CARPE DIEM
Chapter Seventeen
I was running out of time. Ten
minutes more and we’d all be at the bottom of the Atlantic. I raced through
three decks of now lightless hallways and corridors, much better accustomed to
darkness and able to navigate faster and more efficiently than I would have
otherwise. Only here and there, through a port side window, would the near full
moon cast any sort of light. The generators must have been underwater, which
meant the rate of rising was accelerating. As the wrecked hull took on more
water, the iron vessel became heavier, dragging the front down, down, down at
an ever-increasing pace. The floors slanted dramatically. I pressed my hands
against the walls to keep my balance. Indeed, I was running out of time.
Mary Catherine, are you
coming? I had few
memories of my father, scattered here and there in the recesses of my mind. A
figure standing in the breezeway of the house in London, in summertime, white
sleeves rolled back, laughing jovially with Stephen, the driver, about a
butcher’s son and a physician’s daughter. A pair of strong hands lifting me
high towards the ceiling. A man at the railing on a steamship bound for Africa
or some other exotic place, waving down at Mother and a much younger version of
myself. She held my hand firmly and pulled me away as the ship cast off its
moorings. Her mouth was drawn in a firm line, somber. I should have recognized
the nature of her attachment to him even then. She never fared well when he was
away, had a tendency to ask questions twice. Are you coming, Mary Catherine?
But I heard my father’s voice
now, as if he stood in any one of the empty doorways I passed, or at the end of
the hall, before me and behind me at once. Smoking a cigar, collar undone,
holding a tumbler of scotch, two ice cubes cracking. His expression vague by
candlelight. But ever smiling, amused. Well, here’s a fine mess, Mary
Catherine…now what can be done about it?
"Not a thing, Father,"
I murmured to the air.
Oh, now, that’s not true, my
girl. There’s always something to be done, some string to be pulled, some
bargain to be struck. You mind your mother now, you hear me?
"I hear you, Father."
I would see both my mother and
father directly, I thought, or else I’d see nothing at all, hear nothing, feel
nothing. Either way, I was satisfied with the conclusion. At least, I would be,
if only…why must I now feel so alive? Why now? I had felt nothing for so long,
almost wished for death, if only to break the tedium and save me from an
incredibly ill-favored life of blindness and solitude, spent in an upper room
of my brother’s house in London, or wherever he might place me after my
usefulness to him had ceased. I should have married, I suppose, Mr. Mayfield or
Mr. Kerr or that banker, Mr. Patrick, men whose affection for my family’s
money, my brother’s connections and my fairly attractive features would have
made up for any scruples about my ill-tempered manner, my defective sight, my
age, and my mother’s madness. But I could not…I would not. Let Bruce rant and
fume. I would not be dissuaded. And so I lived a bitter, ghostly existence, as
much my own making as my brother’s, slept soundly--hope far too removed to
cause restlessness--apathetic to waking. Some things were ruined beyond
mending. And the course of Miss Mary Catherine Ismay’s life was one of them.
Why, then, did I walk these
hallways so decidedly? I should be perched on the railing, gaze heavenward,
placidly welcoming the end. What difference did it make now? There was no
changing anything. There was no going back.
Dear God, I’d give anything to go
back.
"Dear God!" I cried
out, tears flooding my already ruined vision. Suddenly, the darkness
surrounding me seemed overly sinister. I imagined the water rushing down the
entryway, swirling around my skirt, the dull pain as my lungs filled with ice
water. I stopped, my left hand braced on the nearest door frame. I covered my
face with the other hand and wept, exhausted. I slipped to the floor, on my
knees in full moonlight, overwhelmed.
You’re not alone, Mary
Catherine. My father’s
voice, so sure, so certain. Such a good man of business, had the knack for
knowing a good deal before it was struck. Or, if nothing else, making a good
deal out a miscalculation.
You’re not alone, Mary
Catherine. My mother’s
voice, so sweetly, so innocently naïve. Loved me even when she didn’t know who
I was any longer.
"I’m entirely alone." I
spoke the words through clenched teeth, tears streaming down either side of my
face. I inched toward madness. My mind cluttered with dangerous notions,
frantic contemplations, hysterical pleas. I would die in this corridor, alone
and in the dark. I closed my eyes, shaking fingers pressed against burning
eyelids. We will retain dignity.
"You’re not alone."
This time the words were spoken aloud, with a soft Irish lilt. Dazed, I heard,
but did not comprehend immediately. I looked up, but only wept harder, unable
to see his face, convinced that his voice was merely an echo of some
apparition, sent to torment me further.
"Mary Catherine…" My
sight blurred and damaged beyond seeing, I reached up and caught his hands with
my own as he bent down to lift me from the floor. He helped me to stand, did
not release my hands until water began swirling at our feet in droves, pouring
into the corridor uninvited. He held me near, leaning against the very
doorframe I’d braced myself against minutes before. I stood against his chest,
eyes closed, hands resting on the forearm that encircled me, breathing in
sharply as the water seeped into my black-laced boots once more, frigid
coldness never any less painful. I lifted my left foot against the assault,
against the dull aching. Thomas held me closer, with a steady voice sang softly
in my ear.
Oh, Brigit O’Malley, you left
my heart shaken
With a hopeless desolation, I’d have you to know
It’s the wonders of admiration your quiet face has taken
And your beauty will haunt me wherever I go.
With a rush of fury, white light
flooded the corridor.