Written by Trinity
Based on some situations originated by James Cameron.

Chicago, IL
30 July 1917

Rose Dawson, nee Rose DeWitt Bukater, finally admitted to herself that she was going mad. The plate dropped from nerveless fingers and plummeted to the floor, splattering ceramic shards and food everywhere. In the silence that followed, she took an unsteady step, then halted, staring at the stranger.

Josephine darted in through the kitchen door in time to see Rose's eyes roll up into her head and her body begin a slow crumple to the floor. Both she and the stranger sprinted to Rose's side, and caught her at the same time.

"Rose?" She slapped Rose's cheek gently. "Rose, honey?"

No response.

At that moment, Jo became aware of the anxious diners. "It's all right, everyone. Just the heat, you know," at which a few nearby women nodded in sympathy. "I apologize for the scare, but she'll be fine with a little rest."

This seemed to content them, and the chatter quickly resumed, no doubt fed by the rather dramatic scene they had just witnessed. The stranger--a tall young man, lanky and tow headed--held Rose's shoulders gingerly, as though she might break.

"Can you help me get her to the back?" Jo asked.

The man nodded. Draping her arms over their shoulders and catching her about the waist, they half-pulled, half-carried Rose out of the saloon dining room, through the kitchen to a small back room. Once inside, Jo shut the door as the man gently laid Rose down on a small cot. There wasn't much more to the chamber: a tiny window in one wall let in some light, and a wooden locker in the far corner constituted the sparse furnishings.

Jo leaned over Rose and patted her face, trying to bring her around. That failing, she excused herself and left to get a glass of water. Alone, the stranger stood a little ways from the cot and studied its unconscious occupant. Vibrant red curls spilled over the pillow, escaping the tightly pinned knot at the base of her long, white neck. Strong cheekbones accented her heart-shaped face. Incongruously, there were fine lines beginning to emerge on her smooth forehead accompanied by more at the corners of her eyes; and this caused the man to wonder what kind of tragedy could have marked this obviously young woman.

The sound of the door opening startled him, and he turned to find Jo holding a cup of water. She briskly moved past him and knelt next to the cot, sprinkling water from her fingertips over Rose's face.

"Has she worked here long?" he asked tentatively.

Jo looked over at him. "As a matter of fact, no. She just started last month. " She continued sprinkling Rose.

"Ah, well--I suppose my job here is done then," he trailed off.

"Thanks for your help, Mr.?"

"Connelly." He winced a little; she noted, but let it pass.

"Well then, Rose and I thank you, Mr...Connelly."

He opened the door and hesitated. "Would it be too much if I came back later this evening? To see how she's doing?"

"I can tell her when she wakes up, if you like."

"That would be--thank you. I'd appreciate it." He started to leave.

"Say, Mr. Connelly--" Jo called out, "do you know her?"

He didn't face her and took a moment to reply.

"I'm--I'm not sure. Good day." And he was gone.

*****

Jo stared at the retreating figure and wondered a great many things. Rose Dawson had arrived on her doorstep six weeks ago with a reference from Jo's sister, Mrs. Harlan Davis of New York City. Clutching a shabby carpetbag and wearing a determined expression, she had informed Jo that while she was new to waitressing, she was a quick study, and hoped to be given the opportunity to prove it.

Jo had liked her from the start. The girl was young, intelligent, and hard working, and that was enough for Josephine Wrigley. And within the first week, Rose had proven herself a tireless worker who was pleasant to the customers, pleasant with the cooks (notorious for their tempers), and pleasant with the other servers. Always pleasant. Always distant.

On her days off, she rarely strayed from the Wrigley boarding house, preferring long walks in the neighborhood to the excitement of the city. Strange, especially with looks like hers. Jo had gently suggested on one occasion that Rose might accompany some of the other boarders down to Navy Pier, and Rose had declined politely but firmly with something in her eyes that begged Jo not to ask again. And she hadn't.

At that moment, Rose's eyelids twitched, and then she shot up straight her mouth in a soundless "o".

"Easy, my girl! It's all right, then," Jo soothed. Rose turned on her with wide, blank eyes and seemed to look through her to something else.

"Jack!" she breathed.

"No, no, it's only Jo, Rose."

Rose blinked and seemed to fade back into reality.

"What--what happened?"

"I think this heat wave finally got to you, my dear. You just up and crumpled on us."

Hands flying to her cheeks, Rose moaned, "Oh Mrs. Wrigley, I'm so sorry! I haven't been myself in the past week--"

"Now, that's all right. It happens. For now, I'll call Jenny in--that girl's been shirking again, and I've no compunctions calling her on her day off. You go home and rest--and tomorrow too. I won't have my best girl down because of overwork." Jo stood up and brushed off her apron. "Think you can make it to the El?"

Rose swung her legs over the side of the cot, then stopped in mid-rise. "Wasn't there someone else?"

"What?"

"I thought there was a man--"

"Oh, him! A Mr. Connelly, I believe, he said was his name--although between you and me, that may be a fib. Yes," she continued, "he was quite concerned with you--wanted to come back later to see that you were all right. I'll tell him so if I see him." Jo led the girl through the door and down the back hall. "Now, home with you, and take it easy."

"Yes, Mrs. Wrigley. Oh, if you see Mr. Connelly, would you ask him where I could contact him? I'd--I'd like to thank him for his--help," she finished lamely.

A knowing twinkle in her eye, Mrs. Wrigley nodded and shooed her off. Rose turned and began the short walk to her El stop.

*****

That evening, Rose sat in front of her little mirror and brushed out her hair. As frivolous as it sounded, there was something soothing in the rhythmic strokes sliding through the thick mass. Thoughts moved more easily in and out of her mind, and tonight her head was full of them.

Try as she might, she could not recall exactly the time immediately before her collapse. She had the impression of a face, and a vague recollection of the shipwreck in conjunction with the face--but whose face? She ran over each of the survivors that she had known, and when she had seen them last. The list was short--her mother, Cal, Mrs. Brown--and the myriad of faces on the Carpathia had long since faded to an indistinct blur in her memory. Easier to recall were the many faces who had not outlasted that never-ending night. Resolutely, she squashed them back. The time for grieving was long past.

More important was the identity of this Mr. Connelly--if that was his real name--and why she would connect him with Titanic.

Restless, she threw the brush down on her small bureau and moved to the window. The air was very still, but a slight breeze managed to twitch the curtains once in a while. The heat of the day still hung heavy in the twilight; even the locusts seemed afraid to buzz in the uncompromising dead air. It was no better in the small, stuffy bedroom, and Rose decided abruptly to go for one of her rambles.

Plaiting her hair quickly into a braid, she walked out of her room and down the stairs, only stopping to inform Mr. Wrigley of her whereabouts. He nodded affably at her, and she proceeded out into the night.

It was a quiet night. Some folks sat out on their front porches exchanging the day's news with neighbors. A few kids were playing a half-hearted game of tag in the street.

One of the boys yelled, "Hey Rose! Wanna play?"

"Not tonight, Davy. Too hot for me," she called back. She thought she heard a muttered "Aw, phooey," behind her and hid a grin. Rose had made the discovery back in New York that she was a kid magnet. They seemed to seek her out, and she enjoyed her time spent with them more than anything else. There was always a little girl for her to play surrogate big sister to, and always boys who were delighted when she'd join in their rough-housing. For there was more than one thing that had changed with her name--any pretensions of being a "lady" had gone down with the ship. Rose enjoyed her newfound childhood of sorts and was grimly determined not to set it aside until she was well and truly done with it. Which, she reflected ruefully, will probably be sometime between later and never.

She let her thoughts wander with her feet, and didn't take much notice of either until she found herself halfway to the saloon. That realized, she hesitated. I guess I want to meet this Mr. Connelly more than I thought.

She shrugged. It couldn't make much of a difference, and Jo hadn't had any reservations about him. And, she reasoned, he had been the sole customer who had jumped to her rescue, as it were. He couldn't be all that awful, could he?

Before she knew it, her pace had increased, and she made it to the pub in record time. She pushed open the door without hesitation and walked purposefully to the bar to meet a surprised Jo.

"I thought I told you to stay home, child!" she chided.

"I couldn't help it, Jo. I got restless and thought I'd take a walk."

Jo gaped. "You don't mean to tell me you just walked forty blocks! And in your condition!"

"Forty blocks?" Rose asked, startled. It hadn't seemed that long.

"Well, now you're here, so sit down and have a drink. Must have been deep in thought not to notice the distance." Jo shook her head and poured Rose a glass of ice water. "Anything in particular on your mind?" she asked, eyes gleaming.

"Oh--well--it's Mr. Connelly. I'd like to meet him. Now. Instead of later--or--never--what I mean is, I'm curious, and--" Rose stopped, aware that she had begun to babble.

"Take a breath, girl. He's right over there," and she casually pointed at him with her chin.

Of course he was there. How could she not have seen him?

And the memories returned in a flood, and she knew why her knees had faltered while her mind went blank.

She stood without realizing it and moved, trance-like, to the man who sat with his back to her. So silently she walked that he was not aware of her at first, and she took a moment to observe him. On his lap he held a sketchpad; gripped in strong, familiar fingers was a charcoal pencil from which issued broad, sure strokes that formed an image on the rough white paper. A woman, her face mostly obscured by her hair, stood at the prow of a great ship headed out to sea, her arms spread as if she were flying.

"Something's missing," she said quietly to him.

He froze, the pencil in mid stroke, but did not turn to face her. "Excuse me?"

"The woman is alone. There should be a man behind her, holding her arms out, helping her to fly." She held her breath, hardly believing that she had spoken in the first place.

"What if he's lost his wings?" he asked in a halting voice.

"Then she won't be able to fly either," she answered.

The pencil rolled out of his fingers and onto the floor. Without a second thought, she darted forward and picked it up, then slowly looked full into his face for the first time.

Haunted blue eyes met hers and held her frozen in time, and last moments of her old life flew in front of her eyes, so tangible they were real.

Running through the boiler rooms, stewards in hot pursuit...walking on the promenade deck...lying on the settee for the portrait...struggling to break the manacles that were a death sentence...jumping out of the lifeboat...and finally, the horrible moment of letting go, watching the dark ocean swallow her life in one silent pull.

"Jack," she breathed, and reached out to touch him to reassure herself of his substance.

He quivered at her seeking fingers, his eyes widening.

"It can't be," he whispered. He looked around and noted the curious stares they were eliciting. "Need to find somewhere--"

She pulled him to his feet and let him outside and across the street into a small park. Without speaking, she ushered him to a park bench and pushed him down onto it. She remained standing, shaking visibly.

"I--I don't know if I'm imagining things--"

He continued to gaze dumbly at her.

"Damn it, Jack, it has to be you! Please say it is you--oh...my," and she swayed a little.

Snapping out of his daze, he pulled her down next to him and cautiously pushed a stray curl out of her eyes. The contact froze them again, and for a long moment they could do nothing but look at each other in terror and in hope.

Abruptly, he seemed to come to a revelation, and he moved to cup her face in his hands. "Rose, it is you! I thought I was crazy," he said in a low voice.

Relief flowed over her, followed by a waterfall of emotions. Unnoticed tears poured down her face. "But you were dead, Jack! I called your name and you were gone...I couldn't think, but I kept hearing you tell me to live...and the water was so cold, but I did, I got to the whistle--but you were gone, and then they found me, and then--"

"Rose, Rose," he threw his arms around her and pulled her tightly to him. "I don't know what happened. One minute I closed my eyes, then I felt myself dying, Rose! I let go, but something kept pushing me back. I don't even remember breaking the water, but they found me."

"I didn't check the lists," she moaned softly. "I didn't even think to--"

"Of course you didn't. And it wouldn't have made a difference if you had because I was in the hospital for two months, and it took weeks before they could get any name out of me. The nurses said I kept calling out for you over and over, and they didn't have a clue who you were."

"I can't believe you're alive!" she choked.

He kissed her forehead. "I wasn't supposed to be. Nobody was giving me odds that I'd see daylight again, but you kept after me in my dreams, kept telling me to find you. And one day I decided that I would, and then I started to get better. When I was finally able to check the lists, you were listed as dead, and it all fell apart again."

She burrowed into him, her heart aching for both of them. "I know. I was a mess. I stayed away from Mother and Cal, even Mrs. Brown. They are all as dead to me now as I am to them. I couldn't go back to that life, but I couldn't seem to go forward, either. One day I found myself in front of a bakery, and thought I might get a job with them. That was Mrs. Wrigley's sister. When I got restless a few months ago and decided to move on, she sent me here, and Mrs. Wrigley welcomed me into her home and gave me work."

"I came down here to help out a friend. It's been pretty bad, Rose." He took a slow breath and continued, "Then one day I saw you walking down the street a few blocks from here, and I couldn't help it, I followed. I didn't think you were you, I couldn't believe that, but--it was like watching a ghost. And then today, I thought I'd get a closer look. When you passed out, I didn't know what to do, so I helped that woman. And I looked down at you, and I began to think that maybe--just maybe--"

"And I was." Rose looked up at him. "I saw you, but when I woke up I couldn't remember what had frightened me so much. And when Mrs. Wrigley told me you might be back, I had this overwhelming urge to meet you. " She paused, then continued, "I feel suddenly as if everything has finally returned to the way it was meant to be."

The trees overhead soughed softly, and Jack noticed that a light breeze had emerged from nowhere. Through the trees, he could see the glimmer of moonlight on water, and he pulled Rose to her feet.

Silently, they walked through the park. It petered out onto a wide expanse of sand that made up the coast of Lake Michigan. Here and there, other night-strollers dotted the silvery dunes. They stood shoulder to shoulder, not quite touching.

The moon shone down gently, turning everything into a vast shadowland. Rose noted distantly that the darkness no longer frightened her. She smelled the tang of water in the air; listened to the waves that lapped faintly against the shore. She was aware of Jack moving behind her, then felt his hand in hers, lifting her arms away from her sides.

They stood, arms outstretched, and for a moment Rose saw a different sea and felt wind rushing past her. She closed her eyes and heard Jack say quietly in her ear, "Teach me to fly, Rose."

*****

In the early light of dawn, passersby were startled to find a picture of an enormous ship drawn in the sand near the water. If they looked closely, they could almost distinguish two small figures standing at its prow, arms outstretched into the rushing wind.

The End.

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