“I have. But if he stays missing, his family will keep waiting, alternating between hope and hopelessness. I can’t imagine living that way, can you?”
Sam shook her head. “No. No, I can’t. Then again, some of the tattoos I’ve done, the stories behind them could break your heart. People tell tattoo artists things, like we’re bartenders or something.” She stood up, arching her back. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for. You were more than generous with your time, and I know more now than when I came.” I pulled a business card from my purse and handed it to her. “Call me if you think of anything else.”
“Sure.” She walked me to the front door and opened it, a not-so-subtle hint that it was time for me to go.
“Can I ask you one more question?”
The narrow-eyed stare was back, but she gave a grudging nod.
“Why Trust Few?”
Sam smiled, the diamond chip in her front tooth glittering in the early evening light. “Love many, trust few, and always paddle your own canoe.” She gave me a fist bump before turning back into the shop, her toned legs accentuated by tanned skin and body art. I squinted to make out the tattoo that covered most of her left shin and calf and finally nailed it: a pistol with four aces above it, the words, “Smith & Wesson Beats 4 Aces” circling the image.
Not a woman to be trifled with. I just wished I could shake the feeling that she was holding something back.
12
I arrived home, placed my book purchases on the table, grabbed my notebook, and wrote down every detail of the meeting with Sam Sanchez. Royce didn’t get it, but Chantelle understood. We were both journal book nerds, and I suspect my father’s “A dull pencil is sharper than the sharpest mind” mantra had a lot to do with my habit. It was as if, having gotten everything down on paper, I was able to let my mind process what was important and what was periphery. In two or three days, I would transcribe everything into a word document on my computer. By the time I recorded it as an official report, the words would be succinct and any conjecture clearly defined. Right now, it was all about not forgetting.
It took me two hours to recall and record everything, from my first impression of Sam, right down to her primer on Miami Ink and the way tattoos faded. Once done, I read it over, line by line, adding a word here and there, underlining some, adding comments in the margins, until I was satisfied that I hadn’t forgotten anything. I flipped open my tablet and typed “Cowgirls Don’t Cry Brooks & Dunn” into the search bar. A YouTube video popped onto the screen with more than twenty million views and over one hundred thousand Likes. I wasn’t unfamiliar with country music—my father had been a big fan, and I listened to the local country station when I wasn’t tuned into talk radio—but I’d never heard this song.
The video and lyrics told the story of a father who teaches his daughter that life isn’t always easy, but that you have to ride it out. The daughter grows up to marry a cheating husband who comes home late every night, despite their own little girl, but remains stoic because, as the title goes, cowgirls don’t cry. There’s a tearjerker ending when her mama calls to tell her that her father is dying. I watched it a couple of dozen times, enjoying the voices of Brooks & Dunn blend with Reba McIntyre’s distinctive Oklahoma twang, then read and reread the lyrics. Was Dave a mentor, as Sam had implied, or had they been father and daughter? Was that what she’d been keeping back? I went over my notes once again, looking for what I might have missed. Nothing stood out, but I’d let it percolate. If there was anything there, I would find it on transcription. In the meantime, it was time to check my email.
There was the usual influx of stuff: recipes from Kraft.com, posts from blogs I’d subscribed to, notifications from Amazon, Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest. I skimmed through them all, zeroing in on a reply from Lucy Daneluk, the administrator for the Ontario Registry for Missing and Unidentified Adults.
Hello Callie,
Thanks for reaching out. I’d be more than happy to talk to you, though I’m not sure how much help I can be. I’m in the Ottawa area, but as luck would have it, I’ll be in Toronto for a conference this coming weekend. The drive to Marketville from Ottawa takes about five hours with a couple of pit stops, the same length of time it takes to drive to Toronto, and I’m always up for a road trip. If I leave at nine a.m. Friday, I should be there by two o’clock. I know it’s short notice, but are you available? I can drive to Toronto from your place after the rush hour craziness subsides on the 404-Don Valley Parkway.
Over to you,
Lucy
It was a stroke of luck I hadn’t expected. True, Daneluk may not have any additional information, but her willingness to meet was encouraging. I drafted up another email before she had time to change her mind.
Hello Lucy,
Thanks for your prompt response. I’m most definitely available to meet with you this Friday afternoon. My address is 300 Edward Street, Marketville. Please plan to stay for dinner, if you can, and let me know if you have any dietary concerns so I can accommodate them.
Looking forward to it,
Callie
PS: Do you mind if my business partner, Chantelle Marchand, joins us?
I’d no sooner hit the Send button when the reply came in.
Hi Callie,
Dinner sounds wonderful. I literally eat anything and everything so whatever you want to serve works for me, especially as I look toward two days of hotel and restaurant food. Thank you for offering.
See you Friday approx. two p.m. Would love to meet your business partner, too.
Cheers,
Lucy
I forwarded the email string to Chantelle, hoping it wouldn’t conflict with her schedule at the gym. Then I started planning Friday’s menu: Brie and asparagus quiche, mixed greens with balsamic dressing, angel food cake with fresh strawberries and a dollop of strawberry whipped cream for dessert. That done, I got ready for an early night. Tomorrow was going to be a big day, and I needed to be refreshed and ready.
13
I made my way down Edward Street to the office of New Beginnings Center for Life, looking for my landmark, the Spinners cycling studio. Today there were a dozen hardcore cyclists going through their workout, led by a finely muscled, gray-haired woman who appeared to be in her late fifties. Unlike the rest of her sweat-drenched group, she barely had a glint of perspiration on her six-pack abs and ropey thighs, even when she stood upright to pedal. A tattoo on her upper right arm featured a large red dot over a capital M. I recognized it from my days with the two-timing triathlete as an Ironman tattoo, and knew you only got the tat if you’d actually managed to complete the 2.4-mile swim, 112-mile bike, and 26.2-mile run within the seventeen-hour time cutoff.
The woman saw me looking and waved, a kickass grin on her weatherworn face. I waved back, embarrassed to be caught in the act of voyeur, and slunk away to the adjacent door stenciled with small black letters: New Beginnings Center for Life. Jeanine Westlake, MSW, Upper floor. Pull to enter. Ring bell twice.
I did as instructed and wound my way up a narrow staircase with a few rickety steps. The entrance to New Beginnings Center for Life opened to a waiting room that could have been any medical walk-in clinic in the county: a water cooler with tiny, triangular paper cups attached to a side holder, a dozen straight-backed chairs, seats and backs upholstered in gunmetal gray tweed, a couple of glass-topped end tables tucked into the corners, an oversized wicker basket filled to overflowing with back issues of Social Work Today, Healthy Living, and that quintessential Canadian staple, Chatelaine. A reception desk was positioned next to a long hall, which I assumed led to the office of Jeanine Westlake. In short, everything you’d expect to see with the exception of dozens of brightly colored origami birds, in varying shades of pink, aqua, purple, and teal, some perfectly folded, some less so. Suspended from the ceiling tiles, the paper shimmering under the fluorescent lights, they lent a sense of whimsy and hope to an otherwise sterile room.
A pointy-nosed receptionist greeted me with a caustic glance and I was momentarily reminded of the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz. I half expected her to call me “My Pretty,” and was almost disappointed when she didn’t. There was an oversized daily planner on her desk, each column and time slot filled with a scribble presumably only she could decipher. Job security at its finest. “Name?” She asked, her voice as strident as her appearance.
I gave her my most ingratiating smile, hoping it would thaw her out some. “Callie Barnstable. I have a nine o’clock appointment with Jeanine Westlake.”
Pointy-nose sniffed, took a yellow marker from a stoneware mug filled with various writing implements, and highlighted my name next to 9 a.m., the first appointment of the day. “You’re early. It’s only 8:54.” The frost in her tone implied that I was hours early versus mere minutes. I’d done something to seriously set this woman off, though I had no idea what it could be.
“I like to be punctual. I view it as a sign of respect.”
That seemed to mollify her because she attempted a smile. “Have a seat. Ms. Westlake will be with you in four minutes.”
Exactly four minutes later, a young woman wearing black slacks and a white silk blouse strolled into the room. “Jeanine Westlake. You must be Callie. Welcome.”
She looked younger than thirty-one and I was reminded of Sam saying much the same about Brandon at age twenty. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.” I pointed to the ceiling. “I’m fascinated by your origami birds. It must have taken days to make so many.”
Jeanine laughed, a soft, tinkling bell-like sound. “Oh, they’re not all mine. Studies have shown the art of folding paper to be therapeutic. Each bird is made from a single sheet of paper, without any cutting or glue. In teaching my clients the technique, they build attention and focus, frustration intolerance, and self-esteem. Simply put, my clients can replace ‘I can’t’ with ‘I can.’ But you didn’t come here to discuss origami. Follow me to my office where we can talk.”
I followed, dropping my voice to a whisper. “I don’t think your receptionist approves of me.”
“It’s not you she disapproves of, it’s the rehashing of Brandon. She thinks it’s time to let him go. She’s probably right.”
“I’m only trying to help.”
“Are you? Well, I suppose we’ll see how things turn out this time. My office is the third one on the left.” She chuckled. “The corner office, with a five-star view of the back alley. Some interesting sights back there after sundown, not that I make it a habit of staying past five. There are two other offices. The largest one has a window overlooking Edward Street. We use it for training, anything from interview preparation to updating computer skills. I have an assistant, a retired high school teacher, who takes care of that side of things. The smallest is not much bigger than a broom closet. It has basic office supplies, and a four-in-one printer that scans, copies and faxes—not that many folks fax anymore. Mostly, our clients use the space to print or send out resumes.”
Jeanine reminded me of her delicate origami birds: petite, with translucent skin, a heart-shaped face with a tiny triangle of a nose, pale blue eyes, a petite frame, streaked blonde hair cut short, and a chirpy, sing-songy voice. Even her choice of jewelry was delicate: amethyst stud earrings, a simple silver necklace with an amethyst pendant that reminded me of the Inuit inuksuk, and a single ring on the fourth finger of her right hand, a silver filigree band with an amethyst inset in the center. And yet I knew, given the work she was trying to accomplish and her past history, that beneath the seemingly fragile exterior would lie a far tougher interior. Not jaded, not yet, but I expected the day would come. The thought saddened me. I searched unsuccessfully for any resemblance to her half brother, either in his twenty-year-old self or the age-progressed sketches.
“I take after my mom’s side of the family,” Jeanine said, as if reading my mind. “I figure Brandon took after his biological father, not that he or I ever knew who that was. It was one of the things that haunted him, the not knowing.” She pushed open the office door. “Come in and have a seat.”
Unlike the reception room, there were no origami birds hanging from the ceiling. There was also no desk. Instead there was a round glass-topped dining table with brushed stainless steel legs, surrounded by four black leather kitchen chairs, two more stacked in the corner. The walls, painted stark white, were without ornamentation, the sole exception a framed university diploma by the door from Dalhousie University for Jeanine Rebecca Westlake. It was the only personal touch.
Jeanine smiled. “Not what you were expecting?”
I admitted it wasn’t.
“I find the round table approach far more conducive to sharing than me sitting behind a desk trying to look all scholarly. I’m too short to carry off the authority figure act with any credibility and I’m not an authoritarian. I’m here to listen, and hopefully provide guidance. Admittedly the space is a bit barren, but I assure you there’s nothing Freudian about it. I’m looking for the right artwork, just haven’t found it yet. When I do…” Her voice trailed off. “But enough banalities. You’re here about Brandon. I’ll tell you what I remember. I warn you, it’s not much. I was only twelve when he left, and my parents and the police have been down the ‘Find Brandon’ road many times over the years. If he’s alive, he doesn’t want to be found.”
Sam Sanchez had said much the same thing. And yet, my job was to do my best to find him, or at least what became of him. “Is that your belief? That your brother is alive and doesn’t want to be found?”
Jeanine managed a tight-lipped smile. “If you’re asking if I think the call to Nana Ellie was legit, the answer is no. Do I believe Brandon is alive and hiding out somewhere? I’d say the odds are remote, but I suppose anything is possible.”
“Can we go back then, to the time just before he left home? The newspaper article quoted you as saying there had been tension in the house.”
“I wasn’t about to drag our dirty laundry in front of the world, but tension was an understatement. Even as a little girl, I could sense things were always strained between Dad and Brandon, like a blister waiting to burst, and they got worse with every passing year. Maybe things would have been different if Dad had adopted Brandon, but he didn’t. You’d have to ask him why. I was never given a reason, and to the best of my knowledge, neither was Brandon.”
“In the newspaper article, your mother is quoted as saying that he treated Brandon like his own son.”
“Don’t believe everything you read. My mother has a tendency to whitewash the facts. Most of the time, I don’t think she’s even aware of it. Denial can be a wonderful respite from reality. But my father would have taken a very dim view of her saying anything else. A very dim view.”
“What about you? Were things strained between you and your father as well?”
“Far from it. My childhood experience was quite different from Brandon’s.”
“Yet you were raised in the same house.”
“Yes, though with completely different styles of parenting. Not as unusual as you might think, and in many households one parent will favor one style, while the other parent may favor another.”
“Good cop, bad cop,” I said.
“Something like that. Shall I go into detail? Or do you know all of this already? I don’t want to bore you.”
I shook my head. “Trust me, I won’t be bored, and my knowledge of raising children is zero. I don’t have kids, and as odd as it may sound, none of my close friends do either.”
“Also not entirely unusual. We often hang out with people in the same social circles. Young moms tend to gravitate to other young moms, career women to other career women. There are exceptions, of course. Childhood friends, for example. One friend may have children, the other may not, but the bonds of youthful secrets serve to keep them connected. Even so, those friendships often drift apart until the children are much older and involved with their own circle of friend
s.” Jeanine leaned back, her eyes locked into mine. “What were your parents like?”
“My father raised me on his own from the time I was six.”
“And your mother?”
“Not in the picture.” I wasn’t here for a consult, and hoped that the clipped tone of my voice made it clear.
A pink tint flushed Jeanine’s pale skin. “Sorry, occupational hazard, being inquisitive. I wasn’t meaning to pry.”
Now it was my turn to blush. “An overreaction on my part, it’s a sensitive subject. You were going to tell me about parenting styles.”
“There are three different styles of parenting,” Jeanine said, slipping into counseling mode. “Four styles if you consider uninvolved or neglectful a style. Some do, some don’t. I fall into the latter category. At any rate, in the 1960s, Dr. Diana Baumrind, a psychologist, conducted a study, from which she developed her Pillar Theory. That theory draws relationships between basic parenting styles and children’s behavior as a result. The styles are defined as authoritarian or disciplinarian, permissive or indulgent, and authoritative. Are you with me so far?”
I nodded.
“Let’s start with authoritarian. Abusive parents usually fall into this category, but that doesn’t mean that all authoritarian parents are abusive. They do, however, expect their children to obey every instruction without question. Punishment tends to be harsh and swift when rules are broken. There’s seldom room for negotiation, little or no patience for disobedience, and there’s a tendency to be unresponsive to a child’s emotional needs. Another trait of this type of parent is that they will withhold love and affection if the child misbehaves, or shame them, something along the lines of, ‘Why can’t you ever do anything right?’ or ‘How can you be so stupid?’ This is considered psychological or emotional manipulation. It’s all about maintaining the upper hand. This type of behavior can also be found in other relationships, and it’s never healthy.”
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