(Jack)

The following days passed with little outside the pain and disorientation. I couldn't move myself, but pride lay forgotten as I faded in and out of consciousness. They were amazed I hadn't given up. They couldn't understand that I had refused to. The shivering grew worse the warmer they attempted to get me. Maybe it was a good sign.

Live. I focused on the word. I focused on the beautiful, amazing colors around me even in the small room that had become my haven. I focused on anything I could to keep myself conscious until the times they told me to rest. They kept me away from the other survivors and under constant watch. Whispers of a miracle were passed around under breath as well as the danger I still lay in. Honestly, I didn't pay much mind. With each day that I improved the more I became aware. Of course the questions came. At first I didn't respond because I wasn't able to or didn't understand. Then I soon found, I didn't have the answers.

"What is your name, son?"

He was one of the doctors, I learned. My head swarmed with confusion. Why should such a simple question do that? The meaning behind the confusion hit hard.

"I…I don't know."

They spent some time after that, questioning me further. They couldn't figure if the loss was from emotional trauma or a lingering effect of the hypothermia. The only hope, the only comfort they were able to give me was to give it time. Time, they said. Perhaps I would regain it. Their biggest concern was getting my body temperature back up to where it should be. Apparently I had been the worst case. They hadn't expected me to recover.

The memory never came back. Some faces flickered in and out of my mind, but no names, no places. They began to tire from calling me 'that patient', or 'the man who lost his memory'. We decided to call me John. It was a good, Christian name they said. Who was I to argue? John Calvert until I ever learned my own. A young woman suggested it. Rachel Spinner. She was a volunteering passenger I quickly learned. She often came in to talk, and claimed it was a last name of one of her old friends from before her family moved to New York. I found it sounded nice.

I never left the cabin until we had docked in New York. Once there, I was still far too weak to walk and needed to be taken to a nearby hospital for some time. They had scanned around, asking if anyone was looking for a young man meeting my description. Apparently there were a wide number of responses, some so frantic they feared to take them in to see me. Women, longing for lost loves. Children, looking for fathers, for brothers. Mothers, anxious to find their sons. None of them recognized me. Except for one.

An older women, distinctively upper class. Her eyes were tired and red from tears. She stared at me like I was with plague.

"Where is my daughter?" The words were quietly spoken with anger.

"I'm sorry. I don't…"

"Where is Rose!"

A nurse approached the woman, attempting to explain. "I'm sorry, M'am, do you know who this man is? He's been bad off and can't even remember his own name. I am going to have to ask you not to upset him."

"After all the upset he has caused myself and my daughter I hardly think I need to spare him any of it," she replied in a biting tone. She turned sharply back to me. "I will ask you again, Mr. Dawson, where is my daughter?"

Mr. Dawson, the name ran through my memories but I still couldn't place it. Apparently that is what this woman knew me as. But who could be sure? Had I done something terrible? Was her daughter there when they rescued me? Did I leave her to die? My heart suddenly seized with worry.

"I don't know."

I looked back at the women. There was something about her hair…and the eyes. So familiar. I found I wanted forgiveness for something I didn't even know I did.

"Please…I don't know what I did, to you or your daughter, but I don't think I would have done anything on purpose to hurt you. Either of you. Maybe I'm wrong. I can't remember anything. I damn well wish I did. Anything at all. What happened with your daughter?"

The woman's breath hitched. Her face gave away the sorrow. I realized then that the anger towards me was more to cover her pain than anything I could have done.

"If it's to forget that you want, then I too will allow you to be forgotten. I lost her because of you. I hope you rot in this bed, Mr. Dawson. That you should live when my Rose…" Her voice broke, the tears fell. There was nothing else said as she quickly made her way to the door.

"Sir?" The nurse's voice caught my attention easily, despite her quietness. "Sir, she called you Mr. Dawson. Is that your name?"

I thought for a moment but decided until I knew more, I would keep the temporary name. But it was a start to finding out the answers I needed.

"My name is still John Calvert, for now." I offered her a brief smile and she nodded back with one of her own.

"Well, Mr. Calvert, get some rest. The doctor will be in to check on you later."

Left to my thoughts, I promised myself I would get out of this place and get well. In every sense of the word. My thoughts drifted to an unknown woman by the name of Rose.

A.N.- Again, with the taking some liberties with the John Calvert bit...but it's my story, right? ;)