The Man He Never Was

by James L. Rubart

  He wandered over to the west end, the farthest spot from the path, and settled down at the base of one of the largest maples. Toren lifted his cell phone and dialed Quinn. Would Quinn answer? Toren had little doubt. He was one of those with his phone stuck to his ear with Gorilla Glue when he wasn’t working out or practicing, and he was also one of the few people who would answer his cell phone these days without the caller ID telling him who it was.

  “Yeah, you reached Quinn, but you knew that, right?” A quick laugh. “But leave that message you’re dying to leave and I’ll get back to you as soon as I feel like it.”

  Toren didn’t leave a message. Of course not. What would he say? Sorry about being eight months late for our workout, but I finally woke up. You still at the gym?

  He got up and wandered back to the trail. Back to the hotel? Probably should, but his feet took him north, farther down the trail toward he didn’t know what. After a few minutes a phrase rocketed into his mind: To find true freedom, you must find true forgiveness.

  For a quarter second, maybe less, Toren saw a room with large windows, then the image was gone. He lunged forward in his mind to try to grab hold, but the picture melted like summer fog and all that remained was the phrase.

  True freedom. True forgiveness. Forgive what? Forgive who? Forgive his dad, of course. Toren had known that all his life. But how?

  Execute. Don’t think, just execute. Isn’t that what Coach had told him countless times from junior high all the way through his last game in college? Let your game play flow from the deep places. Get your brain out of the way. Don’t think. Execute. Do it so often, it’s automatic.

  Execute. Simple. But this wasn’t a game. It was life. Not simple to forgive.

  Toren closed his eyes, but before he could make another futile attempt at letting go of his anger at his dad, the anger at himself, his cell buzzed. Toren glanced down and heat shot through his body. It was Quinn.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, you called me about ten minutes ago. Sorry I missed it. Who is this?”

  A shiver flew through Toren. He was about to give his friend a heart attack.

  “It might be hard for you to believe who this is.”

  “Try me.”

  “Quinn?”

  What a stupid question. Toren knew it was him, but any clever ideas for how to tell Quinn he’d come back from the dead were gone.

  “Yeah, you got me. And now we’re to the part where you tell me who you are. You sound like . . . Well, just tell me who this is.”

  “Are you sitting down? You probably should be.”

  “Who are you and what are you selling?” Quinn laughed, but the laughter wasn’t true. There was nervousness in it, as if part of him recognized Toren’s voice and didn’t know what to do with the thought. “I’ll warn you, whatever you’re peddling, it better be good.”

  Quinn. The man who was everyone’s friend. Who was far from naive, and yet chose the path of believing in a person till proven wrong multiple times.

  Across the grass a bicyclist shouted, “On your left!” as she shot past a walker.

  “You know me, Quinn.”

  “Okay, like I started to say, yeah, your voice sounds like an old friend of mine. Almost exactly like it, but since you can’t be him, I can’t pin the tail on the donkey on this one. So why don’t you tell me and I won’t hang up on you and get back to what I was doing, ’cause you’re starting to irritate me.”

  “It’s me, Quinn. Toren.”

  Quinn was silent for so long the only reason Toren knew he hadn’t ended the call was because of the faint breathing coming through the phone.

  “Quinn?” Toren finally said.

  “Uh, listen, pal, I don’t know how you were connected to Toren, or what kind of a warped mind is making you do this, but it’s not funny.”

  “Listen to my voice, Quinn. This is real. It’s me. Really. You know it. I’m back.”

  “Like I said, not funny, pal. It’s sick.” He paused and Toren thought he might hang up. But Quinn continued. “You’re going to tell me who you are. And why you’re doing that lame impersonation of my friend. And if you don’t, I’m coming through this phone and I’m gonna bust you up, man. I’m gonna—”

  “Quinn Bernhard McPherson!”

  That stopped him. Few people knew Quinn’s middle name, which his parents gave him after some distant relative he’d never met.

  Quinn gasped. “How do you know that name?”

  “You and I met the first day of middle school, sixth grade, and during Christmas break that year I hung with you and your parents. Almost every night we snuck out and hung raw eggs over telephone lines at windshield level and watched cars get slimed.”

  “No one knows about that. No one.” Quinn stopped speaking and his breathing came through the phone in thick clumps of air. Then it stopped, and a few seconds later came out in a long whoosh.

  “Toren? It really is you, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it’s me, buddy. In the flesh. Alive and kicking.”

  “I don’t understand . . . Toren?” He sucked in another breath and repeated his name with disbelief hanging over its edges for the third time. “Toren. Toren. Toren.”

  “Yeah,” Toren breathed out.

  “This can’t be happening—”

  “I know. I know. I wasn’t sure if I should just show up at your house or the gym, or if I should call you first, or if—”

  Questions sputtered out of Quinn without giving Toren a chance to answer. “Where have you been? What happened to you? Why didn’t you let me know what was going on!”

  Toren let him go for a while before breaking in.

  “I’m okay, Quinn. I am. But now I need to—”

  “That’s not what I asked. I mean, I’m glad you’re okay, my mind is reeling, but I gotta know where you’ve been.”

  “I want to tell you everything. I need to tell you everything, but not on the phone. Can we get together?”

  “Yeah, sure. I mean, of course . . . Sorry, I’m still having trouble wrapping my mind around this. When you vanished and then there was never any trace, any explanation, it tore me up. Tore up a lot of people. The church . . . Wow . . . It was brutal, Toren. People loved you. You should have seen the memorial, man. Must have been five hundred at least.”

  “Yeah.”

  He tried to think of what else to say but couldn’t find the words. Five hundred? So Sloane must have let the illusion remain that he was a good man. No idea why, but it didn’t matter. He was going to step out from behind the curtain. Expose who he’d truly been to the blinding rays of the truth.

  “Yeah?” Quinn half laughed, half shouted into the phone. “That’s it? ‘Yeah’?”

  “For now. But there’s lots I want to talk about.”

  “Where are you? Right now, where are you? I’m coming over. Are you home?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Are you kidding me? Why not? What’s more important than being with your family?” Quinn blew out a hard breath. “Sloane and the kids had to have gone crazy when you showed up. Over the moon, over Jupiter with relief. She has to be planning a homecoming, a party, something. You have to have just made her the happiest woman in the world . . . and your kids . . . Oh my gosh . . . This is insane.”

  “Yeah, it is.” Toren tried to say the words with enthusiasm, but he failed miserably.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing, I’m good. I just need to talk.”

  “Yeah, of course. Sounds good. Honestly, I probably won’t believe it’s true till I see you with my own eyes. Crazy. You’ve made my day, my month, my year. When do you want to connect?”

  “As soon as you can.”

  “Right, right. Fine, fine, yeah, good.” Quinn laughed again. “Insanely cool. It’s really you. Okay, think, man! Think! I have a few things I can’t get out of—have to shoot a stupid car dealer ad in an hour—but then I’m free. Where? Do you want to meet at your house?”

&nb
sp; “No.”

  “What? You’re not at home?”

  “I already told you I’m not.”

  “And you’ll explain why when we meet.”

  “Yes.”

  “No problem.” Toren heard a smile come into his voice. “Then let’s meet at my house. I still can’t believe you’re back. Carol will be thrilled to see you. I’ll call her, make sure she’s going to be there . . .”

  “Quinn?”

  “Or do you want to be stupid twelve-year-old boys and spring it on her, you know, have you come walking out from behind a door or something?”

  “Quinn?”

  “Nah, that’d be stupid, probably scare her half to death.”

  “Quinn?”

  “Sorry. What?”

  “I want to see her again too, definitely, but before that I need to talk to you first. Alone . . .” He trailed off, not sure how to say the next part. “There’s a few things you need to know.”

  CHAPTER 7

  At two thirty Toren entered Sassy’s, a deli down near the shore of Lake Washington that had the best fruit smoothies he’d ever tasted. The place usually had no more than two or three customers at this time of day, and even when it was busy, people rarely sat in the booths at the back. Most people crammed into the tables at the front to listen to Sassy’s innumerable stories about the days when she used to be in the roller derby, or to watch her truly baffling mind-reading trick.

  Yeah, Sassy’s was the perfect place for Toren to tell Quinn what little he knew about what was happening to him. A place of good memories, where he and Quinn had hung out during college and the summer days before they both headed for different training camps their rookie years in the NFL. Quinn had always chatted with Sassy, stayed to hear her stories even though he’d heard them all before. Toren? Not so much. He liked Sassy, but she reminded him too much of his dad’s girlfriend. His dad had reappeared in Toren’s life only after he’d become a standout on UW’s defense.

  But he still loved the place. And it was a good spot to kick off a new life. That’s what he’d been handed, right? A fresh start. Nothing but a credit card, his driver’s license, sweats, and a T-shirt. New clothes, new car soon, new cell, and most of all, new soul.

  During the hours between calling Quinn and getting to Sassy’s, Toren had spent time in silence, time in prayer, time in meditation, contemplating how his soul had been transformed. Transformed. The perfect word. Something revolutionary had changed in the deepest part of him. For the first time in his life, he felt like he could love Sloane the way she deserved to be loved. New man. Utterly.

  Toren got there early. He wanted a chance to settle in, deal with the shock of Sassy recognizing him. He didn’t think she would, but if she did, he wanted to get it over with before Quinn arrived. Toren glanced around the shop, then settled into a booth at the back.

  Three minutes later the front door bells jangled and Quinn stepped inside. He stood for a few seconds, his expression blank, but then it turned to wonder and then relief. He strode over to Toren so fast all he had time to do was slide out of the booth and get to his feet.

  Quinn grabbed him in a fierce hug, which Toren returned with equal force. Still holding on, Quinn said, “I knew it was true, but not all the way till this moment. Insane.”

  “I know, that’s exactly what it is.”

  “Shall we?” Quinn motioned to the booth.

  They settled in, and seconds later Sassy sidled up to their table. “Hey, fellas, know what you’re going to be having?”

  “Hey, Sassy.”

  “Quinn McPherson?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Oh my, skittle my brains with an extra dollop of butter. It’s so fun to see you again.”

  “You too, Sassy.” Quinn grinned, his blinding white teeth in perfect contrast to his dark skin.

  “What’s it been?”

  “Probably four years. Maybe more.”

  Sassy whacked Quinn on the arm and he laughed.

  She turned to Toren. “And you, I know you, don’t I?”

  “Hey, Sassy.”

  “Wait, wait, wait . . .” Sassy tapped her forehead with her order pad. “Toren!”

  “You got it.”

  “Wait a minute.” She frowned. “Didn’t you disappear? Jumped on the outta-here bus for a year and no one knew where you’d gone? Or am I thinking of someone different?”

  “I was gone for a while, yes.”

  “Well, welcome back.”

  “Thanks.”

  Sassy took their smoothie orders and shuffled off.

  Quinn wiggled his forefinger at Toren. “You do realize you’re going to have to do a press conference about your resurrection. Better to get it over with all at once. Get ’em all together, answer their questions, and it will die down in a week.”

  It was the first time Toren had considered the idea. But he said, “Yeah, I know. I’m going to get it set up. Just not looking forward to it.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll only have one answer for all their questions: I don’t know.”

  “Huh?”

  Toren leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I have no memory of where I was, how I got there, what I was doing there, how I got back here . . . nothing.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Eight months. Gone. I have no idea why I didn’t call. No idea why I left. No idea why I came back.”

  “You don’t remember writing a suicide note?”

  “A suicide note! What are you talking about?” What Sloane had said in passing struck him with new meaning: You wrote a note.

  “In blue Sharpie—your MO, my friend.”

  “What did it say?”

  Quinn shrugged. “Only the police know, I guess. Maybe Sloane.”

  Toren shook his head.

  “Eight months of amnesia. Is this for real?”

  “Yeah, it’s for real.” Toren slumped back in the booth. “Which means if I didn’t do it to myself, someone did it to me.”

  “And you’re going to find out who.”

  “If it’s the last thing I do.”

  Toren told Quinn the little he knew, and when he finished, Quinn stared at him.

  “What a weird trip.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Give me anything. There have to be answers.”

  “I’ve given you everything I know.”

  A second later, Quinn blinked hard and whacked his palms on the table. “Hey, have you called Prinos?”

  “No, not yet. I’m thinking about it.”

  “Thinking about it?” Quinn leaned forward. “What do you mean thinking about it? You need to. Like, today.”

  Quinn was dead right. He needed to call, wanted to call. Peter Prinos to most, just Coach to Toren. Brilliant. Motivating. Won the conference championship Toren’s sophomore, junior, and senior years of high school. Almost took them to state their senior year. Then in a fluke of all glorious flukes, Coach got a shot at coaching the defense at the University of Washington. Guess where Toren got a scholarship? And guess who helped Toren get his shot in the pros by training him for the NFL combine?

  Coach. One of the most significant men in Toren’s life. From his freshman year of high school on, they’d had the classic, I-only-have-daughters-and-wanted-a-son-and-your-dad-wasn’t-exactly-a-model-father-so-let-me-be-a-father-figure-to-you relationship. He’d been Toren’s salvation on the field and off.

  “It’s been a long time since we talked.”

  “How long?”

  “Since the day after the Seahawks released me. Coach was pretty disappointed in me.”

  “Well, so was I—so were a lot of people. So were you.”

  “Said a lot of things to him I wish I hadn’t. Lost it on the phone with him.”

  “Let it go, Tor. I guarantee he has. You know exactly what’s under that eighty-grit sandpaper exterior. He never had a player he cared for more than you. Call him. You’ll make his day almost as much as you made mine.”

&nbs
p; “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll get around to it.”

  Sassy returned with their smoothies and they each took a sip, then sat in silence for a few moments before Quinn sighed and said, “All right, you ready to tell me what’s going on?”

  “I just told you.”

  Quinn cocked an eyebrow. “Come on. You know what I’m asking.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” Toren sat back in the booth. “Might as well.”

  “Tell me, Tor. All of it.”

  Tor. Quinn’s nickname for him ever since they’d met, eons ago. The only person who called him that. The sound of him saying the name again made three truths rocket through Toren’s brain, each one stacked atop the other. First, there was something special between the two of them. Always had been. A true friend. Second, he didn’t want to confess what he’d done to Sloane and the kids, but he didn’t really have a choice. Third, Quinn would stand by him. No matter what.

  “I’ve been living a lie.”

  Quinn looked up from under his eyebrows, his voice a whisper. “I know.”

  “What?”

  “I called Sloane on the way over here. Couldn’t stop myself. She did a good job. Told me what a miracle it was. How happy she and the kids were. Faked it so well I almost believed her. But not quite good enough.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah.”

  Silence again. Toren’s number was up. Time to trust his friend. Time to get authentic.

  “The temper I showed on the field never showed up at home. Till I stopped playing. Then it took up residence there in full force. The only difference was I didn’t hit anybody. But the language, the rage, the fuel that drove me on the field took over my home. And I couldn’t stop it.”

  “Junior high school, college ball, the pros . . . You always had an outlet on the field.”

  “Yeah.” Toren squeezed his glass. “But when the pressure valve went away . . .”

  “I’m sorry, Tor.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Toren stared at his friend, looking for understanding, seeing only challenge.

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “That’s the craziest part of this whole thing. I think that’s what I’ve been doing all this time—dealing with it. I think my temper might be gone.”