Anathema [uh-nath-uh-muh]: n. a person or thing detested or loathed/a person or thing accursed or consigned to damnation or destruction.
For minutes on end, she could do nothing. She simply wailed, slumped on the ground, staring into the room as if doing so would magically bring Gustave back. She clutched at her hair and sobbed, horrible things coming to her. What if he was…under the bed? What if someone had killed him and stuffed the body there? She couldn't look—she didn't want to…She was not brave enough.
The only person who would be brave enough…
She crawled into her room, not having the courage to walk, and she dug around for her outdated cell phone, flipping it open and dialing the number with shaky fingers. Still crying at the thought, she held the phone to her ear.
"Christine?"
At first, she could not make out any coherent words. She simply sobbed into the phone, pressing her hand over her eyes, wanting to block out the mental image of her body's father under the bed. It was too horrible.
She said, "Raoul…please…"
"Christine! What's wrong? Honey? Tell me what's wrong!"
"Please—please—" she whimpered, pressing her forehead to the side of her bed.
"I'm turning around. Stay where you are. You're at your apartment, right? Stay there, baby, okay? Can you talk to me? Can you tell me what's going on?"
She shook her head, feeling terrified of the darkness of her room. She wanted to go where it was light—but that was out in the hallway, near her father's room…near the blood…and his body.
"Okay, it's okay. Calm down, Christine. I'm almost there. Is your door unlocked? Can you unlock the door for me? Can you at least do that? Or…Christine, what's going on? Please tell me! Is someone there?"
Yes—unlock the door so Raoul could enter. She crawled into the main room, reached up high for the deadbolt, and clicked it open. Then she crawled back to her bedroom, afraid that the murderer might be waiting for her to unlock the door—so he could enter and kill her, too. With trembling hands, she reached up on her table and felt around for her cross necklace. When she felt it, she grabbed it and clutched it tightly, feeling the metal press into her skin.
"Christine?" Raoul's voice was back. "Don't hang up on me, honey! Stay there. Talk to me. I'm just a few blocks away, all right?"
She wanted to crawl away into her closet and hide. How could anybody do this to her? To her Pappa? They had never hurt anybody in their lives! Some evil man had entered her home and…and…
She had been planning to cook something special for him tomorrow night as a surprise! She cried harder at the thought. How could this happen to her? What would she do now? No more father. No more Pappa. He had been her constant companion for her entire life. He had loved her more than anyone else in the world. And—the last things she said to him! She had been so cruel! Why had she agreed to go to that stupid party? If she had refused…maybe she could have saved him! Maybe he could have escaped! Christine gasped and almost choked on it. Her lungs felt restricted, too small for the air she needed.
"Christine? Christine!"
A pair of arms overtook her, and she recognized the scent and the feel. She clung to Raoul, burying her face in his chest. She hadn't even heard him enter.
"What's going on?" he asked seriously. "Tell me what's happening, Christine, so I can help you."
She pointed out into the hallway, her finger trembling, and he got up and looked around.
"I don't see anything," he called.
"Pappa," she whispered. "Please. Pappa."
There was silence, and she heard him moving around in Gustave's bedroom. "Is that…?" he then said, and she imagined him looking at the blood on the ground. "Oh, geez." When he entered her room again, his sleek phone was to his ear, and he knelt down and wrapped her up with his free arm.
"Yeah, hi," he said quickly. "I'm at my girlfriend's apartment—I was dropping her off, and she went inside, and her dad was supposed to be here, but he's not. His room is pretty smashed up, and I think there's some blood on the floor. Yeah. No, not from I can see. Uh-huh. No, she's fine, but she's really shaken up. I think she might be in shock. No, I'm fine. She called me just a few minutes ago after she saw his room. Yeah. Gustave Daae. I'm at Hillside Apartments on the east side—apartment 5C. Yeah, please come as soon as you can. Okay." He put his phone back into his pocket and then pulled her into his arms fully. She cried against his neck.
"It's all right," he murmured. "It's okay. Things are going to be okay."
"Is—is—he—?" she choked out.
"Is he what, Christine?" he said.
"Under—the bed—" she gasped.
He paused for a moment, apparently a little puzzled, but then he said, "There wasn't anything under the bed, Christine, except for some suitcases. Why?"
She began to sob anew, a mixture of relief and more terror. So he wasn't dead—at least not here. Yet that only presented a whole new set of horrors. Where was he? Who took him? What were they doing to him?
"What—what's this?" He took her clenched fist and literally pried it open, as she could not open it for him. "Oh, Christine." He knew of the necklace, and he carefully clasped it around her neck. She continued to sob, pressing her shaking fingers against the emblem.
"Here." Raoul untangled himself from her and left for a moment before returning with a glass of water. "Drink this, baby."
She took it in trembling hands, and he helped her lift it to her lips. As she was gulping it down, her stomach suddenly jerked, and all at once she remembered the taste of the raw fish and the onions from the burger and the cheese and the grease and the—it all made her stomach twist unpleasantly. She groaned and tried to crawl away. Raoul helped her, and she managed to get to the bathroom in time.
She vomited into the toilet, heaving violently, and Raoul held her hair behind her shoulders and rubbed her back. She threw up again and again, sobbing and retching and wanting to die. When she had nothing more to expel, she fell back onto the floor in awful exhaustion, feeling too weak to cry anymore. Raoul got more water and a bowl, and he handed the glass to her.
"Rinse out your mouth," he said. "It will make you feel better."
She did as he said, and as she was doing so, she heard a knock on the door. Raoul ensured that she was all right before getting up to answer it. She lay on the grimy tiles in the bathroom, humiliated and defeated in her old, holey, faded pajamas and loose wild hair. She had never felt so disgusting and miserable. A few people came in, and she looked up at them. One of them kneeled down and shined a bright light in her eyes. She groaned and looked away.
"Miss?" said an older man's voice. "Miss, can you hear me?"
She looked back at him, and he put some fingers to her wrist and then felt her forehead. She didn't like this—she didn't like this strange man touching her. Who was he? What were these people doing here?
"Raoul…" she said.
"I'm here, Christine." He was back, and he kneeled down alongside the other man. He took her hand, rubbing it softly. "You're going to be okay."
She could hear people moving around outside of the bathroom. There were conversations, mutters, even some people laughing quietly. She wanted everyone out—out of her apartment! Out of her home!
Feeling her eyes fill with tears again, she reached for the only person she knew, and he carefully pulled her up and into his arms. Her dignity was gone. She was utterly broken, and she began to cry again, clinging to him tightly, feeling his strong arms support her and his breathing in her ear. He was still wearing his tuxedo, and his cologne lingered in the material.
Faintly, as if through a wall, she could hear Raoul talking to someone. After a minute, he pulled away slightly and looked down at her.
"Can you walk to the front room, Christine?" he asked softly. "Or do you want me to carry you?"
Didn't he know her legs didn't work anymore? She had to crawl everywhere now. Without hearing her answer but obvious knowing what it was, he carefully slipped his arms around her and picked her up. She didn't want to see anyone, and she put her face in his warm neck. His pulse was consistent, rhythmic. Everything about him was strength, steadfastness, and steadiness.
He put her on the couch and sat beside her, holding her hand tightly and murmuring more words to her. She didn't want to listen. She simply leaned against his shoulder, feeling tears continue to slip down her cheeks and onto her chest.
Another man came by, and he talked to Raoul. When they turned their attention to her, she found herself struggling for words.
"My Pappa's gone," she managed to say in trembling Swedish. "Please…please find him…"
There was a pause, and Raoul pulled her closer. "Christine," he said quietly. He began speaking French. Raoul's entire family was French. She spoke French as well. Her mother had been French. "Christine, can you speak in English for me? Or maybe in French, and I can translate it for you. Can you do that for me?"
"I just want my Papa," she said in French.
"They're going to help us find him," he replied. "Don't worry."
He asked her some questions, presumably translating from the other man, and she answered in short whispers. No, she had not seen anyone. No, she hadn't heard anything. No, her father hadn't said anything. After a while, she grew agitated and more upset. The questions were banal, and she just wanted to run out into the streets and scream for her father.
"Okay, that's all he's going to ask you for now," Raoul then said, his French low and soothing. "Can I carry you again, Christine? I don't want you staying here tonight."
She nodded, and he picked her up and took her out and down the stairs. She felt too tired to cry. All of the rushing emotions had swept through and drained her, and she simply wanted to sleep.
Raoul put her in his car and helped her buckle her seatbelt, and then he drove away from the complex. She noticed that they were following a police car with its lights flashing.
"What's going on?" she asked fearfully. "Raoul?"
He reached over and took her hand. "It's okay. Relax. They just want to monitor you tonight. You're going to stay at the hospital."
"I'm not sick!" she cried. "No, I'm not sick!" Hospitals were where people went to die—and she wasn't going to die! Was she?
"I know, Christine, please calm down. You've just had a little shock, and they only want to make sure that you're completely okay. So only one night—just tonight. Okay? I promise."
"I'm not sick," she repeated in a whisper. "I just want my Papa."
Christine woke with a start as something near her beeped loudly. For a moment, she nearly panicked, wondering where she was. Then it all came back, and she closed her eyes, resisting giving a groan. The bed—cot, really—she was lying on felt hard and impersonal, and the blankets smelled too sterile and aloof. If blankets could smell aloof…But they did. She wanted them off of her. However, she was cold, so she kept them on.
Raoul had driven her to the hospital, and he had been forced out while two nurses helped her change out of her old, ratty pajamas and into one of the hideous hospital gowns. It had small blue flowers dotted around it, and it draped over her like a tent. Then she had been put in the bed and hooked up to some machines. The nurses wrote some things down on official-looking clipboards and then showed her which buttons to push if she needed them. They smiled at her and left. Raoul had been allowed in, and he had sat by her until she finally dropped off in exhaustion. When she looked at the chair, she saw that it was empty. A little tug pulled at her heart. He must have had to go to work. She had no idea what time it was, but sunlight had filled the room through the single large window, the drapes too thin to block out all the light.
All the events of last night were swirling in her mind, and she put her hand over her eyes, feeling a little dizzy as she remembered. Coming home…her father's bedroom in shambles…She had sobbed for what felt like days. Her eyes were still swollen and heavy from all the tears she had shed. Her mouth felt heavy and thick, and she reached for the cup of water that was sitting on the plastic table beside the bed. Her fingers were shaking, and when she picked it up, it slipped from her hands, spilling on the floor.
She moaned and slumped back into the small, thin pillows, trying not to cry again. She couldn't even have a drink of water!
The door opened, and she looked to see that Raoul was entering, a small traveling bag over his shoulder, a brown paper sack in one hand, and a cup of coffee in the other.
"Oh!" he said, smiling when he saw her. "I wanted to be back before you woke up. Feeling all right?"
"I spilled some water," she said dully, speaking in English.
His smile widened a little. "Good to know you're trilingual again," he said. "And don't worry about the water, Christine. I'm sure it's fine." He approached and put the bag on the floor before sitting down in the chair he had previously occupied.
"Where are you going?" she asked, trying not to sound fearful. How could he leave her so soon?
"What—wait? What do you mean? I just got here. I'm not going anywhere." He put the sack down on the plastic table by the bed, right where the cup had been. Then he bent down and picked up the cup.
"That bag," she said.
"Oh, that's yours," he said, nudging it with the toe of his shoe. "I went back to your apartment and packed some clothes for you. As pretty as you look in that beautiful hospital gown, I'm sure you'd much rather be in normal clothes."
She managed to smile a little. His humor never failed to cheer her up at least a bit.
"Thanks," she said.
"No problem," he said, and he opened the brown sack. "I also brought you breakfast. You never know what you're gonna get with that hospital food. That's the stuff that kills you." He pulled out a small cup of juice, an apple, and a bagel with cream cheese and presented it to her with a small smile.
"Wow. Thanks," she said again. She drank the juice thirstily and then nibbled on the bagel. Raoul drank some of his coffee, and she noticed that he was stillwearing his tux from the night before. He had shed everything except the pants and the shirtsleeves, but they were distinctly rumpled and wrinkled. His cheeks and chin were covered with stubble, and his eyes had slight shadows underneath, but he looked at her with nothing but kindness and affection in his eyes. She was burning with shame. Raoul was too good for her—much too good. She didn't deserve a man like he was.
She ate half of the bagel and took a bite or two of the apple before setting them aside, feeling a little queasy and not wanting a repeat of the vomiting in front of him from the night before. Her cheeks only burned brighter as she remembered. He must have thought she was pathetic.
"So I talked to the doctor," Raoul said, eating the rest of her apple after ensuring that she really didn't want anymore. "He said you can go as soon as you get checked once more in an hour or so. Just sign some papers and stuff, and you're free. Also I talked to the police. They said they're looking for DNA evidence or fingerprints…They've been working hard, but nothing's come up yet. But I'm sure something will soon, and then they'll find your dad." He leaned over and rubbed her arm.
Christine nodded, staring at the starched blankets. Her father—her Pappa…gone. It was more definite now than it had been the previous night. He really was gone. It wasn't a misunderstanding between the two of them. He hadn't been out running errands. He was gone, and she didn't know why or where.
Raoul tried to talk to her for a while, but she mostly nodded or answered in monosyllabic words. She just…didn't want to function. She didn't want to have to make conversation or an effort. Not until her father was back. He was her entire world, her entire purpose.
The nurses came back, and Raoul left as they helped her change out of the hospital gown and into regular clothes. Christine blushed a little as she saw that Raoul had packed several pairs of clean underwear and some of her bras.
After dressing, she signed a few papers under Raoul's supervision (he read over them briefly to make sure she could sign them), and then he picked up the bag, wrapped an arm around her waist, and led her out of the hospital. His spotless BMW was still waiting for them, and she climbed in, glad for the familiar surroundings.
As they drove, she leaned her head against the window, staring at the bright day. People were enjoying their Saturday afternoon. It was unusually warm, and she saw people riding their bikes and jogging, mothers with little babies or toddlers…She felt her heart ache. It was so beautiful. She and her father would have probably sung at the park today…People were out, and they would have heard him.
While they drove, she perked up a bit at their surroundings.
"Where are we going?" she asked. "This isn't the way back to my apartment."
"Oh—no, we're not going there," Raoul said, putting a comforting hand on her leg. "I thought that it would be best if you stay with me for a while, if you're okay with that. I mean, you probably shouldn't go back to your apartment, not while they're still looking for stuff. And even when they're gone, I don't like the thought of you alone in your apartment. That complex is…not the safest place for a young woman."
"But what if my dad comes back?" she said, sounding a little shrill even to her own ears. "I need to be there when he comes back!"
"If he comes back, they'll call us the second he does, and I'll drive you over there rain or shine, night or day. Okay?"
She forced herself to take in a deep breath. He was right. It was probably best that she wasn't alone in her apartment, especially not after what happened. What if…they came back? She shuddered a little. And if there was anyone she had to be with, she would want it to be Raoul.
He carried her bag and took her hand to lead her up to his apartment. It was in a very nice complex with an actual doorman. No children were allowed, so it was relatively quiet, and Christine had often spent comfortable nights with him watching movies or simply talking. However, she had never been less excited about entering into his modern, spacious apartment. He took her over to the guest bedroom (which he had invited her to stay in many times but was always refused) and put the bag on the bed.
"Feel free to unpack or rearrange or do whatever you want. I hardly come in here—so it's pretty much your room. Just make yourself at home, really. And there's no adjoining bathroom, sorry. But there's one right across the hall that you can use. So…Do you want something to eat? Are you hungry?"
She shook her head, looking around at the impersonal room. The bed was crisply made and looked as if it had never been slept in. The bedcovers were a deep gray with white, and the pillows matched. The furniture set was a pretty black wood, and there were soft rugs. A few abstract, uninteresting paintings hung on the walls, and a mirror was over the empty dresser. There was no home feel to it—though she told herself that that was to be expected in a guest room that Raoul hardly ever went in.
"Well, if you do get hungry, just let me know. I'm not a good cook, but I'm sure I can impress you somehow." He bumped her playfully but then grew instantly solemn when he realized that she was still somber and depressed. "Christine, I'm so sorry that this happened." He wrapped his arms around her. "I promise that they'll find him. I promise."
Late that night, while Raoul was sleeping peacefully in his bedroom, Christine stared at the blank white ceiling, tears dripping into her ears. Raoul always kept his promises—he did. And he promised that they would find him. They would.
They had to.