by Alex Flinn
I felt someone picking me up, and then I was someplace else. Most of the people were gone, but one, a man, held me in his arms. Could it be the boy? Had he found me? No. It was a different man, a man who had lost most of his hair. A lady was with him. The man lowered me onto something that was softer than the most pliant sand.
“She cannot stay here,” another man’s voice said. “The mistress will not countenance strangers brought in.”
“We understand,” said the lady. “But she collapsed in the street. Surely your mistress will not object to her resting a moment. Perhaps she has some paper on her that will help us find her family.”
I felt tugging, and then the man seized upon the picture in my hand. “Look at this.”
“Titanic? Could she have been—”
“Seems like it,” said the first man.
“Is this some sort of scam?” asked the second man. “Have you hucksters heard of my mistress and her son being Titanic survivors and decided to pull something?”
Titanic survivors? It was him. I grabbed the sleeve of the man who had carried me and pulled hard.
“Do I look like a huckster?” the man who had carried me said. “I am a respectable businessman, and I thank you to remember your station.”
“Hey, hey, what is this, Pittman?” A third man’s voice interrupted. I opened my eyes. Yes. It was true. It was the voice, the one I’d wanted to hear more than any other. The boy. Brewster. How was I here? And then I realized Bessie with her magic had placed me in his way.
“Mr. Davis,” the older man, Pitman, said. “Do not concern yourself. I was merely—”
“Merely throwing a survivor of the great Titanic disaster from your house,” said the first man.
“Titanic? What of it?” said the boy.
“This girl fainted in the street, and we found this in her hand—a transfer from Titanic to a ship bound for Florida, in the name of passenger Dorothy Florence Sage.”
The boy looked down at me. It was him, definitely him. “Is this you?”
I started to speak, but no sound came out.
“Are you Dorothy?” he asked.
I wasn’t, and yet, there was no way of telling him my real name, my true identity. Still, Dorothy sounded a bit like Doria, and at least, if he thought I was Dorothy, he would realize I had been there on the ship. In all likelihood, I realized with a gulp, the real Dorothy Florence Sage was at the bottom of the ocean, one of those waving bodies.
I nodded.
“And you were on Titanic, on the lifeboats?”
I nodded again.
“Then we must help her.” Brewster reached for my hand, and I felt at his touch a charge of electricity, then warmth. “You will come inside with me.”
“But Master Davis,” Pitman said. “It could be trickery. Besides, she was a third-class passenger.”
The boy grasped my hand. “Enough third-class passengers perished on April fifteenth. I will not add to their number by neglecting this one.”
With that, he took my hand and whisked me to another room.
Next, I was sitting on a chair, eating food such as I had never had before, something yellow with soft, white, swirly objects and dots of orange and white. Had I been possessed of a voice, I would have asked what these dainties were called, but that would have been foolish. Indeed, humans probably had such delicacies every day. In any case, one of the ladies who brought it and took it away remarked that it was “nice chicken soup.”
But the most wonderful thing about it was that, as I consumed it, the boy, Brewster, once again recounted the story of his dramatic rescue from the ocean. How well I remembered it! I kept waiting for him to recognize me, to remember that it was I who had been his rescuer, but he did not. As he finished his story, he said, “I am being a boor, babbling on and on about what happened to me. It is only that it is such a relief to meet someone who understands what I have been through, what I saw. You do understand, do you not? I am not mistaken?
I nodded.
“And was it the most horrible event you have ever witnessed, one which you will never forget?”
Again, I nodded.
“Something like that changes a person. I feel I will never be the same happy fellow I was before, now that I have witnessed the inhumanity, the selfishness, not to mention the death. Again, I am being rude. Please, Dorothy, do tell your own story. You have not said a word.”
I wanted so much to do just that, to open my mouth and tell him that I had been there, that it was I who had rescued him. But, of course, I could not. I opened my lips. No sound issued forth. I pointed to my throat to show that I could not speak. Oh, why had I offered my voice?
“Mute?” he said. “From the trauma, I suppose. Do you know I did not speak for fully a day after reaching shore myself. It is all right, Dorothy. Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins—those are the people who brought you here—they are on their way to the office of the White Star Line to search for information about your family.”
My family! This had not occurred to me before. Dorothy Florence Sage might have a family, a family who would know full well that I was not her. I wanted to swim, to run, to fly away from this place before detection. Yet where would I go? Where could I go?
As if reading my thoughts, Brewster said, “Do you have any place to stay, Dorothy, anyone who is looking for you?”
I shook my head.
“Well, then, I will have Mrs. Brimm show you to a guest room. You can stay as long as you need to.”
That afternoon, three things happened.
The first was that Mr. Wilkins returned from the White Star office with grim news: The Sage family, eleven in all, were presumed lost at sea. My whole family was gone.
“I was speaking to a man,” Mr. Wilkins said, “another survivor who said that the eldest Sage girl, Stella, was actually on his lifeboat. But when she realized that none of her family were with her, she climbed out to her death.”
It was so sad even though I had not known the Sage family. Eleven people—parents and nine children—all perished, and the eldest girl giving her life to be with her family in heaven. I felt a strange sensation, one I’d never felt undersea, that of water slipping down my cheeks. Hard as I tried, it would not stop. Tears. That’s what they were called, I remembered. Humans shed tears when they were sad.
“What nobility!” Brewster said. “I saw none of that on the decks of Titanic. You should be very proud of your sister.” He patted my shoulder.
One of the tears slipped into my mouth. It tasted like the ocean. I missed my own family.
The second thing was that Mrs. Davis, Brewster’s mother, came home from wherever she had been. She was none too happy to meet me.
“Stay here? Some unknown girl? Impossible, Brewster!”
“Mother, have some compassion.”
“I have much compassion. However, it does not extend to allowing unknown persons, persons who may well be thieves and murderers, to stay in our home.”
“She’s a little girl, my age if that. She’s hardly a thief or a murderer.”
“One never knows.”
“She has lost everything, everything, her entire family. Imagine it. Imagine how you would have felt, had you lost me.”
His mother’s face whitened, and though she had lately been trying to have me thrown from the house, I felt for her.
“I almost did lose you, foolish boy,” she said.
“I know. I was stupid. I should never have defied you in that way.”
This, I knew, was a great effort for him to say.
Next, he said, “I know I would have been devastated had I lost you too. So imagine how it must be for poor Dorothy. She has lost both mother and father.”
I had lost both mother and father. I began again to cry.
Mrs. Davis barely glanced at me and said, “Oh, very well. But if she is going to stay, she must earn her keep. We need a serving girl, for Pamela has run off and gotten married without thinking of giving notice.” She leveled a hard gaze at me.
“Do you know how to work, girl?”
I nodded.
“All right, then. And one more condition. Friday night, you must meet Hestia Rivers for dinner.”
That is the third thing that happened. Hestia Rivers.
Brewster sighed. “Very well, but I won’t like her. There is only one young woman for me, and I will not rest until I have found her.”
I smiled then. He meant me. And yet, why did he not recognize me?
I was next taken to a place called the kitchen where several young women toiled, all to produce food for the Davis family. It struck me as interesting. In the sea, my home, we each of us did for ourselves. If you caught a fish, you ate a fish. If you caught none, you would be hungry. Certainly, those who were more skilled might help others, children, or the elderly, but still, everyone had to do his or her part.
In the human world, people called servants did all the work while others did none.
“I am sorry,” Brewster said. “I’m afraid Mother has not a charitable bone in her body.”
I shrugged and smiled to show that I did not mind. I didn’t. I was near Brewster. Besides, if the human world was divided between those who worked and those who were idle, then I preferred to work.
The household was supervised by a woman in a black dress who showed me my room and gave me some plain clothing to change into. Then, she showed me back to the kitchen, which was supervised by a woman named Cook.
“You’ve worked in kitchens before?” said Cook.
I nodded. What else could I do?
“That’s a good girl. I heard about your family, poor thing. Isn’t that always the way—the rich living high while them like us gasp for breath.”
I nodded and felt another bit of water come to my eyes, thinking of Dorothy’s family. I could almost picture them, a young, handsome father, perhaps with a mustache like my father, round little mother, and nine children, including a younger brother with freckles. Did this water happen to all humans all the time? I did not like it, and what was more, I felt like a liar, pretending to be what I was not.
Cook patted my shoulder. “There, there. Here, help Celia chop the onions. Then no one will notice if ye weep.”
Cook pointed to a girl, Celia, who was using a silver object to chop at some beautiful purple things. When I drew closer for a look, Cook pulled me back. “Careful, dear, the knife is sharp. Can’t have you losing your nose!”
The rest of the day went little better. Later, Celia asked me, “Can you turn on the oven for me, love? There are rolls to be made.”
I had seen Celia “turn on” the stove earlier, to cook the bright-colored objects she and I had chopped, which she called vegetables. How they had jumped and sizzled on their pan. She had made the stove work by turning a knob. I found a similar knob on the big, square object she called an oven.
I reached out and turned it. Celia nodded, satisfied.
“Now, light it,” she said.
At my questioning look, she said, “Silly girl, have you never used an oven before? If you do not light it, the gas leaks out, and you could die from smelling it. Do you not notice the smell?”
I sniffed, and indeed, there was a faint odor, like dead fish left rotting too long. I nodded.
“Well, then, light it.” She took from her apron pocket a box of something, removed a long, skinny stick and scraped it against the side of the box. It made a roaring sound, and a bit of orange exploded from it. Celia handed it to me.
It was hot! So hot! I dropped the stick and would have screamed, had I had the voice. Instead, I placed my hurting finger in my mouth and sucked it.
“Stupid girl! Did you really just stick your finger in the flame?” Celia pointed at the stick on the floor. “Pick it up!”
She removed another stick from the box, struck it once again, but this time leaned down and touched it to the part of the stove where the gas made the air wavy. It too turned orange, then blue with a roar.
I watched the beautiful, dangerous thing called a flame, sucked my injured finger, and wondered if I had made a horrible mistake.
Dinner was not much better. Soon, it was discovered that I had no idea how to place the numerous silver and white objects on the table. Celia grabbed them from me, muttering about how stupid I was. I followed, trying to imitate her actions, but my fingers still hurt. Those same fingers impeded me by making it difficult to pass the platters and serve the many dishes. The worst of it was, Brewster didn’t even look at me.
But it was all worth it when, as I was dragging my aching legs from the table, I heard a voice.
“Dorothy?”
At first, I forgot that I was Dorothy. Then I felt a hand upon my elbow. I started, almost dropping the heavy plates I was carrying. A firm hand steadied them. I was Dorothy. He was speaking to me.
“I’m sorry.” His breath was close to my ear, like a lover’s. “I haven’t seen you all day. Perhaps—Mother is going out to play bridge soon. When your work is complete, will you join me in the sitting room?”
The heavy dishes made my arms sag under their weight. Still, at his words, they felt lighter. I nodded.
Disregarding my aching human legs, I ran to get more dishes and made such short work of the washing that, finally, Celia stopped scowling at me. “Going to do a decent job after all then? I’m sorry I was so cross before. It must be hard on you.”
After dinner, I had only to wait in the tiny room I shared with Celia until Mrs. Davis went out. A bell of some sort rang eight times. Then I snuck into the sitting room.
Brewster was there! He gestured that I should sit on a blue and white seat with him. I wished I could talk to him about the shipwreck and others I had seen, the beautiful ship underneath the ocean, and about this place—New York City, its bright lights and tall castles so far above sea level that their spires seemed to pierce the heavens. So many things had I seen in this one day, seen and touched and felt, more than ever in my life. I wanted to tell him about that life too. Perhaps it was better that I had no voice, for I would surely have told him all about the ocean and its hills and caves, of the castles and of the merfolk concealed in coral reefs. I would have told him that the places where the water grows suddenly colder are where a merperson had been sad or angry, and that the places where the water grew suddenly warmer were like that because they were where a mercouple had fallen in love.
And I would have told him that it was I who had saved him.
Instead, there was silence. I could not speak, and Brewster did not seem to know what to say either.
Finally, I rose and, gesturing for him to follow, I walked toward the glass that showed the outside world. Funny that. I had heard that sometimes humans caught fish and placed them in glass bowls in their homes. It had seemed cruel to me, but now I realized that the humans were in glass bowls themselves. I pulled aside the thing called a curtain and looked out.
It was wondrous! In my world of the sea, the light was the same from day to night. The human world was gray and blue and white by day, but at night, it was inked by octopi. I was used to seeing the inky background broken by hundreds, thousands of tiny stars. But here in New York City, the lights were increased a thousandfold, and they were brighter, many-colored, dancing before us.
I almost stumbled in surprise at the wonder before me. Brewster caught my arm.
“First time in New York City then?”
I nodded.
“Takes a bit of getting used to.”
I smiled and gestured broadly with my hand, to show I found it beautiful.
“Like it? Well, people do. But sometimes, it all seems a bit … crowded. And crazy. And busy. See that building?” He pointed to the tallest castle, a pointed spire with a glowing circle on its front. “It’s the tallest building in the world. When I was younger, there were half as many buildings, and when I’m an old man, there will be twice as many.” He paused. “An old man. I always assumed I’d be one someday. But a week ago, it seemed like it wasn’t going to happen. Then, someone dragged
me out of the water—amazing!”
He was pulling at the curtain himself now, eyes wide, taking in the views. “You know, Dorothy, you’re right. It is beautiful. The whole world is.”
He stopped, looking at me.
Then he said, “Oh, I am sorry. The world isn’t beautiful to you, is it? You’ve lost your family.”
I shook my head slightly to let him know that no apology was necessary.
“You’re sweet. But I shouldn’t have forgotten.”
He was silent again, and we stood staring at the million glowing stars that looked like sunken treasures against the dark wave of the night.
Finally, he said, “Here, I got this today. Maybe you’d like it.”
He walked over to a strange object, a box like a pirate’s chest with something like a giant conch shell protruding from it. He placed a round, flat object upon it and turned a knob.
There was music! Music, though no one in the room sang or played! How was this possible? I checked Brewster’s lips. No, they did not move. Yet it was a man’s voice which sang.
Come to me, my melancholy baby…
“It’s a new song,” Brewster said. “I like it because I’m feeling a bit melancholy myself—you know, sad. It was really sad, seeing all those people…” He stopped. “Oh, now I’ve put my foot in it again.”
The strange voice sang:
Every cloud must have a silver lining
Wait until the sun shines through
Smile my honey dear, while I kiss away each tear
Or else I shall be melancholy too!
The song ended. I thought it was wonderful that he was so sad for those people, when really, they were happier than ever. They were angels.
I gestured toward the wonderful object.
“Have you seen one before? It’s a Victrola.”
I gestured toward my ears, that he might know I wished to hear it again.
