-1Charles:

They don't know exactly what the matter is, and it's driving me insane, almost literally. Charles won't wake up, and I'm stuck sitting here, staring at the wall, waiting for some kind of answer.

The doctors think he'll live, though he's been badly injured. Funny how his face is the least of everyone's concerns now. Even the nurses are being attentive, ignoring the fact that his birth defects are still worse looking than the cuts, bruises and swelling that resulted from a carriage not seeing a little boy on the edge of a dim street.

I wish I could fix this. I have no idea what he was doing out so late, or why he was fighting. Though he's always been stubborn, he hasn't displayed much of a temper since his youngest years. He might sulk, or talk back, but he never raised his voice to either his grandfather or me, never really even slammed a door! I have no idea what could have provoked him so. I could guess, but I'd rather not dwell on that. I don't want his life to be one that hinges solely on his appearance. My career was so influenced by the fact that I was an attractive young person. I can't believe that bothered me so much then, when I see all my son is battling.

And yet, I can clamor on about the intolerance of others and their ineptitude to accept anyone who is different, but I'm the one who wouldn't even try to send him to school. I'm the father who brought tutors in and sheltered him, taking him to church, but sitting in the back, never inviting anyone over to play with him. I never really had a lot of friends until I went away to school as an older boy, so it never really occurred to me that I might be doing Charles a disservice by not exposing him to other children.

If I had, might they not have reacted this way? Or am I simply trying to find a way to blame myself for this? I had no idea this would happen, I can't help that my more than capable son snuck out, and I can't believe it's because I went away. Father says this behavior started a few weeks after my departure- I can't imagine his reactions would be so delayed that I can connect the two. I want to believe that. It has to be true.

Is it bad I find myself longing for Josephine? If she were here, if she were his mother, we would be waiting together, supporting each other. Instead, it's Father and I, but if I thought he was despondent before, it was nothing compared to now. He refuses to speak to anyone.
If she were here, we would be sharing stories about Charles, speaking to the doctors together.

If she were here, if she had been here, had been there, perhaps Charles would not have been so lonely after all.

But if had met her years ago, not Rosalind, he might not be here at all.

Finally, at an hour far too obscene for me to recall, the doctor emerged.

"He is comfortable," he said. "I believe the worst is over, but there's no telling when he might awake. I would advise you and your father to return home and get a good night's rest. You can come back tomorrow."

I started to protest, but stopped when I saw Father's face. It was tired and drawn, and I knew I wasn't looking much better.

"Father, let's go home."

"I don't think we should leave him here alone," he protested, his stubbornness emerging despite the fatigue.

"I daresay he won't know the difference," I said, guiding him to the doors.

break

In the carriage, the tension was enough to make the air vibrate. It continued until we were in the house, when finally I could take it no longer. Something was going on, something had been going on all evening, and it had nothing to do with my son.

"What is it?" I demanded with uncharacteristic sharpness. I saw the shock register on Father's face. I had not used that tone with him in years, but the evening had proved too much for my patience. The force in my voice caused him to take a step backward.

"Charles, now is not the time," he said. "We can discuss it later, but with all that's happened-"

"No," I said, my tone level but the intent clear. "I won't have whatever this is on top of everything else. Tell me. Tell me tonight."

He didn't protest, though he looked angry. We sat in the parlor. I knew I wasn't sleeping that night, but I don't think I would have in any case.

"Start at the beginning," I said. "Whatever it is, just start at the beginning and leave nothing out. I don't want to have a thousand of these conversations."

Whatever force my tone had held was gone, and Father suddenly looked rather stubborn.

"How dare you address me like that?" he demanded. "Show some respect!"

"I'm sorry," I said. "But you've been trying to get this off of your chest all night, and it's made this a lot more difficult. I can't be worried about him and you, and you're here. I can talk to you. Please," I said, a lot more gently than before, "what's happened?"

I had never seen my father look so old, and that was saying something.

"Promise me something," he said. "Promise me that whatever I tell you, we will discuss it. We'll talk about it. I don't want to destroy this family over something like this."

I suddenly realized that I didn't want him to continue, that I really didn't want to know, and was tempted to tell him so. I also knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I needed to hear whatever he had to tell me.

"I promise," I said.

He took a deep breath, and proceeded to tell me the most incredible story I'd ever heard.

"Your mother and I met when we were children, grew up together" he said. "I ran into the ocean after her scarf once, and I don't think I could have forgotten her for a moment after that even if I tried. She was so beautiful. I see so much of her in you. But we never saw each other after that day, not for a long time. I went into business, your grandfather's occupation. She left the country, her father died."

I listened with interest, for though I had heard these bare-bones details before, I knew little else, save for their second meeting at the opera, and subsequent courtship, which I knew had rocked their social world's boat.

"And then years later I met her at the opera house," he said. "I had just become its newest patron, and by chance your mother had been called to take the place of the house's acclaimed diva." He laughed. "You know, I never studied much music, but even I knew she was terrible. Carlotta, I mean, not your mother. She was a divine singer, but then, you knew that. I wish you could have heard her sing then."

"The conservatory," I said. "She must have had a great teacher."

"She did," he said rather shortly. "She had the best teacher in the world. He was a genius with music, and he spent all of his time making Christine sound like the angel she was." I had never heard Father wax so eloquent about anything before. He never struck me as a romantic, and while I knew they loved each other, my parents had always seemed to have a cool kind of affection, not at all what we French are supposed to be like. But now I was thinking about Josephine. I forced myself to focus on father instead.

"Had he no other students?" I asked.

"Just her," he replied. "He was very demanding, I think most singers would never have been able to match the devotion he commanded. For six months, I wasn't even allowed to take your mother to dinner, lest she tire too easily. She frustrated him, and I know he drove her mad at times, but under his guide, she flourished vocally. He loved teaching her. He loved her."

"He loved her?"

"Indeed. More than I think anyone has ever loved anyone else." He said it without remorse or anger, a simple fact that, in his mind, could not be denied.

"Poor mother," I said. I knew all too well how annoying doting people could be. I had one girl in Greece, once, who would constantly be outside of my hotel when I had occasion to leave it- of course, she swore it was by chance, but when I finally understood her ploy, and had manufactured a good enough story about a waiting mistress to dissuade her, she became unbearable. I thought it would turn her away, it only made her more determined. That was one tour I did not regret to see the end of!

"Yes, it was a very trying time for all of us," he said. "I think it was hardest on her. She had two men who loved her, would do anything for her, and had to pick one."

"You must have bought her something very nice," I teased. Instead of the laugh I anticipated, I could have sworn his expression darkened. I was sure he'd end the conversation there, but he pressed on.

"In the end, she chose us both."

For the next hour, I listened in disbelief as he told me about the most twisted love triangle I'd ever heard of. My mother had been in love with some madman! And she'd loved father, too, who seemed a bit like a madman himself as the story unfolded! I couldn't believe some of the thing he told me, and yet I had to. And suddenly, I understood why my French-born father had raised me in London.

"So that's why you went to England," I said. "He let her go and of course you left." I could imagine myself doing the same thing, rescuing Josephine under the cover of night, taking her away from some danger, recreating ourselves in a little house on some seashore…

"Not quite," he said. "We didn't leave for England for some time. We didn't even marry for weeks."

"Whyever not?" I asked. "Surely you didn't heed his request, you didn't go back to his home!"

"No," he said. "I would never have allowed that. But your mother went anyway, with a wedding invitation, almost precisely 24 hours before our ceremony. It was hours before I knew she had gone, and longer before I found her."

"Was he very angry?" I asked.

"He was dead."

"Dead?"

"Or he died soon after we left," he said. "I'm still not sure precisely. We left, and married a month later."

"Why did you wait?" I didn't want his answer, but I had to know why he was telling me all this. He sighed, and I could tell it was taking him all he could to continue. I gave him credit for that.

"It was Ch- your mother's idea," he said. "She said after all she had put me through, she wanted me to be sure I could forgive her for everything."

"And you did," I said.

"Yes," he agreed. "I did. And it was strange, because I had no idea what she meant. She went back there, which made me angry, in fact, I had told her I wouldn't marry her if she defied me. But the moment I saw she was safe, we both knew I didn't mean that. We got married, and a few months later, you came along. But it was difficult, and the doctor said there were to be no more children."

I had figured as much, but still wasn't sure where he was going.

"She loved you so much," he said. "I know you know that. And I loved you, too, still do love you. You are my only son, and I hope you'll keep that in mind with what I have to tell you." He drew in a deep breath, steadied himself, and turned his face from me.

"Her teacher did not live in a house," he said. "He lived below the steps of the Paris Opera, in a home he built into the very foundations of the opera. He built that opera house."

And suddenly I remembered that night when we had gone to the opera, and Father mentioned a friend of mother's, a friend who had been dead a little longer than I'd been alive.

"Erik?" I said, remembering a name I had given little thought to since that night. "Erik, the architect, was her music teacher?"

"Erik was many things," he said. "He was a genius. But he was very bad with people. He didn't have much cause to be, you see, as life had been very cruel to him."

"Cruel? To a man as intelligent as you say? But how can that be?"

"Because Erik- whose last name I still do not know, despite everything, was born with a very bad disfigurement."

It was like time had stopped. I didn't need him to continue, and, given the fact that he was now trying very hard not to cry, was sure he wouldn't have been able in any case. I needed no clarification. The puzzle pieces that had been shifting in my mind since I was old enough to reason suddenly snapped together.

"No nose," I said. "Sunken eyes." I could see this man, standing tall, as easily as I could imagine my own son, but would not allow myself to put together the final pieces, would not allow myself to make that next jump, that if this Erik were somehow related to my son, then I was not, could not be- but I dared not even think it. This man was my father. My father! Not some monster under the ground! Wildly, I jumped up and began pacing. I walked faster and faster, not wanting it to be true, wishing that if I could somehow outthink what I had been told, out-reason the possibilities, then it wouldn't be true at all. It would be nothing more than a sordid story that Father had heard somewhere else, a scary story to be told by firelight, the monster under the opera, a ghost, a murderer, a phantom.

"Did mother ever-"

"We never talked about it," he said. "But she knew I understood."

"Does anyone else-"

"No, they never connected the two." I noticed he was interrupting me, not letting me finish the questions. "No one knew. But I'm afraid that may change."

"Why?" I was suddenly fearful, upset. "I don't understand…if people had no idea before, they won't think of it now!"

"All I can think of is that this new generation didn't hear the old stories," he said. "It seems so significant to us, but really, the events of one year hardly register to anyone they do not directly impact. But someone has been doing his research, and I fear this is going to reach a much larger audience."

And suddenly, with a deadly thud, the last puzzle piece fell into place.

"Charles? Charles?" He must have asked my name five times before I finally gave him my attention, and then, I lied.

"I'm sorry- Father," I said. The word was somehow difficult for me, but I saw him relax when I said it. "I'm sorry, but I can't talk about this right now."

I left him there, sitting by the fire, his last statement unanswered. I let him believe the news that I was some bastard child of a murderer was what had silenced me, but it wasn't. As devastating as that was, the man who had tortured my father, defiled my mother and ruined their lives had managed to reach beyond the grave and deliver one last blow to the child he never knew.

The Phantom of the Opera. It was book I hadn't known existed until I learned my son had been in an accident, when I found it among his bedclothes and packed it with his things.

He knew the truth before I did, and it nearly killed him. I was certain if Father ever found out, for I can only assume the book came into the house by his hand, it would be his end.