Celtic Sister

by Pentermann, Meira

  He smiled. “I pray it’s true.”

  “I could really use a happy ending right now,” she said, and she exited the car before he could see the anguish on her face.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Amy was getting ready for work when someone knocked at 7:25 a.m.

  She opened the door. “Yes?”

  “Have you called your mother?” Raksha asked.

  Amy groaned. “Please don’t start.” She retreated to the bathroom to put on a touch of makeup. It was a habit. Who needed makeup when they scrubbed grease? She dropped her compact and mascara in her purse. It made more sense to doll up after work before stepping out into the light of day.

  “Priya,” Raksha scolded. She had followed Amy to the bathroom and stood just outside the door. “You need to at least tell her about the miscarriage. She’s your mother.”

  Amy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay. I’ll call her after work. She’s dead asleep at this hour.”

  “Better yet, why don’t you visit? This kind of news needs to be delivered face-to-face.”

  “She lives in Aurora.”

  “I’ll drive you.” Raksha smiled innocently. She clearly knew she was meddling beyond Amy’s comfort zone. On the other hand, Raksha was right. Amy’s mother deserved to know there was no longer a grandchild on the way.

  “Let me call her during the day to make sure she’ll be home.”

  “I’ll pick you up straight after work,” Raksha announced as if she hadn’t heard a word Amy said.

  “Fine. Thank you.”

  ***

  Amy had moved on to cleaning other parts of the restaurant. Almost no grease could be found in the dining area, but copious amounts of dust made Amy sneeze. She thought she’d prefer the work that required less intense scrubbing, but her itchy eyes protested more than she had anticipated.

  Raksha was waiting in the foyer when Amy emerged from the changing room in clean clothing with a fresh layer of makeup. Raksha beamed with joy. Amy gave her an obligatory half smile.

  “You’ll do fine,” Raksha encouraged.

  Amy nodded. “It’s the right thing to do.”

  “You are a good person, Amy.”

  “Thank you.”

  They arrived at her mother’s small, older house situated on a rather charming street. Compared to the other houses on the block, Mrs. Martin’s yard looked pathetic. The grass was half weeds. Empty flower pots sat on the porch, and no blossoms remained in the patches of dirt which used to be gardens. The paint was okay but probably should have been done a year ago. Mrs. Martin still made do with a welfare check. She had inherited the house from Amy’s paternal grandfather. Amy was sure her grandfather’s savings had dried up many years ago, but she knew the house was free of a mortgage. At least her mother had a place to stay.

  Amy had escaped this scene by excelling at school, getting some scholarships from the university, and running up student loans. After she married Brent, he paid off her loans so Amy wouldn’t have to work. Wouldn’t have to work. In retrospect, she realized it was a calculated move to control her activities. At the time, she thought of it as a loving gesture.

  Did I?

  As Amy stood outside the gate, hesitating to approach the door, she recognized the poor quality of her life before the Richardsons. For the first time, she wondered if she had gravitated toward Brent Richardson because he was wealthy. Why had she never thought of it before? What does a person do when confronted by her own lack of integrity?

  I dearly paid for my choices, she thought, and she dismissed the idea entirely.

  “Are you coming?” Amy asked Raksha.

  “I’ll just take a walk around the block.”

  “You’re going to leave me?”

  “I think it’s best you spend some time alone together.”

  “Please don’t go far,” Amy called as she marched up to the door and rang the bell.

  It took over a minute, but her mother eventually answered the door. She held her hand up to shield herself from the bright light of the world outdoors.

  “Oh, Amy. Come in,” she said pleasantly.

  Her mother smelled faintly of booze. Amy regarded her skeptically, wondering if she was sober enough for a meaningful conversation.

  Just get it over with.

  She gave her mom a halfhearted hug and followed her to the living room where the television was blaring. The air smelled stale, almost decaying, as if the windows had not been opened in weeks.

  Mrs. Martin plopped down on a large easy chair and turned off the television. She grabbed a tumbler, which was nearly empty.

  “Would you like a drink?” her mother asked, and she got up to refill her own glass.

  “No, thank you.” She refused the drink to spite her mother. Truth be told, the situation made her crave a stiff drink, and she chided herself for not loading up before she set foot in Raksha’s vehicle.

  Amy studied the living room and reflected on how stereotypical the situation was. A plastic statue of the Virgin Mary stood on a table in the corner, covered with dust. It had been there as long as Amy could remember, and she felt momentarily saddened by its condition. Although Amy gave up Catholicism nearly fifteen years ago, she still felt some affection for Mary.

  Amy frowned and wrestled with the feelings. She wondered if her anger with her drunk, Catholic mother led her to doubt Sam when he talked about his epiphany. Another character defect she had never before contemplated. She sat down and brushed the thought away.

  When her mother returned, glass in hand, wobbling just a little, Amy’s heart softened a notch. Ever since the miscarriage, she hadn’t been able to sustain a forty-eight-hour period without alcohol. Nevertheless, her situation was different from her mother’s. Amy was grieving and experiencing unbearable turmoil. Soon she would stop drinking, now that she was becoming independent and helping Sam find his sister. The adventure was beginning to lift her spirits. She was lucky. Perhaps her mother never found something to lift her spirits.

  I won’t drink tonight, Amy decided. It really was as simple as making a declaration.

  Mrs. Martin settled back into her chair. “Thank you for visiting me.” She smiled.

  Amy sat forward. “Actually, Mom, I have some sad news.”

  Mrs. Martin’s face softened. “What is it, dear?”

  “It’s about the baby.”

  “Oh, right.” It was as if her mother had momentarily forgotten her daughter was even pregnant. It seemed unlikely, but there it was in her glassy eyes. “How are you coming along?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “Brent?”

  “No, well yes, but I mean the baby.”

  “You gave him up for adoption?”

  This rattled Amy, and all her compassion dissipated in an instant. “I was only eighteen weeks pregnant. I lost the baby. I had a miscarriage.”

  “Oh, Amy.” Her mother’s voice was gentle and empathetic.

  “Brent pushed me down the stairs.”

  “That nice boy?” She took a long, slow slip of her drink, one eye closed and the other peering over her glass, trying to focus on Amy.

  “He isn’t nice, and he isn’t a boy. He’s an abusive, ugly man.”

  “Oh, I think he’s quite handsome.”

  “Aren’t you listening to me? He pushed me down the stairs. That’s how I lost the baby.”

  “Surely it was an accident, dear.”

  “I’m outta here,” Amy snapped. She stood and rushed toward the door.

  “Don’t make any hasty decisions,” her mother called after her. “You wouldn’t want to lose a boy like that.”

  Amy slammed the door and stormed down the walkway. She kicked a dead bush before exiting through the gate, and she slammed that as well in case her point had not already been made.

  Raksha was down the block, but when she saw Amy, she jogged toward her.

  Amy glared at her. “Don’t. Ever. Make me do that again. Understood?”

  Raksha nodded
meekly and opened the car door.

  As they drove away, Amy muttered, “You’re more of a mother to me than she will ever be.”

  Raksha said nothing.

  Amy turned to her and spoke clearly with intensity. “Think about that for a while, will you?”

  Raksha nodded, and they drove in silence back to the motel.

  Predictably, as soon as Amy locked the door, she had forgotten all about her promise to avoid alcohol for just one evening.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Three days later, Sam called at 7:30 a.m. Amy’s cell phone rang and buzzed on her bedside table.

  “Do you know what time it is?” she grumbled. Another headache. Another hangover.

  “I thought you’d be getting ready for work.”

  “I have the day off. Sahil is meeting a vendor, so I’m going to work on Friday instead.”

  “Even better,” he said.

  “Just for the record. It would have been nice to sleep in on my day off.”

  “Chick-a-dee-dee-dee.”

  “Really, Sam?” she groaned. “I’ve got a headache.”

  “They’re gone. They took flight sometime this morning. My mom was bummed she missed it. It always happens so fast, she says.”

  Amy sat up, suddenly awake. “They’re gone?”

  “My dad is taking down the birdhouse as we speak.”

  “Yes!” Amy jumped out of bed, grabbed the empty coffee carafe, and looked for her pants. “When do you have class?”

  “Uh…”

  “Sam?”

  “I dropped out.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I told you I couldn’t focus.”

  “Oh, Sam.”

  “This is going to be way more fun.”

  “Okay.” She filled the carafe in the sink. “What are you waiting for? Come get me.”

  ***

  An hour and a half later, they were gathered by a workbench in the Fosters’ basement. The birdhouse sat in the middle of the workbench, untouched, surrounded by tools. Everyone stood around expectantly, but no one moved. Amy approached the bench and examined the birdhouse. It was breathtaking. The faded green was a stain of some sort, not paint. It may have been very bright years ago. Etched in the wood around the birdhouse was a clover pattern with an occasional flower.

  “She carved this?”

  “Most elaborate house she ever made,” Ed said proudly.

  “Please take it apart carefully,” Rhonda pleaded.

  “I can put it back together, Rhonda,” Ed said. He patted her on the shoulder. “I taught my daughter how to work with wood.”

  Rhonda nodded, but still no one made a move to dismantle the birdhouse so Amy picked it up and examined it from all sides.

  “Let’s remove the roof first,” Ed suggested. “Then you can see the nest.”

  Rhonda smiled. “Good idea.”

  Ed took a flat screwdriver and gently pushed it under the edges of the roof – a little here, a little there until one side popped off. Then he gingerly removed the other side by jiggling it. The pieces were held together by very long staples and possibly wood glue. There seemed to be residue on what should have been a smooth surface.

  Amy and Rhonda leaned over simultaneously to see the bird’s nest. Beautifully constructed out of long blades of dried grass, strands of a creeper plant, and what appeared to be cat hair, the nest was surprisingly clean.

  “There’s no… uh… poop,” Amy said.

  Rhonda laughed. “Chickadees are very clean. The mother actually removes the droppings from the nest.”

  “That’s pretty cool.” Amy reached in and carefully lifted out the nest.

  Rhonda lovingly took it from her and laid it on the corner of the workbench. Sam stepped up and inspected the sides of the birdhouse. Then he grinned.

  “It’s so obvious,” he said.

  Sam pointed to the back of the birdhouse. The back wall had two boards instead of one.

  “Can I have the screwdriver, Dad?”

  It took only a minute to pry the extra board out of the box. Crudely filed down, it looked as if it had been shoved in at the last moment. And sure enough, a notebook had been sandwiched between the boards.

  It really was the size of a passport. The cover even looked like a passport – it was blue, made out of a coated cloth of some sort. Sam flipped it open. His mother took several steps back. She refused to look. There were only three pages, six sides, and they appeared to be hand sewn at the binding. Several drawings and some writing graced the pages inside. Sam closed the book without further examining the contents.

  “Let’s look at it together upstairs.”

  “No,” his mother protested. “I don’t think I can, Sammy. It’s too much. This was meant for you. You take it with you.” She all but said I want you to leave now.

  “Sure, Mom. Is that okay, Dad? Do you want to see it?”

  “Your mother is right. It was meant for you.” Ed immediately focused on the task of repairing the birdhouse. The emotions hovering in the air burned like old wounds being scratched open.

  Sam hastily ran up the stairs. “Can I use your scanner?” he called over his shoulder as Amy caught up with him.

  “Sure,” his mom said, forcing a smile. “It’s in the office.”

  ***

  Amy waited on a chair in the corner of the office while Sam scanned and printed four copies of the pages of the notebook. Roxy sat next to her. Amy petted the dog’s head absentmindedly.

  Sam organized the copies. “This is weird stuff.”

  “What does it say?”

  “We’ll look at everything at my place where we can discuss it in private. My parents are pretty shook up. They need time.”

  “Okay.”

  “Let’s go. We can take the original to the Patels when I drive you home.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  When they turned into Sam’s parking lot, Roxy sat up and stepped on the middle console. Three heads stared out the window in sync as Sam parked the car.

  They were at least twenty feet away from the door when a low growl formed in Roxy’s throat. As they reached the door, she began barking, growling, and pushing her nose against the door.

  Sam glanced at Amy, a look of concern on his face. He handed her the original notebook and all the copies. Hastily, Amy stuffed them in her large yellow purse.

  Sam turned the doorknob. It was unlocked. Roxy bolted through the door. She skidded on the floor, barking madly, as she tore down the hallway.

  A man shouted and made a sniveling sound. Sam and Amy rushed to the living room.

  A spindly guy stood in a corner up on the hearth begging for mercy. If this was the man who had been following them, he was not at all the broad thug Amy had envisioned. She almost giggled at the sight of him. But Emma’s books were scattered. The man had clearly been rifling through them and not in a respectful manner.

  When Sam entered the room, Roxy promptly sat and stopped barking, but her eyes remained fixed on the skinny man, and an occasional faint growl rumbled in her throat.

  Sam put his hands on his hips. He seemed to be as baffled as Amy about the man’s appearance.

  “Who are you?” Sam asked.

  The man stammered. “Stanley.”

  “Okay, Stanley. Enlighten me. Why are you in my living room tossing around my books?”

  Stanley looked away. “Can you call the dog off please?”

  “She’s fine,” Sam replied coolly. “Won’t hurt you unless I tell her to.”

  “Please,” Stanley pleaded. “I’m just an amateur gumshoe trying to make a living.”

  “Gumshoe?” Sam chuckled. “Haven’t heard that word in a while.”

  “Who are you working for?” Amy asked, even though she already knew the answer.

  “Who do you think?” Although the answer was disrespectful, the tone sounded almost helpless.

  “Listen,” Sam said. “Have a seat on this chair and tell us everything. Then I’ll consider letting you
go, free of dog bites.”

  They all settled on the couch and chairs. Amy was a little nervous when Sam called Roxy to his side and had her lay down nearby. It might give the intruder a chance to flee. On the other hand, Stanley glanced nervously at Roxy at least once a minute. He probably wasn’t going anywhere.

  “So,” Sam began, “what are you looking for?”

  “A little notebook.”

  “Uh, huh. For the Richardsons, I presume.”

  “For Brent Richardson.”

  “Find anything?”

  He shook his head.

  “Did Brent tell you why he wanted the notebook?”

  Stanley sighed. “He wanted me to get it, bring it back to him, and make sure his parents knew nothing of our arrangement. That’s why a guy like him came to a guy like me, you see. Nobody owns me.”

  Amy stared at the man, fascinated. Clearly he was not connected and wanted to stay off the radar of the powers that be in the state of Colorado. Indeed, this fact meant Brent also wanted to stay off the radar. He didn’t go to his parents, demanding they put an end to what Sam and Amy were doing. He didn’t use his political influence among certain members of the police force or well-established detective agencies. Instead, he chose this geeky, unprofessional, clearly unconnected, self-declared gumshoe.

  “Why not get his parents involved?” Amy asked.

  “Your guess is as good as mine, but that was the most important issue for him.” Stanley fidgeted, and he continued to eye Roxy with trepidation. “Can I go now? I’ll keep my mouth shut. I promise. Tell Brent I didn’t find anything—”

  “Which you didn’t,” Sam said.

  “I won’t tell him anything about our talk.”

  The man seemed to pride himself on being a secret keeper. First for Brent and now, supposedly, for Sam.

  “And we won’t see you again.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.

  “No, no, no. And I’ll stop following the girl.”

  “Were you the one who told Brent I was staying at the motel?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Did you figure out I was working at Banhi’s Grill?” Amy was trying to discern exactly what information Brent wanted his parents not to know. Did Stanley have a contact in the government?