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Erik didn't ignore it, exactly; he simply had a funny way to reacting to it. If I would mention the baby, he always looked genuinely surprised, as if he had forgotten about it. If I complained that I was tired or bored, he would look confused—until my condition seemed to dawn on him.
He let me go up to find a midwife. The lady I chose was well-known for her compassionate nature, and she took me in, believing me to be an unwed girl who had been disgraced. I did not enlighten her. Though I highly doubted I would be recognized as Christine Daae, the former opera star, I knew Erik would want nothing to do this. If I mentioned a husband, he would have been forced to appear at some time or another.
Madame Peluieu, as she was called, told me all seemed to be in order, and told me I should be expecting movements in the week or so to come. I felt so strange, interacting with someone other than Erik. She smiled often and gestured her hands when she talked.
Erik, who would have been pacing at the front door in the past months, was nowhere to be seen when I came home. Later, I told him I had found someone to deliver our child and now we would just need a place.
Today, Erik comes out of his room with a sheet of paper. Putting it on the table in front of me, I saw it was a map. Erik points one gloved finger in the upper right corner and says, "There is a small house there, Christine. It is not very pleasant, but it is far away from everybody else. There is where Christine will go to deliver her baby. And then she will come back down here until we can find a more suitable place."
That was all I needed at the present moment. Smiling at him, so he would know I was thankful, I take the map gently. I do not know where the cottage is, but I know the area.
Later, I ask if I may go and see it. He inclines his head and frowns. "It is much too late, Christine." he scolds. "And much too far. We will go some other time."
This remained his attitude for several weeks until I was quite angry with him. He no longer offered to sing with me, knowing I would turn it down on account of being too tired; he no longer talked to me anymore, knowing I was likely to snap at him; he no longer came to bed at night, knowing I would complain about how uncomfortable I was.
When I first felt a stirring in my abdomen, I sat very still for a few minutes to verify the feeling. Sure enough, it came again, sure and forceful against my skin.
My instinct is to leap up and tell Erik, but I am already unhappy with the way he had spoken to me this morning—and I was not sure of what he would think of it. He might not care if the baby was moving or not, but I feel it is my duty to let him know.
I creep to his doorway, where he is sitting, staring blankly at the wall. I look at him in concern, but he does not appear to notice me. I knock on the wood frame and he blinks, his eyes coming to rest on me as if he had been dragged from a deep thought.
"Yes?" he asks lowly.
I cower at his expression and my courage melts away. "What are you doing?"
He looks at me curiously. "Here? Nothing, my darling, nothing at all. Are you tired?"
I shake my head. "No. We could sing, if you want."
He gives a dry chuckle. "No thank you, my dear. I would not want you to get weary."
I throw him a glance, wondering if he is being sarcastic; it is so hard to tell. He looks up at me innocently. "Is something the matter?"
There is so much I want to confide in Erik at that moment: the things I dream about with our child, the stirrings I feel inside of me, the things I want to purchase for them… but I do not. I do not because I am a coward, and I do not know what he would say to that. I cannot imagine Erik liking that sort of talk—babies, indeed! I think of a different fear to confide in him.
I hesitate. "You haven't held me for a while. I'm lonely."
He sighs, and then opens his arms. I gratefully go across the room and into his lap—it's a little tighter than it used to be.
"You seem like you've been avoiding me." I say, tracing the stitching of his coat to avoid looking at him.
"No, I have not." he replies, but it's very soft and much gentler than what I'd been expecting.
I bite my lip, wanting to argue with him—but knowing I shouldn't. "Thank you for finding that house."
He gives a tight smile. "It was really nothing. And we will not be staying in it long. Just—just so you can have the child, dear."
"You really don't like the idea of a baby, do you?" I ask.
He pushes me away—why does he always do that when he wants to avoid a question?—and turns back to the wall. "Silly. Erik is happy about your—"
"Our—"
"—baby, and he wants everything to turn out wonderfully. However, he doesn't like how you keep pressing the fact that it is Erik's child. I know it is Erik's child—it had better be Erik's child, Christine—but he really does not want to think about it at this present time."
"What do you mean?"
"I cannot raise a child! Why must you continuously suggest that I can?"
I wave my hand obnoxiously in front of his face so he will look at me. "Fine! You do not have to come near our child! Don't care for it at all! You shouldn't even come near me now, for the baby might hear you! And you will just frighten them anyway, won't you?"
He hisses at me. "It may be extraordinarily like its mother in that sense!"
"If I was frightened away, how is it that I am having your child?"
He suddenly flinches, as if I have thrown something at him. He stares at me for a full ten seconds, and he looks—amazed.
"Sometimes," he says very quietly. "You are quite a dramatic child. I suggest you go lie down. I do not want you to get too excited."
"You are an impossible person!" I say stonily, heading out of the room.
He is! The way he switches from fury to compassion is unnerving. I cannot think when he acts like that. And he is always like that!
He crawls into bed that night and kisses my face, asking if I love him. When I assure him that yes, I do love him, he leaves and goes into the music room.
He does this the following night as well, and I cling to his collar before he can desert me again. When I beg him to sing me to sleep, I know he cannot resist, and he vocalizes sweet, little lullabies until I am asleep.
I think it was a good thing that he was assured of my love in those days, for in the weeks that followed, I believe he thought I was going insane. I dropped my favorite teacup in the kitchen and burst into tears for hours before I could calm myself down. I became absolutely determined to sew up a hole in one of my sleeves, but when I couldn't get the knot tied, I threw the ball of yarn into the lake. Out of nowhere, I would suddenly feel like I needed to cry. The funniest thing was that I knew it was my pregnancy that was causing this; whenever I cried, I would remind myself that there was nothing to cry about, and it was only the baby that was making my emotions spin like this.
It often did not help.
Erik, of course, helped in any way he could—without lingering around me. The day after I dropped the teacup, I found it perfectly repaired and sitting on my dresser; and a new, thinner ball of yarn was in my basket the next week. One thing Erik seemed to have trouble dealing with was m tears. He would always stare at me in horror for a moment, until he would come over and coax me to stop crying. Eventually, he learned to accept that if I was bothered, I would not stop crying—I just wouldn't. Not until whatever was bothering me had been chased from my mind.
The baby hasn't moved for weeks now, and it bothers me.
Something tells me I should go see the midwife and ask her what this means, but I cannot bring myself to ask Erik. I do not know why, for I know that Erik would be willing to let me go… but I am afraid of mentioning anything that would remind him of the baby to Erik. I never know how he will react. Sometimes it is with anger, other times with wonder, occasionally with sadness.
As each day grows longer for me, I know the baby will come in perhaps another month or so. I feel heavy and weighed down, physically and emotionally.
When I am in my room alone, I sing to them. Oh, not singing like I do with Erik! A gentler singing, a softer singing. I will put my hands over my stomach protectively and hum out little tunes I know well. In my childish mind, I wish the baby would react to them—kick? Move? Anything? Yet, the child within me stays still, except for an occasional turn at night.
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