Chapter Seven

April 14th, 1913
New York City, New York

When Rose opened her eyes, the sound of the Atlantic Ocean was washing through her ears. She could hear the frazzled clatter of shoes to the deck. She could hear screaming, crying, praying. The noises caused her entire body to shudder and she turned on her side, facing the window that had light streaming through it. Another night and yet another dream about the Titanic. She could recall the smell of fresh flowers on the tables, the way the smooth glossy woodwork felt along her hand. She saw the grand staircase with it's large bubble-like window and she heard her heels echo on the freshly polished terrazzo flooring. But what frustrated her the most was she never saw Jack. She saw all kinds of fleeting faces, but none were of the most important passenger aboard that vessel.

One whole year, she couldn't believe it. It'd be an entire year since she had last seen him, touched him, kissed him... She balled the quilt up in her hand, pulling it closer to her. Rose's body ached, it quivered. It longed for Jack. In that moment, she was prisoner to every memory she had captured in her mind of him. Tears came out of her eyes freely, she didn't stop them. She allowed the tears to soak into her goosedown pillow, trying her hardest to also muffle the sound of her sobs. She pressed her face into the pillow, willing herself to catch her breath. Rose turned of her back, pressing her palms to her eyes and exhaling unevenly.

Pull it together, she told herself, running her fingernails through her curls splayed around her on the pillows, Stop crying, dammit.

Rose sat up in bed, clutching the quilts to her oversized button-up. The apartment was quiet, save for the antique grandfather's clock she had found in a store. It ticked faithfully in the hallway, filling the presence of time into the apartment. It was a reminder Rose dearly needed. Rose pulled her robe on and went towards the kitchen, tying the sash over her crinkled shirt. She set the tea kettle on the stove and opened the curtains and window to a beautiful day, not much unlike that fateful day a year ago.

She sighed as she turned to gaze around her apartment. Rose happened to have the entire day off and she knew she would have to find something to do. But what? What would keep her the most occupied? Rose crossed to her desk and leaned over the back of chair, examining the pages of the short story splayed everywhere. She decided she would write. Quickly, she went to the kitchen and fixed herself of ginger tea, ideas already buzzing through her mind. Rose swept her hair into a messy bun and didn't even bother with dressing for the day. She thunked down in her seat, bundling her robe around her, and readying her fingers at the keys.

...

Jack slowly awoke to a ray of sun across his face from the window. He had forgotten to close his curtains the night before. He squinted against the light and turned the other direction, facing the wall. He let out a long sigh, knowing he needed to get up, but he simply didn't feel like it. April 12th had been looming on his horizon for awhile and now the dark clouds were directly overhead. Luckily, Frenchie was not coming in today. He and Iris were spending the day with their mother.

Jack finally cracked his eyes open to look at the grainy wood in front him. He rubbed his face and sniffled, tilting his head back on his thin pillow. Slowly, his eyes gazed further and further up the wall before stopping on Rose's face. He let out a sigh and reached for the paper, carefully plucking it from the wall. He lowered it just above his eyes and stared intently at her.

"A whole year, Rose..." He whispered, his voice husky with sleep, "Three-hundred and sixty five days without you," He cracked a weak smile, "I didn't think I'd survive, but look at me."

Jack stared at the picture of her, examining the details he had seen hundreds of times before. This was how she engraved into his mind. Happy. Carefree. Ready. That's how he would always remember her. As a girl who had bark, who wasn't afraid to reach for what she wanted. He panged with regret, however, at the thought of maybe making her go too far.

"I wish I could hear your voice," Jack felt a lump grow in his throat, "I almost wish you would yell at me, tell me all of this was my fault. You told me to leave you alone..." He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, "I should have known better, that I could have a woman like you. Either someone would take you away... or life itself, to keep you from me."

Jack's eyes grew wet and tears welled into the corners. He blinked rapidly, Rose's face growing bleary, "Why did you have to be the one that died? You had so much to give this world, Rose," He sighed unevenly, bringing the picture closer, "You were more than you ever thought you were. There was so much fight in you, I saw it..."

He lowered the picture to his bare chest and closed his eyes, "There was so much I didn't get to tell you... and I'm scared the same goes for you."

...

Rose decided to take a break over her own writing and take a book to the nice garden cafe a few street blocks over. It was a quaint little restaraunt and she liked every soup and sandwich she had ever tried there. It was realtively quiet most of the time, so Rose liked to go for a big salad and sandwich to have while she read. She found it comforting and a nice escape from reality.

The day was brisk and the wind felt good against her back as she went down the street, a book on George Washington tucked under her arm. It felt good to stretch her legs. She had been cramped up in her writing chair for nearly four hours, but had made substantial work on her short stories. She hoped to someday share them with somebody, but for now, she kept them secure under a desk weight shaped like a dove.

Rose turned a corner and just down the hill, she caught snippets of the gleaming river leading towards Manhattan. She could just barely see the neighboring city over the industrial part of town. She descended the hill and crossed the street, entering a small brick building covered in ivy leaves and accented with quaint black shutters.

There were a few people in for a quiet afternoon lunch, but there were many vacant tables. Rose chose the one closest to the door, beneath a large picture window. She ordered a cobb salad and a tuna fish sandwich, along with a cup of lemonade. As soon as the waitress left her table, she immediately cracked open her book, hungrily diving into the words, her environment sinking away from her. Because she was so fascinated with her book, she didn't notice the stranger gazing at her from across the diner.

Sitting along the opposite wall was Iris, Frenchie, and their mother, Irene. They had been served their soups and sandwiches not long ago. When the door opened, it was normal for everyone's eyes to wander over to the distraction. But when Iris set her eyes on the red headed woman in the buttercup yellow dress, something about her made Iris stop.

Slowly, Iris lowered her sterling spoon to the lip of her bowl, peering intently over someone's shoulder to catch a glimpse of the woman. She looked so familiar, she thought, as she gazed at the side of her face, where a few red curls framed the corner of her eye. The waitress brought the woman a cup of lemonade and she turned her face fully in Iris' direction. Those bright green eyes, those full pink lips, it had to be-

"Iris, what are you gawking at?" Her mother tore through her train of thought. The blonde girl immediately bucked up, looking back towards her family.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mama," Iris breathed, stirring her tomato soup, "Just thought I saw someone I knew..." She carefully peaked over her shoulder again at the red headed woman, sipping lemonade and bobbing her knee while she read. It had to be the girl in the painting. Iris knew it.

...

Frenchie and Irene decided to walk home for the evening. Iris detached from the group, claiming she had to grab some art supplies from the studio. She held her coat closed as the gusty evening breezed picked up as night descended. She fumbled for her own key to the studio and quietly let herself in, hoping not to let the door echo through the empty space. The main working are was lit. She figured Jack was still awake. Iris took a moment to finger her hair back into place. She glanced around the work space for a moment.

"Jack?" She whispered, her voice carrying through the garage. The back hallway leading to the machinery room was dark. Slowly, Iris took a few steps further into the room and called a bit louder, "Jack?" Her voice echoed through the empty room. She heard a creak of a door, however, towards the narrow and steep staircase leading to the attic.

"Iris?" It was Jack's voice coming down the stairs.

"It's me," Iris crossed to the bottom of the staircase, staring up at his silouette that had light pouring all around, "I need to talk to you. May I come up?"

"Is everything OK?"

"Yes, fine," Iris nodded, "I just need to talk to you."

"Alright, you can come up," Jack disappeared from the door. Iris glanced towards the studio for a moment before she began up the creaky stairs. Her heels felt so loud against each board. She thought she would never make it to the top. She entered Jack's room and stopped in the doorway.

It wasn't a large room by any means, but had enough space for a bed, a wash basin, a dresser, and a desk. A small water closet could be found towards the back, below some low hanging rafters. Jack was sitting in a chair in front of his window, which was open, allowing the cool breeze in. He was smoking a cigarette, simply staring outside. The milky moonlight bathed his tan complexion. It was enough to knock the breath out of Iris.

"So, what's going on?" Jack asked, lowering the cigarette from his lips, his blue eyes sliding over towards her.

Iris lowered her eyes for a moment, "I saw someone today. Someone I recognized."

"Who?"

"That girl," Iris said, looking directly at him, "from your paintings. The one with red hair. I saw her today, Jack. You told me she was dead."

Jack was to his feet in an instant, holding the cigarette down by his side. Every muscle was stiff in his body, his eyes only focused on Iris, "What are you talking about?"

"I saw her," Iris repeated, "at a cafe nearby where Frenchie, Mama, and I were. She came in to eat. She had that long curly red hair, those green eyes. You painted her so photo-realistic, I recognized her immediately on spot. She was reading a book and eating alone."

"It can't be," Jack's voice rose unsteadily, "She died, Iris. Her obituary is tacked on my wall. They buried her."

"I know what I saw!" Iris snapped back, curling her hands into fists, "It was her, Jack. Go see for yourself. It was Albert's Garden Cafe, on Forty-Second."

"No, it couldn't have been," Jack shook his head, throwing his cigarette out the window, "you just saw another red head, I promise you."

Iris looked to him angrily, "It was her!" And with that, she slammed the door behind her, not caring if her heels thundered down the steps. Jack's face was hard as stone as he looked at the door. Iris had to be playing a cruel joke on him. She had to know it was the anniversary. He let out an aggravated scoff and threw himself back in his chair, lighting another cigarette.