Across the Distance--Part 1:
Voices from the Past
by Kari
Kari-the-Goddess@excite.com
Rated PG-13
Category: short story
She sat alone with the stars, pondering her life, her world . . . pondering everything. It was
the middle of April, and Rosie shivered slightly, hugging her arms around her legs.
Destin, Florida at night. Still a bit too cold to go swimming, but Rosie could sit or walk on
the beach for hours and hours. Her parents didn't understand her. They never had.
Rosie sighed as she sat down in the sand, loving the way the moon cast a trail of light down
the ocean, as if leaving a trail to infinity. The breeze swept across her cheeks, reddening
them.
The date was April 15, 2014. The 102nd anniversary of the 'Titanic.' For the past months,
dreams of the ship had been haunting her. She was unsure of why, but she would wake up in
the middle of the night with feelings of dread and despair, and she'd have the fleeting feeling
that she'd been dreaming about the ship, and about a girl.
Rosie couldn't tell her parents. They'd just tell her that her dreams were caused by the
excitement of the 'Titan.' The 'Titan' was to commemorate the original 'Titanic.' Like the
'Titanic,' she was to be the largest moving object built by the hand of man, and the most
luxurious ship of the day. And to prevent the same mistakes as before, all precautions were
to be taken. The safety of the 'Titan' and her passengers was to come first.
Rosie didn't trust it one bit. She knew that history had a tendency to repeat itself.
Nevertheless, she found herself intrigued by the idea. She knew that the plans for the
'Titan''s launch had been the 100th anniversary of 'Titanic,' but the date had been set back
to the 103rd due to construction problems.
Rosie laid her head back against the sand, oblivious to the fact that it stuck in her red curls,
tangling them. She felt a wave wash in, rinsing her bare feet in its salty coolness. She raised
her wrist above her face, peering at her watch.
12:30.
Not time yet. She opened her eyes, once again letting them trace over the blackness of the
nighttime waters, wondering what the water had felt like to them--the people who died on the
ship. Had it seemed like a great monster as they watched it swallow the ship into the
darkness forever? Had they feared it when they had been stranded on its surface, their only
company the dying screams of those around them? Had they feared the coldness as it
enveloped them whole, sucking the life from their frozen bodies?
Rosie shuddered at the thought. In the distance, lightning clashed overhead, momentarily
lighting up the dark ocean. She smiled as she tasted the first hint of rain on her lips. Look at
the shore--look at how it seems so much like the edge of the universe. Why, it leads to
oblivion. At night, it was difficult to tell where the black waters ended and the sky began. It
seemed like an endless void, and Rosie could walk off into it, and disappear into its powerful
waves forever.
These were her last fleeting thoughts as her body numbed with exhaustion. Time for the
dreams again--the dreams of 'Titanic,' and of the girl, Rose. In her dreams, she was Rose.
Rose even looked like her. And like her, Rose was sad.
She caught shattered images of a handsome, dark-haired man, with cold eyes. He struck
her! He made her cry. Around her, there was luxury, but it was so ugly to her. She was
wearing a gorgeous gown of red and black. But she hated it. She hated all of it! Her hair
was free, her red curls whipping around her face, but she hardly noticed as the tears streaked
down her reddened cheeks.
She ran and ran and ran, but she couldn't escape her sorrow. She couldn't escape the man
that she wanted to love but feared too much to ever do so. She couldn't escape her chains
that held her captive. So she ran . . . until there was no more ship.
She found herself staring over the back of the grand ship, the black waters roaring
underneath, and spreading out into the infinite distance. The ship seemed to be floating in
never ending darkness, and it was heading into nothingness. Nothingness. Strangely, it
beckoned her. She went to it--her freedom, her salvation. Those waters would take it all
away. Before she had time to think, she was over the railing, peering, down, down, down . . .
and the water was below her--those black nighttime waters, ready to swallow her.
She was suddenly terrified by the sight, but she couldn't turn back now. She would be
joining her father soon. Here I come, Daddy.
"Don't do it."
Rose was brought back to reality by this voice. It struck her suddenly what she was doing.
She turned her head, and through her tears she saw the most striking pair of blue eyes she
had ever beheld. Those eyes were full of depth--they held a compassion for others; concern
for a first-class girl he did not know.
Despite the situation, she couldn't help but be stunned. "Stay where you are!" she cried.
More words were spoken, but she could not concentrate. The young man's words were
fading away, becoming a beacon of calm for her in the chaotic darkness. Dimly, she saw
herself--Rose--take the man's hand, and electricity passed between them, thrilling them.
But before she could find out what happened next, they were gone, and 'Titanic' was
disappearing into the blackness . . .
Rosie awoke suddenly to the sound of thunder crashing overhead. It was beginning to pour
now, and her clothing and hair became drenched. She looked at her watch. 2:20. The ship
was disappearing into the water this very instant--102 years ago, that is. As she stood to
leave, something caught her eye. Hesitantly, she turned.
Lightning lit up the water, and as it did so, she could see something in the distance. It was
only a brief flash of light, but she thought she saw something protruding from the water,
disappearing fast.
But then it was gone, and Rosie found herself wondering if she was hallucinating. She stood
still a few moments, the rain matting her red hair on her face. Hesitantly, she reached for
the book she had been reading--an old paperback copy of Anne Rice's "Interview with the
Vampire." Rosie rather liked Rice's vampires. She found them to be even sadder creatures
than herself, and there was a strange comfort in that.
But the book was ruined, the ink on the pages smearing together. Hesitantly, she left the old
paperback on the beach to be washed away by the morning tide.
She left it with the ghost of the 'Titanic.'
It was a short walk home, but Rosie walked slowly, loving the feel of the cool rain on her
skin. She walked barefoot through the white sand--now turned to mud from the
downpour--and slid her sandals on at the ramp leading to the road. She walked further down
the beach until she came across her family's beach house that opened onto the ocean.
By the time she reached the back entrance, the rain was pelting her skin. She hurried inside,
only to find her cousin Tori sitting by the light of a single lamp. She looked up, her large
eyes filled with concern. "Where have you been? Are you okay?"
Rosie smiled sadly. "What are you doing up? It's the middle of the night."
Tori sighed as she patted the spot next to her on the couch. "You know I can't sleep during
storms. Especially during hurricane season at Florida."
Rosie laughed slightly. "Do you know what tonight is?"
Tori shook her head.
"The anniversary of the 'Titanic.'"
"This is about those dreams you've been having?"
Rosie sighed. "I can't get the 'Titanic' out of my head. Every time I close my eyes I see this
girl--Rose. She looks just like me and talks just like me . . . It's me . . . but it's not me . . ."
"Ro, I think you should lay off on the crack."
Rosie's eyes glared daggers. "Ya know, I really wish you would take me seriously. If I
wanted to be belittled or taken lightly I would go to Mom and Dad."
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," Tori said, patting her on the back. "I'll listen. Shoot."
Rosie took a deep breath to gather her thoughts, her eyes focusing on the reproduction of
Van Gogh's "Starry Night" above the fireplace. The phrase "to the stars . . ." entered her
mind. It was her own voice, although she could not remember ever uttering those words.
They were words remembered as if from a dream or a distant childhood memory.
Something lost long ago, but she could not put a finger on it.
"As you know, I've been having these dreams quite regularly for the past few months. Each
time I dream, a bigger chapter of Rose's life is opened up to me, as if I were reading a novel
from the first person. Only . . . it's more than that. It's as if I AM Rose. I feel everything
that she feels and I know everything that she knows. She's afraid and desperate . . . and
when she goes on 'Titanic' there's a young man she meets who helps her. He has blond hair
and blue eyes. I'm--Rose, I mean--is overwhelmed with emotions when she thinks of him.
It's almost like he was sent to help her. I think he's an angel that her father sent to save her .
. ."
"An angel?" Tori didn't know whether to laugh or keep a straight face.
"Yes," Rosie snapped, exasperated. "I--she is from a rich family, and her father died the
year before. She was going to jump off the back of the ship. She called out to her father and
told him she was coming to him, but just then, the young man showed up and rescued me.
Somehow, I knew my father had sent him . . ." Tears were welling in her eyes as she said
this.
This time, Tori did not laugh. She bit her lip as she watched her cousin's eyes water with
unexplained emotions. "You're talking about Rose in first person," Tori said quietly. "It
wasn't you. Ro, I don't know what's going on with you, but I'm sure there's a reasonable
explanation. Let's see a doctor--"
"You mean a shrink?" Rosie asked.
Tori sighed, sitting back thoughtfully. "Ro, I believe you. But other people might not. A
doctor might be able to help you understand what these dreams mean."
Rosie accepted that at the moment. Suddenly, she was too tired to argue. Tori helped her
walk to their bedroom. Rosie passed her dresser, ignoring the stacks of books piled up on
top. She had brought with her Anne Rice, Edgar Alan Poe, and Shakespeare, of course--the
three writers she couldn't live without. She and Tori would walk on the beaches reading out
loud to each other from books of the three writers, and recite several of the poems to each
other loudly.
Tori wasn't quite as obsessed with it all as Rosie was, but Tori was a good friend. She went
along with it. Across the room, Tori had put on her "Metallica S&M" chip in their small
computer console as Rosie flung her tired body down on the bed.
"How can you sleep with that playing?" she muttered irritably, her voice muffled through
the pillows. But the pillows and soft blankets felt good under her tired body. She was
suddenly thankful that she had been motivated to change into dry clothes. No sense in
soaking the warm bed. As she closed her eyes, she could no longer feel the bed beneath her
body.
And Metallica was fading as well. She could hear the chorus of "Enter Sandman" fade into
the back of her mind as her body drifted . . . drifted as on an ocean.
She was on the 'Titanic' again, and it was heading further into the endless sea--towards the
awaiting iceberg. But Rose--the sad rich girl--took no heed of the awaiting danger.
She was drifting down an eloquent flight of stairs, head held high. She was wearing a gown
just as gorgeous as the one she had tried to jump off the ship in. But this one was burgundy,
and she was wearing long white gloves--it was a gown suited for royalty.
Jack waited for her at the foot of the stairs. Yes, that was his name--Jack Dawson, the angel
sent by her father. Once again, she was struck by how dashingly handsome he looked. He
was wearing a borrowed tuxedo, his blond hair slicked back in the fashion of the period. But
always the most noticeable thing about him was his eyes--the way his gaze burned into her
heart and soul unflinchingly, without judgment. The way when he looked at her like he was
looking at her now, he saw nothing but her. Could there possibly be so much passion in a
single gaze?
She was eye level with him on the stairs now, and his eyes remained transfixed on her.
Tenderly, he took her hand and gave it an elegant kiss. In that single moment of contact,
Rose knew more passion and intimacy than she'd ever known in her life. She had to take a
deep breath to keep from falling over.
But Jack's stoic expression soon turned into a grin and she broke out into laughter.
Together, they joined Mother and Cal at dinner. Throughout dinner, Mother and Cal
attempted to belittle Jack, but he took it in stride. And Rose was proud of him. Throughout
the course of the meal, she threw him encouraging smiles and knowing looks. She thought
that Cal might've caught onto them, but she really didn't care.
After dinner, Jack took her down to steerage where they danced all night. They sang loudly
and danced together, holding one another tightly. She did this with abandon for the first time
in a long time. For a single moment, Rose was at peace.
It was well past noon when Rosie awoke. The sun was shining in on her through the open
balcony, and a deliciously cool breeze drifted in through the drawn draperies. The storm had
passed.
Rosie sighed, turning over in bed. Below, she could hear the sounds of the beach--the
seagulls, the light waves washing in on the white sands--all comforting sounds. And the
air--she could smell the salt in the air. Rosie felt content. Flashes of the dream entered her
mind--Jack's eyes, his warm breath and strong hands. Jack, the wanderer. Jack, the artist.
Jack, the angel.
Rosie laughed at herself. "Careful, Ro--you're falling in love with a figment of your
imagination."
But as she stood up and walked to the balcony, she knew he was more than that. Somehow,
she could feel Jack, and she knew that he existed in some form or another. She could even
smell him--no doubt residue left over from the recentness of her dream. She looked out over
the ocean.
Far down the beach, she could see glimpses of umbrellas and people on towels. Not many
people in the water. Still a bit cool for swimming. Directly below, she could see Tori in the
beach, wading in the water near shore. She wore a bathing suit top and boxer shorts, and
was sifting through the sand. She was no doubt still on her daily seashell hunt. Usually,
Rosie and Tori were up around eight or nine to hunt for the shells, but apparently Tori had
decided to let her sleep in.
Good thing, too. She was exhausted from staying up so late.
Looking up, Tori noticed Ro for the first time. She waved excitedly, gesturing to her to join
her. Rosie complied, pulling on one of her many two-piece swimsuits and the usual boxers.
And don't forget your hat and sunglasses. It was particularly bright today.
She went downstairs and onto the back deck that opened directly onto the beach. It was a
beautiful day, and the wind was blowing just enough to keep it cool. As she walked towards
Tori, she tied her long red hair back off her neck. She was considering cutting it before
summer, but Tori insisted that her hair was way too beautiful to cut.
"Look what I found," Tori said as she approached her. In her hand, Tori held the battered
and soaked "Interview with the Vampire." Some of the pages were torn out.
Rosie shrugged nonchalantly. "I have a hardback autographed copy at home. Besides, I
think Louis would have wanted it this way."
Tori looked at her strangely, but she understood the reference. Louis was the main character
in the book--the forementioned vampire being interviewed. He was a tragic creature who
was given immortality, yet all he wanted was for it to end. But the sad thing was that he
didn't have the courage to end it himself. That's why Rosie loved the book so much.
Sometimes she felt she identified with Louis. Sometimes she thought of Louis as her dark
lover; her dark angel.
But I've found a new angel, haven't I?
"Find any shells?" Rosie asked in an effort to change the subject.
She shook her head distractedly. "Nope. None worth mentioning. I'm starving. Wanna go
for some pizza?"
Together they headed for their favorite pizza pub. It was one of those places among the
sidewalk souvenir shops that allow people to come in right off the beach. It was a really
relaxed atmosphere, with good food, and on Friday and Saturday nights, they had live bands.
Rosie's band--Sword of Kahless--had played there several times.
Rosie was the only female player in Sword of Kahless, but she was one of the best young
guitarists around, and the guys respected her. They said she had balls.
And it was true, figuratively speaking. The other band members were her friends, and she
had arranged the whole thing. Jace, the resident Trekkie and lead singer, had picked out the
name. Ro rather liked it. It had sort of a rough edge. You can only guess the sort of music
the band produced. In terms of music from the late 20th/early 21st centuries, think Nine
Inch Nails meets Metallica meets Ramstein meets Garbage. And well . . . you get the idea.
Ro loved to play, but she mostly did it to shock her parents.
"So when are your parents coming down from New York?" Tori asked over a slice of
pepperoni.
Rosie took a big gulp of Coca-Cola before answering. "Next week, I think. That's what
their latest e-mail told me."
Rosie and Tori had spent the school year in Florida after living in New York for most of
their lives. The two girls had been raised as sisters after Tori's parents died in a plane crash
eight years before. Tori's father had been Rosie's uncle on her father's side. Last year, they
moved to Florida per their own request.
But Rosie's father's business was in New York, so her parents were constantly flying back
and forth between New York and Florida. Most of the time they were on their own, but they
knew that her parents had paid the neighbors to keep an eye on them.
"When we turn eighteen," Tori suddenly said, "let's go get tattoos."
Ro laughed at the idea. "You know I'm scared to death of needles."
They were silent for a few moments as they finished their meal. Tori studied her
thoughtfully. "You seem to be in a much better mood," she observed.
Ro shrugged, a lopsided gin on her lips.
"You dreamed again last night, didn't you? About him."
"His name is Jack," Rosie said softly. "Jack Dawson."
"Jack," Tori repeated. "There have to be a million Jack Dawsons in the history of the
world." She was quiet for a moment. "Hey, are you in the mood for a trip to the library?"
"Library?" she asked. What on earth could she be talking about? The school year was
almost out and they had no papers to work on. And even if they did, her computer at the
beach house practically was one big library, filled with resources a-plenty.
"I have an idea."
Fifteen minutes later, they were at the public library. The library consisted mostly of
computer chips that you plug into a datapad or computer terminal, but it still carried some
paper books, although they were becoming a rarity.
"Tori, what are we doing here?" she asked, automatically keeping her voice down.
"We're here to research the 'Titanic.'"
"You know perfectly well that I have tons of books and computer chips about the 'Titanic'
at home."
"Yes, but we need to look at old newspapers. I believe that microfiche is this way." Tori led
her through stacks of organized computer chips and datapads, as well as old-fashioned
computer terminals. She led her past rows of ancient leather-bound books and cheaply made
paper books with yellowing pages. Jesus, did they actually check those out to people?
Ro knew that most books had been translated onto computer chips, but some people still
preferred paper books with leather-bound covers. Ro herself owned several of these.
They entered the elevator and went up. "I still don't understand what we're doing here," she
muttered.
"Tell me more about your dreams. The girl you dream about. Do you know her last
name?"
Rose thought about it as the 'lift opened and the girls stepped out onto the second story.
They had found the old microfiche machines. "No, I don't think I know her last name."
"What about the other man? The one you said was Rose's fiancee."
"Oh, Cal is so arrogant. I don't understand why he insists on bringing jewels to cheer me up.
Mother says he only wants to make me happy, but I think Mother only wants to make herself
happy--"
Ro stopped when she realized that Tori was staring at her in stupefied horror. Realizing
what she had just said, she turned beet-red. "I . . . I don't know where that came from," Ro
stammered. "I just opened my mouth and it came out. It's almost like--"
"Like you're becoming Rose?" she asked. There was no condescension in her voice.
Rosie nodded slowly, taking a deep breath. "I think that . . . that these dreams are taking
over. I'm starting to remember everything Rose knew. I think I might be becoming her."
"Ro, you don't know if this girl--whoever she was--even existed."
Rosie wanted to argue--to say that she knew that Rose existed. "We'll find out soon
enough," was what she said instead.
As it turned out, the library had old newspapers in its memory dating all the way back to the
1850's, and finding articles about 'Titanic' wasn't difficult at all. She had been headline
news even before she sank to her watery grave. On the date of April 15, 1912, newspapers
across the world screamed the bold headlines: "TITANIC SINKS, 1500 DEAD."
Chills raced through Ro's body as she stared at the old print on the cold computer screen.
"Ro, what was Cal's last name?" Tori asked, tearing her attention away from the screen.
"I'm not sure. Let me think of all the rich people who were on 'Titanic.' There was Isador
Straus, Benjamin Guggenheim, J. J. Astor, something Hockley, let me look up a list . . ."
Picking up a nearby datapad, Ro hooked it into the central library computer and called up a
list of first class male passengers. And there it was in black and white letters--the name
Caledon Hockley. "That's him," she whispered under her breath. "I was going to marry
him."
But I didn't. And the list listed him as a survivor. Did that mean Rose died on the ship?
"Tori, run a search for any article related to Caledon Hockley." After only minutes, they
were staring at another article about the 'Titanic.' This one was dated a week after the
sinking, and the title read: "HEIR TO MULTI-MILLION FORTUNE LOSES FIANCEE."
They scanned the page, reading the article silently. "Caledon Hockley, son of Nathan
Hockley, owner of Hockley Pittsburgh Steel lost his fiancee in the tragic sinking of 'Titanic.'
Rose DeWitt Bukater of Philadelphia, age 17, was to marry Hockley two weeks after sailing
on the ship. "She will live on in our hearts," says Hockley of his loving fiancee. Her
mother, Ruth DeWitt Bukater, is reportedly too grief-stricken over the loss of her daughter
to make any comment. A memorial service for young DeWitt Bukater is to be held in the
DeWitt Bukater family cemetery next Wednesday, where a headstone will be erected next to
her father's grave. May the Hockley family and the DeWitt Bukater family see it through
this tragedy."
Ro stopped. She could read no more. She thought her heard would pound out of her chest
as she stared at the photos next to the article. One picture was that of a group of people with
forced smiles plastered on their faces, standing in front of what was obviously the 'Titanic.'
There was a handsome man with a traveling coat and hat, and his arm was intertwined with
that of a young lady in a big, bowed hat. She was wearing a fashionable traveling dress, and
her hat shadowed her face. But beneath the hat, juts of curly hair stuck out, free from the
pins that bound them to her head. And next to her was a forty-ish woman, with the same
curly hair. While the young woman had a sense of sadness behind her forced smile, the older
woman had a certain coldness in her eyes. Ro shivered. "Mother . . . Cal . . ." she
whispered, touching the screen gently.
But this wasn't the picture that caught their attention. There was another picture of the girl
by herself. It was a close-up shot, and the curly hair was loose about her shoulders, with the
front pulled back in lovely butterfly combs. She wore a pretty but practical daytime dress of
the Edwardian era, and just the barest bit of color was visible in her porcelain, upper-class
cheeks. And her eyes held that same sadness--that hidden desperation.
"Ro . . ." Tori's strangled cry brought her back to reality. "The girl . . . it . . . it's you."
Rosie couldn't breathe. She thought she was going to pass out. How could this be
happening? But there was no mistaking it. It was her. The girl in the picture was her.
"But how . . ?" Tori asked.
All Ro could do was shake her head. She didn't understand it anymore than Tori did. "This
means I died on 'Titanic,'" Ro whispered. Yet . . . she was here in 2014.
What had happened? Her mind went back to Jack. She could hear his voice as if it had been
yesterday. It had something to do with Jack. She was still here because something was left
undone.
What, Jack? I don't understand. I just want to be with you.
But no answer came to her. This was something she would have to figure out on her own.
"'Titan,'" she said aloud.
"What?" Tori asked
"I have to sail on the 'Titan' when she launches next year. If I can try to relive everything . .
. maybe I can figure out what went wrong. Maybe I can figure out why I'm not with Jack."
That night, her sweets dreams of being with Jack turned into nightmares. There were people
screaming and people dying; people freezing to death. She could hear a child crying
somewhere, and a baby screaming. Such horrid sounds to hear in the middle of the North
Atlantic. The sounds of death and pain. It made everything else in the world seem so
inconsequential; so petty.
At the center of it all, though, there was Jack. Jack, the focus of her world. When the ship
docks, I'm getting off with you.
But why didn't I, Jack? Did I die? Did you die?
Why weren't we reunited in heaven? Why am I still trapped on this mortal coil after so
many years?
Her sleep-hazed mind thought of Louis and his eternal suffering. Louis, who lived year after
year while those he loved grew old and withered like flowers.
Oh, God, is it happening to me? Help me, Jack! I'm so cold . . .
To be concluded
Voices from the Past
by Kari
Kari-the-Goddess@excite.com
Rated PG-13
Category: short story
She sat alone with the stars, pondering her life, her world . . . pondering everything. It was
the middle of April, and Rosie shivered slightly, hugging her arms around her legs.
Destin, Florida at night. Still a bit too cold to go swimming, but Rosie could sit or walk on
the beach for hours and hours. Her parents didn't understand her. They never had.
Rosie sighed as she sat down in the sand, loving the way the moon cast a trail of light down
the ocean, as if leaving a trail to infinity. The breeze swept across her cheeks, reddening
them.
The date was April 15, 2014. The 102nd anniversary of the 'Titanic.' For the past months,
dreams of the ship had been haunting her. She was unsure of why, but she would wake up in
the middle of the night with feelings of dread and despair, and she'd have the fleeting feeling
that she'd been dreaming about the ship, and about a girl.
Rosie couldn't tell her parents. They'd just tell her that her dreams were caused by the
excitement of the 'Titan.' The 'Titan' was to commemorate the original 'Titanic.' Like the
'Titanic,' she was to be the largest moving object built by the hand of man, and the most
luxurious ship of the day. And to prevent the same mistakes as before, all precautions were
to be taken. The safety of the 'Titan' and her passengers was to come first.
Rosie didn't trust it one bit. She knew that history had a tendency to repeat itself.
Nevertheless, she found herself intrigued by the idea. She knew that the plans for the
'Titan''s launch had been the 100th anniversary of 'Titanic,' but the date had been set back
to the 103rd due to construction problems.
Rosie laid her head back against the sand, oblivious to the fact that it stuck in her red curls,
tangling them. She felt a wave wash in, rinsing her bare feet in its salty coolness. She raised
her wrist above her face, peering at her watch.
12:30.
Not time yet. She opened her eyes, once again letting them trace over the blackness of the
nighttime waters, wondering what the water had felt like to them--the people who died on the
ship. Had it seemed like a great monster as they watched it swallow the ship into the
darkness forever? Had they feared it when they had been stranded on its surface, their only
company the dying screams of those around them? Had they feared the coldness as it
enveloped them whole, sucking the life from their frozen bodies?
Rosie shuddered at the thought. In the distance, lightning clashed overhead, momentarily
lighting up the dark ocean. She smiled as she tasted the first hint of rain on her lips. Look at
the shore--look at how it seems so much like the edge of the universe. Why, it leads to
oblivion. At night, it was difficult to tell where the black waters ended and the sky began. It
seemed like an endless void, and Rosie could walk off into it, and disappear into its powerful
waves forever.
These were her last fleeting thoughts as her body numbed with exhaustion. Time for the
dreams again--the dreams of 'Titanic,' and of the girl, Rose. In her dreams, she was Rose.
Rose even looked like her. And like her, Rose was sad.
She caught shattered images of a handsome, dark-haired man, with cold eyes. He struck
her! He made her cry. Around her, there was luxury, but it was so ugly to her. She was
wearing a gorgeous gown of red and black. But she hated it. She hated all of it! Her hair
was free, her red curls whipping around her face, but she hardly noticed as the tears streaked
down her reddened cheeks.
She ran and ran and ran, but she couldn't escape her sorrow. She couldn't escape the man
that she wanted to love but feared too much to ever do so. She couldn't escape her chains
that held her captive. So she ran . . . until there was no more ship.
She found herself staring over the back of the grand ship, the black waters roaring
underneath, and spreading out into the infinite distance. The ship seemed to be floating in
never ending darkness, and it was heading into nothingness. Nothingness. Strangely, it
beckoned her. She went to it--her freedom, her salvation. Those waters would take it all
away. Before she had time to think, she was over the railing, peering, down, down, down . . .
and the water was below her--those black nighttime waters, ready to swallow her.
She was suddenly terrified by the sight, but she couldn't turn back now. She would be
joining her father soon. Here I come, Daddy.
"Don't do it."
Rose was brought back to reality by this voice. It struck her suddenly what she was doing.
She turned her head, and through her tears she saw the most striking pair of blue eyes she
had ever beheld. Those eyes were full of depth--they held a compassion for others; concern
for a first-class girl he did not know.
Despite the situation, she couldn't help but be stunned. "Stay where you are!" she cried.
More words were spoken, but she could not concentrate. The young man's words were
fading away, becoming a beacon of calm for her in the chaotic darkness. Dimly, she saw
herself--Rose--take the man's hand, and electricity passed between them, thrilling them.
But before she could find out what happened next, they were gone, and 'Titanic' was
disappearing into the blackness . . .
Rosie awoke suddenly to the sound of thunder crashing overhead. It was beginning to pour
now, and her clothing and hair became drenched. She looked at her watch. 2:20. The ship
was disappearing into the water this very instant--102 years ago, that is. As she stood to
leave, something caught her eye. Hesitantly, she turned.
Lightning lit up the water, and as it did so, she could see something in the distance. It was
only a brief flash of light, but she thought she saw something protruding from the water,
disappearing fast.
But then it was gone, and Rosie found herself wondering if she was hallucinating. She stood
still a few moments, the rain matting her red hair on her face. Hesitantly, she reached for
the book she had been reading--an old paperback copy of Anne Rice's "Interview with the
Vampire." Rosie rather liked Rice's vampires. She found them to be even sadder creatures
than herself, and there was a strange comfort in that.
But the book was ruined, the ink on the pages smearing together. Hesitantly, she left the old
paperback on the beach to be washed away by the morning tide.
She left it with the ghost of the 'Titanic.'
It was a short walk home, but Rosie walked slowly, loving the feel of the cool rain on her
skin. She walked barefoot through the white sand--now turned to mud from the
downpour--and slid her sandals on at the ramp leading to the road. She walked further down
the beach until she came across her family's beach house that opened onto the ocean.
By the time she reached the back entrance, the rain was pelting her skin. She hurried inside,
only to find her cousin Tori sitting by the light of a single lamp. She looked up, her large
eyes filled with concern. "Where have you been? Are you okay?"
Rosie smiled sadly. "What are you doing up? It's the middle of the night."
Tori sighed as she patted the spot next to her on the couch. "You know I can't sleep during
storms. Especially during hurricane season at Florida."
Rosie laughed slightly. "Do you know what tonight is?"
Tori shook her head.
"The anniversary of the 'Titanic.'"
"This is about those dreams you've been having?"
Rosie sighed. "I can't get the 'Titanic' out of my head. Every time I close my eyes I see this
girl--Rose. She looks just like me and talks just like me . . . It's me . . . but it's not me . . ."
"Ro, I think you should lay off on the crack."
Rosie's eyes glared daggers. "Ya know, I really wish you would take me seriously. If I
wanted to be belittled or taken lightly I would go to Mom and Dad."
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," Tori said, patting her on the back. "I'll listen. Shoot."
Rosie took a deep breath to gather her thoughts, her eyes focusing on the reproduction of
Van Gogh's "Starry Night" above the fireplace. The phrase "to the stars . . ." entered her
mind. It was her own voice, although she could not remember ever uttering those words.
They were words remembered as if from a dream or a distant childhood memory.
Something lost long ago, but she could not put a finger on it.
"As you know, I've been having these dreams quite regularly for the past few months. Each
time I dream, a bigger chapter of Rose's life is opened up to me, as if I were reading a novel
from the first person. Only . . . it's more than that. It's as if I AM Rose. I feel everything
that she feels and I know everything that she knows. She's afraid and desperate . . . and
when she goes on 'Titanic' there's a young man she meets who helps her. He has blond hair
and blue eyes. I'm--Rose, I mean--is overwhelmed with emotions when she thinks of him.
It's almost like he was sent to help her. I think he's an angel that her father sent to save her .
. ."
"An angel?" Tori didn't know whether to laugh or keep a straight face.
"Yes," Rosie snapped, exasperated. "I--she is from a rich family, and her father died the
year before. She was going to jump off the back of the ship. She called out to her father and
told him she was coming to him, but just then, the young man showed up and rescued me.
Somehow, I knew my father had sent him . . ." Tears were welling in her eyes as she said
this.
This time, Tori did not laugh. She bit her lip as she watched her cousin's eyes water with
unexplained emotions. "You're talking about Rose in first person," Tori said quietly. "It
wasn't you. Ro, I don't know what's going on with you, but I'm sure there's a reasonable
explanation. Let's see a doctor--"
"You mean a shrink?" Rosie asked.
Tori sighed, sitting back thoughtfully. "Ro, I believe you. But other people might not. A
doctor might be able to help you understand what these dreams mean."
Rosie accepted that at the moment. Suddenly, she was too tired to argue. Tori helped her
walk to their bedroom. Rosie passed her dresser, ignoring the stacks of books piled up on
top. She had brought with her Anne Rice, Edgar Alan Poe, and Shakespeare, of course--the
three writers she couldn't live without. She and Tori would walk on the beaches reading out
loud to each other from books of the three writers, and recite several of the poems to each
other loudly.
Tori wasn't quite as obsessed with it all as Rosie was, but Tori was a good friend. She went
along with it. Across the room, Tori had put on her "Metallica S&M" chip in their small
computer console as Rosie flung her tired body down on the bed.
"How can you sleep with that playing?" she muttered irritably, her voice muffled through
the pillows. But the pillows and soft blankets felt good under her tired body. She was
suddenly thankful that she had been motivated to change into dry clothes. No sense in
soaking the warm bed. As she closed her eyes, she could no longer feel the bed beneath her
body.
And Metallica was fading as well. She could hear the chorus of "Enter Sandman" fade into
the back of her mind as her body drifted . . . drifted as on an ocean.
She was on the 'Titanic' again, and it was heading further into the endless sea--towards the
awaiting iceberg. But Rose--the sad rich girl--took no heed of the awaiting danger.
She was drifting down an eloquent flight of stairs, head held high. She was wearing a gown
just as gorgeous as the one she had tried to jump off the ship in. But this one was burgundy,
and she was wearing long white gloves--it was a gown suited for royalty.
Jack waited for her at the foot of the stairs. Yes, that was his name--Jack Dawson, the angel
sent by her father. Once again, she was struck by how dashingly handsome he looked. He
was wearing a borrowed tuxedo, his blond hair slicked back in the fashion of the period. But
always the most noticeable thing about him was his eyes--the way his gaze burned into her
heart and soul unflinchingly, without judgment. The way when he looked at her like he was
looking at her now, he saw nothing but her. Could there possibly be so much passion in a
single gaze?
She was eye level with him on the stairs now, and his eyes remained transfixed on her.
Tenderly, he took her hand and gave it an elegant kiss. In that single moment of contact,
Rose knew more passion and intimacy than she'd ever known in her life. She had to take a
deep breath to keep from falling over.
But Jack's stoic expression soon turned into a grin and she broke out into laughter.
Together, they joined Mother and Cal at dinner. Throughout dinner, Mother and Cal
attempted to belittle Jack, but he took it in stride. And Rose was proud of him. Throughout
the course of the meal, she threw him encouraging smiles and knowing looks. She thought
that Cal might've caught onto them, but she really didn't care.
After dinner, Jack took her down to steerage where they danced all night. They sang loudly
and danced together, holding one another tightly. She did this with abandon for the first time
in a long time. For a single moment, Rose was at peace.
It was well past noon when Rosie awoke. The sun was shining in on her through the open
balcony, and a deliciously cool breeze drifted in through the drawn draperies. The storm had
passed.
Rosie sighed, turning over in bed. Below, she could hear the sounds of the beach--the
seagulls, the light waves washing in on the white sands--all comforting sounds. And the
air--she could smell the salt in the air. Rosie felt content. Flashes of the dream entered her
mind--Jack's eyes, his warm breath and strong hands. Jack, the wanderer. Jack, the artist.
Jack, the angel.
Rosie laughed at herself. "Careful, Ro--you're falling in love with a figment of your
imagination."
But as she stood up and walked to the balcony, she knew he was more than that. Somehow,
she could feel Jack, and she knew that he existed in some form or another. She could even
smell him--no doubt residue left over from the recentness of her dream. She looked out over
the ocean.
Far down the beach, she could see glimpses of umbrellas and people on towels. Not many
people in the water. Still a bit cool for swimming. Directly below, she could see Tori in the
beach, wading in the water near shore. She wore a bathing suit top and boxer shorts, and
was sifting through the sand. She was no doubt still on her daily seashell hunt. Usually,
Rosie and Tori were up around eight or nine to hunt for the shells, but apparently Tori had
decided to let her sleep in.
Good thing, too. She was exhausted from staying up so late.
Looking up, Tori noticed Ro for the first time. She waved excitedly, gesturing to her to join
her. Rosie complied, pulling on one of her many two-piece swimsuits and the usual boxers.
And don't forget your hat and sunglasses. It was particularly bright today.
She went downstairs and onto the back deck that opened directly onto the beach. It was a
beautiful day, and the wind was blowing just enough to keep it cool. As she walked towards
Tori, she tied her long red hair back off her neck. She was considering cutting it before
summer, but Tori insisted that her hair was way too beautiful to cut.
"Look what I found," Tori said as she approached her. In her hand, Tori held the battered
and soaked "Interview with the Vampire." Some of the pages were torn out.
Rosie shrugged nonchalantly. "I have a hardback autographed copy at home. Besides, I
think Louis would have wanted it this way."
Tori looked at her strangely, but she understood the reference. Louis was the main character
in the book--the forementioned vampire being interviewed. He was a tragic creature who
was given immortality, yet all he wanted was for it to end. But the sad thing was that he
didn't have the courage to end it himself. That's why Rosie loved the book so much.
Sometimes she felt she identified with Louis. Sometimes she thought of Louis as her dark
lover; her dark angel.
But I've found a new angel, haven't I?
"Find any shells?" Rosie asked in an effort to change the subject.
She shook her head distractedly. "Nope. None worth mentioning. I'm starving. Wanna go
for some pizza?"
Together they headed for their favorite pizza pub. It was one of those places among the
sidewalk souvenir shops that allow people to come in right off the beach. It was a really
relaxed atmosphere, with good food, and on Friday and Saturday nights, they had live bands.
Rosie's band--Sword of Kahless--had played there several times.
Rosie was the only female player in Sword of Kahless, but she was one of the best young
guitarists around, and the guys respected her. They said she had balls.
And it was true, figuratively speaking. The other band members were her friends, and she
had arranged the whole thing. Jace, the resident Trekkie and lead singer, had picked out the
name. Ro rather liked it. It had sort of a rough edge. You can only guess the sort of music
the band produced. In terms of music from the late 20th/early 21st centuries, think Nine
Inch Nails meets Metallica meets Ramstein meets Garbage. And well . . . you get the idea.
Ro loved to play, but she mostly did it to shock her parents.
"So when are your parents coming down from New York?" Tori asked over a slice of
pepperoni.
Rosie took a big gulp of Coca-Cola before answering. "Next week, I think. That's what
their latest e-mail told me."
Rosie and Tori had spent the school year in Florida after living in New York for most of
their lives. The two girls had been raised as sisters after Tori's parents died in a plane crash
eight years before. Tori's father had been Rosie's uncle on her father's side. Last year, they
moved to Florida per their own request.
But Rosie's father's business was in New York, so her parents were constantly flying back
and forth between New York and Florida. Most of the time they were on their own, but they
knew that her parents had paid the neighbors to keep an eye on them.
"When we turn eighteen," Tori suddenly said, "let's go get tattoos."
Ro laughed at the idea. "You know I'm scared to death of needles."
They were silent for a few moments as they finished their meal. Tori studied her
thoughtfully. "You seem to be in a much better mood," she observed.
Ro shrugged, a lopsided gin on her lips.
"You dreamed again last night, didn't you? About him."
"His name is Jack," Rosie said softly. "Jack Dawson."
"Jack," Tori repeated. "There have to be a million Jack Dawsons in the history of the
world." She was quiet for a moment. "Hey, are you in the mood for a trip to the library?"
"Library?" she asked. What on earth could she be talking about? The school year was
almost out and they had no papers to work on. And even if they did, her computer at the
beach house practically was one big library, filled with resources a-plenty.
"I have an idea."
Fifteen minutes later, they were at the public library. The library consisted mostly of
computer chips that you plug into a datapad or computer terminal, but it still carried some
paper books, although they were becoming a rarity.
"Tori, what are we doing here?" she asked, automatically keeping her voice down.
"We're here to research the 'Titanic.'"
"You know perfectly well that I have tons of books and computer chips about the 'Titanic'
at home."
"Yes, but we need to look at old newspapers. I believe that microfiche is this way." Tori led
her through stacks of organized computer chips and datapads, as well as old-fashioned
computer terminals. She led her past rows of ancient leather-bound books and cheaply made
paper books with yellowing pages. Jesus, did they actually check those out to people?
Ro knew that most books had been translated onto computer chips, but some people still
preferred paper books with leather-bound covers. Ro herself owned several of these.
They entered the elevator and went up. "I still don't understand what we're doing here," she
muttered.
"Tell me more about your dreams. The girl you dream about. Do you know her last
name?"
Rose thought about it as the 'lift opened and the girls stepped out onto the second story.
They had found the old microfiche machines. "No, I don't think I know her last name."
"What about the other man? The one you said was Rose's fiancee."
"Oh, Cal is so arrogant. I don't understand why he insists on bringing jewels to cheer me up.
Mother says he only wants to make me happy, but I think Mother only wants to make herself
happy--"
Ro stopped when she realized that Tori was staring at her in stupefied horror. Realizing
what she had just said, she turned beet-red. "I . . . I don't know where that came from," Ro
stammered. "I just opened my mouth and it came out. It's almost like--"
"Like you're becoming Rose?" she asked. There was no condescension in her voice.
Rosie nodded slowly, taking a deep breath. "I think that . . . that these dreams are taking
over. I'm starting to remember everything Rose knew. I think I might be becoming her."
"Ro, you don't know if this girl--whoever she was--even existed."
Rosie wanted to argue--to say that she knew that Rose existed. "We'll find out soon
enough," was what she said instead.
As it turned out, the library had old newspapers in its memory dating all the way back to the
1850's, and finding articles about 'Titanic' wasn't difficult at all. She had been headline
news even before she sank to her watery grave. On the date of April 15, 1912, newspapers
across the world screamed the bold headlines: "TITANIC SINKS, 1500 DEAD."
Chills raced through Ro's body as she stared at the old print on the cold computer screen.
"Ro, what was Cal's last name?" Tori asked, tearing her attention away from the screen.
"I'm not sure. Let me think of all the rich people who were on 'Titanic.' There was Isador
Straus, Benjamin Guggenheim, J. J. Astor, something Hockley, let me look up a list . . ."
Picking up a nearby datapad, Ro hooked it into the central library computer and called up a
list of first class male passengers. And there it was in black and white letters--the name
Caledon Hockley. "That's him," she whispered under her breath. "I was going to marry
him."
But I didn't. And the list listed him as a survivor. Did that mean Rose died on the ship?
"Tori, run a search for any article related to Caledon Hockley." After only minutes, they
were staring at another article about the 'Titanic.' This one was dated a week after the
sinking, and the title read: "HEIR TO MULTI-MILLION FORTUNE LOSES FIANCEE."
They scanned the page, reading the article silently. "Caledon Hockley, son of Nathan
Hockley, owner of Hockley Pittsburgh Steel lost his fiancee in the tragic sinking of 'Titanic.'
Rose DeWitt Bukater of Philadelphia, age 17, was to marry Hockley two weeks after sailing
on the ship. "She will live on in our hearts," says Hockley of his loving fiancee. Her
mother, Ruth DeWitt Bukater, is reportedly too grief-stricken over the loss of her daughter
to make any comment. A memorial service for young DeWitt Bukater is to be held in the
DeWitt Bukater family cemetery next Wednesday, where a headstone will be erected next to
her father's grave. May the Hockley family and the DeWitt Bukater family see it through
this tragedy."
Ro stopped. She could read no more. She thought her heard would pound out of her chest
as she stared at the photos next to the article. One picture was that of a group of people with
forced smiles plastered on their faces, standing in front of what was obviously the 'Titanic.'
There was a handsome man with a traveling coat and hat, and his arm was intertwined with
that of a young lady in a big, bowed hat. She was wearing a fashionable traveling dress, and
her hat shadowed her face. But beneath the hat, juts of curly hair stuck out, free from the
pins that bound them to her head. And next to her was a forty-ish woman, with the same
curly hair. While the young woman had a sense of sadness behind her forced smile, the older
woman had a certain coldness in her eyes. Ro shivered. "Mother . . . Cal . . ." she
whispered, touching the screen gently.
But this wasn't the picture that caught their attention. There was another picture of the girl
by herself. It was a close-up shot, and the curly hair was loose about her shoulders, with the
front pulled back in lovely butterfly combs. She wore a pretty but practical daytime dress of
the Edwardian era, and just the barest bit of color was visible in her porcelain, upper-class
cheeks. And her eyes held that same sadness--that hidden desperation.
"Ro . . ." Tori's strangled cry brought her back to reality. "The girl . . . it . . . it's you."
Rosie couldn't breathe. She thought she was going to pass out. How could this be
happening? But there was no mistaking it. It was her. The girl in the picture was her.
"But how . . ?" Tori asked.
All Ro could do was shake her head. She didn't understand it anymore than Tori did. "This
means I died on 'Titanic,'" Ro whispered. Yet . . . she was here in 2014.
What had happened? Her mind went back to Jack. She could hear his voice as if it had been
yesterday. It had something to do with Jack. She was still here because something was left
undone.
What, Jack? I don't understand. I just want to be with you.
But no answer came to her. This was something she would have to figure out on her own.
"'Titan,'" she said aloud.
"What?" Tori asked
"I have to sail on the 'Titan' when she launches next year. If I can try to relive everything . .
. maybe I can figure out what went wrong. Maybe I can figure out why I'm not with Jack."
That night, her sweets dreams of being with Jack turned into nightmares. There were people
screaming and people dying; people freezing to death. She could hear a child crying
somewhere, and a baby screaming. Such horrid sounds to hear in the middle of the North
Atlantic. The sounds of death and pain. It made everything else in the world seem so
inconsequential; so petty.
At the center of it all, though, there was Jack. Jack, the focus of her world. When the ship
docks, I'm getting off with you.
But why didn't I, Jack? Did I die? Did you die?
Why weren't we reunited in heaven? Why am I still trapped on this mortal coil after so
many years?
Her sleep-hazed mind thought of Louis and his eternal suffering. Louis, who lived year after
year while those he loved grew old and withered like flowers.
Oh, God, is it happening to me? Help me, Jack! I'm so cold . . .
To be concluded