EVERYTHING’S NOT LOST
Chapter Thirty-Three
"Oh, you did not do
that!" I laughed as Harry nodded eagerly. He sat across from me on
Carpathia’s deck, explaining in detail the way he yelled at Bruce Ismay when he
seemed to panic the night Titanic sank. "Well, I still don’t believe it."
"You should, Antoinette! It
really happened. He kept on yelling at the officers to lower the lifeboats away
and I asked him if he wanted to drown everyone—"
"And then he asked you if
you knew who he was," I interrupted. He’s told me this story how many times
now? I have to admit, it never gets boring. He laughed, nodding.
"As if that was supposed to
threaten me!"
"Obviously, it didn’t."
"No, it didn’t." He
paused. "I told him that I didn’t care who he was, I was an officer and he
was a passenger and he needed to get the Hell out of the way, which he did. I
almost threatened to drown him myself."
I managed a smile, my mind
seeming to think back to last night. Even though it’s midday now, I had kept my
mind on Ismay and what I had told him the night before. Titanic sank almost two
days ago. Unbelievable, but true. And I blamed Ismay. Was I wrong in blaming
someone? I was angry. I’m still angry, as a matter of fact. I suppose I want
someone to blame and Ismay has become that person for me. As awful as it may sound,
I now think that if Ismay had not been on board Titanic, she wouldn’t have hit
that iceberg. Granted, it’s just a theory, but it’s my theory.
"Love?" I looked up
from my hands and nodded at the confused officer.
"What?" Was he planning
on telling another story? I don’t know if I can handle another tale of that
night. Not now.
"You drifted." That
sounds like something my father would say. Oh, my father. I gulped, trying to
get my mind off of him. Anything makes me think of him now. It doesn’t matter
what, when I do drift, somehow, I connect it to my father.
"I’m sorry," I
apologized.
"No, no, it’s alright, I
just want to make sure you’re still here." I shouldn’t be. I should be
with my father and Will. But, Harry…I couldn’t leave him by himself. That would
surely break his heart. Maybe Ismay was right: maybe I was trying to jump ship.
No, no! I was not! I was trying to catch that pencil and now it’s gone. I
sighed.
"I’m here."
"Hey, you." He reached
over to me, taking my hands before squeezing them. "We’re going to be
fine, you know. We made it through the difficult part of it all days ago."
"I know," I whispered.
"Ann, I know you miss
him." I glanced up at him. "Your father."
"Harry, it’s okay—" I
know he’s going to try his best to comfort me, but there’s nothing anyone can
say or do that can make this situation better.
"No, no," he said,
cutting me off, "Just realize that if I could bring him back to you, I
would." Oh, how endearing was that? Not even endearing! That right there
made me realize how much Harold Lowe cares. I managed a smile.
"I know you would." I
sighed, brushing hair out of my eyes.
"Let’s talk about something
cheery, huh?" he suggested, with that sweet smile of his. I shrugged.
"Alright, what can we talk
about?"
"I never got the chance to ask
you last night. Why does Mr. Ismay’s face look smashed in? It looks like a
trolley ran him over…multiple times."
"How would I know?"
"By the way you had him by
the collar last night, I thought you had slammed him against the ship’s rails!
But, to me, he looks like he slammed into a pole—"
"Inevitably drunk out of his
mind," I added in.
"Oh, definitely!" He
laughed. "But, in all seriousness, what do you think happened?" I bit
my lower lip, looking away from him. "Ann." I can’t look him in the
eye, I’ll blurt out what happened. "You know, don’t you!?" he asked,
laughing.
"I. Do. Not."
"Oh, yes you do. You can’t
lie, you’re awful at it. We learned that from poker. So, what happened to his
face? Did some other first-class passenger slam him against a table, in a
drunken rage and you just happened to be witness to it?"
"Nothing that
interesting," I cooed.
"Then, what? Oh, come on,
Antoinette! Don’t make me beg!" I laughed.
"You won’t believe me even
if I told you." He raised an eyebrow.
"Try me."
"Well…I kind of, sort of
like…" I paused, taking in a deep breath. "…I kind of punched
him." He sat there, in that deck chair, and kept his eyes on me, just
staring. He looked as if he was going to fall over from shock. "See, I told
you, you wouldn’t believe me!"
"How do you kind of, sort of
like punch Bruce Ismay?" he questioned, a smirk appearing across his face.
"Well, he was hurting
me." He tensed up.
"What?" he asked,
suddenly furious, standing up. He glanced around, probably in search of Ismay
as his fists clenched. As much as I would like to see him punch Ismay’s head
in, this is not the time or the place.
"Harry, Harry—No, no!"
I took him by the shoulders, pushing him back down into the chair. "Not
like that." He thought Ismay took advantage of me. Although that’s a
horrible thought, with Ismay, it’s something that nightmares are made of. Even
in a corset, I could hurt someone. Harry glanced down at me skeptically.
"Do you honestly think I would let him do that?"
"Now that you mention
it…" I smiled.
"See?" We sat back
down. "What I meant by hurt was my wrist." I held up my wrist, which
although it’s not black and blue, it’s still sore. "When I left the
blackjack game, he was pulling me by the wrist back towards my room and every other
second, he kept squeezing it tighter and tighter. I actually lost feeling in it
for a minute or so…" My voice trailed off.
"And then what?" he
asked me, ever-so-curious.
"I tried to compromise with
him, but with no luck. He wasn’t letting go. So, I proceeded to call him a slime
ball—"
"You did not!" he
laughed, in disbelief.
"Oh, I did. Trust me. He
whirled around and once he let go of my hand, I punched him. Harry, I swear to
you, his nose cracked! I broke it! There was these seconds of silence and he
didn’t do anything, but once he realized he was bleeding and was in pain, he
went for me, but I ran away from him."
"Wow." He whistled,
taking off his officer’s hat and putting a hand to his head. "I can’t
believe you did that."
"I know."
"I mean, that makes my
telling him off seem like nothing compared to you." He smiled.
"I’m not even done with the
story!"
"There’s more?" he
asked, hopeful.
"Somewhat. When I started
running, he chased me down a few flights of stairs and of course, he was
bleeding absolutely everywhere, it was quite the mess, and I somehow found
myself in the boiler room. I kept on going and ended up in the storage area of
the ship." His brow furrowed, as if he was thinking.
"Wait, wait, wait. Is that
why you were soaking wet?" he asked, still skeptical. I nodded.
"The iceberg caused all of
this water to come gushing into the storage area and the boiler room and I
thought I was going to die for a few seconds there."
"Dear God—" He paused,
before asking me, concerned, "You’re alright, though, aren’t you? Nothing hurts?"
I shook my head, trying not to smile out of the sweet concern.
"No, no, nothing hurts. I’m
fine." Except for the emotional tearing, I’m physically okay. "It was
so cold," I murmured. "It was bitter."
"We were in the middle of
the North Atlantic," Harry felt the need to point out. I rolled my eyes.
"So, how are we going to
outdo ourselves with Ismay?" I asked, changing the subject. "You have
to beat me in breaking his nose."
"I don’t know, Love. I think
I lost that competition."
"I think you did, too."
He smiled.
"Who would’ve thought?
You!"
"Didn’t think I had it in
me?" I questioned, raising an eyebrow.
"No, I just…" He
sighed, shaking his head at me. "You’re wonderful," he sighed.
"What?" I hadn’t
expected that. It seemed so random. We were talking about Ismay, for crying out
loud and now, he’s telling me how wonderful I am? I smiled at him. Even though
we’ve been on the Carpathia for what feels like an eternity, he’s got this
goofy smile on his face. And even though this horrible thing happened, he’s
still got a smile on his face.
"You are wonderful." He
took my hands again. "And even though you punched my employer and probably
broke his nose—" I smiled.
"I think I did!"
"Well, I still love
you." He teetered on the deck chair, trying to get as close as possible to
me. I leaned in closer to him as he nuzzled my cheek with his nose. "Even
if you may have lost me my job, I still love you," he said into my ear,
before laughing.
"And even though you wanted
to drown Bruce Ismay in the water, I still love you," I joked as he kissed
me on the cheek. With a few kisses on my cheek, I couldn’t stop giggling—this
is too ticklish to not laugh about! He kissed the tip of my nose and then made
his way to my lips and kissed me. And for one moment, my thoughts were
forgotten. Everything that had happened was forgotten for a split second,
because of Harold Lowe. I shouldn’t be this happy, what about my father and
Will…but…He let go of the kiss and looked down at me, this look of confusion on
his face.
"Did I do something
wrong?" he asked, puzzled. I shook my head, kissing him on the cheek. I
had to force myself to do that, and I love Harry.
"No." He didn’t do
anything wrong, I just don’t think I should be happy about anyone or anything
right now. He looked skeptical, so I forced a smile. For his sake, no one
else’s. "You didn’t do anything," I reassured him. He can read me
like an open book, but he realized that whatever was on my mind, it was not to
toyed with and or discussed. Not right now.
"Do you want something to
eat?" he asked after I looked away from him. "I don’t know about you,
but I’m starving."
"Sure," I answered.
"What do you want? Soup,
sandwich—" I shook my head.
"Whatever you’re having is fine."
"Alright, then." He
stood up, kissing me on the cheek. "I’ll be right back. Don’t move a
muscle!" I opened my mouth to speak, but he was already gone. What’s the
use in promising him something I can’t keep? It’s all just an illusion, anyway.
I stood up, straightening my
already tattered dress and made my way towards the open ocean. I leaned against
the white handrail of the Carpathia and put my hand into my coat pocket just to
make sure the notebook was still there. It still is. I thought maybe it had
disappeared, just like everyone else.
I pulled out the book and I
flipped through it once again. I’ll never read it all, I bet, but it’s
comforting to have found something of my father’s—even if that something wasn’t
what I expected to ever find. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to part with it
now. I sighed heavily. It’s already the sixteenth of April. We had managed to
get on the Carpathia’s yesterday morning, the fifteenth and who knows how many
more days until New York. And even glancing down at the notebook in my hands
now, I want to fix the dates on what I had written last night. I don’t know
why, but I think when dealing with something that once belonged to my
father—and in one sense, the notebook is still his…it has to be perfect. I
shouldn’t have even written in it at all. I took the book in my left hand and
placed it into the other pocket when I felt a sharp stab go into my side.
"Ow!" I said rather
loudly, but looking over my shoulder, nobody noticed. I pulled out the object.
Another pencil. I should’ve guessed! My father was always prepared in that
sense. He always would carry two of everything around…two pens, two pencils,
two erasers, two sets of blueprints…Why didn’t I expect this before? I took the
book back out of my pocket and flipped to the next empty page after what I had
written last night. I held the pencil tightly between my fingers, not sure if
what I want to say in this is even worth it. It’s not even mine, I never
should’ve written in it. It’s too late now. There’s no eraser in this coat—It’s
not a magic coat, even though I think it has sincerely been a blessing to me.
Shaking, I scribbled the date in
the right-hand corner, attempting to follow my father’s format. I didn’t bother
to make a bullet. Instead of saying him this time, when referring to my father,
I began to write as if I was talking to him. I don’t know why, but…that’s how I
started it and that’s how I’ll end it. I kept on writing, more than I thought I
would, almost feverishly. It took me practically minutes to finish, but once I
did, I stared at almost half a page written in my rather small cursive. I began
to read it back, even though I know I shouldn’t—I’ll just upset myself.
"If I knew this was to
happen, I never would’ve let you get onto Titanic—no matter how much you wanted
to go. If I knew this was to happen, I would’ve stayed with you, no matter what
you said. I would’ve got to spend my last minutes with you and to me, that
would’ve been priceless. The water could’ve just taken us away and that
would’ve been it. I didn’t want to leave you. I couldn’t, but I did." That’s the worst part. I did leave. I
looked away from the book at the water for a mere moment, before turning back
to the page. "I don’t want to be alone and right now, that’s how I
feel. Absolutely and utterly alone. I’m terrified without you here!" I’m
now trying not to cry. Why am I even reading this? I’m just upsetting myself,
like I thought I would!
"I want you to be
here," I continued
to read, "You deserve to be here…Don’t you realize how much I love you?
How much I miss you? How could you leave me here?" Why am I blaming
him? "We could’ve started over, all three of us. Mother, you and I. I
know you thought about it, you had that look in your eye the moment I suggested
it that night." I held back my tears with all of my strength. "How
can I go on? What life is there when you’ve lost your only parent, the only one
who understood, or tried to understand? How can I go on, even with Harry, when
all I think of is you every time I lay my eyes on him—and every time I see him,
I think of you and your Ship of Dreams." And that’s the truth. "Why
did you leave me here, to fend for myself? Daddy, I miss you. I want you to come
back. Come back. Please, just…just come back." I stopped myself. I
don’t even want to know what I had written at the end, because I know it’s
unhealthy. But, I read it, against my better judgment. "I might as well
be dead."