Celtic Sister (19 page)

“No,” Ladli said, her eyes twinkling. “I did not stay with him. Truly, I had left in spirit before the night began.”

Amy wondered why Ladli seemed almost amused by the story. The incongruity between her facial expressions and what was being discussed, ever so blithely, was baffling. From somewhere deep inside Amy, a despair threatened to engulf her.

“Imagine what your life would have been like if you had
actually
left before the night began,” Amy said, furious. Once the words were out, she could not contain the despair. She was not enraged with Ladli, a woman whose experience she knew nothing about. The story didn’t shed an ounce of light on the plight of Sahil’s wife lying in a hospital room. No. Amy was sickened with hate for a woman named Amy Martin who married a monster and pretended she was safe enough to have a child.

Imagine what
your
life would have been like if you had left before that terrible night began.

Now entirely sober from the wave of intense emotions, Amy considered leaving, but she wasn’t satisfied with the pat little ending to the story. She needed to feel complete. Everyone was looking at her compassionately. Perhaps this was not an alcohol intervention, after all, but instead an effort to lead a lost soul through her pain.

Eventually, Ladli reached across the table and took Amy’s hand in hers. “The weeks I spent in the hospital room were a nightmare. I considered many thousands of times what my life would have been like had I left the day before the accident. But now, looking back, I feel blessed for that night.”

Amy pulled away her hand. Was this woman implying she should feel blessed about the miscarriage? Then she looked at Raksha and remembered what Sahil said about Raksha
allowing people to tell their own stories.
Was that true? They had clearly discussed her alcohol intake. Was that all?

Ladli continued, oblivious to Amy’s internal dialogue. “I am blessed because I had the honor of leading this beautiful person, as my sister-in-law so aptly put,
out of the darkness and into the light.
Every human being should have the privilege of being an instrument of the divine at some point in their lives.”

“I have to go,” Amy said. She stood up.

Raksha stood as well. “Let me walk you.”

“No, thank you.”

Raksha followed her anyway, out of the apartment and into the check-in area. She seemed distraught.

“Ladli doesn’t know about your situation,” Raksha said. “I didn’t realize how that would sound until I heard it from her lips.”

Amy turned around suddenly. “Really? Then what exactly was it you wanted me to glean from that story?”

“What alcohol does over time. How it can change a person. My brother was a fun young man. I hated what happened to him as alcohol took over his life.”

“I don’t drive drunk,” Amy snapped. “I went eighteen weeks without drinking while I was pregnant. So I’m not at all like Sahil.” It was the first time she had acknowledged she might have been drinking heavily even before the pregnancy. “I am
not
in a darkness of my own making.” Even as she spoke the words, she doubted them.

“I know, Priya. I’m sorry. I was out of line.”

Amy stormed back to her room, got some money, and marched defiantly to the liquor store.

Chapter Twenty-One

When Amy awoke at 5:49 a.m., her head was pounding. She was so nauseous she could hardly turn in the bed. She really tied one on last night.

Serves them right,
she thought, completely missing the absurdity of the idea that drinking herself into a coma would somehow punish Raksha Patel and her family.

Amy spent an hour trying to coax herself out of bed and at least fifteen minutes talking herself into consuming a small amount of water. In ten hours, she would be on a plane to Washington, DC. She needed to find a way to survive the day. Surely by then the hangover would be a distant memory.

She took a quick cold shower and finished packing her bag. The icy water had cleared her head quite a bit, although she still didn’t feel like eating even a breakfast bar. She saw a box of them sitting on the counter, and she turned away. Coffee was also out of the question.

When a knock resounded through the room at 8:45, Amy assumed it was Sam, and she pulled the door open with as much enthusiasm as she could muster in her current condition.

“So you’re headed to Ireland,” a familiar, condescending voice quipped.

Brent.

Damn that Stanley.
He either came back at some point, or he put a virus on Sam’s computer the day he had been rummaging around the apartment. Sneaky little devil. Although Amy ought to have expected such behavior from a character like Stanley, she had held on to the hope that other people, even Stanley, could see the difference between the good guys and the bad guys and that he really would tell Brent he found
nothing
like he promised he would do.

Brent tried to push his way into the room but Amy blocked him by stepping out and closing the door behind her. She didn’t have her key, but Raksha would surely see the commotion and come to her aid.

“Where are my divorce papers?” Amy asked, feigning a bravado she didn’t feel inside.

Brent scowled. “What are you looking for in Ireland?”

“What do you think?”

“Don’t go snooping where you don’t belong.”

Amy laughed. Then she cringed. The laughter made her head pound.

Brent misunderstood her expression. “Yeah, I wouldn’t want to go digging up old messes. You’ll just terrify the girl.”

“She’s no longer a girl. She’s thirty-two. I doubt she’s afraid of you anymore.”

“She was definitely afraid of what my family might do to her father’s construction business.”

“Do you really think the Foster family is going to give a damn if you try to destroy them? You already destroyed them when you drove their daughter out of the country.”

This statement seemed to catch Brent off guard.

“Plus,” Amy continued, “I happen to know that you would really rather your parents not discover you screwed this up. You know, let those old messes bubble to the surface. And I highly doubt your father would be interested in harassing Mr. Foster right after his daughter is found. Might look a little suspicious, don’t you think?”

“Brent,” Sam said. He appeared out of nowhere.

Amy looked across the parking lot and saw that Sam had left his car near the front of the lot, so he could approach surreptitiously.

Brent sneered. “Oh look, it’s Sammy.”

Sam glared. When he spoke, the words came out in a low rumble. “Eventually, you will pay for your crimes.”

“Paying someone money so they can relocate is not a crime.”

Sam laughed. “Actually, Brenty-boy, I think it’s called bribery.”

Brent rolled his eyes.

“No, wait,” Sam corrected himself. “Bribery only applies when money is offered to someone of influence like the police or politicians. Which I’m sure you’ve also done.”

Brent smiled, a Cheshire cat grin. “No proof.”

“But threatening a person and forcing them to leave might be considered extortion. The valuable item to the Richardsons was Emma’s act of leaving. She felt obligated to give you this valuable item because of your threats.”

Was legal assistant also in Sam’s repertoire of short-term jobs?

Brent frowned. All the legal mumbo jumbo seemed to go way over his head.

Sam continued. “And I have a very strong inkling there is far more to the story. I look forward to hearing my sister explain it in detail.”

“Watch yourself, Foster.”

Sam tipped his chin forward. “Just go home and prepare for the shit to hit the fan.”

Brent hesitated for a moment. Then he walked away slowly, with a football-star swagger, as if he had not a care in the world.

Sam let out the breath he’d been holding since his last statement.

“Extortion?” Amy whispered. “Did you work for a lawyer?”

“Proofreader and all-around errand boy for a DA’s office. Lunchroom banter.” He glanced over her shoulder into the window to catch Brent’s retreating reflection. “Can we go into your room?”

Amy reached into her pockets. “Crap. I locked myself out when I pushed Brent away.”

Together they lingered on the doorstep until they saw Brent’s vehicle exit the parking lot. Then they made their way to the check-in area. Sam was moving too quickly for Amy’s tender head.

“Can you go? I have a headache.”

Sam looked deeply concerned. “I’m so sorry. Is it a migraine?”

“Something like that.”

“We don’t have to make files for my paperwork. I can just shove everything into one envelope.”

“No. I want to. It will keep me busy.”
Only time will kill this headache.

***

When they approached Sam’s front door, Amy frowned. Something was missing.

“Roxy’s at Mom and Dad’s,” Sam explained, answering her unspoken question.

“Oh. No barking. That’s what’s different.”

An hour later, Amy had sorted all the paperwork into piles, and she was labeling envelopes with appropriate categories. She reached for her head and winced.

“Are you sure you don’t want to lie down?” Sam asked. When he approached her, he recoiled. “You smell like alcohol.”

Amy felt the blood drain from her face.

“Were you drinking with the Patels last night?”

If you only knew.
She nodded sheepishly.

“Oh, Amy. You realize how miserable you’re going to be on the plane?”

“Relax. It was only a couple of glasses of wine. I’ll be okay. They just hit me a little hard. Sometimes wine does that.” The lies fell effortlessly from her lips.

Sam looked at her as if she were a foolish child. “Let me make you my hangover cure. A little tomato juice and celery.”

Amy gagged. “I couldn’t possibly drink that. It sounds nauseating.”

“You’ll be feeling better in no time.”

Indeed, Amy was feeling better in no time. The smell of the tomato juice alone sent her running to the bathroom where she vomited repeatedly until there was nothing left.

Sam chuckled when she returned to the living room. “Well, I guess that works too.”

She glared at him but was grateful to be over the first stage of the hangover.

***

It wasn’t until they touched down in Dulles at ten thirty p.m. DC time that Amy regained her appetite.

“I’m starving.”

“That a girl. We’ll have to get you a sandwich to go. We don’t have a lot of time until boarding.”

At that moment, Amy experienced a panic attack. She was about to step onto a plane and remain in a small space for seven and a half hours. The origins of her apprehension did not stem from claustrophobia, she realized. It was the idea of being stuck, for hours, without easy access to alcohol. The little bottles the stewardesses offered were cute, but she would not be able to reach her perfect buzz without ordering at least a half dozen, maybe more. She and Brent had done just that when they traveled, but he was Brent Richardson and she was his traveling companion. Amy glanced at Sam. She doubted her current travel companion would approve of such activity, especially after he had put up with her maladies for an entire day.

As all these thoughts flooded her brain, Amy knew she was out of control. She pictured her mother, sitting there with the never-empty tumbler of amber liquid, and she shuddered. That is exactly what she was becoming. Then she wondered,
Does it really matter?
She was not going to be a mother in the near future. Her current responsibilities involved scrubbing a restaurant and helping a handsome man locate his missing sister. Once they found her, Sam was likely to obtain an extended visitor’s visa and stay with Emma for a while. Amy would return, alone, to a restaurant job and a dark motel room.
Who cares if I’m a drunk?

Then she thought of Raksha, and she was pissed. The idea of
that woman
being right infuriated her. Amy didn’t want to let Raksha win on this point. The fact that Mrs. Patel had been a true friend – housing her, feeding her, and clothing her – completely escaped Amy in the heat of her anger.

I just need to get through this plane ride. I’ll drink only enough to quell the anxiety. Maybe a little tomorrow. Taper off. Then I’ll stop.

“Why don’t you go to the gate and I’ll meet you there?” Amy said. “I’ll grab a sandwich and a soda. Do you want anything?”

“No. I brought a sandwich and ate it on the last leg of the trip. They’ll also give us food on a transatlantic flight, so I’m good. But thank you.”

“Sure. No problem.” Amy laughed, a little too enthusiastically, and she enjoyed the sensation of personal power growing within. She’d break away from Sam for a moment, stock up, and be back before he knew something was amiss.

In the bathroom, Amy dumped half a bottle of Diet Coke in the toilet and poured Jack Daniels into the available space. Then she cranked the lids on both bottles, dropped them in her large yellow purse, and met Sam at the gate. The passengers were already boarding.

Time passes slowly on a seven-and-a-half hour flight unless you alternate between watching movies, drinking water, and eating whatever assortment of food is provided.

Amy also filled her time with trips to the bathroom for a couple of swigs. She had the brilliant idea of saving fresh onions off the salad. They made a better alcohol cover than breath mints. That’s how desperate she was. That’s how fully the alcohol-obsessed brain cells had taken over her body.

When Sam appeared to be sleeping, Amy took a chance and sipped from her half bottle of Jack Daniels. She closed her eyes and let the calming effect quiet the incessant chatter in her head.

One time she opened her eyes to find Sam eyeing her curiously.

“Hair of the dog?” he asked, an amused expression on his face.

“Yeah. I can’t sleep on airplanes.”

“Neither can I. Give me a sip.”

She took his empty water cup and filled it halfway full.

“Whoa. That’s enough.” He saw that the flask was more than half-empty. “Did you drink all that?”