Celtic Sister

by Pentermann, Meira

  “Really? And you know this because?”

  Amy gasped as an onslaught of memories bombarded her. Twelve steep stairs. Her hands covered with blood and amniotic fluid. A tiny hand that might have grasped her finger. A green towel. The sound of a garbage truck trundling away. Bottles and bottles of booze that never fully dulled the pain.

  “Because I’ve experienced the polar opposite. I’ve seen hell on earth.”

  Sam sat back and waited for her to continue.

  “He killed my baby.”

  “Who?”

  “Brent.”

  This did nothing to reassure Sam. His fragile mood swiftly gave in to a whole new wave of despair. No longer ready to hear the gritty details of this horror story, Sam gestured wildly for the waiter to bring the check.

  “I should take you home.”

  Amy put her head in her hand. “It may have been an accident,” she said, desperately trying to backpedal.

  “Let me guess. He walked up to the baby sleeping in a crib and accidentally held a pillow over its face.”

  “No, no.”

  Sam thrust a credit card into the waiter’s hand without pausing to look at the bill.

  “I was still pregnant,” Amy explained.

  Sam sat forward with a look of hope that it might, after all, have been an accident. “And?” he prompted.

  “Well…”

  “What happened?”

  She looked down at the table and spoke into her lap. “He pushed me down the stairs. I lost the baby.”

  “Unbelievable,” Sam whispered, layers of hate and anger woven into each syllable.

  As he got up, the waiter returned. Sam signed the form and escorted Amy out of the restaurant.

  Amy dared not say anything during what seemed like an endless drive back to the motel. Finally, she could bear the silence no longer.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “Honestly?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Don’t do anything rash.”

  He turned in her direction. “Like appear on his doorstep and throttle him?”

  “You really don’t want—”

  “I know. We’ll take him down. But we’ll do it legally.”

  Amy was comforted by his use of the word we.

  Sam was regaining his resolve. “First, we’ll report the miscarriage—”

  “No. We can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s got his people convinced that I got an abortion behind his back. Like I did it to myself.”

  “Are you serious? And they believe him?”

  “Look at me,” she whispered. “He’s Beaumont Richardson’s son. They automatically take his side.”

  “Let’s find a female police detective. Tell her your version of the story.”

  “I don’t have the strength.”

  Sam stared in disbelief. “He killed your baby, and you don’t want justice? You’re just too tired?” He shook his head. “Amy, snap out of it.”

  “I wish I could. I’m numb.”

  “Why don’t you rest this afternoon and get a good night’s sleep? You’ve had a rough twenty-four hours. I’ll check in with my guy, Detective O’Hara. Gather more information. You’ll feel stronger tomorrow, and we’ll talk.”

  Amy nodded listlessly. “You’ll have to call the Shanti main number. I don’t have my cell.”

  “We need to get you a cell phone.”

  “How on earth did people connect with one another in the days before cell phones?”

  “I’d just feel better knowing you had one.”

  His concern touched Amy, and she felt something she hadn’t felt in a very long time. Protected.

  When he dropped her off, he looked more positive, like he had a purpose.

  “I’ll call you,” he said. “Get some rest.”

  Chapter Eight

  Amy crashed onto the bed and closed her eyes. She hoped the mild buzz leftover from the margaritas would stop the incessant pounding of her heart. No such luck.

  She hung her head over the edge and peered under the bed. It appeared that only wine bottles remained in her stash. She flipped over, put her feet on the floor, and searched around for the keycard she had used only a minute before. Eventually she found it in her pocket. After locking up, she made a sluggish trip to the liquor store.

  Amy returned with several bottles of whiskey, a corkscrew, and a refreshed spirit. She stashed the coveted bottles in various places around the room. Then she opened a bottle of wine and poured some in a plastic cup. She’d no sooner downed the third glass when a sharp knock on the door startled her. As quickly as possible, she pushed the cork into the bottle and hid the wine under the bed.

  “Amy?”

  It was Raksha. Amy wiped her lips, hoping she didn’t smell like wine. She slowly opened the door and peeked out.

  “Oh, Raksha, it’s you.”

  “Only me.” She smiled. “Not that handsome man who dropped you off an hour ago.”

  The benefits of living in a motel: everyone knows your business. Amy hoped against hope that Raksha didn’t notice Sam had spent the night. Surely, the motherly woman would lecture her about such a development. It wouldn’t be a healthy choice after what she had been through in such a short time. Amy shuddered at the thought of her now-unremembered promiscuous propositions to Sam.

  “We would love for you to join us for dinner again tonight,” Raksha said.

  Amy smiled. Dining with the Patels would surely settle her scattered emotions, perhaps even allow her to forget the encounter with Brent and the confusing lunch with poor Sam. She pictured the Patel family sitting around the table.

  “Absolutely. Sounds yummy.”

  Raksha smiled. “Seven fifteen. I’m running a little behind.”

  Amy glanced at the clock. 3:25 p.m. How long does it take to prepare dinner in Raksha’s kitchen? She felt even more honored to be included in a meal that took half a day to prepare.

  After Raksha left, Amy sorted through the bags of clothing Sam had purchased for her. Loose pants, T-shirts, a belt, pajamas, even socks and underwear tumbled onto the mattress. Simple but respectable, the clothing would make for a nice variety of outfits. Suddenly she wished she could call him, make some sort of promise about trying to bring Brent to justice. In the last bag, Amy found a note from Sam.

  He had written, Sorry for my boorish behavior. If you ever need to talk… The note included his phone number.

  “What are the odds?” Amy whispered. She stared at the note for a long time. She shook her head and tossed it into the bedside table drawer.

  I can’t. I’m not strong enough to face Brent.

  ***

  By the time Amy arrived at the Patel family dinner, she had changed and finished the bottle of wine. Although pleasantly buzzed and feeling rather outgoing, she was certain she walked gracefully and alerted no one to her altered state of consciousness. Still, she fumbled with her chair as she sat down for dinner. Raksha and Sahil exchanged a look. Amy did her best to ignore them.

  The family chatted boisterously throughout the meal. Several conversations took place simultaneously. Amy could only follow the one between Sahil, Ravi, and herself. Sahil carried on joyfully about blessings he experienced in various events that had occurred recently. He seemed less eager to fill her glass than he had been the evening before, so Amy took to filling it herself.

  “And would you believe it? Johnson called the very next day with a new quote,” Sahil prattled on. Amy had obviously spaced out during the first part of the story. “Right when I was about to give up and brainstorm a new solution, he called and we struck a deal.”

  Another divine intervention, Amy presumed. After a while, the whole thing became tedious. Uncle Sahil was annoying. He was too joyous for a former drunk who, as per his own confession, had nearly killed his wife. It was even more infuriating that the foolish man believed God was intervening in his business dealings.


  Amy tuned him out and, much to her dismay, began to relive the morning’s events at her former home. Brent’s callous and evasive behavior was very unsettling. She had to agree with Sam. It shed a less-than-hopeful shadow over the fate of Emma Foster. Financial and political influence could have saved Brent’s skin even if he had done something horribly wrong, perhaps especially if he had done something horribly wrong.

  When Amy returned her focus to the Patel family, she realized that Nisha was clearing dishes and everyone had left the table. Some kind of yogurt had been served, but Amy hadn’t even touched it. As she rushed to help Nisha, Amy tripped over the edge of a carpet and nearly fell flat on her face. She steadied herself and stumbled forward. When she was halfway between the table and the kitchen, she heard raised voices and clanging pans. She stopped dead in her tracks. Nisha swished past carrying plates and bowls. Then Amy heard Raksha’s voice, harsh and commanding.

  “Do something! Drag her to a meeting.”

  Amy crept closer to listen in.

  “You know that’s not how it works,” Sahil explained patiently.

  “Someone has to do something.”

  “I thought you’d given up the savior complex.”

  Raksha’s tone softened. “I don’t know what happened. This one’s breaking my heart.”

  “Have faith.”

  “Faith? Do you know how many of them have died or stumbled into a life of despair?”

  “I have good feelings about this one,” Sahil said softly. “There is a plan for her.”

  “Scrubbing grease off the floor?”

  “A humbling task. Humility facilitates self-reflection. Self-reflection leads to self-awareness. Self-awareness to God-consciousness.”

  Raksha laughed. “Then it all falls into place.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Can you at least invite her to a meeting?”

  “Of course.”

  Someone approached, and Amy turned away. It was Nisha with a dishcloth. Amy walked toward the little shrine, fuming. Clearly they were talking about her. If she hadn’t already suspected it, the grease-scrubbing remark solidified the fact. Amy stared at the serene goddess holding various objects. She wondered what it would be like to have God-consciousness, to be like Sahil who believed God intervened in his daily affairs, or Sam who experienced an epiphany that changed the direction of his life. Where was God in a world that betrayed Emma Foster and Amy’s unborn child?

  Someone touched her gently on the shoulder.

  “Amy,” Sahil said, and he handed her a small booklet. Alcoholics Anonymous.

  “Really?” She scoffed as she flipped through the pages. It appeared to list dates and times of meetings. Amy stopped where she saw a bunch of highlighted entries, all at 7:45 p.m.

  “We meet every night at Saint Mark’s, two blocks east of here,” he explained. “I’m there several times a week, when I’m not imposing on my sister, of course.” He winked. “I go more often when my wife is out of town.”

  “Your wife?”

  “She’s in India, visiting relatives.”

  “Is this the same wife—?”

  “Yes. I am very lucky. She has a full, forgiving heart.” He smiled.

  “No kidding.” Amy handed the booklet back to Sahil. “I, on the other hand, need no one’s forgiveness.”

  “I understand, but you keep it just in case.”

  Amy glared. “I don’t drink like this all the time.” She finally admitted she drank like a fish that evening and she hadn’t fooled anyone. This gave her a moment of peace. “I’m the one who was wronged, Sahil.” She tried again unsuccessfully to get him to take back the booklet.

  He nodded.

  “Really,” she said, “trust me.”

  “I do.”

  “And I’ll stop drinking when the pain is more bearable.”

  “Bearable. I see.”

  “Well, life is all peaches and cream for you, so you wouldn’t know what this is like.”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t know.”

  Amy felt foolish. Obviously Sahil had a pain-filled story of his own. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay. But give it some thought. Listening to others recalling their pain can help ease your own.”

  “I highly doubt it. It sounds like the worst way to spend an evening, hanging out with a bunch of regretful drunks.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  Amy said nothing.

  “Anyway…” Sahil patted her back. “Just keep us in mind. There are many other meetings if you’d prefer to go someplace else.”

  “Sure,” Amy replied curtly.

  She stuffed the booklet in her purse. It disappeared beneath the ever-growing stack of items she had added since Raksha first gave her the bright yellow handbag. The next time she fished money from a zip pocket, the booklet had already come to blend with the tissues, makeup, pens, leftover restaurant napkins, and a small tablet.

  Chapter Nine

  The next morning, Amy awoke to the sounds of shouting in the parking lot. Her head was pounding from yet another hangover. All she wanted to do was dive back under the covers, but the sound of her name being shouted in anger brought her to attention. She pulled on some sweatpants and peeked out the window. Brent stood near the entrance, screaming at Raksha.

  “I could get a health inspector out here so fast—”

  “Don’t you threaten me. My family has managed the Shanti since before you were born.”

  “I need to see that slut now.”

  Amy ran out of her room and across the parking lot.

  “Stop it,” she yelled, out of breath. “Stop it. I’m here.”

  Raksha looked slightly put out. After all, she had been enduring Brent’s tirade to spare Amy the encounter.

  “It’s okay, Raksha. I’ll talk to him.”

  “Damn straight you will.” Brent’s words were tough but his manner hesitant.

  “How did you find me?” Amy demanded.

  When Raksha was out of earshot, Brent said, “My father can find anyone, anywhere.”

  “Did they just start checking motels?”

  “I don’t have to answer your questions.”

  Amy threw up her hands. “Then I don’t have to talk to you.” She turned to leave.

  “You got a new job,” he muttered.

  She returned his gaze. “At Banhi’s Grill?”

  “Yeah. When you get a new job your employer files paperwork.”

  Amy groaned. “And of course you can just call one of your government lackeys—”

  He smirked. “Anytime. Anywhere.”

  “And then have me followed?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me,” Amy cried. “Are you having me followed now?”

  “Consider the matter a closed case.” He flashed a patronizing smile. “Can we go to your room?”

  “Are you kidding me? No.” Amy crossed her arms. “You want to say something to me, talk.”

  Brent looked over his shoulder and all around the parking lot. Then he leaned in. “You know I’d never do anything to that girl.”

  Amy scoffed. “Really? Do I really know that?”

  Brent became impatient again. “Listen. We paid her enough money. This thing was supposed to go away.”

  This thing.

  “I didn’t hurt that stupid girl.”

  “Prove it.”

  “I can’t. But we paid the bitch a shitload of money to shut the hell up and get out of town. She left of her own free will.”

  “If that is the case, it won’t matter if my friend looks at the police case file.”

  Brent recoiled. “He’s got someone pulling that file?”

  Shoot. If the Richardsons’ goons get there first, Sam will never get his hands on it.

  “No, he’s not going to talk to the police,” she lied. “He just wants a chance to see his sister again. If you know where she is, tell him. How hard can it be?”

&nb
sp; “I don’t know where she went. We didn’t buy her tickets. Just cash.”

  “How much cash?”

  “She’s fine.”

  Amy sighed. “I’m supposed to believe that?”

  Brent glanced around again. “Look. Ask bravo-brother if he ever got the notebook.”

  “Notebook?”

  “Yeah. It was a little cardboard-covered notebook about the size of a passport. Had just a few pages in it. Some stupid drawings and poetry and shit. It was supposed to be a good-bye present. You know, ‘I’m saying good-bye now.’ People do that kind of stuff when they leave of their own free will.”

  “How do you know about this notebook?”

  “Because she tried to con me into giving it to her brother. Something to remember her by, as if anyone would want to be remembered by that crap. I told her, ‘No way. I’m not going near your family.’ Obviously. Did she think I was an idiot? Then her brother would wonder where I got the notebook, what I knew, et cetera. She was supposed to disappear so no one could find her. That was the deal. No letters, no notebooks, no last-minute good-byes. Disappear.”

  “Well, she did.”

  “Not far enough apparently.”

  Amy looked at the ground.

  Brent grabbed her arm. “What did you tell that asshole to put him on my trail? The police dismissed me years ago. The girl had a crush on me. I barely knew her.”

  Amy wrenched her arm away while looking toward the motel lobby. Brent followed her gaze, suddenly nervous.

  “You barely knew her? Your family gave a shitload” – Amy made quote marks with her fingers – “of money to a girl you barely knew?”

  Brent sneered, clearly caught botching up his cover story.

  “Listen,” he said slowly. “How much, Amy?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What’s your price?”

  “My price?”

  “Yeah. Your price. Tell the brother a sob story, get him off my back, and I’ll set you up real nicely. You won’t have to live in this dump.” He gestured around the parking lot.

  “My price? Seriously?”

  “Everyone has a price, chickadee.”

  Amy wanted to collapse on the ground and scream. Her mind buzzed. Image after image assaulted her. Her dead baby. A bottle of whiskey. The crushing sound of a garbage truck. A notebook scrawled with the parting words of a missing girl. The blood. The stench. Would the nightmare never end? Again she envisioned police stations, courtrooms, Brent from here to eternity. It was like a prison.