Truths I Learned from Sam

by Kristin Butcher

  “I don’t mean that sort of uncle. I —” She takes a deep breath. “I have a brother.”

  I cross my arms over my chest and sneer. “Yeah, right. Since when? Or did you just conveniently adopt somebody?”

  Mom’s eyes narrow. “Be careful, Dani. You’re getting seriously close to stepping over the line.”

  I don’t say anything. My mother may not be a cookie-cutter parent, but we both know who gets the last word.

  For a few seconds my chest heaves, and my nostrils flare in and out like a fire-breathing dragon. Finally, I choke back my defiance and growl, “Fine. So tell me about this uncle.”

  “He’s kind of a black sheep, a free spirit, a bit of a rebel.” She shrugs. “He marches to his own drummer. It used to drive our parents crazy. It finally came to a head when Sam was about twenty-two. There was a horrible fight. Then he left. And he never came back. From that day on, my parents acted like Sam had never even existed.”

  “I take it this Sam is your brother.”

  “Yes.”

  “Older or younger?”

  “Older by two years.”

  “Soooo …” I draw out the word while I do some quick math. “All this happened about eighteen years ago?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you haven’t seen or heard from him until yesterday?”

  “No. My parents never heard from him, but Sam and I have always kept in touch. I just never told anyone.”

  “Not even me?” I was incredulous. Who knew my mother could keep a secret, especially one as big as that?

  “Dani, you were a kid. I couldn’t tell you. You might have let something slip. It was too big a risk. Besides, Sam swore me to secrecy.”

  “So why spill the beans now?”

  “Because your grandparents are both gone. We don’t have to worry about hurting them. And with the wedding and all, Sam sees this as his chance to get to know you.”

  “Gran died six months ago, Mother. Why didn’t you say something then? And anyway, why isn’t this Sam coming to the wedding?”

  Mom heaves a sigh. “Sam has been out of the country until recently. He only just got back. I couldn’t say anything to you until I got the okay from him. Surely, you can understand that. As for the wedding, it’s not his thing. Like I already told you, he’s a bit of a rebel.”

  “Doesn’t he want to see you?”

  “I’m sure he does. But obviously, that can’t happen right now. But he also wants to see you, and this is the perfect opportunity.”

  “Why? He didn’t want to see me before. Why now?”

  Mom clucks her tongue in exasperation. “You’re not listening, Dani. It isn’t that he didn’t want to see you. It’s that he didn’t want to hurt your grandparents.”

  “Why would he care about that if they weren’t even talking? What happened between them anyway? I mean, what could be so huge that it rips a family apart like that? Did Sam rob a bank? Was he dealing drugs? Did he kill somebody?”

  Mom frowns and shakes her head. “No. Nothing like that. It was a personal thing between Sam and them. You’ll have to ask him.”

  “Why can’t you tell me?”

  “It’s not my place.”

  I don’t know if it’s the determined line of my mother’s mouth, or the way she roots herself to the floor like a three-hundred-year-old tree, but it suddenly dawns on me that I can argue right through the night, and it isn’t going to make any difference.

  “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?” I say. “You’re going to make me stay with this guy while you’re gone?”

  “You make it sound like torture.”

  “How do I know it won’t be? How do you know it won’t be? You haven’t seen your brother in eighteen years!”

  “We’ve kept in touch. Besides, I know him. I know what kind of person he is. I love him. And I love you. You have no idea how much I’ve wanted the two of you to know each other — my two favourite people in the world. And now it’s finally going to happen.” Her eyes are shiny with happy tears. She smiles. “You’re going to love him, Dani. And he’s going to love you. I just know it.”

  Chapter Three

  Outside the bus window, trees and rocks blur by while farther below the Fraser River rolls westward, back to Vancouver. It’s a blur too. I wish I had the power to smudge my thoughts like the landscape. Then it wouldn’t bother me that at this very minute Mom and Reed are somewhere in the clouds on a plane headed for Europe. I wouldn’t wonder about the long-lost uncle waiting for me at the end of the bus ride either. I close my eyes in an effort to turn off my brain, but it doesn’t help. My thoughts keep right on coming.

  I think the bus is about half full. It’s hard to tell. I was one of the first passengers to board, and I went straight to the back. Along the route some people have gotten off and others have gotten on, though I don’t know how many. I can’t see over the top of the seats. But in Cache Creek, a third of the town gets on, and suddenly, the empty seat separating me from the rest of the bus-riding universe is gone.

  Call me a snob, but I think of buses as the transportation alternative for people who have no alternative. Otherwise, they would drive or fly or take a train. Unless, of course, the place they’re going isn’t serviced by planes or trains, and their novice driving status forbids them from taking their mother’s BMW into the middle of nowhere. Needless to say, I’m not thrilled when a rather ample middle-aged woman invades my space. I barely get my jacket and magazine out of the way before her generous rump lands in the seat beside me.

  There’s an armrest between us, but her thigh oozes underneath into my territory. I try to make myself smaller without being obvious. I cross one leg over the other and lean into the window. The woman’s thigh takes over that space too, and now I can’t uncross my legs without sitting on her.

  As she organizes her belongings, the mixed scent of perspiration and lavender perfume wafts in my direction, and a vision of wilted flowers pops into my head. I start breathing through my mouth.

  “Do you have a cold, dearie?” the woman says.

  I’m not expecting her to speak to me, so as much as is possible in my cramped quarters, I jump. “What? I mean, I beg your pardon?”

  “Do you have a cold?” the woman repeats.

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Asthma? You’re breathing very queer.”

  “It must be the air conditioning,” I mumble and turn back to the window. Though I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts, I don’t want to spend the rest of the bus ride exchanging small talk with a total stranger either.

  No worries on that front. Without another glance in my direction, the woman digs a candy bar and a novel out of her massive purse and settles into another world for the duration of the trip.

  Wonderful. I am trapped. If the woman doesn’t get off the bus before me, I have to endure sweat-scented air and eight square inches of seat until Webb’s River — wherever and whenever that is. Perhaps I should move now — give up my window real estate and try to find an aisle seat next to some skinny guy plugged into an MP3 player. I steal a quick glance at the woman. She is a human mountain. I couldn’t get past her if I tried. And for that reason, I suddenly have to pee.

  “Oh, crap!” I mutter under my breath.

  Apparently, not quite far enough under my breath, though, because the woman looks up from her book and says, “Did you say something, dearie?”

  “Just talking to myself,” I tell her, turning back once more to the window.

  To keep my mind off my bathroom needs, I start counting the vehicles swishing by on their way to the coast. Take me with you! I silently plead to number twenty-one, a low, sleek convertible with a tanned male driver. I’ll pay for the gas, I barter with number one hundred and sixty-three, a shiny black SUV. Like sheep to an insomniac, my vehicle tally climbs, but despite my attempts at mental telepathy, no one flags down the bus to rescue me. Somewhere north of a thousand, I lose track and drift off.

>   I sleep right through Kamloops and Little Fort. It isn’t until we pull into 100 Mile House that I regain consciousness — mentally, that is. My body is still asleep. No, make that dead. In fact, rigor mortis has set in. I ache all over from being cramped in the fetal position for hours. I peek over my shoulder at the seat beside me. It’s empty. My heart starts dancing its own little jig right there in my chest. The woman is gone.

  Then I spy her across the aisle. Obviously, some passengers have left, and she has claimed their seats. She is still reading, but the candy bar has been replaced with licorice whips.

  Gingerly, I shift position, manually uncross my legs, and stretch. It hurts but also feels wonderful. Sweet pain. And then my bladder wakes up. I poke my head above the seat and look toward the front of the bus. Passengers are still loading and unloading. I should visit the washroom before I get penned in by a new seatmate. I stick my magazine on one seat and my jacket on the other and shuffle into the aisle.

  Marking my territory with my belongings does the trick, because when I return and the bus starts moving again, both seats are still empty. I flip up the armrest and stretch out.

  “Next stop, Webb’s River,” the driver announces over the public address system. “Estimated arrival time is six twenty.”

  I glance at my watch. That’s just half an hour! A measly thirty minutes between me and my summer with Uncle Sam. Uncle Sam. Ha-ha. Very funny. But now that I’ve thought it, I can’t get the picture of an old guy wearing stars and stripes and a top hat out of my head. I wish Mom had given me a photograph. I don’t even know who to look for when I get off the bus.

  My brain starts going crazy again. What if my uncle isn’t there to pick me up? What if he doesn’t like me? What if I don’t like him?

  I look at my watch. Twenty-two minutes to go. I stand up, open the overhead bin, and haul down my backpack. I have a suitcase stored in the cargo compartment under the bus, but my really important stuff is in the backpack. I rummage through it to make sure I wasn’t robbed while I was asleep. Not that I think I was. I just need to be busy.

  I find my brush and free my hair from its ponytail. With each stroke, the bristles massage my scalp. I love that feeling. I brush harder. My hair slides through my fingers, and I can smell the conditioner from my morning shower.

  I check the time again. Hair-brushing has eaten up five more minutes. I tie my hair back, stuff the brush into the backpack, and pull out my lip balm. It’s colourless but glossy, and it smells like strawberries.

  Now there’s nothing to do but wait. I zip up my backpack and look out the window. The scenery flies by, but I don’t see it. Apparently, I lack the ability to use my eyes and think at the same time, and at the moment, thinking is my top priority. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. My mother wouldn’t send me to stay with my uncle unless he was a good guy. The truth is she really wanted this to happen. There was an excited sparkle in her eyes when she laid out the plan, like she was proud of both me and her brother, and she couldn’t wait for us to meet. She said we were going to love each other.

  “Webb’s River,” the driver calls out.

  I suck in my breath. Then I hoist the backpack onto my lap and hug it to my chest.

  “Well, Mom,” I say quietly, “I sure hope you’re right.”

  Chapter Four

  My nose is plastered to the bus window as I watch for signs of Webb’s River. It doesn’t show up on most maps, so I know it’s got to be small. I’m picturing a quaint Tom Sawyer town with white picket fences, flower boxes, and apple pies cooling on window sills — maybe even a babbling brook running through the middle of things.

  Not even close. The only thing running through Webb’s River is provincial Highway 97, and though traffic is supposed to slow to sixty kilometres, it just whistles on through like there wasn’t a town there. Probably because there isn’t. Not much of one anyway. A truck-stop restaurant, gas station, and hardware store cling to one side of the highway, while a church and grocery store hang onto the other. A sign on the edge of a crossroad indicates a school somewhere over the hill. Then the landscape turns to grass and trees again and the town is a memory.

  Suddenly, I begin to worry that the driver missed the stop, and I’m stuck on this bus until Williams Lake. I’m just getting set to pull the cord when I spot a red-roofed motel up ahead. The bus slows and moves into the left-turn lane.

  I scan the sign out front. It reads like a telephone directory. WEBB’S RIVER MOTEL. WEBB’S RIVER BAR AND GRILL. WEBB’S RIVER COMMUNITY CENTRE. LIQUOR SALES. SEARS ORDER DESK. GREYHOUND PASSENGER/PARCEL PICKUP AND DROP OFF. Talk about multi-tasking. Though it looks exactly like every other motel I’ve ever seen, this is clearly the town mall.

  There are half a dozen vehicles in the parking lot — a couple of trucks, an SUV, a van, and two cars. I wonder which one belongs to my uncle.

  As the bus slides to a stop in the parking lot, I sidestep my way to the aisle and start toward the exit. No one else is getting off. Though I don’t know these people, we’ve shared the same space for the better part of the day, and the realization that I’m about to sever ties with all things familiar makes me more nervous than I already am.

  I head down the steps into the July afternoon. After staring out tinted windows for hours, I am momentarily blinded by real sunlight. The driver already has the cargo compartment open and is waiting for me to point out my bag.

  “Somebody picking you up, miss?” he says as he sets my suitcase on its wheels and extends the handle.

  I nod and smile. “Yes. Thanks.”

  He glances around the parking lot. The only people in it are him and me. “You sure?” he says.

  I nod and smile again. “My uncle.” I look over my shoulder toward the building. “He must be inside.”

  The driver still doesn’t seem convinced, but he closes the cargo compartment and heads back to the front of the bus. “Okay, then.” With a foot on the first step, he stops and looks back. “A coach to Vancouver comes through here at nine thirty every morning. You take care now.”

  I know he’s trying to reassure me, but his words have exactly the opposite effect, and as I watch the bus pull back onto the highway and speed away, I feel like I’ve been abandoned at the gates of Hell.

  My thoughts start crashing into one another like chunks of carrot in a food processor. What if my uncle isn’t here? What if I got off at the wrong stop? What if I’ve lost his phone number? Who can I call? Should I stay at the motel? Should I take the next bus home?

  I stomp on my panic while I still can, grab the handle of my suitcase, and march towards the motel office. Slipping the strap of my backpack over my shoulder, I open the door to a tinkling of chimes and push my way inside.

  My mother’s bathroom is bigger than this office, and I have to pull my suitcase out of the way to shut the door. Straight ahead is a revolving rack containing brochures and postcards. To the left is the registration counter, but there’s no one behind it.

  I drop my backpack onto the floor beside my suitcase. “Hello?” I peer through the doorway behind the counter. No answer. There’s a bell on the counter, so I ring it and call again — louder. “Hello? Is anybody here?”

  A movie star wannabe complete with bottle-blonde hair and kiss-me-red lips comes running from the back. The woman is fifty if she’s a day. She smiles when she sees me, revealing dental-white veneers, but the tip of one of them is coated with lipstick, so now I’m thinking vampire.

  She pulls a pen from her hair and lays it on top of a registration card. Then she slides the whole works toward me. “Lookin’ for a room, sugar?”

  Before I can answer, the door chimes tinkle again, and the deepest voice I’ve ever heard says, “Kathy Ann, has the —”

  Kathy Ann doesn’t let the man finish. She frowns and clucks her tongue. “For goodness sake, Sam, can’t you see I’m with a customer?”

  Sam? I swivel toward the voice. At first all I see is a big, old, battered cowboy hat and a moustache that cou
ld be used as a broom. Kathy Ann called the man Sam. How many Sams can there be in this town? The guy has to be my uncle. I should introduce myself, but suddenly I can’t find my voice. My mouth doesn’t work either. So I just continue to stare. He’s too close. I can see all the parts of him, but I can’t pull them together into one picture. Tall and wiry. Tanned face and hands. Thick salt-and-pepper hair curling over the collar of a white buttoned shirt. Well-worn jeans. Big silver belt buckle. Scuffed cowboy boots.

  I’m not sure how long I stand there gawking, but it must be quite awhile, because finally Sam laughs, and waves of happy lines break out around his eyes and moustache — I still can’t see his mouth. He sticks out his hand. I put out mine. His grip is firm, and his skin is rough.

  He’s not laughing anymore, but he is grinning. “I’m Sam,” he says in that voice that starts somewhere down in his boots. “And unless I’m mistaken, you’re Dani.”

  “You’re not.” My voice is barely there. “Mistaken, I mean. I am Dani.”

  He keeps hold of my hand as he looks me over. His eyes narrow and travel from my head down to my feet and back up again. He’s clearly assessing me, and I suddenly feel self-conscious. Finally, he lets go of my hand. “You look like your mother.”

  “Do I?” It’s a stupid thing to say considering people are always comparing Mom and me.

  Sam doesn’t answer. Instead he picks up my back-pack and holds the door open for me and my suitcase.

  “Hey, where are you going with my customer?” Kathy Ann complains. And then, “Aren’t you even going to introduce us?”

  “Not today,” Sam says. “Have a nice evening now, Kathy Ann.” Once the door shuts behind us, he whispers, “Biggest gossip in Webb’s River. The whole town will know about you before suppertime.”

  “What town?” I blurt.

  Sam stops and looks me over for a second time. Then he shakes his head and resumes walking. “Not only do you look like your mother, you have the same sharp tongue.”

  Heat floods my cheeks. “Sorry,” I say apologetically and hurry to catch up. “But it is a pretty small town. How many people actually live here?”