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 . . .
Chapter Three
. . . 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 ki
d 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.
Chapter Four
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 surrounding
s, 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.
In Search of Sam Page 2
