Celtic Sister

by Pentermann, Meira

  “Okay.”

  Amy worked until four p.m. and put away her supplies. Then she changed in the employees’ restroom, trading her sweat suit for Raksha’s silk shirt and black pants. Sahil had assigned her a locker to keep her stuff organized. After she tucked away her work clothing, Amy grabbed the yellow purse and slipped out the back door. Hungry and tired, she wandered into the American grill next door and headed straight for the bar. She ordered a chicken sandwich and a glass of red wine.

  While she munched on her sandwich and gulped her wine, she thought about Sahil.

  He didn’t necessarily almost beat his wife to death. He didn’t say that, she chided herself. Could have been an accident, especially if it involved alcohol. Maybe his wife almost committed suicide. As she considered all the morbid alternative scenarios, Amy felt reassured she wasn’t necessarily working for a monster. In some cases it is better to know more details, not less. She ordered another glass of wine. Sorry, Sahil, she thought. Next time I’ll let you tell your story.

  After the third glass of wine and a piece of chocolate cake, Amy started to feel edgy. She would prefer a straight glass of whiskey at this point, but she wanted to look sophisticated in public. She liked red wine. The bottles in her motel room remained unopened. Amy glanced around the bar, wondering if she could snag a corkscrew.

  Now that would be really classy, Amy: stealing a corkscrew from the bar.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a man four chairs away looking in her direction. She realized she was leaning over the counter as if she was about to swipe something, which of course, she was. Amy plopped back down in her chair clumsily and made a mock salute to the curious man. He looked away and returned his attention to a textbook.

  Amy watched him for several minutes. Brown hair, in his early thirties, the man wore blue jeans, cowboy boots and a short-sleeved, blue cotton shirt. Clean-cut and almost innocent-looking, he was actually quite handsome. This surprised Amy because she usually preferred the rugged ne’er-do-wells. That was how she got stuck with Brent, the rebellious boy who turned against his wealthy parents and prided himself on getting into trouble in college. Amy found his James Dean behavior charming until she met Brent’s parents and watched him shrivel in his father’s presence. Ever confident in the fraternity crowd, he was just a little boy in his family home, eager to please his father. When they all got together, the air was saccharine sweet and clearly dysfunctional.

  Amy took a long look at herself in the mirror behind the bar and realized she had dived head first into that dysfunctional world. She knew something was wrong months before Brent bought her a bouquet of flowers, long before he got down on one knee, and years before she got pregnant and considered subjecting another child to the legacy of Richardson abuse.

  She ordered another glass of merlot.

  While she sipped her fourth (or was it her fifth?) glass of wine, she checked out the clean-cut Boy Scout down the bar. He was making notes in the margins of the large textbook, scribbling madly. He never looked in her direction again. Amy moved down the bar until she sat one chair away from the mystery man. He still didn’t look up from his book.

  She cleared her throat.

  The man lifted his pencil and tilted his head slightly in her direction.

  Freed of her inhibitions with the boldness afforded by alcohol, Amy took this small gesture as an invitation. She moved to the next seat and offered her hand.

  “My name is Amy,” she said, taken aback by the hint of seduction in her voice.

  “Sam,” the man replied politely, and he shook her hand. “Sam Foster.”

  The name struck her as familiar, but she was pretty confident she had never met this man.

  “What’re you studying, Sam?” Amy pointed to the book.

  Sam hastily closed it. “Oh, nothing.” He smiled, clearly embarrassed. He draped his arm over the cover, but not before Amy caught the words Crime Scene Investigation.

  “Are you a police officer?”

  “No,” he replied brusquely.

  The bartender stopped by to see if they needed anything. Sam ordered a Diet Coke. Amy downed the last sip of wine in her glass and hoped Sam would notice and offer to buy her a drink. After a long, awkward silence Amy asked the bartender for another glass. When she returned her attention to Sam, he was reading again.

  “Really, Sam. You could give a girl a complex.” She couldn’t believe she’d said it. The flippant remark popped out of her mouth as if she were a barstool pro. She steadied herself against the counter and tried to do a mental count of the number of glasses of wine she’d had.

  “Sorry,” Sam said. “I’m really not trying to be rude. I just have to finish this.”

  “Big test tomorrow?”

  “Monday, but I’m behind. I’m having a difficult time focusing on the material.”

  “So you want to be a CSI technician?”

  “Something like that.”

  “That’s cool,” Amy drawled, becoming aware of a slight slur. “Why would you be embarrassed to talk about it? People love this stuff.”

  Sam gave her a curious half glare as if she had said something offensive.

  Amy threw her hands up defensively. “Sorry.”

  “No worries. I’m just beating my head against a wall.”

  “Why don’t you let me quiz you? Sometimes you know more than you think you know.”

  She slid her hand over the book and snatched it. He made an attempt to stop her, but she was able to swivel away and open the book to the first chapter. What she found surprised her. She flipped through several pages before gazing up at Sam and raising an eyebrow. He looked down.

  The margins were filled not with notes but with small, elaborate sketches. An odd assortment of drawings – birdhouses, dogs, crosses, 3D geometrical shapes, lips, and an occasional sad eye – graced almost every inch of white in the first ten pages.

  Amy pursed her lips to one side. “I’ll have to say, Sam, this is an extremely odd study method.”

  He smiled awkwardly, clearly embarrassed. It was adorable, his innocent face turning bright red. “I’m thirty-four years old, and I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.” He threw his hands in the air in defeat.

  “Hmm,” Amy replied. “From the looks of it, I’d guess a veterinarian…” She pointed to the dog and then at the cross. “A pastor…” She tipped her head back and forth as her finger settled on a birdhouse. “A birdwatcher. Not very lucrative. You might want to keep that as a hobby.” He chuckled. Then she planted her finger on a drawing of an eye. “Or perhaps an eye surgeon. That would be impressive.”

  He reached over and closed the book. “I dropped out of med school to take this class at the community college.”

  “You dropped out of med school to become a CSI technician? That must be quite a story.”

  “It is,” he agreed but was not forthcoming with any details.

  Amy continued to stare at him expectantly.

  “I just keep screwing up,” he finally said. “I dropped out on my first go around when I was nineteen. Partied, became a total loser. I can’t believe I pissed away more than a decade of my life.”

  “Doing?”

  “Just doing nothing. Literally. Hung out with people I don’t even remember. Couldn’t keep a job. Burned a lot of bridges.”

  “Girls?” Amy asked seductively. She reached for her glass. It seemed to be magically full, and she wondered if she had absentmindedly given the bartender the signal for another.

  “Girls came and went. One long-term girl stayed with me until she realized I had no intention of going back to school and becoming a doctor. Another wanted to rescue me but gave up. She’s married now with a couple of kids.”

  “So you just woke up one day and decided to become a CSI technician slash cartoonist?”

  He smiled. “No, I woke up one day and decided to go back to school and finish my biology degree, which I’ve finally done, I’m pleased to say. Then apply to medical sch
ools, and—” He stopped abruptly and gazed off in the distance.

  “And?”

  “And… never mind.”

  “Oh, come on.” Amy laughed a little too gregariously. She couldn’t believe she was actually flirting. Three steps out of her abusive marriage and less than two weeks since her miscarriage. It was as if she were going into a tailspin. She found her behavior disgusting and made a private note to blame it on the alcohol.

  Amy felt a little dizzy, and she began to lose her train of thought. She tried to look at Sam without closing one eye.

  The next thing she was aware of was Sam lifting her chin off the floor.

  “Amy. Are you okay?”

  Amy groaned and rolled on her side. Nausea welled up inside her. “Too many glasses of wine. I must look like a tramp.”

  He helped her to her feet. “Not a tramp, but yeah, you smell like a winery and you’re slurring a bit. Why don’t you let me drive you home?”

  “Nah,” Amy gestured wildly around the room. “I’m staying at the Shanti Motel a couple of blocks from here.” She finally decided on a direction and pointed dramatically, hoping it was the right way. “I can walk.”

  Sam took her by the arm anyway. He spoke with the bartender and handed over some cash. Then he guided Amy, and she stumbled along beside him.

  When they exited the restaurant, the fresh air turned over her stomach. She rushed to the curb and vomited.

  Chapter Six

  Amy awoke the next morning squirming in discomfort. For some reason, she had neglected to close the curtains before she went to bed. She turned away and pulled a blanket over her head while trying to piece together the events that had led to her current condition.

  She vaguely remembered behaving like a slut in the bar. Ugh. She also remembered throwing up and staggering to a car. At this point, she wished the mattress would swallow her up. He must have driven me. She searched her brain for his name. Perhaps she could send an apology of some sort. It was Sam. But what was the point? Clearly she could never face the man again.

  Maybe a shower will clear my head.

  Amy sat up and screamed. Someone was sitting in the chair near her bed. She squinted and put a hand up to her forehead. It was Sam.

  “Oh my God!” Amy shouted. She leapt from bed and pulled the covers with her. The dramatic move caused her to trip over the blankets and fall to the floor. Still clutching the comforter, she continued to rant. “Oh my God. Did we—?” She looked from Sam to the bed and cringed.

  He merely stared at her, eyes dark, no longer the charming Boy Scout he had seemed to be the night before. Was he even a student? Did he ever actually apply to med school? Maybe he’s studying CSI so he can orchestrate the perfect crime. Amy remembered the drawings, and her breath caught in her throat. What if he’s a serial killer? She assumed the crosses were a profession of religious conviction, but they could symbolize graves. She thought of the other sketches. Maybe he kills puppies and pokes people’s eyes out. She didn’t want to imagine what he did with birdhouses. And lips? Her body shook with disgust.

  “Did you put a drug in my drink? Date rape me?” she screamed as she scrambled to her feet. Then she realized she was still fully dressed except for her shoes.

  Sam started chuckling. Then he laughed sarcastically. “I hate to break it to you, Amy, but a date rape drug would have hardly been necessary. If I were less honorable, or frankly desperate, I could have taken your puke-breathed pleas to…” He looked as if he were about to gag. “Never mind. Suffice it to say, you were drunk, and no shrinking violet.”

  Amy looked down, ashamed. She hoped she had not tried to kiss him, but at this point, what could she say? He was polite enough not to enlighten her on what she had actually said. Maybe she was overreacting on the serial killer theory. Would a guy with a face like that kill puppies? When she looked up, he was glaring at her. She noticed a book in his hand. It was Brent’s high school yearbook. The article about Emma Foster lay on the carpet next to his chair.

  “What are you doing with that?” Amy exclaimed. She rushed toward him.

  He stood and pulled it out of her reach. A good six inches taller than her, he had the advantage. Feeling self-conscious, Amy took several steps back until she was up against the bed.

  “The question is, what are you doing with it? Unless your real name is Brent, I’m guessing this doesn’t belong to you.”

  Amy sat down on the edge of the mattress.

  Sam was only getting started. “‘Brent,’” he read from the inside cover. “‘It’s been awesome, dude. Have a great summer.’”

  He flipped to another page. “‘Brent. Stay cool.’”

  Back cover. “‘Dude. That touchdown was mag-nan-ee-mus.’ Interesting spelling. It’d be a miracle if he knew the meaning of the word.”

  Then he turned to the senior picture of Emma Foster, marched across the room, and held the book inches from Amy’s face. “‘Love you Brent!’” Sam spat out the words with sardonic emphasis on each syllable. “Where did you get this book?”

  Amy put her head in her hand.

  Sam flipped a couple of pages. “There are two Brents in senior year. One was a member of the chess team. The other was a running back.” He turned the book back toward Amy’s face, with his finger pointing to a picture of Brent Richardson. “Now unless you’ve had serious cosmetic surgery, Amy, this book doesn’t belong to you. I want to know where you got it.” He threw the book on the floor and walked across the room. He refused to face her.

  The shouting and the slamming made Amy’s head pound. Thankfully, there was nothing in her stomach, because she was overcome by nausea again. Amy stared at Sam’s back for a moment. He quivered in anger. He wasn’t the soft, kind, lost guy she had met the night before. He was a man possessed. He turned slowly and Amy drew in a sharp breath. His face was red with tears, not anger. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible.

  “Who is Brent?”

  “I… uh—”

  “Amy, please.”

  “Foster,” she whispered, suddenly remembering his name. “You’re Sam Foster.”

  “I know who I am.”

  “Are you related to Emma Foster, the girl in the photo?”

  Sam slumped back into the chair near the bed. When he spoke, the anger had melted into resignation. “She’s my sister. She’s been gone fifteen years.”

  “I’m sorry, Sam. She’s beautiful.”

  “She was, inside and out.” He smiled faintly. “I called her ‘my Celtic sister’. The rest of us, Mom, Dad and I, have mousy brown hair and light brown eyes. There are some Irish ancestors that made themselves known through Emma. But she liked the ‘Celtic sister’ nickname. It seemed more mysterious.”

  “It’s enchanting.”

  Sam picked up the article and waved it slowly through the air. “She disappeared one week after graduation and was never heard from again. No note. Nothing.” He recaptured Amy’s eyes and held them in an intent, merciless gaze. “Now I find her handwriting in the yearbook of Brent Richardson, a guy I’ve never heard of, and I want to know who he is. Who is he, Amy?”

  “He’s Beaumont Richardson’s son. You know? The Richardsons.”

  Sam’s face contorted with confusion. “A Richardson Richardson?”

  Amy nodded.

  “Then why do you have his yearbook?”

  Amy closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and stared at the ceiling. The pause lingered. Finally, Amy released her breath and said, “He’s my husband. Brent Richardson is my husband.”

  “What? You’re a Richardson?”

  Amy pouted. “I’m a Martin. I never should have married him. He’s a brute.”

  “I don’t want to sound rude, but after last night and this dingy motel room, I wouldn’t guess you—” He seemed flustered.

  “You wouldn’t guess I’d travel in the Richardsons’ circles?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay. You’re right. I’m entirely out of t
heir league. I think that’s why Brent was so hell-bent on marrying me. It pissed off his father.”

  “Oh, Amy.”

  She looked down. “I suppose I made him feel powerful.”

  “You’re talking in the past tense. Is he dead?” Sam sounded anxious.

  “No, unfortunately. That would be too easy.” She chuckled, a dark laugh. “I left him.”

  “When? Is he still in town?”

  “Almost two weeks ago, and of course he’s still in town. His family owns a Congressman. He’s not going anywhere. That’s why I’m lying drunk in a motel in a room adjacent to the garbage dumpster. There’s nowhere for me to go.”

  “Where does he live?”

  Amy rattled off the address. “Or maybe he’s at his parents’ house. They live in Cherry Creek.” She rattled off another address.

  Sam scribbled them down on the motel notepad. “Does he work during the day?”

  “From home. He has a home office.”

  “Perfect. Take me to him.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “I can’t just come unannounced, pound on his door, and ask, ‘What did you do to my sister?’”

  “You most certainly can. And that’s exactly what you’re going to do because I’m not going to go near that man. He’ll call the police.”

  Sam cocked his head. “Why? This isn’t the Middle Ages. The police don’t drag wives home.”

  Amy looked away.

  “What did you do, Amy?”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “Nothing.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I stole money from our fire safe.” It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth. Amy knew full well Brent was going to pursue this illegal abortion nonsense. She simply did not have the emotional fortitude to explain the situation to Sam.

  “You stole money? To sneak away to this lovely paradise?”

  “To run away. In the middle of the night.”

  Sam frowned. “Why? Did he hurt you?” He moved closer to her and examined her face.

  “Just leave it.”

  “I can’t leave it, can I? I need to know if he is capable of hurting a woman. Would he…” Sam stopped himself short.