A Phantom Enchantment (24 page)

C
HAPTER
24

N
ot too long ago, those words had frozen me, had given me a cramp in the stomach tight enough to paralyze me. But this time, all I felt was a thrill so expansive and intense I could barely wait to get onstage. I don't know what exactly accounted for the change—let's call it
je ne sais quoi
—but suddenly I felt supremely confident, ready to face a sea of critics if it meant I'd finally get the chance to sing my own songs.

With the show back on, Owen, Flynn, and I spent every spare moment in the chapel rehearsing since the Studio space was out of commission. Elise, mostly recovered but still hoarse, came and watched us sulkily. I felt pangs of guilt about usurping her role. Then again, it had rightfully been mine until she had taken it from me back in December.

Rehearsing with Owen made me realize how easy it would be for an actress to fall in love with her leading man. Or maybe I really was falling in love with Owen. My feelings for him had been growing and evolving so slowly and for so long that I no longer knew how to define them. And maybe I didn't have to.

“Can I tell you something?” Owen said after rehearsal one day.

“Sure.”

“You're the perfect Christine,” he said. “I mean, Elise has a flawless voice. But you have a sweetness and vulnerability that Christine should have. That selfless love that saves the Phantom. Elise could never pull that off.”

I felt a swell of affection for him and wished, once again, that I could give Owen my heart freely. “Owen, that's one of the nicest things anyone's ever said to me.” Happiness washed over me, but it couldn't sweep away the tiny pit of guilt still lodged in my gut. Because I hadn't saved my Phantom yet. And I didn't know if I could.

That night alone in my room, I sat at the vanity, staring at the place where the mirror had been and replaying all of those dreams of Gray in that nightmare world of black sand and silver water.

In
The Phantom of the Opera,
what finally frees Christine from the Phantom's torment is her love. When she kisses the Phantom for the first time, Erik is so overcome at the purity of that kiss that he relents and allows Christine to leave with Raoul.

I'd thought my opera was complete, but now I realized it needed one more song. In my version, Christine sings a duet with Raoul, but she never sings one with the Phantom. She never tells him that she loves him, and he never sets her free.

I began scrawling in my notebook, and before I knew it I had a draft of what would become the final song in the opera. If Owen could set it to music with the same passion and talent he'd brought to my other poems, this would be the song to bring the house down.

I called it “Last Good-bye.”

Just a few days before the competition, I was on my way home from a café, where I'd had dinner with Owen, and was coming down the alley to the back gate when I got the sensation of someone following me. It was the same feeling I'd gotten that night last fall. But when I turned around, no one was there.

I was searching for my keys and laughing at myself for still believing some silly story about a Bastille ghost when I felt a cold hand grip my arm. I whipped around and saw Gray standing there, pale as a specter. He was gaunt, like he hadn't eaten in days, and he was shivering, though it was easily 70 degrees out.

“Oh my God, you scared me,” I said, trying to slow my breathing. Even though I was immensely relieved to see him, I was angry more than anything else. “Where have you been? I've been worried sick!”

“I've been running,” he said.

“What do you mean? You've been gone for weeks.”

“Well, I was hiding out in the chapel at night, but mostly I've been running through the city.”

“Running? But why?”

“Because I didn't know what else to do.”

“Oh, Gray.” I hadn't intended to do it, but I reached out to hug him. He flinched for a moment and then collapsed onto my shoulder, sobbing. “Let's go up to my room,” I said. “You're trembling.”

He followed me into the dorm, his arms dangling by his sides like someone who'd forgotten how to walk. When we got to my room, I led him to the bed and sat beside him, stroking his back.

“Gray, what is it? Tell me what's wrong?”

He looked at me, his eyes haunted and sad. “I keep thinking I'm going to come back one of these times, and I'm going to look in your eyes and see myself reflected in them again. But now when I look at you, all I see is you, stronger than you ever were with me.”

I pulled away, forcing him to support his own weight. “I am stronger,” I said. “And that's a good thing. In time, you'll be stronger, too.”

He shook his head. “No, I've lost it. And I can't get it back,” he said.

“Can't get what back?”

“That will to be strong for someone else. That ability to save someone. And if I can't save anyone, I might as well . . .”

His voice trailed off, and I felt a sinking in my stomach. “Gray, I have to ask you something. Did you have anything to do with the fire?”

His head shot up, his eyes flaring. “What?”

“Don't get offended,” I said. “It's just, there's been some talk about how the fire started and . . . well, I thought I saw you there.”

“Yeah, I was there because I thought I might be able to help,” he said, his face a mask of hurt. “Emma, please tell me you don't think I could have started that fire. You think I'm capable of that?”

“Well, the last time I saw you, you threatened me. You told me I'd be sorry. What was I supposed to think?”

“I don't know, Emma, but I'd hope not that. My God, you think I'm a monster.”

“No, Gray,” I said, grabbing his arm. “I think you need help.”

He looked crushed by my suspicions. “Emma, I've only ever wanted to help people. The only person I even thought about hurting was myself. What I meant when I said you'd be sorry is that you'd miss me when I was gone.”

“Is that why you left? So I could realize what I'd lost?”

“No, I left because I thought everyone would be better off without me. I wanted to disappear. And running made me feel like maybe I might.”

“Gray, that's ridiculous,” I said. “You have a gift. A talent for saving people. You've saved my life more than once. So many people rely on you. But more than that, so many people love you. You can't just disappear. Think about your parents and Anna and all of your friends. Think of me. We all love you and want you to be happy.”

“I'm afraid that's not possible,” he said.

Owen had said something to me once, and I hadn't believed him. But now I knew it was true. “Gray, you will be happy again,” I said. “I promise you.”

“I just don't know how to do this,” he said.

“Do what?”

“Live. Without you.”

“Gray, you don't have to,” I said. “I'm here for you.”

“No, you're not,” he said. “You love someone else.”

“You know what, Gray? You're right. But I love you, too, just not in the way you want me to. But you'll move on, you'll love again, and you'll be happier than you could ever have imagined.”

He was shaking his head, giving up. I went over to the vanity and picked up the scorpion dog tag, my Virgo angel, and the engagement ring. I handed him his scorpion first.

“The Gray I knew was a survivor,” I said. “A fighter. He wouldn't back down from a few blows. He would get back up and come out swinging even harder.”

“That's because I had you watching over me,” he said, taking the Virgo angel from my hand.

“No, that's because of who you are. You have everything you need to save yourself. I'm only here because I want to be, not because you need me. I care about you so much, but I can't marry you, Gray.” And then, I placed the engagement ring in his palm and closed his fingers around it. I hoped he would give it to someone else someday. Someone who could make his heart race but who could also calm the raging sea inside him.

“I love you, Gray,” I said, leaning in to kiss him on his cheek. When I pulled away, he had tears in his eyes.

“I love you, too, Emma.” It was the first time he hadn't responded with the Han Solo punch line.

“I know you probably won't take me up on this,” I said, “but I would really love it if you'd come see our opera. It would mean so much to me.”

He wiped his cheeks and turned his face to the wall, as if he could hide the fact that he'd been crying. “I don't know, Emma. It might kill me to see you with him.”

“But it might not,” I said. “What doesn't kill you . . .”

“Makes you stronger,” he said, his mouth breaking into a half smile.

We decided that Gray shouldn't stay in my room, so I told Monsieur Crespeau that Gray needed a place to stay, preferably not the chapel, since that was our rehearsal space now. Crespeau agreed to turn his maintenance closet into a temporary bedroom with a cot and everything. In fact, that next week Crespeau took Gray under his wing and spent a lot of time nurturing him, slowly trying to get him to admit he needed help. I suspect Crespeau saw a bit of his younger self in Gray, and Gray found a wise and compassionate mentor in Crespeau.

The investigation into the Studio fire yielded few definitive answers, but they did rule out arson, saying that most likely our costumes or the drapes had gotten too close to the hot stage lights, igniting the blaze. However, as the Opera House's fire extinguishers had failed to respond in a timely manner, the school would not be held liable for the fire.

So the show would go on.

We were able to get on board the barge for one dress rehearsal the day before the show. Mademoiselle Veilleux introduced us to Thierry Roland, the opera manager, who led us onto the boat and showed us the “backstage” area, a windowless, beamed cabin that would be hidden from the audience by an enormous curtain. The stage area was very small compared to the Studio space, so we had to run through our blocking carefully to adjust to the new dimensions. What little furniture and stage props we'd acquired had gone up in smoke during the fire, so our set design would be minimalist, to say the least. Although we ran through our lines one more time, we didn't sing the songs, not wanting to risk blowing out our voices the day before the competition.

 

The next morning dawned stormy and gray. Owen, Flynn, Elise, and I met in the chapel for one final pep talk. At this point, more rehearsal wasn't going to do us any good. We'd sung these songs backward and forward, had run lines and blocked scenes until we were practically keeling over, and now was the do-or-die moment. Adrenaline pumped through my limbs, making me feel wired and terrified but more alive than I'd felt in months.

Around six o'clock, we packed our costumes and equipment into Monsieur Crespeau's van and he drove us to Canal Saint-Martin, where our operatic cruise would begin. The barge was moored in front of a scenic footbridge on the Seine, the lit-up houses along the river casting their glimmering reflections in the water. Jean-Claude, Yseult, and Georges were already there, but Thierry had divided the backstage area with a large screen so each team would have at least the illusion of privacy.

Jean-Claude's
Cyrano
would be performed first, which made my nerves kick into overdrive. It was scary enough to perform in front of a live audience for the first time, but to have to sit through our competitor's performance and rein in all of my nervous energy seemed like torture. Owen could sense my mood and came over to calm me down.

“Emma, you've rehearsed and rehearsed. You know every line as your own because every line is your own. It's going to be amazing.”

I rested my head on his chest, hoping the sound of his heartbeat might slow down my own. “I know; I just wish we could get it over with.”

“You say that now,” he said, “but the minute it's over, you're going to want to do it all over again.”

“Really?”

“Really. Emma, I'm so proud to be a part of this.” His arms came around me tightly, and I squeezed him back as hard as I could. This was a moment I was never going to forget as long as I lived. “I have a little surprise for you,” he said once we'd pulled out of our hug. “Follow me.”

He took my hand and led me through the main curtain to the small stage area. In front of the stage, Thierry had laid out rows of chairs for the audience and had strung up gaudy colored lights along the walls so the interior of the barge looked as festive and magical as a circus. Even with the lights, the theater space was dim and I could barely see as Owen led me down the center aisle toward the door that led to the outer deck. Someone hovered by the exit, but it wasn't until we had reached the door that I recognized him.

“Dad?”

“Surprise!” he said, extending his arms for a hug.

“Oh my God, Owen, I can't believe you didn't tell me!”

I threw my arms around my dad and he lifted me off the ground so I was suspended and weightless, carefree as a little girl. Even though I'd been standing on my own all semester, it felt good to surrender myself for just a moment in my daddy's arms, to put my trust so completely in another person. I knew at that moment that no matter what I decided to do about college and my future, my father would love and support me.

“I can't believe you came!” I said.

“I wouldn't miss my little girl's debut. Even if the ticket did cost me an arm and a leg. And the first week of the fishing season.”

“Oh, Dad, you didn't miss it just for me, did you?”