Celtic Sister (8 page)

The margaritas arrived and Amy wasted no time getting busy with hers. Sam merely poked the straw around his glass.

“I just believed,” he began. “I believed she was okay. It was a feeling. I almost convinced myself I heard the voice of God.” He looked away. “I know that sounds stupid.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Emma was the spiritual one. She was the one who believed God was watching out for us. I was a snarky skeptic when she disappeared.”

“Your sister disappeared, and then you found God?” Amy asked. The remark sounded callous, but she could not withdraw it. “I’m sorry.”

Sam said nothing.

Catching the eye of the waiter who was just returning to take their order, Amy subtly pointed to her almost-empty margarita glass and nodded. The waiter retreated again. Sam was clueless to the entire exchange.

“I was lost for a very long time, Amy. Especially after Emma disappeared. I quit school. I pissed my life away. Then four years ago… It’s hard to explain.”

“Talk about Emma,” Amy said, hoping to lead him out of despair and back into that sense of calm he had when he believed she would be okay.

He tilted his head, his eyes filled with sadness. “She was a light, always smiling, but something changed.”

The waiter arrived, plopped another margarita in front of Amy, and took their order. Sam ordered quickly. He didn’t seem to notice the second drink, and he remained quiet until the waiter left. Then he resumed his story.

“In the spring before she disappeared, Emma became very moody. Sometimes she was full of joy. Sometimes she seemed sad, and she talked about God’s love in a sort of pleading way. I was at the University of Colorado, staying in a dorm, but when I joined my family for dinner or if I dropped by to do laundry, she’d almost pounce on me. She wanted to make sure I
got it.
‘Give it to God. He has a plan for you.’ All the while, her emotions were all over the map. I was worried about her. Maybe she was depressed or even bipolar. Maybe she was suicidal. So I cornered her one day. ‘Are you okay, Emma? Do you need help?’ Something flashed in her eyes. It was a peace I had never before seen. She seemed older and wiser, filled with… I don’t know… purpose. Then she said, ‘Sam, I love you very much. Please know that everything happens for a reason and that I am very, very grateful for my life.’ I stood there dumbfounded, since I had no idea what she was talking about. Three days later, she was gone.”

Amy pursed her lips. She considered the possibilities. Was this the kind of good-bye that preceded a suicide?

“I always doubted she killed herself,” Sam said as if reading Amy’s mind. “Not after what she said about being grateful.”

“You’re right. Doesn’t really sound like despair.”

“No. Not at all. I never believed she killed herself. I thought she ran away, maybe to a nunnery or something.”

“Are you Catholic?”

“No, but people convert. She seemed pretty obsessed with religion.” He tossed the straw aside and took a gulp of his as-of-yet-untouched margarita. “The truth is, your husband’s behavior suddenly makes me doubt everything I believe.”

Amy winced at his use of the word
husband
, but she couldn’t correct him. It was the truth, and until she could force a divorce, she’d have to live with it. Still, Sam was becoming her friend. Maybe he would understand.

“Could we just refer to him as
Brent
please?”

“Sorry.”

“No worries.”

“I just feel uprooted,” Sam said. “This encounter has shaken my faith. I’m not super religious, but I had this spiritual experience four years ago. It meant something to me, changed the way I view the world. Now I don’t know what to believe.”

“One visit to that asshole uproots you? He wins, you know. If you let him do that, he wins.”

Sam put his head in his hand. “It doesn’t matter if he
wins
. The only win I care about is my sister coming home.”

Amy softened her voice. “I understand, but I’d hate to see you lose your faith because of that evil man.”

“So you agree he’s evil? That he might have done something to Emma?”

Amy shook her head. Now was simply not the time to share the darker part of her story. It would frighten Sam. Besides, she had no idea what Brent was capable of. As a teenager? As far as she knew, Brent didn’t even associate with Emma Foster. Perhaps the girl had a crush on him and that was all. He was the big, square-jawed football star. Brent may know something. He may not. He didn’t necessarily harm her. In fact, Emma’s parting words didn’t sound like fear.

“She must have run away, Sam. Think about what she said to you. It sounded like a good-bye, not an ashamed,
I’m going to commit suicide
good-bye, but more like… like
I’m embarking on a journey. You may not understand it, but it’s what God wants me to do.
That kind of good-bye. A nunnery is the more reasonable explanation.”

“And Brent’s behavior?”

Amy didn’t have an answer. She polished off her margarita.

“Exactly,” Sam said. He took a small sip of his.

At that moment their food arrived. Amy considered ordering another margarita but thought better of it. She had made a fool out of herself the night before.

As they ate, Amy pondered. It had been such a roller coaster of a day. It was hard to believe they had confronted Brent only a couple of hours ago. It didn’t seem possible. Sam remained quiet and ate methodically, half his margarita remaining untouched and possibly forgotten. Amy never understood ordering a drink if you didn’t intend to drink it. She had to steel herself against the urge to ask him
are you going to finish that?

“Sam,” she began, trying to distract herself. “Tell me about your epiphany, this feeling Emma would be okay.”

“It happened just after I turned thirty.”

She waited for him to elaborate. “And?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

He placed his fork and knife on his plate and gazed into her eyes.

“I was hungover one morning, standing behind the counter at Avis Rent-a-Car, one of my many short-lived careers during the lost decade.”

Amy smiled.

“Anyway, I was standing there, staring out the window. I could see the planes taking off and landing. It was sort of hypnotic. For some reason, Emma’s face popped into my head. I’d tried so hard to suppress the feelings year after year. I’d almost forgotten what she looked like. But all of a sudden, there she was smiling at me. Then I realized she’d be older. She wouldn’t look like that, you know? I was thirty. She’d be twenty-eight.”

Amy nodded.

“And for a moment the idea almost suffocated me. My sister could be out there, and I might not even recognize her. Or she might be dead, only a memory, forever frozen in the image of a seventeen-year-old girl.”

The waiter stopped by and grabbed their plates. He tried to be nonintrusive, but Sam waited patiently for him to leave before he continued his story.

“Then the most amazing thing happened,” Sam explained. His eyes lit up for the first time since the day had begun. “I felt this sudden calm come over me. It was like nothing I’d ever experienced in my life. There was this presence. It enveloped me and embraced me with love. I heard a voice. It was in my head, but it wasn’t my own thoughts, you know?”

No, I don’t know.

“‘She is okay,’ was all it said, but in that instant I knew. I just knew she was someplace safe and she had gone wherever she went for a reason, for a greater purpose. And I believed it with a powerful conviction.” He looked down at the table and began tracing the patterns in the wood absentmindedly.

Amy remained quiet.

“It was like hearing an echo for the first time,” he whispered. “I walked through life with the understanding that there was such a thing as an echo, knowing other people had heard them, but never really experiencing one myself. Then I heard it, the echo, a bizarre sound which is both eerie and joyful. And all at once I understood what Emma was talking about when she spoke of God’s love.”

Amy leaned in. The analogy was beautiful. It gave her chills.

“Then I realized I didn’t want to piss away my life anymore, going from job to job, hanging out with half friends. Emma would have hated to see what became of me. I wanted to do something. I hadn’t figured it all out yet. I guess I still haven’t, but at that precious, gracious moment, I knew I was meant for something more. It was one of the most amazing days of my life.”

He tilted his head and the expression of sadness returned. Amy reached over and touched his hand.

“That is beautiful,” she said.

His face darkened. “What if it is all based on a lie? What if Emma is not okay? What if she was cringing in her grave that very moment?” He slapped his hand on the table. “The morning of peace and light I’ve treasured for the past four years… what if she was looking down on me with disgust, wondering why I never did a damn thing to help her?”

“Oh, Sam, you can’t possibly—”

“I can’t possibly wonder?”

“Well, no. But don’t discount the powerful experience you had. It is something to be treasured.”

“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.