Chapter Twenty-Two
November 12th, 1913
New York City, New York
"Jack! Jack, are you here?" Frenchie's voice bellowed up the stairwell, coming muffled through his door. Jack was lying on his stomach in bed, his arm dangling off the edge. His eyes gazed towards the door, but he made no move to get up. His white shirt button up was left undone, his white undershirt exposed and pressed flat to his springy mattress, "Jack!" His name reached his ears again. Jack sighed as he heard the sounds of boots, "Jack, I'm coming up!" Jack pressed his face into his pillow as he heard his bedroom door swing open and made out the sound of two sets of feet on the floor. Jack ground his teeth together, "Jack, are you okay?"
Jack turned his face outwards now to peer up at a concerned Frenchie and Iris. Iris had her hands clasped in front of her as she gazed down on him. She took a slight step forward, but Jack began to speak, stopping her, "I'm fine."
"Then... why are you still in bed?" Frenchie asked, glancing towards the window, "It's nearly eleven in the morning."
Jack squinted as he also looked at the window, then back to Frenchie, "What does it matter?"
"I'm worried about you," Frenchie told him, crossing his arms over his chest, "You disappeared after the art show. You came down for just a glass of water yesterday. And it looks like you were on track to continue that spree today."
"I'm just tired," Jack cast his eyes down to their shoes, sinking his head further into his pillow, "Is it a crime to spend a day in bed?"
"No, no," Frenchie held in an exasperated sigh, "I'm worried. You're not feeling ill, right? Being out in that rain didn't make you sick?"
"Nothing like that," Jack croaked, lifting his eyes to Frenchie now, "I'm just tired. Okay?"
"When will you come back downstairs?" Frenchie asked, a frown forming on his lips, "I miss your company. We've finally got some downtime before the holiday fiasco's start. Let's use it wisely, hm?"
Jack sighed and rolled onto his back, rubbing his eyes pensively, "This is how I want to spend my downtime, Frenchie," He snapped, his eyes glued to the ceiling, his face rock hard.
"Oh..." Frenchie muttered. After a moment, he simply left the room. Jack sighed again, looking towards where Frenchie was once standing. He cursed under his breath and closed his eyes for a moment.
Iris stood silently where she was, hugging herself at her elbows. She glanced towards Jack's bedroom door, but paused, looking back to Jack tangled up in his bed sheets. Iris could tell Jack looked miserable. Something had happened. Iris picked at her nail for a moment and cleared her throat, finally having the courage to speak up, "I think this has somethin' to do with what happened at the end of the art show."
"Oh, and what's that?" Jack asked, still resigned to staring at the rafters.
"I don't know," Iris shrugged, "You tell me. You're the only said he would later."
Jack shook his head, "That's just it. Nothing happened."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
Jack opened his mouth, but his voice failed to come out. He paused, huffing, and flaring his nostrils in frustration, "Nothing," He finally said, "Just... forget it," Jack slumped his head back into his pillow.
"No, I don't want to just forget it," Iris approached his bedside, throwing her hands at her side, "Whatever happened, it's confined you to bed. I can see how horribly shaken up you are. I know you, Jack. Better than you think I do."
His eyes slowly rolled towards her, "Nothing happened."
Iris pursed her lips for a moment, a fire growing in her stomach. She turned away from Jack and slammed the door after her. Jack sighed as he listened to her heels clunk down the stairs. The rafters resounded after the shake for a few moments before quieting down. Jack listened to the cold wind rustle outside, occasional rain drops pelting the glass. He folded his hands together over his stomach and laid there in misery. He rolled onto his side to face the wall, but something beneath him crumpled. Jack rolled back, propping himself up on his elbow. He reached into his carelessly disregarded coat pocket and pulled out five envelopes, all numbered, with his name written delicately across the front.
Jack heaved a sigh, falling back onto his pillow and holding the letters up in front of his eyes. He trembled at the thought of recalling her holding them, touching them. He ground his teeth together and cursed again, "Dammit, Rose. Why? Why do you do this to me!?" He dropped the letters beside him on his bed and spread his arms and legs out around him, "Ever since I first saw you, I've done nothing but pine after you like some sort of love-sick puppy. Why is the timing never right? Why is it never just me...?"
He closed his eyes, his voice strained, "That's what I get, huh, Rose? This is just what happens when a poor boy likes a rich girl. I guess you can never just be mine," He sighed, shaking his head, "I'm a fuckin' chump," He said, looking at his rafters miserably.
...
Rose had to call out of work. She just felt like she couldn't face anybody outside her door at the moment. After she had used Edgar's phone, she had hurried to a nearby street vendor and returned to her house just as quick. It was a gloomy day outside. She came in through her apartment door and shrugged out of her peacoat. Before she hung it on the wrack, she reached into the pocket and fished out the pack of cigarettes she had just purchased. She crossed to her window, pushing it open, uncaring of the drizzle outside. Rose grabbed a stool from her breakfast bar and pressed her shoulders to the cool wall as she lit her cigarette, making sure to get most of the smoke out the window.
She sighed and glanced out the window as the morning began. Rose shivered at the thought of Tim walking to the diner, probably right that moment. He would be surprised to find Rose had not come in. She knew it only would be a matter of time before Tim came knocking on her door. Rose trembled as she thought about seeing him again. She didn't want to. When she thought of Tim, all she felt was foolish.
"Who was I kidding?" She muttered to herself, tapping her ash out the window. Upon seeing Jack, Rose felt such an overwhelming amount of conflicting feelings. In the first moment, she thought all of her questions had been answered upon seeing his face. But in the next moment, she couldn't but felt she slipped into a pitfall, that she had damned herself. But now Rose knew one thing for certain. She raised her green eyes, watching as the rain began to steadily pick up in pace. The people on the street copied in suit, dashing for cover. Rose heaved a sigh, placing her cigarette between her lips. She knew now that Tim was not the one for her. She had used him as a placeholder.
Rose felt her stomach constrict at the thought. She blinked rapidly as a chilly gust swept by her window. She had really fooled herself, hadn't she? She had herself completely obliged to the idea Tim could actually replace Jack. How could she be so stupid? Rose flicked her cigarette out the window and slammed the window shut. She immediately crossed back to the door, pulling on her peacoat, grabbing her purse, and reaching for an umbrella. She glanced around her apartment for a moment before sighing and heading out the door.
She felt like needed to walk. To clear her mind. And Rose absolutely knew she could not be here when Tim stopped by.
...
Jack started when he woke up, but sunk back into his pillow, rubbing his eyes. He glanced to his clock to realize he had fallen asleep for nearly two hours and it was drawing into the afternoon. The rain had picked up and pelted against the building crookedly, powerful gusts whipping the trees back and forth. Jack paused, listening to the thunder ring out overhead. He rotated himself in bed slightly and paused, when he realized he was bending some of the envelopes Rose had given him. He stared at them for a moment, gradually his unexpected nap rolling off his shoulders. He reached for the first envelope and tore it open. Jack was slightly disappointed to see she had not handwritten the note, but he was pleased to see she had doodled a heart in the top right hand corner of the paper. Jack held it between his hands as he gained the courage to read it.
June 13th, 1912
Dear Jack,
There's not a moment that has passed in these eight weeks when you did not occupy my mind. I've graciously been offered housing at the Women's Clinic of North New York City until I can find my bearings since the entire ordeal. I don't know what's left for me, Jack. I thought I wanted this. Part of me still thinks I do. I suppose I'm just not used to being alone. I never have been before. New York City is different than how I remember. Maybe I'm just seeing it without those rose-colored glasses my mother insisted I wear throughout my childhood. There's something spectacular seeming about New York City, yet most nights I lie awake wondering if I could ever find something of that magnitude again. Something 'spectacular'. Like you were. Like our time together was...
One thing eats away at me constantly. I never had the chance to ask you, Jack, what you were coming back to America for? Why had your journeys in Europe stopped? Part of me wishes you never had made that decision. I wish you had never boarded the Titanic. That way, you could have continued to live. But then... we never would have met and I'm left making circles in my mind. Every night, I try to see you in my dreams, but you're never there. Other people are, but never you. It drives me crazy, Jack. Am I damned to never see your face again? Is my mind trying to make me forget what you ever looked like? I could never forget you... why does my mind insist, as if it will make things easier for me?
There's a local therapist to the clinic who comes and visits on Tuesday and Thursday's. His name is Dr. Wilson. The clinic insists on each one of us patients spending a few hours with him a week to discuss things. All week, I feel like I have this mounting of words growing in me, an endless disorganized manifesto to tell this man, yet when I walk into that uncomfortably sterile room, with stiff leather chairs, all my words disappear. Dr. Wilson and I will spend the next hour only making small talk. Answering minute questions that answer none of my growing fears and anxieties about the future. I just feel like I can't open up anymore, Jack. I gave you that key and it was lost with you. I'm beginning to worry that I'll never feel comfortable with anybody again, like I was with you.
I'm trying for you, Jack. It's all I have left to do.
Forever yours, Rose
Jack sat up as he finished the letter. He sat criss cross on his bed, the rain drops pattering against his windowsill. He placed his fist to his lips for a moment as he lost himself in his mind. Jack glanced to the letter in his hand before he folded it, pensively looking to his lips and eyeing letter number two. His hands shook momentarily before reached for it, ripping the envelope open and carelessly disregarding it on the floor.
September 26th, 1912
Dear Jack,
The days since Titanic seem to flow past me and yet, the pain has not lessened in any way for me. Most days I've sat wondering if any other survivors are having as hard as a time as me coming to terms. I know I have to accept what happened. But I don't. Not in the least. There are so many unanswered questions, so many things that have no justification. How am I just supposed to accept anything? I can't allow myself to be brushed aside anymore, Jack. Given a stupid shit-eating grin and a laugh, pat on the head, told not to worry about such things.
If you were still here, forced to deal with the aftermath of this fiasco, do you think you would still stand by what you did before? Do you think you would still believe in all the things you did? I'm trying, Jack. I'm trying to believe in everything you did. Some days, I miss living in the clinic. Everyone there would call me Ms. Dawson. It felt so wonderful hearing your name said aloud again. It's the whole reason I took your name, Jack. Just for that chance of someone saying it, making a tingle run down my spine. Rose Dawson. I think you would have liked the way it sounded.
I think if we would have survived together, we would still believe in all those things... and maybe even more. I'm doing my best to hold it down, Jack. I've gotten my own apartment since leaving the clinic. I even have gotten a job. Just as a waitress, but it gets me out of the house. It's teaching me what normal is, if there even is such a thing.
I saw the Wisconsin mountains and pine trees for the first time this month. I'd never been to Wisconsin before. It was beautiful, but everything seemed so far away in a state like that. The trees, though... you carry that scent with you, always. I wish I could have packaged all the pine trees up and taken them back to New York City with me. I would have planted them in my apartment so when I closed my eyes, I could pretend you were sitting next to me again. It's the little things you miss when someone is gone, Jack. Your scent, your mannerisms... that laugh. It's all that occupies my mind, trying to recall every moment with you, in hopes of finding comfort before another sleepless night.
Forever yours, Rose
Jack blinked rapidly, his eyes growing glossy. He reached for the next letter as tears brimmed his eyes. Again, he dropped the envelope to the ground, the read letters discarded in his lap as his eyes hungrily scanned the next.
November 5th, 1912
Dear Jack,
The day to your birthday is growing near. Twenty-one years old. It's a disservice to the world you were only able to be here for twenty years. The earth lost a sun they didn't even know they had. I've lost my entire universe it feels like. I celebrated my neighbor's fifthteenth birthday a few weeks ago. It's amazing how every year, we celebrate the birth of a human. I only wish I could the same for you. I'd bake you a cake, sing to you, embarrass you. Being at her birthday party, watching her relish in the center of attention, attended by people who obviously adored her... it made me long for the same thing for you, Jack.
November 8th will come and go, no one will even notice. And that breaks my heart. I realize now it's one of the most important days of my life. It was the day my savior was born. It's funny to think about, though, because you lived a whole three years on this earth before the person you were destined to save joined you. It's amazing to think, just north of me, growing up, you were alive. Living at the same time of me and we were completely oblivious to the other's life.
Why were our lives only destined to meet so briefly, Jack? I feel like us, together, needed well over a century. Wrapped in each other's arms, sharing our darkest secrets, warding off our most vile demons. I will always be grateful for the time we did have together but I will always be left wondering what could have really been. What would we have done together? Gone to the west coast, to find those damned rollercoasters we always spoke about? Drinking cheap beer state-to-state, collecting little sterling silver spoons to match our travels? Would we have finally settled down in an old house that had been deemed a fixer-upper? Would we have had children and raised them by all those things we used to believe in? About the sunset, about freedom, about living?
I'm sat here, ten years away from my body, just wondering... what could have been between you and I, Jack Dawson? What would we have finally done if not confined to the center of the ocean amongst our daydreaming? I will always wonder what we would have done, Jack. And I will never stop.
Forever yours, Rose
Jack closed his eyes for the briefest moment, pressing the edge of the letter to his forehead. He exhaled unevenly as a gust of wind rattled his window pane. He swallowed roughly, dropping the letter into his lap. He reached for the next one, his cheeks tear stained, and his brow knitted together as he braced himself for the next letter.
July 3rd, 1913
Dear Jack,
It's been awhile since I last confided in you. But, still, not a day has passed where you haven't been apart of it. I've tried my bid at normalcy. I really did. And yet, I've fallen short again. At my job, there has been a constant customer by the name of Tim Calvert. He's a rather simple man, content by something as miniscule as a good brew of coffee. He's a lawyer here in New York City. For as long as I have served at this diner, Mr. Calvert has come every morning for the same coffee and the same breakfast. I even learned just how he liked his coffee brewed.
It seemed, for awhile, he was interested in me. My co-workers and boss constantly teased me over the idea he was sweet on me. No matter what, I was the one who always served him. I eventually gave in to the idea of seeing him outside of work. I will admit, Jack, it felt wonderful to simply have someone to sit in a room with again. To feel the presence of somebody. But, like I've realized, the key to me is missing. There is no replacement. Not even a skeleton key could fix me.
Tim genuinely is a good guy, but I can't give myself into him. I try, for the sake of normalcy, Jack, but I simply can't. I can never give my full-self to him as I was so easily able to do you. And I've realized this more recently. I met Tim's family at his parent's anniversary party. He has a large family. A normal family. One's that weren't at each other's necks, offering silent treatments and cold shoulders. They all seemed so... happy, in a way. They exuded a happiness I was unfamiliar with. It was heartwarming but almost... disheartening at the same time. I thought myself to be a rather odd one out. I wondered why Tim would even give me as much as a second glance.
I tried to off-put this feeling. I tried to fight it. All for the sake of finding a groove, a sense of normalcy. That damned word again. I was so obsessed over it. As if it would magically happen and I would know. In this friviolous stage of disengagement, I attempted to give my full-self to Tim in a way I had given to you. Physically. With my eyes closed, I could briefly imagine it was you I was sharing those kisses with again, feeling you inside of me once more, like it was meant to be. But he'd touch me with those hands, Jack, and it would shatter the illusion. They didn't feel like you. They were missing the callouses, the rough grooves, the ones that gave you the dignification of an artist of many ways. Tim's hands are too soft. They didn't feel right. Not like your hands did.
And now I just feel awful about myself, Jack. All I can think about is how I felt all those months ago, laid up in bed, tangled in the sheets of the clinic room. I remember distinctly looking at the full moon just outside my window, crying, and thinking with you gone, I had truly lost my shot at true love. I told myself it was you. It could only be you. I wish I had given up right there in that clinic bedroom, wrapped up in those sheets. I wish I would have made myself believe that then. Why did I have to prove it to myself? My heart only bleeds more, my entire insides shake at the thought of what I did to put myself into this entire new world of hurt.
I miss you more than anything, Jack. I miss the ways you allowed me to touch the stars.
Forever yours, Rose
Jack dropped the letter into his lap and rubbed his face, his cheeks tinging red. His heart was thudding in his chest, his breathing shallow, as he thought about Rose. He thought about what she had lived through in the past year. It was enough to make his heart break. He exhaled unevenly, reaching for the final letter, which he guessed would be more recent. His eyes fleetingly glanced to the date, considering what he had been doing while she had been sitting in front of a typewriter, printing his name over and over again.
October 1st, 1913
Dear Jack,
It's been a year since I have been in Wisconsin, but if I close my eyes and imagine the trees, I can remember the aroma they put off into the air. That sharp and nearly musky scent that was so intoxicating about you, wafting through the ocean air. Can you believe it? It's been nearly a year and a half since I last saw you, but I still know how you smell. It's one of the very few ways I can still remember you, though. I can still see that sandy blond hair, those blue eyes, that smile... but the smell evokes something physical in me. It's what I cling to now.
My endeavor for normalcy has subsided. I think I'm beginning to understand how to simply live in this world, finally. My parents spent so much money sending me to a finishing school and yet, it seems rather useless to me now. I don't live in anyway they had predicted for me. They didn't teach you what to do when you fell in love with another man while engaged to someone else. I've created quite the mess for myself, haven't I? I imagine you were good at cleaning things like this up...
That feeling is still not gone, Jack. Even as I have continued to see Tim, all I can imagine is if it was you. When I walk along the street, I pretend you're beside me. I hold an internal conversation between us. I know, it sounds crazy. I feel crazy reading it back, but the ink is set and facts are facts. I cannot get over you. Not now, not ever. Nothing will make these feelings go away, Jack. I'm worried they'll continue to bloat me, bigger and bigger, until I simply burst and cannot go a moment more without you. The days are only counting until then, when I can finally be reunited with you.
But still, I'll try for you. As I always have done.
Forever yours, Rose
Jack swept his legs over the side of his bed, allowing all the letters to flutter to the ground and splay out around him. He raked his hand through his hair, some tear drops gleaming on his cheeks as he looked over the lot of them. He sighed and dipped his head down, resting his sweaty hand on the back of his neck. All of these confessions lay before him. Jack squeezed his eyes shut at the thought of Rose's face that night he saw her. How hurt, confused, confunded she looked.
He raised his head and looked towards his window, clenching his fists. He watched the rain wash against the window pane over and over again. Jack closed his eyes and released the slightest breath, "Rose, I'm sorry."
...
Rose had been walking for hours around New York City in the rain. She kept one hand dug deep into her peacoat, the other holding the umbrella over her head. Not many people wandered the street given the weather conditions. Rose felt as if she hadn't given anything a fleeting thought, but she supposed she had thought about some things as she found herself standing outside the building for Tim's law office.
Rose paused and took a deep breath, glancing towards the glossy wet brick beside her. Some business men arriving from a late lunch brushed past her and through the glass doors leading into the checkered marbled room of the foyer. Rose finally willed herself to follow in their steps. She pressed her shoulder to the cold and wet door, folding her umbrella as she entered the realtively quiet building. There was the faint sound of typewriters and shoes to carpet, but Rose ignored it all, her eyes locked on the elevator that would take her up.
Rose shook her umbrella for a moment and stepped forward, her black heels clunking on the marble and resounding off all the walls around her. She allowed herself to step purposefully, meaningfully, briskly towards the elevator. The elevator attendant flashed her a smile.
"Which floor, ma'am?" He asked, sliding the gate closed after Rose.
She took a moment to breath before looking to the attendant, "The twelth level, please."
When she arrived, Rose looked to the familiar hunter green carpet with the yellow vine design weaving down the length of the long hallway. Rose walked slowly, holding her umbrella firmly at her side. She paused, swallowing roughly as she looked at a door that had TIM CALVERT LAWYER printed across it. She lowered her eyes and took a deep breath, flaring her nostrils.
After she had a few seconds to compose herself, she knocked on the door and was beckoned inside by his friendly voice. Rose walked through the door and stopped when she saw Tim sitting at his desk. Law books surrounded him, one bright light pouring over him, as he scoured every last sentence in the six books, extensively taking notes as he did so. When he saw it was Rose, however, he immediately paused, swinging the lamp away from him and standing up.
"Rose, it's nice to see you," He grinned pleasantly, coming around his desk to greet her.
Rose closed the door behind her, laying her umbrella up against the wall. She looked to Tim, nearly trembling in his gaze. He pressed his hands to his hips and cleared his throat.
"Did you want some coffee? Are you feeling alright? I didn't see you at the diner this morning," Tim said, gesturing for her to take a seat. Rose didn't move, though.
"I feel fine," Rose told him, glued in place as she gazed at him. Behind him, the large wall length windows were drenched in the rain coming down, "I just... I need my space sometimes... you understand," Rose said, breathily.
"Is everything alright?" Tim asked, cocking a bold brow up.
"I think so," Rose nodded, "I just... I wanted to see you," Rose crossed to Tim, standing in front of him now, "I wanted to kiss you. That's all," She whispered, gazing into those familiar hazel eyes. Tim grinned at the gesture. Rose couldn't muster the muscles to pull her lips in the upright direction. Instead, she slowly brought her hand up, grazing his smooth jawline, and drawing him into her. She met his lips firmly, allowing herself to fully engage in the kiss. Rose closed her eyes, tilting her head to the side. The thunder rumbled lowly above them, but still their kiss continued.
After a few moments, they paused, and Rose looked into his eyes, "Thank you," She whispered, "I'll let you get back to work now."
Rose began towards the door, reaching for her umbrella, but Tim's voice beckoned after her, "You know, Rose..." He grinned, rubbing the nape of his neck, "I certainly wouldn't mind if you made more interruptions like that in the future."
Rose paused, glancing towards her umbrella, and then back to Tim, grinning weakly, "I will keep that in mind, Tim. I'll see you later," She slipped out the door, trying to mask any hurry that she was in. She decided to take the stairs down, unwilling to wait for the elevator. After she had barrelled down two flights she stopped, in the barren concrete stairwell. Her shoulders fell up and down heavily as she fell against a wall, tears brimming her eyes.
The kiss had sealed it. Tim wasn't the one for her. She compared his lips to Jack's over and over again. Rose rubbed her eyes as they grew stingingly red. She sighed unevenly, her head bonking against the concrete wall. That brief kiss Jack gave her those few nights ago resounded more than any kiss she had shared with Tim in the past year.
With wet eyes, Rose looked towards the next stairwell down, leading towards her exit. She knew where her feet would take her to next. How could she stay away?
"I'm a spoiled brat," Rose whispered, coming to the top of the stairs as some lone tears streaked down her cheeks, "I want what I can't have and I'll be damned if it's forbidden."
Rose cast one more glance up towards the stairwells behind her, the ones that lead her back to Tim. But Rose pursed her lips and shook her head, now looking in front of her at the stairs that beckoned her down, back towards what she always longed for and desired. Without a second thought, Rose lifted her skirt and descended, her umbrella tucked under her arm.