UNTITLED STORY
Chapter Eleven
May 1, 1912
Joshua sat at Jack’s bedside in
the charity hospital that he had been brought to after the Carpathia had
docked. Twelve days had passed, and Jack’s condition had improved only
slightly.
The young man had been in and out
of consciousness the whole time, and had been only vaguely aware of what was
going on around him when he was conscious. His fever had risen repeatedly,
despite the efforts of the doctors to bring it down, rising to a dangerously
high level two days after he had been brought to the hospital. The doctors had
told Joshua to prepare for the worst, but somehow Jack had pulled through,
though he remained feverish.
One doctor had told Joshua that
the high fever might be responsible for Jack’s inability to remain conscious
and lucid. High fevers were known to damage the brain, and Jack’s temperature
had risen to one hundred eight degrees before finally being lowered to a safer
level.
Now, Jack tossed and turned
restlessly. He had been given tranquilizers to calm him down and keep him
still, but in his weakened condition, the doctors had been afraid to give him
much of it, for fear that it would kill him. Finally, they had tapered off the
dose and simply restrained him so that he couldn’t harm himself.
Joshua watched as Jack tugged
restlessly against the restraints holding him down and mumbled to himself. He
had said the same thing repeatedly in his feverish state, talking about someone
named Rose and begging her not to let go of his hand, mumbling about how she
deserved better than her fiancé, about flying and dancing, and a few things
that had turned Joshua’s face red with embarrassment upon hearing them.
He marveled at how he had come
through the sinking virtually unscathed, except for a little hypothermia, while
Jack, who had seemed so much stronger, was suffering so badly from pneumonia.
He didn’t understand why it had happened that way, but he felt a sense of duty
toward the young man. It was still uncertain whether Jack would live or die,
and if he lived, whether he would ever recover fully.
Joshua glanced at the clock,
realizing that he had to leave for work. He looked down at Jack, who had calmed
slightly, though one hand still tugged at its restraint.
"I’ve got to be going, lad,"
he told him, getting to his feet. "I’ll be back later, and I expect that
you’ll be feeling better then." He shook his head, wondering if Jack had
understood a word that he’d said, or if he had any comprehension of where he
was and how long he had been there.
Joshua turned away and headed for
the door. Jack’s fate was in God’s hands; it didn’t seem that any medicine
could help him now.
*****
When Joshua returned that
evening, his heart sank at the sight of a young nurse’s assistant gently
sponging Jack’s face with cool water. It appeared that there hadn’t been any
improvement.
He was surprised, though, when
the girl smiled at him and put a finger to her lips. "He’s sleeping,"
she told him quietly. "It’s the first good sleep he’s had in days, poor
boy." She pulled the sheet down and sponged Jack’s chest and arms.
"The fever’s finally broken. It’s nothing short of amazing—no one thought
he would make it."
Joshua pulled a chair over and
sat down, just as amazed as the girl. Jack had been ill for so long that he
hadn’t quite believed that he would ever get better, but now that the fever had
broken…he might just have a chance.
Jack’s breathing was still
labored, but not nearly so much as it had been before. It seemed that he was on
his way to recovery—at least, Joshua hoped so. It didn’t seem right that he
should have suffered this much, only to lose the battle now.
Half an hour later, Jack stirred,
awakening slowly from his exhausted sleep. He looked around the room with a
confused expression, then started to sit up, only to be overcome with a violent
fit of coughing.
Joshua put a comforting hand on
Jack’s shoulder until the spasm had passed. When Jack finally lay back, Joshua
sat down in the chair again, looking at him seriously.
"How are you feeling?"
he asked. "You’ve been sick for so long, none of us thought you would
live."
Jack gave him a confused look,
but responded in a hoarse voice. "What happened? Where am I?"
"You’re in a charity
hospital in New York City. You’ve been here since the Carpathia docked almost
two weeks ago."
"The Carpathia?"
"The ship that picked up the
survivors. I guess you were unconscious when we were picked up, too."
"Picked up from where?"
"From the North
Atlantic."
"What was I doing
there?"
Joshua looked at him uneasily.
"Don’t you remember anything?"
Jack started to answer, but was
overcome by another coughing fit. When it ended, he looked back up at Joshua.
"Are you a doctor?"
Joshua stared at him. "No,
lad. We both survived the wreck."
"What wreck?"
Joshua looked down at him, more
than uneasy now. "Where are you from?"
Jack gave him a puzzled look,
wondering what the question had to do with anything. His confusion grew when he
realized that he didn’t know the answer. "I don’t know…" There was an
edge of panic in his voice.
Joshua shook his head, realizing
that the high fever had indeed done its work. "What’s your name,
lad?"
Jack half sat up, his eyes wide
with panic.
"I don’t know that,
either."