Chapter 8

I couldn't help myself when I left the pool to drive by my old house. I was still in that melancholy mood and felt the need to pity myself even more. The driveway was empty and I wondered where Raoul was staying during this whole mess of things. I never asked when we spoke on the phone and he hadn't brought it up. Our conversations these days were usually brief, especially following that night I called him about my dream. The phone calls began with words of affection. We'd say things like "Remember the time when…?" or "Didn't you love it when…?"

Recently the calls were becoming more serious. He was asking why my lawyer hadn't contacted his and a whole bunch of legal nonsense that I could really care less about. The one thing that really set me off was when he said that his brother Phil found out his wife was pregnant and was taking all of the baby items we purchased. Crib, toys, and all. All I remember was yelling that Phil was an arrogant asshole and should go buy his own shit. When we hung up, I threw the phone at the wall as hard as I could and it made a slight dent. Dad heard it and came running in only to see me drowning in my own tears. He took me in his arms and rocked me back and forth, but was silent. Nothing could be said.

Raoul called one last time to tell me he would soon be leaving for Hong Kong, then would be in Milan for a few weeks. He asked if he could have the toaster. I obliged him and wished him a good trip and that was that.

I pulled into the driveway of our house, but didn't dare go inside. The memory of what happened last time nearly sent me running, but I sat contented in the driveway inside my car. I closed my eyes and replayed some of my fondest memories with Raoul. The day we met when he ran after my scarf into the ocean. We were inseparable after that. The day he first kissed me. We were fifteen-years old and my dad was picking me up from school. Raoul ran up to me all out of breath and gave me a quick kiss on the lips and ran away again. Then our wedding day when he pretended to get lost under my gown, waving his arms about as he went to retrieve my garter.

Enough, I thought.

Having all I could take, I left the house and drove back to Dad's.

Rome. I was in Rome this time. My body felt younger. Though I sensed I was still quite tall, I knew that by the way I was moving that I was in early adolescence. St. Peter's Basilica towered before me in all of its magnificence and glory, but I turned and walked in the other direction. It was dark. Nothing new there; it was always dark. Just like the night in Paris.

It's daylight now. I'm standing in the countryside on a construction site with Rome in the distance. Workers completing a roof on an elaborate stone mansion. A young, beautiful girl no older than I. She approaches me shyly and teases me by sticking her tongue out. She giggles and pulls me with her to a nearby tree. I try to pull away, but she asks me something that I cannot hear. She pouts adorably and stomps her foot. She asks the same question again and I shake my head. She is getting frustrated. I begin to walk away, but she grabs me and pulls something off my face. Her face is contorted in horror before she screams and runs away. To the house under construction. Where the roof begins to wobble, and it crumbles. She is dead.

I made my way downstairs the next morning thinking about what I had seen in my dream. Why had that girl looked so terrified when she looked at me? More importantly, what in the world did she take off my face?

"Well there's Sleeping Beauty," Dad calls from the kitchen. "I was wondering when you were going to wake up. I made sausage and eggs." He tilted the frying pan up to show me as I entered the kitchen.

"What time is it?" I asked, my voice hoarse with sleep.

"Nearly eleven. I was going to wake you then so you could eat." He looked at me closer. "Jesus Christine, you don't look well. Did you sleep at all?"

I walked back out to the hallway and looked at my reflection in the mirror. My skin was paler than normal and dark circles surrounded my eyes. My face overall looked emaciated and gaunt. I almost didn't recognize myself.

"I'm not sure," I said, returning to the kitchen.

"The sausage and eggs are almost done, so sit down and eat. You look like you haven't had a decent meal in a while."

I went to the cupboard to get two plates when I noticed a bottle of pills hiding behind the stack of plates. I took it out. They were Dad's high blood pressure pills.

"Dad, have you been taking these pills?" He made a grunting sound with his throat and started putting the sausage and eggs on the plates. "Dad, answer me."

"I take them every once in a while, yes…"

I looked at him sternly. "That's not good enough. Mum would have your head for this."

"I know, but-"

"No! No 'buts' this time. This is serious, Dad. What would Mum say if she knew that you were being careless about your health? Practically asking for a heart attack and going to the grave early?"

"It's not like that, love. My blood pressure has come down a lot since I started those pills."

"That's not the point. You're supposed to take them everyday until your doctor says you can stop. Speaking of your doctor, I'm calling her."

"What? No, Christine, don't do that! If your mother won't have my head, this lady will! She's a bloody lion, she is!"

I showed no remorse. I picked up the phone and dialled the emergency number that I had memorized for so many years.

"Hello?" I heard on the other end of the line, but it definitely wasn't Dad's doctor. It was a man. With a Middle Eastern accent. "Antoinette, is that you?"

"Uh…" Had I just called the Middle East? Dad is looking at me with imploring eyes, but I continue on. "Hello?"

"Oh, I apologize. I thought I recognized the number and thought you were someone else."

"It's all right. I was looking for…" Dad is mouthing the word "please."

"Tickets to the show?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Em… what show?"

"I'm sorry, the Royal Opera House. I'm close friends with a woman who works there and sometimes her close friends call this number to get tickets."

"Oh, sorry." I feel so exhausted all of a sudden. "Your voice seems very familiar, but I can't place it." I hear Dad exhale.

"My name is Nadir. But you called me, my dear, remember?"

I try and dig through my memory of where I could have come across a Middle Eastern man named Nadir. I close my eyes and remember. A little boy no older than four, laying in a bed. He was sickly looking with a pale face and painfully thin body. I was standing tall over him watching his face light up over playing with a toy train set. But there was something wrong with the way his arms were moving. They wouldn't stop shaking and his little hands couldn't grip the train. The same Middle Eastern man I had seen in previous dreams was sitting by his bedside, sobbing. His son.

The boy began choking suddenly. The man instantly jumped up and roughly patted the child's back and chest, and then turned and nodded to me with tears in his eyes. I produced a bottle with a clear liquid and handed it to the man, who helped his son drink all the contents of the bottle. His choking subsided, and he soon fell asleep.

The only thing I remember happening in the dream after that point was a funeral with a tiny, white marble casket being lowered into the ground. I remember myself silently crying alongside the boy's father. Somewhere in the distance, a bell was chiming. Once the casket was completely lowered, the man left my side and walked out of the graveyard.

"Hello?" A voice brought me back from my reverie. "Are you still there?"

"Yes, I'm here," I said quietly.

"Who are you?" He asked sternly.

"Christine," I still whispered. "I'm terribly sorry, Nadir. I must have called the wrong number. Do you know where I've called?"

"London, and going by your accent, you haven't dialled very far. Perhaps our lines got crossed. I was just making a call myself. How odd."

"This is going to sound weird, but are you from the Middle East?" I to chance it and take advantage of the opportunity.

He chuckled into the phone. "I am indeed, but I have been living in London for quite some time. Ever since my son died, but that was many years ago."

"I'm so sorry to hear that." My heart reached out to him then. I can feel the same pain you feel, I wanted to tell him.

"No need to be sorry, dear girl. Time heals all wounds. Each day gets easier." Time heals all, but how long would it take for my wounds to be sealed? Would they ever seal completely?

"I'll keep that in mind." A pause. "I'm sorry to have taken up your time. I'm sure you were calling someone important."

"Everyone is important, Christine. Remember that. I may not know you, but you hold just as much importance in the world as I or anyone else. It was lovely chatting with you Christine. Perhaps someday our paths will cross again."

"Nice talking to you too, Nadir. Goodbye." I hit the "End call" button and put it down on the table.

Dad followed me into the kitchen with his hand over his heart. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph Christine, you really had me going there for a minute. I promise, I'll take the pills everyday like I should. And where in the hell did you call? Saudi Arabia?"

I laughed at his false indignation. "No, the line was still in London."

"Good, because I wasn't going to pay that phone bill if you did." We both laughed, and it felt good, like a weight was slowly being lifted from my shoulders. We sat down at the table and Dad ended the conversation and began eating. I began thinking about my dreams again. Why was this happening? Am I supposed to learn something from witnessing another person's life? Why do I suddenly like different foods and know different languages? I replayed the dreams that were in Paris. Perhaps that's where I need to go. The most vivid dreams I've had so far were in Paris.

"Let's go to Paris," I said blatantly.

Dad dropped his fork. "What?"

"I said, let's go to Paris."

"Jesus, it's always one thing to another with you now, Christine. What do you want to go to Paris for?"

Lie. "Wouldn't you like to see Paris again before you kill yourself of a heart attack?"

He groaned. "First of all, you scared the heebie jeebies out of me with that phone call. I said I promised I would take those pills again. Secondly, I'm trying to think of you, here. You've been so different lately, and I'm trying to adjust to the new you. It's like I have a completely new daughter," he said so quietly I had to strain to hear him. He sounded on the verge of tears. I heard him breath in and he continued. "A trip to Paris so soon may not be for the best."

"Dad, I'm fine." More lies. "A trip to Paris would be good for me. I need to get away from here for a while, even if only for a few days. I haven't seen Paris since that seventh year school trip. Plus, it's been ages since you and I have gone on any type of holiday together."

He sat there looking down with his brow scrunched together, deep in thought. He finally looked up at me with a blank expression, then broke out into a smile. "Well then, I guess we're going to Paris."

I smiled broadly at him, genuinely happy for the first time in a long time. "You're sure you don't mind missing your Wednesday Theatre Night?"

"Christine, I get a chance to go to one of the most beautiful cities in the world with my beautiful daughter. I'm even going to bring my violin! Do you know how long I've dreamed of playing it on a street corner on a sunny afternoon? And just think, I'll have you right by my side to sing along with me like we used to in the park."

I felt like a little kid at Christmas.

A/N: Quick update, I know, but I was eager to post. And I apologize that this chapter is somewhat shorter than others, but I wanted to take things a little slow because things will be picking up quick! And I realize that's most likely not what happened with Luciana and Reza in Susan Kay's Phantom, but I'm still stuck at the beginning, and I doubt I'll be picking it up any time soon. I don't like reading ahead in books and I thought it would be fun to make up what happens since this is a modern day retelling.