HEARTS CAN BREAK
Chapter Thirteen

Rose trembled beneath his chin. She was searching, terrified, around her. She didn't know what she was looking for--she knew rescue was behind hope. Maybe she was trying to find some sort of indication that this was all a dream, all a bitter, horrible, fear-filled dream.

There was no such indication. Her eyes did find something, but, if anything, it added more ice to her frozen heart and numbed her mind.

*****

Margaret's child was pressed against her heaving, cold chest. The deck was rising and her footing was getting more slippery. In a useless effort, she propped herself against a metal disk that rose from the wood. Her tears were freezing on her white cheeks and her terror was clawing at her throat. She had never expected this.

Margaret had boarded Titanic with her little four-year-old boy, William, after her husband Charles had died. She had known that any attempt at a true life without her spouse would be found only in America. England was not the place for a young widowed mother who had been pregnant out of wedlock. And then, imagine her luck! She had secured a ticket on the grandest ship in the world and would be bringing her child to the land of dreams. She had entertained such high hopes--

And now it was all gone. She hadn't believed that Titanic was actually sinking until it was too late. She could have gotten a boat with William, but no, she had been too afraid that he would catch cold out on the ocean. She had thought it was only a drill. Now her mistake would cost her child's life. Such iciness and despair had never before existed in a mother's soul.

She felt something warm and wet seeping through her thin dress and into her shoulder. Oh, God, Will was crying. It unleashed horrors in her that she hadn't known existed. Every instinct in her started blaring red. What had happened to the life she had dreamed of? Her son would have secured an education, married a beautiful, kind woman, had a family of his own, become someone...she felt devastated that her own selfish disbeliefs had ended her child's goals and hopes and ambitions.

That was what a child was, right? A little spot of golden light in the darkness of today's world. A promise of a tomorrow that was brighter than yesterday. Now it seemed that the future that could have been would disappear beneath the sea. A world that might have existed was dying with the hundreds of children that had been left on the Titanic. Sobs wracked her body. Why was God so cruel?

God had given her such joy in her life. She remembered her wedding day, when her stomach was already soft and round with five months along of a baby. With even more happiness, she found herself thinking about that beautiful, windy February morning that the little boy had finally been placed, squalling, into her sweaty arms. She had tenderly stroked his wisps of dark hair and had cooed into his perfect big blue eyes and played with his gentle little fingers and toes. William, she had named him, a sturdy, strong name. She had vowed to protect him for life and beyond.

Her heart wrenched. Her insides were torn. Her mind melted. Was she breaking her vow? She began to pray, not a prayer of mercy and forgiveness or even deliverance, but one of anger.

How could you? her brain screamed. How could you be so selfish? How could you take my little boy from me? Don't you have enough angels? Don’t you? Do you really need another little saint? I know you have big plans for him in heaven; I know you want him to serve Up High for you. I know I'm being jealous. But please, please. I need him more than you. Please save us. Please don't let him die out there, in the darkness, in the cold, in the hate, in the Atlantic. You've taken angels for generations, but you managed before you had them. So please, I'm begging you, sacrifice one little cherub for me. Keep him and me on earth. He has so much he can do here...do you really need him? You are God, Lord. Can't you manage without him? Oh, don't take him, don't take Will.

"Mommy? I don't like this ship anymore. When's our trip gonna be done? I wanna go back home." The sound of her son's voice shook her back to the reality of the screams and the horror and the pain. Now, as Will cuddled closer to her, she began to weep. Why pretend to be strong? In truth, she was absolutely breaking down inside, tearing into a million tiny pieces, like shattered glass. Crazy memories filled her mind--her last argument with her parents, sitting by Charles' death bed, the bright breaking of a fresh dawn on a sky stained with warm colors...all of the things she had taken for granted but would never be able to experience again. And Will--she couldn't even remember when she was five. Will would not have been able to remember his short life.

What did pretending help?

She gazed over the vast ocean at something only she could see--the opening of a new world with new hopes and thoughts and ideas. She didn't know where she was headed, but maybe she was never meant to leave Titanic.

Light, soft tears streamed down her rough face and plopped onto Will's shirt. She drew him closer to her body and resigned them to their terrible fate. "It'll all be over soon," she whispered, trying and failing to sound soothing. "It'll all be over soon."

Her son began to cry harder.

*****

Rose stared at the painful scene in front of her. This poor, poor woman and her child--all at once her heart broke, thinking of what they must be going through. It was like how she was now--she couldn't stand to think of losing Jack.

It was not fair. They had just fallen in love and allowed themselves past the rage of society. She had broken through social class to meet him and had clashed through the chains of wealth. She was willing to risk everything--anything--just to be with him. Nothing had ever been so sweet and beautiful and pure and true. God really wouldn't take it away from her, would he?

She heard Jack's breathing become more ragged and his chest heaved up and down more erratically. She was trying not to look beneath her, to the long, long fall to below, but for him it was inevitable. His ocean blue eyes were wide with terror, horror, and compassion for those that were meeting painful ends. His breath froze in smoky clouds in her hair and she pushed even closer to him, as though she could keep out the rest of the night just by holding onto him. Somehow, he made her feel that way--that if he was there nothing could harm her.

Sickened, she heard a scream right beside her. A young man, maybe a few years older than Jack, had climbed onto the rail. He had been getting desperate, she could tell, by the way he had looked nervously around him and the sweat had broken out on his forehead. All at once, he had pushed himself off the stern and over the far side of the ship until he was dropping, dropping, dropping, past the red belly of Titanic and beneath the propellers. She saw the splash as his body slammed into the sea a good three hundred feet later. Her stomach turned, her vision blurred, and she realized she had started crying again. Jack's arms tightened around her waist and she could feel his lips against her curls and forehead, again and again, like he was trying to kiss away all the pain and hurt she was seeing and feeling. It didn't go away, but the sharp, knifing edge to it eased somewhat at such an open declaration of his love. Cal would never do that, ever. Come to think of it, she had never wanted him to. Only Jack would ever hold her like this, only and always Jack. She loved everything about him, his warm, light scent of sandalwood and charcoal, his free spirit, his artist's soul, the way he could bring even the deadest things to life on paper, his gentle but rough hands, his blonde, long, streaked hair, and his blue, blue eyes--those eyes that could gaze into her heart and calm her mind. His smile--the smile that cracked across his face so unexpectedly and softened his features made Rose's knees turn to jelly beneath her. Oh, Jack, she thought desperately, her hands moving gently over his back, how could I have ever lived without your smiles? Tears were now falling down her white face as she held onto his shirt for dear life, staring with needing eyes at his form while he watched around her, trembling at the sight of all the death and destruction like a little boy.

He could feel her gaze on him and glanced down again, surprised to see such sudden franticness in her body. Trying to take it away, he leaned down and slowly kissed her. They didn't have enough time for a true kiss, but it was enough to keep Rose going. She moved against him, holding him tighter, as his arms squeezed her closer. He would keep her safe. Yes, Jack Dawson would keep her safe.

Suddenly, the bow took a sudden dive and the stern rose even more, until it was almost vertical. Loud cracks echoed in their ears and, horrified, they watched as the moorings holding the fourth smokestack snapped. The lines shot back into the faces of people thrashing in the water. Rose began to shake so hard that Jack literally had to support her to keep her from falling and slipping down and down and down...into the deep soul of the ocean.

Her eyes widened as she watched the funnel sway, as if in a soft, light spring breeze. For a moment, it seemed as if the righteous tower would correct itself and fail to fall, as Titanic struggled to stay alive and majestic over the gleaming surface of the sea. But then, in a split second, it began to topple until finally its base was cut away. The screams elevated and everyone froze in terror. Then, almost as if in slow motion, the funnel crashed into the Atlantic, sending a tidal wall of water up the ship's deck and surging across the empty blackness into the horizon. And then the orange smokestack was gone.

Jack's heart sliced his ribs like a knife. Dozens of people had been in that exact section of the water. With ragged breaths, he imagined their last moments--the horror, the fear, the acceptance, and then the pain. Pain that filled their brains until they went limp and left their bodies as crumpled heaps drifting forever silent to the ocean floor.

With all of his strength, Jack tried not to burst out weeping. Rose was not so successful. Her face was a maze of tear trails. Her eyes were glazed with horror and terror and the loss of hope. Maybe she had just realized how awful it all was--the might and force of nature. There were no words to describe exactly what the two young lovers were feeling at the moment, and they both doubted that there ever would be. The English language was so inferior and paled in comparison to the bravery, the love, the hurt, the pain, the joy, and the courage that two thousand two hundred people were displaying tonight.

Rose's thoughts and worries were sliced in two by a sudden jerk and groan from Titanic--and then the noises started. Huge crashes, cracks, and bangs began to fill her ears and overwhelm her senses. She tried to clap her hands to her head to drown out the sounds--but they got louder and louder, determined to reach her, determined to drive her to insanity.

"What...is...that?" she screamed, reminded of another time she had yelled over such a roar. The time with the boiler room, the heat, the fire, the car, and the passion seemed so far away now. Maybe those times would never be back. Maybe they would. The only thing she knew for sure was that she was not experiencing them with anyone else except Jack Dawson. Not Caledon Hockley, nor any other man on this earth.

Jack looked confused for a moment, his face uncertain. Then, as if someone had cleared a window, he lit with understanding. "The things inside the ship!" he shouted back, leaning down close to her. "The furnishings, the beds, the plates, the chairs--they're all falling and crashing because of the tilt! They can't stand straight anymore!"

He imagined doors being popped open by the weight of the water, the beautiful wooden, gold, and marble fixtures being broken and swallowed by the sea. The images were suddenly icy as he thought of the people still trapped in the bowels of the huge ocean liner, and he fought them out of his mind.

Rose knew now. She knew that no matter how hard she fought it, Titanic was sinking. It would founder to the bottom of the Atlantic and take more than a thousand people with it. Suddenly she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but hold onto Jack and pray he wouldn't let her go.

He wouldn't. Jack held onto her tight, thinking only of saving her, knowing he would never be able to stand himself if he didn't whether it be in heaven, hell, or earth. He hated seeing the look of pain and fear on her face, he hated feeling responsible, he hated knowing that she was going to have to endure something so much worse than this.

Jack, the terrified part of his mind whispered slyly, is this how you treat someone you love? Everyone you love seems to die--your mother, your father, and now probably Rose. All of your friends are at your cost; you told them to go check the other side. If Tommy and Fabrizio don't survive, it's your fault. Do you enjoy killing people like this?

Isn't it strange how evil memories come just when you don't need them? When you are working hard to fight them? Like a ghost from the past, wisps of that day back on September 4, 1907 flashed through his mind, vividly haunting him.

The day was bleak. Clouds dotted the horizon and promised rain. Everyone was overjoyed--the drought had lasted for so long and now all the crops and grasses were dusty with yellow and brown. Before the storm rolled in, though, hot winds began blowing into Chippewa Falls, swirling everything in its path. The sun still tried bravely to glint beyond the fog and dark edges of landscape.

Fifteen-year-old Jack Dawson was sitting on the steps leading to the front porch of his house, drawing the scene in front of him. Matthew, the little boy from the farm a few miles down the road, and his sister Elizabeth were running through the now wasted cornfields, playing a useless game that was a mix of tag and hide-and-go-seek. Jack smiled. He was too old for that now, but the child within him still ached to go join them. Lately, though, he had been helping Pa out more on the farm. Soon winter would come and that meant ice fishing to catch fresh fish to sell at the market. He shivered at the prospect of ice fishing. Two winters ago he had fallen through a patch of thin ice. The intense cold had swept through his body, and he had known he was gonna die--known, that is, until Pa had swept him out with his bare hands.

No matter. He was older, wiser now. He knew how to test the ice and how to get himself out of the lake if he got trapped. His father had taught him that immediately after the incident.

His grin widened as he sketched one last line onto his drawing. He had a knack for art, he had to admit, and he loved it. Not that he didn't love the farms or Chippewa Falls, but someday, damn it, he wanted to get out of this sleepy town and sell his paintings and charcoal sketches everywhere.

He sighed, lost in his daydream, when he heard his name.

"Jack!"

Grumbling, he looked up, shoving a strand of blonde hair out of his eyes. He had been a bit puny, even for a kid, but lately he was acquiring more muscle from hours upon hours of hard work. He had become more of a man, and he was proud of it.

His light blue eyes fixed on the girl in front of him, Eliza, and he saw her shiver. For some reason, his gaze made everyone shiver--what was so awful about it? He admitted his eyes were a bit bluer and clearer and more intense than most, but it wasn't that scary.

But this day, Eliza was staring at him longingly, wistfully, and just about strangely. For the first time, he looked at Eliza and he realized the shiver was not from fear; it was from like--maybe even love. His heart turned at the thought. Love? He could never love Eliza; it took all of his power to even like her in the least way. She was a bit snobby and a little nosy and thought that she was doing him a favor by letting him hang around her. That was far from the truth. Jack actually just watched out for her because some of the boys around town picked on her, and if it was one thing he couldn't stand, it was bullying. She was easy to want to bully on, sure. She was sorta round and chubby, with a huge roll for a stomach. Not that it mattered--lots of women in this sleepy little village looked like that anyway. Her hair was mousy brown and thinner in patches than others. Her eyes were brown too, but completely dead and tired. All of the signs of an old lady, and she was only fourteen.

"What?" he mumbled, gruffer than he meant. He had just finished a picture and when that happened he was often distant and sharp to others, still in his little world of fantasy and perfection for a few more minutes.

"Don't be so rude about it. Come on! Let's go to our spot by the lake. I'm bored, and I want to talk to you." Her thin lips came together in an almost pleading smile.

Jack groaned noticeably. Their spot? Every chance she got, Eliza Peterson tried to show that she and Jack were friends. She knew he was in the more or less respected crowd of boys in town and was proud to show that they were friends. Sometimes, he thought suddenly, she hinted they were more than that, and it angered him. There was no one here that he was interested in, and that included her. No, his girl was waiting somewhere, someone as free and fiery as the breeze and as gentle and smooth as a rolling wave. Not Eliza.

Still, he had nothing to do and was not in the mood for chores. "Idle hands are the devil's tools," Ma always said. If he was doing nothing, he would be ordered to some job or another--milking, cleaning, wringing out clothes, painting, fixing...the list went on and on.

So he grudgingly nodded and heaved himself off the steps, tucking his sketch into his portfolio and placing it under his arm. Wherever he went, his drawings went.

"Oh...thank you so much!" she squealed and looped her arm in his bent one. As their skin touched and her tight, ragged white and blue dress brushed him, he thought he would throw up. He fought not to jerk his hand out of the crook of her elbow and run. If there was one thing Pa had taught him, it was how to respect women.

"Come on, Eliza--let's just go." She frowned and quickened her pace. Obviously she was trying to find a new tactic.

"You are a completely wonderful artist, you know," she cooed sweetly.

Jack didn't want to give in, but any mention of art broke his shell clean in half. He brightened. "I want to become someone famous one day," he said hurriedly. "Do you think I can?"

"Of course. You certainly have the talent, Mr. Jack Dawson."

Despite himself, Jack grinned. She seemed to melt into his smile, but he couldn't pull it back. He knew she was just flattering him, but it felt good to have someone other than his parents believe in him anyway.

A few minutes later they entered the shady glen that was sheltered from the rest of the shores on the lake. They had recently discovered it--or Jack had, parting through the willow branches to escape Eliza. It was quite funny, actually. It was secretive, mysterious, and a bit romantic, this place. Sometimes, hell, all the time, he wished he was with someone else, anyone else, than Eliza Peterson. But he never voiced it. He always came, pretended to enjoy himself, and left, dreading the next time.

Then he heard the screams.

"Something's up at the old Dawson place!" he heard someone shout. "Look at the smoke!"

Another voice yelled back, "God! Send help!"

And just like that, Jack turned. He forgot Eliza, he forgot the lake, he forgot the glen. He scrambled up the rocky ledge and parted the branches of the trees.

No! his brain cried. Not my parents! Please, let them be wrong, let them have made a mistake. Not James and Anna Dawson! Not my family. They're all I got, Lord.

The minute his feet connected with the dirt path, he saw the billows of evil gray smoke.

"No!" he screamed and tore down the road, his feet kicking up dust. His house wasn't on fire, but the barn--oh, God, the barn--was a ball of flames. The orange and yellow licks danced to the sky and threw shadows along the crisp, crumbling grass.

He stumbled over rocks and stones that lay in front of him and fell. He could feel warm, wet blood seeping through his pants and shirt and face, but he didn't care. Baring his head, he ran faster. A drawing blew from his portfolio in the now strong wind and flew from him, but he didn't stop to retrieve it. Tears streamed down his cuts and his skin stung with salt. It took forever to race those last few steps. People had gathered from miles around with buckets and were throwing water on the fire from the well.

"Ma!" Jack shouted. "Pa!" They didn't answer. He heard the sound of something huge and heavy crashing inside, a wooden beam, he guessed. A horse frantically whinnied and he knew all the others were gone. He dropped onto the ground, ignoring the soothing and comforting voices around him, feeling the heat of the flames on his body. Then it came.

"Jack!" someone inside shrieked. "Jack! Where are you?" Immediately, he was on his feet.

"Ma!"

No one answered.

He threw himself at the barn door, crying for his parents. He was singed by a light flicker.

"Ma! Pa! Don’t leave me!"

Silence. It was then he knew beyond doubt that they were gone. And it was his fault.

He began to cry, cry so hard his shoulders shook. He fell back on the grass again, not noticing when strong hands gripped his shoulders and pulled him out of harm’s way.

It was all his fault. He was sure that they had gone into the burning barn to look for him, and he had been out with Eliza. If only he had stayed, they would be here. Guilt swept through his heart. He half-expected his father and mother to suddenly appear, laughing, saying it was all a sick joke. But he knew it wasn't. He knew they would never laugh again. He had been their only child, since his mother had birthing problems. He had done everything by his parent's side. Just this morning, he had congratulated himself on what a lucky person he was.

Everything had been taken away from him in a minute of heat and flames and smoke, ever present smoke that was clogging his lungs and air.

Jack lay there and sobbed for what seemed like hours, long after the fire had been watered down and finally burnt itself out, long after the other townspeople had left him alone, long after the rain had fallen. The now wet grass stuck to his clothes and his skin as he became chilled by the downpour. In front of him was a pile of wreckage that had been destroyed. Grey and black ash filled the spot where the barn had been. Two wooden logs were still intact. He knew, somehow, that the bodies of his parents had been taken away while he wept, but his horse was still there. So much destruction. It was his fault. He could still hear his mother's last words. Jack, where are you? Jack...Jack...

He stayed right where he was all night, not sleeping, not eating, not moving except to look at the stars. His father used to say that when you saw a shooting star it was a soul going to heaven. He found two and he wished them good luck, or tried to, but the only thing that came out of his lips were the words, "I'm sorry. Oh, God, please don't be mad at me. I'm sorry. Ma? Pa? I didn't mean to. I didn't know. I'm so sorry...I'm sorry it hurt and I'm sorry I didn't get here in time. What kind of a son was I? I'm sorry..."

The next morning he didn't notice the dawn, but when the stars began to vanish he panicked. It was like he was losing his parents all over again, losing the last wisps of their spirits.

"Do you really have to leave me? Stay, please stay..." he murmured into the unbroken silence. There was no answer. He couldn't wait for the night again. He didn't want to have to face another day alone, sunken in the pity of his neighbors. He burrowed himself deeper in the icy, soaked strands of grass, trying not to focus on the sun piercing through his eyelids.

"Jack? Jack? What..."

A woman's voice, gentle and smooth with age, floated past the sun shafts and into his ears. This was what he had been afraid of. He couldn't stand it. He tried to ignore the person, but damn it, he could feel tears sliding down his smooth cheeks again. He was fifteen. Why this much pain when he was so young? He was drowning in his guilt again, noticing only his mother's terrified screams...

Someone grabbed his shoulders and tried to force him up to a sitting position, shaking him slightly. He refused to be risen.

"Jack!"

Finally, he cracked his eyes open. Mrs. Peterson, Eliza's mother, stood protectively over him, her green eyes flashing with worry.

"Get up, son. It's time for your parents' funeral."

He didn't register her words. Parents? Funeral? What was she talking about? James and Anna Dawson were fine, just fine. His father was out back tending to the crop of corn and his mother was inside washing his clothes--

Yet the overpowering smell of burnt wood, fire, and smoke filled his nose and he knew he couldn't block it out. His weeping burst into sobs, and Mrs. Peterson tried to hold him. He wouldn't allow it and pulled away, standing up.

"Jack, don't do this. It wasn't my fault..."

He hated the whining tone of her voice that was so much like her daughter's.

"It was mine!" he screamed. He heard her shocked gasp behind him, but he didn't care. Why in the hell would he care? He just ran, ran, ran. He tore past a row of apple trees that his father had so tenderly cared for.

He found himself at the church. The walls sparkled white in the sunlight.

"We are ending today with a small time in which we celebrate the lives of James and Anna Dawson..."

*****

The preacher's rich voice floated across the warm air to him. The funeral--it was really happening. Celebrate? Celebrate what? Why had they gone on without him?

All of these thoughts ran jumbled through his mind.

"The pulpit is now open to anyone who wishes to say a few words."

Hesitantly, Jack leaned closer to the doorframe and watched as Mr. Barnes, a fisherman and a close friend of his father, walked shakily up front. His face was as pale as a ghost and his hands trembled. Startled, Jack saw tears in his eyes. He stopped in the center of the preacher's area.

"I...God, folks, what can we say about James and Anna Dawson? We loved 'em, but not half as much as they loved each other. They were a good example for us all! They remained faithful and true to themselves forever, through all the years and years, and their son is wonderful, just wonderful..." He stopped for a moment. "A combination of them both--a little mischievous, really intelligent, handsome, kind, always willing to lend a hand...and we're gonna miss 'em, aren't we?"

Somehow he managed to get himself down, and Old Mrs. Pellom began to cry uncontrollably into her handkerchief.

Jack walked unsteadily into the church. Everyone turned to watch him. He wasn't much to look at, never had been. He was wearing the same dusty brown shirt, light brown pants, tan suspenders, and old rugged leather boots. His hair had dried and was swinging in his eyes, which were cold and unfeeling, an icy blue. He didn't feel the rest of the town's gazes, but kept stumbling to the two plain pine wood coffins in the front. They dazzled golden in the morning dawn. He touched them softly, imagining the scorched bodies within.

"Why did you have to leave me?" he asked gently, his voice deep like a man's, yet sad like the lost. "I miss you so much. You were supposed to stick around a little longer...be there for stuff like my wedding, my kids, my life. How do you want me to go on? Am I really that strong?" He didn't think so, not yet.

"I loved you," he went on. "I still love you. You were my parents--you stayed with me through it all...I guess it's time for me to let you both go now, huh? Okay. You can go."

He breathed back tears and let a feeling of hurt sweep over him. Holding back his pain was worse than letting it go, so he let it soar.

He opened his eyes to watch the others all watching him, terrified and sad and looking like they would pity him for the rest of their lives. If there was one thing he didn't want, it was their sympathy.

And then it happened. He felt the courage washing past the hurt, the bravery and independence he needed to make it on his own. He couldn't stay in Chippewa Falls anymore. He couldn't! Too many painful memories--all he needed was a set of clothes, a few handfuls of saved cash, and the open road.

He was heading out to the horizon.

The thought didn't comfort Jack as much as it once had. He had been only responsible for himself back then, but now he had Rose...he would protect her, God damn it, but it wasn't gonna be easy. A feeling of fear like he had never known and sadness like he had never felt, not even on that day back in Chippewa Falls, grabbed him vise-like by the chest. He could barely breathe from the sheer earnestness of it. The darkness was closing in. There were sickening thuds as hundreds were slammed about on the ship before flying, some already dead, into the water.

Had God really wanted this much death? Rose felt queasy thinking of the thoughts running through the mind of the Creator of the universe. Maybe He didn't understand, maybe He thought that He would only cause a little tragedy to meet the world's challenge against Him. "It is unsinkable. God himself could not sink this ship!" She remembered Cal's words on that bright April morning, his normal, arrogant grin in place, and she felt like she was going to be sick. If only he had known...wherever he was. What was he thinking? Had the horror finally pierced his cold heart?

Another crash startled her. Titanic, the safest, most luxurious, most majestic liner ever built, was falling apart. How much longer could she hold? She would have to sink eventually.

And when she did, only the blackest, coldest sea awaited Jack Dawson and Rose DeWitt Bukater.

Chapter Fourteen
Stories