Passage

Joanna hesitated, trying to decide which way they’d gone, and, after a minute, the men came back across the deck past her and over to the railing, the sailor carrying an old-fashioned lantern.

He hoisted it up onto the forecastle railing. The officer struck a match and reached inside the lantern. Yellow light flared. The sailor shifted the lantern, so it sat at an angle, and slid a piece of metal down in front of the glass, obscuring the light. A shutter, Joanna thought. It made a scraping noise as he slid it down. “What do you want me to send?” he asked.

The officer shook his head. “Mayday. SOS. Help. I don’t know, anything that’ll work.”

The sailor pulled the shutter up, and the light flared out again. Down, up, down, the shutter scraping along the glass as he raised and lowered it. Up, down, up.

Joanna stared out across the darkness, looking for an answering flicker, a light, but there was nothing, not even a glimmer. And no sound except the scrape of the lantern. Down, up, down. Scrape, scrape. She moved away from the men a little, listening for the lap of water, but there was no sound of water slapping the bow, no breeze. Because we’ve stopped, she thought, because we’re dead in the water.

“She’s not responding,” the sailor said, lowering the shutter. “Are you sure it’s a light and not just a star?”

“It better not be a star,” the officer said. “We’re taking on water.”

The sailor’s hand jerked on the lantern, making the light flicker. “Isn’t anyone coming?”

“The Baltic, but she’s over two hundred miles away.”

“What about the Frankfurt?”

“She’s not answering,” the officer said, and the sailor began signaling again, the light flaring on, off, on, the shutter scraping like fingernails on a blackboard.

“I’m not getting anything,” he said. “How long do you want me to do this?”

“Till you get through to her.”

The Morse lamp went on sending. Light, dark, scrape, scrape. “Sir?” a voice called, off to Joanna’s left, and an officer ran past Joanna and up to the men. He saluted smartly. “I was just below, sir. Boiler rooms five and six and the mail room’s flooded, and there’s water coming in on D Deck.”

D Deck. She was on C Deck. That was why the staterooms were numbered C8, C10, C12. But she had come up three flights, and the deck below this was the Promenade Deck. Was that A Deck, or was this? If this was, that would make the Promenade B Deck, and the one with her passage in it—

She took off running, the sound of the Morse lamp steadily scraping, down, up, down, reaching all the way down the deck. And please let the door be open, she prayed, racing up the metal stairs. Still let my shoe be in it.

It was, and there was no time to retrieve it. She flung the door open and was down the stairs. One flight. Two. Past the dining room, with its glittering crystal and piano. Three. Please let it not be flooded, she prayed, and pushed through the door.

The deck was dry, but because of the curve, she couldn’t see all the way to the passage. She ran past the locked doors, around the curve. And there it was, the black rectangle of the passage door, still open, still above water. She pelted toward it, her bare foot slapping an awkward rhythm with her remaining shoe as she ran.

Down the deck, which was still — thank God — dry, past the deck chairs, her reflection flickering in the glass of the windows as she sped past. Past the light. Into the passage, and into darkness.

And more darkness. What happened? Joanna thought, panic clutching at her. Why didn’t I go back? And realized she was back, her sleep mask still on, the IV tugging at the inside crease of her elbow, white noise playing in her ears. “Tish?” she said and pulled the headphone down off her ear with her left hand.

“…pulse just spiked,” Tish was saying. “Pulse 95, BP 130 over 90. Wait, she’s awake.”

“Good,” Richard said, and she could hear his footsteps as he came over to the examining table. She felt Tish removing the electrodes along her scalp, and then the sleep mask was off, and she was looking up at Richard.

“Well?” he said.

She shook her head against the pillow. “I didn’t have a different vision, like you expected,” she said, and tried to sit up. “It was—”

“Stay put,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“But I need to tell you,” Joanna said, lying back, “it was definitely—”

“Hang on,” Richard said. “Don’t say anything until I get the recorder started.” He began pushing buttons randomly on the minirecorder. The tape feed popped open. He took the tape out and examined both sides. What was he doing? He’d watched her put a new tape in right before they started. “Tish, can you get Joanna a blanket?” he said. “She’s shivering.”

No, I’m not, Joanna thought, and realized he was stalling until Tish moved away so she wouldn’t hear what she said.

“Sure,” Tish said, and went over to the supply cabinet.

“Tell me what you saw,” Richard said as soon as she was out of earshot.

“The Titanic.”