AFTER TITANIC
Chapter Fourteen
"Mom?" Almost
five-year-old Abby peeked through the door to her mother’s room, where Rose was
sitting on the edge of her bed, lost in thought. She looked up at the sound of her
daughter’s voice and motioned for her to come in.
"Yes?" Rose helped Abby
climb on the bed next to her, her little legs dangling a few feet above the
floor. "What is it?"
Abby took a deep breath.
"Why do you talk to Dad when you’re alone?" she asked innocently.
"Oh," Rose breathed.
"You hear that?"
Abby nodded, slowly and solemnly.
"Yes. Why?"
"It’s comforting," her
mother responded. "Makes me feel better."
"Does he ever answer
back?"
Rose could feel tears gathering
in her eyes and a lump growing in her throat. "No," she said, shaking
her head.
Abby looked down at her hands, as
if she was remembering something. Then she glanced up at her mom, her face
revealing disappointment. "He doesn’t answer me, either."
Overwhelmed with emotion, Rose
engulfed her daughter in a hug and tried very hard to prevent her tears from
spilling over for Abby’s sake. Rose had made sure that the child had never seen
her cry. But Rose was also quite shocked right now. This was the first time
Abby had ever asked about her father. Up until now, she wasn’t even sure if the
child understood she even had one. But she shouldn’t have been so surprised.
Abby was smart for a five-year-old. She understood things she was too young to
understand, was witty, and also had a keen intuition. The child wasn’t really a
child—she never had been. "May I ask you about him, or will it hurt too
much?" Abby asked in a nervous yet hopeful tone.
It would be wrong for Rose to
deny her information about her dad. "Ask anything you like," she
said.
"Do I look more like you or
my father?"
"Half and half, I
suppose," Rose replied. "You have my lips, my curls, and big cat eyes
like me."
"Do you have a photograph of
him? I have all these ideas about him, but I just can’t quite picture
him," said Abby.
Rose shook her head. "No.
But he was very handsome. He was tall. Taller than me by at least a hand-span.
Maybe more; I never measured. He had a nose that’s a little like yours, but not
quite. Yours is smaller. His hair was dark blonde, and it fell over his blue eyes."
"Blue like mine!" Abby
cried, excited.
"Yes, blue like yours."
"What was he like? Was he
smart? Nice?"
"Yes and yes," said
Rose. "He wasn’t necessarily well-educated in the ways of books and
learning, but he was street smart. Common sense and more. He knew what to do in
any situation…well…almost. And very nice. Never, ever mean to anyone. He was
generous and romantic. So romantic."
"What did you love most
about him?"
"I loved the way he drew. He
was an artist, you know. He could capture someone’s soul on paper with only a
pencil. And I loved the way he smiled when we were together. I loved how his
face lit up when he sang Come Josephine. But most of all, I loved the
way he made me feel when I was with him. It’s almost…indescribable." Rose
was almost talking to herself.
Abby sat, silently contemplating
what her mom had just told her. "So that’s why you sing Come Josephine to
me. It reminds you of him." Rose nodded. "I like drawing. Can I be an
artist like him?"
Rose held Abby’s face in her hand
and forced her to make eye contact. "You can be anything you want.
Anything." Abby noticed the tears in her mother’s eyes.
"You’re crying," she
said. "I’m sorry…I’m making you sad."
"You have never done
anything to make me sad. Do you understand me?" Rose asked.
"But you’re crying. I’ve
never seen you cry." There was concern in her voice.
"But…I want you to know all
about your father. You have to know about him," Rose said quietly.
"Just answer one
question," said Abby. Rose nodded. "What was his name?"
"Jack."