TITANIC ROSE
Chapter Thirty-Eight
February, 1918
Rose awoke abruptly, her body
drenched in a cold sweat. The dream had been real…so real that she could almost
swear it was really happening.
It wasn’t, of course. She wasn’t
traveling in her dreams anymore. True to his word, this time Jack had not
returned, and she hadn’t had any of the otherworldly dreams since. Still, this
one—and the dreams of previous nights—had seemed real, so real.
Thomas had been there. She hadn’t
been able to speak to him or touch him, but he had seemed real. He had been in
a tiny hospital in a land covered with snow. It had seemed peaceful there, not
torn by war, in spite of the injured men surrounding Thomas. She hadn’t been
able to see what was wrong with him, or why he was there. All she knew was that
she had seen him.
Could it be a sign? she wondered. I’ve had this dream
every night for the last two weeks. Surely it means something.
She slipped out of bed, walking
into the bathroom and staring at herself in the mirror. She looked terrible—her
face was pale and drawn, and there were dark circles under her eyes from too
many sleepless nights. The children sensed that something was wrong, though she
hadn’t said anything to them about their father’s disappearance.
Sure the dreams mean something, she chided herself. They’re a product
of wishful thinking. You always did have a vivid imagination. They don’t mean
anything more than that you miss Thomas and wish he were here, but he isn’t.
Most likely, he never will be. He’s disappeared, and there is no body. Dreaming
of him in a peaceful place probably means that he’s gone to heaven—even if
there are injured men around him. With a certainty, Europe isn’t a peaceful
place right now. If his body ever is found, it will be buried without a name,
another unknown soldier.
Rose splashed her face with cool
water and returned to bed. She had to get some sleep so that she could go to
work the next day. She was her children’s only support now. To be sure, there
was a pension for war widows—but only if the death was proven. No one could be
sure if Thomas was dead or not.
That was her only comfort. What
if, by some twist of fate, he was still alive? It wasn’t likely, but stranger
things had happened.
Rose shook her head and buried
her face in her pillow. There was no use in wishing him back. He was gone, and
she had to carry on alone. She couldn’t let herself sink into dreams that
weren’t going to come true. She had three children who needed her.
But it was hard not to hope. She
had lost the first man she had loved; how could fate be so unkind as to take
the second from her? It didn’t seem right. But then, since when was life fair?
She had told her children often enough that life wasn’t fair, and yet she
seemed to expect fairness for herself.
Rose rolled over and stared at
the ceiling, trying not to cry. She missed Thomas so much. If there was hope,
any hope at all, that he was still alive, she would cling to it, no matter how
often she told herself not to. She couldn’t do anything else. Whether he was
alive or dead was out of her hands, and always had been, but it wasn’t in her
nature to give up hope—not until she was sure that there was no use in hoping
anymore.