"It was quite brave of you to introduce yourself to me – my reputation being what it was," Erik laughs.

"Your reputation was that of a showman," Rudolph shares the laugh. "Where better for me to seek employment than at an amusement park."

"Erik?" Christine tugs on his sleeve. "I am feeling a bit faint. Could we…? I am sorry, Professor."

"You did hurt yourself."

"No. Truly, I simply need to rest."

"Do not worry about me," says Rudolph. "I shall look at these songs and assign different instruments that would work well as accompaniment."

"Thank you," Christine says. "I shall be here tomorrow…on time, warmed up and ready to work."

"What more could I ask?"

Erik ushers Christine into her suite. "Here let me help you with your things," he says, slipping the deep blue cashmere cape from her shoulders. "Dear lord."

"What? What?"

"A smudge – on your skirt – it appears to be blood."

A frown creases her brow. "No. It cannot be blood. I must have sat on something," she says emphatically. "I am pregnant. One does not bleed when pregnant."

"This did not happen with Gustave?"

She shakes her head. None of this pregnancy resembles what happened when carrying Gustave. Even the morning nausea was absent entirely. Life was calm, if dull. Raoul was distant, but she understood that to be normal behavior from men in his position – or so his sisters informed her. If she was shunned, it was no different from the treatment before they were married. Her term proceeded without incident or worry, other than her private concerns about the possibility of a deformity…which turned out to be minor…only confirming her suspicion about his parentage. The birth was blessedly easy.

Gustave is, as far as she is concerned, a perfect child in every way. Nevertheless, she already loves this new baby with all her heart – so happy to be with her father. Yes, that is probably it, the tiny life must be a girl. The thought calms her…momentarily.

"Let us get you undressed."

Bending over with a gasp, she says, "I need to use the commode." The cramp grips like a vise, taking her breath away.

Erik lifts her into his arms, carries her to the bathroom and sets her down. "From what I have read, there might be light bleeding during pregnancy."

"Why would I be bleeding if everything was all right?" She lifts her skirt, twisting it around to see the stain on the pale green silk. Tears flood her eyes. "This is wrong."

"Do you need to sit?" Erik asks. His tone quiet and calm.

Nodding once, she unbuttons the waist of her drawers, allowing him to remove them, then sits on the ceramic pot, elbows pressed into her thighs, head resting on her hands, eyes pressed shut.

Kneeling in front of her, his breath hitches, a small groan rattles in his throat as he examines the underwear. A patch of bloody fluid framing a small darker red sac, half the size of his little finger, rests in the crotch of the delicate cotton undergarment. Looking closely, he can almost make out the body that might have grown into a son or daughter.

"It is over." A statement, not a question, her voice dull. "I thought my lack of morning sickness and the tenderness of my breasts gone was a good sign. I was wrong – the baby was also gone."

He cannot remember ever hearing that particular tone – lifeless. Another Christine. "Yes. That appears to be the case." Sighing deeply, he asks, "Do you wish to see?"

Lifting her head, she nods.

Erik fashions the undergarment into makeshift swaddling, before resting the remains gently in her waiting hands.

Clutching the tiny bundle to her breast, deep sobs, seeming to rise from her now empty womb, wrack her body.

Erik wraps his arms around her, rocking with her, his own tears fall silently. They sit in this way for several moments, taking comfort in one another.

"We must bathe her."

"I shall find something more suitable to use as a shroud," he says, getting to his feet, he begins running water in the sink basin. The linen closet offers a variety of towels and bedding – all embroidered with their initials. He chooses a variety of linens, one a smaller square of pink linen perfect for the remains.

"I think one of the sewing boxes left by my father would make a nice coffin," she says. "They are in the cupboard with the linens."

Erik retrieves the smaller of the two, before returning to help Christine walk to the sink.

With excessive care, Christine washes the tiny form, adding her tears to the bath. After which, she wraps the baby in the piece Erik chose, resting her on another soft cloth he placed in the casket.

"We must arrange a burial."

"Of course. Do you want a priest or minister?"

"No. My father and I were not religious. Madame would invite me to attend Mass with her and Meg on Sundays. I loved the quiet and the music, but, no…" she says, closing the lid on the wooden box. "Our tears will be the baptism, our love will be her blessing."

Erik takes the improvised coffin from her, and places it on top of the cupboard. "I ran a bath for you."

Just act, he tells himself. Do not think about anything. Keeping busy, taking care of practical necessities – creating a place for the baby Christine would approve of – running her bath – focusing on something other than the contents of the small wooden box prevents the scream inside of him from erupting. This had to be his fault – his mother was right, he would always ruin everything.

Christine allows him to undress her, shifting her arms and body when he asks her to. His touch gentle, not wishing to add to her physical pain. Why did he hurry so today – rushing her? Why did he not notice her distress? Thinking of the wedding? Feeling smug about the positive attention he was receiving? Thinking about putting the professor out? No. Not thinking. Do not think.

"Can you walk to the tub?"

"Help me, I feel so weak."

Erik lifts her and places her into the bath, making certain she does not slip. "Is the water all right? I used the lavender scent to help you relax."

"Yes, it feels good – the fragrance is lovely." A deep sigh affirms her words as she settles into the warmth of the bath. "Not too hot, not too cold, like the fairy tale. Papa loved the old children's stories. Just right."

"Recline, rest your head on the pillow." Taking his time, he uses a small sponge lathered with soap to wash her. "Um, uh, your legs…private parts…they are…do you wish to cleanse yourself?"

"No, you." Adjusting her position, she smiles at him. "Thank you for taking care of me."

A small grunt is his only reply – he cannot trust himself to speak…or to meet her eyes. The focus must be on her care. Time enough for recriminations.

"I know what you are thinking, Erik. You did nothing wrong. Gustave is perfect and he is your son. These things happen. You must not blame yourself. Or withdraw from me. I will not allow it."

"I only want you to be happy."

"You better than anyone knows that is not guaranteed. I am happy we have each other. We shall bear this together." Holding out her hand, she says, "Help me up. Gustave will be home soon."

He guides her from the tub and wraps her in a large towel, holding her close. They stand this way for might be minutes or hours.

Pulling away, she walks to the credenza and opens a drawer removing fresh undergarments.

Gustave bounds through the front door. His usual, "I am hooooome" is cut short when he sees his parents walking slowly down the short hallway. Papa Y appears to be holding her up. He stops, cocking his head. Why were they coming from the bathroom together? Maman is in her night clothes. What is that box? They look so sad. He cannot remember her looking this way even the night on the pier. Everyone has been so happy. His stomach churns, afraid to ask…afraid not to.

"What is wrong?"

Christine hands the box to Erik and opens her arms to the boy. "Come here, darling. Maman and Papa Y have some sad news."

Gustave's eyes move from his mother to his father and then back to the sewing kit. Time seems to stop. Oh, no. He was not happy about having to share Maman and Papa Y – for a while he wished there would be no baby. They were so happy, though, and Papa Y assured him nothing would be any different – if anything, life would be better. Maman never lied to him, so he would trust their words. Now he wanted the baby more than anything else in the world. "It…he…she is…gone?"

"Yes," Erik says.

Gustave runs into his mother's arms. Erik embraces both of them, pressing his lips to the top of Christine's head.

"I wanted her, I really did," Tears cause him to choke on the words. "I…I was going to name her Angelique."

"That was a lovely choice, darling."

"Perfect. She truly is an angel now – with her grandfather, watching over us."

Christine presses her head against Erik's chest. "Thank you for that."

"I like that idea, Papa Y."

"Angels take their jobs very seriously – he will take very good care of her. Very good care."