Brent had shoved her into the wall a few times during heated arguments. Deep down, Amy knew the relationship was unhealthy, but she usually blamed herself. She couldn’t leave. He was Beaumont Richardson’s son. His parents and their legal team would decimate her in a divorce. Besides, who would believe her? Brent knew how to be charming with near strangers, winning them over with his dazzling smile and smooth mannerisms. Only those who made him angry or who spent considerable time with him learned of his terrible temper. On occasion, an acquaintance would ask him a difficult question, something that might be construed as an insult. In these cases, they might catch a glimpse of the narcissist behind the façade, but most of the time Brent won hearts and minds with little effort. The dichotomy taunted Amy and caused her to doubt her own observations.
When she got pregnant, Amy harbored a false sense of hope that God was looking out for her and her child-to-be. She resolved to make the best of it, focus on the good times, and pray she and Brent would become closer as they created a new little human. Such a naïve notion cost her baby his life.
The approaching train made a horrible squeal. It matched the desperation that welled up inside Amy. She held the green towel close to her heart and lifted her pillowcase into the train.
Amy sat listlessly on a gray seat and stared at the blur of lights. After a few minutes, she realized she hadn’t actually purchased a train ticket before she boarded. This thought began to trouble her, so she exited as soon as possible. She had no real destination anyway. It was not necessary to get as physically far away from Brent as possible. Slipping off the radar was good enough. Amy wandered away from the station on deserted side streets. Somewhere nearby, voices cackled and shouted. She tried to move away from the noise. When she rounded a corner, Amy saw the neon lights of a motel, and she breathed a sigh of relief. It was called the Shanti Motel. The vacancy light flickered erratically, and the E was missing from the word motel, but otherwise the two-story brick building was well lit and inviting. Half a dozen cars were scattered in the parking lot, but fortunately no cluster of unseemly characters appeared to be lingering in the shadows.
Amy approached the front desk, laid the pillowcase on the wood floor, and dug through it with her free hand. She counted out five hundred dollars, stood up, and peered toward the back of the check-in area. Laughter emanated from a room somewhere out of sight. Presently, a petite woman dressed in an elegant blue-and-yellow sari appeared, smiling, her mind still engaged in the conversation she left behind.
“May I help you?” she asked pleasantly with a faint accent.
Amy shifted the green bundle to her left shoulder and laid her money on the counter. “I’d like to rent a room, maybe by the week if possible.” She brushed a snatch of hair away from her face. “Something small,” she added quietly.
Two boys, around eight or nine years old in Amy’s estimation, ran out into the check-in area, squealing and shouting.
“Abheek, Ravi,” the woman said sharply, followed by some admonishing words in an Indian dialect. She pointed toward the direction from which they came. They nodded sheepishly and returned to the other room. Their laughter resumed as soon as they crossed the threshold.
“Sorry about that, Miss. Anyway, our nightly rates are $49, but if you want to rent by the week and receive linens on Monday, Wednesday, and Sunday, I can let you have a first floor room for $300.”
Amy closed her eyes and tried to remain calm. She probably had a few thousand dollars in the pillowcase, but she had no idea how she would survive the coming months. Would she find a job? Should she look for an apartment? Should she buy a Greyhound ticket and disappear? The weight of unmade decisions overwhelmed her. When she spoke, the smallness of her voice surprised her. “What if I receive linens only once a week?”
The woman examined her closely, her smile waning. Amy could only imagine what she saw – sweatshirt, tattered hair, a damp towel clutched to her chest. Perhaps her face had a smear of blood or mascara, outward signs that barely hinted at the severity of what had happened. Amy’s uterus cramped now and again. Otherwise her body seemed unfazed by the tragedy. Only her spirit was broken, but it was broken in a way that surely her appearance reflected.
Eventually the woman said, “How about $275 for the corner room next to the dumpster? Towels on Monday.”
“Thank you.” Amy pushed three hundred dollars in the woman’s direction.
“May I have a credit card and your driver’s license?” the proprietor said methodically as she pulled the money off the counter and opened a drawer.
“But I just paid cash.”
“I know, but we need a credit card on file. And I have to verify your identification.”
“My name is Amy. Here’s my cash.” This time she pushed the other $200 in the woman’s direction and reached down to grab another several hundred from the pillowcase. She slapped it on the counter. “Isn’t that all you need?”
The woman stacked the extra money in a pile, but did not take it. “The police visit me every once in a while when they’re looking for someone. Not that we’re infested with drug dealers here, mind you,” she said. “We’re a clean establishment. Kashi doesn’t tolerate nasty characters. But we have to be prepared to show the police who’s here so they don’t go knocking on everyone’s room.”
Amy fidgeted. Her driver’s license and credit cards were still in her purse back at the house. Besides, the license said Amy Richardson. She longed to be Amy Martin again, wipe any trace of that man from her life. Why couldn’t she start over again here? Pay in cash and form a new identity in the weeks ahead.
“I don’t want him to know I’m here. If you charge my card, he’ll know.”
The woman’s face softened. “Who will know?”
Amy bit her lip.
“Are you okay, Priya?”
Amy shook her head, willing the tears not to come.
The woman put the money in her pocket, came out from behind the desk, and led Amy to a small sitting area. She saw the pillowcase and moved it behind the counter. Then she gently tried to relieve Amy of the towel, but Amy turned away and clutched it even tighter. The woman touched Amy’s arm. “Are you in trouble?” she asked.
Silence.
“Listen. I’m Raksha.” The rich name rolled off her tongue – rake-SHA – strong and elegant at the same time. “I’ll do what I can for you, but you’ll have to tell me what’s going on. Okay?”
Amy nodded and took a deep breath. A couple of tears snuck out of the corners of her eyes. She let them roll slowly down her face. Finally, she found the courage. “I just left my husband. He pushed me down the stairs.” She could not bear to discuss the miscarriage or the contents of her mysterious green towel, but she did peer up at Raksha’s kind eyes. A sense of gratitude brought Amy a smidgeon of peace.
Raksha’s face softened and took on a depth of understanding and compassion Amy had not encountered in a long time.
“I see,” Raksha said. “How long have you been married?”
“Four years.” The words I was pregnant just wouldn’t come.
Raksha seemed to consider the situation somewhere deep inside herself. “Do you have any family?”
Amy shook her head no and then yes. “My mother lives in Aurora, but we’re not very close. I would just be a bother to her.”
Raksha smiled faintly. “A mother’s love is a very powerful thing, Priya. I’m sure she’ll welcome you and nurse you back to health. Don’t shut her out.”
Amy scoffed. “You don’t know my mother. She’s drunk half the time. I’ll interrupt her intimate moments with the bottle.”
“Um-hmm. Perhaps you can talk to my brother, Sahil. He’s the family drunk.”
“Why would I want to talk to a drunk?” At this point Amy was annoyed, physically and emotionally exhausted, and ironically thinking about the bottle of whiskey in the bottom of the pillowcase.
“Recovering alcoholic,” Raksha clarified, chuckling. “And quite open about it to anyone who
cares to listen. He may give you some ideas. I don’t know.”
Amy didn’t think talking with a boastful alcoholic would do anything to mend her kaleidoscope of pain and emotions. Her unique situation left her feeling very alone. No one could possibly understand – holding a dead baby, running from an abusive husband, feeling angry with her self-centered mother, and having no idea what would happen in the months ahead. No. Talking wasn’t going to help. She needed solitude, rest, a moment alone to bury her child. Where? She just wanted to rent a room, close the door, and shut the world out.
“Please,” Amy pleaded, catching the woman’s warm brown eyes. “Can I please just have the room?”
Raksha nodded and patted her pocket. “I’ll keep the extra money as a deposit. When the week is up, just let me know if you wish to continue to stay or check out.” She returned to her place behind the counter. Once there, she counted the money, slipped it into the drawer, and pulled out a keycard. After programming the keycard, Raksha handed it to Amy. “Room 101.” Then she lifted the pillowcase onto the counter.
Amy froze. In her left arm she held her dead baby. In her right the keycard. The counter was too high for her to gracefully pull down the pillowcase without setting down the green towel bundle.
She made a clumsy move to stuff the keycard into her small pocket, but at that moment Raksha grabbed the pillowcase.
“Let me escort you,” the petite woman said. She moved swiftly across the reception area and proceeded to lead Amy out the door. Amy hurried to catch up. The room happened to be so close to the garbage they would have run into the dumpster had the parking lot not been well lit. Thankfully, the dumpster was surrounded by a faded cedar fence.
Inside, the room was small but clean. A queen bed stood in the center with a bedside table on the left. The bathroom appeared to lead off to the right, and the closet was just an opening in the wall with a handful of plastic hangers of different colors. A large chair on the back wall looked over the bed, and a small table nearby held a lamp, a coffee pot, disposable cups, and a few supplies for making coffee.
Raksha placed the pillowcase on the bed.
“Dial zero if you need anything. Ice is around the corner.” She gestured as she moved toward the door. Then she stopped abruptly and turned around. “Please join us for dinner tomorrow night. Around seven. We live in an apartment behind the check-in area.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—”
“I insist.”
“I really don’t want to impose.”
Raksha laughed. “You’ll be the quietest one amongst my noisy lot. Believe me, Priya.”
“Why do you keep calling me that?”
“Sorry, Amy. My mother called me Priya so often, it slips in whenever I see a fragile spirit. It means beloved.”
Amy stared at her, momentarily moved by the poetic hand of fate that led her to this very spot. “That’s what the name Amy means.” Warmth spread through her body.
“See? Your mother loves you.”
The warmth swiftly vanished, replaced by resentment.
“I won’t call you that anymore, Amy.”
“No, wait. Please do.”
Raksha smiled. “All right, Priya. We’ll see you tomorrow then. You can wash up in the bathroom, and if you need anything, please let me know.” She slipped out and closed the door.
***
Amy sat in silence for several minutes, still clinging to the green bundle. Eventually, she laid it gently at the head of the bed. Afraid to open the towel, she sank to her knees and gazed at it. Tears eluded her. All she felt was emptiness and a desperate yearning to cry now that she finally found herself alone and safe. The monotonous hum of the freeway behind the Shanti Motel slowly drowned out the sound of blood pumping in her head.
Amy turned her attention to the pillowcase. She dumped its contents onto the paisley bedspread and sorted through the items. She was pleased to discover $4100 in hundred-dollar bills, a sum that made her feel far more secure than she had only moments before at Raksha’s sign-in desk. Amy hid the money between random pages of the Gideon Bible and dumped the underwear and toiletries into the second drawer. Then she grabbed her keycard and plastic ice bucket and went in search of the ice machine.
When she returned, Amy filled a flimsy plastic cup with ice and poured a glass of whiskey. She hadn’t had a drink since she’d learned she was pregnant, and the soothing liquid looked very inviting. She placed it on the floor at the foot of the bed. Amy wanted to examine the dead child but could not find the courage to open the towel, so she picked it up again and held it close to her chest. Still, the tears refused to come. It was as if her conscience had decided to punish her for all her stupid choices, leaving her a prisoner in her pain rather than allowing her to grieve and heal.
Amy settled herself on the carpet and leaned her back against the end of the bed. Several gulps of whiskey eased her tension, and she opened the yearbook.
Who are you, Emma Foster?
A chill went up her spine as she whispered, “What did he do to you?”
Chapter Three
The next morning, Amy awoke on the bed still dressed in her clothing. A debilitating headache saluted her with an edge of condemnation. She had drunk whiskey until she passed out, a page out of her mother’s book.
Amy sat up and was shocked when she realized she had been lying on the small, green-toweled bundle. It was very damp and almost flat. She touched her chest. It also felt slightly moist. All of a sudden, Amy became aware of the stench – a mixture of blood, death, and innocence ripped apart. Had she smelled this bad when she arrived? Raksha did not appear offended, but she was a kind woman. Perhaps she simply wanted to offer Amy a place of serenity, an oasis free from judgment.
“It’s time to bury my baby,” Amy said, disturbed by the words, but resigned to them. She wondered if letting go would help move the grieving process forward.
After washing her face and putting on her shoes, Amy clutched the bundle and began to search for a worthy place to lay her stillborn child. She wandered around for an hour, encountering parking lots, apartment buildings, and eventually a small neighborhood. Along the way she spotted a convenience store, a liquor store, and a few restaurants in a strip mall. The absence of parks and the abundance of concrete frustrated Amy. She found a patch of dirt here and there and one gravel parking lot, but nothing fitting for the final resting place of a murdered child. Then she began to imagine gruesome scenarios – animals digging him up, police gathering, reporters taking pictures. How long would the body last? Would it lead back to her? Was this a crime, what she was doing?
Suddenly afraid, Amy returned to the motel and hid the baby in a drawer. She located the near-empty bottle of whiskey and gulped it down. Not nearly enough to make a dent in her anguish, the liquor only agitated her paranoia. She needed more.
Hours later, wearing only her bra and underwear, Amy sat on the bed, drinking whiskey. She had made several trips to the strip mall to purchase supplies – loaves of bread, bags of chips and nuts, granola bars, peanut butter, coffee, and bottles of whiskey and red wine. Then she had taken a bath and put her dirty T-shirt and sweat suit in the bathtub to soak. Curtains drawn and TV mumbling, the room seemed smaller than the night before. Amy held a remote, and she flipped hypnotically from station to station, but her eyes remained fixed on a place somewhere on the wall below a painting of the Rocky Mountains.
Sometime after midnight, she retrieved the green bundle and slowly unwrapped her stillborn son. The smell of decay assaulted her senses as she freed him from the damp towel. His waxy, lifeless face still seemed surreal. It frightened her.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered as she swathed him again. She sank to the floor and began to scream like a wounded animal, pounding the carpet until her fists hurt. When her voice began to grow hoarse, she realized what she must do. Numb, in an anesthetized trance, she walked out to the garbage, opened the cedar gate, and dumped the green bundle over the edge of the dumpster.
***
The days passed, but time meant nothing. Whiskey was her best friend now. It conveniently suffocated the concept of time altogether, shoving it under the covers and holding a pillow over its head with an evil air of triumph. Amy could not be sure if she had been at the Shanti Motel for three days or three weeks. Did it really matter?
Sometime during this period of self-induced comas, Amy awoke to the sound of a car alarm beeping incessantly. She pulled the covers over her head. The loud humming of an engine alerted Amy to the fact it was not a car alarm but some kind of large truck backing up. Then a distinctive noise fully illuminated the reality of what transpired just outside her room. A garbage truck vibrated as its claws grabbed the dumpster and tilted it. The unbearable sound of garbage shifting, clanging, and landing with a thud followed. Then an excruciating squeal as the compacting arm compressed the garbage to make room for the next stop.
What have I done?
Amy bolted from the room, screaming, but the grinding noises drowned out her voice. She stumbled and fell to her knees. It must have been just before dawn. A hint of orange barely illuminated the truck as it drove away. It picked up speed and rolled onto the empty street without stopping. Amy got to her feet and ran in pursuit, her breathing compromised by gasping sobs. When she reached the edge of the parking lot, she stopped and watched the truck disappear around a corner.
Her baby boy was on the way to the city dump to rot – squished between dirty tissues and banana peels – nameless, tombless, and forgotten.
When Amy returned to the motel room, she retched until there was nothing left in her system. Then she grabbed a new bottle of whiskey and took a swig.
***
One morning, the door to Amy’s room burst open and Raksha appeared. The lovely woman wore dark blue capris and a flowing teal blouse, her hair tied up in a neat braid, her expression disapproving. She yanked open the curtains. Irritatingly bright light poured in.
Celtic Sister Page 2