TRAPPED IN THE PAST
Chapter Nine

Just Before Christmas, 1912

The year was almost over, finally. I could safely conclude that the past twelve months had been both the very best and the very worst of my entire life. Actually, no, that is inaccurate. There were maybe three or four days out of those twelve long months that were really and truly good. The rest I would have traded in a moment for a chance to start over and do it all again. Or maybe just for a good book and a hot bath. Yes, I would trade away six months of my life for a good, relaxing time. How sad, and what a pathetic notion.

I was sitting upstairs in my cold bedroom, staring out the window at a much colder outside. Snow had begun falling several hours before, and now the entire street was covered in a soft, white blanket. Ah…to be a child once again and delight in snow and all its promises--sledding, hot chocolate, the possibility of canceling events like parties and school. Now all snow promised was cold, wet clothing, and general chaos as people tried to get to and from their various destinations. All three of which I could quite happily do without, especially the latter two. Too many bad memories were brought about by damp dresses and confusion.

Not that the current snow had hindered any attempt by anyone to come to Katherine’s annual, and somewhat famous, holiday party. From downstairs a loud conglomeration of voices floated up the stairwell, came down the hall, and penetrated the heavy door I had shut for the very purpose of keeping those voices quiet. Eventually someone would discover I was here and I would return to the festivities. Very likely this person would be Katherine, who constantly checked on my whereabouts since my tiny breakdown.

September had been the starting over point in my life. It should have been April, and if I were at all smart, wise, grownup, or any of the other things I pretended to be, I would have realized this fact then and saved myself five long months. But I was Rose and, unfortunately, I was stubborn above all things.

But no matter. Those days were past, and the best I could do was learn from them, although what I really wanted to do was forget the entire fiasco had ever occurred. Moving on was proving to be a lot harder than I had first presumed. And in fact, I wasn’t completely sure I was moving on yet. Something still didn’t seem right. What exactly did it mean to be moving on? Was I supposed to wake up fine one morning? Was I supposed to be able to think of him and not have my entire body heave in pain? Or was it more than that?

I was certainly not doing as well as I had hoped to be doing by now. Every once in a while, the whole thing would hit me all over again and I would wind up crying somewhere. The other day I had been brushing my teeth, for God’s sake, and I ended up with tears in my eyes just because the gravity hit me for no reason. Jack would never again brush his teeth, and I complained about having to do so when I should be lucky for the chance at all. It was stupid and I felt ridiculous afterward. Likewise, no matter how I tried to shake it, a dark cloud of grief and pain was always there. If only I could get rid of it, make the sun come out again. Then maybe I could move on.

At least I could sleep again at night. And hardly ever did I experience the sort of dream-like plane of existence I had visited that first night after the breakdown. It was strange; in those dreams I felt and behaved more like myself than I had in months. I almost liked myself better when I was unconscious. Maybe it was an indication of what I should aspire to be.

I could carry on a normal conversation with people again, as well. I was no longer paranoid of leaving the house in daylight for fear of being discovered. Or worse, for being afraid of discovering myself. However, I did not return to theater class, for reasons that should be obvious and will remain unmentioned.

I also had a job, surprisingly, for I figured no one would ever hire me. I worked three days a week at an accountant’s office downtown, mainly answering phones and taking down names. But it was a start, and a good one at that. Forty percent of what I made I put into a little box I kept underneath my bed, and the other sixty I divided up, giving half to Katherine every paycheck for my room and board. She told me over and over that I need not pay her, that she enjoyed having me here, but I insisted. She had helped me more than I could ever repay.

Sure enough, just as I expected, a knock soon came on my bedroom door, and Katherine’s voice drifted through the heavy wood.

"Rose, I think you should come down here, please."

She sounded a bit like my mother, making me cringe. I already felt guilty enough thinking about how dreadful this holiday season must be on my mother, as much as I disliked her. I certainly didn’t need to be reminded of her just now.

"I’ll be right there, Katherine."

I’d always disliked parties, and in fact the only one I truly enjoyed myself at was now a painful reminder of the past. If only I could relive those few hours I had spent in Jack’s arms, whirling around in dizzy circles as my world faded away slowly. Knowing what I do now, I would not have returned back to my room that night. I would have left Cal and my Mother and started my new life. But one cannot tell the future. And so my folly remains.

I really needed to stop dwelling on the what ifs in my life. Honestly, if I took the time I spent thinking about the past and put it to good use, I might have accomplished something amazing by now. And besides, wasn’t all this what Jack had tried to get me to realize? That the past is past, and the future is uncertain. I can feel grief and joy for the past, and I can look forward to and dream of the future. But I mustn’t dwell in either.

Sighing, I crossed the floor to the door, my high-heeled shoes clicking noisily against the wood. Cautiously, I opened the door and stuck out my head. The hallway was empty, but the many voices from below still floated upstairs. Quietly, I left the room and closed the door behind me. As I made my way toward the staircase, I passed by a mirror hanging on the wall. Quickly, I checked my appearance, wanting to make sure I did not miss anything earlier when I put my hair up and put on some makeup. I couldn’t help but be a little proud of the way I looked. My hair had grown out a little, and now looked less like a madwoman had chopped it off in a rage. And I was finally beginning to fill out again, slowly returning to my old figure, not a skinny shadow of who I once was. Tucking a stray tendril behind my ear, I reassuredly made my way downstairs into the hoards of what I feared would be only doctors, lawyers, and their spouses.

As it turned out, Katherine had enough sense to invite some people that I could have a conversation with as well without it turning into a discussion on the Supreme Court or medicine. Before long, I found myself actually talking with a few nice individuals. Most were older than I, but not by much in most cases, and led interesting lives. One man had spent several years as an actual cowboy down in Texas before moving up to Chicago to go to college. He knew Aunt Katherine through his fiancée, who was a patient of hers a couple of years ago. And another man, who knew Katherine from school, had just gotten back from spending five years in Washington State as a fishmonger. I didn’t really quite understand the how buying and selling fish could make money, but the man was funny and interesting, and his stories made me laugh.

It all made my own life seem mundane and pointless, and very soon I found myself tired of simply responding that I was from out of town and that I had come from a normal background. Without revealing who I truly was or what I had experienced, I really had nothing to tell, nothing to share. It was a sobering thought, and for a moment I stood there dumbstruck while others talked around me. Quickly, I excused myself from the conversation, grabbed a glass of wine, and wandered outside. I needed a cigarette badly.

The snow had ceased falling and the air was crisp and cool as I took a seat on wooden step just outside our back door. The sky had cleared momentarily, and the familiar smell that snow brings filled my nostrils. I had grabbed a packet of cigarettes from a drawer in the kitchen on my way out, and quickly lit one up, lighting the match against the stair and then throwing the match to burn out in the snow. I would get the garbage in a little while; right now I just wanted to think.

Where on earth was my life headed? It was a pretty horrifying thought to know that your life literally had no real story, unless you wanted to divulge secrets about yourself that were damning. Rose DeWitt Bukater had a very interesting tale, but Rose Dawson, on the other hand, needed a bit of work done on her biography. There was nothing I could tell people about myself; I didn’t even have all the details worked out! When people asked about my family, I would stammer and back away, or reply they were all dead. I had no interesting stories, no background, and no social life. I needed to get out and be someone.

Perhaps all this was part of my moving on that seemed so far out of reach. Simply going to work and coming back home to Katherine every night was certainly stifling and there really was no room for growth. But in truth, I was scared. I still needed Katherine, needed her guidance, needed her warmth, her friendship. Could I just go out and make a life for myself?

Ugh…this was all too much for me right now. It was almost Christmas, for God’s sake. Sighing, I leaned down and stuck the end of my cigarette in the fresh snow, listening with unexpected joy as it sizzled as it extinguished. Wrapping my arms around myself, I stared up at the sky for a long moment. Oh, Jack, tell me what to do!

"Your neck is going to be mighty sore if you keep it like that much longer."

Startled, I whipped around to see a man standing in the doorway, his arms crossed across his chest and a smug expression across his face. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him, especially in the dim light. He started chuckling and came towards me.

"I thought I would be the only one out here. Looks like I was wrong."

"I just needed a breath of fresh air," I responded, watching curiously as he sat down next to me on the stair. For a minute I studied him, now that I could see his face a little better. I’d never met him before, yet I had the strange feeling that I knew him from someplace. His curly dark hair was mussed in a way that made it seem like he didn’t really care what it looked like, and his deep-set brown eyes seemed kind and gentle. Ah…I knew who he was.

"You must be Calvert’s brother," I said before he could start talking.

He broke into a cute grin. "The one and only Nicholas Calvert." For a moment he stared at me in a very powerless type of way; it was so unlike Jack’s piercing gaze--a reassuring characteristic, for sure. His gaze held me in a different way from Jack’s. "And you must be the infamous Rose Dawson--I could tell from the hair. And your evasive stature here."

I blushed, recalling how I had treated his brother the first time we had met. No doubt the reporter’s comments about me had been less than flattering. Yet here Nicholas was, smiling at me and attempting a conversation. "Most people would call this stature rude, Mr. Calvert, not evasive," I replied, trying to compose myself.

Nicholas shrugged. "I can forgive you. And it’s Nicholas. Mr. Calvert is my father. A lot of people didn’t like him; I’d rather not be his namesake."

"Didn’t?" I asked without thinking.

"He died a couple of years ago."

A wave of sympathy rushed over me, I knew what it was like to lose a father. "I’m sorry," I replied solemnly, looking down at the wooden steps below me.

"You didn’t do anything," Nicholas answered nonchalantly. "If anything, it was a blessing he died; the family gets along now."

I couldn’t help but smile as I got the courage to look at him again. He was grinning at me in a coy sort of way, one side of his mouth creeping up while the other stayed neutral. It was cute, in a little boy sort of way, and it made me feel a little bit more comfortable. He sat relaxed, with his feet outstretched in front of him and his arms folded loosely across his chest. There was something about his demeanor that made me feel familiar. It was peculiar, but nonetheless welcome. It had been a long time since I possessed that kind of connection with anyone.

"What is that you’re drinking?"

His question startled me out of my stupor, and it took me a minute to figure out what he was talking about. Gently, I picked up the wine glass at my side and held it up to the lamp overhead. The light played with the burgundy, making the light dance in little swirl patterns. "I think it’s a merlot," I answered finally, bringing the glass down to my lips and taking a tiny sip. "I just poured whatever red wine I could find."

Nicholas chucked and then took the glass from me, holding it up in similar fashion as I and studying it closely as it swirled in rhythm to his hand. "Good color," he pronounced. "Excellent clarity."

"You know wine." I was impressed.

He scoffed at my statement. "Hardly, my dear," he answered as he handed me my glass. "I just like to pretend I do to start conversations. Usually people will change the topic because they know nothing about it and then I won’t have to be stuck with coming up with something interesting that will engage everyone."

"What happens if you get someone who knows a lot about wine, then?"

Nicholas shrugged. "I run like hell."

It wasn’t that funny, but I began laughing softly. His entire presence was very mysterious; I couldn’t tell if he was being serious or just pulling my leg. But it was entertaining, at the very least. I needed that. Connections, comic relief…they both were part of keeping me from slipping back. Well, they and the fact that I was no longer stupid enough to do such a thing. Never again would I allow myself to be so closed off from my world around me. And it felt good to be part of normality once again.

"So, what is it you do, Nicholas?" I asked after another long moment passed.

"Well, when I am not being told by my mother and brother that I’m wasting my life away, I like to build furniture. It’s hard work," he went on, just as I was thinking about exactly how exhausting that truly was, "but it’s a living. And I like what I do, which is more important than the money, I think. At the end of the day, I have something practical that I can sell or use. Elliot just has his words."

He was so honest, so open to sit here and tell me anything I wanted to know. And he didn’t even really know me. "Words aren’t all bad."

"No," he agreed. "But they’re not me. Don’t get me wrong--I enjoy reading and all that, but if I had to sit in an office somewhere and listen to someone tell me what to write, or worse, what I couldn’t write, then I think I would go a little bit insane. The way I see it, there’s no creativity in it that way. It’s different when you have a couple of pieces of wood and you can mold them into anything you want. You can add claws on the bottom if that’s what you feel like, or a little loopy design on the top of a chair. And if people don’t like it…well, then…they don’t have to buy it."

I smiled softly. "I’d like to see some of your work sometime."

He turned toward me and chuckled a bit. "You’re the first girl I’ve met who’s said that."

"Well, I mean it," I said, my cheeks coloring. Thank God it was night. Otherwise he might see how embarrassed I was.

There was a long, awkward silence, during which time I could practically hear the snow clouds begin to move in once again as another storm gathered above us. Inside the house, the party was even quiet, as if it could sense the fragile moment. I was trying hard to come up with another engaging topic, but my mind was failing me. Everything I had learned in school about polite conversation was slipping out of my mind faster than anything. It just didn’t matter anymore.

"What do you do, then, Miss Rose?"

His question took me aback. Do? I worked in an accountant’s office, for God’s sake. I didn’t have a passion or talent like he did. I didn’t do anything except look at numbers and take down messages. "I work in an office."

"Do you enjoy it?" he asked, sliding by the fact that it was not a great, creative career choice.

I shrugged. "It’s all right. It’s a job, I suppose," I answered, downing the last of my wine quickly.

"Why don’t you find something you like?" His question was direct and blunt.

"I do. I do like it," I stammered.

He stared at me for a long moment, finally breaking down into a little chuckle. "All right, then."

That was it? He didn’t press on for more details, didn’t demand that I tell him more? He was content with a vague answer? I couldn’t help staring at him, trying with every ounce of me to figure out this man. He was so different from anyone I’d ever known. Jack would be contradicting my statements and making me tell the truth, or else catch me in a position where he knew he had me in a corner. Yet Nicholas seemed to do the opposite. He was somewhat quiet and passive, yet he was not afraid as I was to open up to people, share who he really was. Perhaps that was my problem now. Oh, not this again, Rose! I had analyzed my life enough for one night.

"It’s not what I would ideally be doing," I confessed after a moment. "But I’m afraid I’m not much good at anything practical."

"What do you mean?" he asked, cocking his head quizzically to one side.

"I wasn’t raised with any skills that would be considered in a practical, ideal job," I found myself telling him without a moment’s notice. It was so easy to talk to him! I felt as if he would not judge or chastise me. For the first time in months, I opened up to a little of my old life, so very differently than earlier that evening. "I can set a table properly, but I’m afraid I can’t cook anything to put upon it. I know what a pressed shirt looks like, yet I can’t do it myself. I would most likely burn a hole in the linen."

"Those sound like homemaking skills to me," Nicholas pointed out softly.

"Yes, but it’s everything," I answered. "My entire life is like that. So this office job may not be the best or the most fulfilling right now, but I have to start somewhere, and I really am learning. I’m years behind everyone else in that sense."

"How old are you?"

"I’ll be eighteen in March," I answered, a bit taken aback by his question.

Nicholas shrugged. "Eh…it’s not that late," he said, laughing a bit. "At least you’ve got the right idea. I take it you didn’t go to college, then?"

Shaking my head, I scowled. "No. It wasn’t allowed."

"Yeah, me either," Nicholas answered.

"You weren’t allowed?" I wondered out loud, mainly to myself.

Nicholas started laughing again. "In a matter of speaking; all three universities I applied to didn’t allow me to attend."

I made a sound that was halfway between a groan and a growl and hit him lightly on the arm. I hated to admit it, but the pathetic attempt at the joke actually gave me a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. I broke into a grin and started shaking my head at whatever it was I was feeling. He started laughing harder, and after a few moments, the look of pure happiness on his face made me chuckle, as well.

"I like it when you laugh," he said after another moment or two. The way he said it made the compliment seem very non-suggestive, and once again his behavior made me smile. It felt good to be admired and liked by another person once again, without the aid of alcohol or sex. Still grinning at him, I reached down and picked up my packet of cigarettes, first lighting one for myself and then offering one to Nicholas, who shook his head.

"You smoke, Dawson?" he asked in a surprised voice.

"Only when I drink, Calvert," I retorted in a flirty manner, gesturing to the empty wine glass on the other side of me. The answer must have caught him by surprise, because he started chuckling once again. We sat there in contentment for a few moments, watching the gathering storm. It felt nice, serene, and familiar. If I wasn’t careful, this could turn into something I really wasn’t ready for right now. Maybe what happened next was a blessing in disguise.

"You remind me of someone," he asserted suddenly, wiping the smile away from my face immediately. Uh-oh. A shadow of thought clouded his eyes, and for a moment, he seemed lost. Then he tipped his head to one side again, and said, "You know who you look like?"

"Don’t say it," I pleaded aggressively, holding my index finger up to his warm lips.

"You’ve heard it before?"

I flicked my cigarette into the snow. If only you knew. "A couple of times."

"Does it make you scared?" he asked.

I thought about that. Was I scared of the name itself? Or just afraid to heard the truth? "Just uncomfortable," I whispered.

From inside, a call came for Nicholas, and a moment later, his brother Elliot stuck his head out the door, announcing that he was leaving in two minutes before disappearing back inside the house. Nicholas sighed and turned towards me with a funny smile.

"I’d better be going. He's my ride home," he said, starting to stand. "Sorry about the…ah…thing."

I peered up at him, and with a sad smile, told him not to worry about it.

"It would make me uncomfortable if I looked like a dead girl, too. It’s just a little odd that you have the same first name. And that the girl’s aunt is sitting right inside the kitchen here with my brother."

My expression must have changed to shocked, although I didn’t feel anything because I had begun to go numb, partially from the cold and partially from the pure panic that was coursing through my body. Nicholas shrugged again and said, "It’s not that hard to figure out Katherine is from the Bukater family; my brother’s a reporter and, well, frankly, it’s a damn uncommon last name. But I guess it’s all just a coincidence, right?"

I nodded dazedly. Did he know, or was it just conjecture?

"Oh, well. I guess I’ll see you around, Rose Dawson," he said, and with a couple of steps and a slam of the door, he was gone.

I stared at the backyard as snow once again began cascading down from the sky. A feeling of serenity began to overtake the panic that had been building up like a toxin inside my body. In the back of my conscience, I felt as if I could trust Nicholas. He hadn’t been accusing or pushy about any of it, he had simply subtly let me know that he had a pretty good idea of just what I was hiding. Sneaky little cheat. I bet the entire time we had been talking he had been thinking it over in his head. For a brief moment, I had a glimpse of him and Elliot poring over newspaper clippings laid out on a table, an evil and sinister plot forming between them. But in my heart, I knew this was just my overactive imagination at work. Surely Elliot would have said something to Katherine if he suspected anything. And Katherine, in turn, would tell me his musings.

I was extremely proud of myself; I had, despite a slight bout of panic, remained calm and collected. I did not hunch up, lie, shy away, or freak out as I might have done a couple of months ago. I acted more like True Rose, with a strong head on my shoulders and smart, careful replies.

Perhaps this was part of the elusive moving on.

As I stood to go inside, the snow beginning to blow sideways from a sudden gust of wind, I looked up toward the sky that was blocked by an overhang. I kissed the air, my head still turned upward, and put my hand on my heart. I felt a sudden peace, and I knew he was there.

I would be all right.

For Christmas that year, Katherine gave me, among other things, a ticket to anywhere in the country. It simply had to be taken to the train station, cashed in, and used within one year of the stamped date in the upper right hand corner. For over a month, I deliberated on where on earth to go, and how long to wait to do so. I was just beginning to get comfortable in my little lifestyle. And the thought of leaving Katherine was a bit vexing.

But in late February, I marched down to the station and traded in my little certificate for a ticket to Monterey, California. It was now or never, and frankly, and Monterey seemed like the perfect place; anywhere else seemed like a waste. Jack had seemed to like it there, and Santa Monica was just a little too overwhelming for my mind and heart to handle. It had hadn’t even been a year, for God’s sake.

I put what little money I had saved into a bank account that could be accessed from California, and with ten bucks and a suitcase, I said good-bye to Katherine that next Saturday morning. She hugged me tightly and, with tears in her eyes, told me to write. She told me how proud I made her, and how she would definitely miss me. And then she pulled me close and whispered that she had always thought of herself has the strongest Bukater, but really it was me and I had survived--with grace--something a million other people couldn’t overcome. By the time I left, it was I who was crying as I waved good-bye.

As the train began to pull away from the station that morning, I found myself giddy with a mixture of excitement and fear. This was really it. I was beginning my life. I had been trapped in the past for far too long. It was time to live in the present and look forward to the future. Rose DeWitt Bukater was being left behind, and in her place was a strong, confidant, wise, weathered but alive Rose Dawson. Rain began to fall as we left Chicago, but I just laughed as I looked outside. It was as if the dark cloud that had been relentlessly following me was finally beginning to shed its burden. Bring it on, I thought lightheartedly, bring on the rain.

I was free.

I've loved like I should, but lived like I shouldn't
I had to lose everything to find out
Maybe forgiveness will find me somewhere down this road
I'm moving on…

Epilogue
Stories