ROSE GOES ON
Chapter Twenty
November 24, 1923
"Mom! Hey, Mom! The mail’s here!"
Christopher ran in the front door, splashing mud and water over the floor. It
was raining heavily outside.
"Did you bring it in?" Rose asked,
coming from the living room. It was late afternoon, and she was home for a
change, between busy shooting schedules.
"Yep. I got two letters from
girls."
Rose ruffled his hair, making him glare at
her. "I take it you’re learning to like girls, then?"
"They’re okay." He shrugged.
"You’ll learn to like them someday,
Christopher."
Giving her a skeptical look, Christopher
hurried toward the stairs, the letters in his hand. Rose laughed and shook her
head. Her son was growing up. A year ago, at the age of nine, he had thought
that all girls were silly, with the possible exceptions of his mother and
Clara, but now he was beginning to consider that some of them might not be so
bad, though he still wasn’t thrilled by the idea of girls writing to him and
declaring their love, as a few had done.
Sitting down on the couch, Rose began sorting
through the mail. Catalogs...bills...a script to read over...a magazine...a
letter from Mary...and a letter addressed in fancy handwriting. Curious, she
picked it up, looking more closely at it.
It had been opened by the people who read her
letters already, but the return address was still intact. Looking at it, she
gasped, her face paling at the name on the corner of the envelope. Ruth DeWitt
Bukater.
Hands trembling, Rose re-opened the letter,
pulling out a sheet of plain white paper. In earlier days, Ruth had always used
the best stationary, but she supposed that her mother’s lot in life had changed
considerably since Rose had "died" on the Titanic.
Nervously, she unfolded the paper, wondering
what her mother had to say. Shaking her head, she told herself that there was
nothing to worry about. She was a grown woman, twenty-eight years old, and
certainly too old to be worried about what her mother thought. Still, for a
moment it felt as though she was a girl again, trying to please her mother.
Pushing those thoughts aside, Rose looked at
the letter, the neat, perfect handwriting unmistakable even after eleven years.
My darling Rose,
I’m not sure what to say to you. How does
one write a letter to a daughter suddenly returned from the dead? Yes, Rose, I
thought you were dead. When Cal found no sign of you on the Carpathia, we could
not help but assume the worst. After the ship docked, I checked the survivor’s
list to see if you might have been on it, perhaps with that boy, but you
weren’t there.
Imagine my surprise when, two weeks ago, I
was in the little bookstore near my apartment in Philadelphia and caught sight
of your picture on the cover of a movie magazine. At first, I couldn’t be sure
it was you--you were supposed to be dead, after all. But there was no mistaking
that beautiful face, or the sparkle in those eyes. I didn’t have much money,
but I bought the magazine and took it home with me, hoping against hope that it
wasn’t my imagination, that it really was you.
It was, of course. I read about you--it
was a long article. The article said that you had been a star in Hollywood
since 1918, and that you were a widow with a son. There was a picture of your
son, too. Christopher. He looks so much like the young man you chased about
with on the Titanic, I’m guessing that he is his son. So you married your young
man, and then lost him. I was shocked at first, but my sympathies are with you.
I rarely go to the pictures, so I hadn’t
seen you before. It was hard to believe that you, my daughter, were a national
icon, and yet I didn’t hear of you until recently. Perhaps I didn’t want to
hear it. I always thought that if your life were different, you would have
become an actress, or a dancer, or someone else in the spotlight. You always
did have a flair for the dramatic.
I still don’t understand why you stayed on
the ship with Jack Dawson, or why you hid from us when you were rescued. You
are my daughter, my only child. I know now that you were unhappy with Cal, and
rightfully so--he wasted no time in forgetting you after your
"death". If he had truly loved you, he wouldn’t have married just a
year after the tragedy. He told me then that life goes on, and that it was time
I forgot about you, after the way you had acted on the ship. I haven’t seen him
since.
I do wish, though, that you hadn’t hidden
from me, but I will admit that I probably would have pushed you into the
marriage with Cal if you had come to me. So, I suppose, in a way it was for the
best. We are both better off without him--even without his money. I’m working
now, not as a seamstress, but as a department store clerk, selling clothes. I
do well enough at it, but then I always did have a liking for fashion.
I love you, Rose, and I’ve never stopped
mourning you. Now that I know you are alive, I hope that you will forgive me my
actions of eleven years ago, and write back to me. If you do not, I will
understand. I won’t interfere in your life, Rose. Not this time. You’ve made a
good life for yourself and your son, and you’re doing what you always loved to
do. You have more than I ever did, and I’m truly happy for you.
Love,
Mother
Rose clutched the letter to her chest, her
eyes suddenly filling with tears. Mother! It had been so many years since they
had seen each other. The last time she had seen Ruth, she had looked at her
with disgust for her attitude toward the lower classes and walked away to find
Jack. Now, eleven years had gone by. Jack was dead, and Rose was living in
California, working as an actress and raising their son.
Rose wiped her eyes quickly, composing
herself. There was no need to get so worked up. She wasn’t a little girl,
crying for her long-lost mother. She was grown up now, and she didn’t need her
mother anymore--but she missed her. How many times over the years had she
wondered what Ruth would have thought about what Rose was doing, what she would
have thought about her grandson? Her mother had longed for grandchildren, and
had hinted to Rose and Cal more than once that they should start a family as
soon as they were married. How could she deny her mother her only grandchild?
Quickly, Rose walked over to the writing
desk, picking up a sheet of stationary and a small photograph of herself and
Christopher, taken late in the summer. Sitting down, she tucked the photograph
inside an envelope, and began to write.
Dear Mother,
I was surprised to hear from you. I didn’t
know what had happened to you, or if you knew that I was alive. I had hoped
that the people I had known in my old life would recognize me, but none have
ever contacted me--until now.
I’ve missed you, Mother, more than I can
say. Although we didn’t always see eye to eye, you are still my mother, and I
often wondered what you would say about the life I lead, and about your
grandson.
Yes, Mother, Christopher is Jack’s son,
and Jack is dead. I won’t say more than that, but Christopher has been the
light of my life for many years. As you may have guessed, Christopher is named
after Father. After his grandfather and father, actually. Christopher Jack
Dawson.
I have been working as an actress since
1916, but my first real success didn’t come until 1918. Before that, I was
nanny and housekeeper for a man I met soon after I left the Carpathia. I have
since moved on with life, but we are still friends, and I write to him and his
daughters often.
I hope that you are well, and am glad that
you have found work that suits you. I always thought you would be a good
saleswoman--you talked me into buying enough things that I didn’t want. You
have a way of convincing people that they want what you want.
It has been a long time, more than eleven
years--but maybe now we could get along better. I would like it if you would
write to me, and I will ask Christopher to write to you, if you want. Perhaps,
if I ever go east, I might even see you again--or maybe someday you can come
here.
I love you, Mother. I know I rarely said
it before, but it’s true. You’re my mother, and in spite of the mistakes you
made, I realize know that you never did anything that you thought would harm
me. You always had what you thought were my best interests in mind--even if
they were really your best interests. Things worked out for the best, after
all, and I have long since forgiven you for pushing me into the engagement with
Cal. My best wishes to you.
Love,
Rose