A Lasting Impression

Feeling sick, she purposefully went limp for a second, felt him relax beside her, then jumped up and ran.
    She flung open the door and was to the stairs before she heard his footsteps behind her. Fighting the instinct to look back, she gripped the handrail and took the stairs in twos. At the bottom of the staircase, she grabbed her satchel. But she’d forgotten about the bolt on the door!
    Bracing for the pain, she slammed at it with her fist. The lock slid open.
    “Miss Laurent, come back! I think you misunderstood my inten—”
    Claire ran out the door and down the street, hearing him behind her. The memory of his hands on her pushed her forward, down the next street and the next, and the next, until she lost count and lost her way. Until her lungs burned and her side ached. Her satchel felt as if it held the weight of the world, the straps digging deep into her shoulder.
    She ducked into an alley, dropped the satchel, and doubled over, hands on her knees. She leaned against the side of a building for support, holding her head, listening, but unable to hear anything but the rush of her own breathing. Her stomach spasmed, but the involuntary action proved futile. She hadn’t eaten in hours. Yet she wasn’t hungry. Not anymore.
    Papa was gone . . . dead. She choked down a sob. It didn’t seem real. The doctor had told her he would be fine. The fire in her lungs lessened by a degree, but the throb in her chest didn’t. A noise at the far end of the alley drew her head up.
    A man rounded the corner, his gait swaying and irregular, a bottle of some sort in his hand. She didn’t think he’d seen her, and she wasn’t about to give him the chance. She picked up the satchel and looked both ways down the street, not knowing where she was going.
    She only knew she couldn’t stay here.

5

    C laire reached the next intersection and took in her surroundings, trying to gain her bearings in the unfamiliar town. It didn’t feel that late, but the streets were empty. The streetlamps illuminating the darkness no longer held the charm they had earlier, and her feet ached from running so far in heeled boots.
    Her gaze snagged on the rise of a steeple a couple of blocks over, and she headed toward it, remembering another night much like this one, when she and her mother had gone on ahead on one of their “surprise adventures.” Oh Maman, I wish you were still here.
    After trying the front doors, Claire made her way around to the back of the church. The first door was locked, as was a window. But the second door . . .
    The latch lifted.
    She ducked inside and closed the door noiselessly behind her, eyes wide in the darkness. Barely breathing, she stood statue-still, listening for the slightest indication that she might not be alone.
    All she heard was the thunder of her own heartbeat.
    Pale moonlight framed a curtained window on the opposite wall, and gradually her eyes adjusted. She was in a storage room of some sort. She felt her way across the cramped space to a closed door. The knob turned easily in her hand, and she peered through the slight opening, a draft of air hitting her face. She caught a faint whiff of something and sniffed again, thinking her mind was playing a trick on her. But there was no mistaking the lingering smell of antiseptic, however slight, veiling the sanctuary.
    She stepped inside and found her gaze drawn upward.
    High-reaching windows, naked of covering, dominated the two-story room, sending variegated shadows across the rows of wooden pews. Intending to walk to the back, where it was darker, she came to a bench in the middle and stopped.
    This pew was cushioned. The others weren’t.
    Her decision made, she unlaced her boots and slipped them off, and sighed as she rubbed her aching feet. She withdrew her coat from the satchel to use as a blanket and lay down and curled up on her side, then bunched the satchel beneath her head.
    Exhaustion washed over her, and her eyes slipped closed. She could see Papa’s face so clearly, but it was her mother’s she sought to remember. She hugged the satchel tighter against her cheek.
    Tired beyond anything she could remember, she wasn’t certain whether God was listening at the moment or not. She believed Him capable of hearing every thought. And though, sometimes, that belief was more irritating than comforting, right now she clung to it. And she prayed He would hear her heart.
    Because she needed His help now, more than ever before.

    Claire awakened,