In Search of Sam (2 page)

I'm excited about being
in Kamloops on my own — until about three seconds after Reed's plane takes off. That's when the sense of adventure evaporates and all my mother's arguments against the trip flood my brain. My stomach becomes a queasy knot Harry Houdini couldn't have untied, and without warning my knees give out. Thankfully, there's a bench behind me, and I drop onto it like a sack of rocks.

An elderly man standing a few feet away glares in my direction. I want to tell him my baby elephant impersonation wasn't intentional but I know he won't believe me, so even though it's too late to be anonymous, I bow my head and hide behind the curtain of my hair. Then I shut my eyes and give myself a stern talking-to. Okay, so I'm alone in a strange city. I don't know anyone and I don't know my way around. That's okay. I have a car, money, cellphone, hotel room, and an appointment with a lawyer.

I glance at my watch.
Holy crap!
My meeting with Mr. Morgan is in fifty-five minutes, and though I have his address, I have no clue how to get there or where to park when I do.

Panic threatens to swamp me, but I squelch it with logic. My car has a GPS. All I have to do is plug in the address and go where it tells me.

I take a few deep breaths, stand up, and push my mother's voice to the back of my mind. Then I grab my backpack, sling it over my shoulder, and head for my car.

The firm of Morgan, Munson, and Bradley is in a suburban shopping mall, which I locate without a problem. I even arrive with time to spare. I park at the back of the lot, away from runaway shopping carts and other cars. My little Honda may not be new, but it's new to me, and I don't want any dings in it.

The glass door to the law office looks like it should belong to a drugstore (I was sort of expecting polished mahogany) and as I push it open, I imagine the lawyers on the other side dispensing legal advice like prescriptions.
Find two expert witnesses and call me in the morning
.
But to my surprise the office is actually very lawyerish and lavish, all plush carpet and wingback leather chairs.

The receptionist fits in perfectly. In fact, she could've come directly from the
Forbes
magazine lying on the lacquered coffee table. Her makeup is flawless, there's not a single hair out of place, her lipstick is intact, and her designer suit couldn't crease if it tried. When I present myself to her, she doesn't smile. I'm guessing that might crack the makeup.

“Please have a seat.” She nods toward the collection of leather chairs. “Mr. Morgan will be with you shortly.”

She got that right. Two seconds after I sit down, a wiry little guy wearing brown dress pants and a white dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves comes striding towards me. He must have had a tough morning because his tie is loosened and the top button of his shirt is undone. He looks to be in his mid-thirties. He's not balding, but his straight blond hair is sparse, cut short except for a forelock that keeps sliding into his eyes. In the time it takes him to cross the room he brushes it back three times. His skin is pale and pockmarked. Teenage acne victim, probably. His blue eyes, watered down so much they're almost colourless, practically disappear behind black-rimmed glasses. He smiles, baring crooked teeth.

But there's an energy and friendliness about him that draws me in, and my anxiety starts to melt away. Unlike the receptionist, there are no airs about this man. I can see why Sam chose him for his lawyer.

“Bob Morgan.” He stretches out a hand. For a small guy, he has a firm handshake — but cold, as if he'd been making snowballs.

“Dani Lancaster,” I say. “I'm Sam Swan's daughter.”

He nods. “Yes. I'm sorry. Your dad was one of the good guys.”

I'm not ready for that, and uninvited tears spring to my eyes. I try to blink them away.

I know Bob Morgan notices, but he doesn't comment. Instead he extends an arm toward the hallway. “Shall we go to my office?”

By the time I take the chair he offers me, I have my emotions back under control, but considering why I'm here, it's going to be almost impossible to banish Sam from my thoughts. I try to focus on the folder Bob Morgan is opening. It's not very thick, and it pains me to realize that's all that's left of Sam's life. I feel my throat tighten.
Damn it!
I can't let myself think about him.

Bob Morgan cuts into my thoughts. “Your father made sure all his affairs were in order. He didn't want to leave any loose ends. With the exception of his horse, which he bequeathed to the Tooby family at Greener Pastures Ranch, he left his entire estate to you. He wanted you to know that he would have left you the horse too, but it wasn't practical. However, I have been in touch with the Toobys, and they said to tell you that you are welcome to ride her anytime.”

I bite my bottom lip to keep it from trembling. “Thank you.” I can barely get the words out.

He offers me an encouraging smile. “This shouldn't take too long,” he says. “It's all pretty straightforward, exactly as I explained in my letter. I just need you to sign some papers.”

I sit forward in my chair and take the pen he offers. He explains each document before I sign, but my brain won't let the words in. I don't even remember writing my name, but I must have, because as I gaze down at the papers in front of me, there it is.

Bob Morgan is talking again, so I force myself to listen. “In addition to the acreage, trailer, and vehicle, your father left you some money.” He reaches into the folder again and passes me a white envelope. I just stare at it, so he says, “It's a cheque — not a fortune but still a tidy sum. Sam didn't specify how it was to be used — that's up to you — but he thought it was sufficient to cover the cost of a university education. I suggest you deposit it in your bank account as soon as you can. You don't want to be walking around with that kind of money in your pocket.”

He opens the drawer again, pulls out a manila envelope, and passes it to me. “A few other documents you may need,” he says. Then he sets a keyring on the desk in front of me.

I gaze blankly at it for several seconds. Sam's keys. My keys now. My throat tightens again. I pick up the ring and wrap my fingers around the keys one at a time. The trailer. The shed. Lizzie. But I don't recognize the last key. I hold it up and frown.

“Safety deposit box,” Bob Morgan explains. He flips through the papers in the folder. “The bank is right in this mall. Just present the key, your ID, and Sam's death certificate — that's in the manila envelope — and the bank will provide you with access. There's a letter from this office in the envelope as well, verifying that the will has been settled and you are the heir.”

He sits back in his chair with a sigh. “And that about does it. Will you be going to Webb's River?”

I fiddle with the keys. “I guess so. Maybe.” I look numbly across at the lawyer. “I don't know. Suddenly I feel a little shell-shocked. I need some time to think.”

He nods and smiles. “Of course you do. This is a lot to take in. Is someone here with you?”

I shake my head. “My stepdad drove up with me, but he had to fly back to Vancouver, so now I'm by myself.”

Bob Morgan looks surprised.

“My choice,” I add quickly. “My mom wanted to be here too, but I said I had to do this on my own.” I shrug. “I don't know. Maybe I should have let her come.”

He walks around his desk and perches on the corner. Then he smiles. “You don't have to make any decisions today, Dani. Put the cheque in the bank and empty the safety deposit box. After that, just take it slow. In a few weeks or months, you'll get sorted, and then you can decide how you want to handle things. You don't have to rush.”

I smile gratefully. “That's what my stepdad says too.”

“Smart man. Listen to him.” He stands up, so I do too. He looks solemnly into my eyes. “And if you have any questions or need any help with anything — anything at all — you have my number. Just pick up the phone.”

When I exit Morgan, Munson, and Bradley, my head is spinning, and I wander through the mall like a robot. I couldn't be more out in space if I were on drugs. Eventually I end up in the food court and sink onto a stool at one of the tables.

It's the aroma of frying onions that finally penetrates the fog in my head. My stomach growls. “Right,” I mumble under my breath. Maybe food will help me think straight.

By the time I finish my sub and iced tea, I know what I'm going to do — at least for the next half hour.

I go in search of the bank. Apparently I passed it during my brain-dead stroll through the mall, but I have zero memory of it. I have an account with that bank so before I see a teller about Sam's safety deposit box, I stop at the ATM to deposit the cheque Bob Morgan gave me.

Whoa!
I do a double take when I pull it out of the envelope. It's for $75,000. That's a lot of money. It makes me nervous even holding the cheque. I endorse it and deposit it as fast as I can. When the machine spits out my receipt, I glance around nervously and tuck it into a hidden compartment of my wallet.

Inside the bank, there's a long lineup, and it's a good ten minutes before I reach a teller — for all the good it does me. She sends me somewhere else, where it takes ten minutes more to verify I am who I say I am. Even though I have the letter from Bob Morgan, the safety deposit box key, and Sam's death certificate, the bank employee calls the law office to make sure I'm not trying to pull a fast one.

Finally I'm taken to a small room lined with metal boxes. It reminds me of a post office. The bank person uses her key, I use mine, and suddenly I'm alone in this fluorescent cell with a long, skinny box.

I lift the lid. Inside is a white plastic grocery bag. I smile. It is so Sam. As I lift it out, I can tell from the feel that it contains more papers, but also some objects. I'm curious to find out exactly what, but my brain is already on overload. If I try to shove in any more information, I'll either blow a fuse or melt. So I stuff the bag into my backpack with the manila envelope. Then I let myself out of the room, relinquish the key — I won't be using the safety deposit box again — and exit the mall.

Back in my hotel room, I sit cross-legged on the bed and dump my backpack. I glance from the manila envelope to the grocery bag and back again. Where should I start? The envelope is all about the red tape of dying. But the grocery bag is Sam.

As I pick it up, I imagine him placing things inside, so I'm teary before I even open it.

I spill the contents onto the bed. There are several items, but I see only one: a letter addressed to me.
For my daughter
.

Now I'm really crying. How can my heart hurt so much?

Carefully — I don't want to destroy even the envelope — I open it. As I unfold the paper, Sam's handwriting jumps off the page. It's as if he's right there in the room with me. Through blurred eyes, I start to read.

Dear Dani
. . .

. . . I'm not sure why I'm writing this except to hang on. Hang on to what's real. Hang on to you. I hope you'll hang on to me too. I know that's a selfish thing to ask, especially considering the short time we've shared and the circumstances that brought us together, but that doesn't stop me from hoping you'll think of me from time to time. Before I got cancer, my life was good. I was happy. But then you came to Webb's River and filled a mighty hole I hadn't even known was there. When you found out who I was, you could have hated me. You had every right. But you didn't. That brings me more comfort than you can know, and because of that I am at peace when I contemplate what lies ahead.

If you're reading this letter, you already have your inheritance. No strings attached. You know better than me what you should do with it.

I think this is the part where I'm supposed to pass along some wise, fatherly advice. There are a couple of problems with that. First of all, I was never really a father to you and second of all, I'm a long way from wise. If you could learn from my mistakes, it would be a different story. I'd have a ton to teach you. But that's not how it works. We all live our own lives and make our own mistakes. If we're lucky, we don't do too much damage along the way — to ourselves or anybody else. I've always met life head on, and I have no regrets. A person can't ask for more than that.

Your mom has done a great job raising you. You're a heck of a kid. Just listen to your heart (and your mother) and you'll do just fine.

Love,

Sam

I lower the letter, clap a hand over my mouth, and rock backward and forward. The room is a blur. I can't breathe. I try to choke back a sob, but I can't do that either. The muscles in my throat have locked so the sob stays lodged like a rock right where it is. Fat tears spill from my eyes and splatter onto the paper. I brush them away with my sleeve; I don't want Sam's last words to be washed away. They're all I have left.

I use my sleeve on my eyes now and push myself off the bed. In the bathroom I blow my nose and splash cold water on my face. I look at myself in the mirror. Already my skin is blotchy and my nose is red. Sam told me I'm not very pretty when I cry. He was right. I sob and laugh at the same time, and then hiccup as the two collide.

I breathe deeply, straighten my shoulders, and glare sternly at my image. I can't keep falling to pieces. It won't bring Sam back. Silent reprimand over, I march back into the other room and climb onto the bed again.

I carefully refold Sam's letter. I know I'll read it a thousand times more, but right now I have to wade through the rest of his papers and belongings. I reach for the manila envelope in the hope that poking through boring legal documents will give my emotions a chance to level out.

It does. I never thought I could be interested in deeds, vehicle and property insurance, or tax returns, but I pore over them like there's going to be a test after, and then it hits me: this information matters. Sam's land, his truck, his trailer — they're all mine now, and I need to understand what owning them involves. I can't just wander through fields of flowers any more; I have to pay taxes on them!

Until this moment I hadn't realized what it meant to inherit these things. Somewhere in the back of my mind I just sort of thought I could keep Sam's land and possessions in my memory along with him, because they belong together, but that's not how it is. I can't visit Sam's trailer on a whim now and again and expect it to stay the same. Sam may live in my memory, but his property and belongings are very real, and I have to deal with them. I don't have to make any decisions about them yet, but I need to understand what my responsibilities are if I decide to keep them. It's hard to get my head around that. Last month I was a kid in high school, and my biggest concern was getting homework done. Now suddenly I have to start thinking like an adult.

That's when I realize I have to go to Webb's River. Before I can change my mind, I grab my phone and call my mother. I tell her about the lawyer's office and the safety deposit box. I assure her that everything is in order and that I am reading through Sam's papers. I don't mention the money Sam left me. That will only set her off on a tangent, and I can't deal with that right now. I tell her I'm fine, ask if Reed got back to Vancouver safely, and then, before she can volunteer to fly up to Kamloops to drive me home, I tell her I'm going to Webb's River. She's not pleased and tries to talk me out of going, but I stand my ground. I say I'm driving to Sam's place first thing in the morning. I may stay just for the day or I may overnight it, depending on what I find. Then, promising to call again tomorrow night, I give her my love and hang up.

I stare at the phone a good two minutes, waiting for my mother to call back. But she doesn't so I set the phone on the table beside the bed and stuff the legal papers back into the manila envelope. All that's left on the bed are the personal items from the plastic grocery bag.

I start with the obvious: Sam's wallet. Like his hat, his jeans, his boots, even the laugh lines on his face, the wallet has been moulded to fit him. It is curved from sitting in his back pocket, conforming to the saddle and the seat of his truck. The tan-coloured leather is shiny smooth, except at the edges, where the finish has been rubbed completely away, and along the fold, which is a web of cracked lines.

At first all I do is turn the wallet over in my hands. I can't bring myself to open it. I don't want to invade Sam's privacy. But then I remind myself that he left it to me. He expects — expected — me to go through it.

There's not much in it — not even money — just a driver's license and social insurance card. The other slots are empty. There are no slips of paper with phone numbers, no ticket stubs, no business cards, no dry cleaning receipts, none of the usual bits and pieces people accumulate in their wallets, and it occurs to me that Sam may have cleaned out his billfold before he died. Then I remember his trailer, truck, and shed. There were no extras there either. Sam was as uncomplicated as a person can be.

And just as private.

I poke into every corner and crevice of the wallet, hoping for something, anything that will tell me more about this man who was my father. Sam was a foundling, so I know I won't find a birth certificate, but surely there is something to hint at his identity.

The compartment for bills has a lining, so I pry it up. I'm not really expecting to find anything underneath, but to my surprise, I do: a photograph of a little boy with dark, curly hair and sparkling black eyes. I flip it over.
Sam, age 4
it says on the back in shaky handwriting. Sam told me that as a baby he'd been left on the doorstep of an elderly couple, who, because they were afraid Sam would be taken from them, kept his existence hidden from the authorities. But when it was time for Sam to start school, they couldn't keep him a secret any longer, and just as they had feared, Sam was placed in foster care. He never saw the old couple again, so this picture might be the only thing he had to remind him of his first six years of life. I study it a while longer and then set it on the bed beside me.

I shift my position, and what looks like a necklace slides across the comforter and disappears under my knee. I fish it out and hold it up. It's a pendant on a silver chain. It seems an odd piece of jewellery for a man to have, so I examine it more closely. The chain is a good quality silver rope. The half-heart pendant is also silver. The thing is, it's been cut. I can tell by the rough, jagged inside edge. The other edges are smooth and rounded. My guess is it was once a whole heart, but for some reason half of it was cut away. The question is why?

Then I remember that Mom and Sam had identical turquoise gemstones. Could this half-heart be another love token they shared? Does Mom have the other half of the heart? I make a mental note to ask her next time we talk, but I'm pretty sure I already know the answer. I'm as familiar with my mother's jewellery as she is. If she had half a silver heart lying around somewhere, I'd have seen it. I flip the pendant over, looking for an inscription. There isn't one. Nothing on the chain either.

So much for that. Unless Mom can tell me more or there's a clue mixed in with Sam's other belongings, the chain and pendant are a dead end.

I sigh and move on to a dog-eared envelope addressed to Sam. It's old. I can tell without even opening it. Not only is the envelope practically falling apart, it has a thirty-nine-cent stamp on it! There's a return address in the top left-hand corner: Mr. & Mrs. D. Sheffield, 422 Owen Way, Merritt, B.C. Neither the name nor address rings any bells.

Curious, I slip the letter from the envelope. My gaze goes immediately to the date at the top of the page: July 12, 1991. That's over twenty years ago. Quickly I scan the letter. It's from one of Sam's foster families. Probably his last one, if the date is any indication. In 1991 Sam would've been nineteen, and I know he joined the rodeo shortly after he graduated high school.

The letter is full of news about life in the Sheffield home and asks how Sam is doing too. Obviously these people cared about him. Why else would they write to him after he left? Besides, they ask when he'll be back for a visit, and they sign off with love. Sam never talked about the families he lived with, but this one must have been special if he hung on to the letter. As I return it to its envelope, I can't help wondering if Sam wrote back and if he ever went to see them.

The last item on the bed is an address book. If there are going to be any clues to Sam's identity, this is where I'll find them. With high hopes, I flip through it. It's disappointingly empty. I shouldn't be surprised, but I am. It contains Mom's address and phone number, of course — scratched out and re-entered after each of her five marriages, but otherwise it's just a collection of business numbers: doctor, drugstore, lawyer, rodeo association, farrier, feed store, that sort of thing.

There is one entry that catches my attention, though. It's for an Arlo — no last name. Nellie Hill's Boarding House, Kamloops, is scribbled on the address line. And there's a phone number. Unless Arlo was Sam's dentist or barber, this could be a lead.