Chapter Fifteen
Later that day, Leah woke to silence in her room. She started to open her eyes, but the light hurt them and she closed them quickly. She swallowed thickly, her throat dry. Leah felt somebody sit on her bed next to her and touch her cheek gently.
"I am going to raise your head," Jim told her. "I have some water for you."
The water was cool in her mouth and felt wonderful going down. Her thirst quenched, Leah then shifted irritably. The blankets were too heavy on her chest and they were making her too warm. She tried to push them away from her, but when she freed one hand, Jim took it and placed it by her side.
"Keep the blankets on, my dear, you will want them before long," he told her.
Then, adding to her growing annoyance, a cold damp cloth was placed on her forehead. Another patted down her cheeks and neck and the part of her chest that was not covered by her nightgown. Leah pushed at the hand bothering her, but she found herself as weak as a kitten. Tears slid out of the corners of her eyes and were absorbed by the cloth.
"Now then," Jim said softly. "There is no need to cry. You are going to be just fine."
Leah fell asleep before he finished his sentence, before she could hear the doubt in his words.
Some time after that, the managers followed Madame Giry into the dancer's room, startling Jim. He stood up quickly and said nothing, watching the three of them. The managers paid him no notice, they were staring down at Leah. The only part visible was her face and one of her arms, but they blanched at the small bit that they did see.
"My God," the shorter one whispered, echoing every other person to see Leah's poor battered face. "Who did this?" He asked Jim.
"Who did this?" Jim repeated angrily. "Why, the same man that thrashed the Tenor. The very man who's presence you refuse to acknowledge! The one that you do not believe to exist. Just a load of rubbish, these ghost stories, I remember you saying. Does that look like a ghost did that to you?" Jim demanded, pointing to her split lip and swollen black eye, the dark bruises and lumps. "Mademoiselle Bourdeaux is rather unconscious right now, perhaps when she awakens in a few days she can show you the extent of the damage caused by such rubbish. Oh wait," he said furiously. "She might not wake up, she might just slip into death instead!"
Madame Giry put a restraining hand on Jim's arm, and turned to the managers. "The Phantom is indeed a real man, Monsieurs, and I have proof of such in my office if you would care to accompany me there." They quickly left the room and Madame Giry looked into Jim's anxious face. "Do not let her be alone for a moment in this room," she warned. "He might come back."
Jim nodded, understanding and returned to the chair next to Leah's bed. He picked up the cloth he dropped back into the bowl of water and wrung it out, patting it over Leah's pale face. His terrible anger had faded away but he was still shaking because of it. He did not even notice when a handful of tears slid slowly down his face, dropping unseen to the floor.
Leah faded in and out of consciousness for the next day or two, and somebody was always there when she woke. Jim never left her side for longer than five minutes at a time. Madame Giry brought him meals on a regular basis, otherwise he would not have eaten. Angie and the ballet mistress shared watches as well, letting Jim get some much-needed sleep. Though he refused to sleep until a cot was brought into Leah's room and placed near the end of her bed.
The first night Angie spent watching, she cried almost the whole time. Leah had woken up once or twice, not helping Angie's guilty feelings. The last time Leah had opened her eyes, she told Angie that she had to put on her practice outfit.
"I have to go practice, or else Madame will be angry with me," she said, the shine of a fever in her eyes.
"No Leah," Angie said, wiping her eyes roughly, trying to remove the traces of her tears. "Madame will not be angry with you, you can go practice when you are feeling better."
"But aren't we performing the play tonight? I am playing Belle, I have to go practice or else Carlotta will take my part. Do you think this will be good enough to get the part?" Leah closed her eyes and weakly sang, her voice harsh.
Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly.
Birds fly over the rainbow, why then, oh why can't I?
The lines she was singing was from a play they had performed almost a year ago. Angie put her head down on the bed and wept.
The next day Leah had a burning temperature and her breathing was unusually fast. Her skin was hot to the touch, and yet she was shivering. Leah's mind was veiled behind fever dreams and every time she woke, her words made less and less sense. Jim worked constantly, aided by whoever else was in the room at the same time. Her fever was high and they had to get her temperature down before it damaged anything.
She was in one of her increasingly rare lucid moments that afternoon, when Jim was re-applying cold wet cloths on her arms and legs. He looked into her eyes, the swollen one had gone down enough that she could see out of it. He saw that she recognized him and was relieved. It was painful to hear her speaking of events in the far past as if they were the present. Especially when she re-lived the death of her mother.
"Leah? Can you hear me?"
Leah nodded once, slowly. "You came back," she whispered. "I didn't mean to drive you away."
Jim shook his head. "You didn't," he assured her. "Are you hungry? Can you eat something?"
"No," Leah told him huskily. "My chest hurts."
Jim picked up the ever-present mug of tea and raised her head. "I need you to drink this at least," he said. She managed to drink half of it before she pushed it away. "Good girl," he whispered and without another word, she fell asleep again.
The doctor applied heated towels to her aching chest, and cold cloths to the rest of her. Her temperature was still too high and she was not eating anything, nor were they able to get much liquid into her. Later that day she began to hallucinate.
Angie was taking care of Leah while Jim retreated to the bathing room for a quick wash. The strips of cloth did not stay damp or cold long on her skin and had to be re-soaked often.
"Mama?" Leah asked in a weak voice.
Angie looked up to see Leah staring at her, her dark brown eyes almost unrecognizable.
"Mama? Is that you?" Leah's voice was that of a child.
"Yes," Angie said, choking back a sob. "Yes, it is me."
"I'm going to be a ballerina like you Mère," Leah said hopefully. "You'll be able to watch me up on stage, and you will be so proud of me, so proud…" She drifted off and closed her eyes again.
Angie sighed heart-breakingly and got back to work.
That night Jim paced the room anxiously, waiting for the doctor to arrive. He had called for him what felt like hours ago, though he knew it had only been minutes. He heard the door open and rushed up to the smaller man.
"Something is wrong," he said and all but pulled the doctor to Leah's bedside.
All the lights were lit and the room was bright, making it easy for the doctor to see exactly what was wrong. Leah's lips had turned from a healthy rose colour, to a pale blue. The doctor checked her hands and saw that her fingernails were the same colour.
"What does it mean doctor?" Jim asked uneasily.
"It means that the poor girl is not getting enough air into her lungs." The doctor walked around the bed and opened the small window, letting cold air into the room. "Now, move her bed so that the air is hitting her face," he instructed Jim.
Jim did as he was told, shivering slightly as the room dropped several degrees. "Anything else?" He asked.
"Pray." The doctor's face was sad. "If her fever does not break by tomorrow, then there is nothing we can do. If her breathing does not return to normal then she will die, suffocating in the open air."
Jim kept up his vigil all night, barely noticing when the sun rose, changing the sky from midnight black to a soft blue. The breeze coming in the window was not quite as cold, but all Jim was paying attention to was the sound of Leah's breathing and the temperature of her skin.
Jim had re-applied the wet cloths all night, all but dumping a bucket of water on her in the process. He had shifted her bed around each time the wind changed, to make sure it was still running across her face. But nothing had changed. Leah was still breathing as if she had just run a race and her skin was hot to the touch. None of the relieving sweat covered her parched skin and her lips were still a disturbing blue.
Later that morning the doctor came back to the room. He stepped past Jim, who seemed to be asleep with his eyes open. He took one look at Leah's face, took her pulse and shook his head. "I am sorry Jim," he said sorrowfully. "I will fetch a priest to administer the last rights."
That snapped Jim out of his daze. "No!" He shouted. "Get away from her! She is not going to die!"
"Jim, be reasonable," the doctor said soothingly. "She is not getting enough air and her heart is beating too fast. Soon her organs will shut down with lack of circulation and she will die. And it will be better for her soul should she receive her last rights before it happens!"
Jim stood up and the doctor backed up quickly, the larger man practically pushing him out of the door. Jim slammed it and locked it between them. The doctor beat on the solid wood with his fist. "You cannot stay locked in there!" He shouted. "You have to let us back in!"
"Nobody is getting in!" Jim shouted back. He turned his back to the door and ignored the doctor's further hollering. He returned to Leah's side and began re-soaking the cloths again. He spoke under his breath, reassuring words that fell on unhearing ears.
Jim continued to ignore the shouting on the other side of the door. He knew it was solid, having tried to break it down himself, and knew that nobody else would be able to do it. When they came with keys he barricaded the door with the heavy vanity table and chairs. Eventually the pounding stopped, and Jim kept working.
The day grew later, but Jim had no sense of time. There was a wheezing sound to Leah's breathing and Jim began to grow frightened.
"No Leah! Don't do this!" Jim held her by the shoulders, wanting to shake her back to health. "Don't you dare die on me!"
Jim strode into the bathing chamber and filled the tub with nothing but cold water. He went back into the main room and tossed away the already-dry cloths. He picked up her unresisting body and carried her to the tub. He rid her of her clothing and set her in the cold water.
Jim began to rub the frigid water over her limbs and face, adding more cold water whenever the tub began to warm.
"Dammit Leah!" He yelled at her. "You did not fight off that monster and spend hours in that ice cold lake escaping, to simply die of a cold! You are stronger than that! Prove it!"
After the doctor was rudely escorted from the room, he went to the managers for help. They tried reasoning with the stagehand and then threatening him, and when it brought no response, they tried to break down the door.
Madame Giry came quickly with her keys, a priest trailing behind her. She shuffled through her keys, trying to find the right on. The priest turned to the managers. "What is happening here?" He asked them.
"Mademoiselle Bourdeaux is…sick," the shorter man said and the doctor cut in.
"She is burning up with a fever and she needs her last rites," the medic said, frustrated. "And the stagehand will not let us in to tend to her!"
Madame Giry laid a restraining hand on the doctor's arm. She gave him a look of warning and continued searching for the right key. Once she found it, the doctor took it from her with an unsteady hand. He jammed it in the lock and turned, but the door would not open.
The doctor cursed. "He blocked the door!"
While the small angry man cursed and ranted, the taller manager leaned over and spoke in the ballet mistress' ear. She nodded once and took off at a run.
Later on, the priest had kneeled on the floor and was praying silently. The doctor was pacing up and down the hallway. Madame Giry had found two of the biggest stagehands in the building and they were pushing on the door.
They heard Jim shouting inside, but could not make out his words. Madame Giry urged the men to push harder, they had shoved the door open a crack, but it was not enough.
Eventually Jim's shouts faded to nothing, and the ballet mistress bowed her head. She leaned back against the wall and tears rolled down her face. The priest began to pray audibly now, his monotone voice echoing gently down the long hallway.
