Tip of the Iceberg
Martha Travis, known to her close friends as "Marty," sat at her laptop writing an uninspired editorial critiquing the latest speech by the leading Republican candidate for president. Although she did not hold presidential elections lightly, she was not excited about the empty promises, party propaganda, pandering to special interest groups and mudslinging that were crammed in equal doses into these orations.
What I wouldn't give for a real news story, she thought with a sigh.
Needing a break from writing, she got up from her desk and walked into her kitchen. As she prepared a cup of tea, she thought about her maternal grandfather, a journalist for The Boston Globe who inspired her to become a reporter. He covered many major history-making events including the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Kennedy assassination, the moon landing and the 9/11 attacks. Long before Marty was born, he had been at a manual typewriter writing articles on civil rights and the Vietnam War. On the wall in her living room, preserved behind glass in a mahogany frame, was her grandfather's last article announcing that Barack Obama had been elected the forty-fourth president of the United States. The day after that story appeared in the Globe, after a long and distinguished career, the award-winning journalist retired.
"It's always been my desire to go out on a good note," he told his twenty-two-year-old granddaughter who had recently graduated from the University of Massachusetts.
Now, nearly eight years later, tears welled in her eyes as she thought of the man she grew up idolizing. He had interviewed the Kennedys, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Neil Armstrong, Mother Teresa, Nelson Mandela and Margaret Thatcher. Yet today, suffering from Alzheimer's, her ninety-year-old grandfather was in a nursing home, unaware of the world around him.
Marty took her cup of tea to the breakfast nook and sat in front of the bay window that overlooked the Atlantic. The one advantage to freelance writing for news blogs and not being on the staff of The Boston Globe was the ability to work from her home in Falmouth. She had taken over the family's house on Cape Cod when her parents retired to Florida. For three years she lived there with Justin Highsmith, who worked at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution. After the relationship ended, he moved out, and she adopted a dog to keep her company.
After finishing her tea, she put her cup in the dishwasher and put a leash on Robbie Burns, her Scottish terrier.
"Come on, boy, let's go for a walk."
* * *
At the same time his ex-girlfriend was walking her dog along a beach in Falmouth, Dr. Justin Highsmith was sailing along the coast of Greenland in a small boat with three other scientists from Woods Hole, observing the melting glaciers and ice sheets.
"I wish every dimwit who says climate change is a hoax could see what we see," he said as he wrote his observations down in a log book.
"Now, Justin," Vladimir Petrov, one of his coworkers joked, "you know there's no such thing as global warming. You want proof? Boston got a total of one hundred and four inches of snow last winter."
"Very funny."
"No, it's not; it's sad," Vladimir said. "These people aren't going to believe there's a problem until the rising oceans swallow up the coastal cities. In another decade or so, we may have to move the Institution to Vermont!"
As the boat headed back toward the much larger research vessel that would transport them back to Cape Cod, Justin spotted an iceberg off the starboard side. He reached for a pair of binoculars in order to get a better look.
"Isn't it a beauty!" he exclaimed. "I wonder how long it's been floating around the .... What's that?"
"What's what?" Vladimir asked.
"There's something at the base of the iceberg. It appears to be some kind of animal."
"This far from land?"
"Let's get closer to it."
Careful to avoid a collision with the immense mountain of ice, Vladimir steered the boat in the direction of the dark object at its base.
"It might be a walrus or a sea lion," Justin said, peering through the binoculars.
As the boat got within a few yards of the unidentified object, it became clear to the naked eye that the form was covered in fur.
"Could it be a reindeer?" Vladimir asked.
"It doesn't appear to be," Justin replied, still looking through the binoculars. "It—Holy shit!"
"What's wrong?"
"It's not an animal. It's a human."
"What the hell is a human body doing on an iceberg in the North Atlantic?"
"I couldn't begin to imagine."
Justin reached into one of the overhead compartments and took out a life jacket.
"Where are you going?" Vladimir inquired.
"Whoever it is out there deserves a decent burial."
Unwilling to take the boat too close to the iceberg, Justin and Vladimir navigated a motorized, inflatable raft to its base. The two men then pulled the frozen figure inside the raft and returned to the boat.
"What do you have there?" asked Gaspar Torres, another member of the research team.
"It's a body," Vladimir answered. "We found it on the base of that iceberg."
The three men carried the stiff corpse into the cabin and laid it on the floor. Although the face was obscured by the up-lifted arms, frozen in place, the men could tell by the clothing that the body was that of a woman. The corpse was still frozen solid thirty-six hours later when the boat rendezvoused with the research vessel Neptune, which was not much smaller in size than a Navy battleship.
"You're not going to believe what we found," Gaspar said when they boarded the Neptune.
"Pirate treasure?" a fellow scientist replied with laughter.
"A dead woman stuck to an iceberg."
The body was immediately taken to sick bay and placed on an empty bed.
"Whatever possessed you to bring her back here?" Dr. Janel Norquist, the vessel's chief medical officer, demanded to know.
"I couldn't leave her out there. Shouldn't we try to find out who she is? Maybe we can return her remains to her family for burial."
"I suppose you're right," Dr. Norquist said, her attitude softening. "Once the body has thawed out to the point where I can move her arms away from her face, I'll take a few photographs and email them to the Coast Guard. If they can't identify her from her picture, perhaps fingerprints, dental records or DNA will yield better results."
* * *
After an evening spent watching a DVD of Jaws with several members of the crew, Janel stopped to check on the dead woman before turning in for the night. The doctor was amazed not only by the fact that the arms were now at the sides of the body but also by the life-like appearance of the corpse. Its skin was rosy pink in color rather than a sickly white.
On impulse, she reached out her hand and touched the dead body. She abruptly pulled it back when she discovered that the skin was soft and warm to the touch. Never a high strung woman, the doctor nevertheless let out a scream when the body on the table moved its arm.
"What's wrong?" Justin asked, running into the room.
"She's alive!"
The two stared in amazement at the rising and falling chest as the woman breathed.
"It's impossible! She was frozen solid when I found her."
Having regained her composure, Janel reached for her stethoscope and listened to the patient's heartbeat and respiration.
"Well?" Justin asked.
"I never put my faith in cryogenics, but now I've got to wonder. This woman's vital signs are normal. Unless somebody is playing an elaborate practical joke on us, we're witness to a medical miracle."
"What about her brain function?"
"I'd need to run an EEG to determine if there is any neurological activity."
"Does the body show signs of frostbite?"
"No. In all rights, she ought to have died from hypothermia, but ...."
Janel became silent when the woman on the bed opened her eyes.
"W-where am I?" the patient asked, confused by her surroundings.
"You're aboard the Neptune, a scientific research vessel in the North Atlantic."
"Where is my husband?"
"You were alone when I found you," Justin answered.
The young woman became clearly agitated at his response.
"I refused to get into the lifeboat because I didn't want to leave him."
"You mustn't get upset," Janel instructed.
"How can I help it? My husband must be dead!"
"Who are you?" Justin asked. "What happened to the ship you were on?"
"My name is Julia Fennimore. I was traveling back to New York with my husband when we hit an iceberg. Oh, my poor husband! I don't want to live without him."
Dr. Norquist gave her a shot, a mild sedative to calm her down. Meanwhile, Justin continued to press the woman for information.
"What was the name of your ship?"
"The RMS Titanic."
* * *
Always looking for something to write about that might catch the attention of a reputable newspaper, Marty Travis drove over to Woods Hole when the Neptune returned home. Although her romance with Justin Highsmith had been over for three months, the scientist was always happy to answer questions about his work and expound on the serious threat of global warming.
Marty was surprised to see the number of people waiting for the ship to dock and even further surprised when a uniformed guard kept her at a distance.
"What's up?" she asked the security officer. "The Neptune has never been off limits to me before."
"I'm sorry, Miss. I've got my orders. No one gets near the ship until after the crew is off."
When the gangway was lowered, the spectators on the dock—all employed by the Institution—craned their necks to get a better view of the crew members that were disembarking. A gurney was then wheeled down the ramp, but Marty could not see who was on it since the people on the dock crowded around.
"Was someone hurt?" she asked, but the guard had no answer for her.
Justin stepped off the boat, and the free-lance journalist waved frantically to get his attention. If he saw her, he gave no indication of it. Instead, he followed the gurney inside the building.
All Marty's attempts to speak to someone from the Institution were thwarted by the receptionist.
"I'm sorry, Miss Travis. You'll have to make an appointment."
"Fine. I'll make one right now."
"No visitors are being admitted today."
"Why not? What's going on here? Who was the person being taken off the ship on a gurney?"
"I'm not the one you should be talking to."
"Then let me talk to Dr. Highsmith."
"To do that, you'll need to make an appointment," the receptionist insisted, bringing the conversation back full circle.
Marty was not one to be easily dissuaded. Although she could not get to Justin where he worked, he would have no armed guard or unsympathetic receptionist to keep away visitors at his home.
And I know where he lives, she thought as she headed home to feed Robbie Burns before going to Justin's Yarmouth condo.
* * *
Justin pulled into his parking space at two in the morning and noticed a light shining in his living room window. As an ardent environmentalist, he was usually careful about wasting electricity.
From now on, I'll have to make sure I turn everything off when I leave.
When he opened the door and saw Marty Travis sitting on his sofa watching television, he was surprised but not angry.
"You know, some people might consider this breaking and entering," he said with amusement as he deposited his bags on the kitchen table.
"Entering maybe," his ex-girlfriend teased, "but not breaking. You gave me a key to this place before you moved in with me, remember?"
"Ah, yes. I never did get around to asking for it back."
"I was at the dock when the Neptune got in today."
Justin's smile immediately faded.
"So, what's up? Why was a security guard there keeping everyone away?"
"I didn't know there was one."
"And the receptionist refused to allow me inside."
"Maybe she thought you were a terrorist," he joked.
"This isn't funny. What's going on over there?"
"Nothing."
"I saw someone being taken off the ship on a gurney. Who was it? What happened?"
"I can't tell you, so don't bother asking."
"But there is something going on?"
"I'm going to take a shower and then go to bed," he replied. "Please turn of the light and the television before you leave."
"Go ahead and ignore me," she called as he headed down the hall toward the bathroom. "You're not my only source of information."
The following day Marty telephoned more than three dozen people before speaking to one of the maintenance staff at the marine biological laboratory.
"Do you have any idea why security has been beefed up?" she asked.
"I can't say for sure," he replied, "but I suppose it must have something to do with the survivor they found."
"What survivor?" the reporter asked, immediately initiating a Google search for recent marine-related accidents in the area of Neptune's recent course.
"It might be just a rumor going around," the maintenance man said, "but I heard they found someone out in the ocean and brought her back aboard the Neptune."
Although there was little else he could provide in the way of details, he had at least given Marty a place to start. After checking in with the rest of her contacts at the Oceanographic Institution and getting no additional information, she phoned an old school friend who worked for the Coast Guard.
"We have no record of any sinking, collision or ship capsizing," the ensign informed her.
"If the Neptune had struck a ship and took the survivors onboard, would you know about it?"
"Not unless it was reported, but we're talking about professionals. Someone onboard would have notified the Coast Guard."
For two days, Marty searched for answers. Nothing on television, in print or on the Internet even hinted of a mishap at sea.
Maybe the survivor story is a rumor, she thought. Which puts me back at square one.
Just as she was about to forget all about the mysterious goings on in Woods Hole and turn her attention to writing a piece on a proposed casino-resort in Taunton, she decided to try her luck on a hail Mary pass. She drove over to Yarmouth and rang Justin's doorbell.
"I know about the survivor you brought back on the Neptune," she announced when he opened the door.
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
Thankfully for Marty, the scientist had a terrible poker face.
"I heard about it from a reliable source. I also spoke to the Coast Guard. My friend there seemed very interested in what I had to say," she lied. "How hard do you think it would be for me to ply them with questions until they began an investigation of their own?"
Justin frowned and shook his head with frustration, but he opened the door wider, inviting her to come inside.
"You want a drink?" he asked.
Marty believed he was either going to make coffee or open the fridge and take out a container of lemonade, but when he opened a cabinet and removed a bottle of Irish whiskey he brought back from their trip to Belfast, she knew the tale he was soon to tell would be a whopper.
"I'll make a deal with you," Justin said after bracing himself with alcohol. "I'll tell you everything you want to know. I'll even try to get you an exclusive interview with her."
"In exchange for what?"
"Don't write an article."
"You've got to be kidding!" she laughed. "Why would I care about some woman you pulled out of the ocean if I didn't want to cover the story?"
"Because if you do write about her, you'll cause a media circus here on the Cape. All the major news services will show up along with the network news crews and cable stations. They'll soon be joined by their British counterparts. You'll be pushed aside by these heavyweights."
"Britain?" Marty asked with eager anticipation. "Why? Is the survivor one of the royal family?"
That would explain the security at the Institution.
"You're crazy if you think I'll sit on this story!" she cried, more determined than ever to find answers to her questions.
"I'm suggesting you forget about an article and write a book instead."
A book! It was a journalist's dream and the one feather her grandfather never had in his cap. But even if the survivor was the Duchess of Cambridge, the rescue would hardly provide enough material to fill an entire book.
What am I thinking? If it was Kate Middleton, the story would be all over the news by now.
"I can guarantee you it will be an international bestseller," Justin declared, urging her to accept his terms.
"Do you honestly think that that many people would be interested in reading about a rescue at sea?"
"Trust me. The rescue itself is just the tip of the iceberg!"
* * *
Although never at a loss for words, for the first time in her life, Marty was speechless. According to Justin, the beautiful woman in the photograph he showed her had been floating on an iceberg in the North Atlantic for more than a hundred years.
"All right, I can take a joke as well as anyone else," she finally said. "Now, what's the real story?"
"I'm serious. Julia Fennimore was a passenger aboard the Titanic."
"I'm not blind. This woman isn't even thirty much less a century old."
"Don't ask me to explain why she hasn't aged or even how she managed to stay alive out there in the ocean all these years. Not even the doctors at Mass General understand it. But we've checked out her story. She is Julia Fennimore. We've compared her DNA to her only living relative, and it's a match."
"She has a relative?"
"A sixty-two-year-old great-granddaughter living in New Jersey."
"Have they met face-to-face?"
"Not yet. The great-granddaughter just had surgery and is recuperating. Once she's able to travel, we'll bring her here to meet her long-lost ancestor."
"Why don't you simply take Mrs. Fennimore to New Jersey?"
"We are not willing to let her out of our sight yet," Justin replied honestly.
"We?"
"A group of scientists and doctors who have been selected to study her case."
"As if she hasn't had enough tragedy in her life, you intend to make her a human guinea pig!"
"Don't you realize the implications here? What if we can determine and recreate the proper conditions that kept her alive all these years? We might find a way to save the lives of people who are suffering from diseases to which science hasn't found a cure yet."
"The world is already overpopulated. Are you suggesting we start turning terminally ill people into popsicles until we find a cure for what ails them?"
"Maybe you think we should just let them die instead," Justin argued.
"I'm not advocating genocide here. I'm merely saying that maybe we ought to let nature take its course."
"Why don't you write an article saying so? I'm sure all the researchers desperately seeking to find a cure for cancer, ALS, Alzheimer's and AIDS would love to read it!"
With the argument threatening to become ugly, both Marty and Justin agreed to a truce.
"When can I meet her?" the reporter asked.
"After you sign a confidentiality agreement, swearing not to leak the story."
"Are you serious? What about the book?"
"As long as you agree to remain silent for a period of two years, you can print whatever you like at that point—with the full cooperation of the members of the research team."
"And what if someone else finds out about Mrs. Fennimore, and the story breaks before then?"
"Then the restrictions will no longer apply."
* * *
Coming from a line of strong, independent, working women—her grandmother had been a teacher and her mother a social worker—Marty would never be considered a delicate, helpless female. She never asked a man to change a tire on her car, hammer a nail in her wall or shovel the snow from her walkway. In fact, she was normally put off whenever she met the high-maintenance fashionistas whom she considered more form than substance. Yet when she met Julia Fennimore, who seemed the epitome of nineteenth century femininity, she liked her at once.
"This must all be overwhelming for you," Marty said when she had the opportunity to sit down and talk to the survivor.
"Overwhelming doesn't come close to describing how I feel," Julia confessed. "The world I knew has changed so greatly that I might as well be on another planet."
"Yes, I suppose it must seem a lot like Orwell's 1984. Oh, I'm sorry. That book was published in 1949. You couldn't possibly have read it."
"No. From what I've been told, I was in a near-death state, clinging to an iceberg then."
"Are you looking forward to meeting your great-granddaughter?"
Tears welled in Julia's blue eyes, stirring up the reporter's compassionate instincts. She wanted to put her arms around the waif-like woman and comfort her, like one would a lost, frightened child.
"When I went to Europe with my husband, I left my three-year-old daughter in my mother's care. I hated leaving her behind, but we were going to England to visit my dying father-in-law. We didn't want our child to see her grandfather in such a state. We felt it would be better for her to remember him as he was."
Marty nodded her head in understanding.
"And now my little girl is gone," she cried. "I'm sorry. Please forgive my outburst."
"Don't be silly. You have every right to cry for your child."
"I never got to know my daughter as she grew up, never met my grandchild, and now I have a great-granddaughter who, physiologically at least, is old enough to be my grandmother."
While the two women shared a pot of tea—at least some things had not changed during the past hundred years—the conversation centered on less personal matters. Julia expressed her amazement at the modern hospital facilities, the laptop computer Justin had shown her and the television in her room.
"What really astonishes me is that telephone he has. Since there are no wires, he can take it wherever he goes. And what it can do! He can make phone calls, send typed messages, take photographs, listen to music and watch moving pictures. And to think, in my day, the Titanic was considered quite the marvel."
"You're experiencing Huxley's Brave New World. Sorry, that's another literary reference you won't be able to understand."
"Dr. Highsmith tells me you want to write a book about me."
"Does that bother you?"
"No, but do you think people will be interested in my story?"
"Are you kidding? You're like a modern day Lazarus."
It was another literary reference, but at least the Bible, unlike Huxley's and Orwell's dystopian classics, had been around in 1912.
* * *
After being subjected to nearly every medical test known to modern man, Julia Fennimore was able to leave Massachusetts General. Unbelievably, news of her existence had not yet leaked out.
"Where will I go now?" she asked Janel Norquist, into whose care she was released. "I don't believe my great-granddaughter is in the position to have a houseguest. She's still recovering from surgery."
"I'm sure the Institution will pay to have you put up at a hotel," the doctor replied.
"Nonsense!" Marty exclaimed. "I have a three-bedroom house. She can come stay with me."
"Thank you. I'll feel so much better having someone who can help me get used to life in the twenty-first century."
On Julia's first day out of the hospital, Marty and Janel took her to the nearest mall and purchased a number of outfits for her including lingerie and shoes. Although the clothing was far more comfortable than the corsets and tight-fitting, tailored dresses of her day, Julia was embarrassed at wearing pants and skirts that showed so much leg.
"I'm not sure I'll ever get used to walking around half-naked," she laughed after trying on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.
"You will," Marty assured her.
That evening, after Julia was settled into the reporter's guest bedroom, there was an informal party held in her honor. Both Janel and Justin stopped by with bottles of wine, and Marty ordered several pizzas, garlic knots and breadsticks.
"If you're going to live in our time, you'll have to get used to junk food," the doctor told her.
"Don't worry, Julia. I'll take you under my wing," Marty assured her. "I'll teach you how to drive and help you get a driver's license."
"We'll need to get her a birth certificate first," Janel said. "It might be difficult, but I'll see what I can do."
"Then I'll help you find a job and a place of your own," Marty continued as though she were embarking on a great adventure. "We may need your help again with that, Doc. She's going to need school records."
"What do you think I am?" Janel exclaimed with laughter. "A con artist who can issue phony passports out of my garage?"
"If you can't do it," Justin said, "I know a guy ...."
"A guy!" Marty said. "You make it sound like someone in the underworld. You're a nerdy scientist. The only people you know are other nerdy scientists—and hot reporters."
Wine glasses were filled again, pizzas devoured and camaraderie was at its peak for those people who were living in their own time. None of them noticed that the woman from the past was on the verge of panic.
* * *
"I have to go out for a few hours," Marty told Julia the following morning after breakfast. "I have to cover a story on a proposed teachers' strike. I'll tell you what. I'll show you how Google works, and you can see what you've missed for the past century."
When the reporter came home late that afternoon, Julia was still at the desk surfing through websites like a pro.
"Have you learned anything useful?" Marty asked.
"They made a movie about the sinking of the Titanic, more than one in fact."
"I have a copy of James Cameron's version on DVD if you'd like to watch it."
"DVD?"
"Yeah, those silver disks you put in a computer or a DVD player—not to be confused with CDs, which are silver disks you put in a computer or a CD player."
"Why is your century so confusing?"
"You'll get used to it. Why don't I order Chinese for dinner, and then you and I can watch Titanic together?"
"Ordering in food again? Don't you ever use your kitchen to actually cook a meal?"
"Not if I can help it. Why? Did you do a lot of cooking?"
"No, but my servants did."
"In case you haven't noticed, this isn't Downton Abbey—sorry, another modern reference."
For Marty, the evening was one she would never forget. She and her houseguest sat in front of the television eating from takeout boxes and chattering away like sisters or best girlfriends while the Scottish terrier slept on the couch between them.
"I like this, whatever you call it," Julia said, stabbing a piece of meat with her fork.
"It's General Tso's chicken."
"And I like this movie. It's as though I were on the ship again. Norman and I ate our meals in that first class dining room ...."
Suddenly reminded of her painful loss, she put down her food and turned her head away.
What was I thinking? Although her husband died over a hundred years ago, her memories are still fresh in her mind.
"Would you like me to turn it off?" Marty asked, regretting having put the movie on in the first place.
"No. I'd like to see the ending."
The reporter was impressed by Julia's self-control. She stoically sat through the parts where the ship sinks and Jack Dawson dies. Not even the final scene where Rose and Jack are reunited in death on Titanic's grand staircase caused her to shed a tear.
I have to hand it to her, Marty thought. I cried like a baby the first several times I saw this movie.
* * *
The following day, Saturday, Marty woke early and surprised Julia by making them both breakfast.
"See!" she declared triumphantly. "I do know how to cook."
Julia made a half-hearted attempt at a smile.
"Is something wrong?"
"I'm just tired. I stayed up late last night—what do you call it?—googling?"
"I told you it wouldn't take long for you to adapt to this century. Before you know it, you'll be tweeting and posting photos on your own Facebook page."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Sorry. Sometime during the week, I'll introduce you to social media. It's a way for people to stay in touch with friends—and for businesses to sell things."
Marty watched with concern and disappointment as the other woman unenthusiastically cut her French toast.
"I hope you're not too tired. I have a surprise for you today. We're going to meet Janel and Justin for a picnic on the beach. After being cooped up in the hospital, you deserve some fresh air and exercise."
"That will be nice."
"So, what did you find so interesting that it kept you awake half the night?"
"I discovered that there's a department store where my Fifth Avenue home used to be and that my Newport cottage burned down in 1962. I also learned that my brother-in-law inherited Norman's business and lost it because the stock market crashed."
"I'm sorry."
"Aside from my personal losses, the century I spent clinging to an iceberg was quite an eventful one. There was not one but two wars that encompassed the entire world and smaller wars with nations that I've never even heard of. Add to that the assassination of another president. On one hand, men walked on the moon and erected buildings that reached for the sky. On the other, they created bombs capable of destroying the earth and turned airplanes into lethal weapons that can take down those tall buildings and kill thousands of people."
"There have been wars throughout history," Marty pointed out, feeling as though she ought to defend the people of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.
"But none of this magnitude. Everything now is so different from my own time."
Although she had barely eaten her breakfast, Julia put down her fork and knife. Marty believed it was more than fatigue that bothered the other woman.
"Everyone says it's a miracle that I survived the sinking of the Titanic, but I'm beginning to wonder if it was a mistake rather than a miracle."
"A mistake?"
"Maybe someone up there," Julia replied, pointing an index finger toward the heavens, "slipped up. Maybe that someone who was supposed to close my eyes in death wasn't doing his or her job that day."
Julia saw the look of pity on Marty's face and forced herself to put such thoughts aside.
Picking up her knife and fork again, she said, "This French toast is very good. I'm surprised you don't do more of your own cooking."
Two hours later the two women were in Marty's Subaru heading for a small beach in Falmouth near Woods Hole.
"If we're going on a picnic, shouldn't we have brought food with us?" Julia asked.
"Since I got the pizza the other day, Janel and Justin are taking care of lunch today."
When she pulled off the road onto the gravel parking area, Marty saw Justin's Jeep was already there. The two women walked to the beach where Janel was putting containers of deli salad on a New England Patriots blanket that was spread out on the sand.
"I got potato salad, macaroni salad and coleslaw," the doctor announced. "And a selection of subs: tuna, Italian, turkey, ham."
"And I brought a cooler full of soda, water and fruit smoothies," Justin added. "For dessert I have a watermelon shell filled with fruit salad, a container of rice pudding and a fresh-baked batch of Toll House cookies."
"I always loved it when you made chocolate chip cookies," Marty said, remembering the happy times they had shared.
"I know. That's why I was up at six on my day off baking them for you. Oh, and here's a peanut butter flavored dog biscuit for you to take home to Robbie."
A look passed between them, one that hinted their relationship was far from over. With the prospect of rekindled love on the horizon, Marty's spirits rose.
"Anybody want to throw the Frisbee around?" she asked.
Janel and Justin readily agreed, but Julia declined.
"I'd like to wet my feet," she said, kicking off her sandals.
"The water might be cold this time of year," Justin warned.
"What's the worst that could happen?" she laughingly replied. "I might freeze? I've already done that."
The water was colder than she had anticipated, but it didn't prevent her from venturing farther into the sea. First her ankles and then her calves were wet. Although shivering, she continued to walk, and her knees went beneath the surface. When the waves soaked the crotch of her Bermuda shorts, her teeth began to chatter, but she would not be deterred from her purpose.
"Be careful of the undertow," Justin shouted.
Julia stopped, turned and raised her hand to wave.
"What are you doing?" the doctor called as she saw her former patient walk backward into deeper water.
"I'm correcting a mistake," she shouted to the people on the beach.
"Wait! Stop!" Marty screamed.
The reporter raced across the sand and into the surf. Justin followed and dove into the water. Neither one of them was able to reach Julia before her head vanished beneath the water.
* * *
"I don't understand what could have happened," Marty cried as she sat in the kitchen of Justin's Yarmouth condo, downing a shot of his Irish whiskey. "Julia was right there, less than five feet away. Why couldn't either of us find her?"
"She must have been dragged out to sea by the undertow," he said unconvincingly.
"It's so unfair! Against insurmountable odds, that poor woman survived the icy North Atlantic for over a century and then drowns while taking a swim off Cape Cod."
"You're in denial. Her death was no accident."
"Even if it was deliberate, we should have been able to reach her."
Justin's cell phone rang, interrupting their conversation.
"That was Janel," he announced after ending the call. "A body washed up on the beach."
Thankfully, he had only one shot of whiskey to Marty's three, so he was sober and able to drive to the Institution.
"Is it Julia?" Marty asked the doctor.
"We're going to check with her medical records to make sure, but I believe so."
Dr. Norquist led them to the examination room where a corpse, covered with a sheet, was lying on a gurney. There was a sharp intake of breath when the doctor pulled back the white cotton covering.
"Oh, my God!" Marty exclaimed when she saw the body. "This can't be her. This woman looks so ... old!"
"Those are the same clothes Julia was wearing when she went into the water," Janel pointed out.
"But her hair is white, and her skin—it reminds me of a mummy."
"I've seen bodies wash up after being in the water for weeks," Justin said. "None of them looked like this."
"I know," Janel agreed with him. "When you found her on the iceberg, she looked the same age as when she went into the water back in 1912. Now it's as though she's reverted to her true chronological age."
Unable to bear looking at how the ocean and time had ravaged her friend's beauty, Marty grabbed the end of the sheet and covered the dead woman's face.
"Julia was right," she said softly as she sought comfort in Justin's arms. "Her surviving the sinking of the Titanic was a mistake, not a miracle. And now someone up there has corrected it."
Salem's solution to global warming: Let Elsa take her gloves off!
