Never An Absolution

A/N: I truly appreciate all of your positive comments about my last entry and how you like that style. And now for something completely different.
This is another "Titanic" vignette (not a drabble this time). In short, it's about the main character Rose's mother finally taking her daughter's advice and shutting up.

"Fifteen hundred people went into the sea when Titanic sank from under us. There were twenty boats floating nearby, and only one came back. One. Six were saved from the water, myself included. Six out of fifteen hundred. Afterward, the seven hundred people in the boats had nothing to do but wait. Wait to die... wait to live... wait for an absolution that would never come."

Never an Absolution

On the longest night of her life, Ruth DeWitt Bukater said nothing. This was not a conscious choice. She had not set out in lifeboat six with the intention that the last words she spoke would be a frantic plea for her daughter to come into the boat with her, the desperate crying of her daughter's name. But on this night, when her daughter ignored her voice and turned away from her and as she watched the unthinkable becoming real, Ruth could say nothing more. Floating on the vast and icy ocean in a minuscule wooden boat rowing away from the wreck of the grandest ship in the world, Ruth found that her mind could simply not take it in, and so it turned…
On the second-longest night of her life, Ruth DeWitt Bukater had said plenty. Granted, little of it had been intelligible, and even less appropriate to be repeated in polite company. That had been the night the night that Rose was born. Her Rose—her first and only child.
Ruth hadn't wanted a baby, not so soon after being married. She'd been 23 then, and the day she'd found that she was with child, she'd thrown jewelry and perfume bottles across the room. Then, too, the birth had not been an easy one. The labor had lasted through the endless hours of that night until Ruth no longer had the strength to hold back her screams. Oh, God, oh God… let it be over soon, please make it be over soon…
Rose had come but reluctantly into the world, but once she was there, she had made her presence known. Ruth, weak with exhaustion, had started as the baby the doctor had begun to say might not live let out a great cry of protest at being dragged into this miserable world.
All agony was swept away in an instant. How could she not love this absurdly small girl with the strong spirit of a fighter? How could she not laugh with delight as the baby flailed her tiny fists around, striking at the dust that floated through the air? How could her heart fail to melt completely as they'd placed her precious daughter in her arms and she'd held her tiny, delicate body and gazed into her deep, ocean eyes and given her a name? Rose. The perfect name for such a perfect child. And Ruth remembered the moment when, holding Rose for the first time, she'd thought, She is mine.
Rose was the only thing in the world that had ever been completely and totally hers, that she had made herself. Her baby was the first thing she could ever remember having that hadn't been bought for her with someone else's money. Rose was hers.
Her husband had given her an expensive brooch to celebrate the occasion, and she treasured that, too, as a sort of commemorative medal to honor her accomplishment of giving birth to Rose. She'd wanted to go back for it tonight, but they hadn't let her. Cal had held her back, and she had let him. It dawned on her now that she was going to lose it, she would never see it again, for in the morning it would be at the bottom of the ocean. So many fine things lost—almost everything she owned. The fine things she had only the day before been trying to convince Rose were so important. The only comfort in that was that most of it was insured. But the fine ship, so beautiful… it was really such a shame. Of all of it, though, she thought she would miss that brooch the most. She sighed in helpless frustration. Ruth DeWitt Bukater was unused to not getting what she wanted. She very nearly complained aloud.
Yet Ruth DeWitt Bukater said nothing, for a tiny voice in the back of her mind was whispering, the water is freezing and there aren't enough boats not enough by half, half of the people on this ship are going to die. She would not think that. She would not let herself think that. She knew that if she let herself have those thoughts, the next thought that would come would be that she didn't care about losing the brooch. The brooch was not what mattered—it was just a keepsake, a symbol. Just another thing that did not really belong to her.
The horrible crewman at the rudder of the boat wouldn't stop yelling, and that detestable Brown woman shoved an oar into her hands and instructed her to help row. Ruth did not protest; she was too dazed and, in any case, perhaps the activity would keep her mind occupied. She watched the distress rockets flare from the slowly submerging ship in the near distance. They looked like the fireworks in the park on the Fourth of July. Rose had always loved the fireworks when she was a little girl. She had been such a good child then, all any mother could ask for. And Ruth had been a very good mother. How could she not be, when her daughter was so often all she had? She had kept Rose close to her, tended to her from the first day in all but the most unpleasant tasks of childrearing. She had gone out with her almost daily, sent her to the best schools, seen that she'd had the best of everything. What more could have been asked of her? And yet… somehow things had gone wrong, somewhere. Rose had once been so eager to please… she wished she could say there had always been something different about the girl, but that would not have been true. She had been a little too clever, perhaps, and her father had only encouraged her. But until recently she had always behaved like the privileged girl she was, with more money, more connections, a better name than Ruth had had at her age, and the chance to be what Ruth had never been. Ruth did not understand what Rose wanted from her. She was just beginning to realize she didn't understand Rose at all.
"Come back to the ship! Boat Six, come back to the ship!" The captain was calling to them from the deck. Molly Brown immediately stopped them to obey the order—when had Molly Brown taken charge of this boat? But the horrible man wouldn't let them.
"It's our lives now, not theirs," he said. The words rang in her ears—so ominous, they sounded. There were so many people still on board. Nonsensical though it might be, she would not be completely easy until Rose was at her side again.
Yet Ruth DeWitt Bukater said nothing. Because Rose would have gotten onto a boat by now. She must have gotten onto a boat by now. She was not stupid—she knew about the situation with the lifeboats. Of course she would not so recklessly risk her life.
No, Ruth should be worrying about Caledon Hockley. The rule was that women and children were to leave the ship before the men, and if there were not enough boats… Their whole hope, their whole future rested with Caledon Hockley and his millions. Hockley was their savior from ruin, and they were so close now to rescue. If he went down with the ship, the time that it would take to find Rose another husband—and they wouldn't easily find one so wealthy and obliging as Caledon Hockley—might be time they didn't have.
And, of course, Rose wouldn’t understand that. She had never understood the urgency of their situation. Ruth had explained it again and again, and yet just as often, Rose would say to her, "Mother, I don't love him. Mother, he doesn't love me, he doesn't listen to me. Mother, I don't like it when he touches me."
To the last, Ruth had only replied, "Darling, please try to appease him. Do not give him cause to be displeased with you." They were too desperate to take the risk that Hockley would break it off on a whim. If Rose had taken that advice a bit farther than Ruth had intended, she very deliberately looked the other way. The wedding was so soon now, the date set for just after Rose's eighteenth birthday. The fewer the complications, the better, she'd thought. Everything had been going so smoothly until they'd boarded the Titanic.
Then had come flirtation with that steerage boy—Hockley was understandably displeased about that. Running off with that boy, leading the valet on a merry chase all over the ship. The theft of a priceless necklace. And now this: an iceberg.
This definitely qualified as a complication.
But no, Hockley would certainly be let onto a lifeboat. All of his wealth and influence would more than assure him a place. He would take Rose with him, of course. Despite all that had come to pass, up to and including her cavorting with that boy, Hockley was a gentleman. He would not leave a lady who was under his care on board a sinking ship. All the rest could be sorted out later. Everything would be all right.
But things would never be the same. Faces flashed through her mind—faces of people she’d seen and known and spoken with for so many years in so many places. John Thayer, Ben Guggenheim, J.J. Astor… The luxury they’d all known everywhere they went, had taken for granted… She felt as though her world was crumbling all about her.
Why was the ship which was supposed to be the largest, the grandest, the safest in all the world plunging ever deeper into the water because it had hit an iceberg and was sinking before her eyes? Why were all of the lifeboats gone leaving so many people running screaming up the deck? Why wasn't her daughter here by her side in this lifeboat as it bobbed through the night and the cold and the endless ocean? Why was Molly Brown, of all people, there instead-- the woman she'd always so scorned, staring at the ship’s lights and no longer coaxing her to row? In a world where the Titanic could sink, this sort of seating arrangement no longer seemed so absurd. As the great bulk of the liner raised itself ever higher, it didn't even seem to matter.
Why wasn't she safe and warm in her bed, awakening at last from this nightmare?
How could this happen? How could this be real?
Ruth DeWitt Bukater said nothing, because she was afraid that if she tried to speak, she would fall into hysteria. Even the shouting man was silent now. Of them all, it was Molly Brown who found the only words that could be said at such a time. Ruth marveled at the woman's calm as she murmured, "God Almighty."
Horrible, groaning noises filled the night. The lights went out. As the ship plunged beneath the surface, she was unable to tear her eyes away. In her mind, the face of every person onboard because Rose's face, all of the noise resolved into, the water is freezing and goodbye mother it's so unfair and there aren't enough boats oh mother don't you understand…
Ruth said nothing, but the air was filled with screaming. Hundreds of voices, maybe thousands. The voices of people dying. Every now and then a single cry would become distinguishable from the distant roar, and Ruth could not stop the cold thought that it might be the voice of someone she knew. It was a horrible sound. She wanted to cover her ears to shut it out, but she knew that the sound would never leave her as long as she lived.
Ruth said nothing.
There were no words for this.
Molly Brown said that they should go back and save people from the water. The horrible man said, "You don't understand." But he wasn't really shouting anymore. "If we go back, they'll swamp the boat, they'll pull us right down, I'm tellin' ya!"
Molly called for the women to grab oars. No one moved. "I don't understand a one of you!" she cried. "It's your men out there! There's plenty of room for more!"
The horrible man threatened to throw her overboard, and the argument was over.
Ruth DeWitt Bukater said nothing. She put her hands over her ears, and it was as much to shut out Molly's voice as those of the dying people. Not just men. Women, too. Maybe even children. The voices seemed like they would go on forever. Oh, God, oh God, let it be over soon, please make it be over soon…
Her eyes closed, Ruth was not even conscious of Molly Brown sitting back down next to her. She had not prayed in years and years, but without willing it she found herself praying now. Alone in the dark, the truth at last washed over her.
She did not know where Rose was. She would have sworn that she must have gotten onto a boat, but she could not be sure. And if she hadn't? Ruth could not be sure of anything now. Yesterday she would have sworn to the heavens that the Titanic could not sink. Yesterday she would have sworn with absolute certainty that she knew her daughter. Yesterday she had been Ruth DeWitt Bukater of Philadelphia, traveling back to the States with her daughter's wedding party, with no greater concern than her daughter being too fond of the company of a charming young artist from the streets. Today the world was different. Today she was nothing and she had nothing. In this world, in a world where the Titanic could sink, she could lose Rose.
And try as she might she could not force from her mind the look on Rose's face as Ruth had told her to come into the lifeboat. It was the look of a stranger. Rose had stared down at Ruth as though she had never seen her before. And Ruth, in that moment, had scarcely known her own child.
"Oh, Mother. Shut up!"
Rose had never spoken to her like that before. It had been a shock. But Ruth had not truly been frightened until she'd looked up from her place in the lifeboat to see Rose still standing on the ship's deck with that strange expression on her face.
"Rose! Get into the boat!"
There had been a light in Rose's eyes that had never been there before. Or perhaps it had been there, and Ruth had simply never noticed it. Her voice, when she spoke, had been chillingly detached. Polite.
"Goodbye, Mother."
Anyone else might have interpreted the words as "Until we meet again." But to Ruth, they rang with a dreadful finality. In Rose's eyes, she had seen determination. Rose had turned her back with Ruth still calling her name, panic stealing into her voice. She had watched Hockley grab Rose and shake her, though she was too far away to hear what was said. And as the lifeboat gave a horrible jerk, she had watched Rose, the daughter she had raised, spit in the man's face, tear herself away, and run. The last she had seen of Rose had been her coat disappearing into the crowd.
As the lifeboat had begun to lower, Ruth had tried to cling to the ship, aware that she was making a scene. She hadn't cared.
She had lost her.
Whatever happened that night, she had lost her daughter already. She was not sure when it had happened, but it had been before Rose had fallen for that third-class boy. Before they'd boarded the ship. Maybe even before the engagement to Caledon Hockley.
She knew now with a sickening certainty that she did not know Rose. That Rose did not belong to her, and never had. That girl who had spit in Caledon Hockley's face was a wild creature breaking free. Ruth did not know that girl.
But she wanted to. She wanted to now, so desperately.
She was praying that she might have that chance. She was praying to God to let Rose live. Even though she knew that it might be too late. If Rose was saved…
If Rose was saved she would hold her so tightly and tell her that she loved her. If Rose was returned to her safely, it would not matter if she lost everything else. The moment a ship picked them up, she would ask Rose to forgive her and everything would be all right. If Rose was saved… she would not make her marry Caledon Hockley. Yes, even that. I won't make her do it if she doesn't want to, just please let her live. Don't let that awful "Goodbye, Mother," on the deck be the last thing I hear her say, don't let it end with her so angry with me. Please, please, please…not like this. Let her be all right.
Of course she'll be all right.
She repeated it over and over again, like a litany in the depths of her mind, in the cold silence of the North Atlantic Ocean. The hours wore on, and Molly Brown held her close as though she were a crying child, and Ruth DeWitt Bukater said nothing, but prayed and waited for the night to be over.
The longest night of her life ended with a gorgeous dawn like something out of one of Rose's paintings and the sight of the Cunarder Carpathia on the horizon. Some cheered, but Ruth did not. The decks were already crowded when their boat was unloaded, and Ruth gazed around at a sea of somber white faces. She knew that one of them must be her daughter, must be, and with her eyes she searched…
Suddenly there was a hand on her elbow and a voice calling, "Ruth!" It was Hockley. Ruth's heart leapt, for if Hockley was here then Rose was all right. Her eyes flew to either side of him, looking. For the first time in hours, Ruth spoke.
"Where is Rose?" She did not see her there; Hockley must have arranged for a room already and left her there to rest. For the first time, she looked him in the face.
He looked like a little lost child. "I don't know, Ruth."
The words didn't register at first, so she asked him again. "Where is she? Where is my daughter?"
"I…" He would not look at her. "I tried to get her into a boat, Ruth, I tried, but she…"
He was holding firmly to both her shoulders, or she thought she would have fallen. A numbness beyond that already left by the cold was setting in, and a rushing noise filled her ears.
"You left her?"
"I lost her, she jumped from a boat and ran into the ship and I couldn't find her—"
"You left her? You got into a boat and you left my daughter—"
He made no answer. Ruth pulled away. She would not let him touch her. She could not. She saw him now, for the first time, for what he was. Rose had pulled away from him like this. Rose had known. Rose…
"Rose!" She sobbed the name, unable to stop herself. Then, "Find her!" she shouted at him. "There are still boats—she's on one of them. Find her!"
It was not possible that her little baby who had flailed her tiny fists at the world, who had spit in that man's face, was dead in the cold ocean. Rose was too strong for that, she always had been. So she was able to force herself to be somewhat calm as all of the proper inquiries were made, to no avail, and Molly Brown guided her into the room she had acquired.
But when Hockley came to her with a stricken, broken expression, she knew it was true.
"Ruth… I'm so sorry…"
Her first reaction surprised even her. It was anger.
"How dare you? How dare you?" she railed at him. "How could you let this happen?"
"I didn't know where she was! What was I to do, Ruth? I tried to find her—I put her into a boat, even, but she jumped out. She wanted to be with him—" A sob escaped him. "She wanted to die with him. Was I to not even attempt to save myself because…" He turned from her. "Oh, God, I was up to my waist in water for hours thinking of her…"
Ruth could almost have pitied him, but now she saw only a rich boy being denied what he wanted for the first time. Only days ago she had adored Caledon Hockley, pinned all of her hopes on him, certain he would be the perfect son-in-law. She hated him now.
Right now, he was not even worth her consideration.
"Get out," she hissed. Exhaustion came over her all at once, with the bleak realization that on the second-longest night of her life, she had heard her daughter's first cries, and on the longest night of her life she had heard her last. "My daughter is dead. I listened to her die. Leave me alone."
And he did. Later he would come back, offering her money, compensation, anything, in an attempt to soothe his troubled conscience. In New York he offered her a significant part of the insurance claim for the Heart of the Ocean and, even with the rest of the insurance collected from what she's lost, she was in no position to refuse. It provided her with enough to live off of.
She would never see Hockley again. She knew he sought her forgiveness, but that he would never have. He had lived, and Rose had died. It was as simple as that. A gentleman gave his seat to a lady; a gentleman went down with the ship. John Jacob Astor had done so, and Benjamin Guggenheim, and John Thayer. Though he told his story to the papers and at the inquest in such a way that it garnered sympathy, in the eyes of many Caledon Hockley would never quite be cleared of the crime of having survived the Titanic.
Ruth would never forgive him.
Nor would she ever forgive herself.
She remarried later, and she rarely spoke of Rose, but every so often she could be seen staring into space with a distant, broken expression.
On the longest night of her life, Ruth DeWitt Bukater had seen her daughter for the first and last time. She had said nothing.
For that, no one but Rose could offer her forgiveness.
And so it would never come.

~End~


The movie Titanic belongs to James Cameron. Please do not copy or republish Erin's work without her express written permission. Thank you!