ALONE?
Chapter One
Rose looked up at the Statue of
Liberty with a broken heart. The man who had given her life, who had saved her
in so many ways, was dead. Gone. And nothing could bring him back. But she
could and would go on. She would heal. Eventually.
The ship docked, and Rose got
off, quickly disappearing into the crowds. She didn’t want Cal to find her. She
had hidden from him on the Carpathia, and she would avoid him now. She never
wanted to see him again. Chances were, if he thought she was dead, she
wouldn’t.
Rose made a life for herself in
New York City. Over the course of about a week, she got an apartment, a job,
and she began to rebuild her life. In a month, she was completely settled in,
with good friends who were on their way to being great and best friends. She
was going on. But she never forgot. She was healing, but she was still hurting.
About a month and a half after
the Carpathia docked, Rose began to feel odd. The feeling didn’t go away. She
had no idea what was going on, so she went to see a doctor.
The doctor did what doctors
do--Rose had no idea exactly what he was doing--and Rose just did what he
asked. He asked questions. She answered as best she could. She waited for him
to tell her what was going on.
"Mrs. Dawson," he said,
finally, to her, "you’re pregnant. Due in January."
Rose was shocked. She couldn’t
believe it. Yet it was possible. She was having Jack’s baby. There was, after
all, no one else. She felt slightly torn; it was wonderful to be having a baby,
but the news had broken her heart again, just when she had nearly pulled it
back together.
She walked home. It wasn’t very
far, but it seemed like miles. She climbed up the stairs to the third floor of
the building and put the key in the lock. The door opened, and she walked in,
in some kind of trance. She walked into her bedroom, sank onto the bed, pulled
her legs up to her chest, then rested her head on her knees and cried. Cried
for herself, cried for the Titanic, cried for Jack.
*****
Jack was perfectly fine,
physically. But emotionally, he was pretty torn up. He was sure Rose was still
alive, and nearly completely sure she was still in New York City, but nine
months of searching had shown no progress. He was no closer to finding her than
he had been when he saw her getting off the Carpathia and couldn’t catch her
before she disappeared into the crowd. Seeing redheads killed him, because they
were never Rose. He saw one red-haired girl now. She was carrying an infant,
though she couldn’t have been a more than year or so younger than his own
twenty years. She was rushing; it was very cold, even for January. Jack watched
her until she was out of sight, longing for Rose. It began to snow.
*****
Rose walked home after two days
in the hospital. She held Jackelin close; the little girl with the oddly
spelled name was a final honor to Jack. She looked just like him, too--small
blue eyes that took in everything and blonde hair that was barely visible, it
was so thin.
Rose felt at peace. Motherhood
gave her a feeling of ease. She knew it wouldn’t be easy, but Rose was no
longer completely alone. She ached to have Jack there to share this happiness,
but she knew it couldn’t be. She had her daughter, and that was enough.
Rose wouldn’t keep the truth from
her child, wouldn’t restrain her. Not the way her mother had done to her. The
only thing of value Ruth had left with Rose was how not to act. She would do
her best to have her daughter’s childhood be miles better than her own. And
that would be the best she could possibly do.