Chapter 2: Prologue Continued

“You were able to find a spot somehow, and to grab hold?”

“Somehow,” he agreed. He began to strum his fingers on the arm of the couch intermittently, as if typing out a message using Morse Code.

“And you’ve no idea how long you were there, you say?”

“No.” The answer came quickly, unlike all of the other words that refused to form coherent sentences.

“Do you remember being plucked from the water, then? When the lifeboats finally returned?”

“No.” Equally as easily accessible. “I don’t remember anything again until after I awoke on Carpathia.” He was quiet for a very long time again, before he reconsidered his statement. “That’s not true. I do remember something else.” His voice was soft now, just above a whisper, and the man across the room leaned forward in his chair, straining to hear. “It’s the true reason I’m here.”

“What’s that?”

The strumming stopped, and he looked up, a shift in his countenance. “The photographs in my mind are one thing. I see their faces. That’s… troubling. It’s not the worst of it. But every time I close my eyes, I distinctly see each of them. A woman with short, curly hair. A man with some sort of wrap on his head, his face frozen in anguish. Literally frozen. A little boy, maybe six, clinging to a woman I presumed to be his mother. A baby wrapped in layers of blankets and nestled between an arm stiff with frost and a bosom that would never feed the child again. Their faces are haunting, and they are everywhere. Despite that daily terror, it isn’t the worst.”

“It isn’t? What is it then? What could possibly be worse than seeing the faces of the dead everywhere you look?”

“Dr. Morgan, have you ever considered the different definitions for the word ‘drown’?”

The question seemed to take him aback, and he scooted his shoulders into the chair. “No, I can’t honestly say that I have.”

“I looked it up in the dictionary because I was curious as to precisely what it might say. It’s such an interesting word. It doesn’t quite roll off the tongue, does it? Drown. Drown. Drowning. It sounds almost as morbid as the meaning behind it. The latter definition is almost as unsettling as the first, though, when you think about it. You can’t just stick to the first definition, mind you, doctor. You have to read them all. ‘To die under water of liquid or other suffocation.’ Yes, of course, we all know that one. We were all trying so hard to avoid it that night, though I’m not sure any of us thought of the true cause of death—freezing. Nevertheless, the Atlantic that night was full of over two thousand persons trying hard not to succumb to the first definition of the word drown.

“If you’ll read further, however, my good man, you’ll come up with another definition. ‘To overwhelm as if to render inaudible, as by a louder sound.’ Dr. Morgan, since I’ve arrived back in New York City, I’ve heard all sorts of loud sounds. Whistles, horns, people shouting, doors slamming, music playing. Some of them startle me because I now have a new association with each of them. I can’t describe what happened the time I heard the loud popping sound of a firecracker exploding, much like the distress signal that was fired off that night. But one thing that still eludes me, Dr. Morgan, is the second part of that definition—a louder sound, one that renders the original sound inaudible.”

“I’m not sure I know exactly what you mean.”

“It’s quite simple, really, Dr. Morgan. I’ve come here, I continue to come here, because I’m hoping that you can help me extinguish, or otherwise drown out the constant noise I’m hearing, not with my ears, but with my mind. Not just while I’m sleeping but even when I’m awake. It never stops. It’s there all the time. And, Dr. Morgan, while I’m quite certain that a psychiatrist of your caliber is just as capable as anyone in the world at helping me with this problem, I must admit I’m afraid it might be a lost cause.”

“Why do you say that, Mr. Ashton?”

“Because, Dr. Morgan, it’s been nearly six months since Titanic sank, and I still hear them. I still hear the screams, the wails, the cries for help. I still hear the thrashing sound of two thousand people desperately trying to survive, trying to accept option one and fight for their lives, for the ones they loved, many of which were right there with them, freezing to death, being dragged under by the pull of the Atlantic. I’m afraid, Dr. Morgan, that I’ve reached the startling conclusion that, despite the irony of the word itself, there’s no helping my situation. Quite frankly, kind sir, I’m of the opinion that nothing drowns out the sound of drowning.”

Dr. Laurie Morgan was silent for some time, taking in the statement his patient had so decidedly declared, not sure how to respond. Eventually, he cleared his throat, and taking off his spectacles, he picked up a cleaning cloth from his desk beside him and began to carefully clean the lenses. “Mr. Ashton…” he began.

“I’ve told you, doctor. Please, call me Charlie.”

“Right. Charlie, I do think there is an answer, that we will find a way to make the noises stop, or at least lessen. I understand you’ve been through the sort of traumatic experience only a few people can identify with. However, I believe if we continue to work together, we will eventually see results, and you’ll begin to feel much better, particularly now that I have this information.”

Charlie ran a hand through his hair and let out a deep sigh. He wanted to believe the doctor. He’d already made some progress in the few months they had been working together, but he didn’t know for sure if there was any solution. Today had been a bit of a breakthrough in that he was able to tell the doctor precisely what it was that was still troubling him. Choosing to be optimistic, he nodded, and reaching over next to him on the lounger he refused to lie on, he grabbed his hat before standing. Dr. Morgan rose out of his chair and stepped forward, and Charlie had to tip his head and peer down at the much shorter man. “Thank you for your time, doctor.” He extended his hand, and the doctor shook it. “I will see you next week.”

“Thank you, Charlie,” Dr. Morgan replied. “Yes, next week. I hope to work on finding some answers then.”

Charlie nodded and forced a smile, thinking that might be all but impossible. He headed for the office door, and waving goodbye, he let himself out. The receptionist, an older woman with graying hair, smiled at him, and Charlie wished her a good day before making his way down and out of the office building into the busy streets of New York where, amidst a crowd of thousands, he felt just as alone as he had when he’d been floating in a sea of faces in the frigid Atlantic.