Ch 118

Apolline motioned to my brother before she followed Alex down the hall.

"Yes?"

Apolline pursed her lips and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Very well." Phelan bent at the waist and turned his head to the side so that she could whisper in his ear. He nodded several times and then shook his head. Apolline rapidly tapped him on the shoulder once more and he sighed, shaking his head again.

"We will speak shortly. Run along and be a good girl," he said, gently squeezing her shoulder.

Once their exchange was over, my brother closed the door behind him and kept his gaze trained on the rug at his feet. He lingered a moment, his hands behind his back, and took a deep breath before he turned his full attention to me.

I felt my heart stutter as our eyes met, my stomach tightening as I expected him to say that while he would remain in Paris as Lisette requested, he had no desire to spend another second in my home.

"May I sit with you?" he asked instead, his expression softening.

"Yes, yes of course," I answered immediately, gesturing toward the empty chair across from me.

Phelan took his seat and propped one leg up on his opposite knee. In silence he sat back, choosing to look out the window instead of directly at me. His gaze was distant and forlorn as he listened to the birds squabbling over the feeder Meg still maintained in the front of my home.

"I am not angry with you," Phelan said after a long moment, keeping his voice low. There was tension knit between his brows and sorrow in his gaze despite the evenness of his tone. "I mean that quite sincerely."

"I am angry with myself enough for both of us."

Phelan grunted. "You needn't be."

"I should absolutely be angry with myself. You are my brother and I have not treated you as such," I said under my breath.

"Words will not change the blood in our veins."

"Perhaps, but there have been many times when I wished words would have granted me a new family."

"You were not alone in that respect," Phelan said quietly.

The conversation abruptly ended with neither of us looking at each other. I could hear Alex laughing a safe distance away in the kitchen and assumed that while he may not have been making a culinary masterpiece, he was at least enjoying himself and entertaining his young guest.

I swallowed and pulled off my mask, feeling perspiration beaded on my brow. I wiped my face and stared into the blank eye hole and the two much smaller openings that fit over my nostrils, which I placed my thumb over. I could feel my brother studying me from the corner of his eye with silent curiosity.

"Our father often told me that I was fortunate he allowed me to live," I said. "As if he did me a great favor by beating me nearly to the brink of death, but not past the threshold."

Phelan turned his attention to me, but didn't reply. It felt strange to speak of my father to someone who had also known his outright malice and unmatched cruelty. On the rare occasion I spoke of him to Madeline or Julia, it felt as though I told them stories of a mythical villain, which I suppose my father had become to me over the years.

"He said that I was so hideous in appearance that anyone else would have plugged my nose and held their hand over my mouth until I ceased breathing. And then to demonstrate he placed his hand over my face for what felt like an eternity and I thought my fortune had run out."

The memory made me shudder. I could not have been much older than eight or nine years of age at the time he had first threatened to suffocate me.

As an adult, I couldn't fathom subjecting my son to the trauma I had experienced if he had been born a mirror image of me. There was such light in Alexandre, such joy and exuberance that I had never experienced at his age, let alone any time in my life, and I was certain that I would have loved him no matter what because he was mine to cherish, protect, and raise.

"Bjorn was a miserable person," Phelan commented under his breath.

"One would imagine given the amount of times he took out his misery on me that the physical pain would be committed to memory, but I have no recollection of what it felt like to be covered in bruises and welts." I traced along the brow of my mask, needing to feel something other than the weight of the past bearing down on me. "I suppose for that I am grateful that I have no memory of the physical aspect, however, to this day I could recite every cruel word he spit into my face. Every single one. His words are like the script to an opera and I have played my unwilling role hundreds upon hundreds of times."

Phelan's expression darkened. Silently I berated myself for revealing such details, for giving a voice to my father's words from long ago. Disgusting. Daft. Worthless. Unwanted. Monster. Demon. Animal. Beast. Carcass.

"When I first took up residence within the Opera House cellar, I wore a mask only when there was a possibility of encountering other people," I explained. "Every time I looked into the mirror after I dressed, I would stare at my reflection and pick apart every fault. I would hear our father telling me I was hideous, the most vile and disgusting bastard he'd ever seen, so grotesque a monster that even the sightless would run in terror when I approached.

"And then, when I had thoroughly allowed his words to seep through every crevice of my heart and soul, I would fit my mask into place and attempt to silence him. Sometimes it worked, other times there was no reprieve and I could think of nothing else but how terrible a creature lived beneath the mask.

Filthy. Rotting like a forgotten corpse. Grotesque. Look at yourself. Do you think anyone would ever want you? Your own mother cannot bear the sight of you.

"When Alex was left with me, I wore my mask night and day, no matter if my bedroom door was ajar or both locks in place to keep everyone out. I made certain my own son would not be forced to view something so disturbing as his own father's face, not even for a single second. I feared the consequences that would follow if he saw what I was."

You were not born, you crawled from the mud and filth and took up residence in my home. You're the spawn of a demon, that's what you are. Evil. Rotten inside and out, you ungrateful little beast.

Phelan's eyes locked on mine. "That must have been quite cumbersome to wear day and night."

His words didn't match his expression, and I knew he had something different brewing in his mind, but decided against giving those words a voice.

I turned my head slightly and ran my index finger along my cheekbone, feeling the small rise in flesh left behind by a scar of my own making. Compared to the marks that had plagued me from birth, it wasn't immediately noticeable, but I was aware of the tiny rise in flesh. "I believe I told you there was a sore here for quite some time."

"You did. Is that why you no longer wear the mask in Alex's presence?"

"No," I said. "It was because he saw me without the mask in the spring. After that I suppose it was useless to continue wearing it once he knew the truth."

Phelan's eyes widened with surprise. "I can't imagine how he could sneak up on you," Phelan commented. "He has the stealth of a Clydesdale wearing bells."

I grunted at the apt description of my son. "Alex didn't sneak up on me," I answered. I worked my jaw in silence for a moment, unsure of how much I wished to reveal. My heart thudded, my breaths coming increasingly faster as I thought of the true reason Alex had seen me unmasked. I stared at the covering, at the one article of clothing that had offered me false protection over the years. My crutch, I thought, something that I had leaned on while limping through a world that had beaten me down in every way imaginable.

"I was…" I winced at the thought of the alley across from the Wisteria, of how an unknown amount of time had lapsed and I had no recollection of what Alex had witnessed. All I knew for certain is that he had found me, bloodied and unconscious in a puddle of filth on the streets. And somehow, despite everything, he still loved me, faults and all.

Not love. No one is capable of loving something like you. He feels pity toward you, toward the thing that claims to have sired him.

"Erik–"

My brother's voice jarred me from my terrible thoughts. "I was involved in an unfortunate situation, one of my own doing," I blurted out. "It was a foolish and fruitless endeavor and I nearly lost everything due to this incident."

Phelan didn't request further details. His eyes slightly narrowed and his lips parted as though he might speak, but again he reconsidered giving a voice to whatever was on his mind. His brow furrowed with sorrow for the questions he wouldn't ask.

The conversation abruptly ended once again with both of us looking away while the clock counted the seconds of uncomfortable silence.

"Phelan," I said at last, anxious to regain his favor and keep the communication between us flowing. I feared he would give up on me, settling on being strangers rather than siblings.

"Erik," he retorted.

"You do not need to accept my apology, but I will still offer it nonetheless. Words may not change the blood in our veins, but I am well aware of the resonating damage that can be done. Our father's insults will haunt me until my last breath as I hear them clearly even to this day. I fear that when you return home, the first words you will associate with me in a week, in a year, or for the remainder of our lives, are 'insufficient funds.'"

Phelan looked away first and sighed. He made no remark, but his expression was one of remorse.

"When we were first introduced," I continued, "I saw much of our father in your appearance, but now I truly fear that I am more like him on the inside than you are on the outside."

Phelan steepled his hands and placed both feet on the floor. My heart stuttered as I braced for him to say I was far worse than our father.

Instead he looked at me from over his fingertips, his gaze studying me in silence. I wondered what he saw before him, if he saw his younger brother or the essence of our father seated across from him.

"Erik, may I say speak freely?"

I nodded despite dreading what he would say.

"Last night you spoke from a place within you that is not healed," Phelan said. "Much like the wound to your cheek, there are parts of you that have not been given the opportunity to breathe."

My breath hitched and I blinked at him, unsure of how to respond. I realized that I had prepared to argue, as was my combative nature and the reason there was distance between us in the first place.

Phelan sniffed and adjusted his cufflink. He eyed me, his expression passive as he waited for me to respond.

"Unhealed," I said aloud, tasting the sorrow that accompanied the notion. I had spent a lifetime accumulating wounds, both physically and emotionally. The former had been treated with ointments and bandages; the latter I had allowed to fester, adamant that those wounds were best kept hidden. It was evident that I was a monster by appearance; I had been quite careful in making certain no one could see the oddity within. "I have never thought of myself like that," I admitted.

"What have you thought, if I may be so bold to inquire?"

"Damaged," I answered. "Shamefully damaged beyond repair. My outside appearance was always far too much for most people to stomach. If anyone knew what was on the inside…?" I offered a bewildered shrug. "I have kept everyone at a distance, for their own protection and mine."

My brother said nothing in return. He lowered his gaze, his attention focused on my mask that I had left on the table between us.

"May I?" Phelan asked, nodding toward my mask.

My instinct was to snatch up the mask before he could touch it, but I nodded back. In anxious silence I watched my brother as he plucked my mask from the table between us and flipped it over, examining the inside. He took a deep breath and exhaled.

"Nine years in a mask to keep your son from seeing your face," he said, making no attempt to hide the sorrow in his voice. "Bjorn would have been quite pleased that his words rattled you to the point of wearing this in your sleep not only as an adult, but as a father attempting to protect his own son." His eyes were the shade of pewter when he gazed at me, sharp and keen and sullen. "And I have no doubt he would have been equally pleased that the relationship between his children was fractured as adults. He despised that we were close as children, that there was nothing he could say or do to lessen the bond we had back then–short of separating us physically. He was jealous of us, I think, that we had what he could not."

"Phelan," I said under my breath.

My brother forced a smile. "Erik, you are not Bjorn. Neither of us are," he said firmly. "And I would not give that miserable man with his cruel words the satisfaction of putting our relationship in turmoil a moment longer." He turned the mask over and studied the tinted cheek and brow line. "I owe you an apology as well."

"I beg your pardon?"

Phelan returned my mask to the table and proceeded to place his cufflinks beside it. In silence he rolled his sleeve up to the crook of his elbow where he examined his palm and the heel of his hand. He ran his index finger over puckered, angry red flesh that had been reshaped by flames long ago, his expression revealing discomfort from his actions.

"When I first began critiquing art and earning compensation for my suggestions, I was barely older than my students. I'd enjoyed success in selling my art quite young and–if you could believe it–I was a bit arrogant when it came to instructing others."

"I can't imagine," I said dryly.

Phelan gave an appreciative chuckle. "After a particularly unflattering critique of an atrocious self-portrait, one of my students became quite agitated. In front of eleven other students situated in my studio, he very loudly inquired about the burn to my arm and how I had acquired such a terrible scar.

"It was the first time anyone had flat out asked me what had happened in front of a sizable gathering and I was caught off-guard. I yanked my sleeve until it covered my hand down to the knuckles, which of course made the entire studio pause in the middle of their work to see what I was hiding."

My breath hitched, my thoughts drawn to the many instances I had a burlap sack removed during the traveling fair. I thought of Christine pulling my mask away, the look of horror and disdain in her eyes when she saw the creature staring back at her. And I thought of Julia, who had removed my mask to clean the fresh wounds acquired by attempting to convince Christine that we were meant to be together.

"What happened?" I asked.

"I told the student to mind his business or I'd be certain to dismiss him permanently from my class. Unfortunately, that was not within my power and he knew it, so for next few weeks, he would walk into the studio and make a point of asking me if my arm would heal further or if I was always going to be horribly disfigured. He even had the audacity to draw a sketch of me with the focal point focused on my forearm, which he submitted for a grade."

Phelan turned his arm, allowing me a clear view of the burns. I started to look away, having no desire to view the old injury.

"You must have been furious."

"No," he said. "Not furious."

I studied the cufflinks beside my mask briefly, then turned my attention back to Phelan, who silently waited for me to look him in the eye.

"I was hurt," he admitted. "Up until then he had been one of my favorite students. He wasn't the best artist, but he wanted to improve and I realized that I had been cruel with my critique and he had responded in a way that was equally inappropriate."

"Did he leave your class?"

"No, he finished somewhere in the middle, which was a fair assessment of his abilities. But for the remainder of the semester, I rolled up my sleeves at the start of my class and stood in front of him as frequently as possible."

"I see."

"The following year he came to visit me at the end of a class and wanted to let me know he had dropped out of the university to work for his brother. I asked why he had decided against pursuing art and he said that he had spent the summer thinking of my critiques and realized that while he enjoyed art, it wasn't his passion. He apologized and I did the same, we shook hands, and last I heard he was doing quite well for himself."

Phelan regarded me for a moment. "I am not suggesting that you forgo the mask," he said. "As Alex so wisely stated, everyone is different. I fear that last night, in a failed attempt to get to know you better, I succeeded only in making you uncomfortable, and for that I sincerely apologize as that was not my intention." He took a breath and frowned. "But what I said on the front steps was true: I never stopped caring for my missing brother, not for a single moment, and no matter what, I will always want what is best for you. When I return home, I assure you that I will continue to think of you with the same fondness as I have for the last forty years. I apologize if I made you feel otherwise."

I blinked at him, unsure of how to respond as I could not recall the last time someone had offered me an apology.

"Phelan," I started to say. "You needn't apologize–"

"Yes, I do," he said gently, leaning forward. We sat in such close proximity that our knees almost touched. It felt strange to be so near someone and yet feel that there was still such distance between us. "You are my brother and I said things last night that I regret."

"Yes, but–"

"Let us put this behind us, as two people who are still healing."

At last I agreed. "I would appreciate that."