Celtic Sister

by Pentermann, Meira

  Amy nodded. “I think that’s a great idea.”

  “I don’t know if it will do any good, but I thought maybe…” Her voice trailed away.

  “Yes?”

  “Maybe if you tell your story, it will help. Maybe they’ll listen.”

  “I don’t know. An old missing person case is going to be far more intriguing to them than a current scorned wife.”

  “Sam told me that Brent is accusing you of giving yourself an illegal abortion.”

  “He is. Who’s going to believe me over him?”

  “But our stories complement one another. If we both tell them at once, the police might listen.”

  “I suppose. Maybe.”

  “Please think about it. Perhaps it will help to heal your grief. Maybe you won’t feel like you need to drink every night. You can figure out what God really has planned for you to do with your life.”

  Amy balked. “Yeah. Right. Big plans, I’m sure.”

  “You know when my friend, Rebecca, wouldn’t stop drinking herself to death, I often marveled at the absurdity of it. That this liquid substance was capable of completely destroying a human being.” She grimaced. “The ginormous waste of it all was staggering to me. Just took my breath away.”

  “I’m not losing a husband and four children.”

  “You’re losing my brother, Amy. And he’s a pretty cool guy. Furthermore, you are losing whatever you might be doing with your life if you weren’t recovering from hangovers.”

  “Yeah, like scrubbing grease in a restaurant,” she mumbled.

  “Sam told me about your job. You’re helping a family open a restaurant. That’s nothing to be ungrateful about.”

  “Ungrateful?” The word hit her like a slap in the face because that was exactly what she was being. Ungrateful. The Patels had taken her in, fed her, clothed her, and given her a job. Instead of being appreciative, Amy’s tone of voice was snide, filled with mockery.

  “And it’s not just about a job,” Emma continued. “You know, whether or not you have some big career awaiting you. It’s about what you are in the world. How you treat other people. Maybe you have a gift to share, but you can’t share it when you’re lying in bed or too cranky to talk to people.”

  “You don’t even know me.”

  “We’re all part of it. Even small encounters with fellow humans are an opportunity for you to make a difference in the world. The grocery store clerk, the guy at the bus stop.”

  “I’m always nice to the grocery store clerk.”

  Emma sighed. “You’re really missing the point. I should have you talk to Rebecca.”

  “I don’t want to talk to Rebecca. I’ll stop drinking when I’m damn good and ready to.”

  “Got it.”

  “Good.”

  “In the meantime, will you consider backing up my story about the Richardsons by telling your own?”

  Amy nodded. “Yes, okay. I’ll tell my story.”

  “Thank you. You’ll be glad you did.”

  “You’re right. It will be good for healing.”

  “I truly believe that. I do.”

  “Me too,” Amy agreed. “I’m sorry I’m being so hostile.”

  “No bother. I’m being a nag. It’s just that after seeing what was possible for Rebecca, I feel like rescuing every broken soul.”

  “Thanks,” Amy said.

  “No offense.”

  “Of course.”

  “And I love my brother. I think it would be great if he could settle down with someone he’s clearly enchanted with, especially someone who’s clever enough to help decipher my clues.” She grinned.

  Having fully diffused the situation with her natural charm, Emma proceeded to discuss the notebook with Amy. Amy regaled her with every detail of their guesses, both right and wrong. She talked about the nunnery theory and their visit to Colorado Springs. Emma had heard many of the stories from Sam, but she seemed delighted to gain new nuggets of insight from Amy’s perspective. They did not speak again about alcohol or the Richardsons for the entire drive. When Emma dropped Amy at Dublin Airport, she waved and promised to be in touch.

  Amy turned back one more time as Emma drove away, overwhelmed with the realization that this girl had been missing in Sam’s world for fifteen years. It seemed like a miracle they had actually found her. And, for a moment, Amy felt touched by the divine. She recalled Emma’s proclamations about God’s plan and Amy’s place in the world. Goose bumps sprinted up her arm, and she wondered if maybe she truly did have an unfulfilled purpose. A young man approached Amy on his way to the airport entrance, lost in his thoughts and busy with his travels.

  As he passed, Amy said, “Have a nice day.” Her own voice, bubbling over with enthusiasm, startled her.

  The man turned, gave her a curious half smile, and responded, “You too.” His face appeared slightly more peaceful.

  We’re all part of it. Emma’s words resonated in her heart.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Amy still felt sluggish and hungover, but she tried to be pleasant with the personnel she encountered at the airport. She kept looking at her watch, anxious to get to the plane. As she envisioned the intercontinental flight, she experienced extreme waves of anxiety. In spite of the fact that the thought of drinking alcohol in her current nauseous condition seemed revolting, the idea of being stuck for over seven hours with no access to alcohol was even more terrifying. So, with minutes to spare, Amy dropped into a store to purchase whiskey before boarding the plane. Just knowing she had it available decreased her anxiety.

  I won’t drink it today, she told herself as she settled into her seat by the window and nodded off.

  Hours later, the smell of dinner and the murmur of voices awakened Amy. She stretched her neck and put down her tray table just in time for the delivery of a plastic plate filled with chicken parmesan and overcooked broccoli. A very dry dinner roll completed the meal. Nevertheless, because it was the first food Amy had any interest in eating all day, the meal tasted delicious.

  While she was waiting for the stewardess to pick up her dinner tray, Amy thought about the whiskey bottle in her purse. As the hangover drifted into distant memory, a small drink sounded appealing. By the time the stewardess collected the trays, it had become a necessity. Amy couldn’t exit the row fast enough.

  “Excuse me,” she said to the quiet couple sitting next to her. Now Amy wished she hadn’t purchased one huge bottle. She’d look and feel slightly less pathetic if she were sipping from a flask. Contemplating how to solve that problem, she made her way to the back of the plane. An opportunity presented itself when Amy noticed a stack of plastic cups in the steward area near the bathroom. She grabbed one and slipped into the restroom.

  Once inside, Amy locked the door and breathed a sigh of relief. She set the cup on the tiny counter and fumbled with her purse. The bathroom smelled particularly bad. The last traveler left the toilet seat lid up and something went wrong during the previous flush. The bowl had not properly closed and a mass of toilet paper remained in no man’s land between the bowl and the storage tank. Amy looked away and focused on the task at hand. She grabbed the bottle and flipped her purse onto her back in order to keep it away from the open toilet. Then she tore the plastic off the bottle with her teeth. This took a few seconds, but she managed to open the bottle and take a whiff of the whiskey.

  Then the strangest thing happened.

  As Amy tipped the bottle to fill the plastic cup, it slipped from her hand, flipped over, and landed face down in the open toilet. Its neck managed to slide into the small opening leftover by the previous occupant’s failed flush. Amy stared in horror as the bottle emptied – glug, glug, glug – into the holding tank. The liquid washed away the leftover toilet paper and filled the restroom with the pungent scent of alcohol.

  For a split second, Amy wrestled with the urge to retrieve the bottle before the last few sips drained away, but the moment passed and the bottle was empty. She was nearly desperate enou
gh to pull a bottle out of a filthy toilet. As this realization dawned on Amy, she gagged. Then she leaned backward against the door of the bathroom and slid to the floor, sobbing. Tears poured down in a virulent-but-somehow-cleansing cry. She grabbed a handful of toilet paper and blew her nose. Now almost eye level with the bottle, Amy gazed at it and shook her head in bewilderment. In an instant, the insanity of the situation overwhelmed her. The bottom of the toilet was open just far enough for the neck of a bottle to fit inside. Somehow, while flipping through the air and falling, the bottle had managed to find this ideal fit, landing at an angle, so the liquid could easily drain away. What are the odds that in a split second Amy would go from having a plentiful day’s supply to nothing in such a bizarre manner? The whole thing was absurd.

  Amy dropped her head onto her knees in despair.

  All of a sudden, something changed. Amy felt the appearance of a calming presence. Images of Ireland flooded her brain – the green countryside, Saint Patrick’s Well, Samantha and her goat, and the expression on Emma’s face when she recognized her brother. Emma’s words – the ginormous waste of it all was staggering to me. The waste of a human being during the endless consumption of alcohol.

  It doesn’t have to be this way.

  The feeling of serenity was unlike anything Amy ever remembered. Later she would marvel at the idea of finding God on the floor of an airplane bathroom, but she could offer no better explanation. In a mere moment, with a bottle that landed neck-down in a toilet, Amy’s life changed for the good.

  Eventually, she stood and retrieved the bottle from the toilet. Jammed into the garbage, it just barely fit. Amy washed her hands and face, put on a little makeup, and returned to her seat.

  Throughout the rest of the trip, Amy basked in a new spiritual high. It was unlike anything she’d ever experienced before. She felt safe, cherished. If the airplane were to take a nosedive at that moment, it would be okay, all part of the plan. It was a foreign idea, this concept of a plan being something that offers freedom, but there it was, and the freedom was undeniable.

  Occasionally, she envisioned the upside-down bottle and started giggling hysterically. The woman in the seat next to her raised an eyebrow and Amy apologized.

  “Sorry, it’s just—” Then she burst into another fit of laughter.

  She was floating on a cloud as she walked through JFK, giggling in Immigration, and smiling at the drug-and-fruit-sniffing beagles in Customs. When she passed a duty-free store on the way to her next flight, her heart fluttered for a moment and she thought she might cave, but the sensation passed, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

  The four-and-a-half hour jaunt from New York to Denver did not go quite as smoothly. Her disposition deteriorated as the hours dragged on. Some of the anxiety returned, and Amy fidgeted in her seat.

  At the baggage claim, Amy realized she didn’t have a ride home, so she spoke to a representative about the shuttle services.

  Twenty-five minutes later, Amy sat in the back of the shuttle. Her willpower waned and her spirit sagged. A stop at the liquor store could be in her future. She tried to shake the thought from her head, but it reemerged several times during the ride. As they neared her stop, Amy fumbled through her purse to locate her wallet. Her hand fell on the little booklet Sahil had given her a couple of weeks ago – the meeting schedule for Alcoholics Anonymous. Amy flipped to Sahil’s marked page. A meeting started at 7:45. She looked at her watch. 7:30 p.m. Her body tingled, and the sensation of a loving, powerful presence filled her spirit once again.

  She rushed to the front of the shuttle.

  “Actually,” she said to the driver, “could you please drop me off at Saint Mark’s instead? It’s on the next block.” She counted out the fare and handed it to the man.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she called as she stepped off the shuttle and dragged her suitcase toward the building.

  She passed through the entryway and paused for a moment. In a room to her left, people laughed joyfully.

  “That can’t be it,” Amy mumbled, and she turned away to go down the opposite hall. She wandered all over the property before returning to the entryway. It was nearly 7:45 p.m. People were still laughing in the next room. Amy approached the entrance to that room tentatively.

  When she rounded the corner, she saw Sahil. He cleared his throat and began reading a preamble from a script. Amy entered the room, and Sahil smiled when he noticed her. People started introducing themselves, going around in a circle. Amy took a seat next to a middle-aged woman with short blond hair and a young man. Twenty compassionate faces paused and looked at her. The young man had just said his name. It was her turn.

  Amy swallowed and smiled shyly, bolstered by an understanding that she was taking the right step.

  “Hi. My name is Amy, and I’m an alcoholic.”

  Epilogue

  Three Years Later

  “I want to thank everyone for being here tonight. We have a lot to commemorate,” Sam said. A crowd of twenty-three people gathered in the living room of a small apartment. Some sat on chairs and couches, but most of them were standing. When Sam began speaking, people quieted down and paid attention. “My lovely wife picked up her three-year chip this morning.”

  A round of applause and a couple of whistles followed. Amy blushed and nodded.

  “I couldn’t be more proud of her.” Then Sam gestured toward a stunning young woman who stood near the back by the hallway. “In addition, my delightful Irish niece, Samantha Murphy, is visiting Boulder this week. If I’m lucky, she’ll choose to grace my alma mater with her presence.”

  Samantha smiled and waved as heads turned in her direction.

  “On a more somber note, as many of you who follow the local news know, both Beaumont and Brent Richardson will be spending a few years at the federal penitentiary for their connection with the attempted kidnapping of my darling sister.”

  “I’m not somber about that,” someone shouted, and he raised a glass high.

  Sam nodded thoughtfully. “In my line of work, I’ve learned to cherish justice. But the moral decay of another human being is something to be… mourned.”

  “Amy didn’t get justice,” someone said. “They didn’t press charges for the miscarriage.”

  “It is justice enough for me,” Amy said politely.

  Emma, who was standing behind the sofa, added her own wisdom. “Amy and I are at peace. You have no idea the freedom that comes with forgiveness. I experienced it for the first time about six months ago. So many years I had been imprisoned by fear and hate. Now I am truly free.” Emma smiled. “I pray that those men become rehabilitated and one day use their wealth and influence to change the world for the better.”

  “I knew I chose the right girl,” a sixty-something man with a rich Russian accent said as he stood up. “Having empathy for felons. A heart of gold in this one. I thought of you the day I turned myself in. Was the proudest moment of my life. I never regretted it for a second. And, yes, criminals can be rehabilitated, but I have my doubts about the Richardson clan,” he grumbled.

  “Igor, be nice,” Emma said, laughing.

  Aiden Murphy put an arm around his wife and raised his glass in Igor’s direction. “A toast to the man who sent me my beautiful bride.” He grinned at Igor.

  “Hear, hear,” someone shouted.

  Amy stood up, raising a glass of tonic and lime. “To Igor.” After everyone took a sip, she turned to Sam. “You forgot to mention your big news.”

  “Oh, don’t. Nothing’s happened yet. I’m still a rookie.”

  “I think you have a very good chance.” She turned to the expectant guests. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, drawing out the words. “After two years of exemplary service with the Douglas County Sheriff’s Department, Sam was encouraged to apply for the new detective position—”

  “It’s just an application, Amy. Many guys applied.”

  “Yes, but you’re the only one with a glowi
ng recommendation from the deputy sheriff. I think you’ve got a really good chance.”

  Sam raised his glass reluctantly. “Okay, we can toast the deputy’s nod of approval… or, more importantly, the fact that I finally feel as if I’ve found a meaningful career.”

  “That’s more like it.”

  People offered words of encouragement.

  “Thank you,” Sam said. “Now let’s focus on the real reason for this celebration.” He pointed at Amy. “Three years sober. Say something inspirational.”

  Everyone looked at her expectantly.

  “Inspirational, huh? No pressure.”

  Laughter.

  “Come on, Amy,” Raksha said, her face beaming.

  Amy looked around the room. “I couldn’t have done it without all your support.” She nodded and made eye contact with various friends. “And the grace of God. I feel truly, truly blessed.” She cleared her throat, trying to rein in her emotions. “This journey was beyond anything I ever expected. The sense of purpose. The people who have come into my life. A delightful job at Banhi’s Grill, serving the best Indian food in Denver. Thank you, Sahil, for everything.” She found his face in the crowd. “My work at the crisis center. The women I’ve met there.” She nodded at someone in the back. A tear trickled out of her left eye, and she reached up to brush it away. “And this immeasurable feeling of serenity which envelops me every day. Who could ask for more?”

  The guests responded with remarks of approval and affinity.

  “But I do have more.” She turned away and whispered something in Sam’s ear. His jaw dropped and he looked at her with disbelief.

  “Really?” he asked, his voice unsure.

  She nodded. A grin of pure delight illuminated her face. “Yes, Officer Samuel Edward Foster. You’re going to be a father.”

  Acknowledgements

  This has been an incredible journey. Thank you to everyone who offered their services as editors, proofreaders, and beta readers – both laypersons and professionals. Many blessings to those who rushed in with words of encouragement when I couldn’t see clearly.