EVERYTHING’S NOT LOST
Chapter Thirty-Two

Night fell over us on the Carpathia many hours later. The day had passed so slowly and through all of it, it’s still almost as if I’m walking through a dream, as if I’m in some parallel universe and I’ll wake up any moment. Well, I haven’t woken up yet.

I barely spoke to anyone and that shell I had been locked in for so long before I met Harold Lowe, that shell was back. The truth is, I miss my father. Too much. I miss him too much—That on top of William Murdoch putting a bullet through his skull is all too much to bear.

As I walked down Carpathia’s deck, mostly everyone who was in second or third class, who had taken refuge on the deck, was asleep—and I tried to stay as quiet as I could. I don’t even care that I was first-class on the Titanic, it doesn’t matter. I went towards the Carpathia’s railing and leaned against it. I tried not to look, but I did. I looked down at the water.

Damn water. That water killed everything, it seems. It took Titanic down, it took passengers down—It just took everything. And for what? So, we can all have awful memories of Titanic’s maiden voyage? Nothing was proved by the ship sinking except for the fact that the White Star Line may now put lifeboats on their crafts to account for everyone aboard, and not just follow the regulations.

My father tried. He did. He put more lifeboats than required on Titanic and was able to hold his ground long enough for Ismay to back off. Ismay. I rolled my eyes. I need to stop thinking about that jerk, that alcoholic scumbag! Oh!

"Can I take your name please, Love?" I glanced to my right and standing there was an officer from the Carpathia, a pencil and a pad of paper in his hand. I had seen him all day collecting names, but he never made his way to Harry and I. And I thought we were in the middle of the chaos. I suppose we weren’t.

"Uh, Andrews. Antoinette Andrews." He nodded, scribbling down the name before looking up at me. He cocked his head, as if he was trying to place me. "Fifth Officer Harold Lowe made it also," I murmured. Have I mentioned how much I hate to be stared at? Well, I just had to be stared at right now. Look at the water, look at the people around us—Just don’t look at me.

"Oh, I’ve got him down, Miss Andrews," the officer said. "Thank you, though." I shrugged.

"…Just trying to help," I said softly.

"I appreciate it." He paused, clearing his throat. "I know how inappropriate this is and I realize how traumatic these past two days must have been for you, but would you mind my asking…?" He’s not going to ask if I’m Thomas Andrews’s daughter, is he? I glanced down at the sea. He may just need to be thrown overboard and used as an example to anyone else on board this ship to not ask me about my now-deceased father. "Are you the daughter of the Master Shipbuilder, Thomas Andrews, who built Titanic?" I knew it was coming, why didn’t I expect it? I managed a nod. "Oh, oh." He stopped. "I’m very sorry for your loss, Miss Andrews." I don’t even know this officer and yet, he’s giving me his condolences?

"Thank you," I said softly, refusing to look him in the eye. I don’t want to burst into tears in front of a complete stranger.

"Well, then—thanks again." With that, he brushed past me. I kept my eyes locked on the water, gripping the handrails of the Carpathia as if they were my lifeline. And, of course, it’s freezing out here. It’s not as cold as it was last night, but it’s freezing either way, multiplied because of the wind factor. I sighed, placing my hands into the coat’s pockets so they won’t freeze to the steel handrails. That’s when I felt something. In the right pocket. It feels like a book, but…I took a firm grip of it and pulled it out of my pocket.

It’s a simple brown notebook, that looked as if the cover was about to fall off. I opened it, carelessly flipping through the pages. Oh my God. It’s my father’s. I’d know his handwriting anywhere, in perfect cursive and in straight rows. It’s the notebook he always was writing in. The whole book is filled with notes and drawings—drawings of windows, decorative lamps, carpets and everything else in between, all of which I recognized from Titanic. I flipped towards the end of the book and a page is labeled in the right-hand corner. His April 14th notes read as follows:

"Everything seems to be in place—a few more days ‘til New York.

Blueprints must be re-drawn, drawn with two rails around ship. It should be three. Fix those coat racks. Lamp in the second-class corridor, near room 45, is crooked. Must be re-screwed."

And then I saw something completely unexpected.

"Antoinette finally seems to be enjoying herself. We can all thank Officer Harold Lowe for her bubbly attitude. I won’t see her until tonight, but I know she’s safe."

My heart broke as I read each word. As I flipped back to the beginning of the voyage, he had written every day about me. Me. He documented my attitude change, from the beginning of the voyage, even before that, until Titanic’s sinking. My eyes welled up with tears. This was his way of caring, I suppose. I managed a smile at the book, gently touching its’ yellow pages. I always used to wonder what he wrote in it, I always assumed it was about Titanic and just Titanic, but I’m in here, too.

"She seems so unhappy. What can I do?" he wrote on April 10th, the day we were to board the ship. I turned to the another day of the voyage. Of course, little notes about Titanic, but on the bottom of the page, like every other page, there was something about me. "Antoinette laughed for the first time in months tonight, during dinner, with Harold Lowe. She laughed hysterically—like a little girl. I have no idea about what those two were talking about over dinner, and it doesn’t matter. My little girl’s coming back." One lone tear fell from my eye and hit the page. I quickly wiped it away, to not smudge my father’s perfect cursive. The page seems to be ruined now, just like everything else.

I turned back to the day of April 14th. I stuck my hand back into my pocket and fished for the pencil my father always had. If the notebook was here, the pencil should be here, too. Right? It is his coat, after all. Ah-ha. Found it. I pulled it out of my pocket and made a simple line under my father’s final note about Titanic. He never got the chance yesterday to write about me. There was just not enough time.

I made a bullet and wrote: "I admitted I loved Harold Lowe to him." Meaning my father. "He acted as if he wasn’t surprised." I made another bullet. "…Punched Ismay in the nose and it cracked." I laughed at that before taking in a sharp breath. "Titanic hit an iceberg tonight. She sank." I held back my tears once more, but it was no use. I silently cried, unsure of what to write next in the notebook. My father’s notebook. Another bullet, I decided. "He put me on a lifeboat and before I could say good-bye, he was gone. Jumped off the lifeboat and found him, idling at the smoking room fireplace. He made me leave—telling Harry to put me on a lifeboat. I left him." I can’t believe I’m writing this. "Titanic sank an hour or so after I got on a lifeboat. It felt so much longer. Harry and I went back to look for survivors—We pulled four people out of the water." I stopped, making another line underneath that scribble. "Titanic sank." I underlined it and stopped. Maybe if I write that enough, that Titanic sank, it’ll eventually sink in. I attempted to put the pencil back into the coat pocket, but it slipped out of my hand and fell over the handrail.

"No!" I yelled at the pencil, reaching over the rail to catch it. I almost got it until a pair of hands pulled me back at my waist, almost causing me to drop the book. I held onto it for dear life as I was pulled away from the handrail. I turned to face the person. Standing there, in all of his exhausted and disorderly glory, was Bruce Ismay. He looks awful. Then again, I suppose I do, too. He dropped his hands from my waist as soon as he realized who I was. I doubt he wants me to hurt him again, because as it is, his nose looks swollen, too. I secretly cheered victory.

"Miss Andrews," he said, looking as if he was seeing a ghost.

"Mr. Ismay," I replied, managing a nod. Lightoller had been right—the rumor had been right. Bruce Ismay had survived the Titanic disaster, the cad.

"I thought you were trying to jump," he said under his breath.

"Saving women as consolation for sinking Titanic?" I hissed at him. He looked up from the deck to me, not uttering a word. "It was you, wasn’t it?" I questioned, placing the book back into my pocket. I heard the pencil plop into the water right then. "You ordered the Captain to speed up the ship." He didn’t respond, but managed the tinniest nod. I take that as a yes. "I guess you got your press, didn’t you?" I want to guilt-trip him now. I really have nothing to lose.

"It wasn’t supposed to be like this," he said solemnly, shaking his head. "She wasn’t supposed to sink."

"If only we had had more lifeboats," I said, with a tinge of sarcasm in my voice. "Too bad, isn’t it?"

"All of those people…" He gulped, as if terrified. "…died."

"You lived, though." I shrugged a shoulder. "I suppose that’s a good thing—We didn’t lose anyone important." I emphasized on the word, just to make him feel even worse than he already does. Yes, I am definitely going to Hell.

"Miss Andrews, I—" I sighed angrily, trying not to scream in frustration.

"You might as well of just pushed us all off of that ship, Mr. Ismay. As if you deserve the Mister, the dumb formality!" I pointed to the ocean in front of us. "You should be ashamed of yourself!"

"I am," he muttered. "Everyone on Titanic should’ve lived…"

"But, they didn’t. Because of selling value, because you wanted that ship to look spectacular and putting on something for safety wasn’t on your priority list. You wanted everyone to feel safe, when in reality, we never were. As it was, my father had to convince you to put lifeboats on Titanic! I bet you were against it!"

"Miss Andrews, I know your father—" I shook my head to stop him.

"He died. You lived. Where’s the justice in that?" I stopped, realizing how cruel I was being to him, but he…! I’m furious! "…And I blame you for killing him." I paused. "Don’t forget it."

"He was a gentleman," Ismay stammered, "he went down with the ship—"

"Then that must make you a coward! Even William Murdoch died on that ship! People I cared about died and it’s your fault!" I pushed him away from me, he, as usual, is too close for comfort and he stumbled back. "Don’t act as if your care, because you and I both know you don’t give a damn about anyone other than yourself!"

"I’m sorry," he said softly, trying to sound sincere.

"No, you’re not. It’s not like you can bring him back, can you?" He shook his head.

"No, I suppose not, but I am sorry—" I took him by his shirt collar, bringing him closer to me as he shut his mouth.

"Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to everyone who lost someone last night." I cleared my throat. "And I swear to you, I’ll make sure you never forget Titanic, her captain, her officers or her passengers. Including my father and William Murdoch." He didn’t move, as if he had nowhere else to go, nothing else to do. I’m ready to break his nose again.

"ANTOINETTE!" Harry’s voice echoed across the deck and I dropped Ismay’s collar as he came into view from the darkness. He saw Ismay and although it looked as if he wanted to stop, but he took my hand, intertwining his fingers with mine. "I was looking for you," he murmured gently, keeping his eyes on me—before momentarily glancing at Ismay, as if he wondered what happened to his nose. "Come on, we’ll go. It’s too chilly out here for you."

"But, Harry, I—" I gestured to Ismay and Harry shook his head.

"It’s not worth it, Ann. Besides, you’ll get pneumonia if you stay out here any longer." He turned to Ismay. "And Good-night, Mr. Ismay." I remained silent, and Harry began to drag me down the deck and away from the President of the White Star Line. I looked over my shoulder and Ismay hadn’t moved an inch. I’m not even finished blaming him yet. I suppose I never will be finished.

The man we can all blame for Titanic sinking, watched me, his eyes sinking and for some reason, I feel no remorse. This pathetic man had done nothing except hurt all of the people around me. And now, I’ll never see some of them again. My father, William Murdoch—and the rest of Titanic’s now deceased officers included. My eyes welled up with tears. I’ll never see any of them ever again. I feel so alone.

"I hope you rot in Hell," I muttered to him. Harry shot me this look, shocked. I don’t care. I’m too furious.

"No need to hope, Miss Andrews," Ismay said softly, turning to me, "I’m already there."

Chapter Thirty-Three
Stories