The Man He Never Was

by James L. Rubart

  “Not sir. Toren.”

  “Yes, sir . . . Toren.” A nervous laugh floated through the phone. “If you don’t mind, can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure. Anything.”

  “I don’t want to pry—it’s none of my business or anything.”

  “No, really, it’s fine.”

  “Okay.” Landry hesitated. “Where have you been, Mr. Daniels? I mean, my manager says we’re not supposed to tell anyone you’re here, like TV people or the radio or . . . but a lot of people are curious, you know? And since we’re talking, I just thought I’d ask. I won’t tell anyone. I promise. But if I’m stepping over a line, please just tell me to keep my questions to myself.”

  “What? Who’s curious? Tell anyone . . . I have no idea . . .” Toren squeezed his forehead. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m wondering where you’ve been for the past eight months.”

  A shiver shot through Toren’s body. “I haven’t been out much if that’s what you mean. But I’ve been here in town. I’ve been working out, going to the gym, doing stuff with my wife and kids, that’s about it. Staying around the house.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  But by the way Landry said it, his vision wasn’t even close to clear.

  “But when they . . . Why didn’t you let folks know after they started searching . . . and . . . I mean, it’s just that . . .”

  Landry trailed off, and heat shot through Toren’s body.

  “Searching for what?”

  “For you.”

  “What are you talking about, Landry?” Toren paced on the dark-brown carpet. “What do you mean searching? Why would anyone be searching for me?”

  Landry’s voice sounded puzzled. “You vanished eight months ago. No one has seen you since.”

  “What are you talking about? I was at the Seafair Parade three weeks ago and saw a bunch of people. Took a few shots with people who recognized me.”

  A deep sigh came through the phone.

  “What?”

  “I’m not sure how to say this, Mr. Daniels.”

  “Say it.”

  “Everyone thought you were dead, sir.”

  “Dead?” The heat pushed through Toren’s skin and sweat broke out on his forehead. “Why would anyone—”

  “It’s been over eight months since Seafair,” Landry said, his voice soft.

  “What?”

  “Eight months. Are you all right, sir?”

  “What are you talking—it’s only mid-September.” Toren stopped pacing and stood at the end of the bed.

  “No, sir, it’s not.” Landry paused. “It’s the middle of May.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Toren drew ragged breaths through his nose as he slumped onto the bed and braced himself with his free hand.

  “Landry?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Quinn put you up to this, didn’t he?”

  “No, this is—”

  “Then who did?”

  The question was stupid. No one had put Landry—or anyone else—up to anything. But that logic didn’t help. It only made the growing fear in the pit of Toren’s stomach more intense.

  “Mr. Daniels, three guests just arrived. Can I put you on hold?”

  A rap on the door jerked Toren around.

  “Take care of your guests. The package just arrived.”

  Toren hung up and let the phone drop onto the bed. Eight months? Not possible. How could he have been gone for eight months and not known it? And if the impossible had happened, where had he been? Sweat now seeped, it seemed, from every pore in his body.

  The sound of rapping on the door to the hallway filled the room a second time and Toren lurched to his feet. He stared at the door as he shuffled toward it, desperate to open the package and get answers, yet terrified at the same time.

  Toren placed his hand on the knob, paused for a moment, then pulled the door open.

  “Mr. Daniels?”

  “Toren, yeah.”

  The young woman at the door handed him a brown package the length and width of a shoe box, but only a few inches high. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  “No, thanks for bringing this up.”

  “Yes, of course.” She nodded and trekked back down the hallway.

  Toren stared at the package as he meandered to the chair by the window and slowly sank into it. The package stayed on his knees for more than three minutes before he finally tore it open.

  A folded sheet of paper lay on top. He lifted the paper and opened it as he examined the contents of the package. His driver’s license. A credit card. Fifty dollars in cash. A small booklet of sorts with a blank cover. That was it. He pulled the sheet of paper closer. No company name. No address. No phone number. Just a piece of paper with a handwritten note on it. Toren sighed and began to read.

  Dear Toren,

  Hopefully as you read these words your breathing has returned to normal. Having been involved in numerous cases like yours for quite a few years now, we know this transition back into society isn’t necessarily an easy one. But you will be fine. We promise.

  You of course want to know where you’ve been and why you don’t have any memories of your time away.

  You’ve just completed eight months unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. A life-altering eight months. Consequently, you’ll notice changes inside. Significant ones. Most notably, specific to your case, your struggle to control your temper will have been eradicated. Embrace that revolution. You have earned it. It did not come without cost, but that cost will give you a freedom you’ve never known until now.

  To continue in that way of freedom, we highly encourage you to study the enclosed booklet. It will provide exercises to reinforce what has occurred, and keep you on the narrow path.

  Now to practicalities: You’ll find enclosed your driver’s license and a credit card for anything you need, such as clothes, a cell phone, etc. Also you’ll find a bit of cash. Your hotel room is taken care of for the next three weeks, should you choose to stay that long. A car has been rented for you for one week starting today. After that, you’ll need to take care of transportation arrangements on your own. The hotel manager has the details and assured us he would be happy to deliver you to the rental lot.

  Finally, you’ll undoubtedly be anxious to return home and see your wife and children. We advise against this. Not only have you been through significant change, but they have been as well, due to your long, unexplained absence. We encourage you to get to know yourself, your new self as it were, for a few days, maybe a few weeks, before engaging with them. Give yourself time. Find out who you are now. Who the new man is that you have become. That will be best for all of you.

  With deepest belief in the true you,

  Your friends

  Toren pawed through the box, then pulled the thing apart, looking for any clues as to who had sent the package, but even as he did, he knew he’d find nothing. Whoever had done this to him hadn’t provided any answers, only more questions. He pulled out the booklet, white, three inches by five inches, about sixteen pages, nothing on the front. He leafed through it. Meditation techniques, studies on maintaining calmness, prayers, spiritual disciplines. He tossed the booklet onto the ottoman and fell back in his chair. So he’d been to some kind of spiritual retreat center.

  New man? Temper gone? That would be the greatest gift he’d ever received. As the thought rushed through his mind, hope filled his soul, because he knew it was true. But how? And where? Toren clenched his fists with determination. He’d go to the moon and back to get answers.

  And he would get to know this new man, yes, but sorry, he wasn’t going to put off racing to see his family. Were they kidding? Not even an All-Pro offensive line could stop him from getting to his wife and kids in record time. He had no idea what he would tell them, no idea how they would react, but he was going to see them. Now.

  CHAPTER 3

  As Toren sped toward home, he marveled at how easily a s
pring day in mid-May could impersonate a sunny day in mid-September. Yes, now that he knew, he saw the differences, but they were subtle. More a feeling in the air than anything concrete. He had checked the date on a newspaper at the rental car lot three times.

  Eight months. Gone. With no memory of those weeks. How was that even possible?

  As he pulled onto the street that held his home, his hands grew damp. He remembered everything in detail up till September 14 of the previous year. Too much detail. The months leading up to another NFL season without him in it had been brutal. And he’d taken out his frustration on Sloane. Wave after wave of fights, him losing his temper again and again, screaming at her, her finally screaming back, the kids hearing far more than they should, even when they were upstairs in their rooms. Then the apologies, his hard work to keep his rage in check, all for nothing when a few weeks or days later he’d blow the doors off whatever semblance of an emotionally safe home he’d built.

  The counseling sessions? They always started out with hope and always ended with a rising crescendo of shouting. Too many times to count, Sloane had threatened to divorce him and he’d always talk her out of it.

  Toren eased his car to a stop five yards from the entrance to his driveway, his fingers gripping and regripping the steering wheel. He’d pictured Sloane overjoyed to see him, but what if she wasn’t? Toren pushed the gear shift into park as he stared at the driveway. Sloane loved the entrance to their home, long and accented with gentle curves.

  Just as he was about to turn in, a green truck appeared, whipping down his driveway toward the street, faster than made sense. Rakes, shovels, and a lawn mower poked out from the bed of the truck. Ten yards from the street, the truck slowed down, moving at just over a crawl now. The driver wore a red hat. Sunglasses. Goofy grin on his face. He glanced Toren’s direction, and in spite of the glasses, Toren sensed the man was staring directly into his eyes. The guy jabbed a finger at Toren, and the smile grew wider. Then he turned the truck onto the street and sped off.

  Toren knew the guy, didn’t he? He was ninety-eight percent certain. But exactly who it was flitted just out of reach. Something reeled in Toren’s gut. Whoever the man was, the feelings his image stirred up weren’t pleasant ones.

  Toren shook his head, shot up a quick plea for God to make this reunion a joyful celebration instead of a disappointment, and turned into his driveway. He stopped the rental car fifty feet from the house, got out, and sent up another silent plea. Good, bad, or horrendously ugly, this meeting was guaranteed to be a little weird.

  Toren shuffled up the rest of the drive and shoved his trembling hands into the front pockets of the jeans he’d bought an hour earlier. He glanced at the massive front lawn, the grass greener and mowed shorter than he’d ever gotten around to cutting it. Looked elegant. Purple flowers cascaded from baskets hanging from both corners of the roof. The sun was out and spring had kissed the Pacific Northwest with full force.

  The mid-May sunshine brought a lightness to the air he should have felt as he stared at the front door, now just ten yards away and at the same time a million miles from where he stood. But the lightness didn’t reach his heart. Of course it didn’t. How could it? The truth settled on him hard: he’d been gone for eight months. He was about to rock the world of his wife and kids in a way they couldn’t imagine.

  The house had been painted beige. All six thousand square feet of it. Good for her. Sloane had always wanted that color and Toren had always fought her on it. But he knew, deep in his gut, those days were over. If the miracle he’d been feeling for five hours now had truly happened and he was a new man, then fighting about idiotic things like the color of their house would be a thing of the past. All he wanted at this moment was to wrap her in his arms, tell her he loved her, and then do the same with his kids. During the time he’d picked up the car, bought clothes, and snagged a lunch on the run, he hadn’t found any memories of his time away, but the sense he’d been gone a long time did engulf him, and his heart ached to be back with Sloane, back with Callie and Colton.

  Enough stalling. He had to get up there, pull the brass knocker back and let it fall three times, and let be what would be. It would be good. A whisper of a voice told him he’d changed in ways he couldn’t fathom. He had great hope where before there had been only darkness. He truly was a new man, and Sloane and he could get back to the way they’d been before the Seahawks cut him loose.

  He took the last step slowly, as if the concrete under his shoe might crumble. Sloane’s muted voice floated through the door. She was giving directions to at least one of the kids, maybe both, and Toren drew in a sharp breath. Then a deep breath. Hand up. Grab the knocker. Rap once, twice, three times.

  What had he just done? Eight months gone with no word, no clue as to where he’d been. He should have called first. Should have bought a cell phone and called. Did he have time to leave? He glanced behind him. Not a chance. He stumbled down the porch steps till he stood in the driveway, as if a little more distance between them would prevent her from feeling ambushed the second she opened the door.

  Toren staggered back another step, his poor balance threatening to send him sprawling onto the asphalt. He tried to take a breath. Seconds till her slender hand would grab the doorknob, open the door, and reveal an image she likely wouldn’t be able to comprehend.

  An instant later the deadbolt slid, the knob rattled, and Sloane pulled the door wide. She stood in the center of the doorframe. Her hair was shorter. She opened her mouth slightly as her right hand gripped the edge of the door. Her other groped for the doorframe. Her eyes blinked once, twice, and she pulled in air as if she’d just surfaced after being under water far too long. Her hands shook, and a moment later her body joined in.

  “No.” Her legs started to give out, but somehow she steadied herself.

  “I should have called.” Toren took a halting step toward her. Sloane shook her head. Tiny little shakes. Though she stared right at Toren, she wasn’t seeing him.

  “I’m sorry, Sloane. I just thought getting the shock over all at once might be best, rather than seeing me . . . Then I realized I should have done the opposite . . . That would have been better . . .”

  He trailed off. Better than what? Showing up in person after nearly a year away without a shred of communication?

  “No. No. No. This isn’t possible,” she whispered as her body trembled.

  “Stay with me, Sloane.” Another hesitant step toward her. He held out his hands as if he could steady her. “I’m sorry, but I thought if I called, you wouldn’t believe me and that might have made it worse.”

  For the first time since Sloane opened the door, she looked at him, really looked at him, deep into his eyes.

  “You are not standing there. You can’t be.” She closed her eyes tight, her fingers now white where she clutched the blue door.

  “It’s me. Really.”

  “No. You’re dead. You wrote a note,” she whispered, just before the light faded from her eyes and she collapsed backward onto the hardwood floor.

  “Sloane!”

  Toren bounded up the steps with two strides of his six-foot-three frame and lurched across the threshold into a world foreign and familiar at the same time. But before he could fall to his knees next to his wife, Toren’s ten-year-old son, Colton, rounded the corner of the kitchen. He’d grown at least two inches. His eyes went wider than his mom’s had and his face turned ashen.

  “Dad?” His lips trembled. “What . . . what . . .”

  “I know, Colton. I know. It has to be a shock to see me.” He sucked in a quick breath. “I’m so sorry.”

  His son’s eyes narrowed. “You . . . you’re not . . . you’re not alive anymore.” Colton braced himself against the wall and shook his head, a perfect reflection of what Sloane had done seconds earlier.

  “Mommy?” The word floated in from the family room.

  Toren froze. He had to check Sloane, make sure she hadn’t hit her head, but he knew what was boun
d to come around the corner in seconds, so he stayed standing, his eyes flitting from the edge of the tan wall leading into the kitchen, to Sloane, then back.

  Please stay there, Callie.

  She padded around the corner, long dark hair pulled back, dark eyes flashing, more beautiful than he’d imagined they could become. Eight years old. Still living in the land of innocence, but she’d be on the brink of womanhood in an instant.

  “Daddy?” Callie’s lips trembled and she tilted her head to the side.

  “Yeah, sweetie, it’s me.”

  The shock of seeing him skittered away almost instantly—at least on the outside. She didn’t shake, didn’t speak, didn’t gape in disbelief. She simply sank to the floor, sat crisscrossed, and stared at Toren with a look of sorrow.

  “Mommy said you were never coming back.”

  “She didn’t think I was.”

  She responded by turning her head and staring at the wall. How could his daughter understand why the man she desperately wanted to love but had every reason to spurn had slipped back, utterly unannounced, into her young life?

  After a quick glance at Colton, who scowled, Toren knelt next to Sloane. She stirred, and he fought the urge to gather her into his arms. Not a good plan. But he couldn’t do nothing. He reached for her, but before his hand could take her shoulder, his son’s voice sliced into his thoughts.

  “Stay away from her. You just stay away from her!” Colton knelt down on the other side of Sloane, one hand on her shoulder where Toren’s should be, the other rigid, his finger pointing through the open front door. “We don’t need you anymore. Get away from us!”

  The thought to take control flashed into Toren’s mind, to tell his son the way it was going to be, but the thought was only mist with no substance, and the idea evaporated. All Toren felt for his son was love. And remorse for what he’d been, and the desperate hope that the change inside him was real.

  “Okay.” He nodded and stood but didn’t step through the door.

  “Please go!” Colton’s finger hadn’t moved, though his other hand was tenderly massaging his mom’s shoulder as she groaned as if waking from a deep sleep. Colton’s voice sank to a savage whisper. “Go! We don’t want you here. You need to leave. You’re not welcome here. Go, just go!”