In Search of Sam (3 page)

It's dark when I head out
the next morning, and since I have no idea which way to go, even in daylight, I have to trust the GPS to guide me. In just a few turns I'm on Highway 97, and I relax my steel grip on the steering wheel. I still don't know where I'm going, but I do know Highway 97 runs through Webb's River, so I'm pretty sure I can't get lost. According to the GPS, it's a two-hour drive.

Dull grey light gradually pushes away the darkness, revealing scraps of snow among the trees and scraggly clumps of winter grass at the side of the road — a detail I won't share with my mother. At least not until I'm back in Vancouver. Even though the snow is several days old and the highway is totally clear, the mere existence of the white stuff will have her on the next plane to Kamloops.

As the morning wears on, I search the sky for the sun, but it stays resolutely hidden behind dirty clouds, and I find myself being dragged down by the bleakness of the day. The closer I get to Webb's River, the more uneasy I become.

It's not that I question whether or not I should be going. I know I should be. I
have to
— for practical reasons as well as personal ones. For one thing, I need to make sure there's no business stuff that's been overlooked. I'm fairly certain there isn't; Sam was pretty thorough, but you never know. If Mom was with me, I wouldn't be nearly so anxious, but that's because she would be running the show. And it can't be that way. All Sam and I had were six short weeks together, and almost all of that was spent at his place in Webb's River. If it hurts to think about him when I'm in Vancouver, it's going to be a hundred times worse at his trailer. But I have to do it.

I'm so busy rationalizing all this in my head that I stop seeing my surroundings, and the next thing I know, I've arrived. The sign is right there:
Webb's River: population 1,123
. Next up is the road leading to Greener Pastures Ranch, and my heart skips a few beats. I spent as much time there last summer as I did at Sam's place. It started when Sam signed me up for riding lessons, but somewhere along the way my instructor became my boyfriend. But that's over now. Micah and I both hoped our relationship would be more than a summer romance, but with him at university in Calgary and me in Vancouver, it wasn't working. We still exchange texts and emails, but as friends.

A little farther up the highway, I flick on my turn signal, slow down, and steer my little Honda onto the road leading to Sam's place. I know the trailer and property are mine now, but in my heart they will always belong to Sam.

As happens so often these days when I think about him, emotions threaten to swamp me, so I open the window and allow a blast of cold air to shock them away. The farther I get from the highway, the more leftover snow there is, and I am forced to concentrate on my driving. But as soon as I round the final stand of fir trees and see the trailer, my head is once more filled with Sam.

The Honda crunches to a stop near the fire pit, and I turn off the engine. The world is so quiet, I imagine this is what it must feel like to be deaf. I reach into my pocket for Sam's keys and, clutching them so tightly they dig into my palm, I stare hard at the trailer. Now that I'm here, I don't want to go in. It's not summer anymore. There won't be wonderful smells coming from the kitchen, no wildflowers on the table, and no baseball game blaring from the television. The trailer will be cold and quiet and empty. It will mean Sam really is gone.

I get out of the car. It's windy, so I zip up my jacket, shove my hands into my pockets, and pick my way around the piles of snow to the shed.

Sam always kept the doors open, so it feels wrong to see them shut tight. I find the appropriate key and remove the padlock. Inside it's dark and damp and smells of wet hay. I hear a horse whinny, but that's impossible. Jasmine has been gone for months. The fence separating her stall from the rest of the shed is gone too. The shed isn't empty, though. In fact, it's as full as it can be — full of Lizzie.

I run my hand over the truck's faded red fender to the driver's door. Fishing the keys out of my pocket again, I open it and climb inside. The cold vinyl of the seat crackles as I slide behind the wheel. I pat the dash.

“How're you doing, Lizzie?”

I stick the key into the ignition and without even thinking put one foot on the brake and the other on the clutch. Instantly I'm taken back to the afternoon Sam taught me to drive Lizzie. I can't help smiling. I'd never operated a standard transmission before, and I bucked poor Lizzie — and Sam — all over the field.

I turn the key. Nothing. I don't bother trying it again. Common sense says Sam took the battery out, but my heart says Lizzie's in mourning.

“I miss him too,” I say, patting the dash again and letting myself out of the truck.

I lock the shed, sigh, and head for the trailer. No point putting off the inevitable any longer. I remind myself what I'm here to do: keep my eyes peeled for business documents, collect the photographs from the living room cabinet, find the string tie with the turquoise gemstone, and round up any other personal items Sam may have left. If I keep my mind on those tasks, I'll be fine.

As I step inside I'm met by a musty odour, but otherwise the trailer is the same — the toilet seat in the bathroom is even up — and for a second I imagine that Sam has stepped out for a cigarette or gone for a ride on Jasmine. There are still books piled on the living room floor and crammed on the shelves in the reading room. A thick novel lies face down on the futon. Was this the last book Sam read? I pick it up and smile at the title. Espionage novels were Sam's favourite. I place the book in the box with the photographs. Then I carry on to the kitchen. It's even more bare bones than I remember. Did Sam and I really create gourmet meals here? My gaze wanders to the fridge, open, empty, and unplugged, and the happy memory evaporates. That was then and this is now. I poke through the cupboards and drawers, but there is nothing that screams Sam.

I cup my hands and blow on them. It's almost as cold in the trailer as it is outside. I stare toward the end of the hall and frown. Just one more space to check out: Sam's bedroom. I was only ever in it once, the day I discovered Sam was dying. I never went in it again after that and I still don't want to, but it's the only place there might be pieces of Sam I don't know about.

Before I can change my mind, I hurry down the length of the trailer and through the open doorway. I feel Sam here more than anywhere else, so I avoid opening myself to the room. Instead I focus on examining its parts. The drawer of the bedside table contains a blank notepad and some rodeo magazines. A box on the floor is heaped with belts and old boots. A zippered bag slung on a hanger is stuffed with mismatched socks. That makes me smile. Sam must have been waiting for the mates to show up. I actually have to hunt for the string tie, but I eventually find it draped over a nail at the back of the closet. The triangular-shaped turquoise is cold and smooth, and as I clutch it fiercely, I see Sam at the potluck supper as clearly as if he were standing in front of me this very second. My body goes weak and I sink onto the bed. Tears roll down my cheeks.

“Oh, Sam.” The words catch in my throat. The tears come faster, and soon I'm crying so hard I can't breathe. I don't care. I topple sideways and bury my face in Sam's pillow, giving myself up to grief. Finally my lungs scream for air, and as I gasp it in, my senses reel with his scent.

My tears are shocked away. Pushing myself back to a sitting position, I tug the pillow free of the bed cover and hug it close, breathing Sam in until I feel lightheaded. I can't get enough of his smell. It's so real, so tangible. It's like he left a part of himself here on purpose to help me through this ordeal.

I don't know how long I sit there, but eventually I add the string tie and pillow to the box and let myself out of the trailer.

When I get to the car, fine snow has started to fall. I stow the box of meagre treasures in the Honda's trunk and take my place behind the wheel. Suddenly it's like somebody pulled my plug, and as the tension drains from my body, I close my eyes and collapse against the seat.

My stomach growls, hauling me back to reality. The snow is coming down faster now. Time to return to Kamloops. As I steer the car toward the road leading to the highway, I look at Sam's place one last time through the rear-view mirror. Maybe Mom's right. Maybe all I need to heal is time. Maybe it'll be easier in the summer. Then I round the stand of fir trees and Sam's place disappears from sight. But it doesn't matter. In my mind, I'm already coming back.

The snow stops as I turn
onto Highway 97, and with that last bit of stress out of the way, I feel more relaxed than I have since I left Vancouver. It isn't just because I don't have to white-knuckle it back to Kamloops, and it isn't because I'm distancing myself from Webb's River and memories of Sam. It's more like I'm coming to terms with those memories. Crazy as it sounds, it's like Sam and I are patching up an argument. Things aren't back to the way they were before — they never can be, but I can start moving on. I've faced my ghosts. I've met them head on and recognized them for what they are: memories. It's my choice whether they bring me joy or pain.

Mentally I tick off the tasks on my to-do list. I've dealt with the lawyer and the bank. I've checked out the trailer, the shed, and Lizzie. I've looked through Sam's legal papers and the bag of personal items he left in his safety deposit box. And I did it all in just a day and a half.

I smile and give the steering wheel a congratulatory pat. Then I become sombre again. Does this mean it's time to head home? I immediately dismiss the idea. I'm not ready. I've only just begun to stretch my wings. Besides, I feel like I still have unfinished business.

That's when I remember Sam's address book and the entry for someone named Arlo at a boarding house in Kamloops. I want to believe this Arlo person knows something that will open a door to Sam's past. I shouldn't get my hopes up, but if I don't at least check the guy out, I know I'll kick myself later.

It's mid-afternoon by the time I get back to Kamloops, and I'm starved, so I pick up a burger on the way to the hotel and eat it as I go through Sam's personal stuff again. It doesn't tell me anything more than it did before. And yet I know these things have to mean something, or Sam wouldn't have kept them.

Swallowing the last of my burger, I flip through the address book to the Arlo entry and punch the number for the boarding house into my phone. Someone picks up after the very first ring.

“Hello.” I can barely hear the woman on the other end over the rock music blaring in the background. “Kerry, turn that blasted radio down! I'm on the phone.” Almost immediately, the music stops and the woman says, “Sorry ‘bout that. Dang kids and their music. They're going to make us all deaf.”

I don't tell the woman I'm probably around the same age as the girl she was bellowing at. Instead I clear my throat and try to sound mature. “Is this Nellie's Boarding House?”

“Sure is, sugar, but there ain't no vacancies right now. Sorry. You might wanna try Grifton House. I think it's got a room to let. The number's in the book.”

I can tell the woman is about to hang up, so I quickly say, “Actually, I'm not looking for a room. I'm looking for information.”

The woman is suddenly wary. “Oh, yeah? What kind of information?”

There's no short answer to that. I clear my throat again to buy some think time. “My name is Dani Lancaster,” I begin, “and I'm trying to locate a man named Arlo. Sorry, I don't have a last name, just this phone number.” When the woman doesn't answer, I add, “He was a friend of my father, Sam Swan.”

I don't know why, but that does the trick.

“You're Sam Swan's daughter?” The woman sounds incredulous. “I didn't know Sammy had any kids.”

It would take an age to explain the relationship between Sam and me. Besides, it's none of this woman's business. So I just say, “I live with my mother.”

“Hmmph. I never woulda taken Sammy for a family man. So how is he, anyway? I can't remember the last time I saw him.”

“He passed away,” I say quietly. “Last November.”

“Sammy's dead? No! You're joshing me.”

Her voice is loud and grating. I pull away from the phone and wince before replying. “No. It's true.” Then, because I know she'll ask, I say, “He had cancer. I'm here in Kamloops to settle his will. I found this number in his address book.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Dani Lancaster.”

“Lancaster, huh? Is that your mother's name?”

This is one nosy lady. I don't have anything to hide but nevertheless I sidestep the question. “Mrs. — er, Nellie, would Arlo be there, by any chance?”

Her laugh is like a witch's cackle. “God, no. Arlo moved out a couple of years back. I woulda thought you'd know that, seein' as how it was Sam what set him up in that trailer.”

At first I'm confused, but then I realize Nellie isn't referring to Sam's trailer. I'm disappointed and hopeful at the same time. “In Kamloops? Do you have an address?”

“No, not here. It's in Barriere. Sam got a good deal on some land there after the big fire a few years back. At least that's what Arlo said. Anyway, that's where he is. Unless he's moved again. I wouldn't know about that.”

“Did he leave a forwarding address or a phone number?”

“I ain't his keeper, sugar. All I know is he lives in a trailer in Barriere.”

I can tell she's getting ready to hang up again. “Just one more thing,” I say before that happens. “Could you tell me Arlo's last name?”

She cackles again. “Jones, if you can believe it.”

Then there's a click and the line goes dead. Goodbye Nellie's Boarding House. Hello Internet white pages. I shift gears without even blinking. How did people function before smart phones? I type in Arlo's full name and Barriere, B.C., then cross my fingers and wait.
Jones
is such a common surname, I could end up with fifty hits. On the other hand, Arlo is pretty uncommon, so that should narrow things down.

The results come up in a matter of seconds. There are no listings for Arlo Jones, but there are several for A. Jones. One in McLure, a couple more in Kamloops, and one in Barriere.

Bingo!

I quickly punch the number into my phone. After three rings, I glance at my watch. Four o'clock. Arlo could still be at work. By the fifth ring, I'm ready to hang up. And then someone picks up.

“Hello,” says a man.

“Hello,” I reply. “My name is Dani Lan —”

He cuts me off before I can finish. “What are you selling?”

That catches me by surprise. “Excuse me?”

“Call display says you're an unknown number, which means you're probably selling something. What?”

“I'm not selling anything,” I assure him. The next words gush from my mouth before he can hang up. “My name is Dani Lancaster. I'm Sam Swan's daughter, and I'm looking for someone named Arlo Jones.”

He doesn't answer.

“Are you still there?”

“Sam doesn't have a daughter. What are you trying to pull here? If you think you can scam me out of some money, you're tough out of luck. I don't have any.”

“I'm not selling anything,” I insist. “Really. I swear.” Even though he can't see me, I cross my heart. My fingers too. What I thought was going to be a simple phone call is turning out to be more like a war. Why does everyone want to hang up on me? Panicking, I blurt, “Sam is dead. And yes, he does have a daughter. Me. One of the things he left me was his address book, and your name was in it. I called Nellie's Boarding House, and she said you'd moved to Barriere.” I take a breath before continuing. “I only found out Sam was my father last summer, so we didn't have much time to get to know each other.” I pause and then add nervously, “I was hoping you might be able to tell me about him.”

Another long pause. Finally Arlo says, “Sam is dead? I didn't know. I can't believe it. How? When? Was it an accident?” I can hear the shock and disbelief in his voice, and my own grief returns.

I bite the inside of my lip hard, willing physical pain to chase away the emotional one. “Cancer,” I say. “Last November.” I want to tell him it was quick. But it wasn't. I want to say Sam didn't suffer. But he did.

“I can't believe it,” Arlo says again. “I just can't believe it.”

Again the line goes quiet. “I'm sorry,” I say. My voice is shaking. “I know it's a shock.”

“Yeah. It's that all right.” Arlo sounds shaky too. “Sam was a good man — and a good friend. I can't think when I saw him last, but then Sam was never one to keep in touch. It's hard when you're in rodeo. You're on the road so much. It's been a while, but I remember.”

“Were you in rodeo too?” I need to get the conversation on safer ground.

“Over ten years. Still would be if I hadn't had that accident. But that's not important now.” He pushes on. “You say you want to find out about your dad. I'm not sure how much I can tell you, but we could meet for a coffee and talk if you like. Where are you?”

“Kamloops.”

“That's a bit of a haul, and I don't have a car,” he says.

“I do,” I tell him, suddenly hopeful. “I can come to Barriere. We can meet wherever you like.”

To my surprise, he laughs. “No grass growing under your feet, is there?”

I'm glad he can't see me blush. “Too anxious?”

“No. To tell you the truth, straightforward is a nice change. As it turns out, tomorrow is my day off, so if you want to drive up then, we could meet for coffee. There's a little restaurant on Highway 5 as you come into town. You can't miss it. It's about an hour's drive. Does ten o'clock work for you?”

“Ten o'clock is great.”

“Okay, we'll see you tomorrow. Bye now.”

“Bye, Arlo. And thanks.”

When I switch off the phone I'm smiling so hard, my cheeks hurt.
Yes!
I'm finally going to learn something about Sam. I retrieve the complimentary hotel notepad and pen from the desk and start to scribble down questions.
How did you and Sam meet? How long were you friends? What other friends did he have? Did he ever mention people from his past? Did Sam say where he grew up? Was Sam ever in a relationship? When did
—

The questions are coming fast and furious when my phone rings and interrupts my momentum. I glance at the display screen. It's my mother. I cast my gaze towards the ceiling and put down the pen. No point ignoring her. She'll just keep calling.

“Hey, Mom.” I use my cheeriest voice. “How's it going?”

“Fine. How's it going with you? Did you go to Webb's River?”

“Uh-huh. I got back about an hour ago.”

“And?”

“And what?”

She clucks her tongue in annoyance. “What do you think? How was everything?”

There's no sense lying. She knows me too well. “Everything was locked up, but nothing was too different. There were lots of memories for sure. I got misty a couple of times. But I'm okay. I'm glad I went. I think it gave me some closure.”

“That's good,” she says, and I know she means it. “You've been hurting.”

So have you
, I think, but I leave the words unsaid. My mother's grief is different than mine, and she is handling it her own way.

“So are you ready to come home? I'm sure I can catch a flight to Kamloops this evening. If we get a decent start in the morning, we could be back in Vancouver by late afternoon.”

“Thanks, Mom. I really appreciate you and Reed taking time from your work to do this for me.”

“No problem, sweetie. We don't mind at all. So it's settled then. Let me call the airline and —”

I don't let her finish. It's time to run the gauntlet. Taking a deep breath to fortify myself, I say, “The thing is I still have some stuff to do here.”

Silence.

And then, “What kind of stuff?”

This is where things get tricky. If I don't explain my plans to meet Arlo in just the right way, my mother is going to go straight up and turn left. Actually, there's a good chance she'll do that anyway.

“Besides the property and truck, Sam left me some personal things. Not much, but one of —”

“What things?”

“I'll show you when I get home.”

“Dani!”

I am amazed at how my name spoken in that authoritative, matriarchal tone can wield so much clout. Even half a province away, my mother still has the power.

“Okay,” I concede. “He left his wallet, a letter from one of his foster families, a picture of himself as a little boy, and half a silver heart. Do you know anything about that?”

“A silver heart? No. At least not that I remember.”

“So you don't have the other half of the heart?”

“No.”

“I didn't think so,” I mumble, “but I thought I'd ask.”

Mom isn't easy to sidetrack. “So what do these things have to do with not coming home?”

“Well, Sam also left an address book. Most of the entries were business numbers, but there was also one for an Arlo Jones. So I called it and —”

“You did what!”

“I called the number. Don't have a hissy fit, Mother. I thought this guy might be able to tell me about Sam. Arlo was his friend, and he's agreed to talk to me. So tomorrow I'm going to Barriere to meet him.”

“Have you lost your mind? This man is a total stranger.”

That sets me back on my heels a bit. Yes, literally speaking, I suppose she's right. Arlo is a stranger, but because he was in Sam's address book, I just assumed he was an okay guy. Maybe I should have been more cautious, but there is no way I'm admitting that to my mom. “We're meeting in a public restaurant, Mother,” I bluster as if she were being ridiculously protective. “Nothing is going to happen.”

“Forget it, Dani. You're not going. I forbid it.”

I know I shouldn't, but I burst out laughing. I can't help myself. I mean, there's no way she can stop me. She knows it too, and because it must hurt her to realize she can't make my decisions for me anymore, I say more kindly, “Mom, I'm not a little kid, and I don't do dumb things — well, not too often anyway. I need to know about Sam. Arlo can help me.”