The Man He Never Was

by James L. Rubart

  He faced heavy traffic the rest of the way back down I-5, but the 405 to Kirkland was clear and he pulled into his driveway at one fifteen in the morning. By the time he propped himself up on his bed and pulled out his laptop, exhaustion had taken over. The last thing he remembered before sleep took him was typing Dr. Ilsa Weber’s name into his computer.

  CHAPTER 24

  Ilsa Weber didn’t exist. At least according to Google, Bing, Dogpile and three other search engines. Toren sat in the backyard of his rental house, sipping on strong coffee and trying to keep a tight seal on his frustration. How could she not exist? She’d been on the show the night before. Fine. He’d go to the show. Ten minutes later he reached the producer of Breakthrough: The Weird and Wonderful World of Fringe Science.

  “Is this Tawny?”

  “Yeah? Can I help?”

  “My name is Toren Daniels, and I was listening to Carl Rodger’s show last night, Breakthrough: The Weird and Wonderful World of Fringe Science. It’s on Sirius and—”

  “Yeah, I know the show.” The woman slurred her words as if on purpose. “I produce it. Get to your point, please.”

  Toren didn’t think it would have been possible for her to say “please” more sarcastically, but with more than a bit of focus he kept the fuse of his temper long.

  “I want to find a way to reach Dr. Ilsa Weber, one of last night’s guests.”

  “Got it.”

  She didn’t continue. All Toren heard was what sounded like chewing. Then a long slurp. He waited till all that came through the phone was low static.

  “Can you tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  He pressed his lips together. Be the new Toren. The old does not exist. He could do it. Stay calm.

  “How I can reach Dr. Ilsa Weber. A website, e-mail address, social media page . . .”

  “It’s a pseudee.”

  “A what?”

  “A pseudee, you know, a pseudee. Lots of people have them.”

  Stay calm.

  “Sorry, what’s a pseudee?”

  “Her name is.”

  Toren finally got it and counted to five. “In other words, Ilsa Weber is not her real name. It’s a pseudonym.”

  “Uh, hello, that’s what I’ve been saying, yeah?”

  Toren tried to stay kind, and he did, sort of, but he also raised his voice and got to the point. “Give me her real name. And the shortest way to reach her. Right now.”

  Surprisingly, Little Miss Sunshine didn’t seem upset when she responded. She actually got nicer.

  “You know, I’d have no problem giving you that info if I could. But I can’t. Sorry.”

  “Why can’t you give it to me?”

  “The doc doesn’t want anyone to contact her. Doesn’t want to be known. Weird. All these people get on the show and ask me to make sure we pump their websites and books, la, la, la . . . and here this woman gets on only if we promise to use a fake name and sign some stupid deal that we’ll never reveal who she really is or where she lives, blah, blah, blah . . . so like I said, sorry, she’s a ghost.”

  “Would a financial incentive help?”

  “A bribe?”

  “An incentive.”

  She laughed. “Nah, I really do like this job and they pay me enough, so I have to say no.”

  Toren hung up and jammed his upper teeth into his lower lip. His first truly solid clue. He was certain that Ilsa Weber was a cog in the machine that transformed him during his eight months away.

  He had to get back there, to where he’d been for eight months, to the red rocks, to the classroom, to wherever there was. Had to have faith. Had to believe the woman at the birthday party was right and answers would come. Had to believe Eden that the way to the truth was down the path of love.

  Toren set his phone on the wooden table on the back patio. He snatched the booklet out of his back pocket and riffled through its pages. Stopped and worked on more memorizing of Scripture. Focused on the principles of a godly life. Repeated them out loud three times, four times, six times. Then meditation. And singing even though the sound only seemed to flutter to the ground. He shoved a deep sigh through his teeth. It wasn’t working. Deep inside, he felt anger stirring.

  Finally, after half an hour more of futility, he prayed. For Colton and Callie and then for Sloane till tears came, over what he’d done to her. He begged God’s forgiveness, begged Sloane’s forgiveness, placed her in the center of his mind’s eye, went over every moment with her since he’d been back, savoring the time even though it cut him to the marrow of his soul.

  He thought of seeing her framed by their front door, seeing her in the coffee shop the first time, seeing her there the second time, discovering a tiny scar on the back of her neck and—

  Toren’s eyes flew open and he gasped. “No!”

  Sloane’s scar. He remembered where it came from.

  CHAPTER 25

  How could he have forgotten? It had happened in August, around a month before he’d left. They’d planned to watch a movie, and he’d been sitting in their media room waiting for her to come in. He was agitated from a less-than-stellar workout earlier in the day and a call from his barely available agent, who had told him no team would talk about Toren getting a tryout, even if someone got hurt in preseason or early in the schedule.

  After ten minutes he got up to find out what was keeping her. He found her in the kitchen at the sink, staring out the window into the darkness.

  “What are you doing? I thought we were going to watch a movie.”

  “We were.” She didn’t turn. Her voice was slow. “But then it happened.”

  “What happened?”

  “It surprised me. I didn’t expect it.” She turned, her eyes somber, a little puff of resigned laughter on her lips. “I thought it would come in a wave, along with a flurry of emotions, but it settled on me like a feather, without emotion, just a few minutes ago.”

  “Am I supposed to understand that?”

  “No. But I do, and that’s enough.”

  “You’re not going to tell me.”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “It’s okay.” She tossed him a sad smile and turned back to stare out into the darkness.

  “You’re going to refuse to tell me.”

  “Yes.” Sloane gripped the edge of the sink with both hands.

  “But you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Then can we go watch the movie?”

  “No, Toren. I’m not going to be watching movies with you anymore.”

  “Okay, let’s do a slice and dice on the fog and get some clarity. What is going on with you? What happened?”

  Sloane raised her chin, eyes toward the ceiling, and took a long breath in and out before answering.

  “The camel has been carrying an extremely heavy load for a long time. And today, the final straw, barely heavier than a daffodil, was placed on top.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You. You placed the straw. And my back broke once and for all.”

  Her voice dropped in volume, slower now, almost gentle. Not good. It meant she had been thinking about this conversation for a long time. There was little emotion behind her words. Just logic. And conviction.

  “What did I do? Just get it out. What is the major screwup that I accomplished that has sent you over the edge into the abyss?”

  “I haven’t gone over any edge.” Sloane’s voice grew even calmer. “I actually just pulled myself back from the edge, where I’ve been living for a long, long time.”

  “Are you going to tell me?” Toren stepped toward her. “Tell me what I’ve done?”

  “I’m sorry.” She turned toward him and slumped back against the kitchen counter. “But I’m finished. There’s nothing left. I can’t do this any longer.”

  “Do what?”

  “Us.”

  “What do you mean you can’t do us?” Toren jammed his f
ists into his hips. “Divorce? Is that it, huh? Is that what you’re driving at? Go ahead, say it.”

  “Divorce? Probably. Maybe not. I don’t know yet. All I know is I can’t live with you under the same roof anymore. You’re going to move out. If you won’t, then I’ll move out. Because I will no longer pretend things are well between us. I’ll no longer pretend you haven’t broken my heart a thousand times when you vowed to stop losing it in front of the kids and in front of me.”

  Sloane turned on the water and ran it over her hands, massaging them slowly.

  “I know you mean well. I know in your heart you love me. But your anger has shouted another message for years now.”

  Toren rocked his head back as he tried to quell the rage stirring inside. Heat simmered, then boiled in his head. No. He had to get control. Bolt down the lid. Fight! He jammed his hands into his front pockets and found his keys there and squeezed them, their jagged edges digging into his fingers.

  “Sloane? Let’s figure this out. Just tell me what I did and I promise I will fix it. Whatever it is, I’ll take care of it.”

  “Don’t you understand what I’m saying? I have figured it out. I’ve lost heart. My heart. I tried and tried and tried, but I can’t get it back. It’s gone.”

  “Knock it off. I get it. Just tell me what I did.” He ground out each word. “Then we’ll fix it. What was it? What did I do? What was this catastrophic daffodil?”

  She turned off the water, wiped her hands on a towel, then squeezed her eyes shut. She leaned back against the counter, hands out to her sides, bracing herself.

  “Just tell me.”

  Sloane didn’t open her eyes. “I was here, in the kitchen earlier today, washing out the frying pan from breakfast. I glanced out to the left. You were out there. So was Colton.”

  “Yeah, what about it?”

  “He was practicing throwing and missed the net and hit you in the leg.”

  Toren rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I got a little hot . . .”

  “A little? You screamed at him for a full minute.”

  “But I got it together.” Toren opened his palms. “Did you see that part? I told him I was sorry.”

  Sloane just shook her head, then opened her eyes and peered straight at him. “You still don’t get it.”

  “That’s your big cataclysmic straw? That I yelled at Colton?”

  “No.” Sad smile. “Like I said, it was just a daffodil. A feather.”

  “You cannot be serious.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Come on, Sloane. That’s crazy. I apologized. Told him I was wrong. Asked his forgiveness.”

  “And promised and promised and promised and promised it wouldn’t ever happen again? Did you do that part? Huh, Toren? Did you? Did Daddy kiss it and make it all better?”

  Sloane’s eyes seethed.

  “Don’t mock me, Sloane.”

  “You mean like you mock me or the kids when you lose it? When you lose it all the time?” She pushed off the kitchen counter and moved toward him. “Is it the king of mocking you’re talking about, or is there another version you’re thinking of?”

  The dull simmer of anger in his gut grew stronger. This was insane. The rage pressed up out of his stomach into his brain, where it pounded at his temples.

  “Guess what, superstar?” Sloane’s shouting ramped up another thirty decibels, and she strode to him and popped him in the chest with both fists so hard he staggered back a step. “Other people in this house can yell too. Not as good as you, no way. You’re the champ, but I’m a contender, and you’re teaching your son and your daughter to follow in your footsteps. Well done, pro! Well done!”

  “You have got to be kidding me. Really?” Toren yanked his hands from his pockets and slammed his fist into his upturned palm. “We’re finished. Do I have it right?”

  “Yes. You have it right.” She shook her head, all emotion drained from her face. “We’re done.”

  The rage inside Toren broke through to the surface. He stepped back from Sloane and grabbed a plate off the kitchen counter. He pulled his arm back, but it wasn’t his arm, was it? It was someone else’s. Had to be, because he was now deep inside himself, watching another part of him lose control. He shouted out to himself to stop, but the other part of Toren squashed the command, and in that moment a realization swept through him. There were two of him. A Toren speaking logic and truth, a Toren of morals, the one who desired to do the right thing; and another Toren, who only wanted to let the frenzy inside him explode.

  Time slowed, and from inside himself, Toren watched his arm move forward, heard a guttural cry surge out of his mouth, then watched the plate rocket toward their glass cabinets. Competing thoughts flashed through his mind in milliseconds.

  What have I done?

  Touchdown, Toro. You’re out of control. You’ll never rein me in.

  No. Please, no. This will destroy me and Sloane once and for all.

  Feels so good, yeah? Let it out, baby, let it all out.

  The plate smashed into the cabinets, and the glass shattered like a star exploding. Time slowed as Sloane ducked and covered the back of her head and fell to her knees. Toren staggered back, his lungs reaching for air that seemed to have been sucked from the room.

  He stared at Sloane as she slumped back against the dishwasher, moved her fingers over the back of her neck, then lifted them and brought them around to her face. She peered at the smear of blood on them and turned to stare at Toren. Her eyes met his with a mix of wonder and horror.

  “No!” Toren collapsed next to her and reached out, but she blocked his arm as if she were sparring with a partner in her dojo.

  “Get away from me.”

  Toren fell back, shame and remorse burying him. He’d never thrown anything. Never come even close. Never allowed his anger to spill over with this much force before. The sight of Sloan on the floor, blood on the back of her neck, shattered him. This wasn’t him, he wouldn’t do this to her—but of course it was and he had.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. Please.”

  Her head was down now, her hair covering her face. Should he stay? Leave? Speak? Stay silent?

  Thank God the kids were spending the night with friends.

  Time and silence stretched out like a blade. Sloane shifted forward, hair draped out in front of her, then sat up and pulled her hair back, eyes locked on his. She didn’t speak. No fear crossed her eyes. Steel came over them, and she didn’t look away as she moved her head to the right, then back to the left one time, so slow he could barely discern the movement.

  “Enough.”

  She titled her head back toward the cabinet above and behind her, eyes still fixed on his as her hand went to the back of her neck and returned, now covered in blood.

  Toren stood, glanced at the counter, found a napkin, and turned on the water at the sink.

  He moistened the napkin, then again knelt at her side. “Here, here, let me—”

  “No.” She grabbed his forearm and sank her nails deep into his skin.

  “Please, I—”

  “No.” Sloane flung his arm down and slipped into silence.

  “Talk to me. Please. Yell at me, scream how much you hate me, anything.”

  All he could hear for the next three minutes was the tick of the kitchen clock and the rhythmic stream of air flowing in and out of Sloane’s nostrils. Finally she spoke.

  “What you did just now? That wasn’t a straw landing on the camel’s back, Toren. It was an iron beam.”

  He knelt by her side for twenty, maybe thirty seconds more, begging God to fix this, begging God to fix him, knowing there would be no answer to either plea. Finally he rose, looked at his wife, and stumbled away, knowing he had to find a way to destroy the anger inside.

  Just before he turned the corner out of the kitchen, the whisper of Sloane’s voice floated toward him.

  “You want to make it back to the NFL? That’s your big problem, right? Have
to fix your anger issue to do it, yes? Well, now you have a bigger problem, Toren. You and me? We’re over. And there’s nothing you can do that will ever be enough to fix us.”

  He stepped back toward her. “Please, Sloane. I’ll do anything.”

  “Go away, Toren. Far away.”

  Toren pulled himself out of the memory from so many months ago, his brain reeling and his body numb. The scar had come from him.

  All he’d wanted after that was to change. He admitted all his promises were platitudes, vain attempts to keep his family placated. Toren didn’t run from the truth, but faced it and determined to do anything necessary to become the man he knew he could be. The husband, the dad he’d dreamed of being.

  He went to a counselor five days in a row, trying to face the darkness. He confessed and faced more truth, but they seemed to be getting nowhere. It was all too clinical. Toren asked his counselor how he could do more than understand. His counselor, a slim woman in her late fifties with blonde hair starting to gray . . . Toren couldn’t recall her name. But he remembered with crystal clarity what the woman said.

  “How badly do you want the change?”

  “With everything in me.”

  “How badly?”

  “With everything.”

  “How badly?”

  “With everything!”

  “Good.”

  With that she nodded and told Toren what it would cost. The fee was high, but he didn’t care. He truly was willing to do anything. The next day he wired the money into an account number she gave him for a bank in . . .

  “Sedona!”

  That’s why he’d left. He’d gone to Sedona, Arizona, to fix himself for good.

  His next move was obvious. He’d be on the first flight out in the morning.

  CHAPTER 26

  At six forty-five a.m., Toren hurtled through the air at thirty-five thousand feet on his way to Phoenix. An hour and a half after the Boeing 737 hit the tarmac, he raced along a highway with a smattering of cars on it, then turned onto a road that he doubted carried more than a few cars every day. A road he remembered. He didn’t know the exact route. Didn’t matter. He believed he’d know when to turn when he needed to turn. So far it had worked perfectly.