TITANIC ROSE
Chapter Forty-Two
May 1918
"Are you ready to go, Mr.
Calvert?" Sister Nora asked, approaching Thomas as he sat in his
wheelchair before the open window, staring out at the sunlight and spring
flowers.
Thomas sighed inwardly, showing no
sign that he knew who she was talking to. He had long since remembered that his
name was Calvert, not Dawson, but he didn’t want to return home to Los Angeles.
As long as he was here in Switzerland, he didn’t have to face Rose’s reaction.
"Mr. Calvert." Sister
Nora took his wheelchair and began pushing it away from the window. "I
know you don’t believe that your last name is Calvert, but it is. Mr. Sinclair
told us."
"I don’t remember who he is,
either," Thomas replied, speaking to her at last. He had been withdrawn
for several days, ever since David Sinclair, his old neighbor and a member of
his regiment, had been brought to the Swiss hospital with a mild case of
mustard gas inhalation. He hadn’t been able to speak at first, but when he had
recovered enough, he hadn’t hesitated to greet Thomas, whom he had thought
dead, and tell all of the nurses, doctors, and patients who Thomas really was.
Some people had looked at Thomas
suspiciously after that, since he hadn’t told them his real name, but he
continued to pretend that he didn’t know his name, and that he didn’t believe
that his real name was Thomas Calvert.
He knew better, of course, and
had for a long time, but he wasn’t about to admit it. David had asked him if
had ever heard from Myrtle, and Thomas had pretended not to know that, either.
He still didn’t quite trust Myrtle, but he wasn’t about to tell her husband
where she was. Who knew what he might do to her if he found her?
Now, however, due to David’s
intervention, everyone knew what Thomas’s real name was and where he lived in
the United States. He would never return to battle—his injuries had been too
severe, and he would never be sufficiently recovered to fight again—but he was
well enough to return home. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t say so, because
questions would be asked, and the fact that he remembered far more than he let
on might be discovered.
Sister Nora stopped outside the
room that Thomas had inhabited since he had been brought to the hospital
several months before. Going inside, she returned with the bag holding his few
belongings and his tickets home. Handing him the bag, she began to push his
wheelchair towards the hospital entrance.
"You should be happy, Mr.
Calvert. You’re going home. Think of all the men who will never go home, who
will never see their families again. You’re alive, and you’ll be fine soon
enough—I’m sure of it. I overheard you talking about California to Mr.
Sinclair, so you’re remembering things. And once you’re back with your family,
things will get easier. Why, me own father lost his memory just like you did,
and once he came back to us, he was fine. It wasn’t long at all before he knew
everything he’d known before—and a lot more. I hear your wife is a moving
picture actress, so just think of what it’ll be like to see her again. You
might not recognize her, but she’ll recognize you, and I’ll bet she’s quite a
beauty. Those actresses most always are."
Thomas was sure that Rose would
recognize him—and then he’d have to watch the love he’d always seen in her eyes
turn to disgust and pity. She might feel sympathy for him, to be sure, but
things would never be the same. Of that, he was certain.
Sister Nora pushed him out the
front door, where a car was waiting to take him to the train station. There
would be doctors and nurses traveling along, and well as others who had been
wounded, so he wouldn’t be on his own, but it also meant that he wouldn’t be
able to slip away and find a way to avoid returning home. Due to his ‘amnesia’,
he would be watched every second to be sure nothing happened to him.
"Take care of yourself now,
Mr. Calvert. You’ll be back with your family before you know it. Just think of
how happy they’ll be to see you."
"I suppose." Thomas
wasn’t looking forward to going home, and he couldn’t pretend enthusiasm he
didn’t feel.
*****
Thomas sat in his wheelchair at
the back of the crowd of wounded veterans in the hospital in Los Angeles. Rose
was on the makeshift stage at the front of the room, acting out a scene from
one of her pictures. A number of men, some of them less severely wounded than
Thomas, watched her with rapt attention. He didn’t like seeing the amount of
attention the other men paid to her, but he supposed that it was only natural.
She was a beautiful woman, and she was doing her best to keep the wounded men’s
spirits up.
Had any of them approached her?
He hoped that none had, but knew that it was possible. And she might assume by
now that he wasn’t coming back—he had been missing almost five months—and
responded to the attention of one of them.
He couldn’t blame her. Why should
she wait for a man who had been missing for months, of whom there had been no
word, who she probably now assumed to be dead? And he was badly injured,
missing a leg now—what kind of a husband would he be? She was beautiful and
spirited, quickly becoming more and more well known for her film work—she could
have her pick of men. What would she possibly want with someone like him.
As Rose bowed to her audience and
left the stage, Thomas’s eyes wandered over the men sitting in the room. He
recognized one or two, but not many. There were a few other visitors amongst
them, including some children, and Thomas suddenly wished strongly that he
could see his own children. But it would be impossible to see them without Rose
finding out, and if she didn’t already know that he was here, he didn’t want
her to find out.
The initial plan had been to send
him straight home after arranging for a doctor to see to his healing stump and
fit him with a prosthesis, but he had sunk into such a deep depression on the
way back to America that the doctor in charge of him had decided not to send
him home right away, but rather to give him a chance to recover further and
reacclimatize to civilian life first.
And so he had been sent to this
hospital in Los Angeles. It wasn’t far from his home—only about five miles—but
he had made no effort to alert Rose to the fact that he was back, and had hoped
that she wouldn’t find out.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have come to
watch her perform, but he hadn’t been able to resist seeing her, if only from
the back of a crowded room. Amongst all the wounded men and their visitors,
what were the chances that she would ever glimpse him anyway?
But even as he thought about it,
Rose came through the crowd, stopping and speaking to three young children
sitting next to an old man—their children, he realized, wishing that he could
go to them—and continued walking, looking at the face of every man she saw,
even if it was bandaged or disfigured. With a start, he realized she was looking
for him.
Did she know that he was there,
or did she just hope that, by some miracle, he would be there amongst the
wounded men, injured but alive? He turned his face away, not wanting her to see
him. She wouldn’t look so hopeful once she’d actually caught sight of him. He
was certain she wouldn’t look happy, either.
Ducking his head, he began to
wheel himself away, but at that moment Rose caught sight of him. A cry of joy
burst from her as she hitched up her skirts and raced in his direction.
"Thomas!"
He froze, not sure whether to
stay where he was or try to get away. The decision was taken from him as Rose
launched herself at him, throwing her arms around him.
Thomas sat stiffly as Rose
embraced him, not knowing what to do. Puzzled by his lack of response, Rose
pulled back.
"Thomas?"
Her look of joy turned to one of
shock as she saw him staring blankly at her, giving no indication that he knew
who she was.