"After the sinking," Jack said, "I stayed in New York for awhile. I didn't have any money or anywhere I really wanted to go, so I drank the coffee they gave me at the dock and took the coat they offered. I wasn't cold, but I didn't know how to say that. I was so far beyond cold…" He shook his head. "I got a room for the night for free because I was one of the survivors, but even then things were still sorted by class. Still, it got me in out of the rain."
Celia dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. "She wasn't dead," she said, more to reassure herself than to ask a question.
"No. She wasn't dead. But I didn't know that." He lit a cigarette. "When I didn't find her on the Carpathia I thought she was dead. Though maybe it's more that I hoped she was."
Money had always been easy to come by, at least in very small amounts. Jack had never tried earning more than what he needed to keep himself alive from one day to the next, and that hadn't changed. He would have slept outside in the park if there weren't police sweeping it every night, using sticks instead of manners to clear out what the reformers called the unfortunates.
"I wasn't ready to leave New York," he told Celia. "But I was restless enough to keep moving from room to room. Things just didn't feel right. Something had changed. I had changed."
Jack realized the key to his room was still on the bedside table after three and a half blocks. He stopped and turned around, swearing under his breath, but he didn't go back. He turned on his heel and kept walking, hands jammed in his pockets, sketchbook tucked under his arm. His feet clattered against the sidewalk. There wasn't anything in the room he needed. Everything he owned, with the exception of a shabby wool coat, was either in his hands or in his pockets, and who needed a wool anything in June? Maybe he would go back. Maybe he wouldn't. It mattered about the same either way.
It was amazing the way people stopped seeing him once he bent over a fresh piece of paper. He leaned back in an empty doorway and let himself fall away—his voice, his thoughts, everything he felt and everything he refused to feel flowed into the drawing. He only caught glimpses of the people as they passed, but a glimpse was all he needed. The lines were quick and dark. Shapes emerged beneath his hands with only a few strokes. At first glance they seemed to have no faces, just smudged lines thrown together, but somehow the lines came together to form something heartbreakingly beautiful.
He was drawing the best that he ever would, and he knew it. These were the drawings that would make his name, if his name was ever to be made.
"But that didn't happen," Celia interrupted.
Jack leaned his chin on his wrist and smiled. "Are you sure?" he asked.
Celia hesitated. "Go on," she said.
"Thank you. I went back later that afternoon, figuring that since I'd already paid for the room, it would be crazy to just leave…."
There was a new man at the front desk. He was young, with hair so blonde it was nearly white. His eyes were watery and gray. He stared at Jack when he asked for the spare key to his room. "Doesn't your wife have it?" he asked, shoving a small silver key across the desk. Jack snatched the key without bothering to ask what he meant.
It didn't matter how hard he twisted or to which side, the lock wouldn't budge. Jack jiggled the knob, but to no avail. "Damn it," he muttered. He stepped back and prepared to try kicking the door open when he saw the number printed on the key—13. He was in room 3.
Jack glanced at the clock. "It's time for dinner," he said.
Celia waved away his comment. "Everyone can get their own tonight," she said. "What happened next?"
"I'll tell you after dinner," he said as Cosette bounded into the room. She held her dress in the air like a triumphant flag. "I did it!" she cried. "There's not a tear left."
Celia sighed. "Fine," she said. "Tell me after dinner." She glanced at the clumsy, uneven stitches. "Yes, dear, the tears are gone, but the sewing itself is atrocious."
Cosette flopped into an empty chair. "I suppose I'll do better when it's people I'm sewing up," she said.
Celia winced. "Why are you so enamored with wounds?" she asked.
Cosette glanced at Jack before reaching for his cup of tea. "Because I'm going to be a doctor," she said between gulps. "And when there's another war I'm going to go out on the field and treat the wounded."
"Don't you mean you'd like to be a nurse?" Celia asked.
Cosette shook her head. "Why would I want to hand someone things when I can be the one getting handed things?"
"I don't understand half the things you say," Celia said. She buttered three pieces of bread and sprinkled sugar on top. "But here, go eat outside," she said, handing them to Cosette.
Her eyes lit up. "You want me to eat that? Outside?" She leapt out of her chair and ran out the door, her footsteps echoing like gunshots.
Jack watched her go with an amused smile. "That eager to hear the rest, huh?" he asked.
Celia shoved a sandwich at him. "Don't say a word about how irresponsible I'm being. Just go on with it."
Jack chewed slowly. "The stitching isn't that bad," he said.
Celia rolled her eyes. "It's awful," she said. "For her first time sewing even, it's awful. And she thinks she'll be able to sew up live humans, beings that can scream and thrash about when the needle plunges into them? And I know you don't discourage that line of thinking."
"Why should I? And she'll get better if she works at it. I wouldn't worry about her wanting to be a doctor too much, though. Six months ago, she wanted to be an aviator."
She pretended not to hear him. "What happened next?"
"Where was I? Oh, the key. You know, I didn't have a reason to go up to that room," he said thoughtfully. "And I wasn't gonna, but then when I was on the stairs I turned and started walking up instead of down…"
This time the key turned easily. Jack held his breath and slowly pushed open the door. His heart began to thud, though he didn't know why. Doesn't your wife have one? rang in his ears. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight spilling in through the large windows. A large, wrought iron bed was pushed against the wall beneath the windows. A small figure lay in the center, wrapped in blankets. Red curls covered the pillow.
Rose's sigh as she rolled over broke the spell. Jack stumbled backwards, falling into the doorframe and dropping the key. She jumped up, bleary-eyed yet still commanding. "Who are you?" Jack managed to regain his feet. She sat on her knees at the edge of the bed, the blanket thrown back, revealing a soft green chemise. Her hair blazed as brightly as her eyes. "How did you get in here?" she stammered. A lump formed in her throat.
"They—they gave me the wrong key," Jack explained. "I'm in 3, and you're in 13—the guy downstairs thinks you're my wife—why does he think that?" It was an absurd question, and he knew it the moment it left his lips.
Rose stared at him. "What?" she asked finally. The lilt in her voice was the same as the night they met.
"That's what you said to her?" Celia burst out.
Jack frowned. "Wait till it happens to you and see what you say."
"So, you just found her? Just received the wrong key by mistake and found her again?"
"Yeah," Jack said. "Why do you sound so shocked? After everything else I just told you, that should fit right in."
"It's just so…" Celia was at a loss for words.
"Yeah, but it's too perfect not to be true."
Rose's head swam. "I don't understand," she said. "You…"
She wrestled to settle on a single coherent thought. What an incredible waste of time talking was! What words could possibly express all that she felt? Where did you come from? Where were you? Why didn't I find you? The answers wouldn't change anything, wouldn't bring back the time denied them, all seven weeks of it. The floor was cold against her bare feet; her chemise suddenly felt thin and shabby. She brushed her hands down the front, as if through touch alone she could restore herself to her former glory. She eyed Jack cautiously and waited for him to speak. He reached for her hand. His words came out in a hoarse whisper, and all she could make out was her name.
She fit into his arms as though they had been made with her in mind. He hugged her tightly, curling his hands around her waist. Her breath tickled his neck. "Jack," she murmured. "Jack. Jack."
He took her face in his hands. "Why didn't I see you?" he asked. "There weren't that many…where did you go?"
Celia was nearly at the edge of her seat. "Where had she gone?"
"She was in steerage, with me. She was just trying not to be found. Her name was on the survivor list right under mine," Jack explained. "But when they took my name, there wasn't a list to look at yet."
They lay side by side, arms draped over each other. Jack idly played with Rose's curls. She smiled as she rubbed his shirt between her fingers. "Your clothes are so soft," she said. "They move…breathe. That's what I remembered most at first."
"My clothes?" he asked with a chuckle.
She nodded seriously. "I remembered what your shirt felt like in my hands, against my cheek." A light blush spread across her face. "How simple your clothes were."
Jack cupped her cheek. "I remembered your laugh," he said.
"Your eyes."
"Your curls."
"Your voice."
They burst into a fit of giggles. "What are we doing?" Jack asked.
She shrugged, tears of mirth forming in her eyes. "I'm not sure," she managed to choke out, "but I'm glad I borrowed your name."