Late October 1892 Chicago, Illinois

Another letter is in the mail. She gives it two weeks and then packs her bags. Her dresses fit again. Mary Agnes has invited Helen over, despite her disappointment over not being invited to her wedding.

But anger never serves, she thinks.

“Here I am again, leaving you,” Mary Agnes says to Helen. She tucks the last of her garments and belongings into her satchel. A single letter, tied with a green ribbon, is already packed, under everything, not for Helen’s eyes. How her heart jumped when she saw the letter on the front table, that unmistakable handwriting and news of his new ranch house, horses, cattle. The seasons. The skies. And food, he mentioned food. She remembers she hasn’t eaten yet today, but she will. At the hotel.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been the sister you always wanted,” Helen says. She sits on the stripped bed and shakes her head. “I could have stood up to Mother. And your mother. But I didn’t.”

“You’ve been as good as any sister.”

Although you got on my nerves.

“Honest and loyal.”

Most of the time.

“You did what you thought you needed to do.”

And you are going to have to live with them while I leave it all behind.

“I’m still sore at Mam about not having you at the wedding—”

“Old news,” Mary Agnes says. “I have you here now, don’t I?”

“And you’ll keep the letters coming? From wherever it is you’re going?”

“I don’t know exactly where I’m headed,” Mary Agnes lies.

She remembers her granddad’s map spread out on the table in Dawrosbeg, his stubbed finger pointing out the continents and vast oceans. Yes, she could go to the Sandwich Islands or Canton or Bombay. The possibilities before her are as a banquet. Jerusalem? Paris? Back to Ireland? It is her choice this time. And she knows where she’s headed.

“Last time it was me urging you to go,” Helen says. “Today, it’s you making the choice. Whatever will I do without you?”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt of that. With that fellow of yours, and the new exposition here in Chicago next spring, can you imagine? The whole world coming to Chicago? No, you’ll have no time to think of me.”

“You will write, won’t you?”

“I will. From wherever I am. Like always.”

Mary Agnes hugs Helen, and within the hour she takes a rig to the Tremont Hotel and checks in under an alias. In her palatial room on the sixth floor, similar to the ones she cleaned, she runs the tub. Off come her boots, her stockings, her drawers. Skirt next, then blouse, and lastly, chemise in a rush of sweat and grime. Clothes pile on the floor like the mounds of laundry she would scoop off the floors at the Rutherford’s or the O’Sullivan’s. She pulls the combs out of her long hair, shakes her head, and stands next to the tub. When the water licks high on the sides, warm and frothy, Mary Agnes steps over the rim. As she lowers herself into an envelope of water, she exhales slowly.

What is it about luck? You have it or you don’t? You chase it as it flies by, a finger out of reach, every time? Or maybe, you have it all along, but don’t know it’s luck at the time?

That’s it, she thinks. I’ve had it all along. With the Purple Mary leading me.

She thinks then of people in her past. Granda and Gram. Jimmy Scanlon from the ship to America. Father Benedict and Mrs. Donnelly in New York. Aunt Margaret and Helen. Mrs. O’Sullivan in the big, beautiful house. Tom. Lovely Tom.

Even Doria, she thinks. None of this would have unfolded the way it did if I didn’t walk every step of this journey. And now Doria’s mother, Mrs. Rutherford, with this gift!

Mary Agnes splashes water over her skin and thinks of still others, Mrs. Spinnelli, her landlady, offering her unexpected kindness and understanding. And everyone in Colorado Springs. Well, almost everyone. Tilly. Henry. Dutch.

Her mind wanders recklessly as she pours cups and cups of warm water over every curve and dip of her body. So—she rinses her hair and nods—it all unfolded the way it was supposed to, although it was a long and twisted road. Why did I ever doubt it?

The next morning, Mary Agnes dresses in fashionable traveling clothes, leaves a ten note for the maid, and tosses Henry’s fringed ivory shawl over her arm, the only thing she took from the ranch house. She takes the stairs to the elegant dining room and eats a sumptuous breakfast, Eggs Benedict and Arabian coffee, for God’s sake. She can hardly believe it’s her voice as she orders. When I grew up eating mussels and weak fish stew, lumps of potato and twice-over tea. Or some days, nothing at all.

Donning her hat, she leaves her room key on the hotel desk and steps out into the brisk October air. Once in the carriage—not even on the streetcar today—she passes street after familiar street on her way to Chicago’s Grand Central Station.

In the large depot waiting room, Mary Agnes adjusts her eyeglasses and marvels over the number of people milling about and queuing up to read the long rotating list of destinations on the schedule board: New York. Milwaukee. St. Louis.

So many names! But I know where I’m going. The die is cast, like Granda said. Only this time, it isn’t chance. It’s her choice. Her mind has changed. Her heart has changed. And now, she thinks, the story can change, too.

Mary Agnes advances to the ticket booth, one hand on her worn satchel, the same bag she left Dawrosbeg with six long years ago at age thirteen. It’s one of the only things about her that hasn’t changed. She’s no longer a girl, has lost a homeland, a husband, a child. She has money in her pockets, and dresses, hats, boots, and a cloak. Eyeglasses. Books. Confidence. And every day, enough food. What she is still searching for is home, and the satchel reminds her she’s still on the journey.

As the line snakes closer to the agent, she blots out the noise inside her head, the station around her, bodies pressing close against her, damp sweat under her arms. She feels a familiar fire in her belly and remembers what her granddad said, to lay claim to what is rightfully hers.

It’s then she feels it, all of her ancestors in the room (they are always with us, you know, all who have gone on before).

We have never left ya, girl, they say. And we never will. Ya carry home with ya wherever ya go. Don’t go forgetting it. Morning and night we watch over ya, in yer waking and in yer sleeping. Look for us in the clouds and the rain and the sunlight and the rainbow. And always, always, in the faint smell of the sea . . .

Finally, it is her turn. She breathes in, expectant, and holds it for as long as she is able. Then, with a long exhale, she lets go of miles and heartache and troubles and pain.

Taking eight bills from her purse, she spreads them on the worn wooden counter and passes them through the iron grille. Despite the wild beating of her heart, her voice is strong.

“One way to Santa Fe.”