From the moment his memories returned to him, descending with the force of a brick hitting him in the head, Jack had attempted to figure out how and why he still lived. He had been dead; he should be dead. He remembered dying. Not once, but twice. Twice he had gone into the waters of the Atlantic Ocean and yet, here he still stood. Alive. Solid. Real.

Had it all been a dream? A nightmare or delusion of some sort? Jack again asked himself as he had every day for the better part of the past week. But he knew that was not the case. The world around him was far too different from what he remembered. There were advancements and machinery that hadn't existed in the world he remembered; and somehow, he had lost sixty something years. Eighty-five years if one discounted his memories of the fishing trawler.

It was maddening to try and make sense of it.

A month ago, he had been given a full taste of reality. A month ago, he went from a nameless John Doe with no life to Jack Dawson, misplaced in a world that had aged and changed while he had not. He had been sitting in front of the television, a concept his mind still had difficult wrapping around-and had heard a report about the RMS Titanic. Reality, the past and present, memories upon memories had assaulted him all at once and like the turning of a switch, he had known.

And those memories only made matters worse, confusing him more. Jack Dawson had been born in 1892, according to the calendar over one hundred years ago; yet somehow, time had passed him by. It was as if he had been frozen and passed through the years untouched while waiting for someone to rescue him from the Atlantic. He'd grown up in a world of horses and horse drawn carriages, kerosene lamps and coal bellied stoves. In that world, he had traveled from one end of the world to the other; he'd been the starving artist on the Parisian streets and ridden roller coasters - the latest novelty. One day, he won a boat ticket in a poker game. The ship was said to be unsinkable but an iceberg proved the folly of that statement.

Jack remembered going down with the ship.

And waking up on a fishing trawler, only to be swept into the arms of the ocean again.

And waking up yet again. This time in a hospital room, in a world far different from his own, with no memories of his own. In a world where transportation utilized automobiles, much faster and noisier than anything he remembered, and considerably more complicated. Electricity was common in every home and modes of communication-

The advances boggled his mind. The world around him boggled his mind. And he struggled to come to terms with it, while he hoped and waited for answers. Unfortunately, every day that passed those answers seemed further and further away.

He was grateful for the Neasons. Claire, and her mother, Patrice were wonderful and seemed possessed of infinite patience. They didn't ask odd questions, or seem the least bit surprised by his reactions to the world around him. In fact, he was pretty sure they credited his fascination with his amnesia. It was better that way, easier than explaining. Jack was pretty sure that no one would believe his explanation. Or the memories that always haunted him.

Jack spent as much time as possible educating himself. Books had become his best friends; second only to the leather bound sketchpad. The sketchpad Claire had given to him when she discovered he was an artist. He had not asked for it-he hadn't really wanted to accept it, but she had insisted.

"And it's cheaper than keeping you stocked in notebook paper," she had winked, her dark eyes sparkling with laughter. It had taken Jack a moment to realize that she was teasing him. Jack wasn't used to outspoken women, or women with the sort of sharp wit and dry sense of humor that Claire and her mother both seemed to possess in abundance.

Different times, different types of women.

And there were odd moments, too. Those moments when he thought that Patrice seemed to know his thoughts, that the woman seemed privy to his confusion. Of course, she couldn’t be. It was impossible that anyone would even suspect the thoughts that assailed his mind; or the nightmares that plagued his slumber. He could almost believe that the Titanic was nothing more than a dream, a nightmare –

Almost.

"Jack?"

He turned suddenly, startled by the presence that had crept up behind him.

"Patrice," he stumbled over her name. Somehow, it still didn’t seem right or appropriate to call her by her first name. He shouldn’t be so familiar with a woman who was – old enough to be his mother.

Or was that young enough to be his granddaughter?

Jack shook the haze from his thoughts. "I was just – I didn’t hear you."

"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that." For one moment, she appeared to scrutinize him, examining him like a bug under a lens or a rabid animal that might attack. But then again, as always, Jack thought that it might have been just his imagination. The look passed so quickly, that he wasn’t sure he had seen the scrutiny at all.

Jack shrugged. "I was lost in thought."

"Memories?" The question was asked innocently, but the unblinking curiosity in her bright blue eyes told Jack that it wasn’t quite the innocent question that it appeared to be.

"Something like that," he brushed a stray lock from his eyes, avoiding her eyes. Instead he returned his gaze to the coastline, to Claire who sat some distance from them a guitar propped on her knees.

"The nightmares?" A pause followed by a gentle touch of a hand on his arm. The sleeve of her blouse rose slightly, revealing the hint of a curious circular tattoo. It was something that Jack noticed more than once in passing, but had never had the nerve to ask her about. "Or do you still not want to talk about it?"

Patrice Neason could have been his mother, Jack supposed. Always so thoughtful, so caring; so nurturing and supportive. She continued to try to pull him through ‘the tragedy’ without even knowing what the tragedy was.

Sometimes Jack wondered if he knew himself. Or if it was all simply figments of his imagination, the results of what the doctor called ‘head trauma.’

No. It was more than that. In his gut, he knew it. He felt it.

And it scared him to death because if he wasn’t insane – then his memories were real. And if his memories were real, then he knew that he might never find a rational explanation for them.

"Not yet," Jack withdrew from her touch, placing a more comfortable distance between them. "I can’t yet."

"Then, when you’re ready." The words were firm, yet soft, full of both comfort and conviction. "But know this, Jack. You’re not the first, and you are not alone. And when you’re ready, there are answers to be found, but you won’t find them here."

She left him alone then, with the sea and his thoughts, haunted by her words.

*** End of Chapter Two