Disclaimer: I've said it once, and I'll say it again: this all belongs to
James Cameron and his merry band of movie-makers.
Author's Note: See? I told you I would update!
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August 2, 1912
Rose knew it now. When her monthly bleeding had stopped and hadn't occurred again for the past four months, she suspected. But now, as her stomach was starting to round noticeably, she couldn't deny it. Rose was pregnant with Jack's child.
She was ambiguous, as though she couldn't decide how to feel. Part of her was giddy, ecstatic. She would have something of Jack to hold, something tangible.
Then again, she felt terrible. She didn't have the money to support a child. Cal's money was running low, and she didn't have any means of income. A horrible realization came over her. "I have to give up Jack's child," she murmured, almost not believing it. A strangled cry worked free, "No!" But there was no other way around it. She would have to give up Jack's child for adoption.
Sighing, she snuggled deeper into her bed, trying to avoid further confrontation with reality. There was no other option. Suddenly, she sat straight up, more bad news racing through her already exhausted mind. If she wanted to continue living here, and have her baby in a hospital, she'd have to get a job.
After trying to delay getting out of bed, Rose finally psyched herself into going out. As soon as she was dressed, Rose trekked to the small café nearby, for some breakfast. A "Help Wanted" sign hung brightly in the window, catching her eye. After a moment's thought, she dashed in.
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During the last four months, Jack hadn't lost hope of finding Rose again. Every red head he saw, he would stop. Every customer he had, he'd inquire if they'd heard of Rose DeWitt Bukator. They hadn't.
He'd spent the last months drawing portraits in Central Park, for 10 cents apiece. It was decent job, and he got to do what he loved. Jack was getting enough business, so that he could leave his park bench (although he'd grown rather fond of it), and move to a nearby apartment.
He could even spare money for paint and a canvas, which he worked on during the nights. The painting was almost finished. It depicted a young woman with unruly auburn curls, standing near the railing of a ship. By just looking at it, you could almost feel the wind and smell the ocean. It was perfect, except the woman had no face.
That evening, Jack sat down before the painting, and spent two hours, just looking at it. Suddenly, he began working with fervor. By morning, Rose was smiling at a paint splattered Jack from her place by the railing of the ship.
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August 2, 1912
Rose knew it now. When her monthly bleeding had stopped and hadn't occurred again for the past four months, she suspected. But now, as her stomach was starting to round noticeably, she couldn't deny it. Rose was pregnant with Jack's child.
She was ambiguous, as though she couldn't decide how to feel. Part of her was giddy, ecstatic. She would have something of Jack to hold, something tangible.
Then again, she felt terrible. She didn't have the money to support a child. Cal's money was running low, and she didn't have any means of income. A horrible realization came over her. "I have to give up Jack's child," she murmured, almost not believing it. A strangled cry worked free, "No!" But there was no other way around it. She would have to give up Jack's child for adoption.
Sighing, she snuggled deeper into her bed, trying to avoid further confrontation with reality. There was no other option. Suddenly, she sat straight up, more bad news racing through her already exhausted mind. If she wanted to continue living here, and have her baby in a hospital, she'd have to get a job.
After trying to delay getting out of bed, Rose finally psyched herself into going out. As soon as she was dressed, Rose trekked to the small café nearby, for some breakfast. A "Help Wanted" sign hung brightly in the window, catching her eye. After a moment's thought, she dashed in.
**************************************************************************** ***********************************
During the last four months, Jack hadn't lost hope of finding Rose again. Every red head he saw, he would stop. Every customer he had, he'd inquire if they'd heard of Rose DeWitt Bukator. They hadn't.
He'd spent the last months drawing portraits in Central Park, for 10 cents apiece. It was decent job, and he got to do what he loved. Jack was getting enough business, so that he could leave his park bench (although he'd grown rather fond of it), and move to a nearby apartment.
He could even spare money for paint and a canvas, which he worked on during the nights. The painting was almost finished. It depicted a young woman with unruly auburn curls, standing near the railing of a ship. By just looking at it, you could almost feel the wind and smell the ocean. It was perfect, except the woman had no face.
That evening, Jack sat down before the painting, and spent two hours, just looking at it. Suddenly, he began working with fervor. By morning, Rose was smiling at a paint splattered Jack from her place by the railing of the ship.