Celtic Sister (3 page)

She made a clumsy move to stuff the keycard into her small pocket, but at that moment Raksha grabbed the pillowcase.

“Let me escort you,” the petite woman said. She moved swiftly across the reception area and proceeded to lead Amy out the door. Amy hurried to catch up. The room happened to be so close to the garbage they would have run into the dumpster had the parking lot not been well lit. Thankfully, the dumpster was surrounded by a faded cedar fence.

Inside, the room was small but clean. A queen bed stood in the center with a bedside table on the left. The bathroom appeared to lead off to the right, and the closet was just an opening in the wall with a handful of plastic hangers of different colors. A large chair on the back wall looked over the bed, and a small table nearby held a lamp, a coffee pot, disposable cups, and a few supplies for making coffee.

Raksha placed the pillowcase on the bed.

“Dial zero if you need anything. Ice is around the corner.” She gestured as she moved toward the door. Then she stopped abruptly and turned around. “Please join us for dinner tomorrow night. Around seven. We live in an apartment behind the check-in area.”

“Oh, I couldn’t—”

“I insist.”

“I really don’t want to impose.”

Raksha laughed. “You’ll be the quietest one amongst my noisy lot. Believe me, Priya.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Sorry, Amy. My mother called me Priya so often, it slips in whenever I see a fragile spirit. It means
beloved
.”

Amy stared at her, momentarily moved by the poetic hand of fate that led her to this very spot. “That’s what the name
Amy
means.” Warmth spread through her body.

“See? Your mother loves you.”

The warmth swiftly vanished, replaced by resentment.

“I won’t call you that anymore, Amy.”

“No, wait. Please do.”

Raksha smiled. “All right, Priya. We’ll see you tomorrow then. You can wash up in the bathroom, and if you need anything, please let me know.” She slipped out and closed the door.

***

Amy sat in silence for several minutes, still clinging to the green bundle. Eventually, she laid it gently at the head of the bed. Afraid to open the towel, she sank to her knees and gazed at it. Tears eluded her. All she felt was emptiness and a desperate yearning to cry now that she finally found herself alone and safe. The monotonous hum of the freeway behind the Shanti Motel slowly drowned out the sound of blood pumping in her head.

Amy turned her attention to the pillowcase. She dumped its contents onto the paisley bedspread and sorted through the items. She was pleased to discover $4100 in hundred-dollar bills, a sum that made her feel far more secure than she had only moments before at Raksha’s sign-in desk. Amy hid the money between random pages of the Gideon Bible and dumped the underwear and toiletries into the second drawer. Then she grabbed her keycard and plastic ice bucket and went in search of the ice machine.

When she returned, Amy filled a flimsy plastic cup with ice and poured a glass of whiskey. She hadn’t had a drink since she’d learned she was pregnant, and the soothing liquid looked very inviting. She placed it on the floor at the foot of the bed. Amy wanted to examine the dead child but could not find the courage to open the towel, so she picked it up again and held it close to her chest. Still, the tears refused to come. It was as if her conscience had decided to punish her for all her stupid choices, leaving her a prisoner in her pain rather than allowing her to grieve and heal.

Amy settled herself on the carpet and leaned her back against the end of the bed. Several gulps of whiskey eased her tension, and she opened the yearbook.

Who are you, Emma Foster?

A chill went up her spine as she whispered, “What did he do to you?”

Chapter Three

The next morning, Amy awoke on the bed still dressed in her clothing. A debilitating headache saluted her with an edge of condemnation. She had drunk whiskey until she passed out, a page out of her mother’s book.

Amy sat up and was shocked when she realized she had been lying on the small, green-toweled bundle. It was very damp and almost flat. She touched her chest. It also felt slightly moist. All of a sudden, Amy became aware of the stench – a mixture of blood, death, and innocence ripped apart. Had she smelled this bad when she arrived? Raksha did not appear offended, but she was a kind woman. Perhaps she simply wanted to offer Amy a place of serenity, an oasis free from judgment.

“It’s time to bury my baby,” Amy said, disturbed by the words, but resigned to them. She wondered if letting go would help move the grieving process forward.

After washing her face and putting on her shoes, Amy clutched the bundle and began to search for a worthy place to lay her stillborn child. She wandered around for an hour, encountering parking lots, apartment buildings, and eventually a small neighborhood. Along the way she spotted a convenience store, a liquor store, and a few restaurants in a strip mall. The absence of parks and the abundance of concrete frustrated Amy. She found a patch of dirt here and there and one gravel parking lot, but nothing fitting for the final resting place of a murdered child. Then she began to imagine gruesome scenarios – animals digging him up, police gathering, reporters taking pictures. How long would the body last? Would it lead back to her? Was this a crime, what she was doing?

Suddenly afraid, Amy returned to the motel and hid the baby in a drawer. She located the near-empty bottle of whiskey and gulped it down. Not nearly enough to make a dent in her anguish, the liquor only agitated her paranoia. She needed more.

Hours later, wearing only her bra and underwear, Amy sat on the bed, drinking whiskey. She had made several trips to the strip mall to purchase supplies – loaves of bread, bags of chips and nuts, granola bars, peanut butter, coffee, and bottles of whiskey and red wine. Then she had taken a bath and put her dirty T-shirt and sweat suit in the bathtub to soak. Curtains drawn and TV mumbling, the room seemed smaller than the night before. Amy held a remote, and she flipped hypnotically from station to station, but her eyes remained fixed on a place somewhere on the wall below a painting of the Rocky Mountains.

Sometime after midnight, she retrieved the green bundle and slowly unwrapped her stillborn son. The smell of decay assaulted her senses as she freed him from the damp towel. His waxy, lifeless face still seemed surreal. It frightened her.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered as she swathed him again. She sank to the floor and began to scream like a wounded animal, pounding the carpet until her fists hurt. When her voice began to grow hoarse, she realized what she must do. Numb, in an anesthetized trance, she walked out to the garbage, opened the cedar gate, and dumped the green bundle over the edge of the dumpster.

***

The days passed, but time meant nothing. Whiskey was her best friend now. It conveniently suffocated the concept of time altogether, shoving it under the covers and holding a pillow over its head with an evil air of triumph. Amy could not be sure if she had been at the Shanti Motel for three days or three weeks. Did it really matter?

Sometime during this period of self-induced comas, Amy awoke to the sound of a car alarm beeping incessantly. She pulled the covers over her head. The loud humming of an engine alerted Amy to the fact it was not a car alarm but some kind of large truck backing up. Then a distinctive noise fully illuminated the reality of what transpired just outside her room. A garbage truck vibrated as its claws grabbed the dumpster and tilted it. The unbearable sound of garbage shifting, clanging, and landing with a thud followed. Then an excruciating squeal as the compacting arm compressed the garbage to make room for the next stop.

What have I done?

Amy bolted from the room, screaming, but the grinding noises drowned out her voice. She stumbled and fell to her knees. It must have been just before dawn. A hint of orange barely illuminated the truck as it drove away. It picked up speed and rolled onto the empty street without stopping. Amy got to her feet and ran in pursuit, her breathing compromised by gasping sobs. When she reached the edge of the parking lot, she stopped and watched the truck disappear around a corner.

Her baby boy was on the way to the city dump to rot – squished between dirty tissues and banana peels – nameless, tombless, and forgotten.

When Amy returned to the motel room, she retched until there was nothing left in her system. Then she grabbed a new bottle of whiskey and took a swig.

***

One morning, the door to Amy’s room burst open and Raksha appeared. The lovely woman wore dark blue capris and a flowing teal blouse, her hair tied up in a neat braid, her expression disapproving. She yanked open the curtains. Irritatingly bright light poured in.

“Get up,” Raksha shouted, as she gathered wrappers, chip bags, and empty whiskey bottles and hurled them into the trash. She opened and closed drawers aggressively.

“What are you doing?” Amy moaned.

“We do not tolerate drugs or addicts in the Shanti.”

“I don’t have any drugs. Just alcohol. It’s legal.”

Raksha disappeared into the bathroom, cursing in her Indian dialect. She reappeared and shouted a few hostile, foreign words in Amy’s direction.

“What time is it?” Amy rubbed her head and shaded her eyes against the light.

“What time is it?” Raksha mocked as she opened the drawer that held the Gideon Bible. Most of the money was tucked in the pages, but some twenties and loose change rolled around in the empty space. Raksha picked up the Bible and leafed through it. She pulled out bills as she found them. Waving them in Amy’s face, she said, “So you’re actually a dealer? Even better. Pack your things and get out of here now.”

“Wait,” Amy pleaded. She finally realized the gravity of the situation. “You don’t understand. This isn’t what it looks like.”

Raksha folded her arms. “Okay, enlighten me. What, pray tell, is it, young lady? I’ve heard a lot of stories. Let’s see if you’ve got anything original to regale me with.” She crossed the room and sat down.

Amy turned away from the sunlight, grateful that Raksha had settled herself in the chair by the wall.

“I took that money from our fire safe when I ran away.”

Raksha waited patiently for her to continue.

“I didn’t know how long I’d go without a job. I wanted enough money to hide out for a while.”

Raksha snorted. “A job. Did you go to an interview today? Look at yourself.”

Tears formed at the edges of Amy’s eyes.

Raksha continued. “You’ve locked yourself in here for six days, drinking or drugging or whatever it is you’re doing. You snubbed my dinner invitation. You’re obviously not job hunting, young lady. I need to see your driver’s license right now. I’m going to call a police officer and have him look you up. We don’t welcome fugitives.”

“No, please. Please listen. Brent has probably reported me as a missing person.”

“Or as the thief who robbed his savings.”

“He pushed me down the stairs.”

“So you say.”

“He did.” Amy became hysterical, her voice rising and cracking with each statement. “He threw me down the stairs. He caused me to miscarry. He killed our baby,” she screeched almost unintelligibly, and she began to sob. Finally, after days smothered by a drunken haze, the grief found its way to the surface and poured out in a deluge. The tears morphed into wailing, a sound of mourning that was almost inhuman. After a few minutes, Amy was gasping for air between bursts of tears.

Raksha sat down on the bed, wrapped her arms around Amy, and rocked her gently. “Hush, Priya. It’s okay. I believe you. It’s okay.”

Amy’s gasps eventually smoothed into normal breathing, and she looked up into Raksha’s eyes.

“That little green towel you clutched when you arrived?” Raksha asked.

Amy nodded.

“How far along?”

“Eighteen weeks.”

Raksha touched Amy’s belly. “Did you see your doctor?”

“Of course not. Brent will be looking for me there. I can’t go anywhere.”

“You need to go to your doctor. What’s his or her name? You don’t know the extent of the damage.”

“It was a full miscarriage, placenta and all.” Amy cringed. “I can’t go to the doctor. Brent will find me.”

“They know you and can protect you. Once they see what happened, they’ll understand. He can’t be parked out there night and day. You’ll be safe. I promise. Now where is this doctor?”

Reluctantly, Amy gave her the name of the doctor and the general vicinity of the office.

“Please take a shower. I’m going to look up this doctor and find some decent clothing for you.” Raksha examined Amy as if trying to discern her size. “I’ll be back in about twenty minutes. I’m taking you to the doctor. And you’re having dinner with my family tonight.”

“But—”

“No buts. Get in the shower.”

***

When Raksha returned, Amy was wrapped in a towel, cradling a foam cup of coffee. Raksha placed a red silk blouse and a pair of black trousers on the bed as well as a large, yellow purse. Then she held up a pair of black slip-on flats.

“I don’t know if these will fit you. Try them. They’ll look tidier than those filthy running shoes.” She slipped back outside before Amy had a chance to say thank you.

The shoes were one size too small, but they were a stretchy leather and surprisingly comfortable after a few minutes. The silk blouse caressed Amy’s skin. She blew her hair dry, tied it back in a ponytail, and slapped on a little makeup. Then she threw some tissues, money, and makeup into her new purse. When she emerged from the room, she found Raksha waiting in a gray sedan.

“Where is the green towel?” Raksha asked as delicately as possible once Amy was seated.

Suddenly, the grinding sound of the garbage truck reverberated in Amy’s head. She felt as if she were going to be sick.

“Priya?”

At first Amy couldn’t meet Raksha’s gaze. Then she turned slowly, searching for redemption in the older woman’s eyes. “I threw him in the dumpster,” she whispered.