Both her hands were wrapped around a cup he’d bought her ages ago during a trip they’d taken to Victoria, BC. The soft glow from the lamp across the room didn’t provide enough light to tell him what her expression was, but her body language shouted the answer. Her gaze was straight ahead.
“Karissa?” Brock stepped into his den and set their wine glasses on his desk. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
She nodded and kept staring out the window at the light rain splattering against the glass.
“Why didn’t you answer?”
Her only response was to take a sip of her tea.
“What’s going on?”
Still silence.
“Do you want to be alone? You’re thinking about Tyson going off to school, right?” Brock slid out of his coat. “Do you need to talk about it? You’re going to make it, you know.”
Karissa shifted and set the cup down, glanced at him, then focused on the window again. She wiped her cheek.
“It’s going to be okay. He’ll be home for weekends, home for Christmas, spring break. And you’ll find new hobbies and—”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
She turned and stared at him for a long time before answering. “Money is like gold leaf covering wood that is rotting underneath. And our gold leaf is blowing away.”
“What are you talking about?” Brock took two halting steps into the room.
“Our money has kept me alive. It’s allowed me to do things for Tyson and other people. Allowed me to buy things I want and go on trips I wanted to go on.” Karissa drank more of her tea. “It’s a salve for us. For me. It’s been an ointment that numbs the truth, keeps the pain from registering. Allows us to trudge on down the path, never noticing the gangrene spreading in our feet. Without it . . .”
Brock settled into the chair across from Karissa and waited, but she didn’t continue.
“We’re going to survive. Even if I can’t save this company, I promise. We will figure out a way to keep most of our lifestyle, and even if we go totally bust, I can start over, rebuild, create—”
“You don’t get it, do you? Didn’t you hear what I just said? It’s not about our lifestyle.”
“Then help me understand what it’s about.”
The silence stretched out, but Brock stayed quiet. Finally Karissa spoke.
“I had coffee with Britt today.”
“Oh?”
“She asked me a question and it uncovered something deep I didn’t even know was there. Or didn’t want to admit was there.”
“What was the question?”
“It was simple.” Karissa glanced at each wall of Brock’s den. “We were talking about how we’ve supported our husbands’ hopes and dreams and careers, and Britt asked me, ’How does Brock support you and your dreams? What does he do to keep you going? How does he really show he appreciates everything you’ve done for him over the years?’ ”
“What did you say?” Brock rose and made to join her on the couch.
“No.” Karissa jabbed a finger at his chair. “You stay there.”
He sat back down and repeated himself. “What did you tell her?”
“The truth.” For the first time since he’d entered the room, she looked him in the eyes.
“And that’s when the gold fluttered away, and I saw what was underneath. The thing I’d never seen before. Or seen but never admitted it to myself.”
“Is that what’s been bothering you?”
“A lot of things have been bothering me. It’s just another on the list.”
But he knew it wasn’t just another item on the list. It was the item.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? Wow, thank you. That makes it all better.” Karissa shifted in her chair. “You gave your heart to that wretched company.”
“So we could have—”
“What about my life, Brock? The things I dreamed about doing? I put my entire existence on hold for twenty-seven years so you could build that company, and what do I have to show for it? Soon it’s going to just be you and me. And you have your career. You’re a rock star of the coffee world—and like you just said, you might be able to rebuild even if you can’t save Black Fedora, but me? What do I have?”
“I thought you wanted to be a mom.”
Karissa smacked her teacup down on the saucer and a smattering of tea spilled onto a stack of papers. He was smart enough not to react.
“I did want to be a mom. It was my dream to be a mom and pour myself into Tyson, and I did, but you drained me. So many ideas, so much pressure for Black Fedora to break out, so much time hearing about your battles with Ron, all the dinners and parties and grand openings. Events I loathed going to, but I still went. Every time. I’m worn out, Brock.”
“I remember asking you once what you wanted to do, and you told me you weren’t sure. I would have supported you—”
“How many times, Brock? Once?” Karissa turned in the love seat, held up a finger, and fully faced him. “You asked one time! Then you checked it off your list and moved on to the next hobby, or dream, or big idea on your list. It’s always been about you. And about that company. I never worried about you having an affair with another woman, because your mistress was right in front of me all the time. Black Fedora is the love of your life, not me.”
“Not true.” Brock again tried to rise and go to her, and again Karissa stopped him.
“I asked you about your dreams every day. I encouraged you, believed in you, listened to you as you told me about your and Ron’s plans to turn Black Fedora into a company far beyond what your dad ever dreamed it could be. I put up with the seventy-hour workweeks, the vacations you always put off.”
Brock stayed quiet as the truth seeped through his defenses. What could he say? Anything that came to mind seemed stupid.
“What do you want to do? You can do it now. Take classes, learn how to—”
“You are such a man. The years are gone, Brock.”
“Start now. It’s never too late.”
“Really?” She poked her legs. “You think I can become a dancer at my age?”
“You . . . I didn’t . . .”
“Didn’t know?” A sad little laugh escaped her mouth. “Because you didn’t ask about my dreams. Because there was only ever room for yours.”
She looked at him with eyes of sadness, which was worse than accusation. When she turned away to stare at his wall of achievements again, she spoke in a whisper.
“I was always the wind. You never were. And I have no wind left.”
Chapter 21
Brock tried to watch SportsCenter, but he couldn’t get his mind off Karissa’s words. Was he that bad? Was it his job to pull her dreams out of her? After wrestling with his thoughts for an hour, he shuffled upstairs intending to go to bed, but something stopped him before he stepped into their bedroom. A distinct feeling shot through him. He couldn’t name it, but definitely an impression that he needed to go up into the attic.
He eased down the hall and entered the empty bedroom next to Tyson’s. He walked into the room’s closet and pulled the cord that released the ladder that led up to their attic. He plugged one ear against the screech of the metal ladder as it opened up. Obviously it had been a few years since either Karissa or he had been up there.
His dad’s words from the recurring dream streamed across his mind’s eye as he gazed up into the attic: Embrace it, Brock, even though it will be difficult. Face the truth though it will be painful, for the truth will set you free.
The rungs groaned as he climbed. When he reached the top, Brock fumbled for the string, found it, and pulled. Light filled the eight-by-eight-foot space. He’d carpeted it years ago and put in shelving to store all the memorabilia he couldn’t part with. He’d forgotten about the chair he’d brought up. A black leather chair brought up in pieces and assembled by a friend of his who used to work at an upholstery shop. If they ever sold the place, the chair
would stay.
Brock settled into the chair and glanced around the small space. So many books he’d never get around to reading. Hot Wheels cars from when he was a kid, old pictures of the football and baseball teams he and Morgan had played on. He picked up a photo from 1980 and smiled. The only year he played hockey, after being talked into it by Lennie Buck.
There he stood, with Lennie’s arm around his shoulder, big stupid grins on both their faces. Lennie missing a tooth. Brock had kept all his teeth. Lennie claimed that showed Brock wasn’t serious about the game. He pawed deeper into the box and found an old puck, scarred by too many games outside on the street. He sighed. Why had he hung onto all this junk for all these years? He hadn’t missed it. But now that he saw it, he was glad he hadn’t tossed it out.
He glanced at his old yearbooks. He pulled out the one from his senior year and opened it. Seconds later his fingers found the page Sheila had signed. Her note and the drawing took up most of the page. It’d been years since he last thought of the image she created.
She’d drawn a picture of a lion’s head and a unicorn’s head next to each other in semi-profile. Brock had forgotten how talented she was. The animals’ faces were strong, their eyes pulsing with strength and purpose. Lion and unicorn. That’s what Sheila had said they were.
“Amazing,” he’d told her as they sat on the back deck of her parents’ house going through their yearbooks together right after graduation. “I’ll keep this page of my yearbook forever.”
“Glad you like it, because that’s just the warm-up.”
“What?”
Sheila rose from the picnic table, sauntered into the house, and returned a minute later holding a picture frame with its back to him. She smiled and slowly spun it around till the front faced him. It was the lion and unicorn again, but this time twice as large, and with such detail it was hard to believe it wasn’t a photo. In the lower corner she’d signed it, just below a line that said, “Forever.”
Brock closed the yearbook and glanced around the attic for Sheila’s piece. He squinted at the small space between two sets of boxes to his right. There. Brock rose, stepped over to the boxes, reached behind them, and pulled out Sheila’s framed drawing.
Karissa asked why he kept the picture, and he had never given her a good answer. Probably because he didn’t know why. Now he did. Time to get rid of it.
He turned it over. Brock didn’t remember Sheila writing anything on the back, but it wouldn’t hurt to check. Nope. Nothing. Wait. The upper corner of the backing was torn, and he thought he saw writing underneath. He set the picture down flat on the ottoman and ripped back the paper. Bold, fluid script covered the back of the white mat. Sheila’s handwriting.
Brock blinked twice and read.
Dear Brock,
Do you want to know my silly, Disneyland, fairy-princess dream? That on our wedding day, I’ll peel back the paper and show you this note. Am I crazy? Probably. But I love you and can’t imagine life apart. Do you feel the same? You tell me you do, but how can we really know when we’ve only just graduated from high school? I don’t know, but at the same time I do know. Don’t you? Please tell me you do too.
Please tell me when we go off to our separate colleges, the distance will only make us grow closer. Tell me that the next four years will fly by like an eagle and our spirits will carry us together during the time we’re apart. Tell me our graduation from college will be here in an instant and we’ll get married two months later on a hot July day. Tell me?
But if you’re reading this alone, and I’m not beside you, please know that this eighteen-year-old girl loved you with everything she had inside. If you have discovered what I wrote here, and I’m not beside you, I hope you are happy. I hope you’ve found someone who makes your life complete and loves you like you deserve to be loved.
And if you’re reading this years from now, decades from now, and we’re not together, maybe you’ll look me up and see what I’m doing, and what I’ve become, and you’ll tell me what you’ve become. Because once you give a person part of your heart, they have that piece forever, don’t you think?
So you have a piece of me now, and a year from now, and thirty years from now. Keep that piece of my heart safe, okay? Just like I’ll keep the piece of your heart you’ve given me safe.
All of my love, now and I so hope forever,
Sheila
Brock fell back into the chair and took in a long breath. Did she have a piece of his heart still? He didn’t need to ask the question. Yes, she did. He’d made the right choice to break up with her, hadn’t he? There was no question he had. But if there was no question, then why was he asking it? What if he’d waited to see if she would turn her life over to the Lord? What if he’d broken up but not been so quick to rush into a relationship with Karissa? What if, what if, what if . . .
He had to stop. The only roads this type of thinking would lead him to would take him over a cliff.
“God, need your help here. Tempted to go down some pretty dangerous paths.”
But no help came.
Chapter 22
MAY 22, 2015
The first e-mail Brock opened on Friday morning at the office stopped him cold.
Dear Brock,
I’ve been debating whether to e-mail you for five days. But I think I need to, so here goes.
I’m sorry. I never should have kissed you at the reunion. I don’t know what came over me, but it wasn’t right. Forgive me? Please? And yet at the same time, if I’m honest—and I need to be—I don’t regret doing it.
When I saw you again, all the emotions that we used to share came rushing back. All the memories, you know? I know you do, because I saw it in your eyes.
I’m not saying I want to see you again. That’s not fair to you and Karissa.
I guess I’m just trying to say what if. What if I’d become a Christian earlier? How differently would our lives have turned out? If we could turn back the clock, what would my life look like now? What would ours look like? Do you think about that?
Maybe I shouldn’t have even written this e-mail to you. But now I have, and I’m thinking I’ll probably have the courage to hit send.
With love, and thoughts of what might have been,
Sheila
Brock hesitated, then deleted the e-mail. No response was the only response that made sense. In his mind at least. His heart screamed something different and images rushed into his mind that he could stop, but didn’t. Karissa divorcing him. Being alone. Seeing Sheila, just for a casual dinner, then things progressing to . . .
“Stop it!” He pushed himself away from his desk and pounded a fist into his leg.
It didn’t matter what he felt. He wouldn’t go down that what-if road, because he knew where it ended. He’d traveled over it in his mind too often since the reunion. He and Karissa would make it. So would Black Fedora.
If only he believed those things were true.
Brock spent the rest of the day going over the company’s financials again. It was hopeless. After he pushed the papers to the side and minimized the spreadsheets on his laptop, Brock pulled up ESPN on his computer to find a story on the Seahawks and the experts’ predictions on their coming season, anything to distract him.
A few clicks later he landed on a series of interviews with ex-pro quarterbacks who were asked what they’d do differently if they could play their career over again. A few said they wouldn’t have changed anything. A couple of others mentioned investing their money more wisely, but the last QB locked Brock’s gaze on the screen.
“Honestly, I wish I could go back in time and talk to my younger self. Convince that kid to take business classes instead of majoring in doing just enough to pass. When you’re that age you think you’ll play forever.” The QB smiled. “But the good news is, I’m awake now. I’m taking classes, I’m learning those skills, but it’s too late to save for a few things I’d like to have.”
Brock closed his eyes. He had to try again to talk
to his younger self about business school. Could it be more obvious? For the first time in an age, he felt hope. If the show on ESPN wasn’t a sign from God, he didn’t know what was. It was as if God was speaking to him directly through that interview, telling him that as crazy as it sounded, he had to dream again, and this time convince Young Brock to go to business school. Chance of it working? None, most likely. The idea was ludicrous, but why not try?
Up till now he’d doubted, wondered if this whole thing of talking to himself in dreams wasn’t just his brain sliding off the table of sanity, but when night came, he would lock himself into this rocket ship, follow God’s lead, and ride it into the heavens.
Brock’s cell phone interrupted his thoughts. It was Ron. Interesting timing.
“What?”
“Reminder. We sign papers this afternoon at four.”
“We need to talk about that.”
“Nothing to talk about. Please, get that through your thick skull.”
“We can’t sign, Ron.”
“Yeah we can. And we will. Today. Four.”
The line went dead. Brock buzzed Michelle.
“Do you know where Ron is?”
“Working from home today. Won’t be in till just before the signing.”
Brock snatched his keys off his desk and strode out his door. No way would he sign without taking a shot in the world of dreams.
When Ron’s wife, Shelly, opened their door twenty-five minutes later, she gave Brock a grim smile.
“Things okay between you two?” Shelly asked.
“Sure.”
“Lying doesn’t become you, Brock.”
“No, I mean, a few things aren’t great, but a few are.” He shrugged. “We’re brothers. That’s how brothers are. It always turns out okay in the end. You know how it is between us.”
“That’s what always worries me.”
The Five Times I Met Myself Page 11