The Day Daniel Left

By Brandon Dean

On a gloomy day in 2040, middle-aged Daniel Connor returns home from an unfortunate doctor’s visit. With his wife by his side, he is soon visited by a dear friend, and together they finish Daniel’s account of the night of a special reunion—how those dearest to him, including a stubborn journalist, a police officer, an army veteran, and the one that got away, made their way to that night and how their lives have been altered since.

Weaving through childhood glory days to the endurance test that is adulthood, Daniel navigates several relationships and career opportunities, but he cannot escape the past. After a heartbreaking setback, he sets out for a new course in life and is ready to leave everything behind, unaware of what awaits him.

The Day Daniel Left is a novel about the subtle strings, which tie people together, loosening its slack as we grow older and how we eventually realize its ability to tighten once again when all hope seems lost.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984542755

Brandon Dean

Brandon Dean resides in Sevierville, Tennessee, with his wife, Haley, and two sons, Layne and Nolan. Promised Land is Brandon’s debut novel and his first published work. Brandon has been writing since he was twelve years old, and everything he knows is self-taught. When Brandon isn’t writing, he enjoys spending time with his family or watching baseball.

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Copyright © 2018 by Brandon Dean.

ISBN:      Softcover   978-1-9845-4267-0

                eBook         978-1-9845-4275-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 07/29/2019

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Contents

1    Autumn 2040

2    Spring 2010

3    1998

4

5

6

7

8

9

10    Autumn 2002

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20    2013

21

22    2000

23

24

25    Summer 2006

26

27

28

29

30

31

32    Autumn 2002

33

34

35

36

37

38    Winter 2017

39

40    Winter 2022

41

42

43    Winter 2039

44

45    2040

46

47

48

49

50    Autumn 2040

51    The Night of the Reunion (Autumn 2015)

1

Autumn 2040

Our car hums by the side of a curb, parked maybe fifty yards from the rolling hills where they lie. At least, that’s what I’m supposed to believe. But I can’t fathom it to be true. Inside the vehicle, I shake, even as the vents shoot out hot air into the front seats. Outside, it is a frigid autumn afternoon. I’m in the passenger seat, staring out into the green hills with scattered brown and red leaves dotting the landscape. They’ve been discarded by the mostly bare tree branches, which are trembling in the wind as I sit motionless in our heated Chevrolet.

Gray headstones pop up intermittently as I scan the area from left to right through the windshield. When I’m done, I lower my head and tell myself it can’t be true. She places her hand on my left forearm and squeezes. We can go home. This was a bad idea, she says.

But it was my idea. At least, I think it was. I can’t remember anymore. I continue to stare as clouds gather from the east. I am a long way from that night twenty-five years ago. It wasn’t like this at all. The air was warm as the sun slowly dipped beyond the mountains. It is a vivid image that thankfully still burns deep. Here, there is no sun.

She speaks again. Daniel, let’s go. We’ve had a big day as it is. This is too much.

Without saying anything, I open the door. Gravel crunches under my boots, and the wind swirls over my head, making me regret not bringing a hat. I walk around the car and begin my ascent up the hill.

She’s right behind me now. At least wear this. She extends to me a crimson fleece cap. I guess I did bring one after all.

The hike up this hill is already wearing me down. That’s what you get when you’re fifty-five years old and in my condition.

Now the earth flattens, but I’m lost. I realize she never told me which direction we are supposed to go. Thick, heavy drops of water fall from the sky, but they come down sporadically; I think there will be enough time. I look behind me. She scoots up faster to reach me, and deep creases between her eyes tell me she’s worried. She points to a white cross in the distance, the two o’clock position from where we’re standing.

Over there. She rubs my back. You still want to?

Now there’s thunder booming from where the heavier clouds are rolling in, and I think, Maybe I can’t. I can’t do this. If it’s true, if what I’ve been told is true, then I’ve already said goodbye, and I don’t want to do this again. Then my heart hurts, because I fear I’ll be doing this routine a few more times until the day comes when I don’t care to walk up this hill because I won’t even know why I’m doing it.

They’ll still be here whenever you do want to visit.

I nod, shiver, and listen to the crows caw and the leaves skim across the field. I make up my mind. I don’t want to be here.

Let’s go home. Tea and chicken pot pie. How does that sound?

It sounds good. So we leave.

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Back at home, her hands are warm on my shoulders, and this is no surprise. They’ve always been the best part of our relationship. After all, it’s her touch that’s reassured me through everything. Those years we were apart have only made me appreciate what we’ve had in our decades of bliss since that night.

I’ve pulled something out of a drawer in my study—a photograph. It’s of us, the gang, the group, whatever you want to call us. She leans in slightly for a better look. Might be time for another one of those, she says.

That night, that evening twenty-five years ago, has come up many times in my mind, and I’ve thought about what it meant to me, to her, and to everyone around us. Everything that happened was so unexpected I couldn’t begin to process it all. But on that dance floor, nothing had ever felt so right, as we slid across the wooden tiles, holding each other as our song played. She placed her hands on me then, and everything was going to be okay.

Now though, decades later, I think: Will it still be enough? When will the time come when she envelops me in her arms and I won’t be able to return the sentiment? We are currently enduring our hardest days; there is no question about that. I feel defeated, but she moves her hands up to my neck and kisses me on the cheek. She won’t let me give in, not yet.

My pot pie is piping hot, and I let it cool on my desk while the thick raindrops splatter on our windows. Files filled with important tax data and school business are neatly stacked. I swipe the wooden surface of my desk, and my finger yields no dust. I know I could not have been responsible for this. Did you clean all this up?

Who else was going to do it? she replies.

Now I look around the room and see that my filing cabinets are more organized than I ever remember. There’s a clean smell in the air—that satisfied sense you get when someone’s finished vacuuming and dusting. Something jolts in my brain. Weren’t you making tea? I ask.

Oh! You got me. I’ll be back.

There’s a knock on the door, and I hear her footsteps trail away from the kitchen and make their way to the front door.

Barb, my wife says, you’re here a little early.

I know, I’m sorry. I was running errands and finished earlier than I thought. Do you want me to come back?

Oh no, it’s fine. We’re not doing anything.

I rise from my seat and greet the ladies in the hallway. Next to my wife stands a tall, slender older woman with a long neck and grayish-brown hair pulled back tightly. She has what appears to be a black leather bag slung over her shoulder. She comes toward me slowly, and I embrace her, feeling beads of water on her cheek and neck.

How are you today?

Okay, I reply.

Did you guys make the visit? She seems hesitant to ask that question.

My wife shakes her head. We did, but we didn’t follow through. It was too much.

I nod in agreement with her.

We sit down on the couch and love seat in the living room, and soon we are all having tea, courtesy of my wife. The women talk of school business and classes and who might be the new people in charge. They act like I’m not there. It’s okay; I can barely understand them. Barbara glances my way, and then she asks about our doctor’s visit.

Not good, my wife says. Dr. Ambrose told us the meds need to be changes. It’s been almost eighteen months since we began the big one, and Daniel isn’t responding the way everyone had hoped. There is a long pause, as if the air around us were trying to choke back what everyone already knows. We should still expect his condition to worsen.

Barbara turns to me and leans in with laser focus, the kind I always remember her having. Danny, hey. I’m sorry about today. Do you still want to talk?

I take a deep breath and rub my eyes. We’ve been doing this for what seems like an eternity. At first, after the diagnosis, I loved the idea. It was fun to tell my story to Barb and have her transcribe the events in her own special way. But now, as the days wear on, I feel like a cancer patient after several rounds of chemotherapy. I just want all this to go away. I’m so tired and weak, and talking to Barbara is draining on me.

You don’t have to, she says. That’s the second time today a woman has told me I don’t have to do something, and that riles me up a little bit because I don’t want to be told what to do or what not to do. It’s my choice.

This can be our last meeting. She steals a look at my wife, who jiggles her teacup with her right hand. I have to finish this. If the day comes I completely lose myself, we can always turn to this story Barbara is compiling.

I think I’m okay for one more time, I say.

Barb slowly nods her head and reaches in her bag and pulls out a digital recorder and a notebook. Time has had a way of changing how people learn, act, and communicate, but Barb was always old-school when it came to her profession. This is how she’s always done it, and this is how she’ll always do it.

My wife goes back to my study and retrieves my pot pie, now much more suitable for eating. She asks Barb for any food requests. Barb declines. My wife says she’s going to go putz around the house, and I laugh, because who says putz anymore?

"Did we even say putz when we were young?"

I don’t think so, Barb says. "It wouldn’t have been a very dope thing to say."

"Oh gosh, dope. That was a thing, wasn’t it? What are the kids saying these days at school?"

Dan, if I told you, I’d end up breaking my recorder with anger, so I better not.

We share another laugh, and then she gets down to business. She holds the black recorder, her thumb over a thick button, ready to go.

Your story is almost done, but today seems like a crucial one to include. You didn’t receive the news you were looking for at the doctor’s, and you ended up leaving the cemetery prematurely. I know this is tough, Dan, but if you can, take me through what exactly happened and how you’re feeling.

So I do, and it’s hard. I start to tear up, but Barb holds it together. She has always been the strongest one in our group—well, maybe second strongest. She says our meeting here might be best put at the end of the story, as a way to circle back around, and I’ve never been one to disagree with Barbara.

After our interview, my wife reenters. The sky is only partly cloudy now as twilight takes effect in our cozy town. Barbara has a lot of work to do and doesn’t want to take any more of our time, but my wife is incredulous at that notion. We’re all more than friends or even coworkers. We’re family.

It’s all slipping away, Barb replies.

Don’t say that, my wife answers.

I know. I’m sorry. You know I’ll always be here for you guys. She pokes around her bag, and I figure she’s feeling for her car keys. Here. She pulls out a thick stack of paper in a sturdy Manila folder. It looks like a manuscript.

This is a draft of the story so far. I’ll add in today’s events when I’m done, and I still want to talk to you. But here—she hands it over to my wife—call it a sneak peek.

When Barb is gone, we return to the living room with the nearby lamps on. I ask her if she’s ready for this. She shrugs. I think she’s nervous, and I am too. But what are we going to do, not read it? We know it’ll be good. We know Barb will do me justice—us justice. We read the preface, which makes me smile, and before I get to the first chapter, I can’t help but think of the special time it all came together.

The year was 2015. The heartbreaking events of that summer set me on a course I had never dreamed of. My heart ached with the thought of leaving everything behind, but it had to be done. A few months later, on a warm autumn night, I found myself on the steps of a banquet hall, ready for a final goodbye to my second family. I had promised someone I would at least make a small appearance before I left town. But as I climbed the marble steps, I had a change of heart, and one of my great lessons in life is that hearts can change—quickly even. My journey up to that moment had taken more out of me than I ever thought possible. So my past life needed to stay where it belonged. That was the day I left.

2

Spring 2010

The reunion is the reason for this story, but I have to back up a little bit. You know what? I’m probably going to back up a ton. And if the tone of the preface was a bit too sentimental, I’m sure Barbara will do a splendid job in jazzing it up to make it more fun. I’ll also leave it to her to fit the pieces of the puzzle correctly. Our journey to that night really doesn’t begin in a specific place or time. Everything I’ll talk about is connected here, and I suppose a good place as any to start would be the day I moved into my first apartment. It was one of the most anxious days of my life—also one of the more exhausting ones. I slumped on the couch, too weary to move one more muscle or lift one more finger. Sunlight washed over me through the open blinds. It was all I could do to move my face from the rays. Mom backed her way in through the door.

I think that’s the last of it, she said, carrying a medium-sized box of clothes. I know I should have taken it from her, but she was always willing to show off how strong she could be, especially in middle age. She stretched her back and gazed around a cluttered living room. There it was: I was all moved in.

I’m still not sure about this place. Why couldn’t you have moved in with Edina? Weren’t you two supposed to room together at one point? she said.

She’s gone again, I sighed. Never in the same place for long.

My pad was on the east side of town. It came cheap, but considering this was not the gentrified area it would become—Mom must have used the word shady to describe it a thousand times—I wasn’t going to take it if rent had been a dollar more per month. I should have been elated right then at having finally achieved true independence, but there wasn’t anything I wanted more than cool water running down my face and a sedative to relax my body. It was killing me. Three days’ worth of moving with little help will do that to you. I’m telling you, you can go to the gym and lift all the heavy weights you want, but until you carry tables, desks, drawers, couches, and boxes of stupid crap from one house to another practically by yourself, you really haven’t tested your tolerance for physical stress.

Next time, we’ll hire movers, I said. This was a bad idea.

"This was a cheap idea, which was the best idea, Mom corrected me, still catching her breath. But yes, hopefully next time, we can get you movers. She went to the fridge and pulled out two water bottles and lobbed me one. You really do look worn out."

I’m telling you, I can’t move.

Where are you sore? She took a seat next to me on the couch.

I motioned to my shoulders.

She moved forward, thankfully closed the blinds, and was able to work on my left side, as I was turned on my right. Boy, did that feel good. Mom’s magic touch.

You still got it, I said.

Like riding a bike.

You should have gone to school for this.

Dad and I always thought Mom should have been a professional masseuse. It was too risky, she said. There was never going to be steady money in that. So she stayed in an office her whole career. Better to be safe than sorry, I guess.

I like making my family feel good. I don’t know if I’d want to touch some old, wrinkly guy.

I couldn’t argue with her over that image.

Are you going to be okay tonight? she asked. First night out of the house. All alone, you grown up, you.

It’s not like I’ve never spent the night somewhere else. I’ll miss you, but I’m excited.

Probably not more than your father.

Dad had wanted me gone for a few years now. He grew up old-school, in that once you turn eighteen, you should be looking for somewhere else to go. He didn’t understand that times were different and that the economy had changed. Kids were staying with their parents longer. You had to make the smart choice, and if that meant living with your folks even after you graduated college, so be it. Back then, I ran into plenty of people who graduated college like me, even those with fancier degrees, who couldn’t make it out there in the world. There was loan debt, limited job openings—you name it. That meant a lot of people constantly reevaluated their career and either went back to school (more debt) or took part-time jobs that turned into full-time ones (which meant full-time unhappiness).

As for me, I wanted to coach. It gave me an opportunity to be outside, playing ball with kids, and not stuck inside an office. I presided over youth teams, but the proudest title I held was junior high baseball coach at my alma mater, Trinity Academy. Doesn’t sound like much, right? Don’t scoff! I loved representing our Mighty Saints from the dugout, just as I had done years ago from second base, wearing the navy blue and black as a wide-eyed youngster. My goal was to one day run the high school program. Mom wanted me to go back to school and get a credential or a master’s in education. I always dreamed in small pieces; all I wanted was a simple job with a simple life. But she saw the bigger picture and tried to plan for me so that I might be prepared to handle a tougher challenge.

Trinity had undergone a regime change after I graduated high school. Something about money mismanagement by the previous administration. There were even community meetings over who should step in. Eventually, a pastor and his family from Texas grabbed the reins. Nice people—at least I think, because believe it or not, I barely saw them. They weren’t as personable as the administration and staff I grew up with. In fact, there was only one teacher I knew who stayed behind after the change.

The problems weren’t going away. Trinity was losing money, losing kids to other schools, and taking in more delinquent ones. Our image was taking a big hit. Through it all, I was blindly optimistic, though you’re probably wondering why I would be moving into a place of my own when there was economic uncertainty. In my defense, aside from the place being relatively cheap, I had enough money saved up, and lastly, sometimes you have to live and learn. Isn’t that how it always goes?

Dad was happy now that I was moved out, because he could use my room as his man cave. The garage wasn’t an option for that; it was too crammed, and depending on the season, it was either too humid or frigid. I knew he’d spend most of his time in my old room.

Sometimes I’m amazed that you guys are still together, I said to Mom, which elicited a laugh.

Me too.

Is that supposed to be funny? I said, half turning in surprise.

When you get older, you’ll realize you just have to laugh sometimes at the way things are. Like this for instance. She pointed to her forehead. New wrinkle, just came in two days ago. But you know, I’m done freaking out about stuff like that. My stomach’s a little bigger, and I have to get my hair dyed much more frequently. It’d be too much for me unless I wanted to torture myself.

So you stay with Dad because you wouldn’t be able to find anyone else?

Her grip tightened, and her nails dug into my skin at my playful jab. Then she loosened up. No, not exactly. But I guess if he wants to have more time to himself, it will give me the same opportunity. Maybe at this age, it’s not a bad thing. She patted me three times on the shoulder.

Now you can do the other side?

Sorry, kid. I have to get ready for dinner tonight. We’re eating with the neighbors. Pasta night. She got up and grabbed her keys.

I miss your home cooking already.

Something caught Mom’s eye. She bent down and reached into a box. When she stood up, she held a weathered brown baseball glove. Ah yes, the famous Chipper glove. Lots of memories with this one.

And with her.

Daniel, don’t go thinking about her again. We’ve been over this. She paused and punched the pocket of the glove a couple of times, like she was an actual player. All she needed was a wad of chewing gum in her mouth, and I would have sent her out to pinch-hit. Maybe you can pass this down to your own kid someday.

Don’t hold your breath. I don’t even know what I’m having for breakfast tomorrow.

You sure you’re going to be all right? I’m going to worry about you being over here.

I’ll be okay. I struggled to turn myself over completely. Once I can actually move again, I’ll be able to fend for myself.

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That night, after a cool shower, I dragged myself to my room, still limp and almost lifeless. The celebration of living my first night out on my own would have to wait. Still, as I tried to sleep, I couldn’t stop thinking about this step in my life. Daniel Connor was officially a big boy. I kept playing the Huggies Pull-Ups song in my head. Mommy, wow! I’m a big kid now. That kind of depressed me because I remember watching those commercials as a little kid, in a big house with my parents, where everything felt safe and comfortable. Now I was here, listening as fast motors rumbled down