The Crossing

NTT short story for 10/17/24

This short story is for my friend and fellow blogger Kevin’s No Theme Thursday. Every week, he creates amazing artwork, which becomes the basis for original poetry or prose. Lots of fun, please check it out!

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The sea air in the April night was chilly and Abigail wrapped her shawl tighter around herself. She stood on the starboard side in the cold wind, leaning on the rail and looking up at the inky sky. She picked out the Big Dipper and Cassiopeia against the sparkling backdrop of dimmer stars.

The wind blew her hair around her face as she sipped her champagne and considered the events of the past six months. So much had happened, it would take some time to sort it all out; but her immediate thoughts were of Bradley, and returning to him and father in New York in three more days. She’d had enough of the gray, depressing skies of London.

A frigid blast of arctic air blew through her as though she was dressed only in her pajamas. A man and woman passed her, giving her a curious look. An unescorted woman? With a drink? Shivering, she opened the door and went back inside.

Abigail’s twin sister Maggie surveyed herself in the dressing room mirror with a critical eye. “I don’t know,” she said. She turned to the upstairs maid. “I think this one looks dreadful. What do you think?” Her voice had the dry accent of upper-class London. 

Mrs. Tipton looked past her at the reflection in the mirror as Maggie turned this way and that. “I think it looks fine,” she said. “Perhaps it’s just a bit tight in the—“

Maggie whirled. “So, what, are you saying I’m too bloody fat to wear it?” she said. “That’s a bit cheeky, don’t you think? It fits Abby!” Mrs. Tipton stared impassively. Abby is 10 lbs lighter than you, dear. 

Maggie glared. “Go fetch me another, then.” Mrs. Tipton hurried off.

Like her twin, Maggie was missing home. It had been fun to spend six months with father in his New York City penthouse apartment—especially Christmas and New Years—but now she had grown tired of it all. The rudeness of people, the frenetic pace, the lack of decorum. She missed mother, their polite staff, tea at 4 o’clock.

She and Abby had grown up on opposite sides of the Atlantic. Father and mother had divorced when they were just toddlers. It had caused quite a stir among New York society, so mother had returned to her native England with Margaret and settled into a quiet life in Kensington. 

The sisters spent summers together, alternating between London and New York. Abby was quiet and thoughtful, while her twin was extroverted, daring. Maggie was intrigued by the suffragette movement in America, where women were increasingly asserting their independence. She wished women in England would act more like the Americans. They may be boors, but their women had backbone and the men were refreshingly forward.

This year, father was to be abroad for the entire summer on business, the girls spent the Christmas holidays and Spring with their non-custodial parent. But after six months, the only thing Maggie was going to miss about New York was Abby’s fiancé Bradley. He was also from a wealthy family and one of the most handsome men Maggie had ever seen. Maggie was green with envy.

Caught up in the independent America attitude, she brazenly flirted with Bradley on every opportunity. He never showed any interest, but undeterred, she stepped up her efforts and as her time dwindled to the final week, she grew desperate. She had only one more opportunity: a charity ball father had organized. Bradley was to be her escort…if she could ever find the right outfit.

Abby tapped her soft-boiled egg in the first class dining room as a steward poured her a cup of coffee. After six months of nothing but tea, she relished her morning coffee. It was a ritual her and father enjoyed every morning before he headed off to work. 

The steward spoke. He also had a London accent, but the lower-class Cockney variety. Abby didn’t mind; in fact, she found the social class systems on both sides of the Atlantic demeaning and cruel. Her efforts to befriend the staff were dampened by her mother who, in the polite English way, made it plain there was to be no fraternization. Abby found this unfortunate; back in New York, Mrs. Tipton had practically raised her. 

“‘ow are you then this morning, missus?” the steward asked as he finished pouring.

“Oh, just fine,” Abby said. “I was admiring the stars last night.”

“Oh…American, are you?”

“Yes.”

“What’s it like in America?” he asked. “I’d like very much to ‘ave a look around one day.”

Abby smiled. “Well, perhaps after we dock, you’ll have time.”

“I might just do that. If ‘is royal ‘ighness up on the bridge gives the OK.” He tugged a lock of forehead hair in respect and withdrew.

Abby sipped her coffee and looked out at the cobalt-blue Atlantic. The ship, the accommodations, the innovative touches here and there… it was amazing. Abby was thrilled not only to be on its maiden voyage, but to see Bradley’s reaction when they docked. He was like a schoolboy when it came to technology; he couldn’t stop talking about airplanes, the Model T, motion pictures. He didn’t know it, but father had made arrangements for her engineer-fiancé to tour the bridge and the engine rooms of her ship; the RMS Titantic.

Having found nothing suitable to wear to the ball, Maggie persuaded father to let the staff take her on a shopping expedition. Two maids and a butler trailed after her miserably from store to store as she tried on one outfit after another. As the afternoon wore on, she grew increasingly frustrated and angry, snapping at the saleswomen and storming in a huff from fitting rooms. 

The staff exchanged looks; although identical in appearance to the sweet-tempered Abby… with the exception of a few pounds, and an English accent…following this foul-tempered doppelgänger for hours was wearying. 

Finally, Maggie found an outfit to her liking. She emerged from the fitting room with the saleswoman trailing after her. “What do you think?” she asked, twirling around. 

It was positively scandalous; backless, off-the-shoulder, and with plunging laced front that would invoke father’s wrath…and hopefully, Bradley’s attention. Mrs Tipton spoke doubtfully. “Oh, Maggie, I’m not sure your father would—“

“Too late,” Maggie interrupted. “I’m leaving in a week, what can he do?” She addressed the clerk. “Wrap it up, please, and put it on by father’s account.” The staff exchanged doubtful looks.

Abby was preparing for bed when the ship shuddered for several long seconds. She looked at a glass of water and saw it shaking. That anything could be amiss didn’t occur to her; it was a calm, clear night and the Titanic was unsinkable. That’s the part she thought Bradley would find fascinating. She turned out the light and fell asleep.

Two hours later, a thumping on her door awoke her with a start. She put on her dressing gown and opened the door. It was her cabin steward. “Pardon, me, missus,” he said. He was sweating and breathless. “The Captain has asked all passengers to meet on the lifeboat deck.” He ran to the next cabin and knocked.

Lifeboat deck? Well, it was probably just some sort of drill. She picked up her purse and made her way to the lobby…and was startled at the scene.

Men, women, children—some in evening attire, others obviously just awoken—shouted and pushed as they tried to climb the main staircase leading to the outside deck. Abby felt the first rising of fear. What was going on? Some men roughly pushed her forward as others cleared a path. “Make way!” they shouted. “Single woman coming through!”

She emerged to a frightening scene. The ship was not moving and listing to starboard. The last-quarter moon reflected on the black water as crewmen tried to get lifeboats lowered. Up and down the deck, people were shouting and putting on life jackets. Red signal flares rocketed up and burst with a faint popping sounds. Oh my God, she thought, as fear gripped her for the first time.

Six hundred miles to the east, Maggie looked at herself with satisfaction. In her new dress, makeup tastefully applied, and a stole discretely draped over her shoulders, she felt she looked the part. Bradley would be putty in her hands, and Abby would never be the wiser. 

She glided down the main stairway on father’s arm. He had shot her a few hard looks, but she pulled the stole tightly around herself and smiled innocently. He handed her off to Bradley, then went for brandies and cigars with his friends.

She looked at Bradley. “Do you like my new dress?” she asked. He glanced at her briefly and nodded. “Very nice,” he said. He was glad this was her last week, he didn’t know how much more of her unwanted flirtations he could stand. How could she and her twin sister be so different? He thought of Abby, so gentle and kind, a lady in every sense of the word, and how she compared to her obnoxious tramp of a sister.

Maggie cut his musings short. “Would you like to dance?” she asked. Bradley was taken aback by her forwardness, but nodded. As they danced, Maggie moved closer until they were almost touching. She managed to steer him into a darkened corner of the floor where it was more private. With her back to the crowd, she loosened her stole, letting it open in the front and slide down the sides, revealing her cleavage and bare shoulders. Bradley stared.

Abby was helped into a lifeboat by a steward. Aboard were a dozen other women, plus eight or ten children. She wondered why the boat was only half full.

With a lurch, the boat dropped two feet, then stopped as the men winched it down. It was a rough, jerky descent and Abby clung to the sides of the boat in terror. 

There was a pause, followed by shouting above. One end of the boat dropped, but the other didn’t. More shouting, then it happened again. The boat was now steeply angled and women at the other end clung to the sides, screaming.

A longer pause; then the rope on the lower end of the boat went slack. The boat now hung by a single rope and the passengers were tipped out. 

They were still several decks above the water and the women who fell landed in the icy water with shouts and screams. Abby hung on as long as she could but then she, too, followed them down. A lifeboat had moved over and was plucking women out of the water.

As Abby fell, things became strange. Time seemed to slow down and she became acutely aware of her surroundings: The moon and the stars reflecting on the dark water. Shouting from above although it seemed to be coming from a long distance and muffled, like someone shouting through a storm drain. The sensation of falling. Her dressing gown flapping and the chill from the frigid air. She could see she was going to land not in the water, but on the lifeboat.

She thought of Bradley; their love and all the things they had shared. Their upcoming marriage. Their dreams of a life together and children and—

Her neck struck the gunwale of the lifeboat, breaking her cervical vertebrae. She instantly lost all sensation and felt the freezing water only on her face and head. She felt hands grabbing at her hair and muffled voices. As she descended into the black, cold depths, her last thought was I’ll never get my chance to love Bradley.

Maggie leaned in close to Bradley, rubbing her body against his. “I go back to England next week,” she purred. “Wouldn’t you like to see how the other sister measures up?” She looked behind her, then pulled her dress out, exposing her bare breasts. She looked up lasciviously.

Bradley stepped back in shock. “Good God, woman!” he said in disgust. “I knew you were a tart, and I’ve put up with you because you’re to be my sister in law, but this is obscene! Pull yourself together!” He stepped back, brushing the front of his clothes.

Maggie started to speak, but paused. Her heart skipped a beat; then another. She felt dizzy and light-headed. She froze, fighting a rising panic as her heart fluttered uselessly. As she looked around wildly for help, things turned white, and a high-pitched whine grew louder and louder. She slumped to the floor, her heart no longer beating. She dimly heard Bradley shouting for a doctor and the crowd surrounding her.

As she drifted away, her last thought was the same as her sister’s.

Abby inexplicably felt herself rising from the icy depths. She emerged from the waters as in a dream and surveyed the spectacle below impassively; the sinking ship, lights going out, lifeboats and people jumping over the side. She rose further yet and drifted west, towards the setting moon. She picked up speed and flew over the waves at an astonishing speed.

Lights came into view on the horizon and her pace slowed. She recognized New York, the harbor, the Brooklyn Bridge. She drifted over to Manhattan, and down to street level. She passed into the interior of a hotel and found herself looking at another spectacle; her twin sister lying motionless on the floor, Bradley holding her hand, a crowd surrounding her, a doctor bending over her; he looked at Bradley and shook his head. She knew no more as a brilliant light flooded her soul.

“—the end.” she heard. She was lying on a cold, hard surface and someone was holding her hand. Her eyelids fluttered and she saw Bradley; and behind him, father. 

“Bradley,” she said weakly. “How… where…?”

Bradley, who had been looking at the doctor, snapped his attention to her. He looked shocked, relieved. “Maggie!” he said. “Are you all right? I don’t understand…the doctor said…” he trailed off.

Abby sat up and looked around. “Where am I?” she asked. “Who are all these people?” She felt cold and looked down. She was shocked to see what she was wearing, and pulled the stole over herself.

Bradley and father helped her upstairs and placed her in bed. She fell immediately into a deep sleep.

Mrs. Tipton’s face was the first thing she saw the next morning. “Oh dear, Maggie,” she said. “You gave us all such a fright. Can I get you a cup of tea?”

Abby rubbed her eyes. “No thank you, Tipsy,” she said, using her nickname for the maid. Mrs. Tipton look startled. “But some coffee would be great. Thank you.”

Bradley came in, looking concerned. He sat on the bed and took her hand. “Maggie,” he said. “I don’t understand what happened but I’m so glad you’re still with us. How are you?”

“Fine. Except I feel a little woozy. And why does everyone keep calling me Maggie?”

As Mrs. Tipton reappeared with the coffee, father entered.

“Maggie, darling, you gave us all such a fright last night. Doctor Epstein said—well never mind that now. How are you feeling?”

Abby sipped the coffee. “I’m fine, Daddy,” she said. Daddy? The other three looked at each other. “Why is everyone making such a fuss? And why do you all keep calling me Maggie? I’m not Maggie… I’m Abby.” She took another sip. More looks and expressions of concern, confusion.

Father’s assistant entered and handed him a piece of yellow paper. Father’s eyes darted back and forth and his face turned white. He collapsed heavily into a chair and handed the telegram to Bradley, who read it out loud.

“RMS Titanic struck an iceberg just before midnight last night, 14 April 1912. Stop. Sank at 2:40 am. Stop. Many hands lost. Stop. Survivors on board the RMS Carpathia, heading for New York.” He trailed off snd looked stricken. “Oh dear God,” was all he could manage.

In the following days, several things became clear. Abby was not on the Carpathia; she was presumed lost. Maggie continued to insist she was Abby, and her London accent had vanished.

There was confusion on both sides; Abby could not fathom why her family continued to insist she was Maggie and treating her as though she were mad…while her family could not understand why Maggie was insisting she was her dead sister and speaking in an American accent.

Things came to a head the following week when Abby, Bradley and Mrs. Tipton were in the kitchen.

“Bradley, darling,” she said. “Would you please fetch me a refill on my coffee?”

Bradley whirled on her viciously. “All right, look,” he said with gritted teeth. “It’s bad enough you behaved like a common street whore at the ball. But I’ve had enough of your stupid game. For God’s sake, have some decency and respect for your sister’s memory. I loved Abby, not you. I’m not interested in you in the least and I can’t wait until you’re on the boat next week back to England.” His breathing had become ragged. Mrs. Tipton quietly withdrew.

Abby met his ire with her own. “Whore?! What do you mean whore? I never did anything— and why do you not believe I’m Abby? I—“

“Shut up!” Bradley shouted. “Shut up, you stupid slut! I—“

Abby looked aghast; then her face fell and she lowered her head, sobbing. “Oh Bradley,” she cried. “Why are you doing this? I thought our love was true. I thought you’d never doubt me.”

“I’d never doubt Abby. Not you.”

“But I am Abby. The time we were in Central Park and you recited that poem for me… I never thought—“

Bradley looked shocked. “Poem? What poem?”

“I don’t know. It was just something short you had written.” She paused, thinking. “’A love that’s tested, tried by fire—‘“

“—endures through trials…and never tires.’” he finished slowly. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Because I was there. We were picnicking and a beggar came by. You gave him a dollar.”

Something like fright mixed with wonder crossed across his face. “Tell me what you said when I asked for your hand.”

“That fairy tales do come true.”

The kitchen clock ticked loudly in the empty silence. They stared at each other, struggling to understand.

Finally, Bradley broke the silence. “Abby,” he said tenderly, taking her hand. His voice was shaky. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know by what grace of God this has happened… but I believe you. It’s you. It’s really you.”

“Of course it’s me,” she said. “I don’t know why—“

“Because it sank, Abby. The ship sank and you drowned. You—“

“What ship?” she asked in confusion.

Instead of answering, he stood and held out his arms. She fell into them and he hugged her tightly as she silently shook. Somehow, someway, she was back. They were back.

A line from Hamlet came to mind: There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Yes, he thought.

Much more.

© My little corner of the world 2024

This was my first attempt to write from the omniscient perspective, rather than the first person. I found it a bit more challenging to make things realistic and genuine without being too verbose. Sorry for the novella 😂