Come, Josephine

Chapter 20

   1927

The journey home

   The train journey home was wrought with worry and stress. It felt too long, too bumpy, too loud. Nothing felt right.
   Rose couldn't sleep, eat, or function. Something in her was so deeply, fundamental broken that she had lost the will to live. She couldn't focus on anything but her daughter, who she doubted was even alive.
   Jack was more or less the same, although he remained adamant that nothing would or could happen to Josie. His rage kept him going, as much as Rose's heartbreak drained her.
   They spent the entirety of the week in a frantic mourning state. Nothing could soothe them, and nothing could make their heart rate steady. Jack tried to kept Rose to calm down, by holding her hand or offering a shoulder to cry on. No tears came, no words could be said. Nothing would console her, and she had little to fight for.
   When they disembarked the final cab journey, Rose stood in their house's yard, unable to move. They had no luggage to bring, nor did they have a reason to buy anything in Philadelphia. So, there they stood, with only their hearts in their hands.
   Jack took her arm, coaxing her gently. She hadn't spoken since they had left the city, and he worried that she would never speak again. Especially if what they found inside was... dreadful.
   As he pulled forward, Rose shot forward, as if she had finally woken up.
   She ran towards the house, and Jack chased her. If something was devastating, he would need to be there in order to piece her back together.
   Rose made it inside before he did, and when he entered the room, he found her bent over the kitchen table.
   She turned to him, her face stricken, and her unused voice rattled, "it says Josie is being kept at the doctor's house, with his wife tending to her..." her voice trailed off as she handed him a piece of folded paper, "she was shot by an unknown man, and the Huston boy was also injured..."
   "Don't worry, it's only on the other side of those trees- look-" he led her onto the porch and pointed to a small grove of trees, "we can go on foot."
   She nodded in a fashion that made him doubt she would ever be okay again, yet something in it was reassuring. Rose might never recover from the upset of the previous week or so, but she could certainly come back to life. Even if she wasn't the same, the rage in her eyes told him that she might be capable of some level of normality.
Jack followed Rose down the porch steps, and watched her furious pace as she rushed off. The walk would hopefully calm her enough not to tear down the doctor's place and hunt the marksman down, but he even doubted a walk to Southampton could do that. Rose's heart might be shattered, he noted, but her fire roared.
By the time they had reached the doctor's, Jack was breathless and damp. Rose, however, had not so much as broken a sweat. She was closer to slapping someone than wearing herself out.
Jack reached out to grab her arm, but Rose ducked away and flung open the front door. The doctor's house was pleasantly modest, with touches of affluence. It was simple, yet elegant. Something he knew Rose generally liked in a house.
The floor rattled and she barged in, her voice shattering the silence, "where is my daughter?"
Before Rose could engulf the premises, a woman appeared from the hallway. She raised a finger to silence Rose, and crossed the space between them.
Rose blinked, and sized up the woman in front of her. She remained silent.
"I'm Mrs Smith, the doctor is my husband," she smiled. She was older than Rose by about a decade, yet fierce in a silent way. She was not afraid by the irate, volatile younger woman.
"My daughter?"
"She's in a bedroom down the hall- I must warn you, she is sleeping currently, and is quite exhausted. She lost a lot of blood."
Rose nodded, gulped, and finally looked back at Jack for reassurance. He nodded.
The went through to a dimly lit bedroom, with a set of nice, boughten furniture that suited the front of the house. There was a long stretch of wall from the right of the door, which was positioned in the corner. Pushed against the wall was a set of oak draws, and the bed faced the draws, aligned neatly. A dresser sat beside the bed, facing a window hung with nets, and several medical supplies sat upon it.
On the bed, covered with blankets, was Josie.
Rose shot forward, and knelt by the bed, cradling her daughter's hand against her face. She cried, at last, with great, curdling sobs. Jack watched from the doorway, and sighed with relief.