EVERYTHING’S NOT LOST
Chapter Twenty-One

"What’s wrong?" my father asked me as he shut the door behind him. "Does it have something to do with that screeching sound?" Can he read minds? I nodded.

"Yes."

"Where were you when you heard it?" A little off-topic, isn’t he?

"In the storage area," I responded. He raised a confused eyebrow at me, but nodded.

"Alright, alright. Thank you, Ann." Why is he thanking me? He cleared his throat before calling to Mary. "Mary! Mary!" His voice rang through the suite. Mary appeared from my bedroom seconds later, looking quite startled, as if she had been taking a quick cat nap.

"Yes, sir?" she asked, almost timidly, refusing to look him in the eye, keeping her eyes on the carpet.

"I need you to help Antoinette get out of those wet clothes. Make sure she dresses warmly—It’s cold out, and find her warmest coat, would you?"

"Of course, sir."

"But, Daddy…" I said to my father softly. He looked down at me, confusion etched across his face.

"It’s going to be fine, honey," he reassured me, before focusing his attention back on Mary. "And hurry," he instructed.

"Yes, sir," she said and taking my hand, she began to lead me towards my bedroom as my father went for his room—out of sight. Where is he going?

"Daddy…" How could he possibly hear me? Besides the fact that he’s gone now, I had spoken so softly that I could barely hear myself. Mary glanced at me, raising an eyebrow as she sort of dragged me into my bedroom, shutting the door behind us.

"What happened to you, Miss Andrews?"

"Long story," I said simply. I stood there, motionless. What was going on? Why did my father look so panic-stricken? I need to stop my mind from wandering. As I took off the dress, I seem to be in another world. Did what just happen actually happen? Is everything going to be alright? Of course, those watertight doors are a true Godsend! Imagine what would’ve happened had the doors weren’t there. My father is a genius.

Mary began to tie my new corset and although it still hurts, a lot even, I can’t feel anything. My fingertips and body are still numb—and I’m beginning to believe my mind is going numb, too.

"Did you fall overboard? Or even into the swimming pool?" Mary’s cheerful voice pulled me out of my head as I stepped into a new, dry dress. She giggled when I didn’t answer. "Miss Andrews?"

"Sort of," I lied as she began to hook the dress in the back, myself still holding onto the oak bedpost. I could suddenly hear knocking—Not on my door, mind you, but on the front door of our suite, that led to the first-class corridor. She stopped.

"I suppose I have to get that—" I heard the usual creaking of the door, that only creaks when it opens, and took Mary by the arm.

"He got it," I told her simply.

"Mr. Andrews, the Captain wishes to see you…" I can’t make out the rest of what the man said, but either way, there has to be a problem. Why else would Captain Smith want to see my father? It’s not like they’re chummy or play cards—Unlike the rest of us first-class folk.

"Tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can," he replied.

"Yes, sir." The door shut, I heard it click shut and then there was a knock on my door—just as Mary began to ring out my soggy hair.

"Antoinette? I have to go see the Captain, but I’ll be back—"

"Wait, wait!" I ran for the door and swung it open. My father stood there, with his black wool coat on, Titanic’s blueprints under his arm. "I’m coming with you." I don’t want to leave his sight, especially with my new-found confusion about what happened below deck merely minutes ago. I want to feel safe and the only way I can feel that way is if I’m with him.

"Ann, you’re soaking wet. Just stay here. You need to warm up." I shook my head. "I’ll be back," he tried to reassure me. "It’s for the best if you stay here." I opened my mouth to argue, but instead—I gestured to the blueprints.

"There are more blueprints than that!" As if he thinks I don’t know him! "I’ll carry the rest of them for you. You can’t carry them all by yourself." Enticing him with an offer of being a carrier could work. He hesitated, but managed a nod.

"Alright." He sighed. "Alright." Mary pulled me back into the room, twisting the water out of my hair for the second time.

"Miss Andrews, if you’d just give me a minute, you’ll be dry in no time—"

"Don’t worry about it," I told her simply as I ran for my closet. I’ll dry eventually, and who really cares at this point? No one else is suffering for me being in the wrong place at the wrong time—just me.

Rummaging through the closet, I can’t find any coats. Well, besides the fact that the one I usually wear is now soaking wet—My mother doesn’t pack for warmth, she packs for the style aspects of clothing. She needs to get a grip.

I went to the far end of the closet and there, sitting there in the darkness was a black coat. Well, it’s better than nothing at this point. I ripped it off the hanger and threw it on.

"Thank you, Mary," I told her, gesturing to my dry dress. I have to learn how to be more courteous. The woman does everything for me.

"Not a problem, Miss Andrews," she replied. I glanced back at my bedroom doorway, only to find my father gone. I ran into the sitting room, looking around frantically for him. Did he already leave? No, he told me he’d wait! He’s someone who would ultimately keep his word. I know that much.

"Dad!" I called out, beginning to walk towards his office. And there he is, searching through large pieces of paper protected in a bigger than life envelope that was spread across a table in the center of the room. Things were scattered on the floor: rulers, pencils and other miscellaneous objects and for the first time, I’ve seen the top of that particular table. One blueprint usually covers the entire table top, but not now. They were rolled up, now on the floor at my father’s feet. I realize now he’s searching through other blueprints.

"Antoinette, come here," he instructed in a monotone, pulling out blueprints at random from the envelope before pushing them down to the table at me. "Roll them up." Well, at least I’m making myself somewhat useful. He pulled out two or three more sketching of the ship and assisted me in rolling them up. He remained silent as we made our way into the sitting room. "Mary, we’ll be back!" he called out towards the direction of my bedroom.

"Alright, sir!" she replied. He glanced down at me and at this moment in time—I’m struggling with blueprints. They’re bigger than me!

"Ann, are you alright?" he asked me. "I can carry them…" I shook my head.

"No, no, I’m fine." He managed a nod and opening the door, he waited for me to exit and shut it behind us. Taking my hand, we quickly made our way down the hallway, myself trying to keep up with him. One step for him could mean three or four for me.

Now at his heels, more so than before, I can see more first-class passengers coming out of their rooms, wondering aloud about that screeching noise that they had heard. They’re talking to any White Star Line official that had been roaming the halls. Granted, they’re more like interrogating…Either way, I don’t think anyone has a clue about what’s going on, not even the ship’s workers. I sure don’t know what’s going on.

"Excuse me," said a woman as we reached her to someone in White Star Line garb, "why have the engines stopped? I felt a shudder." The man managed a smile, shaking his head.

"I shouldn’t worry, madam. We’ve likely thrown a propeller blade…that’s the shudder you felt. May I bring you anything?" We brushed past the man and the woman, who still felt the need to talk.

"No, thank you," she replied behind us as we got farther and farther away from her. My father maneuvered his way around the corridors as if he had Titanic memorized, his hand still locked into mind, refusing to let go, no matter how far behind I ended up getting. Chattering filled the air, I now notice, buzzing around my ears, going in one ear and out the other.

"Everyone’s under control…" I heard one voice say around us, but I couldn’t put a face to the voice.

"Sir, there is no emergency," said another. How do they know that? How do any of us know there is no emergency?

"Dad…" He glanced over his shoulder at me. "Where are we meeting the Captain?"

"Up on deck."

"But, where?" I need specifics, if anything, just to keep my mind from wandering.

"Near the crew area." Oh, sure, that’s much more specific than up on deck.

"What do you think the problem is?" I asked him. He didn’t respond. "Daddy?"

"I don’t know, honey." He paused. "I don’t know." As we got outside, the cold hit me so hard, I almost fell over. It was so intense—I can’t even believe my hair being just a tad bit damp could make my bones this cold. That’s when I saw it. The ice.

Ice was scattered across the deck. Big blocks of ice—that look to weigh more than those crates that are probably now underwater below us, in the storage area. Other passengers, in their pajamas, were tossing the ice back and forth to one another, laughing and giggling about the fact their hands were freezing from it.

Well, maybe they should stop touching it before their hands freeze to the ice. Or maybe they should try being in that water for more than five seconds, and we’ll see how much laughter there is.

"Did you see the iceberg?" I heard one male passenger ask another. An iceberg?

"Heard it, didn’t see it."

"Apparently, it hit over there."

Titanic hit an…iceberg? That makes no sense! Sure, it does account for some of the screeching sounds I heard down in that freezing storage area, but an iceberg can’t cause that much damage to metal. Can it?

"Dad, did we hit an iceberg?" My father looked at me, and nodded slightly.

"I think we did."

We went towards the white stairs that led to the higher level of the deck, where all of the navigation for the ship is…I think, and who came into view but Wilde, the Captain and another officer I didn’t recognize.

"Mr. Andrews!" Wilde exclaimed as he began to lead the group behind him down the stairs and towards us.

"Mr. Andrews," began the officer I don’t know, "Boiler room six is flooded eight feet above the plate and the mail hold is worse—She’s all buckled in." They began to walk, my father in the middle of them, his hand still in mine as he pulled me across the deck. Where the Hell are we going?

"Can you shore up?" the Captain asked. What, in God’s name, does that mean!? The same officer shook his head.

"Not unless the pumps get ahead." Well, at least he seems to know what he’s talking about.

"Have you seen the damage in the mail hold?" my father asked, bringing me to his right, in the middle of the group.

"No, she’s already underwater." Well, I suppose an iceberg can damage metal.

Chapter Twenty-Two
Stories