Hey, everyone! Sorry for the delay again. My job keeps me a little busy. Plus, I'm a bit of a political news junky, and the election had been distracting me from other things. All I can say is that last Tuesday was completely amazing.
This chapter deals with a slightly touchy subject among phans, and I hope that I handled it in a satisfying way. Thank you all for continuing to read. Thanks to MadLizzy for editing.
Read and Review!!!
"Aren't you just the cutest, fuzziest thing ever? Yes, you are. Yes, you are." Christine held the white Persian kitten up in the air with both hands and grinned. The creature pawed at her and wriggled its legs.
"Hmph."
"Do you want to hold her?" She looked at him.
"No." He turned away with his arms crossed. At least it was a female feline.
"Aw. But Erik! Look at those eyes. How can you resist her?"
"Easily." He stiffly sat on the couch and picked up his pen and paper, ignoring them both. From the corner of his eye, he saw Christine place the creature on the floor. She walked to the couch and took a hard seat next to him, bouncing them both.
"Are you upset about Cordie?" she asked. She'd wanted to carry on the Shakespearean tradition and named the cat Cordelia. As the cat liked to play with electrical cords…well…. "Are you mad, Erik?"
"No. I said that you may have the cat. I did not say I would care for it." Perhaps he was being a bit harsh. It was simply…difficult sharing her affections again. The fish ignored her; the kitten tended to follow her around the house.
"Oh." She sat there for awhile, watching him work.
After a few moments, he turned and kissed her forehead, not really wishing to upset her. She smiled and turned to pick up the kitten, keeping it on the other side of her. Firmly sandwiched between him and the feline, Christine appeared quite content.
As promised, the cat did not sleep in their bedroom or encroach on the fishes' territory. Christine fed and played with the creature. He ignored it—or at least attempted to do so whenever it crawled into his lap or attacked his pants leg. Sometimes he tried hissing at the kitten, but that seemed to excite it even more. If all else failed, he would call Christine. She would giggle while picking up the feline and carrying it away.
Of course, it all became a bit complicated whenever Christine had to leave for tryouts and rehearsals, usually in the city. She obtained several medium-sized roles in productions, all of which showcased her voice. Her focus was still on the opera, but first she needed to thicken her resume. It was all coming together a bit slower than he preferred, but perhaps it was better that way.
It was always a bit difficult for him to adapt to fast changes.
Anyhow, when Christine left during the day, she placed the kitten in a large kennel. Occasionally, it mewled or scratched against the plastic sides. He ignored it. Sometimes he went into the basement to escape the noise. "It will not get to us now," he informed the fish. He was certain that Juliet nodded her head in appreciation.
His attitude toward the kitten changed one wretched Wednesday. Christine had gone into the city for a rehearsal. Rain was hammering against the roof, and the streets were beginning to flood. Lightning flashed as thunder shook the house. He paced back and forth, waiting for his wife to come home. The cat's cries were also beginning to grow louder.
Finally, the phone finally rang, and he leaped forward and answered it. "Yes?"
"Erik?"
"Christine. Where are you?"
"I'm still in the city," she said, her voice hesitant. "The weather is horrible, and it's not supposed to get any better until after midnight. I think…I think it would be safer for me to rent a room here. Only for the night. Is that okay?"
Okay?
Okay?
Of course it was not okay! He had not spent a night without her since London. She was his sanity at night and his relief in the morning. She kept the things from creeping into his mind.
"You cannot come home?" he asked, his voice weaker than he preferred.
"I could try. But it's…there's flooding, and traffic is supposed to be backed up for miles. If I started driving now, I still might not get home for hours."
If he ordered Christine to come home and something horrible happened to her, well…that would be the end of everything. A stone lodged itself somewhere between his heart and stomach. "You…should remain there until it is safe," he said.
"That's what I think," she agreed. Thunder roared again over his head. "I'll be home early in the morning. I promise."
"Yes."
"And…could you check on Cordie? Maybe let her out for a little while and give her some water. Please?"
"Fine," he grunted. This was growing viler by the moment.
"I love you," she said. "I'll call you after I get a room, and I'll get home tomorrow as soon as I can."
"I know," he replied. "Stay safe. I love you."
He hung up and stared at the floor. The clock said that it was barely after eight. Well, he certainly would not sleep that night. He fell onto the couch as the rain continued to clatter against the windows, wishing it were possible to strangle the weather.
The cat continued to rattle against the kennel, and he finally stood and released the creature. It followed him to the couch and stood on its hind legs, staring up at him with green eyes. "Why must you bother Erik?" he asked it. "Erik is a frightening, ugly man. And you are a white ball of hair that females squeal over. We have nothing in common." The kitten attempted to climb up the couch before tumbling back onto the carpet. "Idiot creature."
After watching it struggle for a few more moments, he lifted the kitten and placed it on the couch. It curled up beside his thigh and yawned. Within twenty minutes, Christine called again and gave him the number to her room. They briefly chatted, but she continuously yawned with exhaustion. Eventually, he ordered her to go to bed.
Once their conversation was over, he stood and went into the bedroom. Plucking Christine's pillow from the bed, he took it back into the living area and sat on the sofa. The cat was waiting for him, ears perked upwards. After he retook his seat, it settled down again.
For the rest of the evening and night, he kept his face near her pillow. Her sweet scent kept some of the bad things out of his mind. The cat occasionally nuzzled his hand and fingers. He did not pet it, but he did not push it away.
He was not insane; he knew where he was…what was occurring…that she would be back. Still, like a passenger on a turbulent flight, he sat in a haze of panic. By the end of the night, he was firmly hugging the pillow with one arm, staring forward and holding his breath. The kitten was sleeping on top of his other arm.
Christine came home, of course. He was aware of her entering fairly early in the morning but could not seem to move. She walked into the room and immediately saw him positioned between the cat and her pillow. Her eyes widened, and she drew in her breath. "Erik? Are you okay?"
"I…am," he managed to say. "Merely resting."
The kitten stood and stretched, presenting itself to her in the obvious hopes that she would pet it. Christine kissed his jaw and took a seat beside him before scooping up the kitten with both hands. "I'm sorry I couldn't come home."
"I know."
"I missed you," she stated. Christine tugged on the corner of her pillow with a half-smile. "Did you miss me?"
The noise at the back of his throat was meant to be an affirmation. Within a split second, he had grabbed his wife with both arms in a demanding embrace.
"Oomph," she grunted before hugging him as well. "I'll take that as a 'yes.'" He refused to release her for an entire two hours.
With the help of a cat, a pillow, and perhaps the healing of some wounds over the last several years—he was able to keep a good grip on his sanity. He had been…okay. Nothing and no one was broken.
Could he have done it for days or weeks?
Mankind did not want an answer to that question.
Christine had always planned on asking Erik to accompany her if she started travelling. But she'd also wondered if he would sometimes prefer to stay home. Maybe he'd get sick of suitcases, long car rides, and hotel rooms.
It was obvious now that he would always go with her, especially since Erik had started checking the weather report every time she was about to go into the city. She also knew that Erik's behavior didn't stem from jealousy. He just didn't do very well when he was forced to be alone for long periods of time—even more so at night. Maybe it brought back bad memories.
Anyway, it didn't matter. They'd have fun in the hotel room, ordering room service and enjoying the different cities at night. Of course, they might have to bring Cordie sometimes….
These were her happy thoughts as she stepped out onto her front porch with a broom, ready to sweep away some of the dirt and leaves that the storm had left behind. She hummed to herself, now thinking over her auditions and wondering whether she could have done better. Christine glanced up as she heard a door squeak open. Justin McKenzie stepped outside with a pack of cigarettes in his hand. Seeing her, he blinked and looked like he was about to step backwards. They hadn't talked often since his wife had left. He and Erik seemed to be battling for the title of "Most Reclusive Neighbor."
"Hi," she said.
"Hey." After a second, he stepped forward again and walked several feet away from her. Justin lit a cigarette and stared at the street, his black hair fluttering slightly in the breeze. He reminded her a little of the handsome movie stars from the fifties and sixties. "Sorry," he said, noticing her watching him. "Bad habit I can't seem to kick."
"It's fine," she replied, quickly looking away.
"Warm out today."
"Yeah. It's nice." She started to sweep again.
"Look," he began, sharply enough to make her glance up. "I want to apologize again for my wife's behavior. And for mine. It was irresponsible of me to leave her alone. And to expect you to take care of it. I was being a jerk."
"It's okay," she softly replied. "I know it was hard. I'm sorry for your troubles."
"Thanks." He shook his head. "She's better now than she was."
"That's good."
"Yep." Justin didn't say anything else, continuing to smoke with the cigarette poised between his second and middle finger.
Christine finished sweeping and went inside the house, not really knowing what that was all about. Her attention was immediately taken away by Erik and Cordie--who appeared to be taking turns stalking each other around the living room. Christine removed the breakable objects from the nearby tables and then sat down to watch the game.
"Ha!" Erik cried in triumph as he jumped out from behind a corner and startled the kitten. With a cry, Cordie whirled around in a circle and took off running for Christine.
"My poor baby," she cooed, picking up the cat and setting her on the couch. "Erik is so mean to you, isn't he?"
"Erik won!" he exclaimed before dashing down to the basement to…hopefully do something wholesome and legal.
Christine felt her heart warm with love for her small family.
Her next conversation with Justin came while she was retrieving the mail. Justin was holding a can of oil and tinkering with the engine of his silver sports car.
"Windy out today," he said.
"Yeah," she agreed, trying to keep her hair from blowing into her mouth. "It's terrible." One of the envelopes dropped out of her hands and started to blow down the sidewalk. "Oh!" Christine chased after it, blinking as dust hit her in the eyes.
Justin reached down and grabbed it as it blew past his feet. Instead of handing the envelope back to her, he glanced down at the front. "Publishing company, huh? Nice. You or Erik?" He held it out to her.
"Um. Erik. He writes music."
"Great. Yeah. I can hear you guys over there sometimes."
She nervously laughed. "Sorry. We'll try to keep it down."
"Don't. It sounds good. Better than most of the crap on the radio."
"Heh. Thanks." Feeling a little uncomfortable, she started to turn around and head inside.
"Christine."
She wearily turned to face him again. "Yeah?" Justin started to walk toward her but paused several feet away. His expression was intense but non-threatening.
"Look," he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "I get that there are some…issues in your house. I get it because I'm there right now. Staying inside most of the time. Not talking to the neighbors…."
Christine flinched as a few warning bells rang in her mind. "We're fine."
"Maybe so. But it could be better, right?"
She looked Justin in the eye, unsure of whether he was trying to flirt with her…or being a nosey jerk…or seriously trying to empathize. "I won't say that we don't have our challenges like anyone else," she stated, her tone becoming icy. "But we're perfectly happy."
"I can see what's going on with Erik," he continued.
"He's fine."
"Like with Katherine--"
"Erik is not like your wife!" she snapped.
Justin blinked and leaned back. "I didn't say he was like my wife. What? No. I was going to say that, with Katherine, it's easier to hide sometimes because it's all psychological stuff."
"Huh?"
"But your problems are more physical. I mean, with his appearance. I can tell that he wears a mask. And his skin color is a little strange."
Christine glared. "That is rude and horrible and --"
"No!" Justin rubbed a hand over his face. "Let me say this before I put my foot in my mouth again, okay? My brother is a plastic surgeon. A good one. He's worked on burn victims and mutilated soldiers and all that. I was wondering if you wanted some help. With Katherine—I didn't know what the hell to do. Until one my friends at work recommended this mental health center."
"Center?" Christine was beginning to feel a little dizzy. No one had ever been this…blunt before.
"Yeah. It's helped her get through her addictions…depression. She has episodes; I won't say it's perfect. Obviously not." He made a sound between a grunt and a laugh. "But we're making progress. Without that center—expensive as it was, she'd be dead by now."
"Oh. I'm glad she got help."
"Right. It's good to have help. We had the center plus some help from family. You got other family?"
"No," Christine hesitantly admitted.
"That's a shame. Anyway, I wanted to offer you some help. I don't know what you've been through…what you're going through now. After watching you two over the past couple of months, I decided I might as well offer a hand."
"I don't want…."
"Please just think about it, Christine. Take Harold's info." He took a white card out of his pants pocket and handed it to her. The name of a plastic surgeon, Dr. Harold McKenzie, was printed on the front with contact information. "You helped me that night. You've been decent neighbors…not calling the police after what happened with Kathy. I thought I'd pass this along as thanks. If you decide you want nothing to do with it, then fine. That's your choice."
"Um…that's…fine. Thanks," she murmured, letting her hand and the card drop to her side. "Have a…nice evening." In a daze, she turned around without waiting for a response and walked back inside. After staring down at it for another moment, Christine started to crumple the card in her hand with the intention of tossing it in the trash. She paused, her brow furrowing as her thoughts jumped around.
Was Justin really trying to be helpful? Did it make him feel better about himself? Should she throw the card away? She didn't want it…. But would Erik be angry if she never told him about it?
Should she say something? Should she leave the card for him to find? What was the right thing to do?
Faced with the painful dilemma, Christine sat on the edge of the bed. Her stomach swirled with anxiety; this was the last thing in the world that she wanted to face.
Face. Erik's face. Why did it even have to matter to anyone?
Before she could make a decision, Erik climbed out of the basement and came into the room. She looked up and gave him a tired smile, the card poking out from between her fingers. Maybe she'd wanted him to simply find her there.
"What is wrong?" he asked, studying her closely. "What are you holding?" If there was anything she'd learned over the years, it was not to play games with Erik.
"Oh…Justin gave it to me," she said, handing the card to him with a lump in her throat. "I was about to throw it away. I really wanted to. But I didn't know…I didn't know if you would get mad at me…."
His shoulders were tense as he read the surgeon's information on the card. She stood and touched his arm, already feeling guilty for showing it to him. "You can throw it away," she firmly stated. "Let's forget about it and go to bed. Justin thinks he was trying to help. But I think he wants to feel high and mighty or something. He's kind of that way." She stopped talking, awaiting his reaction. Hopefully, Justin wouldn't die.
"You discussed my face with him?" Erik rasped.
"No! He just knew somehow. I didn't tell him anything! I promise! He came up to me."
Erik stared at her, and she was relieved by the trust in his eyes. If nothing else, he believed her. He placed the crumpled card on the dresser and climbed into bed, staring at the ceiling with an unreadable expression. Stomach knotted with anxiety, she got into bed and twisted the covers in her hands. Finally, she rolled over and wrapped an arm around his waist. "Forget about it," she said. "I should have thrown the stupid thing away."
He didn't say anything. At least not until four hours later--past midnight--when Erik woke her by asking, "Do you want it?"
Christine slowly opened her eyes, a foggy dream still in her mind. She squinted. "Do I want what?"
"You deserve it. Hell, of course you do. You deserve it more than anything. It would be perfect for you."
She rubbed her eyes and turned on the light. "Erik, what are you talking about?"
"You deserve a better face."
"Wha--? Oh. Oh! Oh, Erik! No, no, no! Not for me. That was never for me! You have to understand that. I'll die if you don't understand that. I thought if I threw it away without telling you…someday, you might be mad at me. It was such a shock…."
"What do you want?" he asked.
"I want whatever you want!" she exclaimed. "I want what you think will make you happy."
"I am happy. What do you want? Whatever you want."
"This can't be my decision," she desperately stated, nearing tears. Damn Justin. "I want you to do what will make you happy."
Erik rolled onto his back. "I do not know."
It was one of the rare times that he sounded uncertain about something; usually Erik had very defined opinions. She scooted closer to him. "You don't have to know now," she said. "We're fine." She pressed her lips against his cheek. "We're doing so well…so right."
"I do not want anyone to touch me except you," he stated, his hands shaking. "Only you."
She held him tighter. "That's fine. No one has to."
"But it might be better…." he whispered. "Worth it."
"It might not be."
"It could be."
"There's no way to know," she murmured.
"Yes, there is."
"How?" she asked, sitting up.
Erik hesitated. "Perhaps the man could know what it would entail by…a brief observation."
"The doctor would know by looking at you, you mean? I…maybe." She was shocked that Erik would even allow it.
"Yes," Erik whispered. "Merely to know…."
"Yes. We could try that. But only if you want to."
"Yes."
He said nothing else after that. She latched onto him for the entire night, kept awake by fright and confusion. Erik didn't let go of his request in the morning, though, and Christine decided that maybe it would be best to at least know all the options. She briefly spoke to Justin, asking him the easiest way to contact his brother and making it clear that Harold would have to come to the duplexes. Christine had to make an effort not to sound bitter.
Justin gave her a brief smile and said, "I'll have him out here in a week. He's a good guy, even involved in a non-profit that travels around to some of the poorest countries."
That gave Christine some reassurance. Still, her nerves were shot over the next few days. Erik didn't say much either. Several times, she asked him if he was still okay with going through the interview. He firmly said that he wanted it, and so…that was that….
On the designated day, Harold knocked at their door three minutes early. He was a tall, lean man in his forties with thinning blond hair and glasses. His blue eyes were somewhat calming, and he seemed less edgy than his brother. Harold gave her a kind smile when she answered the door. "Good afternoon," he said. "I'm Harold McKenzie."
"Hi," she replied, her voice a little shrill. "I'm Christine. Um. Come on in. Thank you." Wringing her hands, she led him into the living room—where Erik was sitting on the couch with Cordie. Erik glared but remained seated, the realistic mask still covering his face.
"It's nice to meet you both," Harold said with a nod and a smile. He seemed to sense that he was only half-welcome. Unlike most people, he was doing a decent job of not staring at Erik. "I know this is all a little strange. But Justin asked this of me as a special request, and—as he'll tell you—I've always had a hard time refusing my little bro."
"Thank you," said Christine, letting out a little nervous laugh. "We're not making any decisions. We're…." She spoke the truth. "Erik wanted an assessment."
"That's understandable," he replied. "It's a big decision. I'll give you my best opinion." Harold sat down in the armchair, and Christine took a seat next to Erik, taking his hand into hers.
"Can I get you anything to drink?" she asked, starting to stand again. She was probably being a terrible host. Because they didn't have many visitors, she was a little out of practice.
"No, thank you. I'm good," he replied, adjusting his glasses. They sat there in an uncomfortable silence until Harold spoke again. "Well…I think the best way to begin is for me to take a look. That is a fine mask you have there, though. Very well-crafted."
Erik stared at him for several long seconds. Christine wondered if he was going to change his mind—and if she would need to quickly rush the doctor out of there. But Erik's fingers slowly rose to the edges of the mask. After another second, he began to untie it. Christine held her breath, her heart pounding as her hands clenched into balls. Erik removed the painted plaster. Harold paled for a moment. He was able to quickly gather himself together, though, leaning forward as his eyes narrowed with…interest?
There was a terrible silence in which the two men stared at each other. Harold started to stand up and lifted a hand. "Can I touch—"
"No," rasped Erik, leaning backward and preparing to defend himself.
Harold nodded and quickly sat back down. "All right then. Could you press your fingers against your right cheek for me? Please."
Sneering, Erik did so. Christine kept watch of his eyes, checking for any sign that his mental stability was in jeopardy. So far, he seemed stable—though irritated. Harold continued to ask him to touch his face in various places; Erik reluctantly complied.
"It's very difficult without X-rays," Harold stated after a moment. "The skin tissue has abnormalities, if you will. Even the pigment is off. I can't tell whether the problems extend to the muscles and bones. If I had to guess, I'd say yes. As with the nasal area, there wasn't complete formation. I don't know why…."
"Chemicals," Christine softly interrupted. "Toxic pollutants…."
Harold sharply glanced at her, as though he'd forgotten she was there. "Yes. That might explain it, then." He rubbed his chin, studying Erik's face with a mixture of sympathy and fascination. "There is work we could do. The most—I guess you could say—radical is the face transplant. But it's so risky that I would only recommend it to the most desperate. You'd be on immunosuppressive drugs for the rest of your life, and the health consequences can be deadly." Christine's heart skipped a beat. "The safest options are prosthetics, but I'm not sure how much they would help with the extent of the disfigurement. In between, there's a variety of surgeries. But I'd need X-rays to give you more details."
"Thank you," Christine whispered, releasing a breath.
"I'm happy to help," he replied. "Call me if you'd like to know more…if you want a complete examination. I may even be able to find you a technician with a portable X-ray machine that could be brought to your home. And then we'd move on from that."
"All right," she replied. Erik still said nothing.
"Do you have any specific questions?" he asked, looking between them.
"No," she murmured.
Actually, she did.
Within a few tense moments, Harold was prepared to leave. Christine followed him outside and toward Justin's condo, arms folded against her chest. He expectantly looked at her, maybe knowing there would be more she'd want to say away from Erik. "How long would it all take?" she asked. "And how painful for him?"
"Like I said, I can't give you a good opinion without more information. It all depends on so many factors. How deep is the disfigurement? Is his body strong enough to handle the surgery and anesthesia? And plus, how would he handle the psychological therapy?"
"Psychological?"
"A lot of the surgeries I've done are for people who were disfigured during the course of their lives. So they're desperate to get back to being—for lack of a better word—normal. In Erik's case, he's lived over forty years with this face. It'd be a shock for him not to have it. A trauma almost. Does that make any sense, or am I rambling?"
"No. It makes sense," she murmured. Tears brimmed at the corners of her eyes. She trusted this man more than she'd trusted anyone in awhile. Maybe it was the fact that he, a distinguished doctor, drove an old Ford instead of a sports car and wore jeans instead of an expensive suit. Or maybe his eyes were simply kind. "Is it worth it?" she weakly asked. "Not for me. For him."
"I know you're sick of hearing this answer, but…it all depends. There are financial matters—sometimes you can get help for that. It depends on how well a person gets through the surgeries, both physically and mentally. On whether you're able to handle the stress. The last thing you want is to sit alone at home while he's in the hospital."
"Oh." That did it; she started to cry.
Harold placed a hand on her shoulder. "It is for him, but you do have to consider yourself. Consider you both. Sleep on it. Call me if you have any questions."
Embarrassed, Christine wiped her tears away and nodded. "All right. Thank you…so much."
"You're very welcome." He waited a moment to make sure that she was okay and then left. Christine took a deep breath and turned around to go back inside. She wasn't sure what to think…what to say. So she just hugged her husband once she was inside, hoping that Erik was reasonable enough to make this decision for them both.
"What do you want, Christine?" he asked.
The question made her flinch backwards. "I want you to do what will make you happy."
"No. What do you want?"
"I want what you want."
Gracelessly, Erik fell back onto the couch and stared at the floor. "You know, my wife, I enjoyed very much to pretend that you were fine through it all…that marrying me was as simple a decision as marrying any man…that you had to give up nothing."
"But I didn't--" she started to protest.
"No. You did. Perhaps you did not mind. But you did; you did so much. You stayed all this time, Christine. You stayed. I wish for you to decide."
"But what if I make the wrong decision for you?" she choked out. Tears started falling down her cheeks again; the living room was going to be flooded by the time she stopped crying.
"You cannot. So long as you stay, it does not really matter. I think that, either way, there will only be you."
"I'm not so great," she murmured, feeling guilty for what she was going to say if he asked her that horrible question one more time….
And he did. "What do you want, Christine? What? Tell me, and it is yours."
So she answered. "I think it'd be torture waiting while you go through surgery after surgery. I don't know how well you would hold together after everything you've been through…with the anesthesia…. I don't know. Maybe it'd be fine. But I'd worry every time. I'd worry that you're in pain…that some stupid surgeon would mess up and make life harder for you." She took a deep breath. "But if you think it'd make you happier…if you'd end up regretting not doing it…I…."
Christine thought that she saw the vaguest relief in those two lovely golden eyes. "No," he nearly whispered. "I do not really wish to be poked and prodded…touched on an operating table. I could not protect you or myself. I would wind up being the prized science project of a group of halfwits right out of medical school." He paused, and she put a hand on his shoulder. "If I were younger and alone with nothing to lose…waiting to die…perhaps then I would let them stick their knives into my face. But I think that I am…who I will be now. If I went through with it, you would simply have a reclusive husband with a better face."
"No," she murmured. "Just a different face."
"Do not humor me, Christine."
She tightly hugged him. "I'm not. It's your face."
"My ugly face."
"It's mine, too," she stated. "My face." They sat on the couch in an embrace. She was originally going to suggest that, if he wanted a fancy prosthetic, it might be a good compromise. But it didn't seem important now. "I have to go to New York next week," she murmured into his ear. "And stay a couple nights there."
"I will go as well." It was not a suggestion.
"You will. And maybe Cordie, too."
The day peacefully passed by with the decision made; she never regretted their choice.
Erik came close to regretting it on only one occasion-- when Raoul came to visit two years later with his wife and one-year-old blond-haired, blue-eyed son.
