Dying to Forget (11 page)

“Huh,” he says out-loud to the empty room.

I imagine my hands on my hips with a stern look of displeasure on my face as Sloan makes his way to the bathroom before undressing and crawling into bed. After he collapses onto his pillow he stares up at the ceiling for a while, gently caressing his lower lip with his index finger, lost in his thoughts about Sandy.

Oh, you just wait till you go to sleep. I’m going to scream so much sense into your brain tonight - even your dreams will be nagging you!

***

Though I have prepared a plethora of selfish observations laced with an extensive collection of colorful expletives to dish out to him, along with a heaping side of negative comments and a dollop of chiding remarks as the cherry on top of my planned tongue lashing, I fume silently in his head while he snores.

Just in the few weeks that Sloan has been my Assignment, I’ve grown quite attached to him. I understand completely why Mallory felt let down when I ended things the way I did. She must have worked so hard –
months
– just to have me quit on everything. I refuse to let that happen with Sloan and to my heart-felt delight, he’s making tremendous improvements. He hasn’t thought of the gun in days. He’s learning to take care of his body – internally and externally, which makes him happy. He’s making friends too; even if they happen to be older, sex-crazed, single-moms.

Sandy isn’t really that bad, is she?
I struggle to answer this question, because my first instinct is to say:
YES! She’s a HOOCH!
But I know this is ridiculous. She’s simply interested sexually in Sloan, and I can’t blame her for that. He’s gorgeous and on top of that; loves her kid. He’d never hurt her. But she doesn’t understand, not even a teeny bit, how messed up Sloan is. I know it all, and I don’t think she can handle it. I wonder if anyone really could. It would have to be the perfect woman. Perfect.

I hope you find her, the girl of your dreams…because if anyone deserves to be happy, it’s you, Sloan.

I save my near deluge of reprimanding for another time. Tonight, I’ll let him sleep in peace. Plus, I have to make a plan for the next few weeks. I can feel the darkness in Sloan ebbing away, and my grasp on him is slipping. I can tell now that our connection isn’t as strong. I’m not sure how his case will close but I know I want to leave him with the best possible future I can. I won’t fail him.

The wet pavement sparkles like glitter while the sun beats down on it after the second downpour of the week. I never imagined a city could look so beautiful after a rainstorm, but the hills of San Francisco shine and shimmer like something ethereal. Sloan takes the streets a bit slower now, enjoying his bike rides, but also more aware of the dangers of speeding recklessly. He’s starting to come around to the idea that he
may
not want to die just yet.

We pass the familiar corner with the magazine stand and José waves at Sloan from behind the cover of a Spanish
People
magazine. Sloan waves back of course and not long after we are pulling up in front of
Steam
. I’m so familiar with the job by now that I’m certain I could be a master Barista back at the Station…if they had espresso there. I’m sure I can even do the little latte flower art with my eyes closed…that’s how confidant I am.

The ladies of the neighborhood (and some that I’m sure don’t live anywhere nearby) flock to the shop like crack is slipped into the coffee by the tablespoon. Sloan is much more relaxed around the forward women, which is great for him in the long run, but his change in attitude, and his friendlier demeanor clearly gives some of them hope that Sloan might actually call the number they slip to him on the back of their business cards and coffee receipts. And he won't, I know he won't.

I try to tell myself it’s not all Sandy’s doing…but I’d be lying. They see each other almost every day…having meals together at least twice a week. And this weekend Gabe will be staying with his grandparents. I’m a little freaked out.

Training was supposed to prepare all Volunteers for experiencing sex through their assignments but I truly do not want to go there with Sloan and Sandy. Not only does she annoy me incessantly but I don’t think she’s right for him, and even though right now he seems a bit happier, it won’t last. And then what? What if something happens between them after I’m already gone? I can’t stand the thought of Sandy hurting Sloan but it seems inevitable. Of course – he doesn’t agree at all. He’s on a Sandy-high with the perky-fake-boobs and the flirty I-like-to-touch-you-hands.
Bleck.

I’ve let my mind wander so much that I’m amazed to see it’s less than five minutes till the end of Sloan’s shift.
That was the fastest work day ever!
After he hangs up his apron in the back room and tries his best to avoid the small talk from the Barbie twins sitting at a small table in the corner, he hurries out the front toward the rack where he locked up his bike.

A harried-looking man in his forties leans against the nearby light-post with a folded newspaper in his hand.
Who reads those nowadays?
When Sloan reaches down to fumble with the combination lock, the man lowers the paper slowly and stares in our direction. I think I know him from somewhere but I can’t quite place the memory. But as soon as Sloan rises and turns to look up the sidewalk, their eyes meet and memories flash flood through me.

Oh no. Not good, this is not good.

“Sloan.” The man speaks his name softly, full of emotion.

I wait to see how long it will take for Sloan to bolt away on his bike but when he actually speaks it surprises both me and the man with the wire-rimmed glasses staring at us anxiously.

“Dad?”

Something changes behind the older man’s lenses. His eyes seem to warm a bit and it looks as if he might cry. Perhaps he’s been waiting to hear someone refer to him with that title for a long time…too long, I imagine.

“Hi, son.”

Neither men move, they just stare at each other. Finally the Barbie twins exit the coffee shop and one of them hollers out a goodbye to Sloan, which seems to snap him back to reality. He shuffles nervously on his feet as he carefully leans the bike handlebars against his thigh.
Maybe he’s not going to bolt, after all?

“What are you doing here?” Sloan asks the question with surprise, but not anger.

“Your girlfriend told me where you work and I wanted to see you.” He looks nervous, and rolls the newspaper in his hands until the paper threatens to tear.

“My girlfriend?” Sloan is shocked, rightly so…even though I know
exactly
who his step-dad is referring to.

“Sandy, is it? I went to your apartment and I ran into her downstairs. She said you were working…here.” He waves at
Steam
but doesn’t seem to be judging the little coffee house.

“Oh.”

Yeah, let that shock sink in…’girlfriend’.

“So, what are you doing around here?” Sloan tries not to sound nervous but I know he is. I can feel his heartbeat accelerate to a speed that shouldn’t be possible and his breathing is dangerously erratic. He’s actually
afraid
of his step-dad. I want to hug him, but I left my arms in the after-life a couple months ago.

Now it’s the older man’s turn to look concerned. “Should I not have come?” His masculine voice sounds tiny and hurt.

“No…I mean, yes, its fine. I’m just surprised, I guess. It’s been a while.” Sloan shifts on his feet again.

“Yes, it has. I’m sorry.”

Sloan nearly faints at the words. He grips his fingertips into the handlebars so tightly I’m afraid they might snap off like dry twigs. The race between his heart and lungs has ceased and as his heart rate plummets, I’m afraid he’s not breathing at all.

Sloan! Crap! Breathe…bend over - stick your head between your knees…something! BREATHE!

His bike tilts to the side suddenly and crashes loudly onto the curb as Sloan leans into his thighs, lowering his head between his legs.

“Sloan! Are you okay?!”

The newspaper falls with a flourish to the concrete and flops open to the sports page, while Step-Dad rushes to Sloan’s side and helps him to a bus bench not far from the front door of the coffee house.

“I’m…fine.” He sounds shaky,
not
fine to me.

“Good lord, you gave me a scare.”

Step-Dad is sitting on the edge of the bench, right next to Sloan, patting his knee reassuringly, and now I know why he’s so familiar…he has Mick’s eyes and mouth. The only memories Sloan has with his step-father are fleeting, not nearly detailed enough for me to truly know what the man looks like. Plus, the last few years haven’t been kind to him. His face looks gaunt and yellowish. He seems to have aged twenty years in just the last few. I think I’m as nervous as Sloan.

“I’m okay. Really, just…maybe I need to eat. Are you hungry?” Sloan asks hesitantly, as if prepared to be let down with a familiar rejection.

“Food…that sounds good. Let’s get you something to eat.” Step-Dad smiles, and there it is again…a little piece of Mick.

***

The Chinese restaurant that Sloan picks is one he hasn’t visited since I’ve been on his case. The place is small, with rows of dark-pleather benched seating lining the walls and several square tables with wooden chairs filling up the center of the room. Stunning Chinese artwork as tall as a person hangs inside polished wooden frames on the furthest wall, just behind the self-serve buffet counter.

“You still like Chinese?” Sloan asks.

“Yep! Still my favorite.” Step-Dad smiles in response.

Oh, now I get it. Sloan never eats Chinese…does it remind him of the family he lost?

We sit down at a booth, against the wall. There are only three other diners in the restaurant since it’s barely four o’clock. The men look around the room, taking in the pleasant Asian ambiance. After they place their orders the server returns with tall plastic cups of water and Sloan takes a long sip.

“I know it must be upsetting, me just showing up,” Step-Dad says.

Sloan almost chokes down the water, but manages to set the cup on the table calmly.

“Maybe a little.”

When the older man’s face falls, I’m sure it will shatter to the ground in a million pieces and the server will have to come to the table and sweep Step-Dad’s face up off the floor with a broom and dustpan.
Or, maybe they have one of those cool cordless hand vacs
. The image makes me giggle.

Sloan leans forward, concerned, “I just meant, it’s a surprise, is all. I mean, you said…you know…” he waves his hand between them.

“I know. I remember. I said I never wanted to see you again.” Step-Dad looks like he’s in pain.
As you should.
I think.

This time its Sloan’s face that falls but the image of his beautiful features in a heap on the floor is NOT funny.

“I should never have said that, Sloan. It wasn’t your fault…it was…an accident. Accidents happen.” Step-Dad looks down at his partially full water cup and drags his index finger over the condensation, causing a tiny puddle to form at the base of the cup. “It wasn’t right, what I said. What I did…leaving you. And your mom.” He looks up at Sloan then and I can feel it, the burning hot sensation that roars around inside him…Sloan is crying.
I
want to cry. I also want to launch myself out of Sloan’s mind and slap the hell out of this man!

You abandoned him! You left him with his drunk of a mother, when you all needed each other. You left him alone!

Sloan starts to say something but the server arrives at the table and sets three plates in front of them. Spring rolls sit in a tiny mountain at the center of the table, steaming deliciously. I
really
miss food.

For what seems like hours but is probably only ten minutes, they eat awkwardly. Chew-swallow, repeat. And repeat…and repeat. Eventually I can’t handle it anymore.

Ask him why he’s here…why now? Why tell you these things now?

I feel him shift in his chair. I KNOW he wants to ask these questions himself.

“Why now?” He asks with his mouth partially full of food. Rice noodles, I think.

Step-Dad lays his fork down on his plate with barely a sound. He looks up at Sloan and smiles sweetly, lovingly.

“Son, I’m dying.”

***

Everything crumbles around me…the foundation I helped him build up over the last several weeks shakes, rattles and rolls like an emotional earthquake.
Oh. Crap.

“What do you mean, you’re dying?” Sloan swallows the mouthful of barely chewed noodles in one forceful gulp.

“I have cancer, Sloan. I’ve had it for a while. I can’t do the treatment again; it’s just as bad as the disease.” He pauses to reach for his cup and his hand is shaking slightly. “My Doctor urged me to see you,” he pauses to clear his throat, “to say sorry…and goodbye.”

“Are you kidding me?” The anger in Sloan’s voice surprises the older man. “You walk out on mom and me, and let her kill herself with booze, now you come back just to say goodbye?”

The tension between them radiates outward like a nuclear cloud and soon other diners begin to stare at our table. The server returns to fill their water glasses and asks if they would like dessert, though neither has finished their heaping plates of food yet. After the short man scurries away after being unpleasantly dismissed, Step-Dad nods slowly, and speaks.

“You have every right to be angry, every right to hate me. I thought I hated you for a long time. But the truth is it could have been me that caused that…accident. It could have been anyone.” He risks looking up at Sloan.

I feel the tears coming again. “I’m so sorry,” it’s barely above a whisper, Sloan’s voice. Like a child’s.