In Search of Sam (4 page)

“Dani, please be reasonable. Sam was abandoned on a doorstep when he was a baby. There are no records. What do you think this Arlo can possibly tell you?”

“I don't know, but it's a place to start.”

“Are you telling me you plan to turn this into a full-blown manhunt?”

Until she said that, I hadn't even considered the idea. All I wanted was to talk to Arlo. But if he told me something that opened another door, of course I would want to follow that lead.

And because I don't want to have this discussion again if that happens, I say, “I only had six weeks with Sam, Mom. For my whole life that's it. I wish it had been longer, but it wasn't. I'm trying not to blame you or Sam, but sometimes I can't help it. I feel so cheated. I loved him, Mom, but I know almost nothing about him. He was my father. Half of who I am came from him. How can I know who
I
am if I don't know who
he
was? I'll wonder my whole life. Can't you see that? I may come up empty, but I have to at least try, and since I don't have school until September, now is the perfect time to see what I can find out. Please don't try to stop me.”

I don't want to be late
for my meeting with Arlo, so I give myself plenty of time to get to Barriere and actually arrive half an hour early. I find a table for two near a window, where I can see my car and also the restaurant entrance. When the waitress comes, I order herbal tea and a muffin. Then I wait.

The restaurant is humming. The parking lot is too — vehicles and people criss-crossing non-stop as if they were weaving a giant tapestry. It's a wonder there aren't some fender benders.

I watch for Arlo. Though I have no idea what I should be looking for, I'm pretty sure he won't be driving any of the semis that pull in. They park on the fringes of the lot, creating a corral around the smaller vehicles. I expect the drivers to be as big as their trucks, burly and unshaven with ball caps and tattoos, but mostly they look like regular guys. The only distinguishing feature they share is that they all look tired.

I check my watch: ten o'clock on the nose. And for no other reason than that, I decide the guy half-running, half-limping across the highway must be Arlo. When he steps inside the restaurant and starts scoping the place out, I'm sure of it. He might be looking for a vacant table, but I don't think so.

I raise my arm and wave. He zeroes in on me and something like recognition flickers in his eyes. Then he heads in my direction.

Along the way he calls to one of the waitresses and points to the table where I'm sitting. “A double-double, Shirley, when you've got a second.”

She nods. “Sure thing, Arlo. I'll be right with ya.”

Before he reaches me he gets waylaid by another patron, so he and the coffee arrive at the same time. He slips the waitress a couple of bills and gestures to my muffin and tea as well as his coffee.

Shirley bobs her head and leaves.

“You didn't need to do that,” I say. “I could've paid.”

“I'm sure you could've,” Arlo replies, matter-of-fact, just like Sam. I can see why they were friends.

“Thank you,” I say.

He nods.

I stick out my hand. “I'm Dani.”

“Arlo,” he says and shakes my hand. “How was your drive?”

“Good,” I answer. “I got here faster than I thought I would.”

He chuckles. “Does that mean you had to wait for the restaurant to open?”

I roll my eyes. “I wasn't
that
early.”

There's silence as we both search our brains for what to say next.

“I guess I'm a bit of a surprise,” I offer finally. “I don't think Sam told anyone he had a daughter.”

He slurps his coffee. “Not me. That's for sure.”

“Well, don't feel too bad,” I say. “I didn't know either until this past summer.”

He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. The expression on his face is a mix of skepticism and curiosity.
Carry on. I'm listening
,
it says.

“It was an agreement between Sam and my mother,” I tell him. “They'd already split up when my mother realized she was pregnant. Sam wanted me to have a proper family, and he thought if he stayed in the picture, that wouldn't happen. So my mom married somebody else, and when I was born everybody thought that guy was my father. Until last summer, I did too, even though he and my mom split up when I was five, and he hasn't been a big part of my life since then.”

Arlo nods like he understands, but I don't see how he can.

“Even though my mom had promised not to tell me about Sam, she kept in touch with him the whole time I was growing up. She made sure he knew about me. I just didn't know about
him
. Then he got cancer, and when he realized he wasn't going to beat it, he decided he wanted to see me. He still didn't want me to know who he was, though. Anyway, when my mother remarried last summer, I went to stay with him.”

Arlo looks puzzled.

“Mom said Sam was my uncle, and that he'd been estranged from the family since before I was born. She said he'd only recently resurfaced.”

“And you bought that story?”

I shrug. “I didn't really have a choice. Then when I met Sam and we hit it off, I didn't care.” I shake my head. “When I think back on things, though, I should have been suspicious.”

“Why's that?”

“There were so many red flags. Sam and my mother evading my questions. Old photos. Conflicting stories.” I screw up my face as I remember. “Nothing big and in your face. You know? Just a whole lot of little stuff. So I just let it slide.”

“How did you find out the truth?”

“It was a total accident. I was tidying up the trailer one day when I came across Sam's medicine. It scared me, so I phoned my mom for some answers. She said Sam had cancer. Then she phoned Sam to let him know I'd found out. That night he and I had a big heart-to-heart, and that's when he told me he was my dad.”

There's another long pause as we both digest my words.

I crumple the muffin wrapper I've been fidgeting with and chuck it onto the plate. “Sometimes it makes me so angry I could scream,” I say. “My mom and Sam kept this huge secret from me — and for what? It was all so pointless. I found out anyway, but instead of having eighteen years with Sam, all I got was six weeks! I missed so much.”

“I'm sure they thought they were doing what was best,” Arlo says quietly.

My eyes are stinging. I offer him a wobbly smile. “What's that saying about the road to Hell?”

He doesn't say anything.

I take a deep breath and try another smile. “Your turn. How did you and Sam become friends?”

He drains the rest of his coffee and puts down his cup. “The rodeo circuit. I'd been on it a year when Sam started. We were both just kids.” His eyes twinkle. “You bounce better when you're young. Anyway, because we were both green — not seasoned veterans like the other cowboys — we gravitated to each other and became friends.”

My heart skips a couple of beats. “So you were around when Sam and my mom were together?”

He scratches his head and frowns. “There was this blonde who showed up from time to time for about a year, I guess.” He squints at me. “Come to think of it, she looked kinda like you. I guess it could've been your mom.”

“Sam didn't introduce you?”

Arlo chuckles. “Sam was pretty private, even back then.”

I'm incredulous. “Didn't you ask?”

He shrugs. “There was no point. If he'd wanted me to know, he'd have told me.”

I'm not sure if this
let-it-be
attitude is unique to Arlo and Sam or if it's a universal
guy
thing — all I know is it's maddening.

Arlo obviously doesn't pick up on my frustration, because he keeps on talking. “After that, I don't remember any other women. Oh, there were women, but nobody special.”

“Did
you
ever marry?”

He shakes his head. “Rodeo life and family don't fit too well. Some fellas can make it work, but —” He leaves his sentence hanging and shrugs.

So far I haven't learned anything. I try a different approach. “The woman at the boarding house said Sam had something to do with you moving to Barriere.”

Arlo snorts. “He had
everything
to do with it. A few years back, a bronc threw me. Nothing unusual about that, except that I landed too close to the horse's feet, and before I could roll out of the way, it stomped on my leg. Screwed up something in there pretty bad. Even after physio, it never righted itself. My bronc-riding days were over. But rodeo was all I knew, so I tried working as a rodeo clown — you know — the guy who draws the attention of the bulls and broncs away from the fallen riders.”

I nod.

“But my bum leg wouldn't even allow me to do that. I couldn't move fast enough. I was more of a hindrance than a help. The rodeo had no choice but to let me go. After that, it was straight downhill. I had no skills, and I was feelin' pretty sorry for myself. Within six months I'd drunk away any money I'd had. I was as down and out as they come.”

He glances up from his cup and shakes his head. “I don't even like to remember.” Then he breathes in deeply and continues. “Then Sam came looking for me. I don't know why — or how he even knew where to find me, but he did. He set me up at Nellie's Boarding House and got me going to Alcoholics Anonymous.”

Arlo looks me straight in the eye. “I never slipped off the wagon — not even once. There was no way I was going to make Sam sorry he'd put himself out for me. I got a job as a custodian at a local community club. It didn't pay a lot, but it covered my board at Nellie's. It wasn't much of a life, but it was better than what I'd been living, and that's for sure.

“Then one day Sam shows up again and says we're going for a drive.” Arlo gestures out the window. “He brought me here — to Barriere. He said he had this bitty piece of land with a trailer. An investment, he said, but he couldn't look after it, because of being away so much with the rodeo, and would I take care of it for him.

“Well, I'm no fool. I knew what Sam was doing. He was offering me a new life. He didn't say so, of course and neither did I. He even arranged a job for me at a gas station. After I'd been in Barriere a while, I got an envelope from a lawyer. It contained the deed for the property and trailer — and it was in my name.”

My heart swells in my chest. I can't speak, so I don't even try.

“That's a true friend,” Arlo says so softly that I almost don't hear him. He clears his throat. “I always thought I'd pay him back. I've been putting money away, whenever I have a few extra dollars. But now it's too late.”

I find my voice, shaky as it is. “No, it's not, Arlo,” I say. “You can pay it forward. Sam helped you. Somewhere down the line, you can help somebody else.”

He's staring at his coffee cup again. “Yeah,” he says. “Maybe. Someday. Who knows?”

“So do you like it here?” I ask, trying to lighten up the conversation.

He looks up and smiles. “I do. It's the first time since I left the circuit that I feel like I belong somewhere. The best part is that I'm involved in rodeo again. Not riding or anything like that. Now I'm one of the organizers — one of the behind-the-scenes guys who makes it all work. Turns out I know more about the business than I realized, and with my connections I can make things happen that other folks can't. It's a win-win situation for Barriere and me.”

Arlo snickers. “Sam might have been a long, skinny drink of water, but there was a lot to him. He was sly. He could read people. He knew Barriere was what I needed.”

“Sounds like you and Sam were best friends,” I say.

“God, no.” Arlo shakes his heads. “We were friends, for sure, but his best friend was always his horse — and that old truck of his.”

“Lizzie.” I smile.

Arlo looks surprised. “You know Lizzie?”

“It was Lizzie and Sam who taught me how to drive a standard transmission.”

Arlo chuckles. “I remember when Sam bought that truck. Of course, it was a lot newer then.”

“A lot redder too, I bet,” I say.

He nods. “Yup. Lizzie was pretty red and shiny back then. So when she got the first dent in her tailgate, Sam was beside himself. Did he ever tell you about that?”

“No,” I say, crossing my arms on the table and leaning forward.

“Well, he couldn't have had that truck more than about three months. Rodeo season was winding down, so Sam and I decided to do a little camping in the mountains to unwind. Anyway, we packed up the truck and away we went. . . .”

The more Arlo talks, the more he seems to remember. When lunchtime rolls around, he's still going strong. So we have the soup and sandwich special, and this time I pick up the bill. We've been at the restaurant so long, I'm starting to think we're going to be asked to pay rent. Finally Arlo and I say our goodbyes, and as he limps across the highway back to his life, I turn my little Honda toward Kamloops.

During the drive back,
I replay the morning in my head. I laughed a little, cried a little, and learned a lot. Arlo shared a ton of stories about Sam, and though they aren't experiences I was part of, I'll keep them with my memories.

Unfortunately, none of what I learned had anything to do with Sam's roots, which was the reason I wanted to talk to Arlo in the first place. As much as I don't want to admit it, my mother might be right. The clues to Sam's past could already be lost, and if that's true, all I'm doing is taking an unplanned tour of B.C.'s interior. If Sam never found out who his birth family was, what makes me think I'll uncover anything?

I let myself into my hotel room, flop onto the bed, and stare at the ceiling. So now what? Is this all there is? Do I just give up and head home to Vancouver? I tense, and the next thing I know, I'm back on my feet. I can't quit. Not yet. I've barely started searching. Half of my history is tied to Sam. The only way I'll ever know about me is to find out about him.

But I've already checked out all the clues. Haven't I? Though I'm probably wasting my time, I dig out the plastic bag containing Sam's belongings and go through it one more time. I study the half-heart. It means something. I'm sure of it; too bad I don't know what.

I reread the old letter from his foster family. There's no doubt these people cared about Sam. But why? He lived with a few different families. What made this one special? Why did he keep this letter? I look at the return address. I could use it to find a phone number. But the letter is twenty-two years old. Chances are the people don't even live there anymore. I frown and chew on my lip. Then I reach for my phone. There's one way to find out.

Back to the Canada White Pages. I do a search for Duncan Sheffield in Merritt. And there's the address — the same one as on the letter. The family is still there.

I dial the phone number listed. A woman answers. When I tell her who I am and why I'm calling, she is clearly stunned. She didn't know about Sam's death, and the knowledge obviously upsets her. Even so, she agrees to talk with me, and we arrange to meet at her home the next day.

And now for my mother. I can't imagine she'll be happy that I'm continuing with my search, but the fact that my investigation is taking me toward Vancouver should be some consolation. The conversation goes pretty much as I expect, and with a sigh of relief, I end the call. Bullet dodged. I wouldn't say Mom was thrilled with my plan, but she didn't try to talk me out of it.

I check out of my Kamloops hotel at nine thirty the next morning, and less than an hour later I'm checking into a motel in Merritt. It's the one my mom suggested. Considering she didn't make a fuss about me stopping in Merritt, I figure the least I can do is stay at a Joanna Malcolm–approved lodging. When I register, it turns out I already have a reservation. I shake my head and sigh. Clearly my mother isn't giving up her control of me without a fight.

After lunch it's time to meet the Sheffields. As I make my way to their home, the cheery female voice inside the GPS keeps me company, calling out directions and distances, and before I know it I'm there. “Drive 100 metres to destination on right,” the GPS lady tells me.

“Already?” I say.

I'm fifteen minutes early, so I take note of the house, slide on by, and pull up around the corner to wait.

At precisely one o'clock, I'm standing on the sidewalk in front of the house. It's on a hill, and the driveway is fairly steep. I wouldn't want to tackle it when it's icy, but today is sunny and the pavement is dry, so it's not a problem. The yard is a series of tiered rock gardens. Considering it's only March, there isn't much happening in them except for some heather and the early shoots of tulips and daffodils. But the beds are free of weeds and the black earth has been freshly turned. It would appear these people enjoy gardening.

The house is older, but like the yard, it's well cared for. I climb the stairs leading to the front door and knock.

Almost immediately a man answers. He looks to be in his sixties. He's average height but thin, and his jeans and sweater hang shapelessly on his stork-like frame. His hair — what there is of it — circles his head like a silver laurel.

“Dani?” he says, swinging the door wide. His ice-blue eyes crinkle at the edges when he smiles.

I nod and smile back. “Yes.”

“I'm Duncan Sheffield. It's nice to meet you. Please come in.”

He takes my coat and leads me into the living room.
Whoa!
Floor to ceiling, it's one giant photo album.

He gestures to a chair, so I pull my gaze away from the photo-papered walls and sit down.

“How was your drive?” he asks.

“Good. The roads were clear, and there wasn't much traffic.”

“Will you be going back today?”

I shake my head. “No. I've finished my business in Kamloops, and since I live in Vancouver, this is on the way home. I've checked into a motel. I'll stay there tonight,” I shrug, “or longer, depending on what you and your wife can tell me about Sam.”

“Speaking of my wife, I should let her know you're here. She's making tea.” He winks. “I'll be right back. Make yourself comfortable.”

At home, making myself comfortable would involve stretching out on the couch with a couple of cushions under my head, the remote in my hand, and a bowl of popcorn on the table beside me. Since that's not an option here — I don't even see a television — I check out the plethora of photographs decorating the walls. At first, I feel guilty about it, like I'm snooping, but then I decide that's crazy. Why would people plaster the room with photos if they didn't want anyone looking at them?

The photographs are mostly of people, who I assume are family — several generations worth by the look of it. I recognize Duncan Sheffield in many of them, joined often by an equally thin woman, probably his wife, and a girl, who varies in age with each picture. Though there's something mesmerizing about these photos, as if they were windows into these people's lives, I keep hoping to stumble upon Sam. But since the photos are in no specific order, I have no way of knowing where to look. And Sam may not be there anyway.

I stop at a large sepia portrait of a man and woman. Judging by their clothing and the formal setting, I'm guessing the picture dates back to the early 1900s. The couple look to be in their twenties, and though they are as sombre as two people can be, I know that was the style of photos for that time, and I can't help wondering if they became animated after their picture was taken. Did the woman smile and giggle? Did the man spin his hat on his walking stick? Did they —

“My great-grandparents,” a woman says behind me, and I whirl around. “I'm sorry,” she says. “I didn't mean to startle you. I'm Stephanie Sheffield.” She offers me her hand.

“Dani Lancaster,” I say. Though I've just come in from outside, the cold of her touch is startling. Even more startling are her eyes. They are like pieces of shiny coal. She smiles, and her face becomes a roadmap of lines. And suddenly she's pretty. Her personality is written in those lines, and they say she is a compassionate, loving person — and what is prettier than that?

“You don't look like Sam,” she says, and I realize she's been studying me too.

“People say I'm like my mother.”

She gestures to the couch. “Sit down.” Then she and her husband sit on the loveseat opposite.

“Tea?” she asks, lifting the pot from the tray on the coffee table separating us.

“That would be nice. Thank you.”

She passes me a china cup decorated with flowers and trimmed with gold. It's so delicate I can almost see through it. I set the teacup down in front of me and add sugar and lemon. Stephanie and Duncan add milk to theirs. Then we all sit back.

It is Stephanie who begins. “I confess that when you called yesterday and told me Sam was —” she pauses and looks flustered, “— that Sam had passed away, I was shocked and upset. He lived with us from the time he was fifteen until after he graduated from high school. He could have stayed even after that, but he felt obligated to leave.”

I frown. “Why?”

“Social services only pays for foster care until the youth turns eighteen,” Duncan says. “So Sam felt he was putting us out.”

“Is that why he joined the rodeo?”

“More or less,” he says. “He worked part-time for a while and paid us board.”

“He insisted,” Stephanie cuts in. “We didn't want to take his money, but he was adamant about paying his way.”

Duncan takes over again. “Sam had always loved animals, horses especially. One of his other foster homes was a farm. That's where he learned to ride.”

“And work,” Stefanie grumbles. “Those people worked him so hard. They had several foster children and they treated them all like slaves. Instead of hiring help, they took in foster kids. That way they had free labour and got paid besides. It makes me so angry when I think how that couple used those children. As if they hadn't had a hard enough life as it was.”

Duncan pats his wife's hand. “Don't get yourself all worked up, Steph. It wasn't as bad as all that. Yes, the kids had gruelling chores, but they weren't abused. And Sam came away with a good work ethic as well as the skills that would lead him to his life's career.”

Stephanie clucks her tongue. “You are being too kind, Duncan.”

“Have you always taken in foster children?” I ask.

Stephanie shakes her head. “Sam was our only one. He went to school with our daughter. We had met him at a few school functions, and so when Debbie, our daughter, told us Sam's foster family was sending him back to social services, we volunteered to take him in. Never once did he make us sorry.”

“Do you know anything about his background — the foster families he stayed with before, or his birth parents?”

Duncan answers. “We know of the foster family who owned the farm, but they no longer live in the area. I don't know where they moved. Other than that, all we have is the information Social Services provided when Sam came to us. He was a foundling left on a doorstep in Farrow. That's a small community not far from here.”

“Do you know the name of the people he was left with?”

Stephanie and Duncan exchange glances. “According to social services, it was an elderly couple,” Duncan says. “But they died a long time ago.”

Though I nod, I feel my hopes plummeting. Another dead end. And I was so hoping I would find a clue here. I look around the room. “Do you —” I lick my lips and start again. “I probably shouldn't ask this, but you have so many photographs. Do you . . . do you have any of Sam that I could have?”

Again, Stephanie and Duncan exchange glances. “I'm sorry, Dani,” Stephanie says. “I've been so caught up in my own loss that I haven't thought about how you must feel.” She gets up, lifts a photograph from the wall, and offers it to me. “Sam and our daughter, Debbie,” she says. “It was taken at a baseball tournament. Sam's team was in the provincial championship.”

I gaze at the photograph. It's Sam, all right, though a much younger version. Not the middle-aged cowboy I knew but a teenage baseball player. And though it doesn't matter, I ask, “Did he win?”