Celtic Sister (13 page)

“But the thing is, Sam knows nothing about it. And we’ve searched her desk and her books. It was supposed to be just a little thing with drawings and a couple of poems—”

“Wait,” Rhonda interrupted. “I’m confused. Why does your friend know about this notebook, and why wouldn’t Emma have just given it to her brother?”

“I think she didn’t get the chance,” Amy whispered.

Rhonda looked at Ed. He had a gentle expression in his eyes.

Sam joined in. “We thought maybe she just left it in her desk, which you know I still have, or maybe between the books, but it’s just not there.”

“Maybe she had it with her when she…” Rhonda closed her eyes and didn’t finish her sentence.

“Maybe, Mom, but we have another idea.”

“Somewhere in the house?” Ed asked. “I don’t remember finding anything in her room when we cleaned it out. I would have remembered something as sweet as poems. And we went through her things carefully before we gave them away.”

“We kept a bunch of stuff, Ed,” Rhonda said defensively.

“Yes, but I would have remembered a notebook.”

“Maybe it’s at the bottom of that jewelry box.” Mrs. Foster disappeared and returned a few minutes later with a wooden jewelry box. The conversation while she was gone was polite yet stilted. Mrs. Foster rested the jewelry box on the coffee table, and Amy helped her remove everything and look for a hidden compartment at the bottom.

“Mom, listen for a moment.”

Rhonda sat back in her chair. Clearly the conversation was exhausting her, but she tried to maintain a face of composure.

“Remember that beautiful birdhouse she made? The one we put on the maple?”

“Oh, don’t be silly. She wouldn’t put poetry at the bottom of the birdhouse. The birds would make a mess of it. She wasn’t stupid.”

“But she built the birdhouse,” Amy said. “She could have used a double back or side. Sandwiched the notebook between the boards.”

“A notebook wouldn’t fit there.”

“It’s supposed to be the size of a passport, and Emma may have hidden it,” Amy explained. “That’s what my friend remembered.”

“Who is this friend? What’s her name?”

Amy looked at Sam. Panic set in. This was the one subject she wished to avoid.

“Just someone from her math class,” Sam lied. “Brenda. Amy knew her better than Emma. You wouldn’t have met her.”

Brenda. Great. I thought we weren’t going to lie.

Rhonda shook her head and her tone turned gentle. “Sam, I know you need to process your sister’s death. You suppressed it for so long. But don’t lose yourself seeking something based on the recollections of a friend of a friend Emma barely knew.”

Amy looked away.

“No offense to you, sweet Amy. I know you’re only trying to help my son. But he needs to stay grounded. That’s the only way to get through something like this. We were catatonic for years. You have no idea what it’s like to lose a child.”

Her words assaulted Amy like a slap in the face. Amy turned and glared at Rhonda in disbelief. How dare she declare something she knew nothing about?

Rhonda sensed she had stepped into unwelcome territory. She seemed to second-guess herself but chose not to address the potential faux pas. Perhaps she feared such a discussion would bring the wounds to the surface, and the woman seemed determined to hang on to the delicate state of acceptance she had created for herself.

Ed leaned forward. “Rhonda, what can it hurt to let them look at it?”

“Dismantle the birdhouse?”

“It can be repaired and rehung,” Ed said.

“You darn well know it’s full of chickadee babies at the moment.”

“Mom,” Sam said in exasperation. “Are you really going to choose the chickadees over Emma? For years, we’ve been waiting for this.”

Rhonda glared at him. “Waiting for what? They’re innocent animals. Another mother doesn’t have to lose her babies for the sake of a notebook we don’t even know exists.”

Ed intervened. “Listen. The chicks have been there for weeks. Any day now, the family will disperse and their home will be empty. We can take it down then.”

Rhonda left the room. Before she disappeared from view, Amy saw the redness in Mrs. Foster’s eyes and the quivering of her lips.
What a great first impression, Amy
, she thought. Dredging up a woman’s pain. Suggesting they drive her cherished little birds from their home.

“Give her a moment,” Ed said. “I don’t think it’s an unreasonable idea. It would be so like your sister to plan such a caper. Although I’m surprised she didn’t leave you a clue.” Then he looked away. “She probably didn’t have a chance.”

Rhonda returned, composed and smiling. “I’m being silly, Sam. When the chicks leave, we can take it down. You’ve asked so little of us during your difficult times. And I was hardly there for you. I often blame myself for you quitting school and…”

“And becoming a loser,” Sam said, chuckling.

“Oh, Sammy, everyone needs to travel their own path.”

“Even if it’s a pathetic path? A waste of time?”

He stood and she gave him a loving embrace. “Nothing is a waste. Even a rudderless phase can build a man’s character.”

“You’re too kind, Mom.”

“Plus, look at you now. A doctor in training. Has anyone gotten back to you?”

“Oh, not yet.”

Mrs. Foster was frustrated. “Most of these schools start in August, early September at the latest. Someone should have gotten back to you. Did you mail your applications on time?”

He hasn’t told them,
Amy realized. She stood up, crossed the room, and gave Sam a subtle look of disbelief.

Sam was squirming, clearly reluctant to lie to his mother, but determined not to share the truth. “Don’t worry, Mom. Everything will work out.”

Mrs. Foster seemed skeptical, but she let the subject drop.

Ed stood up. “Let’s eat. I’m starving.”

“Let me show Amy the birdhouse first,” Rhonda said. She turned to Amy. “You’ll love it, dear.”

They went outside and approached the maple slowly. A chorus of
chick-a-dee-dee-dee
greeted them. Amy experienced a moment of annoyance. Brent had always called her chickadee, and he said it in a way that made it sound like an insult.

Amy took a few steps closer and noticed a little head peeking out of a faded green birdhouse. It was adorable; she had to admit. She could hardly blame the birds for her poor choice in a spouse.

The birdcalls became more intense.
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee.

“Step back, dear,” Rhonda whispered. “The more
dees
the more threatened they feel. Someone is warning the young chick not to leave yet.”

They crept back to a decent watching place. After several minutes, the bird took flight, landed on a branch, and then returned quickly to the birdhouse.

“Ed’s right,” Rhonda whispered. She touched Amy’s arm. “They’ll be leaving shortly.”

“It’s a beautiful birdhouse,” Amy said. “We won’t destroy it. I promise.”

“I know you won’t.”

***

Their dining experience was jam-packed with conversational topics that were neutral, safe. Emma and the birdhouse were all but forgotten, an issue for another day.

Nevertheless, Sam was quite pleased with the results of their mission. The drive back was tranquil. Roxy rested in the backseat, and Sam hummed along to some retro rock station on the radio.

When they reached the Shanti Motel, he leaned over and gave Amy a real kiss. She almost recoiled, but chose instead to enjoy it for a moment. Sam tasted good, familiar almost – not like someone she ever kissed before, more like someone she ought to.

When Amy did pull away, she was confused and anxious. Yet again, the whiskey bottles under her bed called to her as if every emotion of any dimension needed to be dulled before it could be processed.

“Too soon?” Sam asked tentatively.

“No… yes. I don’t know.”

He smiled at her. “It’s okay. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. I’ll call you when the chickadees fly away.” He made a whimsical flying gesture with his hands.

She laughed and touched his forearm. “Thank you for everything, Sam.”

He looked puzzled. “What have I done for you? I should be the one expressing gratitude.”

“You’ve kept me distracted. Given me an adventure to pursue. Something that might even result in a happy ending.”

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.