The Five Times I Met Myself

by James L. Rubart

  “I think you need to come home tomorrow.”

  “Why?”

  “I just do.”

  “Five days. I promise I’ll talk to my dad the moment I get home.”

  “Okay.”

  After they hung up, Brock turned and walked back inside. I’ll talk to my dad. It felt good to say the words. Now he was committed. And hope surfaced, unbidden and strong. Yes, he’d kept his dad at arm’s length, and yes, he’d tried at times to reach out, but why did his dad always give up so easily? Brock would go home and have the conversation, but he needed time to get ready for it. Prepare mentally, emotionally, spiritually. And Costa Rica was the best place in the world to do that.

  Brock spun through his meetings the next morning and afternoon in a daze. He was glad for his habit of taking detailed notes, because he couldn’t recall even a tenth of the conversations as he lay in bed that evening. His dad’s note and his conversation with Karissa kept pushing out all other thoughts. It was time. Within six days, he’d have the conversation he longed for and dreaded at the same time.

  The next day was the same, and the next. God might be in it, but the process was exhausting. By nine that night he was ready for bed. It was early for sleep, but he was ready to slip into a world that didn’t involve visions of coffee on his father’s luxurious deck overlooking Puget Sound. He tried to compose his part of a talk that might finally close the gulf between them, but the words didn’t form in his mind.

  When sleep came that night it came hard. He slipped into a dream where he stood on the stern of a boat as it crested a massive wave and then descended like an out-of-control roller coaster into the trough of the next wave. As he glanced at the star-strewn night sky the clanging of the ship’s bell grew louder. A warning? Of what? Should he go below deck? The bell increased in volume. Then it wasn’t the bell but the phone in his room shattering the dream and pulling him back into the conscious world.

  Brock fumbled for it on his nightstand and knocked it away. He leaned over and fished the phone off the hardwood floor. His sheets were covered with sweat, as if his body knew something his mind didn’t. He squinted at his watch. Three forty-five a.m.

  “Hello?” Brock turned and let his head fall back onto his pillow.

  “It’s me. Sorry to wake you.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Brock listened to Karissa’s labored breathing for a few seconds and heard the catch in her voice. The temperature in the room instantly rose ten degrees. “What is it?”

  “Your dad.”

  Brock asked the question he didn’t want to ask. “What happened?”

  “I’m so sorry, Brock.”

  Karissa’s sobs came through his phone in waves as Brock closed his eyes and covered his face with his damp palm. His dad couldn’t be gone. Not now. They were going to start to build a real relationship. Heal the past. He couldn’t be gone. It wasn’t possible. Brock needed to wake up. This was part of his dream; his nightmare.

  Brock felt four years old again. He was sitting on his dad’s lap in the days before the breakdown. Good days before the pieces of Brock’s heart had been shattered all over the floor.

  “He’s not gone, Karissa. He can’t be. We . . . there are things we have to say.”

  “I know, Brock. I know.”

  After he hung up, Brock went out on the balcony and let the numbness of the moment soak into him. He watched the sky turn gray, then red with the early morning light. Why would God do this to him? Why couldn’t he let his dad live another week? That’s all it would have taken. Even just three days.

  Chapter 18

  NOVEMBER 18, 1989

  Brock and Ron buried their father two weeks later on Saturday morning at Lake View Cemetery. The pastor and a few others must have said profound and heart-wrenching things about his dad, because when the funeral ended, friends and extended family told Brock how moving the service was and how beautiful the eulogies were. But his mind had been too numb to take any of it in. He couldn’t remember anything but snatches of his own tribute.

  His mind was too buried in the guilt of not having that conversation with his dad years earlier—the one that would have fixed everything. He allowed himself a sad smile. It probably wouldn’t have solved everything, but it would have been a start.

  After the service ended, as he studied the people who moved away over the grass, Karissa slid her arm inside his, pulled closer, and held his arm tight. “Should we go?”

  He didn’t answer, but Karissa didn’t ask again. Part of him wanted to leave, and part of him wanted to stay right here until his dad somehow spoke to him from heaven and said everything was okay; that someday, when Brock took the same journey his dad just had, there would be restoration between them. But the only sound came from a finch high in the weeping willow tree to his right. Finally Brock squeezed her hand and said, “Go? I suppose we should, but . . .”

  He watched the last of the mourners shuffle away. Their muted conversations swirled around his ears but he couldn’t make out any of their words. In a few minutes, Karissa and he would be completely alone at the grave.

  “I have an idea.” She slipped her arm free and faced him, her bright eyes searching his face for a connection point. “Why don’t I go on ahead and give you some time here alone? I can get a ride with Ron and Shelly.”

  “He’s already gone.”

  “No, I asked him to stay in the parking lot for a bit—just in case. I thought you might want a few minutes of solitude.”

  He loved her for knowing him so well. It’s exactly what Brock wanted, but given how torn up his emotions were, even he hadn’t known that till the moment she said it.

  “Yeah, if you don’t mind.” He took her hands and stared at them.

  “Take all the time you need.” Karissa kissed him on the cheek and whispered in his ear. “He loved you, even though you have a tough time believing it.”

  “I know.”

  “No, you don’t know that at all, but someday I believe you will.”

  Brock watched her stroll away over the grass, the late-afternoon sunshine lighting up her hair like burnished gold. Life would be a devastating journey without her.

  Brock closed his eyes and focused on the sun warming his face. His dad was gone and he’d blown it, but this, too, would pass, wouldn’t it? Maybe. At some point he’d face his dad’s death and the fact neither had been able to breach the rift between them.

  His dad would say Brock had only gone through the motions, that there had been many times where he could have made more of an effort. Probably true. No, it was true. No point in trying to justify his actions now that his dad was gone. He would need all his energy going forward to deal with the guilt of not being the son his father wanted.

  Chapter 19

  JUNE 1987

  Not long after he fell asleep the night after his meeting with Dr. Shagull, Brock found himself standing on lush green turf with the dew of morning still lingering on its blades. The smell of early summer combined with gasoline floated past him. The scene started to swirl and shift to the side of a mountain, but Brock brought the dream back to the lawn. Something was familiar about this place, and he waited for more of the surroundings to come into focus. A few seconds later, the sound of a small-engine plane firing up filled the air. Of course. He knew where he was. Harvey Airfield in south Snohomish. He’d spent two years here after college while working on his post-grad marketing degree, working on planes and studying for his pilot’s license, which he never ended up getting.

  He walked toward the shed and willed his younger self to come out into the midmorning sunshine. Seconds later, Young Brock appeared carrying a cup of coffee. Midmorning break, perfect timing. Which of course it would be, since he was the director of this mini play.

  The younger version of himself looked up when Brock was twenty feet away. He stopped, shook his head, then came on as if resigned to the fact he wouldn’t be left alone.

  “Future Man.” His younger self lifted his cu
p when he reached Brock. “Good to see you again. How are the hover cars working out for everyone? Did the Cubs ever win another World Series?”

  “You again remember our earlier talks.”

  “Of course. Since it was you that created them, and you created me, we’d both have to remember it, right?” Young Brock winked.

  Strange to be playing mind games with himself with such conviction.

  “Good to see you too.” Brock shoved his hands in his pockets. “Can I join you?”

  “Sure.” Young Brock motioned to a picnic table a few yards away, and they both sat.

  “Do you really think you’re a time traveler?” Young Brock grinned. “’Cause I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  “Only in my dreams.”

  “So you’re only crazy in your head then?”

  “Probably.”

  He glanced around at the field and the three white Cessna six-seaters lined up to their right, and then gestured to the coffee in his younger self’s hand. “It has to be later than the spring of ’87.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “That’s when I started drinking coffee.”

  “How’d you know?” Brock frowned, then waved his hand. “Right, I keep forgetting you’re me.”

  “I can’t remember what made me finally give in.”

  “Give in?”

  Brock sighed. “I promised myself I’d never drink coffee because it was my dad’s business, then I ended up working there.”

  “I end up working for my dad?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “It does, and Ron is going to drive the thing into the ground.”

  “So you’re telling me not to go to work there.”

  “That’s not what I want to talk to you about.”

  “What do you want to say?”

  His younger self drained the last of his coffee and crushed the Styrofoam cup in his hand. Brock glanced at the cup and smiled.

  “Not many people use those anymore.”

  “Cups? What happens in the future? Do you drink out of your hands? Mainline the coffee right into your veins? Take a pill instead?”

  “We don’t use much Styrofoam. Protecting the environment is a big deal in the future. Everyone is going green.”

  Young Brock stared at him with an I-don’t-care expression.

  Brock chuckled. “If you want to make some money, get on the green thing before anyone else does.”

  “Got it. Will do.”

  Young Brock waggled his thumb behind him at the area reserved for packing parachutes and training new jumpers in the art of leaping from a perfectly good airplane.

  “Do I ever do that?”

  “Fly like an eagle?” Brock smiled as he looked at the training area.

  “No, drop like a rock until the chute opens.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Even though I’m scared of heights.”

  “You never get rid of the fear, but you learn to control it. Good life lesson.”

  “Listen, I gotta go, break time’s over.” His younger self pushed off the picnic bench and grinned. “Any new words of wisdom from the future? Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

  “You need to talk to your dad about your relationship, Brock.”

  “My dad and I—”

  “Do you want a relationship with him?”

  “We have one, it’s just not that close.”

  “Not that close? Miles apart is ‘not that close’?”

  “We have our issues.”

  “Do you want a better relationship?”

  “Look, I went fishing with him like you asked. During the trip things were okay, but I . . .” Brock’s younger self flicked his coffee cup with his forefinger. “It’s not going to happen, Future Me. My dad and I . . . well, let’s just say someday that might be a place I’ll go, but not yet.”

  “You have to.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  Brock stared at him for a few seconds before turning away and staring out across the airfield. So much for having complete control of this dream.

  “Relax, Future Brock. Most fathers and sons have issues. Probably ninety-five percent. I’m not unusual. But we’re okay. He changed when he became a Christian. He figured things out. And we get along these days. My past with him isn’t that big of a deal.”

  “It is a big deal.” Regret surged inside Brock. “You have to talk to him soon.”

  “No!” Young Brock laughed as he smacked his fist onto the table. “Like I said, maybe someday, but not now.”

  “There is no tomorrow.”

  “Apollo Creed, Rocky III.”

  “Yes, and it’s true.”

  “Lookit, Future Me.” His younger self smiled wide. “I kinda like you. More than kind of. You’re entertaining—I mean, come on, the idea of yourself coming back from the future and hanging out . . . it’s cool. But since you won’t tell me who you really are, or the true reason you’re interested in me, I’m probably not going to be swallowing many of your golden nuggets of advice. Cool?”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “Not exactly.” His twenty-five-year-old self raised his eyebrows. “Feel like finally telling me your real name?”

  Brock zeroed in on his younger self’s face. “Brock Lee Matthews.”

  His younger self’s face went white. “How do you know my middle name?”

  “Mom and Dad certainly had a sense of humor, didn’t they?”

  “No one knows my middle name.” Young Brock staggered backward.

  “Except you.” Brock pointed at his head. “You know it.”

  “How’d you find out? Who put you up to this? Was it Ron? It was Morgan, wasn’t it?”

  “This is happening, Brock. I don’t know how, but it’s real. It isn’t just a dream. And I need to talk to you about something else.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Business school.”

  But his younger self just laughed, then turned and strode toward the hangar and Brock woke up.

  Chapter 20

  MAY 21, 2015

  That night after work, Brock slid behind the wheel of his Lexus and ground his teeth. The dashboard clock read ten fifteen. Far later than he wanted it to be. If he had something to show for it, he might feel okay. But all he’d accomplished that day was confirm there was nothing he could do about the volcano about to explode under Black Fedora. And from what he could glean from Karissa and Ron, nothing had changed between his dad and him. So his younger self had done nothing.

  Brock glanced at the time again. Should check in with Karissa. She didn’t pick up so he hung up and called again. This time she did, a heavy distance in her voice.

  “Where have you been?”

  “The office.”

  “Working late again.”

  “Yeah, trying to build an ark.”

  “The flood is coming, isn’t it?” She went silent for a few seconds. “And there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

  “I won’t quit trying till the waves bury me. I’ll figure out a way. I promise.”

  “Okay.”

  Brock turned onto the freeway. “How are you?”

  “I’m good.”

  Her tone said the opposite.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “No, don’t worry about me, I’m fine.”

  “Liar.”

  “Don’t worry about me, please.” The sigh that sailed through the phone told him not to push it.

  “Okay.”

  “How soon will you be home?”

  “Twenty minutes.” Brock pulled onto 405 and merged into a light flow of traffic. “What are you doing?”

  “Tyson’s out. So I’m just sitting here. Thinking.”

  “That’s what worries me.” Brock laughed.

  She didn’t join him. “See you in a few.”

  The line went dead without her saying good-bye, and Brock tried to steel himself against a conversa
tion he guessed was coming. One he’d already had with her a million times; one he wasn’t up for having again right now. The talk about the nest going empty when college stole Tyson away from them, and what she would do with her life now that her identity as a mom was vanishing. He knew she needed to process it, also knew he didn’t need to do much more than just listen, but with the pressure of Black Fedora pounding down on his brain, he wasn’t up for another spin through the same water they’d rowed through so many times before.

  He put in the Young Hearts CD and tried to enjoy the music, but even “Fly Like an Eagle” didn’t help his mood.

  He turned onto Sutherland Street, which offered glimpses of Lake Washington, and slowed down. Lights on a smattering of boats far out on the water winked at him as if they knew something he didn’t. A few minutes later he pulled into the garage and sat with his hands on the wheel, and sent out a silent request. I’m tired. But she needs me. Your strength, your understanding, your wisdom.

  Brock pushed through the door from the garage into the kitchen and squinted into the darkness. No lights were on, Karissa’s usual Jeff Johnson music wasn’t playing, and the TV wasn’t on either. Just silence. Not a good sign. He stopped in the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine, and one for her as well.

  “Karissa?”

  Brock strolled to the bottom of the stairs and called her name, but there was no answer. He clomped up the stairs to the halfway point and called her name again. Again no response. Brock descended and ambled past his den. Next he tried their media room, but why would she be sitting there when he couldn’t hear anything coming from the TV speakers? Where was she? He went back past his den to the stairs and climbed them two at a time.

  “Karissa?”

  He called louder as he went down the hall, then into their bedroom, but there was still no answer. On the veranda? No. He went back downstairs and was about to go into the kitchen when he heard a faint noise from behind him. Did it come from the den? He spun and walked back and glanced again at the lamp that was on in the corner. Wait. He’d missed it the first time. That lamp was on? He never left that lamp on.

  He stepped inside and caught movement out of the corner of his eye to his left. Karissa. She sat in the shadows in the brown suede love seat she’d bought for him three Christmases ago. Her legs were tucked underneath her, shoulders slumped. Her hair was tied into a ponytail and she wore his ancient University of Washington Huskies sweatshirt.