The Man He Never Was Read online

  He tried to conjure images of what he’d find at the end of his journey, but nothing surfaced. He didn’t mind. Toren knew he’d been on this road. Once going in, once coming out.

  Thirty minutes later he pulled up to a large white stucco building with a small parking lot. There were only two cars in it and no signage identifying the place. Slivers of memory flashed though his mind. It was enough. This was the place. Toren looked at his watch. His kids would be in school. Sloane would be finished with her morning routine. He plucked his phone from the passenger seat and dialed.

  “Hello, Toren.”

  “Sloane, I—”

  “I only have a few minutes.”

  “This will only take a few.”

  “Fine.”

  “I . . . uh . . . a bunch of memories have come back.”

  “Okay.” Her voice was impatient.

  “When I asked you about the scar in the coffee shop? I didn’t remember. Now I do.”

  Sloane didn’t respond. A western meadowlark landed on the parking sign ten feet to Toren’s left and seemed to peer at him.

  “Anything else, Toren?” she finally said.

  “I’m so sorry, Sloane.”

  “I know you are.” She paused. “It’s okay. You’re forgiven.”

  “No. Not okay. Horrible. I . . . Maybe that’s why they wiped my memory, so I could have a fresh start.”

  “How wonderful for you to forget when I get to remember every day.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Like I said, I’m over it.”

  With that, she hung up, and Toren watched the meadowlark give him a last look and fly off.

  “Can I get you water while you wait?”

  The woman smiled at Toren as he sat in the lobby of the massive building. No name on the outside. Nothing on the inside. No literature to give him a clue to what this place was, and all the woman standing in front of him would say is that someone would be with him shortly. But he knew this was where he’d been. And when he’d asked to see the person in charge, the woman hadn’t seemed surprised or asked for a reason.

  “No thanks, I’m fine.”

  Another fifteen minutes went by before she showed him into a large room. Nothing about it stirred memories. Not a problem. He would get them from whomever they sent to talk to him. After another ten minutes, a door at the far end of the room opened and a man passed through with a walk that made it seem like he was floating above the dark acacia wood floor.

  He glanced at Toren and smiled gently, then fixed his eyes on something above Toren’s head. Toren knew this man, didn’t he? His thick dark hair was streaked with gray, his eyes gentle and piercing at the same time. He walked past Toren and went to the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at the massive land bridge a quarter mile away.

  “Hello, Toren.”

  Toren stood and took a few steps toward the man. Toren knew him, was certain of it, but that certainty was the only thought he could hold.

  “I know you, don’t I?”

  The man turned, his hands clasped behind his back, his voice soft as he lifted one hand and held out his palm as if caressing the view beyond them.

  “Do you know that this land bridge is the foundation of my work? At least metaphorically speaking. It is the perfect symbol of the bridge between the old man and the new man. Simple. Iconic. Yes?”

  Toren looked at the formation.

  “Can you see how the rocks on the left are harsh, unforgiving, a vertical face that would be difficult to climb? And then we see the rocks on the right. Beautiful, the slope easily accessible if you want to reach the top, and smooth. One side the good Dr. Jekyll, the other so clearly the nefarious Mr. Hyde. Inspiring the way nature would give us this image, don’t you think? Certainly a gift for those seeking true change.”

  “Who are you?”

  He turned and strolled toward Toren, his hands clasped in front of him now, his gaze like that of an adult extending compassion to a child.

  “In complete honesty, I’m delighted to see you, friend. But also surprised.”

  “Why? What is this place?” Toren motioned with his hands. “And again, who are you?”

  The man extended his hand to the chair Toren had been sitting in. The woman who’d greeted Toren reappeared with a tray bearing a water pitcher and two glasses. She set it on a nearby table and left them.

  Toren sat down, and the man sat beside him so they both faced the view of the land bridge. One minute stretched into two, and still he stayed silent.

  “I need answers,” Toren said.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because this is where all my questions have led me.”

  “And what are those questions, Toren?”

  All the questions he’d been so desperate to ask competed for the pole position, but the man’s earlier statement drove all other questions into the shadows.

  “Why are you surprised to see me?”

  A hint of a smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. “That truly is a question more pertinent than the obvious ones, like ‘Who are you?’ and ‘What is this place?’”

  He sat back and studied Toren.

  “I’m glad you like the question.” Toren frowned. “Are you going to answer it?”

  The man’s smile grew. “There is fire inside you. For the truth. Not the religious truth, not the way that seems right to a man, but truth for the narrow path. I saw it in you, but now the fire has been tested in the real world and it has not diminished; it has grown. Wonderful.”

  “So you’re not going to answer me.”

  The man leaned forward and patted Toren’s forearm.

  “The effect of your training here is wearing off, from what I understand. You were focused. Determined. But as your temper began to reemerge, you didn’t give up, give in, and hurl yourself over the cliff into the bottomless Mr. Hyde pit.

  “No.” He clapped his hands once. “You have decided to fight, to claw your way back to the source and unlock the mystery of what happened to you. Let me assure you, not many go on that journey of discovery. Well done.”

  As he spoke, more shards of memory sliced into Toren’s mind—of being in Arizona, getting on a plane, but it was like a jigsaw puzzle made of light, and too many pieces were still shrouded in darkness.

  “I was here.”

  It was halfway between a question and a statement. Of course he’d been here. The man had just said it, and Toren already knew it to be true, but he had no recollection of the experience.

  “But you don’t remember.”

  “No.”

  The man extended his hand with his palm up, as a parent might invite a child to take it. Without thinking, Toren placed his hand in the man’s warm, dry palm. He held Toren’s hand gently and smiled wide, his amber eyes brilliant, then squeezed three times. Then he let go and leaned in, his mouth centimeters from Toren’s ear.

  “Remember, Toren, remember. Not with your mind, but with your heart. And when the memories come, hold on to the truth you’ve learned. It will serve you well.”

  “What truth? Remember what?”

  The man glanced at the empty water glasses, picked up the pitcher next to them, and filled them both halfway. He handed one to Toren and lifted the other in a toast.

  “To truth. To remembering.”

  Toren lifted his glass halfheartedly and drank.

  The moment they both set down their glasses, Toren realized how stupid he had been. Maybe it was the soft blanket of internal warmth that was the first clue, his eyelids dropping along with the feeling. Or simply a guess based on all the cryptic responses. The man had drugged him. But hadn’t he drunk water from the same pitcher? Toren slumped back in his chair as his eyelids won the war and closed.

  “Who are you?” he muttered, his mind teetering on the edge of darkness.

  “We’ll talk again someday, Toren. Don’t worry. Trust. Only trust.”

  CHAPTER 27

 
Toren dreamed, and the dream seemed to last for weeks.

  He sat in a semicircle of chairs that were too soft with thirteen others—six men and seven women who looked like he must have looked. Broken. Desperate for change. Willing to do anything. In front of them, the man with gray-streaked hair glided back and forth over the lush wood floor, a small paperback in his hand, his fingers covering the title.

  Clavin Sorken. The man was Clavin Sorken, and this was The Center. His Center.

  Sorken was speaking.

  “A son once asked his father, ‘How can I be a good man, a moral man, when I grow up? One who does good for others, one who loves well, one who cares deeply for the others around him?’

  “The father answered, ‘Once, my son, there were two dogs, one dark as midnight, the other whiter than Christmas morning snow. The dark dog held nothing but evil in its heart; the white dog held nothing that was not pure.’

  “The man stopped speaking till his son said, ‘That’s not all, is it, Father?’

  “‘No,’ he said, ‘there is more, but you already know the answer to the question you want to ask me, yes?’

  “‘I want to ask you what the white and the dark dog represent.’

  “The father nodded.

  “‘But I don’t need to ask you, because I already know,’ the boy said.

  “The father nodded again at his son and with his eyes invited the boy to speak.

  “‘The dark dog represents the evil inside me, and the white dog represents the good.’

  “‘Go on,’ the father said.

  “‘And the two dogs—if one is evil and the other good—must hate each other.’

  “‘This is truth.’

  “‘Each trying to win the battle against the other.’

  “‘Yes.’

  “‘So if I want to be a moral man, I must learn to control the dark dog.’

  “The father shook his head and said, ‘No. This seems right, but it cannot be done. You will never be able to control the dog inside you. It is a feat no man can accomplish.’

  “‘Then what can I do?’ The boy’s face grew pensive. ‘There must be another way, for there are moral men, good men who live among us, like you, Father.’

  “‘Yes, there is another way.’

  “‘What is it?’ the boy wanted to know.

  “The father only smiled, waiting till the answer landed in the stillness of the young man’s mind.

  “‘Whichever dog is stronger will win,’ the boy said.

  “The father smiled and said once more, ‘Go on.’

  “‘And whichever dog is fed the most, that one will be the strongest.’

  “The father grabbed the boy up in his arms and hugged him close.

  “‘Yes.’ He placed the boy back down and cradled his face in his hands. ‘So we must learn to feed the white dog well, and do everything we can to starve the dark one.’”

  The whole time Sorken spoke, he rapped the paperback against his palm in slow but continual movement. Toren couldn’t make out the white-lettered title. But now Sorken stopped and held the book out for each of them to see. Toren squinted. The Curious Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

  “You all know this book, I’m quite certain, but how many of you have read it?”

  No one responded, except for a nod from a woman who looked to be in her midthirties. She had peroxide-blonde hair and a runner’s figure.

  “It is not a rhetorical question, my dear apprentices. Might I see a show of hands, please?”

  Toren glanced to his right and left, but no hands went up except the blonde’s.

  Sorken raised his eyebrows, but it seemed mock surprise.

  “Then allow me a reminder of the story, for it will be at the core of your study and transformation here at The Center.”

  The thick-waisted, middle-aged man sitting to Toren’s immediate right set a beautiful wood clipboard with notepaper on it onto his lap. He clicked a pen to the ready position and looked up at Sorken, eyes bright.

  “Mr. Harris?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d prefer you don’t take notes. Don’t fret. The message all of you will learn here will be repeated till its truth is as familiar to you as your own name. We will immerse ourselves in these truths till they are you.”

  Mr. Harris hesitantly set his clipboard on the floor at his feet.

  “Thank you, Mr. Harris.”

  Mr. Harris nodded, his eyes now dull.

  “Now, where were we?”

  It seemed to Toren that Sorken knew exactly where they were, and only spoke the words to produce some kind of effect on all of them.

  “Ah, yes, I was about to give you a quick summary of Stevenson’s novella.”

  He held out the book and flashed a thin smile.

  “Stevenson apparently wrote the book in a torrent.” Sorken glanced at a sheet of paper tucked in the back of the book. “His stepson wrote, ‘Louis stumbled down the stairs in a fever; read nearly half the book aloud to us; and then, while we were still gasping over the tale he’d created, he slipped away, back upstairs, and continued to write. I doubt if the first draft took so long as three days.’

  “The novella is set in late 1880s London. It starts with Mr. Hyde trampling a young woman and being confronted by a man named Enfield. Enfield is repulsed by Hyde, his disdain for the man intensified when Hyde shows no remorse for his actions. Instead of going to the police, Enfield forces Hyde to give the girl’s family money. Hyde agrees, leaves, then returns with a check endorsed with the name of the respected Dr. Henry Jekyll.

  “A year later, Hyde murders Sir Danvers Carew with a cane. Jekyll’s lawyer confronts him for having any kind of association with such a man as Hyde. Dr. Jekyll promises he will have nothing to do with Hyde ever again. Hyde seems to vanish. However, not many weeks later, Jekyll’s lawyer hears of a mutual friend who has died of shock, and then the doctor secludes himself. His lawyer receives a letter with instructions to open it only in the event of Dr. Jekyll’s death or disappearance.

  “Soon after, Jekyll’s butler reports that the doctor has locked himself in a room and strange sounds are emanating from behind the door. Jekyll’s lawyer and butler break down the door to find Hyde’s dead body. They assume he committed suicide. Neither Jekyll’s body nor evidence of his death are anywhere to be found.

  “The letter explains that Henry Jekyll saw the good and the bad that resided inside his soul and sought to find a way to separate the virtuous side of himself from the darker impulses that often threatened to overtake him. His potions accomplished this and transformed him into a monster—a being free of the restraints of conscience or remorse, pity or feelings, a man consumed only with his own needs and desires.

  “At first, Jekyll delighted in becoming Hyde. He rejoiced in the moral freedom that the creature afforded him. He was free from the laws of the land and free of the moral law that raged against him. As time passed, however, he found himself turning into Hyde involuntarily in his sleep, even without taking the potion. He knew the unfettered evil residing in Hyde would cause untold damage to himself and his friends.

  “So Jekyll resolved to cease becoming Hyde. For a time this tenacious resolution worked. But soon he could no longer keep his raging malevolence at bay.

  “This was when the murder of Sir Danvers Carew occurred. Horrified, Jekyll steeled his mind against Hyde, vowing to construct an impenetrable wall of moral resolve. Jekyll believed with soul and spirit that he had accomplished his mission, and as time passed, it seemed his goodness had triumphed over his darker side.

  “But one day not long after he had convinced himself that Hyde had been vanquished for good, while sitting in a state of rest and solitude in a park, without warning of thought or emotion, he suddenly turned into Hyde. It was the first time an involuntary metamorphosis had happened during Jekyll’s waking hours.”

  Sorken again glanced around the room, as did Toren. He imagined the look on his face was the same as his companions’. Fear, revulsion,
shame—mostly shame for what they had been—and hope that they could succeed where Jekyll had not.

  Sorken closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and paced from one side of the group to the other as he finished the tale.

  “Eventually, perhaps inevitably, the good doctor’s potion ran low. His ability to change from Hyde back into Jekyll slowly ebbed away like an outgoing tide. With horrifying clarity, Jekyll accepted the reality that he would soon become Hyde permanently, and the good residing in his soul would vanish forever. In the end, Jekyll killed himself, ending the war with neither side winning.”

  Toren didn’t care for the glint in Sorken’s eye. The man took a drink of water from a thin glass bottle before resuming.

  “My fellow travelers? I realize this tale took a fair while to recount. Are you still with me?”

  A few looked ill—as if they’d never admitted the truth that they had a Hyde living inside them. Others looked angry, and they twitched as if ready to bolt for the door. Not Toren. He felt abject despair and exhilarating hope in equal measure. He knew Hyde lived inside him. He had admitted it after he’d injured Sloane, when for the first time his anger had turned physical. It was why he was here: to seek a solution, an answer, a magic potion like Jekyll’s, one that worked in the real world. A way to eradicate Hyde forever.

  “My brothers and sisters of the journey, how does this story make you feel? What rises up in you?”

  None of the men or women around the circle responded. Sorken gave only a cursory pause before continuing.

  “Why does this story resonate and reverberate within us with such viscosity? Why does it settle in our souls with such weight?” Sorken tilted his head and spoke the answer in a whisper. “Because we know it to be true. Absolutely, unequivocally true.

  “Why has this story been remade and retold hundreds of times in numerous ways—including more than 120 stage and film versions alone? Because in the darkest moments of the night, when not even the wind whispers against the silence, and the shadows seem to have overcome the light, a voice inside speaks and tells us that Hyde is alive and well in the fragmented, dark pieces of our soul.