The Five Times I Met Myself

by James L. Rubart

  So unless he was still in the dream—which he knew he wasn’t—he’d done the impossible. Wait till he told Dr. Shagull. Brock grinned wide and let more laughter spill out of his mouth as his head fell back on the chair. Things were going to be okay. More than okay. Far more than okay.

  Brock glanced at the timer on his phone and then at the bathroom door. He’d talked to Ron for four minutes, thirty seconds. Which meant Karissa would be strolling out of the bathroom door, probably within the next minute. It would be tough not to grab her in a bear hug and smother her with kisses. The wind had returned and their sails would soon be full.

  The shower shut off a few seconds later. She’d wrap herself in a towel, step through the door, and head straight for the coffee machine. He’d stand, take her hand in his as she strolled toward the kitchen, celebrate the dawn of a new day even if he was the only one who truly knew why.

  When the door opened, two thoughts shot through his mind simultaneously. He was about to black out, and he was extremely grateful he was sitting down. Because the woman who stepped through the doorway and glanced at him wasn’t Karissa.

  Chapter 27

  Are you all right?”

  Brock drew in sharp breaths and blinked three times. He breathed deep twice more before he could focus. A cold cloth was on his head. He reached for it as he stared into the eyes of the woman who obviously put it there.

  “Sheila.”

  Her brows were furrowed. “What happened to you?”

  Brock closed his eyes and opened them slowly as if doing so would make Karissa appear in Sheila’s place.

  “Don’t scare me like that.” Sheila rose to her feet and folded her arms. “You going to be okay?”

  The sensation of blacking out again washed over Brock, but this time he didn’t succumb. Part of him wished he could. He tried to sit up, but his body felt like lead and he slumped back against the chair and glanced around the room.

  “This isn’t my bedroom.”

  “Yours? No, it’s ours.”

  Brock pressed his hands against his head.

  “Easy.” She knelt back down and squeezed his forearm. “Give yourself a moment.”

  “Sheila, what are you—”

  Brock didn’t finish the sentence. First, asking what she was doing there would make no sense to her, and second, he knew exactly what she was doing here. He’d changed things. Everything. But the shock of seeing her in flesh and blood kept his mouth shut.

  “We’re married.” The words slogged out of his mouth.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Karissa and I got divorced.” Sweat seeped out on his forehead but it felt cold.

  “Hope so.” Sheila stood and rolled her eyes. “I’d hate to think I’ve been married to you illegally for the past four years.”

  “We’ve been married four years. I can’t believe it.” Brock’s mind spun.

  “Yeah, me too sometimes.” For the second time Sheila stood and pulled her arms tight across her teal robe.

  “How could he do this?” Brock muttered to himself. “Why would he leave her?”

  “Do what? And who is her?”

  “I didn’t think there was any way he’d go. But he must have.”

  “Hey, I’m talking to you.” Sheila stood over him now, hands on hips, eyes dark.

  Brock stared up at her scowling face. “He went to business school.”

  “Who?”

  “Me.”

  “What are you talking about? Of course you went to business school.”

  “I didn’t really believe talking to myself could change things. I don’t even believe it now. Part of me wants to believe I’m still in the dream even though I know I’m not.” Brock looked up and frowned at Sheila. “But it happened. I really changed things. He went to business school. And that sets the dominoes in motion. I’m so stupid. One change affects all the others.”

  “You’re making absolutely no sense.” Sheila sighed. “Normal.”

  “Where’s Karissa?”

  “Karissa again?”

  “Is she married?”

  “You want to tell me why you want to know where your ex-wife is? And you want to know if she’s married? Hello? Did blacking out destroy the remaining part of your brain?”

  “Just tell me where she is right now.”

  “How in the world would I know that?” Sheila pulled back and glared at him. “What’s this sudden obsession with your ex-wife? And it better be a detailed explanation with a good reason behind it.”

  Brock had an overwhelming urge to tell Sheila exactly what was going on, but he resisted it.

  “I had a dream, one of those dreams so real you can’t be sure that it isn’t. I was still married to Karissa, and when I woke up, and it wasn’t her that walked out of the bathroom, I—”

  “You really are starting to worry me. You need to get checked out. I don’t want your mind to go.”

  She gazed at him with expectant eyes.

  Act normal. He had to act normal till he could get control of the panic pounding up from deep inside. “Thanks, I appreciate the concern.”

  Sheila turned and strode back toward the door. “I’m not concerned about you. I’m concerned about your money.”

  Brock sat in his bedroom trying to stop his mind from spinning out of control. What else about this version of his life was going to turn his world upside down? And what had his younger self done or not done to create it? He had no bearings, no perspective, no idea what role he played with anyone.

  One thing he did know: he wasn’t going to Alaska.

  “I can’t go,” Brock repeated for the third time.

  “You what?” Ron’s frustration poured through the phone.

  “You heard me the first time. And the second.”

  Brock stood and pushed through the French doors at the back of his bedroom onto the veranda. The sight stunned him. He definitely wasn’t in Bellevue anymore. He apparently lived in a cliff-top home with unobstructed views of Puget Sound. He glanced to his right and left. The home was massive, easily 7,500 square feet at a rough guess.

  He glanced down to find a huge swimming pool. A pool in Seattle? Didn’t make much sense to have one in a place that got only two solid months of summer, but it fit with the drowning feeling that now swirled around in his mind.

  “Brock, you there?” Ron’s voice brought him back to the problem at hand.

  “I can’t explain it, but . . . it’s not good timing.”

  “No, it is good timing. You need this break. You need to get away from everything in the Lower 48—turn off your cell, your e-mail, your everything, and get some soul restoration going.”

  “I need more than that.”

  “What is going on with you?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  As soon as Brock hung up with his brother, he called Morgan, the one who’d started this whole thing with the book and hinted at knowing what God was doing with the dreams. Brock needed answers.

  “Brock-O. Talk to me.”

  “I’ve been dreaming, Morg. Lucid dreaming. More vivid than you can imagine. I met my younger self, talked to him, and he changed things. Radically. I need your help. You said you knew what the dream with my dad meant, and that we’d talk after I read the book.”

  “Hey!” Morgan’s laughter boomed through Brock’s cell phone. “Who is this and what have you done with my friend?”

  “I need you to get serious.”

  “Okay, then tell me what on this planet called earth you’re talking about.”

  Heat flooded Brock’s head. “The book on lucid dreaming. You gave it to me after I—”

  “I don’t even know what lucid dreaming means, so I’m not thinking I gave you a book on it.”

  “Come on, Morg. Not time to be messing with me. You talked about God dreams and—”

  “Sorry to interrupt, but truly, Brock. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve heard of Christians who interpret dreams, but that’s not me. Probably won
’t be unless God forces it on me.” Morgan paused. “You okay?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Brock hung up the phone as waves of despair washed over him. What else had changed?

  He spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon discovering that he was indeed the CEO of Black Fedora, that the company had gone public sixteen years ago, that he was worth seventy-six million dollars and his brother was worth fifty-six million, but it hardly mattered.

  After searching his phone and finding a number for Karissa in it, he tried calling her, but there was no answer and he didn’t leave a message. What would he say? “Hey, just discovered we’re divorced because I talked to myself in a dream, but I realize I really love you.”

  Brock called Tyson’s cell phone as well, but his son didn’t answer either.

  He finally wandered downstairs into the media room and turned on the TV to try to take his mind off the insanity his world had become. But he didn’t see any of the stories. His mind was too fixated on how soon night would come so he could get back to sleep and somehow, some way, fix the mess he’d created.

  The door from the kitchen into the garage slammed. Brock wandered into the family room. As he started toward the kitchen, the sound of heels clicking across the hardwood floors in his direction filled the air.

  “What are you doing here?” Sheila stormed into the family room and put both hands on her hips. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Alaska by now?”

  “I canceled the trip. I’m not going.”

  “That much is obvious. The question is why.”

  “I need to work some things out.”

  “And I need you to be out of the house.” Sheila tossed her purse onto the sofa next to him.

  “Thanks.”

  “Why aren’t you on a plane?”

  “I already told you.”

  She turned to go, then spun back. “I suppose Tyson will cancel going to his mom’s and be here this weekend then?”

  “Will he? I don’t know.”

  “Well you better get on it, because if he’s here, then I’m not. And I’m not leaving. So you better figure out where the two of you are going.”

  “What is your problem?”

  “My problem? Tyson is my problem. What stint is he on now? Number three? Four? He’s been sober what . . . three weeks now? I give it another ten days max, because that will be a new record for him being clean. When is he going to burn the house down? When should I expect him to bring a few of his pals over to steal a few more of my things to finance his habit while you chant, ‘It’s going to be different this time’?”

  “Tyson is on drugs?” The blood drained from Brock’s face and he lurched forward.

  “You’re an idiot if you think that’s funny.”

  Brock’s stomach tightened. He’d been so wrapped up in what had happened to him and Karissa and Sheila that he hadn’t considered what might have happened to Tyson.

  “Where is he?”

  “Tyson? Are you serious? That’s like asking where one of the FBI’s ten most wanted is hanging out.”

  “Answer me. Do you know where he is? Any idea?”

  “You know what else is my problem?” She pointed out the door of the media room toward the kitchen. “That’s my problem, because you make it my problem by messing it up all the time with those weird dishes you like to cook. It stinks. Want another problem? Seeing four grand leave our checking account every month to go to your ex. But those things are minor compared to the real problem around here.”

  Brock’s voice rose. “And that is?”

  “You. But I’m seriously considering fixing that unless things change around here.” She pulled a business card from her back pocket and tossed it at him. “She’s a really good attorney, so you better get ready.”

  By eight o’clock that evening, exhaustion had settled on Brock like a thick November fog, and he lay out on the couch in his den, begging sleep to take him. He had to dream—find his younger self once more and now convince him to not go to business school. Insane.

  Sheila came home a little after ten and went straight upstairs. Brock didn’t get up. He closed his eyes and tried to relax. Wasn’t happening. An hour or so later, the tentacles of sleep had started to take him when a sound crashed into his mind. It sounded like the door from the garage into the kitchen bursting open and slamming into the wall behind it. Brock tapped his cell phone and glanced at the time. Almost eleven thirty. Either thieves or Tyson. Brock bet on the second option. He struggled into a sitting position, rose, and lumbered out of the room.

  It was Tyson. But the young man standing across the kitchen looked nothing like his son. His hair was dyed jet black and lay plastered against his head and face. Guyliner surrounded his eyes, and his fingernails were painted black. His face looked like bleached copy paper, and his eyes were sunken. Three or four silver chains hung from his neck, and the black jeans and black T-shirt that hung on his skeletal frame made his whole appearance look like a clichéd Halloween costume of a Goth druggie.

  “Tyson?”

  “Yeah, I know, don’t say it. I look like baked feces with a glaze finish. Right?” Tyson staggered over to the couch in front of the big screen and collapsed into the cushions. “And yeah, you’ve probably already heard from that princess wife of yours, the wagon hit a bump when I wasn’t looking and I’m not exactly really riding it anymore, you know?”

  Despair clutched at Brock’s throat.

  Tyson flopped onto his back and threw his arms wide. “But I’m not giving up. No way, huh-uh, going to get back on that sled and figure it out this time. Gonna get clean! Stay clean. This time it’s gonna be different! Yeah, baby!”

  Tyson’s voice rose and fell like a roller coaster. It was obvious he was sky high. “’Cause if I don’t you’re going to kick me out for good, right?” Tyson grinned at Brock with yellowed teeth.

  “I need to talk to you. As gut-level honest as we’ve ever been.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sounds good.” Tyson tapped his stomach with his fist. “Gut-level honesty, yeah, baby. Love it. But Dad? You should think of a different intro for your heart-to-heart talks with me. That one is getting old.”

  With considerable effort, Tyson pushed himself off the couch and wobbled toward the stairs.

  “Tyson, you know how you say you’re going to try again? Right now, I’m going to try again, to speak from my heart in a way I haven’t done before. Then I want to hear from yours.”

  Tyson’s eyes cleared, and Brock thought he would sit back down. But Tyson turned and stumbled away. For a minute, Brock did nothing. But apparently that’s what he’d been doing with his son for most of his life in this time line—and if he was honest, in every other time line he’d lived. There’s no way he would let it continue.

  Brock rose and followed Tyson into his bedroom. His son lay on his bed, forearm covering his eyes, heavy-metal music playing through his speakers, just loud enough to hear. Brock stood in the doorway and tried to figure out what to say.

  “Really, Dad. Not now.” Tyson turned onto his side, his back now to Brock. “I feel bad, I just want to rack some hours and try to forgive myself. I’ll even pray about it, I promise. I’m going to get into my Bible again, the whole thing, but just right now, lemme catch some z’s, okay?”

  Brock eased into the room and took a stack of heavy-metal CDs off the chair in front of Tyson’s desk and sat. The chair creaked and Tyson turned his head and opened one eye.

  “You still here?”

  “All I need is you to give me your thoughts on a few things, and I’ll let you sleep.”

  “In the morning.”

  “Now.”

  “Morning, Dad. I’m sure my answers will be much more coherent.”

  “No matter what you’ve done, I forgive you. I’m here for you. I’ll walk whatever road you’re going down if you let me.”

  “Forgive me? No you don’t. You say that a lot, but you don’t mean
it.” Tyson rolled over and stared at the wall. “You want gut-level honest, Dad? I don’t know why you had me. I know why Mom did, but why did you? Your life is Black Fedora. Always has been, always will be. You love that coffee, and yeah, it smells fine. I even drink it sometimes. But it’s your rainbow, your pot of gold at the end, and you’re never going to take your eyes off of it.”

  Sleep had to come soon. And with it, dreams. It had to.

  The next hour dragged by like a century—having that half cup of coffee earlier in the evening probably didn’t help in his quest for slumber—but as two thirty a.m. rolled around, Brock felt sleep finally reaching out for him. As it did, he promised himself he would dream and find his younger self. When he succumbed to the subconscious world, his hope rose, because he had the distinct feeling it was a promise he’d be able to keep.

  Chapter 28

  As the dream swept him away, Brock was back at Java Spot and stood just inside the door. Morgan placed mugs on the tray next to the espresso machine and watched a young barista prepare drinks for a group of four girls who looked like they were in college. Morgan’s hair was shorter than last time his dreams had taken him here, and his friend had gained a few pounds. More than a few. Maybe fifteen?

  Brock glanced at the tables, searching for a newspaper. Looking over the shoulder of a squat middle-aged man with a large bald spot, he spotted a copy of the Seattle Times. Brock squinted to see the date. August 11, 1989.

  Two years after the last time he talked to himself. Not what he’d expected.

  “It’s been a while.”

  Brock whirled at the voice and found himself staring into his younger self’s face. Young Brock had filled out in a good way and seemed to be half an inch taller. Had he grown that much in his twenties?

  “So once again, you remember me.”

  “Yeah, I remember you, F. B.” A puzzled smile came over Young Brock’s face, and he waved his thumb toward the back of the room. “Want to sit down and catch up? Love to tell you what’s happened since our encounter at Blyth Park, because you were so right.”