Celtic Sister

by Pentermann, Meira

  Celtic Sister

  Meira Pentermann

  Copyright © 2015 Meira Pentermann

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or publisher except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, actual events or locales is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Gale Haut

  For Patty, Tracey, and Dixie

  Prologue

  Amy sat on the floor of a dimly lit motel room and stared at a high school yearbook. She cradled her stillborn, a tiny creature swaddled in a green hand towel. A liter of cheap whiskey lay near her feet.

  Her thirtieth birthday loomed on the horizon, and she was alone, mourning the loss of her only child. Yet again God was absent; life had let her down. At first she could not accept the idea that a myriad of pathetic choices and reckless decisions had led her to this place of despair. But as she gazed at the yearbook, into the green eyes of seventeen-year-old Emma Foster, something inside her stirred. She knew the truth. The only person she could truly blame was herself.

  Amy gently placed the green bundle on the Berber carpet. Then she reached for the whiskey, refilled her plastic cup, and drank until the paisley bedspread blurred and the noise of the highway faded away.

  Chapter One

  Twelve Hours Earlier

  Amy rummaged through her new maternity clothing. She hoped the upcoming date night would be enjoyable. Brent had been especially moody since she had shown him the results of the pregnancy test. He even refused to share a bed with her, as if pregnancy were contagious. Already accustomed to walking on eggshells, Amy decided to choose an attractive dress and put on a little extra makeup. The nicer she looked, the more smoothly the evening would progress.

  We’ll have a romantic dinner, she thought, choosing to quash the apprehension that threatened to spoil her otherwise buoyant spirit. Pregnancy had given her a sense of purpose she never before experienced. Almost halfway there. Amy patted her stomach lovingly and hummed a lullaby. My little boy. They had only learned the gender yesterday, but already she envisioned Cub Scout meetings and Little League games.

  Amy slipped on a black velvet dress and peered into a mirror on the back of the closet door. The slight bulge of her stomach was elegantly covered with soft fabric. She pulled a strand of hair away from her face and examined her reflection. She needed something classier than a bobby pin. Before their honeymoon, Brent’s mother had given Amy an antique barrette with a small black flower. It would be the perfect finishing touch for her ensemble – subtle yet sophisticated.

  Amy searched every corner of her jewelry drawer but found no barrette. She handled each piece before closing the drawer in frustration. Then she visually inspected the top shelf of the closet and saw a box she believed held their wedding album.

  Maybe I put it in there.

  She retrieved the box, placed it on the bed, and pulled the lid off in anticipation. Instead of a wedding album, Amy found one of their high school yearbooks. She flipped through the pages, wondering if it belonged to her or to Brent. A newspaper clipping fell out.

  Emma Foster Missing.

  The faded newsprint included a photo of a teenager with medium-length hair and a smattering of freckles. Amy gave the article a cursory scan. According to the story, a senior at their high school had gone missing a week after graduation. The incident sounded familiar to Amy. It happened at the end of her sophomore year. She remembered the drama more than the details. Amy’s mother refused to turn on the news, and Amy didn’t socialize much that summer. By autumn, everyone seemed to have moved on and the subject had become taboo.

  Amy searched through the yearbook and found Emma Foster in the senior section. An auburn-haired girl with green eyes beamed for the camera. The shade of her hair was so rich, Amy wondered if it had been dyed, but the girl’s skin coloring and eyes matched perfectly. She had a simple beauty, nothing flashy. Her senior photo – the same photo that was printed in the newspaper – was outlined with hearts. She had scrawled Love you Brent! underneath her name.

  Amy dropped the yearbook on the bed and stared into space.

  Although Brent and Amy graduated from the same high school, he was two years older, and they did not start dating until college. She had kept to herself, withdrawn and weary, before the magic of dorm parties and new friends brought her to life. In fact, as far as Amy was concerned, life did not begin until college. There she excelled in her studies and came out of her shell. There she could forget about her absent father and neglectful mother. There she met Brent, a temperamental fraternity boy, who brought danger and excitement into her life. Son of a prominent Colorado family, Brent exuded confidence. His world was everything Amy’s wasn’t – wealthy, connected, and stimulating.

  A door slammed on the first floor. Amy shuddered and scrambled to get everything back into the box.

  Brent’s footsteps thumped up the stairs.

  Amy didn’t have time to return the box to its place in the closet, so she shoved it under the bed.

  Brent appeared in the doorway.

  “Aren’t you ready yet?” he said as he entered the master bedroom.

  “Almost.” Still shaking, Amy spun in a half circle so Brent could admire the elegant dress.

  He frowned. “Your belly is really starting to show.”

  “I know. Isn’t it cool?” She smiled weakly.

  “I wouldn’t call it cool. Fat, maybe.” He looked away, disgusted. “I don’t know why I agreed to this. Mother wants grandchildren. Father wants to carry on the family name. You want a baby sucking off your tits. What’s in it for me?”

  “You don’t have to be mean. Do you want me to change into something more loose fitting?”

  The image of Emma Foster invaded Amy’s thoughts, daring her to ask Brent about the girl, but she feared the tone of his voice. When Brent became belligerent, Amy reverted to the cowering girl she was as a child, full of shame and self-pity.

  “Loose fitting, yeah,” Brent mumbled.

  Amy took a deep breath and sweetened her tone. “Relax. I’ll be ready in a minute.” She crossed to the closet.

  He seized her arm. “You know, you’ve been bitchy ever since you got pregnant.”

  “Bitchy?”

  “Don’t ever tell me to relax. You know that pisses me off.”

  Amy started backpedaling. “It’s hormones, Brent. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t really care for hormones.”

  “I said I’m sorry.”

  He lowered his voice. “Stop giving me mouth.”

  Amy looked at the ceiling and bit her tongue.

  He grabbed her from behind, swung her around, and pushed her face-first against the wall.

  Amy cried out in pain. “Brent, the baby.”

  “The baby. The baby,” he squealed in falsetto. “I’m having a bad feeling the baby is going to take over our lives.”

  Amy was shaking. “I guess babies tend to do that.” She almost choked on the words.

  “So you’ll get fat and ignore me?”

  “No. I won’t let—”

  “You’re already getting fat.”

  “That’s just weight for the baby. I’ll trim down within a couple of months.” She glanced nervously to one side, mentally planning an escape to the bathroom.

  Brent pulled her out a few inches and slammed her against the wall. “Like fatty who lives two doors down? Damn. I do not want to live with a fat woman.”
/>   “I know, I’ll—”

  “I won’t live with a fat woman. Do you get my drift?”

  “Yes. Yes.” She jostled in an attempt to free herself.

  “I don’t think you understand.” He pinned her by pressing his palms into her shoulders.

  “Stop. You’re hurting me.”

  “Look at me.”

  Amy turned her head slowly. She tried to hide the scorn building on her face.

  “You fucking little bitch.” He gripped her harder.

  “Brent. The baby.”

  “You care more about the stupid baby than you do about us.”

  Us? You’re throwing us at me? Now?

  “Do you deny it?” he asked.

  “No. I mean, yes. Of course I’m not putting the baby before us.” Unfortunately, her disdain was apparent.

  “Fuck you.” He pulled her toward him and threw her back into the wall. She slid to the floor. Before Amy managed to right herself, Brent had her by the underarms. He spewed obscenities as he dragged his wife down the hallway.

  Amy saw the staircase in her peripheral vision, and she panicked. “No, Brent. Don’t be stupid.”

  “Stupid?”

  “Don’t do something you’ll regret.” The top of the stairs loomed only inches away. Twelve steps looked like twenty from her line of sight. He won’t. The tattered brown carpet, darker in the middle and crisp on the sides, almost quivered in expectation. The walls, the railing, and the portraits slowly faded until all that remained, anchored in her mind, were stairs – twelve ugly, frightening, murderous stairs.

  “No, Brent, no.” Amy’s voice seemed distorted in her mind, like a hysterical woman screaming from somewhere seemingly far removed. She wrestled in vain before she fell, rolling in a dreamlike tumble, each step making contact with her body – her head, her arms, her knees. She tried to protect her stomach but her arms were useless. A surge of nauseous trepidation stilled her voice. She hit the hardwood floor, facedown, and made barely a sound. Her rounded belly had cushioned the impact.

  Amy clambered to her knees and examined the top of the stairs. Brent was gone. She crawled up the steps purposefully and headed for the bedroom. Rage replaced nausea as she pulled herself to her feet. He was not there.

  Before she crossed the threshold, a blinding pain assailed her senses. No. Amy stumbled to the master bathroom and gazed at herself in the mirror. One minor scratch on her cheek mocked the seriousness of the damage done by the fall. She ripped off her pantyhose and bunched up her dress to inspect her stomach. Taut skin with no scratches. Everything looked as it had before. It’s going to be okay. Another staggering wave of pain brought her to her knees. Pristine white tiles, still sparkling after an afternoon cleaning spree, greeted her with a fresh, familiar coolness. She stroked the tiles as a third jolt of pain tore through her abdomen.

  “Oh, Brent.”

  “Yes?”

  Amy jumped, startled by the figure that materialized in the doorway.

  Brent offered a smug smile. “You need something?”

  “Call 9-1-1,” she implored.

  He raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

  “Call 9-1-1, Brent. I’m serious.”

  “Nope.”

  “God, Brent, please.”

  “You’ll live.”

  At that moment, Amy felt a lukewarm liquid trickle down her left thigh. She glanced down in horror as a stream of reddish-pink fluid pooled on the floor. “No, no, no.”

  Brent cringed.

  She pulled off her underwear and pleaded with Brent. “Do something.” Tears blurred her vision.

  He walked away.

  Amy shouted, “Please. We’ll lose the baby. For the love of God, Brent, please.” She struggled to her feet and slipped in the puddle of blood and amniotic fluid. Her shoulder broke the fall by catching the edge of the sink. Then another influx of pain disabled her. She sank slowly to the floor and settled on her back. A deluge of despair escaped her in the form of irrepressible weeping.

  Brent stood at the doorway again. He glared at her pelvis with disgust and outrage. “When you’re done, clean up your mess.”

  The word mess echoed in her head for an hour as she endured brutal contractions. Before nine o’clock, she felt pressure on her cervix, and she desperately tried to suppress the urge to push. Minutes later, a warm sensation filled her vagina as the fetus passed. “No!” she howled, and she scrambled away from the spot. She bit her bloodstained hands over and over again, shrieking uncontrollably. “No, no, no.” Another round of contractions delivered the placenta and a fresh fit of tears.

  After approximately an hour, Amy summoned the courage to turn around. Blotches of red and pink discolored the white tiles, enough blood and fluids to fill a small bucket. On the far side of the bathroom, near the toilet, a small shape lay on the floor with a string sprouting from its center. The cord, still attached to the placenta, stretched out between the small body and the frail woman as if pointing in accusation. Amy approached the fleshy mass, creeping slowly across the tiles, her velvety dress damp and mangled. The premature baby, about five inches in length, lay face down in a pool of mucus. Amy nudged it tentatively and it rolled over. A translucent hand, its tiny fingers curled into a fist, popped out as the baby flipped. An oversized head with a slight overbite teetered on the frail body. He looked surreal yet very human.

  Amy lifted his hand and allowed it to rest on her palm. She gazed at him for a while before an onslaught of grief slammed into her. Why? Frantic, angry questions bombarded her brain like machine-gun fire pulverizing a target. Tears fell on the pink, fragile hand resting in her palm.

  Because you never said no.

  Amy stood purposefully, knowing what she had to do. There wasn’t time for a shower, so she threw her soiled dress into the bathtub, quickly washed her hands and face, and put on a T-shirt and a full sweat suit. Small white socks and tennis shoes completed the outfit.

  Amy stared at the lifeless form that should have been her child. She found a razor blade in the medicine cabinet and cut the umbilical cord. A forest-green hand towel sufficiently covered the baby many times around. Amy wrapped him tenderly and laid him on the bed. She pulled the pillowcase off her pillow and filled it with underwear, a brush, makeup, some basic toiletries, and feminine hygiene products. She intended to grab her purse by the front door on the way out, but she knew she had less than forty dollars in her wallet, so she took a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills out of the fire safe and shoved the money in the pillowcase.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Amy retrieved the box from under the bed. She removed the yearbook and added it to the bag. Then she crossed to the closet to grab some clothing.

  The hum of the garage door opening stopped her in her tracks. Having long since determined that Brent had left the house during the miscarriage, Amy assumed the noise meant he was returning.

  She grabbed the forest-green bundle, threw the pillowcase over her shoulder, and raced down the stairs. As swiftly as possible, she snuck out the back door and ran around to the side of the house. The car sat in the driveway, but Brent was nowhere to be seen. Shouts emanated from the house. Amy edged closer to the front yard, alongside the overgrown juniper bushes.

  The guestroom window flew open. “You stupid bitch,” a loud, ugly voice bellowed. A jolt of adrenaline rushed through Amy’s body. Can he see me? Stealthily, she eased herself to the junipers. The window slammed shut, and the rhythm of descending steps reverberated through the house. Amy ducked out of sight seconds before Brent bolted from the house in a rage.

  “Stupid, fucking bitch,” he screamed.

  Amy held her breath. The bushes scratched her face but she dared not make a peep. A car door slammed, and an engine roared to life. Headlights flooded the bushes, and Amy gasped. She held the forest-green bundle to her chest and cried, scrunching her eyes closed as tight as possible. The headlights drifted across the patch of bushes and landed on the neighbor’s house. Then a squeal of tires resounded as
the car sped off.

  Amy lingered for several minutes, unsure of what to do. Emma Foster’s beaming smile remained imprinted on her brain.

  Go.

  Chapter Two

  Amy walked forty-five minutes to the train station. The baby, tightly wrapped in the green towel, rested in her right arm while the pillowcase swayed over her left shoulder. The toiletries made bulges which poked her back, but when she held the bag by her side, the yearbook banged into her leg. Amy wished she had grabbed a backpack instead. A suitcase filled with comfortable clothing would have been even better.

  The neon lights of a liquor store in a nearby strip mall flickered sporadically. Almost as if on autopilot, Amy crossed the road and made her way to the door. She clutched the green bundle to her chest when she entered. The smell of stale cigarettes and leftover fast food permeated the air. Amy grabbed a bottle of whiskey and made her way to the counter. She set the pillowcase down and shifted the swaddled stillborn from one shoulder to the other. Her sweaty hair fell into her eyes as she rummaged through her possessions in search of the money stashed near the bottom. The cashier, a fifty-year-old man who glanced periodically at the television, seemed unfazed by the spectacle. Located strategically by an RTD bus stop and the light rail station, he’d probably seen far more bizarre characters. She paid him and moved on. For the rest of the walk, she switched the pillowcase from her shoulder to her side and back again.

  As she approached the train platform, Amy watched the other travelers. The lights and sounds seemed surreal, like something from a long-forgotten era. Amy hadn’t had the freedom to peruse the city at night without her chaperone for years – ever since they’d moved to the suburbs. Date night meant traveling from the car to the restaurant and home again. Driving privileges were only allotted for grocery shopping trips, and even then only to the nearest store if she was allowed to go alone. Otherwise, they shopped together, ate together, and slept together. Amy’s friends drifted away, tired of declined invitations for lunch or a girls’ night out. Eventually, no one bothered to call.