The Man He Never Was

by James L. Rubart

“Keep working with all that reclaimed wood, building tables, nightstands, keep doing custom jobs for people to keep a little money flowing in. Turn it into a business, I’m thinking. If I don’t make it back to the field, I can’t keep living off what I saved from my playing days forever.”

  “It’s a good plan.” Quinn downed the last of his smoothie. “So what happens next with Sloane and the kids?”

  “It’s already in motion.”

  CHAPTER 9

  On Friday afternoon, Sloane went to her mailbox, grabbed the postcards promising thousands of points at luxury hotels, bills, and her fitness magazine along with a letter that doubled her heart rate. She knew the handwriting on the front of the square envelope as well as she knew her own, even though she hadn’t seen it in months. Written in blue ink. Toren’s.

  Four months back she’d finished tossing out all his old letters to her, cards, anything and everything with his penmanship on it. It had been difficult at the time, but she’d done it to be free of him. Free of the pain, free of the memories of when she’d loved him.

  A groan pressed its way out of her throat as she stuffed the white envelope into the middle of the mail and slogged back up the long driveway. No. She wouldn’t read it. What would be the point? It would be full of how he’d gone away to figure out how to truly change and a miracle had happened, so now she needed to give him one more chance, and this time would be different, blah, blah, blah.

  She should head for the garbage and shove it deep into the green can. But her feet didn’t turn. Crazy. What was wrong with her? A feeling stirred deep down. She squashed it, but before she finished, a word formed in her mind: hope. No. Not possible. Toren was dead. Not physically. But in every other way he had perished from her life, and no resurrection was coming.

  Sloane stumbled into the house and flung the mail to her right. She watched it separate as if in slow motion and flutter to the carpet, the couch, and what used to be Toren’s favorite chair. She should have tossed that out alongside his old love letters.

  She looked away, rubbed her palm over her eyes, and looked back at the mail. Come on. No question God had a sense of humor, but this wasn’t funny. She shuffled toward Toren’s old chair. His note had made a perfect landing, right side up, stuck between the back and the cushion, perpendicular to the ground. She reached for the envelope and stared at the writing, which eons ago made her heart pound in a good way, and now in the opposite way.

  Sloane hesitated, then reached for the note and lifted it from the chair, her fingernails scraping the brown leather. She carried it at arm’s length, staring at it as if it were infected with a virus. In a strange sense, it probably was. She’d slowly slipped into the illness his virus had caused for the past three years.

  His anger on the field always bothered her, but she wasn’t the only football wife whose husband transformed into a different man when he played. But he’d never brought his work home with him. Till he stopped playing. His anger wasn’t much at first, but then it became more frequent and more intense. And then the final straw, and then a month later he disappeared. Ever since that day, life had continued to get better. Now? She pushed the future from her mind.

  Sloane reached the kitchen, threw the note on the counter as if it were a Frisbee, and watched it slide across the speckled granite till it bumped into the backsplash, its lettering now upside down and unreadable from this distance. Sloane stared at it, arms crossed hard across her chest, her emotions doing battle inside. She glanced at Callie’s school book—one of Shakespeare’s plays rewritten for children—then back to Toren’s note. She laughed bitterly at the irony. To read or not to read, apparently that was the question.

  It wasn’t truly a question. She would read it. Of course she would. Had to. If she didn’t read it and didn’t do whatever he wanted her to, he would keep sending notes until she did respond. Might as well get it over with. But not inside. Outside, where she could leave any emotions that might try to break out with the Douglas fir trees towering over her backyard.

  Sloane strode around the end of the counter, snatched the note off the granite, and pushed through the door into her backyard. The waterfall they’d had built seven years ago was chortling away as if it didn’t care that Toren had shown up and her life was now threatening to come unglued. She eased down the path that circled her acre-and-a-half backyard and didn’t stop till she reached the gazebo at the far end of the property, which overlooked a lush greenbelt.

  The gazebo roof was covered in moss half an inch thick, and leaves filled the edges of the floor. It looked like no one had stepped inside in months, which was precisely the case. She made her way to the table in the middle, brushed off one of the chairs, and sat. A robin landed on the railing on the far side of her and cocked its head.

  “Would you like to take a look at Toren’s stupid note and tell me whether I should read it or not?”

  The bird responded by hopping a few inches closer, then cocking its head left and right, and finally turned and flew off.

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  She held her breath and pulled a stiff square of paper out of the envelope. Handwritten in thick blue ink. She smiled in spite of herself. He was still using Sharpies to scrawl his notes. It was the only thing he’d written with since before the day they’d met. Sloane set the envelope on the table, lifted the note, and read the words of the man she thought she’d never see again.

  Hello, Sloane,

  Let me start by apologizing once again for appearing on your doorstep without warning. I was hoping to ease the shock of discovering I was still alive, not exacerbate it. I clearly did the latter, so I ask for your forgiveness as well as for Colton’s and Callie’s.

  I of course have no way of knowing if you’re reading this note or simply tossed it in the garbage, but if you have chosen that path, I can’t blame you. I don’t want to upset your life or change it or even enter it again.

  Actually, that’s not true. I do want to be in your life again. I’m begging God every hour for that to happen. I want to be in Colton’s and Callie’s worlds again. But after seeing you and witnessing what my being alive did to you, I realize that’s a long road that I might never get to go down.

  All I want at this point is to see you once more, sit down with you one last time, and try to explain what I think has happened to me. I don’t need much more than ten minutes or so, but I think it’s important.

  Will you consider it?

  Yours,

  Toren

  Sloane snatched the envelope off the table and kicked at the chair next to her. She shoved the note back into its envelope and flicked it across the table. It came to rest hanging over the edge. What was she supposed to do? Easy. She’d write him back, tell him to say whatever he needed to say in a letter. They didn’t need to sit down face-to-face.

  The maddening part was the look in her kids’ eyes. Not Colton’s as much, but definitely in Callie’s. She wanted a dad. Needed a dad. Not Toren, but the man Toren had been before he stopped playing ball. The dad who played Barbies and pushed her on the swing for hours. The dad who had never broken her heart with rage or words no little girl should hear.

  Dinner started out quiet that night, as it had every meal since Toren had shown up on their doorstep. The memory of that horror had grown like a specter, becoming more solid every night till it hung over their table like fog.

  Between the meal and frosting-covered brownies, Callie gave them all a reason to speak. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a light-blue envelope. Square. Sloane didn’t have to ask what was inside.

  “I got a card today at school.”

  “From who?” Sloane said, even though she had no doubt it came from Toren.

  “From Daddy.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah.” Callie put her finger on one of the corners and spun the note in a slow circle. “Why would he make it come to me at school instead of having it sent here?”

  “What did it say?” Sloane took
another forkful of salad and tried to chew.

  “That he loves me. And misses me. And wants to see me.” Callie stopped the card from spinning and pulled it toward her. “Do you know why he sent it to school, Mommy?”

  “Because he wanted you to read it.” Colton tossed his fork onto his plate and it clanked with a dull sound.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means he knows Mom would toss it in the garbage can if she found it first.”

  “Would you have?” Callie turned to Sloane.

  “I don’t . . .” She hesitated. “No, I wouldn’t have, of course not, but yes, the thought would have crossed my mind.”

  “That wouldn’t have been the honest thing to do.”

  “No, Callie. It wouldn’t have been.”

  “I got one too.” Colton pulled a brown envelope out of his pocket and waved it.

  Sloane gave a tiny shake of her head as she stared at Colton’s note, then Callie’s, then picked at the remaining pieces of chicken dijon on her plate.

  “What did your father have to say to you?”

  Colton shoved the note back into his pocket and said, “Just that he was sorry. Asked me to forgive him. Said he finally understood what he’d done to me. What he did to you, did to Callie.”

  “That was it?”

  “Yeah.” Colton jabbed his fork into his potatoes. “Except . . .”

  “Except what?”

  “He said he was going to find a way to make it up to us. Show us he’s changed.”

  “He hasn’t changed. Trust me.”

  “How do you know, Mom?”

  “Because he did change. Hundreds of times. I’d finally get so frustrated at all his broken promises to stop losing his temper that I’d scream as loud as he did, trying to get him to fix it.”

  Sloane ran her fingers down her forehead, over her eyes, and down her cheeks. Maybe this was a dream. Maybe she would wake up and Toren would still be missing. Sure. And maybe the Tooth Fairy really did put all those silver dollars under her kids’ pillows when they were young.

  “Mom? You there?”

  “Yes, sorry.”

  “So you’re saying Dad did change.”

  “Yes. He did change.” She gave her kids a sad smile. “He’d count to ten when he started to get angry. He’d pin up Bible verses in the bathroom and on the dashboard of his car and memorize them, and he played worship music to try to calm his spirit, and he’d get up half an hour early to pray.

  “But the rubber band always snapped back into place, and he’d start losing it again and then he’d . . .”

  Sloane stopped herself. Her kids didn’t need to hear this. They sat in the silence of great intentions and shattered promises till Colton sat forward and leaned toward Sloane.

  “So what are you going to do, Mom?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re your kids.”

  “This I know. I was there both times.”

  “What I means is, we’re not stupid.” Colton gave her a lopsided smile.

  “I’m still lost. Sorry.”

  “Callie got a card.” Colton pointed at his sister, then at his pocket. “I got a letter. Which means the odds are really, really high that you got a letter or a card. And we’re guessing what Dad wrote to you is that he wants to get together with you and talk and try to convince you that he should get to get back in our lives and that has to happen somehow because people are going to find out that he’s back and it’s going to cause a bunch of people we know to maybe find out he’s not back here with us and that we didn’t have the perfect family and that would really not be fun and I agree with that and so does Callie because we already talked about it and . . . well . . . I’m asking what are you going to do about all that?”

  Sloane smiled as light laughter spilled out of her mouth.

  “What’s funny?” Colton said.

  “First, you’re much smarter than a ten-year-old should be, and second, I don’t think you took a breath that whole sentence.” She reached over and rubbed his arm. “What you said is exactly right. And, to answer your question, I don’t know what I’m going to do. But we are not forsaken, and the wisdom of the ages is ours for the asking. So tonight, as I lie with my head on my pillow, I will be asking, and I suggest you two do the same.”

  Sloane stayed up late that night, as if not going to bed could save her from having to ask God to tell her what she should do. But eventually, after she’d binged on three episodes of a show that everyone had raved about but that turned out to be mediocre, she gave in to logic, dragged herself off the couch into what could be called a standing position, and started up the stairs to her bedroom. She stopped halfway up and looked down on the silence. So quiet. Peaceful even. But a storm was coming.

  As she passed Callie’s bedroom, Sloane glanced down. A faint glow escaped between the door and the carpet. Callie’s light was still on at this hour?

  Sloane gave a soft knock that was barely audible and opened the door a foot. Callie was looking her direction, the light on the nightstand bathing her face in a golden glow.

  “Hi, sweetie.”

  “Hi, Mommy.”

  Sloane opened the door another foot and slid just inside the room. “You okay?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Callie nodded, and Sloane eased over to Callie’s bed and sat on the edge.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Can I say something that might hurt your feelings?” Callie pulled her pink blanket up tight to her chin.

  “Of course.”

  “What about something I know could hurt your feelings?”

  “That too.”

  “There’s part of me way deep down, I mean really, really deep down . . . that misses him.”

  The sensation of being shoved off a high cliff filled Sloane’s mind, but just as quickly something pulled her back.

  “Mommy? I’m sorry, but . . . I had to tell you.”

  “No, no, honey. I’m glad you did. I understand. He’s your father. He loves you.”

  “He does?”

  “Yes, I know he does. For sure, for sure.”

  “So what are we going to be doing about Daddy?”

  “Our next steps are pretty simple. We’re going to listen to God’s Spirit and trust that the answers will come.”

  Sloane kissed Callie’s forehead, switched off her light, then shuffled back across her carpet. Just before stepping into the hallway, she said, “I love you, Callie. So does the One who created you, more than you can possibly imagine.”

  She closed Callie’s door and let a tightly bottled-up sigh slowly escape. Then she took a deep breath and resumed her slow trek to the end of the hall toward her bedroom. But before she could reach for her doorknob, her son’s voice stopped her. Sloane turned. Colton stood with his door open five inches, half his face showing in the hallway light, his room dark behind him.

  “Hey, Colton.”

  “Promise me something, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Dad can be amazingly persuasive. At least he used to be.”

  “Yes.”

  “So if you do decide to go meet him, be strong. Fight, okay? Don’t let him talk you into anything you don’t want to be talked into, okay?”

  She shuffled toward him, and as she did, he opened the door wider. His face was tough and scared, an old man’s and a little boy’s all in the same moment. Sloane wrapped her arms around him and pulled tight.

  “I love you, Colton.”

  He squeezed back and gave her spine three quick pats before letting go. “Yeah, I hear you, Mom. Me too.”

  Sloane lay in bed, still awake as night crossed over into the first few seconds of two a.m., not asking for the wisdom she’d told her children she would seek. She wasn’t refusing to ask. The need simply wasn’t there. She already knew what she had to do. The Spirit had already spoken to her. She had prayed already and received a crystal-clear answer.

&n
bsp; Still, she fought it. Life had settled. She had moved on. So had Colton and Callie. Things were going good. Better than good. After so many years of being out at sea with thirty-foot waves crashing over her, years in which Toren promised to change, she’d learned to find peace in the midst of the storm. She didn’t need him to be her rescuer any longer.

  Sleep continued to dodge her attempts to wrestle it down. Two Ambien didn’t help. Finally she snatched up her cell phone, tapped in the cell number Toren had written on the bottom of the card, then wrote a quick text.

  Tomorrow. 9am. Jana’s coffee shop. Ten minutes for you to say whatever you need to say. Then i’m gone.

  Three minutes later she was asleep.

  CHAPTER 10

  Toren was five minutes out from the coffee shop when his cell rang. Unknown number.

  “Hello?”

  “You moron, I thought I’d lost you to the great beyond.”

  The thick voice on the other end of the line raised a slew of competing emotions. Hope. Regret. Shame. Peace.

  “Coach?”

  “What were you thinking, disappearing for a year?” Coach swore. “I thought you were dead.”

  “I didn’t know you were keeping track of me. Didn’t know if we were still talking to each other.”

  “Don’t be an idiot. I’d die for you, Toren.”

  The words stunned Toren. Coach had always been a rock for him, but more in actions than in what Coach would call sentimental babble.

  “I, uh . . .”

  “Where were you for eight months?”

  Toren stumbled through the same essential facts he’d told Quinn. When he finished, Coach cleared his throat.

  “That real? About your temper? Getting it handled?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You keeping in shape?”

  “As good as I’ve ever been.”

  “Listen to me, Torrent”—Torrent, precisely what he’d been on the field for Coach all those years—“don’t give up on the dream. You’ll play again. I believe it. You have to believe it too.”

  Before he hung up, Toren said he’d be in touch sooner than later, and Coach made him swear to it.