A/N: Well, here goes. Keep in mind that the kids will be all different ages in this chapter. How about one more review for old time's sake, hmm? Thanks for reading everyone!
My dear journal, my old friend whom I have sadly neglected,
Has it truly been nine years? It seems like it has been a thousand--and yet, as I hold this old dusty book, I feel as if I could have written it yesterday.
Well, journal, since you have had the misfortune of hiding in a box for so long, perhaps I owe you a bit of an update. Ah, but where to start?
So much has happened to our little family since we last spoke. Dea has grown up into quite a sophisticated young lady… at times. Her rocky start in life has lent her a rather frail appearance but she makes up for it with a store of vivacious energy that seems to come in endless supply. I do not know how we ever managed without her. However Erik and I managed to raise such a charming girl, I could not tell you. Perhaps we turned out to be better parents that we thought (although I hesitate to put such a thing in writing lest I one day prove the boast false!).
"I am ready for my lesson, Papa!" Dea shouted.
"Shh… if you insist on shrieking all the time, you will not have a voice left to teach."
It had been a process to make Erik understand the nature of music lessons for a child like Dea. For one, she hardly had the attention span to practice for six or eight hours at a time like he did. Furthermore, Christine had to constantly remind him that she was not going to improve as quickly as he did at that age.
Christine could tell that frustrated Erik at times, but she suspected he was inwardly pleased to have a daughter who was so perfectly… normal.
They had violin and piano lessons once a day, each lasting for a half an hour or as long as she could hold still.
Erik was generally opposed to giving singing lessons to children, not wanting to over-tax developing vocal cords, but Dea never liked to be left out of anything… when she found out Mama took voice lessons, she insisted that she have them as well. In the end, they compromised and a fifteen minute daily singing lesson was added to her education.
"Dea, what on earth are you wearing?" Erik asked, looking over her head at Christine who shrugged as if to say 'I had nothing to do about it'.
"Do you like it?" she asked excitedly. Dea had bounded out of her room, ready for lessons, in a cheery yellow sundress with assorted colored ribbons tied around the middle (one look in the mirror told her the dress definitely needed a belt). The shoes appeared to be Christine's and she was wearing a massive, floppy hat that came from… well, Erik couldn't be sure exactly…
"It is… interesting. What happened to the dress Mama picked out for you?"
Dea made a face. "Oh, that was just an everyday dress. I wanted to dress extra special for you today, Papa."
"Why is that, princess?" Erik asked, genuinely curious. He didn't remember any special occasion coming up.
"Just because." she shrugged.
"Well, I'm happy you tried so hard to look nice for me today. However, I think those shoes will not be very conducive to proper singing. Would you mind taking them off while we have your lesson?"
Dea looked at him as if he had suddenly grown sparkly pink horns on his head. She sighed dramatically. "Fi-ine" she said, greatly put out.
Christine suspected if he had proper eyebrows, one would be arched at the moment. "Excuse me, young lady?" he asked warningly.
Dea blushed, abashed. "I mean… Yes, Papa."
"That's what I thought. Now let's begin your warm-ups."
Actually, I given this much contemplation lately. When I think of the world, I am amazed that so many things go right given all that could go wrong. I truly do not understand it. There are so many variables in life that I wonder why it does not collapse into chaos! One day an avalanche could erupt from the slightest disturbance, but on another day that same disturbance could leave the mountain unaffected--simply because some series of events in nature had determined whether or not that disturbance had the power to cause a disaster or not.
I'm not sure that makes any sense. I'm still trying to sort it all out myself, to be honest.
Erik only met me because I obeyed my father's wish and joined the Opera. The disastrous events that followed might have been averted had Raoul not crossed my path at some strange coincidence. Then again, if it had not all happened that way, perhaps Erik and I would not have married? That's something to ponder.
I am forever grateful that Erik was at the right place at the right time that night he found Dea. Likewise am I thankful to Raoul for sending that letter when he did. If he had been a day early or a day late… well I doubt Dea would be with us now and I shudder to consider the alternatives.
A few years after they'd settled into their new home, Christine felt the conviction that she needed to start going back to church. Thus began Dea's religious education.
It wasn't anything formal since she was still pretty little; they just replaced bedtime stories with Bible stories a few nights each week. Tonight, Dea was cuddled up with Christine in the rocking chair while Erik sat by the fire, reading aloud.
"Why did David fight the giant?" Dea asked.
"Because he was the enemy" Erik answered calmly. Dea was in that delightful 'why phase'--as Christine had dubbed it--and it was always interesting to see what type of explanations Erik would come up with and how long it would take to make him frustrated.
"But…" her brow furrowed as she tried to think of the words, "but why was he there?"
"To visit his brothers," he said, flipping the pages backward to check.
"Why?"
Christine answered this time, "Because his father sent him."
"Why?"
Erik found the page and looked over it briefly. "Because his brothers were busy fighting and someone had to bring them bread and cheese."
"But why?"
Finally Erik made that sound of complete and utter irritation. He snatched Dea out of Christine's lap and tossed her over his shoulder as she squealed with delight.
"Because sometimes… sometimes, if you want to fight giants, you have to deliver cheese first. That's just the way it is. Now, off to bed with you. No more silly questions, understand?"
"Why?"
Just now I shifted through the pages of this journal and came across the list that Mamma Valerius had given me years ago on my wedding day.
As a page fell from Christine's journal, she picked it up and looked at it thoughtfully. The paper had yellowed from the moisture in the box and the edges were slightly cracking, but the words were still clear and unmistakable.
Advice from Mamma
Establish what is nonnegotiable, but allow some latitude.
Maintain stability, but embrace change.
Constantly grow and mature, but always be yourself.
Plan for the best, but prepare for the worst.
Pay attention to the small things for the biggest outcome.
Christine smiled, thinking of the day she had written this. She was so young, so frustrated, so terribly confused. Oh what she wouldn't give to go back and talk to her former self, offer some encouragement, some advice. But then… isn't that what Mamma Valerius had done? She had been so absorbed in her own misery and circumstance that she hadn't understood one bit.
I smile when I think of it, since she always seemed to speak in contradictions. At the time, it frustrated me, but I see now that she had more wisdom than I gave her credit for.
How dramatic I was back then! Christine thought, skimming through some of the things she had written so many years ago. She found some paste in Erik's desk and proceeded to attach the list to the back page of the journal. Let this always be a reminder, she decided. Maybe some day she'd give it to Dea. Undoubtedly there would come a time--hopefully many years in the future--when she would want to know the truth about how Mama and Papa found each other.
I daresay I am not the only one who has changed. Erik is different as well. And yet, he remains very much the same.
Perhaps--likely--it's the decade of practice we've had, but I think the two of us fit together marvelously. I like to believe that much of that is my doing.
Remember long ago when I mentioned how each person likes to be touched differently? Well, Erik is no exception. I've known that from the beginning, but I think he was just more difficult to figure out than most--all that time closed off from the world, I suppose. Sometimes I think my biggest mistake was assuming that he was just as simple as every other man.
But now, all that has changed. I have learned when to be gentle, and when to be strong, when to argue and when to let it lie. I have learned how to read his responses and touch him accordingly.
Christine was giving Erik a strange look. Ever since they came out of the dress shop, Erik had been visibly tense. She could tell he was angry, but that wasn't enough to go on---was he furniture breaking angry, insecure angry, tired and grumpy angry, or Punjab lasso angry?
"Stop this! Will you tell me what's wrong? You've been grinding your teeth the whole ride home."
"Don't act like you don't know, Christine! I saw the way that gentleman was looking at you. What's a man doing working in a dress shop, anyway? It's obscene."
Ah. Jealous angry.
"You mean that greasy man at the counter? Do you honestly think I'd want him over someone like you? Why, I wouldn't even have noticed him if you hadn't brought it up just now."
"That is not the point! You belong to me… he has no right to leer at you in that manner. I have half a mind to go back there and break his sorry neck." His threats seemed to lose some of their weight as Christine crawled up into his lap (as much as one can expect while in a carriage, anyway) and started nuzzling his neck.
I hate to gloat, but I think I have done a good job of it. It seems we hardly fight anymore--we argue on occasion, but that's different… more playful, I suppose. I can't remember the last time we were truly pitted against each other.
After a moment, his tirade was reduced to an irritated grumbling, Christine suggested, "If it would please you, I never have to go back there again."
He sighed, more annoyed now than anything else, "You know very well that is not an option… it is the only dress shop in town and I'm not about to drive to Paris every time you need something taken in an inch." Even with glasses, Christine was much too shortsighted to safely wield a needle and thread, or so Erik insisted.
"Well… how about you go without me?"
"Perfect, then they can take my measurements. Honestly, Christine are you thinking this through?"
"My apologies, husband. What if I brought a friend along so you could stay home? Then you wouldn't have to be constantly suspicious."
"That idea is more ludicrous than the first! If your masked devil hadn't been lurking about, who knows what that disgusting man would have done? No, I must be able to protect your virtue."
"Then what would you suggest?"
"I suggest… I suppose I'll have to stop dwelling on it."
"Brilliant idea, dearest. I wonder what I ever did without you."
"Christine?"
"Hmm?"
"You just tricked me didn't you?"
"Mm."
"Chrissstine…"
"Erik…"
"What on earth are you doing?"
"Tell the driver to go faster. I'm ready to get home."
"Outstanding."
Oh, that's not true. Now I remember--when Dea was three and I gave birth to our son, Guillaume.
Guillaume is a bright child--extremely so--with a natural talent for… well… everything. I see so much of Erik in him. His speech and mannerisms are staunchly formal for a little boy. To look at him, you'd think he was the coldest, most unapproachable child imaginable.
Erik was having what Christine had referred to as 'Papa's private time'. By that, she meant that he was having another of his inspirational moments--those intense times when he locked himself away for hours or days, composing.
Inwardly she had hoped that the responsibility of a family and the change of scenery from the Opera might curb his obsessive tendencies. She realized how foolish she was to hope for such a thing. Professor Valerius had been the same way, after all, and it never diminished as he aged--or so Mamma had said.
Erik had displayed so much goodness over the years that it would be wrong to take him to task over his very nature.
She was used to it all by now, anyway.
But still, things had to be done--cooking and taking care of the children, and whatnot. Not to mention making sure Erik ate every so often.
At least the cleaning is taken care of, she thought idly. When Christine was pregnant, Erik had insisted on hiring a few extra servants to keep the house in order.
Of all the ridiculously overprotective things he put her through, this was the most favorable by far. If he didn't want her sweeping and dusting, she wasn't complaining.
Unsurprisingly, she offered little resistance when Erik declared that they would be keeping the arrangement even after the baby was born.
However, even with the help, raising two busy children without Erik around could be taxing at times. Needing some fresh air and quiet, Christine had taken a walk under the guise of light shopping.
She regretted it, though, as soon as she returned home.
"Mama! Mama!" Dea cried, speeding down the hall. Christine barely had time to set down her bags before Dea hurdled herself into her arms.
"Dea, do not bellow so," she scolded, "You are a lady." She looked down and her brushed some of her hair away from her face. She frowned when she saw the pouting look she was giving.
Dea had a wild mass of black curls framing her face that Erik had declared adorable from the beginning. The problem with this, Dea realized, was that her scowl was decidedly less threatening. If anything, Erik would laugh at her and kiss her head, explaining that it was simply impossible to take her anger seriously with those gypsy curls in her eyes. Christine would watch and shake her head--he was right, of course… but if that wasn't the way to make a girl more angry, she didn't know what was!
Anyway, she was not to be deterred. Ever the actress, Dea resorted to poking out her bottom lip and shedding a few tears to get what she wanted.
But Christine had learned all her tricks and facial expressions well (as she'd used a few of them herself on occasion) and this pout was the pout that said 'I just did something you are not going to like'.
"What did you do?" Christine asked suspiciously, holding the child out at arms length. A few feet away, someone cleared their throat, causing her to look up.
"Good afternoon, Mother," Guillaume said, looking very sober in his black clothing and his hands clasped behind his back, "I trust you enjoyed your walk?"
"What have you two done?"
He shifted a little from one foot to the other but otherwise kept his expression unreadable. "Everything is fine now, but there may or may not have been a little accident in Father's workshop."
"He set the desk on fire, Mama!" Dea exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at her brother.
"ME?" Guillaume shouted, momentarily dropping his adult persona and sounding every bit like the six-year-old he was. "The whole thing was your idea, sister. Besides, it would have worked if you hadn't distracted me!"
That was enough to make both children start shouting at once.
"STOP!" she cried, wanting to get to the bottom of this. "Guillaume, tell me what happened."
Her son was more likely to give her the unedited story than her daughter was.
Guillaume sighed. "Father read to us all about Arthur and Merlin and… do you know what I am talking about, Mother?" Christine nodded. "Well, anyway, Dea said they were real but I think it is just a story. So, we decided to build a machine--like we read about in another book--that could take us back in time." He spread his hands in a very Erik-like gesture of mock simplicity. "That way we could see for ourselves."
Christine's frown deepened. Her six-year-old son was trying to take her 9-year-old daughter back to the time of King Arthur. What she found most unsettling was the fact that she wasn't at all surprised. Erik, I'm being very patient, but you better not be composing very much longer.
"So what happened next?" she asked, dreading the answer.
"Well, I was taking apart your clock… you know the one from the closet--don't look at me like that, Mother, you haven't used it in ages--and Dea got bored and started playing with my sketchbook. When I went to take it from her, my hand slipped and one of the springs from the clock came out and knocked over the lantern."
"We're so very sorry, Mama!" Dea moaned, "Please don't be angry with us."
She looked back at Guillaume, who had returned to his previous stance, looking calm and resigned. It did not escape her that Dea was doing all the apologizing. Guillaume wasn't sorry at all. Granted, he would prefer not to be punished, but that did not change the fact that he believed he had done nothing wrong. He knew that sometimes experiments went bad, Papa had explained that when he was little and took apart his own crib, only to fall out and hurt himself. It was just a necessary risk, he thought.
It had been an honest accident, after all.
Besides, he had a feeling Papa would understand. Even if Mama did punish him, Papa would talk to him later so he could do better the next time.
Christine ran her hand over her face in frustration. "Let's go look at the damage," she said, "But, hear me children, if I have to go disturb your father over this, you are both going to regret it. Understand?"
Dea pouted again. Guillaume just nodded somberly. "Yes, Mother," they answered.
And yet, when it's just the four of us, he is as much a cuddle bug as his sister. I want to laugh at the way they fight over Mama's lap whenever it is story time. You'd think, by the looks of it, that they were afraid I'd never come back again. Apparently I have much more patience for children than I do with adults. Who knew?
"Mother?" Guillaume asked, lifting his head of Christine's shoulder. "Did the blind mice chase the farmer's wife before or after she cut off their tails?"
Dea sat up abruptly; she had been resting on Christine's knee (since it was her bed, she'd argued) while Christine stroked her hair--a position Dea apparently found as relaxing as her mother did.
"Don't be stupid, Guillaume," she snapped, "What difference does it make?"
"It makes all the difference!" he insisted.
"I would have to agree," murmured Erik, who was leaning casually against the door frame.
"Did you hear that, children? Papa says he wants to continue this conversation tomorrow when it's his turn to read!"
They probably would have put up more fuss about it, but prudently kept their mouths shut, having learned early on that Erik had little tolerance for whining.
Christine kissed both children and walked Guillaume back to his room, leaving Erik to tuck Dea into bed. She had barely shut the door when she heard him singing.
When Dea was a baby, she had come down with a terrible fever and the only way Erik could calm her was by singing. He had spent hours pacing the hallways with her, singing lullabies and any other tunes he could think of.
He sang her to sleep every night since.
Guillaume was an entirely different story. Even as an infant, his father's voice (or his mother's, for that matter) would never put him to sleep. If anything, the music would wake him up even more.
By the time he was old enough to express himself with words, he explained that if he fell asleep, he'd miss the rest of the song. Christine tried not to feel overly inferior with that remark coming from her toddler.
Like his father, Guillaume had trouble falling asleep at night. It seemed that the world was much too full of interesting things to waste time sleeping. So Christine just shut him up in his room at night. He'd sleep when he was tired, but in the meantime he had enough books to read and gadgets to tinker with to keep his mind busy. Erik had even insulated his room so he could play his violin without waking his sister.
"Goodnight, my son," Christine said fondly, bending down to kiss his forehead.
"Goodnight to you as well, Mother. I wish you good dreams and I shall see you in the morning."
He poked his head out of the door and checked both sides of the hallway. Satisfied, he flung his arms around Christine and kissed her cheek. "I love you, Mama," he whispered and disappeared into his room.
As I said, Guillaume is a perfect miniature of Erik.
"One last push, Madame," the midwife urged. That was the third time she'd said that, but Christine was beyond arguing.
It had been an easy labor, as far as most women were concerned. However, at the time Christine would have struck someone for saying as much. She was in pain and exhausted and just ready for the process to be over. She also wanted Erik desperately. Originally he had wanted to be in the room with her, even to the point of threatening the midwife who insisted he stay away.
In the end, it had been Christine who convinced him to leave. She'd heard that women often said terrible things about their husbands while giving birth. A normal man would take such comments in stride, but she was afraid Erik might not heal as quickly if she said anything cruel. She knew it was stupid, but she was trying to prepare for the worst. Erik, not wanting to upset his pregnant wife, reluctantly agreed to stay out.
Oh, but what Christine wouldn't give to hear him singing right now!
A young woman, about sixteen, had accompanied the graying midwife to assist and was standing by Christine's head, wiping her brow with a cool cloth and encouraging her.
"Here it comes!" cried the woman, taking hold of the baby while Christine gasped for breath. Christine looked up, hoping to catch a glimpse of her child. However, one look at the midwife's face and she knew that all was not well.
"What's wrong?" she whispered, feeling the tears start anew. Pleading, she said, "Give me my baby."
"I am so sorry, Madame," the midwife said softly, shaking her head in sympathy. "The child is dead."
"What?" Christine breathed, afraid to hear the answer again.
"Paulette," the midwife quietly beckoned her assistant, "Please take the body to the other room and clean it up."
The girl took the wrapped bundle from the woman and swiftly shut the door to the washroom. The midwife turned her attention to the sobbing Christine. She massaged Christine's belly to expel the afterbirth all the while speaking sympathetic platitudes.
"Dear girl, I am so sorry. These things happen. I'm sure it was all in the Good Lord's will. We all have a time to return Home, my dear, and his time just came earlier than most. I know it hurts now, but it'll get easier in time…"
Christine scarcely heard a word she was saying. Her mind was in complete turmoil. She wanted Erik but couldn't seem to make her mouth form the right words. Everything she said came out as jumbled snuffles.
Suddenly there was a sound in the next room and both women fell instantly silent. There was the unmistakable wail of a baby, followed by the shocked voice of the girl.
"Oh God!" Paulette choked. She nearly screamed when the tiny corpse she carried started to squirm in her arms. When it began to cry, she nearly dropped it. "Madame!" she cried, panicking, "Madame, come quickly!"
The midwife, whose tiny eyes had grown wide with surprise, quickly left Christine's side and fled to the other room. Christine strained to hear what the women were talking about.
"It lives!"
"How can that be?"
"Look at him… he is dead and yet he lives!"
"This is unnatural. Only the work of the Devil could produce such a monstrosity."
"But haven't you seen the father? The tall man in the black mask? His eyes are yellow--and they glow! The glow, Madame! Like the eyes of a cat… or a demon!"
"Oh! My heart breaks for that poor woman… to have born such an abomination! I will advise her to send for a priest in great haste. Perhaps he can wash the evil from this little one. If the Lord is merciful, it won't live through the night."
"What do we do now, Madame?"
"You must pray, Paulette. I will go speak with the mother."
Christine watched the midwife emerge with sweat on her wrinkled brow and a concerned look on her face. She was trying very conspicuously not to look afraid or disgusted.
The woman opened her mouth to speak, but Christine beat her to it. She'd already heard all she needed to hear.
"Get Erik," she demanded forcefully.
By that, I mean that my son inherited not only his father's genius, but also his face.
Erik had been pacing for over two hours.
They had been the most unbearable hours of his life.
What's worse is that he had no idea what was going on in that room. He'd heard that some women could be in labor for days; frankly, he wasn't so sure he could last that long. He could not remember ever feeling so helpless.
The first time Christine screamed, he thought he would die. Why would she be making sounds like that? Was that normal? He fingered the rope inside his sleeve. He wasn't completely above killing women… and he wouldn't hesitate to snap that midwife's neck if she hurt his Christine.
For some reason, the reassurance kept him sane.
The second time she cried out, Erik leapt to his feet. He had nearly reached the threshold of the door when he remembered how Christine insisted he wait. I need to be with her! I hear her crying… she needs me! Keep it together, old man. You'll just be in the way. Let the women do their jobs. Women have been doing this for thousands of years. You'll see, it will be fine.
He'd just made the decision to wait nearby (and break down the door if she cried out again)when the mousy little midwife's apprentice came scurrying out, pale as can be.
"You are needed," she squeaked. Paulette turned to rush down the hallway when Erik grabbed her arm.
He growled at the frightened look in her eyes. His bony fingers dug into her upper harm hard enough to leave bruises.
"Where do you think you're going?" he snarled, shaking her a bit, "What have you done to my wife?"
The girl was now crying openly. "I'm sorry, Monsieur… I cannot be in this house any longer!"
He shook her again. "I swear to you, if you hurt---"
"Let the girl go," the midwife said, emerging from Christine's room. "You're wife is fine. But Paulette is right… we cannot stay another minute in this unholy place."
Erik, simultaneously angered and reassured, thrust the young woman away. She scuttled out the door as quickly as possible as the midwife followed at a slightly lesser pace, fighting to keep the tremble out of her step.
As an afterthought, she turned back towards Erik. Some of the revulsion in her eyes had been replaced with worry.
"Monsieur… be kind to her. None of this was her fault."
That is what I was referring to about the argument we had. I had a baby who was a mirror image of his father. Poor Erik was horrified.
It was an emotional time for us all as we talked about what to do about it.
In the flurry of questions and emotion, Christine desperately tried to make sense of it all. Where was Erik? What happened to her baby?
She vaguely remembered the midwife giving her a cup herbal tea and telling her to drink it all. She must have fallen asleep after that.
At some point, she had woken up to find Erik kneeling by her bedside, clutching her hand and sobbing like a child.
"I'm sorry Christine. Erik is sorry… so sorry…"
The next time she woke, her mind had cleared. She was terribly sore but refreshed and coherent enough to want a long bath. Her eyes fluttered open and she saw Erik in the doorway. His stance was wide and his arms folded. He had on his heavy black cloak and a brimmed hat that cast just enough shadow on his face to make his eyes glow. In those smoldering eyes, Christine saw a hardness that she had not seen in a long time.
This was not her Erik, husband, father of her children.
The man before her was the Opera Ghost… the Living Corpse… the Angel of Doom.
He was terrifying.
For a moment, neither spoke. Christine stared at him, aghast. She tried to make out a glimmer of emotion in his dead eyes but she could find nothing. They were cold… empty.
"My baby?" she whispered hopefully.
"Put it out of your mind, Christine. Erik is taking it away from here. You have no son. He died at birth. Do you understand? There will not be a baby. This is for the best. Rest now, and put it from your mind."
It took only a fraction of a second for this to sink in.
"You… you're going to kill him, aren't you? You are going to kill my son!" She sprung out of the bed, near hysterical.
"Get back into bed, Christine," Erik commanded, gently forcing her back down onto the mattress, "You have been ill, you see. That is why you must rest now."
He moved, then, to the white cradle--the one he had so lovingly built to hold his newborn baby--and carefully removed the soft bundle. He tucked it against his chest to keep it from Christine's view. If he could help it, his angel would never have to set eyes on the creature he had sired.
He would not subject his wife to the same horror that had been his unhappy mother's lot.
Christine would have none of it, though. She grabbed hold of Erik's sleeve and kept him from leaving the room.
"Look at me, Erik! Look at me now! You hear this, husband… if you hurt that child, I will take Dea and we will leave so that you will never find us again."
They were the 'magic words' so to speak… the only phrase that truly had the power to destroy Erik. It was a threat Christine hoped never to have to make… and so it was something she did not take lightly.
Erik paused for a moment. Rage and despair warring for dominion over his faculties. Then, with unnatural speed, he thrust the infant into her hands and fled the room.
Looking back now, I truly do not think Erik would have hurt Guillaume. He was just frightened--terrified, actually--and panicked. In the time I have known him, I have never seen Erik more afraid than I did that night.
Christine nursed Guillaume (she felt justified in naming the baby since Erik named the last one) a bit and then settled him into the cradle beside the bed, trying to give Erik a few minutes to cool down.
Then she went searching for her husband. She checked his workshop, the library, and the music room to no avail. She realized that there were enough hidden doors and shadowed corners in the house that, if Erik didn't want to be found, he wouldn't be.
Luckily she had a daughter who was the second best hider in the house.
She poked her head in the nursery. Dea was on the floor, coloring and singing to herself. Of the millions of dolls and stuffed creatures that inhabited her room, her favorites were lined up on the floor facing her.
The little diva couldn't do anything without an audience.
"Where's Papa?" Christine asked.
Completely absorbed in her artwork, Dea didn't even look up. "He's in his sad place," she answered.
"Do you know where that is?"
She nodded and pointed. Christine thanked her and went to leave. Before she shut the door, Dea looked up as something suddenly occurred to her.
"Can I see the baby, Mama?"
Christine smiled. "Not just yet, sweet. He is sleeping right now. You just finish your drawing and later Mama or Papa will take you to see him, alright?"
Dea sighed dramatically. "I suppose…"
Following Dea's rather incomplete directions, Christine eventually found herself just outside the door of one of the closets. If this were any other family, she'd assume she had gotten lost.
However, long ago she had learned that nothing was as it seemed.
Inside the closet, she began feeling the walls and pressing on weak spots. Eventually she managed to touch the right knots to make a second door swing open.
The room was not much larger than the closet had been and it contained a large mirror and a lamp. Inside, Erik was crouched on a rickety stool, staring into the mirror, without his mask. The position looked uncomfortable and Christine knew that, for Erik, looking upon his own face had to be nearly unbearable. Still, he did not look as if he'd be moving any time soon.
"Christine…" he whispered pleadingly, turning his shining eyes to look at her in the mirror.
She stepped forward and put her hand on his shoulder. He flinched at her touch. Christine wondered if it was just his emotional state that caused the reaction, or if he had beat or hurt himself in some way. She moved her hand upward to stroke his hair.
As she did this, something inside Erik broke. It was as if the floodgates had opened and he began to talk.
He told Christine everything. All the horrors of his life… the crimes committed against him, the ones he committed against others. He left nothing out and spared no details.
If Christine were truly going to love him for himself, she'd have to know everything.
He told her of the circus and the abuse. As a small boy, he'd run away from home only to be captured and sold to some traveling circus performers. A few weeks later, his mother came upon the side show and saw him only to turn back as if she'd never recognized him at all. The company stayed in that place for months as the Living Corpse gained popularity… she could have come and rescued him at any point during that time, but she stayed away. Eventually they moved on. In his memory that was the first shred of humanity truly torn from him.
It only got worse after that.
He told her of his violent escape and the uncertain time he spent on the road alone. He told her of his time in Persia--of the murders and the madness. He even told her that he enjoyed it, that he loved the power and the fear, that he would still be there today--controlled by the sickness in his mind--if they hadn't threatened his own life.
How the only shred of dignity he'd known as a young man came from the daroga--and his family had been tortured and killed for his kindness.
All the while Erik was speaking, Christine stood silent. She listened to his voice, his ragged, shuddering breath, his occasional sobs and moans.
When he had finished, he forced himself to meet her gaze, resigned to her rejection in the way a condemned man is resigned to his execution. Her face was streaked with tears and her eyes were puffy, but the look she gave him hadn't changed throughout his story.
She still loved him.
"Your own mother…" she breathed, after a time, "How could any mother turn her back on a child?"
Erik laughed mirthlessly. "Oh Christine! Sweet, innocent, little Christine… you still do not understand. I cannot hold it against my mother to do what she did. The misery I brought her… my father left her before I was born, did you know? And so she was all alone when she bore me. I frightened and repulsed her from the moment I met the world. How could she feel any differently? No… if I am to hate my mother, I do it only because she was too weak to smother me in my cradle… that her wretched conscience made her too selfish to spare me so much misery."
Christine took his hand then and drew him up from the chair. "Come walk with me," she said.
He believed he had inflicted his horrible life on another. He was angry and disgusted and depressed. I think a part of him also worried that I would hate him for giving me such a son.
If I learned anything from those few months at the opera, I learned that a frightened Erik is a frightening Erik. Like a wild creature, when he feels threatened he lashes out.
But a few gentle words and reassurance can bring him back to himself again.
Dea waited until her mother was out of sight. It was not fair that the grown-ups should spend all the time with her new brother and she hadn't even seen him once yet! She snatched up her favorite doll, figuring she needed someone to blame if they were caught, and tiptoed to her parent's room.
She let out a breath when she saw that it was empty. Good. There was no one to stop her from looking into the white cradle was just beside the bed. She pushed a chair up next to it and climbed up.
Dea frowned a little when she saw the tiny baby inside. He was not sleeping at all, but rather looking at her with curious, golden eyes.
"Hello, brother," she said, waving her hand at him. "You look different than I do. What happened to all your hair? Or your nose? Mama says that boys and girls look differently… did you know that? You look like Papa does."
The baby gurgled slightly and Dea grinned. "My brother is beautiful," she declared authoritatively and bent over the cradle--nearly tipping it over in the process--and kissed his little head.
"Mama said you were asleep," Dea said disapprovingly. She hopped down of the chair. "You should go to sleep before she gets back or you will get in trouble. Papa always knows when you're faking, too."
With a running start, she managed to hoist herself up into the tall bed and settle back against the pillows. "Don't worry, brother," she said, "I will sing to you like Papa does."
Then she began singing one of the many lullabies her parents sang to her at night. The baby just stared into space, occasionally waving a little fist around.
Dea sang and sang until she eventually tired herself out and nodded off, leaving Guillaume gurgling happily in his basket.
Still, my heart was in my throat for a time.
Christine held Erik's hand as she guided him through the house. Before they left, she had covered the tall mirror with a cloth and locked up the door.
They walked slowly, each afraid that the other might collapse if they rushed. Eventually they came to their bedroom where Christine found Dea fast asleep on their bed on the side closest to the baby.
She pulled Erik in after her, bringing his arms to wrap around her so that he was holding her from behind.
"Erik," she said softly, not to wake the children, "Look at your life. You have a wife who loves you and a daughter who adores you and a son who desperately needs you to love and protect him. Was your life truly such a waste? Do you really think you would have been better off dead?"
He didn't respond, but he didn't need to. Christine knew his mind was turning it over. She turned in his arms and held him for a few seconds while he watched his sleeping children.
"Your son needs you, Erik. He doesn't have to live through the same horrors that you did… but he can't do it on his own. I admit that his life will be more difficult than others… but who better than you to teach and guide him and give him strength. Help me, Erik… help me give your son the life you never had."
Erik left his wife then and cautiously approached the cradle. The newborn was fast asleep inside, but woke slightly when Erik picked him up and held him against his shoulder.
"Forgive me, my son," he whispered in the baby's ear as he rocked him softly.
Now the two are thick as thieves. We never speak of that day when he was born, I suspect it would be too painful for the both of us. Still, occasionally I see Erik staring at me with this odd look in his eyes and I would swear he was thanking me for something. Maybe it's all in my mind.
The night of the workshop fire, Christine slept fitfully. She'd sent both of the children to bed without supper… which was devastating to Dea, who enjoyed dessert more than oxygen. Guillaume was indifferent, since he never ate much anyway. Instead, Christine had taken away his sketch pad and tool set when she put him in his room.
Not that it made any difference; the child probably had more hidden away someplace.
She never quite knew what to do with Guillaume. They'd tried to spank him once--and only once. Erik had vomited and then broken every last piece of furniture in his office (at Christine's insistence, they only purchased cheap furniture for Erik's work areas now). Erik had been abused brutally and repeatedly as a boy and, apparently, this small act served to bring back some horrific memories.
Guillaume was back playing in moments. Erik hadn't recovered for days.
So spanking was out, taking things away was pointless, time alone was practically a reward. Guillaume was impossible to punish, it seemed. She'd leave it to Erik when he returned.
Christine let out a sigh of satisfaction and relief when she felt the mattress dip down and Erik climb into bed beside her.
"What have I missed?"
"Your son needs help with his time machine."
"Ah."
Guillaume had the same tendencies as Erik in that, if he did not figure something out, he would obsess over it until it was perfect. That meant it was up to Erik to nip in the bud any projects that were a little too big for such a small boy to handle. It kept them all sane.
"I'll ask him to help take a look and my new building plans."
"Is that what you've been working on the last four days?" Erik's creative streaks didn't always lean towards the musical. Sometimes he composed, but other times he was inspired to paint or design structures.
"Yes. I am terribly sorry about that, my dearest. It won't happen again."
Christine sighed dreamily. "If only, husband… if only. Just take care of your son, will you? He set your desk on fire, you know."
"Mm. At least nothing exploded," he said thoughtfully.
"You're impossible."
"You're lovely. Kiss?"
The mask--Erik's and Guillaume's--was a touchy subject for us at first, but this time it was Erik who spoke reason.
Sometimes I get so caught up in my happy little life that I forget how cruel the world can be.
And so we compromised--masks are optional in the house but they both wear them out in public. It's not ideal, but that's the way it is.
Erik made good on his wish to take walks in the park with his wife. After Mass on Sunday, the family would have lunch at home and then relax either on their own property or in the outskirts of town, weather permitting. Sometimes the whole family would go or sometimes Erik would just take Christine to have some time alone with her.
This Sunday, Erik had taken the children to the park on his own. It wasn't something Erik particularly wanted to do, but Christine was at home with… female complaints.
Early in their marriage, Erik had wanted to take care of her during this time, but it did not take much time to discover that the best thing to do was to stay far away from her and keep the children out of her hair.
He hated it… but she appreciated it… which meant it was less likely for her to yell at him or blame him for earthquakes, famine, or some other such nonsense.
And so, here he was in the park… in public… on an unnervingly sunny day… without Christine. If not for the fact that the time outside was so pleasurable for the young ones, he would be spending today and the next happily composing in his basement.
"Papa!" Dea cried, "I think I see a turtle in the water!"
"Very good, princess. Make sure you take brother to see it. I'll be right here by this tree."
As far as outdoor trips go, this one wasn't quite so bad. This wasn't so much a park as it was… public woods. There was a little stream and plenty of trees and bushes for the children to play and hunt for lizards and butterflies.
This particular tree was his favorite; it was in a perfect location for him to keep an eye on the children--Guillaume especially, as he was known to wander off--and shaded enough to keep him out of the view of anyone who didn't already know he was there.
Dea and Guillaume were walking hand in hand, pointing out especially interesting flowers. Guillaume kept stopping to collect little stones of unique shades or color and putting them in his pocket… what self-respecting boy doesn't have a collection of interesting rocks at home?
The pair was surprised, therefore, to come upon a group of older boys. They looked average enough; a few were smoking (likely the reason they were hiding out there) and the others were munching on candy and joking about school.
However, when they spotted the strange pair of children, something changed.
"Well, look what we have here?"
"My, my. Look at that pretty one." another boy said, reaching out to Dea, who recoiled before he came too close.
"No doubt. I wonder what she's doing with that little freak… Don't be afraid, pretty… just come over here. We'll protect you from circus-boy."
"Leave my brother alone!" she demanded.
"What's the matter with him, anyway?" the biggest boy challenged, "Take the mask of, boy, I want to look at you."
"That's right," the rest challenged, "See what he's hiding under there."
Meanwhile, Erik watched the scene from the shadows of the woods, grinding his teeth in fury and concentrating to hear the conversation over the roaring of blood in his ears.
Anger was not even close to describing his state at the moment.
A few years ago, he would have killed the lads for less than what they were doing now. They were hardly children, Erik decided, old enough that he wouldn't feel guilty about snapping each of their unworthy necks.
And yet, he held himself back. Guillaume would face this situation again and again and Erik wanted to see what he would do.
But, when one of them reached out to take his son's mask, he decided to step in. That was good reasoning, right? Christine couldn't fault him for that…
What happened then, however, shocked him motionless.
Just as one of them tried to grab Guillaume, Dea launched herself at the offender, throwing them both to the ground as she proceeded to pummel the face of a boy three times her size.
Luckily, the other boys were just as shocked as Erik was, or else he'd have quite a nasty mess on his hands.
After the split second of dumbness wore off, he went into action.
"Guillaume, get Dea!" Erik commanded his son.
Guillaume, though only four at the time, was nearly as tall as Dea and surprisingly strong. He wrenched his tigress sister off her sputtering opponent, pulling her to his chest and covering her eyes with his hand.
"Close your eyes, Dea," he whispered, holding her steady.
From seemingly out of nowhere, a rope flew out and wrapped around the wrist of the burly young man, slowly dragging him into the copse of increasingly shadowy trees. The ghostly sight was enough to send the rest of the group running, figuring they could nurse their wounded pride at another time.
The boy started to scream as he tried to stand but kept falling back over as the painfully tight rope dragged him faster and faster. His eyes were tightly shut and he opened them only to see two flaming stars glaring down at him.
"Wh--who are you?" he stuttered.
"I am Death." a voice replied from all directions.
"Do you wish to die, boy?"
"N-no sir!"
"Those children belong to me. If you value your life, you will never return here and you will warn your friends never to cross me again or touch what is mine."
A black-gloved hand reached out from the darkness and removed the rope from the young man's wrist. He gasped at the pain as the blood began to rush back into his purpled hand.
"Run." the voice hissed.
And he did.
I don't know how Guillaume feels--having Erik's face and all. If he is insecure, I haven't noticed. Besides, if he ever were to act ashamed in any way or say something deprecating about himself, I'm positive Dea would set him straight in no uncertain terms. That child is a force to be reckoned with and is fiercely protective of her brother.
"Children," Erik said as they made their way back to the carriage, "I think we need to have a talk. Would you like to ride in the boat today?"
"Oh yes!" they answered. There was a large pond located on their property, just by the house. Some Sundays, instead of going for walks, the family liked to bring a picnic to the field and then take a trip across the water in their little row boat. On particularly warm afternoons, sometimes they would go swimming… but it was much too cold for that today.
Once they had ventured out into the middle of the pond, Dea finally returned to the topic at hand. "What do you wish to speak to us about, Papa? Am I in trouble about today?"
"No, child, you're not in trouble… at least not from me." he added as an afterthought, wondering exactly what Christine would be saying right now. He took a pause, trying to think of the right words.
"What happened today at the park… Guillaume, you must understand that this will not be the last time. The world is not very nice to people who are different. When I was a boy it was much worse, and when I became a man I locked myself away so that no one would see me. I do not want that for you, son. You deserve to see the light just as Dea and Mama do. But if you are going to live amongst other people, you will have to learn to see past those cruel men and women who hate you because of your face."
Guillaume, still hardly more than a baby really, began to cry a little. Erik pulled him close; somehow Erik was the only one who knew exactly how comfort him without embarrassing him. Perhaps it was hypocritical of him to ask so much of his boy when he had yet to figure it all out himself. Then again, the children had no way of knowing that… so he continued.
"I know, son. I know it isn't fair," he said both to himself and the little boy on his lap.
"It sure isn't!" Dea cried furiously, standing up with her hands on her hips.
Papa's little firecracker. "Sit down, princess. You'll tip the boat."
Dea plopped down, less than pleased.
"Now, my little wildcat, I am going to tell you two conflicting things but I am going to trust you to be grown up enough to think them both over in your head. Do you think you can handle that?"
"Of course, Papa. I am very wise, you know."
He chuckled. "Well, sweet, first I want to tell you that you should not fight with your fists. It is very unladylike. Gentlemen shouldn't do it either." he said, lightly poking Guillaume's ribs to make sure he was listening too, "Civilized people do not hit, understand?" Both children nodded.
"That said… there is nothing wrong with protecting what is yours, and that means your family as well. Dea, I was not happy to see you tussling on the ground with that boy, but I was proud of you for defending your brother. You know as well as I do that life won't always be fair for him, but he sure is lucky to have you watching out for him. I wish I'd had a sister like you growing up." Dea beamed at her father's high praise.
"Anyway, like I was saying, you should never be ashamed to protect the things you love. I am sure Guillaume would have done the same for you, as would Mama and myself. You know I would do anything for you three, right?" they nodded again, "But I suspect we can look after each other without beating people up… Mama has done it for me many times."
Erik frowned. Speaking of Christine… "Now that that's settled… I think we should probably keep everything that happened today between the three of us. Agreed?"
None of them wanted the kind of trouble that would ensue if Christine found out about this. No good could come from that.
"Agreed!" the children answered in unison.
Today is Erik's birthday--or so we like to assume. Dea was appalled when she found out that her father did not remember his own birthday and we quickly invented one to keep the tears at bay. She has yet to figure out that her birth date is made up as well, but that's not important anyway. The tradition stuck and now Dea and I are planning a very special evening for Papa while the men are out fetching last minute supplies.
Our Persian friend is here… or 'Doga' as we like to call him. That was Dea's doing as well. As a little one, she couldn't quite figure out how to pronounce his name (quite frankly, neither can I--but I'm not about to admit that to anyone). Once she heard Erik calling the daroga by his title, she--being the very grown up three-year-old that she was--did her best to echo. Despite our repeated scolds and protests on the grounds of politeness, that sweet old man found the nickname rather amusing and decided to keep it.
I wonder how either of my children ever learned an ounce of respect with those indulgent men around.
"DOGA!" Dea shrieked, skidding on the wood floors.
"Dea! How many times do I hav----Oh! Hello, old friend!"
"My dear Christine… you're looking lovely as always. Dea, what are you trying to do?"
"Pick me up, Uncle Doga!" she insisted.
Christine pinched the bridge of her nose. "Dea, I hardly think---"
"Oh it's no trouble, Madame, I assure you. Oof… my goodness, Dea, look at how big you're getting!"
She put her hand to her forehead most theatrically. "Oh but it is not true! Guillaume is almost as big as I am and I'm ages older than he is!"
"Indeed you are. Hundreds and hundreds of years. Speaking of which… are you ten yet, little love?"
"Not quite yet," Dea replied as the Persian set her back down. They were both a little too old for this type of greeting, but he wasn't about to tell her that. "You will come back for my birthday in a few months, won't you?"
"I wouldn't miss it. By the by, have you seen your father around?"
"I will go find him." Dea said, rushing off.
"Hello, uncle," another sweet voice sounded.
"Guillaume, how good to see you."
"And you as well. Might I help you with your bags?"
"How polite you are, but I think I can handle it. Thank you. Oh, but I do have a present for you!"
Guillaume bounced just a little before clearing his throat and returning to a rigid pose. He tilted his head slightly as if to urge the daroga to continue.
The old man chuckled. "More like Erik every day," he said to Christine, who just nodded. Turning back to the boy, he continued, "That's why I thought you might like this. Your father made it back when we were in Persia."
It was a brightly colored puzzle box. Erik insisted it was made for children, but after all this time the daroga could not solve it for the life of him. Guillaume was thrilled.
"I think it plays a song, if you do it right," he tried to recollect.
"Thank you, uncle! I shall put it in my room right away."
"So old man," Erik said, stepping out of a shadowed portion of the wall, "Not only have you infiltrated my home, but you have also taken to giving my things away."
"Ah, there you are Erik. Still lurking in dark corners I see. As for the puzzle… you are correct there. I am convinced it is impossible to solve. You have driven me mad with it for years and I thought it was time to burden your own home with it."
"I got it!" cried a far away voice.
The Persian just knew Erik was smirking under that mask.
Anyway, his shining face is quite familiar to our little household; he visits whenever he can to see the children. I suspect that he and Erik also start to miss each other--but I would never mention that out loud.
"We both know the boy is a genius… but there's no need to be so damn smug about it."
"It's a child's toy, daroga. That you couldn't solve it says more about you than it does about him."
"Now wait." Christine said firmly, though with a hint of amusement, "If you are about to start insulting each other, we will be out here all night. Why don't you men go into the study and catch up. I'll be in after a few minutes to bring you both something to eat." Just don't ruin your supper children, she joked inwardly. "Erik, don't you have that special bottle of brandy you were waiting to share with your friend?"
"Ha!" Erik barked as the two slowly made their way out of the hall, "As if I'd waste the good stuff on the likes of you. She must be talking about someone else."
"Don't delude yourself, you grump, we both know you haven't any other friends…"
Christine smiled and shook her head fondly as the two bickered the entire way to the study.
Occasionally he brings me news of Raoul. Apparently he met a lovely young lady while he was visiting (recuperating) with his sister. After a respectably long courtship, they married and had four children and have another on the way. That hot-blooded Frenchman.
Seriously, though, I am happy for him. After all the trouble I put him through, he deserves to be as happy as possible. At first I thought it odd that he could marry so soon, but I realized how selfish and idiotic that sounded and quit dwelling on it. Young hearts heal fast, or so the daroga explained to me. I am glad of it as well. Erik would not have recovered from the sort of rejection I put Raoul through.
We never speak of Raoul, for obvious reasons. I've never mentioned this to anyone, but I suppose I might tell you, dear journal. I truly loved Raoul. A part of me always will. Once I thought to play the repentant lover--to say that I never seriously loved Raoul as more than a friend or brother, or perhaps, that I hadn't truly understood the meaning of love at the time... but I found I could not swallow the lie. I could never debase by love for Raoul by calling it something other than it was, and I was truly in love with him. I was going to marry the man, after all!
But that is not to say that I love Erik any less. Perhaps it makes me a terrible woman that I can admit to having loved two men, but I don't think so. The way I felt about Raoul was different than the way I feel about Erik. I'm not sure how to explain it… it's as if I love Erik in a red way and Raoul in a blue way. Both nice colors--just different.
But how relevant are feelings anyway? Raoul is like a fond memory, but my affection and admiration for Erik grows deeper every day.
At any rate, I made the right choice, of that I have no doubt. I don't even resent Erik for the little 'push' he gave me that direction that night. I couldn't be happier.
"Goodbye gentlemen, don't be too long. Oh, and Erik, don't forget to pick up the cake."
"She is making you get your own cake?" the Persian snickered under his breath.
"She had a special one made, you dolt. I get a good dessert. I'm old, remember?"
"How could I forget?"
"Just no fisticuffs in front of my son, you two. Understood?"
"Gentlemen don't hit." Guillaume threw in, looking offended that his mother would suggest such a thing.
"Well said, son. Now we must be off if we are to return while it is still light. Goodbye, Christine, we won't be long."
"Goodbye husband," she said, kissing the lips of Erik's mask, "Goodbye son," she said, kissing Guillaume's mask on the forehead.
Father and son both sighed irritably and, with identical one-handed motions, lifted their masks, beckoning Christine to repeat her goodbyes. She obliged gladly, kissing them each and sending them on their way.
"Are they gone, Mama?" Dea whispered, peeking out the door. She was very excited about tonight's festivities.
"They are. Have you thought of any decorations yet?"
She bounced on her toes, "I have. Let's do something with sparkles!"
As a child, I used to think life was a fairytale. When my father died and reality struck so painfully, my perspective of the world changed.
If you asked me then, I'd say that life was a game--a combination of luck and strategy where you plot and hope and fight to gain control of the board.
Now I realize I may have missed the mark on both. Life isn't a fairytale where Good triumphs over Evil and everyone lives happily ever after. Nor is it a game with winners and losers. It simply is what it is. It stands before you each morning offering no apologies for yesterday nor promises for tomorrow. It merely says, 'This is what I am. Will you join me for the journey?'. Each morning I answer the question with a resounding 'Yes!' and I haven't regretted it once.
With my sincerest fondness,
Christine
