TOMORROW'S APRIL
Chapter Three
Breakdown
The serving cart rolled across the room
noisily, and Rose dropped her fork, having been lost in some reverie- as she
had all day. She glanced down at her plate, filled with the scented, roasted
chicken, and suddenly felt her appetite leave as quickly as it had come. For
some odd reason, she felt no further urge to eat- almost as if she were too
nervous to. But why was she nervous? She guessed that somewhere deep inside,
she was scared to be on this ship- scared that history would repeat itself-
Rose, listen to yourself...be
sensible...there is no way this ship would sink like that...no way...
She shook her head once, and set her napkin
down, staring all around - at the happy faces of her fellow diners. Families
with small, squealing children- older couples eating slowly, savoring their
meal. And of course, those her own age, laughing together, sharing this time.
And a pang of what felt almost like jealousy crept into her chest.
"That could have been us Jack...we could
have had a family like that, like these people..." Rose was murmuring out
loud now, not even noticing. She picked up her coffee cup, bringing it to her
mouth, and gulped the hot liquid- intent on relieving her mind from these
pathetic thoughts. She had thought she'd ridded herself of these "what
ifs", but apparently she hadn't. Just stepping foot on Southampton dock
this morning- seemed like a retreat into those first few weeks, after the
sinking, in New York.
She could hear tidbits of conversations- on
everything from the stock market to ship recovery after the war, but none of it
kept her attention for long. Her eyes wandered to the other side of the crowded
room. It was the peak of dinner time, and the rumble seemed unusually loud. She
scanned the tables, still holding the hot cup, and suddenly, gripped it very
tightly. She could feel the heat bore into her skin, but ignored the pain- as
she began to stare at the same blond head she'd spotted earlier. He was sitting
away from her, at the very opposite side of the room, and all Rose could make
out was his back, and the mass of shaggy blond hair of course. She let go of
the cup eventually, still engrossed in the bobbing head of this man. He wore a
dark, navy blue shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, and she watched as he cut his
food, talking to a man next to him.
She always got like this- when she saw
someone who reminded her of Jack- even in the smallest way. The only
relationships she'd had with men since him were purely friendships, and even
after eight years, the concept of meeting someone else still seemed like a
betrayal.
She took one last glance at the man across
the room, before being approached by the waiter. The kind old man leaned down,
taking her still full plate after she had signaled him to- and smiled kindly-
"No dessert, miss?"
Rose smiled politely, "Ah...no, thank
you though. I'm quite full." The man nodded and retreated, adding her
plate to the growing pile of dirty dishes aboard his cart.
Rose turned around in her seat, taking one
last sip of coffee and purposefully shifting her shoulders, in order to take
one last glance at the man across the room. She was surprised to find his place
empty. He was gone- just like that...like everything else in her life-
"Rose stop," she ordered herself,
leaning down to grab her purse. A lonely strand of her hair fell from her clip,
and she blew it from her eyes, breathing deeply before standing up.
The horrible notion that stung her mind was
the continuation of movement as she stood up- the fact that no one- absolutely
no one- was there to notice, or even care. She could have danced around the
room- screamed at the top of her lungs- and it would have meant nothing to no
one. She dropped her hands to her side, staring blindly into the wall,
oblivious to several curious stares being thrown her way. The tears that
threatened her eyes were nothing new- only remembrances of loneliness that
plagued her very existence. Rose Dawson was hanging by a final thread.
Rose was brought back into reality by a
movement- a streak of navy blue. The man was back- he was back. She narrowed
her eyes, focusing in on him, for no reason at all. Why she was suddenly so
engrossed in this perfect stranger was a mystery. But what else did she have to
do? Soak in her self pity?
Still never seeing his face, Rose watched as
he slid back into his chair. He had something in his hands- and he held it
tightly in front of his chest. Rose moved closer, struggling to make out the
object he held...
"No, no..." Rose's hand flew to her
mouth, and a little shriek fell from her lips, as she turned around,
practically leaping for the nearest exit.
Once outside, she leaned against the doorway,
breathing laboriously. Her hand was on her chest as it heaved- as her entire
being racked with uncontrollable sobs. It was too much- too much. What this all
meant- why God was doing this to her- Rose did not understand at all.
The sketchbook- the sketchbook had made it
worse. The leather-bound book the blond man held- caused the crippling pain in
her heart to worsen. With more vengeance that it ever had. Why did it have to
be a sketchbook- Why?
"Why, Jack, why? Why did you
leave?"
Her shouts echoed down the hall- loudly and
fiercely. Eventually her voice began to fade, but the horrified expressions on
the faces of the passersby would not. Rose's delicate hand fell to her side,
and she looked down the hall- each way- making sure it was completely empty.
And then her hurried footsteps padded against
the hardwood floors- like before- like the desperation she had known eight
years ago. Her hair fell down completely, billowing and dancing hauntingly
behind her as she ran. This time the ornate lace gown had been replaced by a
simple gray dress. Gone were the diamonds, the jewels, the fancy black heels-
all the visible signs of the position she had once held. But the beauty of
Rose's soft face still contrasted strikingly with the tears that stained it.
Once again, the solution seemed crystal clear-
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Ah- you're an artist Mr. Dawson."
The small, dark headed man sitting next to Jack was commenting on the presence
of the sketchbook at the table. "Thought as much." He smiled jokingly
at Jack, taking a sip from his glass.
Jack looked up from his sketch- the one whose
idea had come to him so suddenly a few minutes before. He still held his
charcoal just above the paper, but his eyes narrowed down at the man beside
him.
"What do you mean by that sir?"
The other man smiled cockily, exchanging a
few amused glances with the other occupants of the table- all men. "It's
Mr. Harris, Mr. Dawson..." He chuckled then continued, "what I meant
is- well...the ideas you have- the way you talk."
Jack stared ahead, laying his pencil flat on
the table, then moved his gaze to the image on his paper.
"Just a little too deep for you, Mr.
HARRIS?" He countered back, somewhat sarcastically. He hadn't meant for it
come out just that way, but through all of the occurrences of today, he wasn't
surprised by the tone in his own voice.
Mr. Harris seemed surprised, and his face
fell. "Mr. Dawson- I hardly meant anything serious by it.
Just...just..."
"Forget it." Jack murmured softly,
closing and reopening his eyes, and picking his pencil back up.
"What are you drawing? Let me
see..." Mr. Harris grabbed Jack's sketchbook rather rudely. After the man
stared at it for a few minutes, his face lit up once more, annoyingly, and Jack
sighed, thoroughly tired of this table of people.
"Who's the lady? Huh?"
"Give me that." Jack tore the book
from the shocked man's hands, closing it, and stood up, pushing his chair in
almost violently. He walked away silently, his book under one arm- leaving the
table full of baffled men to themselves. He should have known better- than to
even attempt a peaceful meal- on a night like this. Eight years ago, this night
had been a happy one. He'd felt like the king of the world on April 10th, 1912-
he didn't feel anywhere close to that anymore.
"Maybe I'll just go sit outside- and
finish this sketch," he murmured to himself, walking briskly out of the
dining area, and into the night air. There was no wind- only a gentle coolness.
The sky was lit with vibrant, shining stars- the color around them a soft velvet
blue. So much like the night that he'd met Rose. Where had he been? Lying on a
bench- looking up at these same stars. And he'd heard her- her footsteps
crashing on the deck- her desperate sobs- her calls for help.
All you helped her do was to die,
Dawson...Jack shook his head, trying to rid himself of those thoughts. Deep
inside, he knew that wasn't true- He just wished she were here to tell him
that. He wanted to be able to look into her eyes again- tell her how much he
loved her- would always love her. Something she'd never heard him say. Oh, how
many times he'd berated himself- for never uttering those three precious words,
when he still had a chance.
Jack made his way over to one of the benches
by the railing. No one else was around it seemed- a cold and lonely
night...what else?
He rolled his thick navy blue sleeves down,
suddenly wishing he'd had enough sense to stop by his room for a coat. But now,
he didn't have the energy or the will to leave this spot- he had to finish this
sketch-
It was of Rose- of course, as they always
were. But this one was different- for the image he was meticulously bringing to
life- this time, was not in his memory. She was alone- standing. It was the
same Rose...the same Rose as the one he'd rescued from the back of Titanic, but
her dress was plain- her hair loose and flying, free. Her raw beauty shone
through the page, and as Jack's hand moved swiftly, creating stroke after
stroke, he was amazed- amazed at the ease in which it came. From out of
nowhere- this new Rose- this new Rose he'd never envisioned before. She was
smiling- that same smile that had captured his heart, and never let go. Her
eyes were bright with happiness, and the spirit....the spirit he'd always
remembered, was still there- alive and shining. Just like their last night
together, before the ship struck the iceberg...
Jack's hand began to shake, and he dropped
the charcoal pencil. His eyes remained perfectly still, as he watched it roll
down the paper, and unto the ground. It continued still- down the wooden deck,
and disappeared from his view. Several tears lined his eyes, but he did not
bother to brush them away. No one was here to see him like this- there was no
one who would understand. The one person who would, well...she was gone.
He finally moved his hands from midair,
bringing them to his face, rubbing up and down, until the tears dried. He sat
back, leaning his head against the cold steel of the railing. For a moment, he
just sat there- engrossed in his thoughts- occasionally gazing down at the
picture he'd drawn, that now lay in his lap. He rolled his head from side to
side, relishing in the silence around him.
Until the silence was broken- broken by a
vibration, traveling through his ears, his head, his shoulders- coming directly
from the railing. Someone was coming- running. He sat up, searching
frantically, but saw no one. His eyes darted down the decks- but there was no
visual to the sound he could hear frighteningly clearly. His head flew to one
side, and then back, barely glimpsing the whirl of a dress rounding a corner
ahead of him- a dress- a gray dress. And the sound began to retreat, as the
footsteps made there way...to the back of the ship...
Jack shot up- abandoning his sketchbook,
abandoning his thoughts, and ran with all his might- to the place he had
promised himself he would not go...