Hearts That Survive Part 14

"Glad I met you," S. J. said as John ran. The s.h.i.+p was listing even more, but he mustn't dwell on that. He rushed inside and went immediately to the writing desk. He had to finish the poem.

Taking the paper from the notebook where he'd tucked it, and a pen, he hurried from the room. He stopped to look where others were leaning over the deck and pointing. Far below, about five decks down, was seawater, deep green from the lights and noticeably creeping higher.

Forcing himself from the hypnotic scene, he made his way to the reception room, fighting through the throng trying to go somewhere, anywhere. He reached the room. It had not been cleaned. There hadn't been time. Three waiters sat around a table, tipping bottles of champagne to their mouths. No one spoke. There was nothing to say.

John had something to say to Lydia. But there was so little time for one's last words to the one he loved.

His life must not end with his work left undone. There wasn't time to follow his initial intent. The first quatrain was a simple love poem. The second was more serious, a.s.suring her of the depth of his love. Now he must quickly write. Yes, he would convert it into an Italian sonnet.

Form was not the important thing here but rather the words. He wrote quickly, from his heart. He signed it "John," and added a scripture reference. He folded it, ready to put it into his pocket as if water would not wash away the ink, the thoughts, the love, the words.

He stood, having finished.

Water entered and rolled across the floor.

The icy flow crept into his shoes.

A line from Emily d.i.c.kinson crossed his mind.

A word is dead when it is said, some say.

I say it just begins to live that day.

Her poetry had begun to live posthumously. Could his words, his love, his message live on and somehow reach his beloved wife, who had captured his heart? Could it reach Lydia?

Stifled groans sounded from the table. Water rose to their ankles. These were brave men. John understood their wanting the oblivion of excessive drink instead of feeling frozen water that would invade their throats.

"I'm John." He waded over to them. "I need a bottle."

"Paul. Patrick. John-same-as-you," they said in unison. They each picked up their bottles and held them out to John as if pus.h.i.+ng back the inevitable and attending to their duties. One last request of those committed to serving a first-cla.s.s pa.s.senger. Perhaps to feel one last deed would make some kind of difference.

John had witnessed unselfish acts on deck. Men being brave, facing death while encouraging their loved ones and others, praying. Older women giving their places in a boat to younger ones. Women refusing to leave their husbands. Telling others to be ready to meet their G.o.d.

"No. I need an empty bottle. And a cork." John took the poem from his pocket. Paul emptied his bottle's contents down his throat, making sure he got every drop, while John rolled the paper. He took the bottle and inserted the poem. Patrick gripped the bottle while John-same-as-he forced the cork into the opening, making it airtight.

The water rose to John's knees, and kept pouring in. It rose to the seats of the chairs, but the men didn't try to stand. There was nowhere to go. Patrick swallowed hard. "It'll find its way. Don't worry."

John felt strangely calm. Maybe because everything was completely out of his control. If there was something to which he could swim, he'd try. But already his tingling legs were going numb, and he sat in the fourth chair at the table. All four held onto it. There was only one thing to say. "Do you believe in Jesus?"

"Yes."

"I hope so."

A nod.

With icy water up to his waist, John began to quote, and the men joined in. G.o.d so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.

The "amen's" sounded.

Tables and chairs floated. Something b.u.mped into Paul. He lost his grip on the table that had begun to slide. He and the chair fell away. John-same-as-he, with eyes wide and mouth opened, seemed deliberately to let go. Patrick called on G.o.d to help him just as the water covered him.

John tightened his grip on the bottle. His chair slid out from under him. He tried to stand but tottered like a child unable to walk.

A child.

Oh, Lydia.

The water pierced him like icicles. He held his breath. Chairs, tables, bottles beat his body. A pink rose floated by.

That's when he lost his grip on the bottle. Frozen eyes watched it wobble into a corner of the ceiling. It would be trapped. Lost forever. Please, G.o.d.

Life did indeed flash across one's mind at the end.

His life was Lydia, their child, and G.o.d.

He had to let go. He could not bear the pressure.

Liquid breath froze his throat.

The water turned dark.

With complete abandon he let go with a last thought, Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .

Painful darkness . . .

To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.

. . . turned to serene light.

The joy of the Lord flooded his soul.

26.

The rowers moved away as fast as they could. The s.h.i.+p slanted, like a big toe testing to see if the water were too cold, or if the temperature were suitable for a dip. The decision came from somewhere far below. The explosion burst into the silent night. A great red light flashed and disappeared below the surface. The s.h.i.+p cracked, snapping right in two.

Half the s.h.i.+p was going down. Pianos and furniture and deck chairs and objects of all kinds, even parts of the s.h.i.+p, were flying through the air and falling into the sea. People sought a handhold but found none. The water pa.s.sed through their naked fingers, and their arms were heavy in the icy gelatin. They had nowhere to go.

Thousands and thousands of desperate screams pierced the cold night air. Surely, surely a s.h.i.+p somewhere would hear.

But only- Only half the s.h.i.+p went down. The other half settled back on the water. Lydia knew John had to be on the floating half. She screamed. Others in the boats screamed. Lydia's voice joined with those of other women, pleading that their husbands were out there and to go back, go back. The boat's not full.

The rowers kept moving farther out to sea, saying the s.h.i.+p would pull them under. How could half a s.h.i.+p do that? She wished John had been a coward. Had forced his way into the boat.

But she knew he wouldn't as long as there was a woman or child, even another man, left on the s.h.i.+p. He might even try to save third cla.s.s. She knew, just as she'd known she was carrying his child, before there was conclusive evidence.

On deck he had placed his hands on his midsection, reminding her they had a child. That was no solace now. She was in a worse predicament than the night she'd stood at the railing wondering how to tell him. She couldn't survive this without John. If he wouldn't come to her, she would go to him. She stood but was pulled down.

"Let me go. Someone else can take my place."

"Hold her. She's delirious."

"We have enough to do without your making it worse," said the man rowing.

That was disrespectful. Didn't he know who she was?

No.

What and who they were on the s.h.i.+p was a lifetime away from who and what they were in a lifeboat in the North Atlantic with an iceberg looming and a s.h.i.+p sinking.

They didn't even know she wanted to exchange her place with those wailing the chorus of death groans in the freezing water.

Hundreds and hundreds of pa.s.sengers were packed on the floating part of the s.h.i.+p, and some of the screaming abated. Only the struggling, freezing ones were pleading. John would be on the floating part of the s.h.i.+p, safe.

Of all the unbelievable things that occurred, the strangest was what next took place. Silence replaced the screams. Only helpless groans accompanied the event. The floating half of the s.h.i.+p began to melt like a dollop of b.u.t.ter on a hot roll. It just melted smoothly into the ocean and the h.o.a.rd of people were in the water. Their hair didn't get wet. No water splashed on their faces. For an instant they didn't scream. They couldn't. A communal gasp went out over the sea, produced by hundreds and hundreds of terrified people who unexpectedly stepped into icy water up to their necks.

No one even cared that she didn't want to live if John didn't.

Looking out at the vast, still water, she told herself it was all right. She hadn't been put out here to live, but to die a slow, agonizing, freezing death.

Was that her punishment? A silent sea? A silent sky. The stars weren't even twinkling. Just there. Like eyes. Watching. She stopped screaming.

Death groans came from the throats of others in the boat, one louder than the others. Then she realized it was her own.

She wasn't imploring, pleading for G.o.d and Jesus to save her, like those trying to swim to safety but who had nowhere to go, or who were beaten back from the boats lest they pile in and capsize and kill them all. One of the rowing crew members said the captain told them it was every man for himself.

That's what it had become. For man and woman.

Save me? For what, without John?

She felt . . . already dead.

Her eyes hurt from trying to see what wasn't there. She'd seen the lights of the s.h.i.+p underwater, exposing green sea water. Then black. Then nothing.

The s.h.i.+p of dreams had vanished, disappeared completely, as it sank into the sea.

In its place emerged a nightmare.

27.

Caroline could not take her eyes from the sight. From out in a small boat, the s.h.i.+p had not looked so big. Not invincible, not unsinkable. It seemed like a giant hand had taken it and snapped it, breaking it in two, like a human hand might snap a little twig.

Half of it fell into the ocean, and anything not fastened down cluttered the sea. Half the s.h.i.+p leveled off. It would float. They wouldn't sink. There was an eerie quiet. All would be well.

And then it sank.

Her world became a tiny boat on a vast sea. The life she'd questioned was gone. There was nothing she could now be sure about. One wave, one shark, or freezing to death. Would they freeze or starve or die of thirst? Should they hasten the inevitable by slipping into the water? William?

Too late for her resolve about William. He was out there among the frozen. How strange, when and where one sees one's self most clearly.

When it's too late?

Just when she'd decided to love him unconditionally, it was over.

Oh, if I had to do it over, William, I'd put you first instead of efforts to bear a child. Did that help freeze our relations.h.i.+p?

The last hymn she heard the band playing was "Nearer My G.o.d to Thee." To whom did that apply?

Where was G.o.d in this? Did he see?

She saw. Ice. Toy boats on a cold ocean. Heard hundreds. Hundreds! of voices pleading G.o.d. Jesus. Save me.

In vain. The s.h.i.+p didn't. The life vests didn't. The boats didn't return to pick them up, although there was room for more. G.o.d didn't.

n.o.body and nothing helped those screaming, pleading, freezing human beings packed in ice. Not drowning, but being frozen alive.

Too late.

Did life really matter? Could hopes and dreams and plans and life end so quickly, so terribly? She looked at the sky. Was anything there besides stars? What did it all mean? What was G.o.d? Who was G.o.d?

Why was she here, vulnerable, with no a.s.surance of anything?

Did life mean anything?

If it didn't, she might as well slip off the side as easily as the man being rolled over the edge of the boat because he froze to death. She almost laughed. This was not real. You can't see this, hear it, believe it, and . . . survive.

Little Henry cried. She'd rather hear that than the crying of hundreds dying.

Her gaze moved to Phoebe, whose huge, unblinking eyes saw it all. Heard it all. She hugged her only possession, a blue teddy bear. Little Henry cried and screamed until his weary eyes closed. Caroline willed her attention to the children.

Was their daddy out there trying to swim to them while the rowers moved farther away? Where was their grandmother? William?

How long does it take to freeze? Later, she knew.

It took an eternity before the voices became fainter. They were a roar at first, like a crowd at a polo game or a horse race. Then they became a bad musical where voices couldn't hit the right notes but only screeched in terror.

The silence sounded worse. Hundreds. Thousands? Out there floating. Dead. They no longer screamed.