TITANIC ROSE
Chapter Four
The world lay under a deep blanket of
colorful leaves. It was all dead, as the crisp autumn air replaced that of the fresh
summer. Rose hated it. Her child had only been buried three days ago, and
already the world was turning sour.
Two people. She had lost two people who were
dear to her heart, as weak as it was now. The doctor said that her experience on
the Titanic might have hurt the fetus and Rose's body, causing Jacqueline's
premature birth and untimely death.
She was curled up, knees to her chest, in the
corner of her room. The curtain were drawn. Rose refused to let any sunlight
shine into her bleak world. She rocked back and forth, back and forth. "Come
Josephine in my flying machine." She remembered when Jack had sung
that to her. "Up, she goes, up, she goes," she sang to
herself, completing the phrase. The song was forever there, as was Jack's
memory.
John hurried into the room. He hadn't seen
her all morning, and had gotten worried. There she was, in the fetal position
in the corner, singing that song. "Rose, please, come eat something."
"There's no baby now, John. No reason to
eat. No reason to care."
"Get up!"
Rose looked up at him as he pulled back the
curtains. She shielded her eyes from the sudden burst of light and put her head
in her knees. "It's much too bright, John."
"The world goes on, with or without
you," John reminded her as she began to cry. "But I would prefer it
if you were there as the world turns."
"Why?"
"I—never you mind. Just get up. At least
get dressed. That robe is beginning to decay on you!"
"I hadn't noticed." Rose began to
stand up, but felt dizzy as she did. "Perhaps I'll feel better after a bath.
That sounds all right."
"Yes, take a warm bath and relax."
John headed her towards the washroom. "It will make you feel much better.
I promise."
"All right."
John watched as Rose closed the door. How he
wished she would love him the way she loved Jack! His feelings had turned into
unrequited love for this girl—this woman—whom he had met on the Titanic. But
she was slowly slipping away from the firm grasp of reality she had once had.
She wasn't Rose anymore. She was the person who had fallen in love on the Titanic,
the lover of the man who had died in her arms, the might-have-been-mother of
his child. Not Rose.
John realized that Rose had forgotten a towel
to take with her. He wanted to be in there anyway, to see Rose fully. He loved
her. Removing a towel from the rack, he knocked on the door. He could hear
water splashing in the bathtub.
"Yes?" came a voice.
"You forgot your towel," John
answered. "I have one here for you."
Rose put her robe on and walked outside. John
was standing by the door, waiting to see her. All she had on was that decaying
robe, but John wanted more. So much more.
"Thank you." Rose grabbed the towel
and hurried back inside the washroom. John sighed as she shut the door.
*****
"That dress is quite lovely on you,
Rose." John had her spin around in the mirror. The fall colors that year
were perfect on her, and John thought that she was the most beautiful creature
in the world.
"I don't know," Rose replied.
"I just got tired of wearing black. Jack wouldn't like it. He liked it
when I wore pastels."
"Rose, Jack isn't—" He stopped
himself before he said something he would possibly regret. This was like a
chess game, and if he wanted to have Rose, he'd have to move the right pieces.
"I know Jack isn't here." Rose
turned to face John. She was so close that he could feel the warmth of her
breath against his freshly shaven face. "At least, he's not here in body.
But he is here in spirit, and that is what counts."
"If you say so."
"I don't expect you to understand. You
grieved for Maria in your own way. It seems you have recovered from that
experience quite well. You never even mention her anymore."
"It took the past five-and-a-half months
to not be able to cry when I think about her," John replied. "And, besides
that, I'm in love—never mind."
"No. It's not never mind." Rose
smiled and tugged at his arm playfully. "You're in love again! I can see
it! Oh, tell me, please!"
"No, no, no," John replied through
her nagging. "It's not important."
"All right. Let's play twenty
questions." Rose sat on the edge of the bed, anxious to hear what her
friend was thinking. "My first question is...hmm...is she at all pretty?
Or is that too shallow of me?"
"No, no. Not shallow at all. Yes, she's
very pretty. You can't help but notice how pretty she is."
"Does she live nearby?"
"Quite near."
"On the street?"
"Yes."
"Is she young? As in
barely-old-enough-to-be-married young?"
"Hmm...not quite so much."
"Is she my age or around there?"
"Yes."
"Oh. Would I know her?"
"Very well."
"I'm stumped." Rose ended the
questions. "The only person my age around here is Lucy Maude, and you hate
her with a passion that cannot be expressed in words. Tell me, John!"
"You'll find out eventually."
"You're cruel."
John left the room with a smirk on his face,
but with a sadness in his heart. It would have been the perfect chance to tell
her. If only Rose hadn't brought up the Jack situation...
*****
Rose passed John's room on her way to bed
that night. She peeked through a crack in the door opening, just to make sure
he was all right.
The light was on in his room, and John sat at
a desk, staring into the eyes of a picture. Rose strained her eyes in the dim
light to see what the picture was. She gasped slightly as she saw a picture of
herself, and John was gazing at it lovingly.
She put her hand to her heart. He's in
love with—with me! she thought as she struggled to catch her breath. She
did not love John that way. Of course, he was kind and caring and gentle. But
when compared to Jack...
Rose ran from his doorway, back to her room,
in a cascade of tears. This can't be happening, she told herself. No,
I'm not ready yet. I still want to love Jack. I don't believe this. No, I won't
accept it.
She turned the lamp off and crawled into bed.
She refused to think of anything but Jack.