A/N: Hey, guys. I decided to rewrite a few of my chapters for this story. There aren't any major changes, except for something I added on at the end.
Disclaimer: I don't own a thing Titanic.
"Come Josephine on my flying machine, and it's up she goes, up she goes…"
I sang silently to myself, lying on the bench in our backyard, staring up into the starry night sky. I did this almost every night; it was my own little tradition.
"Up she goes, up she goes... "
For as long as I could remember, my mother had sung that song to me. When I was a small baby, it had been the only comforting thing in a world that was so unstable. Back then, she had merely been a waitress trying to support herself and a small infant. By some miracle, she had become an actress. We weren't as rich as King Midas, but we were comfortable. And most importantly, we were happy.
"Come Josephine on my flying machine..."
Years ago, I had asked her where she had heard our song. Why had she chosen it, out of millions of other songs, to be ours? And she'd told me, a faraway look in her eyes, that my father had once sung it to her. Now whenever the words left my lips, I would think of him. What had he looked like; sounded like? Would he have loved me? As I lost myself in the stars, I knew I would never have answers to any of my questions. My father had died before I was even born. I would never know him.
All my mother would tell me about his death was that he had died in a terrible tragedy. That told me nothing. I would never get the answers I craved from her, and I knew it. From the little bit she'd told me about him, however, my father sounded like a great man. That knowledge would have to satisfy me. At least he hadn't been some sort of criminal, right?
"Up she goes..."
When I sang to the sky like this, in a way I think I was trying to talk to him. He was up there somewhere, looking down at me, even though I couldn't see him. And that, in a way, brought me closer to the man I longed to know; to see. I sighed and stood up. It was time to call it a night; I was tired.
"How were the stars tonight?" My mother; my beautiful mother. There she was, sitting at the kitchen counter, looking over her lines for her next play, and smiling at me.
I smiled back. "They were brighter than usual."
"Your father used to look at the stars, too, you know."
My heart stopped its beating for a moment. The times my mother spoke about my father were rare, but everytime she did, I absorbed every little word I could about him.
Not wanting the conversation to end, I asked, "He did?"
Her smile turned a little sad. "Yes, he did. He used to tell me it showed him just what he had to be thankful for."
"I know what he meant," I said, my voice breaking. So, I had something else in common with him, did I?
There was silence after that, as if neither she nor I knew what else to say. So I told her I was heading upstairs.
When I got into my room, I plopped down on my bed and grabbed my photo album. I opened it and began to look at the pictures. My eyes rested on one of my mother and I together. I looked just like her, everyone told me. I did in fact have her loose face framing waves, and body stature. But, my eyes were different. They weren't a blue-green like her own, but a bright, clear blue. My father's eyes. And instead of fiery red, my hair was a bright golden red. My father had been a blond. I took the picture out and held it in my hand. On the back I knew it read Clara and Rose Dawson, 1927.
As I moved to put the album away, something fell to the floor. I looked down and smiled. It was an envelope, and I knew just what was in it. An early birthday card from Daniel. Daniel was a rather handsome seventeen-year-old boy, with light brown hair and vivid green eyes. He was one of my best friends. He must have left the card here just before going home earlier in the day. Strangely enough, I would get another card from him on the day of my birthday, which wasn't for four more weeks. I laughed to myself. What could I say? That was just Danny. Personally, I thought it was rather sweet.
As I settled into bed, I thought about my upcoming fifteenth birthday. I was supposed to have been born in January, but my mother had had complications with her pregnancy she refused to tell me about, and I'd been born five months early, on September twelfth. I shoudn't even be alive, but by some absolute miracle, and it was a miracle, I was. For all I knew, I could have possibly been the only very premature baby in history to have ever survived. My existence was impossible, yet here I was, looking forward to my upcoming party. I really couldn't wait, but I had a strange feeling that the upcoming year was going to bring along with it a lot of changes.
A/n: I know, five months early is a bit farfetched, but you'll find out the reason for it later in the story.