CHAPTER ONE

A sharp, biting pain shot through the flesh of my cheek. I gasped, then watched in the mirror as my hand moved to touch my numb skin. The small knot on my cheek, directly under my left eye, was now graced with the royal purple and blue of an alarming bruise.

I watched myself slowly close my eyes, then opened them to stare at the image in the mirror. That long, dark, curly hair, those green eyes, those pouty lips, weren’t mine. They belonged to someone else. My eyes were always dancing with the sparkle of innocence and life. The woman who stared back at me was much older than my thirty years. Her hair was strewn about her head in unruly curls, her lips were thin and drawn back from her teeth in a grimace of pain. Circles of exhaustion ringed her eyes. The salt of her tears had turned the whites of her eyes pink.

Anger boiled deep in my soul, then spurted up through my body to leave me shaking with complete fury. It ate at the edges of my mind and gave birth to a bounty of murderous fantasies. I saw my husband laying in an open coffin, with me standing, smiling, above him. A curious feeling of glee welled in me as the image played before my eyes, and yet it shocked me. It wasn’t like me to think of something like that, not at all.

Honey, please.

His words rang inside my head. The tape rewound and replayed, over and over, countless times in the span of only a few seconds. I flung my hands over my ears and threw my forehead down on top of my bedroom makeup stand. Anything, anything, to shut out that inhumane plea for mercy.....

Honey. Please, let me see it. I didn’t mean to....

Damn you! The sound of my own voice startled me. I opened my eyes to see myself staring at him by way of the mirror. I yearned to watch him bleed. My hands clenched and unclenched in fists of torment.

I had held my tongue for so long, so very long, and suddenly I found I could hold it no longer. I didn’t want to hold it. I didn’t want to spare his feelings. He cared nothing for mine, why should I care for his? I had given and taken until I could give or take no more. I leaped from the small chair in front of the makeup stand, sending several bottles of Coty Wild Musk bouncing in a cascade of odors to the floor as I whirled around to face the source of my troubles.

Damn you, Charles! I screamed. I tucked a stray curl behind my ear, then hugged my shoulders. How could you? Who do you think you are?

My God, Catherine, you act like this is my fault! I didn’t mean to hit you! You moved into my hand....

Oh, please! I wailed. You expect me to believe that! It’s my fault, right? It’s my fault, Charles! Everything’s my fault! Well, guess what, Einstein? You’re exactly right! My cheeks began to burn as my anger grew to an inferno of rage that burned the back of my throat. It’s my fault! It’s my fault because I married you!

Christ, Catherine, listen to yourself! Listen! You’ve gone completely insane!

Maybe, I replied. I was startled at the sudden calm note in my voice. Perhaps. Then again, perhaps I just regained my sanity. I walked to the corner closet, grabbed my large travel bag and threw it on the foot of the bed. A mixture of emotions flooded across Charles’s perfectly chiseled face: shock, dismay, anger. I propped my hands on my hips and openly studied him. Oh, this hurts you, Charles? Not as much as this, I assure you! I pointed to the bruise on my cheek that had now begun to throb with my every heartbeat.

Where are you going, Catherine? His voice was heavy with deep sorrow, but I didn’t care. Please, honey, he murmured. I felt him walk up behind me as I turned back to the closet and grabbed two of my dress suits, along with several pairs of jeans and my Phantom of the Opera T-shirts. Please. I swung my arms out. I swear, you ran into my hand, Catherine. I’m not lying. I would never hit you. Have I ever hit you on purpose?

Fuck you. I heard my voice as if it were far away, like someone else speaking for me in my tone.

Come on, Catherine, please, honey.

I’m not dealing with this any more, Charles. I stalked into the bathroom and grabbed by toothbrush and toothpaste, along with my little make-up bag, and threw them on top of the pile of clothes. I opened the zipper on the front of the suitcase with a flourish.

You’re going to leave me, Catherine, just because of an accident? I swear, it was an accident! I didn’t mean to! I felt him walk up behind me. My mind prepared for the upcoming struggle it always fought when I argued with Charles.

I stiffened when he put his lips against the back of my neck. My mind told me he was right, but the jagged cut across my essence was still bleeding. Its hurt echoed in my voice. An accident, I whispered. My voice trembled. I hated myself for it.

I love you, he whispered. I would never hurt you on purpose. You have to believe that. He knew, at that point, that he had won. He always won. No matter how hard I might make him fight, I always gave in at the end. How could I not? We had been married five years now. He was my husband.

I turned to face him, then stepped back and let my eyes rove over him from head to toe, every inch of me searching every inch of him for clues to his level of sincerity. His eyes, the deepest sapphire, were glistening with tears. His shoulders were stooped, his long fingers brushed through the top of his blonde hair, then his arm fell to his side as if his muscles had suddenly failed him. He blew out a puff of breath. Please, Catherine, he murmured.

I closed my eyes, then opened them slowly as I exhaled a long, deep sigh of relent. I know you didn’t hit me on purpose, I said. But I’ll never forget what you said. He opened his mouth to speak, his eyes alive with protests, but I stopped his words with a mere glance. You bitch about a few dollars I spent on theater tickets, with what you spend? My God, Charles, you just spent more than a thousand dollars last week on a riding mower! For Christ’s sake, we don’t even have an acre! All I spent was sixty-five dollars for a theater ticket! I work hard all the time, I never call in sick, I come home, fix supper, do the dishes.... My voice died in a trail of weariness. Well this time I’m going to treat myself, do you understand, Charles? This is my time, my time! I’m going to treat myself to this theater ticket. I’m going to see the show again!

I watched as all emotion fled his face. He stepped back from me, his six-foot-tall body growing as rigid as the ice I saw in his eyes. Go ahead, he replied. If the electric gets cut off, that’s OK. Go ahead. Treat yourself to this show you’ve already seen how many times? I work too, Catherine. I work hard, too. Your precious ticket seems a little bit high to me, but it’s not my business how you spend your money, is it? I’m just your husband!

He whirled around on his heel and stomped to the bedroom door. I suddenly wondered if he would come home tonight. I had never doubted his return before. Was it the layer of ice I saw in his eyes, or the finality of his words that made my heart tremble?

Charles?

He stopped. Yes?

What would you like for supper tonight?

He turned to me, then cocked his head to the side. His soft, sensuous lips parted in a slight smile. Maybe I’ll take you out tonight. Would you like that?

Yes, I replied. I took in a shuddering breath. I’d like that very much.

He walked slowly toward me, then stopped only inches away and raised his fingers to the bruise on my cheek. Oh, Catherine, he murmured. I would never hurt you. I love you so much. I winced when he folded his arms around me and pulled me tight against him. Tears streaked down my face, and I choked back a sob. Charles hugged me tighter and stroked the back of my hair. I laid my head on his shoulder and had just begun to give myself over to the hurt and sorrow that welled through me, when Charles gently pushed me away. He tweaked me under the chin, then turned and strode from the room.

I collapsed on the bed and cried until I had no tears left. Was it an accident? How could I doubt my husband, after all we had been through together? I had seen him through two years at Jefferson Community College, endless hours of Algebra homework at the kitchen table, until he graduated and got a nice-paying job. We had leaned on each other when his father spent six months dying of cancer. We had rejoiced in the birth of my sister’s daughter, and we had wept when the child died a few days later. I loved Charles to the point where sometimes I would feel my eyes fill with tears just when I looked at him....

I rolled off the bed, then walked slowly into the room directly across from our bedroom. The sun shone in a white line across the floor. I let my eyes slowly drift over the desk and computer sitting in front of the window, then over to the side of the computer, up at the picture hanging on the wall.

Erik stared back at me.

Oh, Erik, I murmured. The deep bang of the front door made my limbs quiver, but it was my signal that Charles had left for work. I was completely alone. I walked closer to the picture. Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, stared back at me in 20x30 glory, his arms folded across his chest, the right side of his face hidden by his white half-mask, his white shirt and tie glowing under his luxurious black cloak. His black fedora hat hid his forehead and the top of his mask. In reality, Erik was a picture of Michael Crawford in his famous pose as the first Phantom in the Broadway musical, The Phantom of the Opera. In my mind, he was Erik.

Strong, regal, somewhat aloof. And yet, sometimes when I poured my heart out to him, his eyes would turn warm and he would smile.....

Now, his eyes glimmered as I once again told him everything. Oh, Erik. What am I going to do? I don’t know, I don’t know what to do! What should I do about Charles? I can’t go on like this!

At first it had never occurred to me to talk to Erik. After all, it was just a picture, an image of someone I wished with all my soul could be real. Why not? Why couldn’t Erik be real? Why couldn’t he reach his hand out to me and draw me into his world for one night, only one night....

Then, one night Charles and I had a particularly rough fight. He said I was never home, and he was right, in a way. I spent most of my evenings either completely involved in the rehearsals of our local community theatre group, or sitting in front of my computer writing on my novel. Why didn’t I spend my time sitting with him on our living room couch, my eyes glued to the television? Because I got no satisfaction whatsoever from that. Charles was perfectly content to come home and plop down on the couch and remain there the rest of the evening, and to have me slouched beside him, but I craved more. I needed more. I needed something to work toward, something to accomplish. I grew more in love with acting the more I became involved with the theatre group, and soon found I had left little time to be with Charles.

I wondered why I allowed myself to schedule most of my time away from my husband, the man I was supposed to love more than anyone in the world. And I do love Charles; I have no doubt of that. But our love had dwindled from the fiery spark that led us down the aisle of the church to a warm glow that occasionally could be enticed into a fullblown flame, if I was the one to ignite it. Charles made no effort to do so. Instead, he chose to sit around and grumble about how little time I had for him now.

The tension between Charles and me escalated, and at times would erupt in viscous arguments that usually ended with Charles yelling and slamming the door shut behind him as he headed for his mother’s house. I would be left standing in the middle of our living room floor, looking at the closed door, the sound of Charles’s voice still reverberating around the room and in my ears. All alone. Wondering what had become of the warm man I married five years ago. Needing someone to talk to, but faced with empty silence.

I’ll never forget the first time I spoke to Erik.

I walked back into my study after one of our arguments. The study was my sanctuary, my personal space filled with my energy that I poured into my projects such as acting and writing. It was my haven, the one place I could go and leave the world behind. Charles had once again left for his mother’s house. I sighed, then let myself sink to my knees on the floor, my face hidden by my hands as I let myself sob. Why try to hold it back, I reasoned. There was no one to see me, no one to hear.....

Then I heard his voice. At first it was a soft whisper, so soft and beautiful I was sure I had imagined it. Do not cry, child. I leaped up and looked all around the house, wandering from room to room, checking under the bed, in the closets, behind the doors, all the while a huge lump swelling in my throat. Surely someone was in the house. Someone had to be. The voice was so plain, someone had to have spoken those words.

In a short while I made my way back to the study, where something drew my attention to the picture of Erik hanging on the wall beside my computer. I looked up into his eyes, then blinked. They looked so incredibly real, so full of life and energy. His pupils sparkled and followed me around the room, much like the pictures of Jesus I had often seen. I walked slowly around the room, my eyes riveted to his, and watched him watch me. I knew he watched me. I felt it. As I looked into his eyes suddenly all the rage and hurt left over from my fight with Charles built to the bursting point, and without another thought I stepped right up to the picture and laid my head against his chest.

Oh, Erik, I said. Oh God, what am I going to do? What’s wrong with him? As I spoke, the tears that spilled from my eyes flowed down the picture. My body shook. I hugged my shoulders to stop the trembling, the side of my face still pressed against Erik’s chest. The glass over the picture felt curiously warm. I knew he heard every word I said. I don’t think I love him anymore, Erik, I whispered. Oh yes, I do. I do love him! But not like I used to. Does that make sense? Oh God, nothing makes sense anymore! I flung myself away from the picture and stepped to the middle of the room, then turned back around to look at Erik. His eyes still watched me. His lips appeared to curl up in one corner in a partial smile of warmth and reassurance. I smiled at him. I know, I said. I know I should make more time to be with him, but I just can’t give up my acting, Erik. It means so much to me! I’m at my happiest in those rehearsals and on stage. How can I give that up? I shook my head. Oh, please, Erik, tell me what to do! What should I do?

He didn’t speak, only continued to smile. A shimmering light traveled down from the top of the picture to the bottom, then transformed to glittering dots around his eyes. They glowed. I blinked, then stepped back up to the picture. Erik’s eyes narrowed and he smiled even more when I slowly raised my hand to touch the side of his face. The memories of my first encounter with him ran through me as I again put my hand to his face in a gesture I found myself repeating daily. Erik was my warmth, my strength, my guide and my guardian. I often wondered if perhaps some spirit had preyed on my weakness and infiltrated his picture, but I consoled myself by saying I didn’t really care. He was Erik to me. He always listened, always supported.

My confiding in Erik now went into almost every aspect of my life. Did you see Karen at work today, Erik? Can you believe that woman? Now, she needs someone to drop a chandelier on her! Oh, Erik, I really want that part in Hedda Gabler, but I’m not sure if I can do it. It’s a tough role, you know? Maybe I’m not up to it. At times I would swear I heard his voice. Once, when we were doing warm-ups before the Hedda Gabler production, we were all standing on one foot, the other raised in the air as we rotated our knee. Breath support is absolutely necessary in this exercise to maintain balance. I began to wobble. I looked around desperately at everyone else—I didn’t want to have to catch myself with the other foot! That could be construed as a major sign of weakness on my part, and I did so want to become an important person in this theatre group! Then, just when I felt like I was going to give in and lower my leg, a voice resounded in my mind. Breathe, damn you! It was deep and forceful, and shocking, yet strangely beautiful despite its words. It sent shivers through me, but more importantly, I took in a huge gulp of air and immediately found my balance.

I laughed to him when I got home. I don’t know about your means, Erik, but I must say your ends justify them! I looked up at him and laughed. His eyes shimmered, then he smiled. Even when I wasn’t talking to him in the study, I felt he was always with me, watching, protecting.....

I had found myself talking with him more often as my problems with Charles escalated. Sure, I had good friends I could confide in, but sometimes they weren’t home, and some lived long distance. And there was something about Erik that comforted me when I needed it most. I knew if anyone ever saw me they would think I had gone mad, but talking with Erik brought me peace. As long as nobody ever saw, what harm could it do?

My body jerked as the shrill ringing of the phone sounded inside my head. I stared at the telephone on the computer beside my desk as if I were trying to remember how I was supposed to answer it. I blinked, then picked it up.

Hello?

Catherine? It’s Sabine. You busy?

No. I exhaled some of my worries in a long, weary sigh. "What’s up?

What’s up with you? Sabine asked. Something wrong?

No, I replied. I could envision her gripping the phone receiver, her knuckles white, her face clenched in shock if I told her about what happened between Charles and me. No, I had no reason to worry Sabine. She was amazingly mentally acute, always in tune with her emotions and the world around her, and me. Sabine could see right through me. Perhaps that’s why we were best friends.

Yes, there is, she said, and I smiled through the fresh wave of tears that collected in my eyes. What is it, Catherine? What’s wrong?

It’s nothing, I said. I had a tiff with Charles this morning. That’s all.

Oh. I’m sorry. What was it about?

It was over money.

Oh. That makes sense. He does seem quite the spendthrift. She paused. You all right?

Yeah. I’m fine.

Ready for the play tonight?

I wouldn’t miss it for the world, I said. You know how much I love Phantom. I tell Charles all the time the only man I’d ever leave him for is Erik! Phantom is superb. It has the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard.

I sighed. The storyline was so romantic it brought another wave of tears. The Phantom, a deformed, musical genius, passionately in love with a young opera singer. The dashing, debonair, rich young lover who also wanted Christine’s hand. No, surely nobody had ever loved the way

Erik, the Phantom, did. He loved Christine so completely, so thoroughly, inside and out....forever. Love in its purest form.

It’s a wonderful story, isn’t it? Sabine asked.

Have you read Gaston Leroux’s novel? I asked.

No.

Oh God, you should, I said. They made us read it in high school. I’ll never forget it! Poor Erik. Leroux said that over and over in the book, _Poor, unhappy Erik!’

Who’s Erik?

The phantom, for God’s sake, Sabine. Don’t you have any idea what you’re going to see tonight?

Gosh, don’t be so defensive, she said. I’m sorry I haven’t had time to read the book. This is my first time to see the show, remember? You’ve seen it eight times already! Besides, maybe the play’ll make me want to read it. She laughed. What is it about this show that makes you want to see it so much?

I hesitated. I’m not sure, I said. I just love it. I love Erik, I love Christine. I don’t like Raoul all that much... I’m not sure why I love Phantom so much.

You’re obsessed, she said.

Yeah, but happily so, I replied.

Well, maybe I can find some time to read this book. It might help me realize why you love this so much

Keep away from astrologers and psychics for a while, and read some good books, I said. You might learn something! I laughed when I heard Sabine’s chuckle on the other end of the phone. She sounded so close, so near.... I suddenly wanted to see her. She was comforting to me, a familiar presence who loved and respected me for who I was. Sabine was the only person close to me who didn’t immediately discount my acting dreams. I could tell her anything. I wanted to confide in her about the morning’s activities, but I didn’t want to do it over the phone. I wanted to talk with her in person.

You busy? I asked.

No.

Why don’t you come over for a while? I’ll put on a pot of coffee.

You need to talk, she said. Sure. I’ll be right over. Give me a few minutes to jump in the shower.

I sighed. That’s fine. Bye.

You hang in there until I get there.

The strains of the orchestra warming up floated to us over the throng of people seated at orchestra level in the Kentucky Center for the Arts.

I crossed my legs, then uncrossed them and crossed them the other way.

You got ants in your pants? Sabine asked. You can’t sit still?

I’m anxious for it to start, I replied. Just wait.....til the chandelier....

I bit my bottom lip, then turned away from her.

What is it? she asked. What about the chandelier?

Nothing!

You tell me, Catherine! Is this going to scare me?

Well, maybe, I said. I smiled. She sat there studying her nails, then nibbling at their tips ever so timidly, then picking at her cuticles as she always did when she was nervous or bored. Her straight blonde hair shimmered in the bright lights. When she turned back to me, her blue eyes were sparkling.

Yeah, I like you, too, she said.

Stop that! I admonished. Stop reading my mind! Those are private thoughts.

Sorry, she said, then laughed. I can’t help myself. It’s a talent. She paused, then looked down at my feet. You can kick your shoes off if you like. Nobody will notice.

How did you know my feet were hurting?

Elementary, my dear Watson, she said in her deepest, gruffest male voice. I read your mind again! No, but seriously, I’ve noticed the way you’re shifting your feet and legs, which means only one of two things: Either you have to go to the bathroom real bad, or your feet are hurting. We just went to the bathroom, so it must be your feet.

Amazing, Holmes, I said.

The laughter slowly faded from her face. Catherine, about you and Charles.....

I interrupted her immediately. Please, not here, Sabine. Not now. Let’s not spoil this, all right? I just want to forget the whole thing.

You always want to avoid things, Catherine. It’s not healthy.

No, I don’t, I said. I looked over at her. She was leaning closer to me, perched on the edge of her seat. Look, Sabine, everything’ll be all right. You’ll see. I’ll work things out with Charles

Well, if you ever need a place to stay.... Her words died in her throat as she looked straight at my eye. The bruise had faded almost completely away, but it’s scar remained inside me.

Look, I’m not an abused wife, OK? It was an accident. Please, not now, OK? Come on, let’s enjoy the show. I don’t want to think about Charles right now. I paused. Let’s escape reality a little while. I opened my mouth to continue when suddenly the entire theater was blanked in thick darkness.

I was swept back into the 1860s, to the Paris Opera House. Dancers leaped on stage, their multi-colored costumes glittering under the light of the huge chandelier that had traveled mysteriously up from the stage to hang near the ceiling of the theater. Talk began of an opera ghost, a malicious presence who often tampered with scene props and even demanded a salary from the opera management, who made the sorry mistake of laughing at the ghost’s demands.

The lead opera singer, Carlotta, stormed off the stage in a fit of rage when the new management laughed about the ghost. What do you know? she screamed. You’ve been here only five minutes. This has been going on for years! She stomped off, leaving everyone scratching their heads about who could fill the part of the leading lady, when a soft voice came floating over from the side of the stage. It was one of the ballet girls.

Christine Daae could sing it, sir.

A chorus girl? the man asked.

Let her sing for you, monsieur, Madame Giry, who was in charge of the ballet dancers for the opera, said. She has been well taught.

Christine Daae stammered a little at first. My sympathy went out to her, as it always did. How frightening it must have been, to stand on that stage in front of all those people, knowing your singing career hinged on every note! And yet, suddenly her eyes closed and her voice took on the tone of an angel. Her song rose above the audience and reverberated around the theater. Her soul grew in her breast until it threatened to burst, but her head was full only of the soft murmurings, the sweet voice of her teacher, the man who had brought her from the depths of mediocrity to near-instant stardom. His words were not part of the play, but I heard him speak them clearly. Breathe, he instructed, his words heard only inside her mind. His warm, soft, musical voice brought her to an instant state of euphoria. Breathe, Christine. Now, sing! Sing!

I knew all of this as I watched the young actress on stage. Waves of joy, glee, ecstasy, fright, one after another, a parade of electrical impulses that left me breathless at the end of her song all paraded through me, and yet I still heard his voice, even after the actor portraying the Phantom had finished his lines. Bravo, the voice said. Superb! Stupendous! You are my angel, my angel of music....

I heard the words in my mind as if someone were speaking them directly to me. I had never heard them when watching Phantom before. My heart leaped with ecstasy shadowed by a twinge of fright. I turned to look at Sabine. She was leaning forward, her elbows propped on her knees, her chin resting in her hands, her eyes riveted to the stage below us.

She obviously hadn’t heard what I’d heard.

I shook my head. I was hearing things. I had to be. Nobody around me could have spoken the words. No, I was so into the emotion of the play that I was living the part of Christine in my mind. I lightly smacked at my cheek in a vain effort to recover my senses.

It was useless. I was there, living every moment with Christine. I recoiled in terror and anguish when I ripped the mask off the man who had been my teacher, the man who began to hold part of my soul in his hands when he crawled across the stage toward me. Christine, fear can turn to love, the actor playing the phantom crooned. I closed my eyes and a vision of a horribly deformed face with sunken eyes and misshapen lips whirled before me. I grasped my stomach. Surely I was going to be sick. Then the face smiled at me, the eyes glowed with love, and my soul melted. I smiled, then put my hands on each side of the face and drew him down to me, pressing him close against my breast as I stroked his black hair....

I opened my eyes. On the stage, Raoul and Christine were on the roof of the opera house, pledging their love for one another. How sweet. They ran off the stage, then the phantom rose from the angel statue suspended above the stage, his magnificent black cloak flowing around him. My fingers were suddenly cold and tingling. He wasn’t meant to hear that. I didn’t want to hurt him. He owned my soul....

You will curse the day you did not do all that the phantom asked of you....

The actor playing Erik swept his arms into the air as the angel began carrying him back to the top of the stage.

My head felt as if it were splitting in two. My skin went cold and clammy. Razor pains shot through my skull. I put my fingers to my temples and closed my eyes. Erik stood before me, tall, foreboding, his body enshrouded in his black cloak. He removed his hat and threw it across a small divan in the room filled with flickering candles. I gasped when he turned back to me. His eyes had gone completely red.

Did you think I would not discover your secret, Christine? he asked. His voice trembled with rage. I quivered, yet I could only listen to the sound of his voice. It was strangely beautiful, even though its tone was tinted with suppressed fury. His long fingers curled into fists. He swung at the wall beside him. Blood dripped from his hand when it fell to his side.

No, Erik, you’ll hurt yourself! Please, please, Erik, let them go. I will marry you!

It was my voice.

How could you do this, Christine? How could you even think of leaving without saying goodbye? How could you.....

I... I didn’t mean to hurt you, Erik. I would never hurt you! Please, let them go! I could hear the cries of Raoul and the strange Persian man. They had stumbled into Erik’s torture chamber in his house by the lake under the Paris Opera House. I knew they didn’t have much longer to live. I was their only hope at salvation....

I will marry you! Did you hear me, Erik? I will marry you! Please, let them go!

Erik had breathed life into my very being. Now, I felt as if my body were being torn in half as I prayed to God that Erik would have mercy and grant me Raoul’s life.

There was no mercy in his eyes when he looked at me.

Then he began to fade. The vision completely vanished as the crushing pain in my head began enclosing my mind. Sabine’s voice cut through the fog of haze and mist in my head. Catherine! she called. What in the world are you talking about? Catherine! Her voice sounded as if she were miles away. I strained to hear it, but the effort was too much. I was tired, so very tired.... I welcomed the blackness that closed in around the sides of my line of vision and blanketed me in nothingness.

CHAPTER TWO

Complete silence. A million eyes stared straight through me. I imagined myself putting my hands over my eyes to barricade me from the endless unspoken questions that floated across the large office. The questions bounced off the clusters of bluish-gray cubicles, up off the glaring white office lights, down into my lungs. Suddenly my breath weighed a ton. I sighed, looked resolutely ahead and began walking the endless few hundred feet to my own cubicle.

Christ, I grumbled under my breath. My cheeks burned. Damn them all. Who the hell do they think they are?

The nosy bunch of gossiping hellcats continued to gape and gawk, and I realized with a start that I actually hated them. In my two years of working at Grover Publications, I had never hated my coworkers as much as I did now. The strange thing, I thought as I slowly sat down in my chair, is that I hadn’t the slightest clue why I felt so angry. If I were them, I would have reacted the same way.

Who wouldn’t stare at someone who had fainted at a performance of Phantom of the Opera, and had to be carried out and taken to the hospital by ambulance?

I was mortified. They were curious. It was natural.

I flung my hand at the computer keyboard, sending a jolt of electricity through the machine that jarred it to its senses. The screen flickered, then the familiar lime green letters stared back at me. Welcome to Grover Publications. Please enter your password.

I certainly don’t feel welcome right now, I replied. I indulged in a smile at the wit in my own sarcasm.

My Lord, what’s wrong with you?

Janet. Her familiar voice warmed me. I twirled around in my chair to face my comarade-in-arms who occupied the cubicle immediately behind me. Her cheeks were rosy, her bright blue eyes shined with laughter.

As if you didn’t know, I said. Just looking at her helped some of the rage lift. Please, Janet. They’ve been talking about me, haven’t they? I’m the laughingstock of the office!

Well, I won’t lie, she said. She rose, then shoved her more than two-hundred-pound body into the small area between our cubicles. Yeah, they’ve been talking. Karen, especially. I know, it sucks, but what can you do? Don’t worry about it, Catherine. Let it go. Don’t let them sap your energy. She smirked. Besides, how many times have you seen this show? Maybe you just fell asleep!

Up yours! I made the hand gesture to reinforce my point.

Her face was stiff with false seriousness, then her lips curled in a slight smile. She brushed the back of her hand across her mouth, then turned away from me. Her shoulders shook, then her short black hair began to bob.

I raised my foot and delivered her a swift kick in the rump. The only effect was her head whipping around.

Hey!

You had it coming, I smirked. Go ahead, laugh. Have a good laugh! By this time chuckles had risen in my throat until I let them go in one long series that left me gasping for breath and wiping tears from the corners of my eyes. Several of our coworkers glowered across the tops of their cubicles. Janet leaned over the edge of my cubicle and guffawed.

What—did—they say? she asked, her words drawn out as she tried to catch her breath.

Who?

The theater people, of course. I’ll bet they died!

I’ll bet they thought I had!

Catherine, I’m glad to see you’re feeling better, but we have work to get done here. Can we get back to our desks, please?

The air around us stiffened almost as much as the short, blonde woman who was striding toward us. Janet’s laughter died. She whirled toward her desk, but she was already pinned between the wall of my cubicle and Karen Wellington, our immediate supervisor and first-class wet blanket.

I glanced down at my watch. Ten minutes to eight. Work didn’t even begin until eight o’clock. I gave Karen my sweetest smile. I’m afraid I’m still feeling a little woozy, Karen, I said. I sank into my chair, my hand draped across my forehead. Could you please get me a glass of water?

Laughter grew to a rousing crescendo as my working neighbors erupted into peals of giggles. Karen’s face swelled to the color of a new beet. I see you’re becoming quite the actress. Perhaps Janet can get it for you, she growled. She’s up now for the hundredth time over the course of the day, I’m sure! Karen whirled around on her heel. I took a moment to admire her perfect pivot, a move I had yet to get down completely, even during my few brief months of participating in our community theater.

When she was safely out of sight, her short blonde bob crisply turning the corner into her office, I rose and followed Janet back to her cubicle. I leaned my forearms on its top, then pushed myself back and twirled around on my right foot in a complete physical mockery of Karen. The force of the spin sent me tumbling in an unceremonious heap in the middle of the floor.

Janet’s eyes widened, then she collapsed across her desk in a helpless mass of giggles. Stop it! she gasped. I can’t breathe! I can’t take anymore!

Sssshhh! You want her to come back?

No, but I can’t stop! she moaned. Her entire body shook with her fruitless effort to stop her laughter. I remained still, my arms propped on top of her cubicle wall, as I waited for her to compose herself. My urge to laugh had died as a thought began growing in the back of my mind. In a few minutes her giggles resided and she looked at me. Well, you going to stand there all day, or are you going to work? I can’t start until you do!

Oh, I know, I said. You know, Charles made me an appointment with Dr. Kirschner for late this afternoon. Do you think I should go?

She stared at me a moment, then her brows drew down in a frown. Why?

Well, I was just wondering. Maybe I don’t need to go.....

Oh, you need to go. Her words cut me off in mid-sentence. Her hands began waving in the air—an indication of Janet’s dramatic command for me to pay attention—as she continued. Why wouldn’t you go? My God, Catherine, you fainted in the middle of a play. Why wouldn’t you go get it checked out? It may be nothing, but better safe than sorry.

I just hate to go, I mumbled. I shook my head. I was tired that night, and Charles and I had just had a big fight..... I had a lot on my mind.... I heard my voice trail off, my mind counseling me against the words I spoke. Of course I should be examined. What had happened to me wasn’t natural. But what if the doctor found something? What would I do then? What would I do if he discovered I had brain cancer or something? Would I really want to know?

You scared of what he might find? Janet asked. That’s natural, Catherine, but if it is something, you need to know.

Yeah, I suppose.....

No suppose to it, she replied. Her hair bobbed up and down in affirmation of her statement. No doubt about it. You go. You’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain. It’s probably nothing. You look healthy as a horse to me... as long as you don’t go flinging yourself in circles! Her lips curled back in an all-out grin. He may decide you’re crazy, though. Don’t let him charge you for that if he does. I knew that a long time ago!

Catherine!

I whirled around in a perfect pivot to face Karen’s stark white face.

May I see you in my office, please?

Of course, I replied. My first instinct, after Karen turned her back, was to look at my watch. Ten minutes after eight. I had been officially caught this time. My mouth turned to sandpaper, my fingers ice cold, my palms moist as I turned back to see Janet’s mouth in the perfect shape of a spaghetti-O. She flashed me a brave smile. I shrugged my shoulders, then trod down the squatty carpeted hallway after Karen.

She stalked into her office, then flung her thin body into the chair behind her gleaming mahogany desk. She motioned with her hand for me to shut the door.

Uh-oh, I thought. Trouble. I’m in trouble again. I remained grim on the outside, but somewhere inside me a defiant laugh had begun to form. Trouble, again. Nobody would be surprised.

Catherine, your outright disobedience of my instructions has irked me past the point of no return, Karen said. Michael Crawford and Sarah Brightman immediately began singing the song in my mind. Karen leaned forward, her elbows braced on the top of the desk, her hand demurely resting under her chin. I flopped down in one of the plush chairs in front of her desk.

I really don’t see why we need to discuss this again, Karen said. You’re setting a bad example for everyone out there. I cannot run this department if you constantly undermine my authority.

It’s not your authority I have the problem with, I said. My stomach was coated with a thin layer of ice that stretched all the way down to my toes. My fingers tingled. It’s the other things. Like when you said we had to take down all our pictures around our cubicles because it doesn’t look professional. Come on, Karen. Be reasonable. Our clients never come in here. Our salespeople always call on them.

It doesn’t matter, and that’s none of your concern, she said. She sighed, then leaned back in her chair. And once again, you’ve directly disobeyed my orders. You still have that picture on top of your computer.

It’s a five by seven, for Christ’s sake.

It doesn’t matter. I said get rid of it. Why would you want a picture of that thing... that man... up there, anyway? Why not one of you and Charles, or something normal? She reached for her pack of cigarettes, then lit one. My God, I have a hell of a time convincing Jim you’re normal at all. She flung the pack of cigarettes back on top of her desk.

Exclamation point, I thought. Normal’s in the eye of the beholder, I said. Besides, I doubted that Jim, the vice president of the company who wore the same golf pants and Izod shirts to work everyday, could even spell the word normal.

So is beauty, and that picture is no thing of beauty.

That picture’s there to remind people beauty is only skin deep. Besides, Erik is beautiful to me. The first twinges of anger began to build inside me, little bursts of energy that shot through my veins and left me literally hot.

My God, it has a name, she mumbled.

I’m sure you didn’t call me in here to discuss the Phantom, I replied. All the while I spoke, I heard myself thinking she could fire me. She could outright fire me at any moment. I would be jobless. Charles would be livid, to say the least. But something kept goading me, pushing me, as my anger grew. I would be the person to discuss him with, no doubt, but I’m sure that’s not what you wanted, is it?

She shook her head, then looked at me steadily across the top of the desk. We won’t need to discuss your attitude again, will we, Catherine? Consider this your warning. Next comes the write-up. I don’t want to do that, but I will if it’s necessary. Do you understand?

I understand there is no room for discussion. I threw myself out of the chair and stalked to the door of her office. Visions of her blatantly turning her head away from me at the company Christmas party rushed through my mind, as did a picture of her standing in the door of the office, her eyes riveted to her watch, one day when I was two minutes late returning from lunch. I felt my lips curl in disgust as a distinct bitter taste developed under my tongue.

Karen, whose five-year-old daughter had never tasted a bite of chocolate in her entire life. Karen, whose husband drove a perfect red Porsche, and left every morning to perform brilliant surgeries. Karen, whose several-thousand-dollar smile was rarely seen.

Her voice followed me out the door.