A Lasting Impression

pillow, then closed her eyes, feeling the sway of the boat and imagining she was in a hammock, the kind her father had promised for years that he would buy for them.
    But never had.
    A day and half later, the Natchez steamed its way into port in Mobile, Alabama. Parched and famished, her food supply depleted, Claire disembarked and located the train station. After taking care of personal needs, she hurried across the street to the general store.
    The first train whistle hadn’t sounded yet. She still had time.
    She chose a sleeve of crackers wrapped in brown paper and a drink, and a wedge of cheese from a case on the counter. Thinking better of it, she turned and discreetly counted the money in her change purse, then started to put the cheese back—and paused.
    She was so hungry. . . .
    Almost two days remained before she would reach Nashville. She’d told Papa and Uncle Antoine she needed more money, but they’d insisted they’d given her enough.
    She glanced around but saw no one. She looked at her open reticule, then back at the cheese. Then at the store’s fully stocked shelves. Surely the proprietor did well enough that he wouldn’t miss—
    With swift decisiveness, Claire returned the cheese and withdrew her hand as though it might be burned. I will not do this anymore. No more deceit. No more stealing. Or lying.
    “Will there be anything else, ma’am?”
    Startled, Claire turned. The apron-clad proprietor wore a smile, but something in his features told her he’d seen what she’d been about to do. She lowered her head. “No, thank you. This will be plenty.” Face heating, she counted out the coins, with a penny left over.
    The train whistle blew. Twice.
    Twice? Looking out the window, she saw the porter hoisting the step stool onto the passenger car. She turned to grab her purchases and her reticule slipped from the counter. Its contents scattered across the floor.
    Gritting her teeth, she knelt and snatched up the items, then grabbed the cloth bag the gentleman held out. “Thank you, sir!”
    His kindness never dimmed. “God be with you, ma’am.”
    Claire ran for the train, calling out to the porter. He gave her a low-browed warning, and by the time she found an empty bench in the last car, the train had long pulled away from the station.
    Shaky with hunger, she reached into the cloth bag for the package of crackers and—
    Her hand closed around something.
    Slowly, not trusting her sense of touch, she withdrew a wedge of cheese wrapped in wax paper, along with the crackers and her drink. Still feeling a slight weight at the bottom of the sack, she peered inside and saw the coins she’d paid.
    Tears threatening, she recalled the proprietor’s parting words. “God be with you, ma’am.” She ate the crackers and every morsel of cheese, vowing to repay his kindness. She didn’t know how or when, but someday, she would do something kind for someone else, the way he’d done for her.
    She leaned her head against the window, the rhythm of steel wheels against iron rails lulling her to rest. She wondered how her father was, all while wishing her ticket could take her far, far away from both him and Uncle Antoine, though it was difficult to even think of him as such anymore. She touched her cheek, a spike of anger returning. With each passing minute, as the distance separating her from them mounted, so did her resolve to stand up to them both, and to make a fresh start for herself.
    She withdrew her mother’s locket watch and checked the time, then touched the miniature likeness of her mother’s face. So pretty . . . She’d always liked it when people had said how much they favored each other.
    The rocking of the train gradually conspired with her full belly until her eyes slipped closed. “God be with you, ma’am . . .” She hoped what the proprietor had said was true. That God was with her. But even more, that He knew where she was headed.
    She wished she’d thought to pack the Bible she’d read from to her mother during those last days, the one she’d been issued at boarding school. But she hadn’t even thought about it. Until now. Although she couldn’t remember the Scriptures themselves, she remembered how the words, the promises, had comforted her mother. And her too.
    Sleep swam toward her, and as the waves of drifting consciousness carried her farther out, she found herself wanting to trust that remembered peace, wanting to believe that the Author of Life had a plan for