The Deep

by Alma Katsu

  It was the last bit of her to survive, and he couldn’t bear to let it go.

  1916

  Chapter Eighteen

  17 November 1916

  Naples, Italy

  HMHS Britannic

  He is hers and yet not.

  He has not awoken. She doesn’t know if he ever will.

  Annie sits on a campstool next to Mark’s bed. She can still barely believe Mark is beside her, close enough to touch. Alive, after believing for years that he was gone. He lies in bed, his head heavily bandaged. He has changed, though not so much that she couldn’t recognize him. Annie studies him. He’s aged far more than the four years that have passed. He looks like the Mark he was to become in middle age. His hair is military short, what’s exposed beyond the bandages, very smart and crisp, but she misses the way he wore it before. Slightly longer, it gave him a bohemian appearance, like one of those British expatriate artists living in Paris whom you hear about, ruined by absinthe and syphilis.

  Still, the age—the pain and suffering—etched onto his face only make him more handsome, more a man than he was before. He can only be in his early thirties, yet he has seen unthinkable things now. Has been on the front lines. Has risked his life.

  Has survived.

  The last time she saw him, she realizes, was before. Before any of the terrible things that followed.

  The memory of that night on the Titanic comes back to her too readily: screaming and panic, crewmen grabbing at her as she ran by, exhorting her to get in one of the lifeboats. The black water rushing up the slanted promenade, clawing at her . . .

  She shudders. Mark’s hands are folded on top of the blanket. They are scarred and white—and ring-free. He wore a wedding ring on the Titanic, but there’s no ring now.

  Wake up, wake up, she wants to say. She wants to shake him by the shoulders, see those blue eyes pop open. She has news to tell him, news that will make him happy. And he will be so grateful: he will scoop her up in his arms and press her to his chest and maybe . . .

  A flash of fantasy—another vision or memory or something else—flutters at the back of her mind. His lips against hers. His hands in her hair—her hair much longer than it is now. She can feel his hair twined in her fingers, too, his hair, his face, his body familiar to her in ways that . . . cannot be. An old hunger in her, but as sharp and precise as the edge of a knife.

  She shakes her head, dispelling the image, the desire. Wishes she still had her crucifix to ground her. To anchor her.

  But the brooch—it’s still on her lapel, and she strokes it now, to calm herself, tracing the heart and the arrow. To remind herself.

  She has a gift for Mark. He must wake up, if only so she can tell him:

  His daughter, Ondine, did not die that night.

  She is still alive.

  Violet had said this in her letter, assuring Annie that her plunge into the ocean that night had not been for naught. Violet had held Ondine all through the night, right up until the lifeboat drew up alongside the Carpathia. In the chaos of disembarking, however, someone had plucked the baby out of Violet’s arms. She’d assumed it was one of the Carpathia’s crew acting in an official capacity. Once they arrived in New York City, it was chaos: the press descended on the survivors and, in the swirl of fetes and speeches, Violet lost track of Ondine. The White Star Line front office assured her that all the children orphaned by the sinking had been reunited with family or placed under the care of the proper administrative offices. There was nothing more she could do.

  Annie looks at Mark’s still face, flat and blank. Ghostlike. She will be the one to bring joy back into his painful, joyless life.

  She reaches forward and takes his hands. “Mark, I’ve got something very important to tell you,” she says to him as though he can hear her.

  Hours pass this way. They blur together as the Britannic sails from the port in Naples, and still, Annie remains by his side.

  It is not until sometime very late in the night that she senses a stirring in him.

  She leans closer to him.

  “Mark?” she whispers so softly, so carefully.

  His eyes open.

  She’s so startled that she almost yelps.

  “Lord in Heaven . . .” she whispers, as he blinks at her.

  He stares at her. His eyes move over her like he’s seeing a ghost. He takes in her smile, her hands, even the shiny gold brooch on her lapel.

  And then . . . a spasm of some kind.

  He’s ill. Unwell. Something’s wrong. What’s happening? She wants to call for one of the doctors, but it’s so late; she was told not to bother them but for emergencies . . . but surely they would want to be alerted when a comatose patience awakens?

  Mark is frantic, practically crawling backward, recoiling at the sight of her. His eyes roll like a spooked horse’s. For a moment, her chest feels crushed by a great weight—Why isn’t he as happy to see her as she is to see him? This reaction is normal. Is it because he’s woken up in a strange place; one minute, he’s in an army hospital in Naples and the next minute he’s listing and rolling on a ship at sea? Yes, that’s it. He’s disoriented. He doesn’t know what’s happening to him.

  “It’s me, Mark. It’s Annie, Miss Hebbley from the Titanic. You remember me, don’t you?” she says, trying to reassure him, rubbing his hands, patting his cheek. That only seems to make it worse. He pulls his hands away. He is trembling. Poor man.

  Why hasn’t he said something? He can’t seem to speak, even around the bandages. He’s had a head injury, so that could be bad news. It could be brain damage, a stroke. She’s seen catatonic soldiers, immobile in their wheelchairs even though they’ve got perfectly good legs, staring emptily into space. Very bad news, indeed. No, please God. You’ve just reunited us. Don’t take him away from me now. I’ve been a good girl. It’s time for my reward.

  “Wait here, Mark,” she says, turning to leave. “I’ll fetch a doctor.” Dawn is breaking by now anyway, and night shifts will be turning over soon. “I’ll be right back. It will be okay. You’re going to be fine. I promise. We’re together now. That’s all that matters.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  19 November 1916

  HMHS Britannic

  The radio room is kept deliberately dim at night. Only one light burns, low. Charlie Epping likes it that way.

  This hour—just before dawn—is his favorite time. Nothing stirs. All is quiet but for the soft tapping of the occasional wire dispatch, rhythmic, soothing. The sea is like a vast silver field laid out before him.

  He works alone. Toby Sullivan, the second radio man, was supposed to pull shift with him, but Epping told him to take the night off. There’s not much that needs doing and Charlie prefers to keep busy. Besides, he would rather have silence than listen to Toby’s bored, nervous chatter.

  Epping sorts through yesterday’s pouch of dispatches from command headquarters, getting them ready for Assistant Commander Dyke in the morning. There are the mundane, such as changing hours for the mess hall and new rules about using the recreational facilities, and the important. He reads through each report and puts them in a rough priority order, according to his own taste, but Dyke will decide which pieces are important enough for the commander’s attention. Everyone knows that Captain Bartlett lets Dyke handle the day-to-day things. Bartlett fancies himself a big-picture kind of man, doesn’t like to be distracted.

  Behind Epping, the stylus starts to tap. Strange: they don’t get many telegraphs at this hour. He starts to take down the message. A few message groups into the transmission, he realizes that it’s in code. It’s an intelligence report. That means it’s not so simple. He will need to decode it and then type the whole thing up for Dyke to read when he gets up. Command would’ve sent the report in this morning’s pouch, but the Britannic has already put out to sea, a bit later than scheduled, the storm having passed
enough to make it possible.

  Before Epping sits down to start decoding, he lowers the blinds. That way no passerby will be able to look into the radio room while he writes out the secret words in plaintext—not that anyone’s awake, save for the some of the night staff. Still, it’s protocol. It’s his job to protect classified information, and he takes it very seriously. After lowering the blinds, he unlocks a drawer, pulls out the codebook, and looks up the key for that day. The key sets up the transposition of letters that creates the code. It changes every day and if you don’t use the proper key, you’ll end up with gobbledygook. Then he gets a sheet of grid paper and a sharpened pencil and starts entering the encoded letters.

  It takes the better part of an hour, but Epping decodes the entire transmission. While he’s decoding, he doesn’t pay attention to the words that are being formed. It’s all about chasing the letters. Now that he’s finished, he sits back and reads the report through, wanting to make sure that he did everything correctly and that it makes sense. But he’s also curious as to what it’s about.

  A German informant has told the British that Kea Channel has been mined. Epping consults the navigation map pinned to the wall, though he doesn’t really need to. They’ve made five trips to pick up the wounded at Mudros and each time, they’ve gone through the Kea Channel. There have been rumors of mining in the channel before and the captain decided to take his chances. It could be that the Germans were spreading disinformation in the hope of tricking England into diverting some of the minesweepers that were keeping the English Channel open.

  He runs his finger over the worn paper map, tracing the lines of longitude and latitude in the intelligence report to the island-studded passage that is the Kea Channel. The supposed mines lie right in the path Britannic is to take. Staring at the spot on the map, Epping—who is not prone to nerves—feels a tremor through him. Like someone walking over his grave, his ma would say.

  He sits down at the typewriter, threads in a fresh piece of paper, and starts typing. Dyke will want to see this first thing in the morning.

  1912

  WESTERN UNION, April 12, 1912

  TO: MR. AND MRS. ARTHUR RYERSON,

  first-class passengers

  Please be assured that arrangements have been made to your specifications for the funeral of your son Arthur, Jr. The funeral is scheduled to take place on April 19 at 3 p.m., at St. Mark’s Episcopal Church on Locust Street. How regrettable that you have had to cut short your travel to attend to this heartbreaking tragedy. The town has been rocked and saddened by this tragic accident. You have our deepest condolences.—White Funeral Parlor, Cooperstown, New York

  TO: CHRISTOPHER MITCHELL,

  Seventh Avenue South, New York City

  I wish to secure your services for a confidential consultation. I have been assured by mutual acquaintances of your discretion. I am currently en route to NYC, scheduled to dock on April 18, and will be in touch shortly thereafter. This is in regard to a matter most pressing on my mind. Again, I am relying on your absolute discretion.—Mrs. Madeleine Talmage Force Astor

  TO: BENJAMIN GUGGENHEIM,

  first-class passenger

  Advising discretion when disembarking in New York. Your wife’s lawyer has conveyed that she will initiate divorce proceedings if Miss Aubart’s name appears in the papers. It might be a good time to send Miss Aubart on a vacation in the country. Perhaps two weeks at a resort in Pennsylvania? With a private car picking her up at the dock? If you concur, we will make the arrangements immediately.—Joseph Sebring, Law Offices of Manchester and Coates

  Chapter Twenty

  12 April 1912

  Titanic

  Rise and fall.

  The ground swells beneath her, rising, rising until there is a moment of suspension . . .

  A gentle tip . . .

  And descent, floating down, down, down.

  It is rhythmic, like the motion of the ship.

  Like riding on horseback. Rising a great swell of muscle and power.

  There is a body close to Annie. Warm, firm, strong. They are rising and falling together, they bump, bump again, and then are locked together, their bodies entwined. Hands, arms, legs. Their skin is clammy with sweat. Heat streaks through her like fire in a furnace.

  But there is something else in her, a yearning so deep that she feels hollow inside. The Lord loves good girls, Annie.

  * * *

  —

  Annie blinked her eyes, her vision swimming and cloudy, before finally clarifying.

  She was in the alleyway outside the first-class cabins. Tiny electric lights glowed in the darkness like fireflies. Annie was wearing only her thin cotton nightgown, no robe or slippers. Her pale hair was down around her shoulders. Her skin was gooseflesh and her teeth chattered against the cold. It might’ve been the chattering that woke her up.

  She rubbed her eyes. She must’ve been sleepwalking. She’d never done this before.

  She wrapped her arms over her chest to hide her breasts. Where was she? She tried to read the cabin numbers in the miserly light, but she was pretty sure she knew where she was: outside the door to the Fletchers’ cabin.

  Noises seeped under the door. She recognized these sounds: they were the sounds of a couple making love. She even knew their voices though not one word was said, recognized the timbre and pitch as they growled and giggled, sighed and moaned. Mark was pleasuring his wife in the ways he’d pleasured Annie in her dreams.

  The cold disappeared, replaced by an embarrassment that set her aflame. She couldn’t deny her desire for Mark, so deep that it took control of her in her sleep and led her, step by step, to his door. And the worst part was this feeling she couldn’t shake, after hearing the two of them in their room. That she had caught Mark cheating on her.

  Annie hurried away, hands tucked in the warmth of her armpits, cold tear tracks on her cheeks. She prayed that no one would see her wandering the halls like the ghost of an insane wife. No one may have seen her, but Annie caught herself thinking that the ship knew. The ship knows and will be disappointed in me now. It’ll know I’m not as good as it thought I was.

  As she made her way to the crew’s quarters, she muttered promises to herself. She would think no more about Mark. She was done with him. And Caroline, too. The only Fletcher who needed her help—the only Fletcher she would let herself care for—was Ondine. Poor helpless Ondine. Annie knew—she felt—that the baby needed her from the moment she’d seen her. Those innocent eyes searching her face, as though she were trying to tell Annie something. A message in those eyes. Protect me. Save me. I need you. And hadn’t the baby been looking worse lately, paler, seeming to waste away before their eyes? No, Annie would never be able to deny Ondine.

  * * *

  Sometime later, white light clawed at the edges of Annie’s eyelids, trying to pry them open.

  It was the cold white light of early morning, she knew as a servant who had to rise early every day.

  Who had to rise before dawn.

  She had overslept.

  Annie sat up abruptly. Instinctively, she looked at Violet’s narrow little bunk on the other side of the room. It was empty. Violet had risen and not bothered to wake her.

  She threw back the covers and ran to the ewer. The water was ice-cold, but for once she was grateful: the bracing cold woke her up. Eyes squeezed shut, she groped for a towel and scrubbed warmth back into her face.

  When she opened her eyes, a small rectangle of white on the floor drew her attention. It was a folded piece of Titanic stationery, by the looks of it, slid under the door. She snatched it up. She didn’t recognize the handwriting. Shaky and light, it looked like a very sick person had written it. And it made no sense; all it said was:

  You know who I am.

  You know what I want.

  For a moment, all she could picture was the face of the woman she’d seen once on
the beach as a child. Naked, beautiful, basking against a rock, seaweed strewn on her body and through her hair. How she’d stared at Annie with dark, endless eyes. How Annie had known in that moment who and what the woman was—dubheasa. The lady from her grandmother’s tales. The dark spirit of the sea, who collected innocent girls, kept them safe far beneath the waves, her immortal children.

  Annie shuddered.

  She flipped the note back and forth, looking for something more, but there was nothing, not so much as a drop of ink. Her mind struggled to make sense of it. Could it have been meant for someone else and slipped under her door as a mistake? No, it was a sick joke—it had to be. One of the crew teasing her for her shyness. Some of the boys working the boilers were as immature as schoolchildren. Once dressed, Annie stuffed the paper in the pocket of her apron. She would get to the bottom of this.

  She saw Violet later that morning as they worked on their assigned rooms. “This,” she hissed at Violet, shaking the note at her. “What do you mean by this?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Violet said after giving it a cursory look.

  “You didn’t write it?” Annie looked at the spidery writing and felt her stomach skittle like water on a hot griddle.

  “I’ve never seen it before.”

  Cleaning up in Stead’s stateroom, Annie was staring at the note when William Stead walked in. He nodded at the paper in her hands. “What’s that, my dear? Did you find it in here?”

  He had spoken kindly enough, but it was clear he thought she had been going through his things. The thought of being taken for a thief made her stomach even worse. “No, sir. It was on the floor of my cabin.”

  He gave her a grandfatherly smile. “A love note, is it? One of the crew taken a fancy to you?”

  “No, sir. It’s not like that at all . . . but, honestly, I don’t know what to make of it.” She handed it to him in a moment of confusion, pure reflex.