The morning of December 20, 1920 – Philadelphia, PA

I never truly intended to return to this place. But here I was, staring up at my girlhood ceiling, reading and making mustaches on faces in Ladies' Home Journal while my mother brought me food and propped up my pillows.

"Really, Rose. You're an adult," Mother observed while glimpsing at my artistically-altered magazine as I added some flames to a duck-shaped tea cozy on page 13.

"Really?" I asked incredulously. "Shocking."

Mother sighed loudly.

"What else do expect me to do?" I asked again, this time seriously. "I've read this stupid thing two times over," I shook the magazine, "and I'm stuck in here all day. Oh, I feel terrible," I flopped back on the pillows.

"Well, you have tuberculosis if you haven't noticed."

"I'm convalescing. I'm a convalescent. I don't feel convalesced."

"You are the least patient and most stubborn person I can imagine. You're lucky to be alive," she snapped. "You better think of something with which to entertain yourself. I'm taking a trip today. I'll be back late tonight."

"I thought you said I couldn't be left alone. Where are you going?"

"Out."

"Anything more you'd like to add, Mother?"

"You played dead for eight—almost nine—years and suddenly there's a problem when I won't tell where I'm going one day? I'll be back tonight. I've brought you some food. If you require anything more go to the kitchen, but don't wander about anymore and waste your energy," (At this point I was really ready to start mouthing her words along with her in ridiculous fashion), "You should take a bath; you could use one." And with that she left.

Just after she was gone I had a terrible and strange realization. I was alone in the house. This gigantic house that needed an army of servants to run it. I had never been alone in here. I remembered, as a teenager, wanting nothing more than for everyone in this whole damn mansion to disappear and go away. And now they were all gone and it was just me. It smelled musty all over.

Maybe she's gone Christmas shopping, I thought to myself. But she only had me to shop for now. She barely even spoke to her sister, Helena, who gave her a little cash every now and then.

I obliged my mother and took a bath. I got myself dressed and looked to see what victims I might have missed in Ladies' Home Journal. After I finished my juice and muffin, I found myself still hungry and retreated to the kitchen. It was large and empty for the most part; I would venture down here sometimes as a child and listen to the maids chatter about the picture show and sometimes sex.

While concentrating on getting better and repairing my relationship with my mother, I spent much of my time thinking about George and Emily as well as Sonny and the others in New York. Had Emily died, there would be no way for me to know. The papers about the September 16th bombing said nothing about an Emily Dawson. Nothing at all.

I thought about Jack too. If you love someone deeply and he dies, do you love him forever? Yes. It is true in my case. But if you lose this person like that, are you in love with him forever? Sometimes it felt like it. I daydreamed about Jack Dawson all the time when I was with Manuel. When Holden left me, I turned to the memory of Jack's love as comfort. Everything came back to Jack.

But Jack had been gone for years. There was only me.

Over these years I had grown darker and harder. While I still felt that under most circumstances, I could connect with people, few people could understand what I'd gone through. Few people would tolerate the choices I'd made. When I was with George I felt…at home.

George wasn't just someone who would listen to my opinions and tell me that it's okay to be a strong woman. It wasn't just that he lost like I did and knew what I went through. When we looked at each other—even before the slightest feeling of sexual tension surfaced—we were on the same level. We were such natural friends. How could it come to this?

I can come up with a thousand reasons, but in the end, there is no good reason as to why you truly love someone. Try it. Pick anyone, your mother, your brother, your lover, your best friend. You can name a thousand reasons about how they make you laugh, or their understanding, or how safe you feel when you're with them. But why, exactly, do you love them? But there is no one truth. You cannot verbalize; you cannot explain. You simply love.

Even that one kiss still sent shock waves from my toes up to my heart every time I thought about it. First love, second love. Your first time with another person or your hundredth. Even if I'd never touched him or never would… Love is love.

I loved George without measure. I loved him without reason.

It would have been torture to go for years and never tell him how I felt and, worse, I imagined, seeing him fall in love again. If all that could be so terrible, I could barely stand what happened now.

The afternoon of December 20, 1920 – New York, NY

Ruth DeWitt Bukater stepped off the train at Grand Central with an address in hand. That morning she selected the most dignified yet simple outfit she could find that would give her an air of authority. She had always told her daughter to dress for the occasion whether it was written on an invitation or your imagination. Ruth had a clear picture of her goal; her dress and composure reflected it.

Every time she brushed shoulders with a scruffy character she seized up a bit, but refused to flinch. She was reduced to lifting her dress an inch or two above the ankle to keep it from dragging in the muck of dirt, food, and animal waste covering the sidewalks of Hell's Kitchen.

It was near lunchtime when she arrived at the 18th Precinct. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and walked into the cramped, musty lobby. Most of the officers stopped upon seeing this small, but rather formidable-looking upper class matron.

One approached her and began to speak, but Mother cut him off.

"I'm looking for Lieutenant Calvert," she said firmly.

"Uh, he's in his office, M'am. What's your business here?"

"My business is certainly none of yours," she said, scandalized that someone would ask her so direct a question.

"Well, if I go get you the Lieutenant I need to know your business. This is the police, not some sorta social gathering. So unless you want to dance, lady, you better be straight here."

"You are a rude young man. To think I came all this way for such treatment! And my business concerns a missing woman. Are you quite stupid? If someone like me even knows the name of a man like your Lieutenant, don't you believe my business here would be of some import? I'll talk to Mr. Calvert now, not one of his lackeys, thank you very much."

"Who the hell…?" A large, dark-haired man emerged from the hallway as he slammed a rickety office door, making the glass shudder.

"You," said Ruth as she approached him, "are you Lieutenant Calvert?"

"Depends on who's asking?" The detective folded his arms. Mother didn't like him. At least Jack Dawson was clean-shaven, young and fresh, physically unimposing. This Calvert looked like he hadn't shaved in a week when he normally had a five o'clock shadow. He was very tall and broad-shouldered. He was still a relatively young man, but he had little youthful glow about him.

"You should know perfectly well who I am," Mother insisted.

"I don't and you're wasting your time, lady," Calvert turned around and walked away.

"Turn around and look at me. You must know who I am!" Mother's voice grew higher, but she refused to give way to any weakness.

"Good God…" George Calvert scratched his beard as he got a closer look at Ruth.

"I need to speak with you privately," she said.

Unsure of what to do or what information she had, George let her in his office and closed the door.

"What do you know, what do you want to know, and what do you need to know?" Calvert asked. They stood on either side of Calvert's messy desk.

"Very well," Ruth began. "I am Ruth DeWitt Bukater. Recently—since this September—my daughter has returned to me. I am aware of what has passed between your young friend, Miss Dawson and Caledon Hockley. I too knew Miss Dawson's cousin. To calm my daughter's nerves, I would like to know whether Miss Dawson or anyone else she cares about is alright." Calvert said nothing. "I'm finished with that part. You can answer."

"Emily is alive and well. I am the only one here who knows of her location for the time being," George answered. "Tell…your daughter that…everyone she need worry about otherwise has been exposed and is in jail."

"What? Who does she need to worry about?"

"Well, m'am, I guess your little girl is always a little tight-lipped. She did some undercover work here with the Irish mob. Nothing too deep. She can rest easy now," he said with a bitter smile.

"Rest easy?" Ruth shouted with venom, "Rest easy? You fool!"

"Me?" he pointed to himself in indignation.

"She's been ill these past months, very ill. She almost died, you good-for-nothing!" Ruth calmed herself. "She suffers from T.B. And how—God knows why—she seems to suffer without you and your little friend."

George said nothing.

"Well?" Ruth prodded. "Have you nothing to say for yourself? Have you any soul? I would have thought you cared for her. She certainly cares for you. But then again I'm usually inclined to disagree with her judgment," she gave Calvert another cold sizing-up with her eyes and grabbed a pen and paper from her purse. "Should you be interested in contacting us again, we are here."

Ruth DeWitt Bukater left the police station and got herself lost on the way back to the train station for a good half hour. She was tired and ill-tempered after traveling so far alone, wandering through a filthy neighborhood, and being treated so horribly. But she had met her goal. The rest was not up to her.