Each consecutive day over the next four weeks, I stand at the edge of the abyss and stare it down, unfazed by my growing attachment to him, seeing myself come alive within his provocative shadow. During rehearsals, and while the opera plays in the cafeteria on the big screens, I never once lose control. The moment any of Renata’s solos light my mind on fire, all I have to do is surrender to my maestro’s violin, reimagine it from my dreams—see his shadow inside the mirrors around me—and he douses my operatic compulsion in a cerebral flourish of strings and steam.
Every night, he’s back behind the vents, playing whatever song plagued me that day, and because I fall asleep humming the melody alongside him, it satisfies any need to purge the music when I wake up. At last, I’m in control and at peace, other than the desire to see him face-to-face, and not just as a pair of flashing copper eyes in my dreams.
Even when we share our fantasy dances—like the one onstage—spinning together in the center of my room, I can’t see anything but his silhouette. But, I can smell his scent as I nuzzle his clothes, hear his raspy humming next to my ear, feel the calluses on his fingers—traits of an accomplished violinist that remind me of my dad—as he holds my right hand in his left. And I have to wonder if he’s smiling like me.
Those nightly interludes always end with a Fire and Ice rose cradled in my fingers, materializing out of thin air in the instant his hand fades from my clasp. I place each flower in the vase beside my bed with the others I’ve accumulated. Then, my chest aglow, I close my eyes to embrace whatever new insights the Phantom imprinted upon me when our spirits touched: A mother who adored him and played piggies with his toes to warm them when they were cold; dolls made of the simplest things, such as twigs, leaves, and empty spools; a black car settling like a cloud over his childhood, taking his mother away forever, and leaving him orphaned.
The car is yet another layer to his ever-evolving mystique. If he’s a centuries-old creature, he wouldn’t have seen cars in his childhood. And his name was Etalon then, not Erik, as he’s known in the stories.
I’m beginning to have my doubts if anything in the literary version is correct. If I could only see his disfigured face, I would know. But I never do, because in every instance, I’m watching his past through his eyes.
Which leaves me curious . . . as his memories become my own, do mine become his? Is it possible he knows all my secrets, all my childhood experiences, hopes, and wishes?
Not once, when we’re together, does he mention the note I left in the orchestra pit, or the gift I gave him. But there’s no question he received it, because when he does speak aloud—in that broken, raw voice that is more achingly poignant than anything I’ve ever heard—it’s to deliver quiet excerpts in perfect French from our fairy tale.
Those moments are the most peaceful of all, for both of us. I sense the quiet calm inside him with every word. It’s that serene bubble encapsulating us that prevents me from asking the questions I’ve been plagued by: Why did you cut up my uniforms? Why did you place the dead bird in my chair? Why is Diable my shadow now? How old are you? What are we?
One night, while I’m snuggled beneath my covers in bed, listening to him read, the ache to have him sitting beside me in reality grows too intense and I can’t keep from bursting through the bubble.
“Etalon.”
There’s a sharp intake of air and he grows silent, as if my speaking his childhood name shocks him.
I roll over, facing the vent in the wall, stretch my arm, and push my pinky between the slats. The warmth of his fingertip touches mine back. I gasp as a spark passes between us, shocking in spite of how slight the pressure.
Riding the wave of sensation, I find my voice. “Tell me something about you in the present. I only know you from your memories. Do you have a hobby?” It feels strange, asking such a simple question to someone who might’ve been alive for centuries.
His fingertip drops from mine. A few minutes pass. He becomes so quiet, I’m afraid he’s left. But then his clothes rustle, and he answers. “I tend the animals of the forest. I suppose you could say I’m their . . . doctor.”
I smile in the darkness, envisioning him caring for the wild creatures no one else would ever give a passing thought to. It makes perfect sense for such a quiet soul. He’s so much like them, hidden away and asking nothing from anyone but to let him survive. Like me, with the plants and flowers I love. “I think that’s beautiful,” I whisper.
A soft grunt breaks the following hush and there’s sadness in it.
Scooting closer to the vent, I brave asking another question. “You said we’re the same. I think I knew that before you even told me. But I still don’t know what we are . . . or how I got this way.”
“You were born into it. It’s in your bloodline. Look back through your family’s history.”