“Have you my sister’s name down?” I said. “Nora Sweeney?”

He scanned the pages and shook his head. “I’ll come back when I’ve finished my search,” he said gently. “I still have to check the state rooms, but it is most unlikely there are any survivors there.”

When he returned, I could tell by his face that he had not found Nora. “There are over seven hundred names,” he said, indicating the logbook. “I’m sorry, but her name is not here.”

“Were there any other rescue ships?”

“We were the first ship on the scene. I understand the SS Californian arrived long after us; I doubt there were any survivors left to rescue by then.”

Later, when I had no more tears to shed, I found a deserted corner of the deck and leaned over the railing, looking out to sea. A shadow covered the moon, as if in mourning. I thought back over my life growing up with Nora. We had never been close, and I had resented her much of the time, but there were also times when I realized she never set out to deliberately hurt me. Who could blame her for adopting Ma’s attitude toward me? After all, she was Ma’s favorite, and it was in her best interests to agree with her. I doubted now that she had even given me much thought. She was too busy enjoying herself. And then another memory came to me. I recalled the way Nora sometimes looked intently at Da, as if willing him to acknowledge her. I realized that if Ma had hurt me by her rejection, Nora had felt a similar rejection from Da. In that moment I let go of every jealous thought I had ever harbored toward my sister.

“Goodbye, Nora,” I whispered. “May you rest in peace.”

New York - 1912

New York

1912

Delia

Delia

On Thursday, April 18, when the Carpathia finally arrived at Pier 54 at the New York docks, it was nine in the evening and the rain lashed down in buckets. I could see very little in the dusk except for a large archway. As we sailed beneath it, I had the impression I was approaching the altar in the chapel in Kilcross. I shook my head to clear it. After we tied up at the dock, I waited with the other passengers for instructions. At last, first- and second-class passengers were instructed to disembark, but third class were told to stay behind. I backed away from the ship’s railing just as an officer, the one who had carried the logbook, came up and took my arm.

“Tell them you’re from second class,” he said, “otherwise you’ll be here all night. The immigration officers will want to question the third-class passengers more thoroughly than the rest.”

“But my papers say . . .” I began, but he cut me off.

“Pretend you have no papers,” he said, smiling. “Tell them they went down with the ship.”