“I . . . I need your help.”
“Is that so?”
Brock nodded and tried to figure out where—and how—to start.
“Finally my turn to help you, huh? Thought you’d never ask.” The woman strolled up to the railing that framed her deck and leaned her elbows on the maple-stained wood. “It’s been tough, I know.”
“That’s the problem. You might know, but I don’t.” Brock grasped his own railing with both hands and squeezed. “I need to warn you, I’m going to ask a few questions that will sound very, very strange.”
“After the questions I asked you all last year?” She took a quick sip of her coffee. “Don’t think you’re going to surprise this old dame with anything.”
“I might.”
“Not gonna happen, Spanky.” She took another sip. “But hey, I was wrong once, way back in my teens, so let the games begin.”
Across the channel from him, windows of other houseboats were turning gold from the rising sun. He glanced at them before turning back to the lady and giving her a weak smile. “What’s your name?”
Amusement flashed on the woman’s face, but for less than an instant, replaced by that grin that made everything all right. “You get smacked on the head?”
“When I woke up this morning, nothing was familiar.”
“What do you mean nothing?”
Brock swept his arm in a slow circle. “I don’t recognize any of this.”
“Amnesia?”
“Not really. I know who I am, I know I’m in Seattle, I know my past—at least some of it—but the present is a bit muddled. I don’t remember anything about where I’m standing right now.”
Her amusement turned to concern. “We need to get you checked out.”
“Don’t worry, I’m fine, and I promise you I don’t need to go to the hospital. Like I said, this is going to be strange, but I need you to help me down this path.”
“Okay. But if you start doing the chicken dance I’m making the call.”
“Agreed.”
“Elizabeth Martha Townsend.” She winked as if inviting him to play a game.
“But what do people call you?”
“Liz.” She raised an eyebrow. “Or Lizzie. That’s what my close friends call me.”
Something in her eyes told Brock he was in a different category. “What do I call you?”
“Beth. The only one who does.” She held out her cup of coffee to him, and even though he had no idea who this woman was, it felt natural for Brock to take it, as if they’d shared hundreds of mornings together, sharing their lives and sharing cups of coffee. “Only one who’s allowed to call me that. Or you call me Sis. Either one works. But never Big Sis. That doesn’t work. Don’t need to be reminded about my weight or my age.” She winked for a second time.
“We’re good friends.” He said it more as a statement than a question. “Really good friends.”
“I would say so.”
Brock nodded and plowed ahead with his next question. “How long have I lived here?”
“You were living here when I moved in three years ago.”
“I work for Black Fedora Coffee.”
“Work for them? Well yes, I suppose. You own the company, but you don’t spend a lot of time there these days.”
“Why not?”
“You’ve made it. Reached the top before your midfifties. Money. Loads of money. Great product. Respect. And employees who like you and are good at running the company.” She patted his hand. “They don’t need you much. Sorry, you worked your way out of a job.”
“If I have money, what am doing living in a houseboat on Lake Union?”
“These things aren’t that cheap, pal.”
“Yeah, probably true, but . . .”
“Too good for us, huh?” For a moment her smile lifted the dark fog that was encroaching on his mind.
“Hardly.”
“You’re here because you like it here. It’s smack dab in the middle of the city, but it can also feel like you’re in the middle of nowhere. When the wind blows hard, your home rocks you to sleep like your baby days, and it’s pretty sweet to watch the kayakers paddle along the channel like giant ducks.”
“Tell me more.”
Beth squinted at him as if she still wasn’t sure Brock was serious about all this. “Sheila got the house in the divorce. And you’re still paying a hefty chunk of cash every month to Karissa. So you came here. Decided you liked not having to worry about a yard. And it’s close to the places you need to go frequently.”
“Where do I go frequently?”
“Downtown.”
Brock saw hesitation in Beth’s eyes. “Seattle? Black Fedora’s offices are now in Seattle? What happened to Bellevue?”
“You really don’t know, do you?” Beth’s eyes turned compassionate. “This isn’t a game.”
“No, it’s not.”
Beth started to speak, then let the words die on her lips. She hugged him with the look on her face and sighed. “I think we’ve had enough questions for one session, don’t you?”
Brock knew immediately what the look meant. “Tyson.”
Beth bit her lip and nodded.
Brock drew in a sharp breath. “Where is he?”
“I’m not the one to tell you this.”
“I need to know, Beth.”
“Yes, if you really truly don’t know, you do need to know.” Beth’s countenance grew serious. “Call Karissa.”
“Thanks, Beth. You’ll understand if I cut our conversation short.”
“Of course.”
Brock turned to head into his houseboat, find his cell phone, and call Karissa, but then he spun back to Beth.
“What about Ron?”
“Yes?”
“What’s our relationship like?”
Again, Brock saw pain on his new friend’s face.
“At the risk of repeating myself, you really don’t know any of this, do you?”
“No.” Brock shook his head.
“You don’t talk much about your brother.”
“But we work together.”
“No. Not really.”
“Do I see him? Are we friends?”
“You told me everything changed after the accident.”
“What accident?”
Beth eased down her deck till she reached the little gate, then pushed through it and stepped onto Brock’s deck. She ambled toward him with her arms open wide, then took him in a long hug. When she released him, she took him by the shoulders. “I’m sorry to be a broken record, but you need to find that out for yourself.”
Brock staggered inside, found his cell phone, scrolled through his contacts. Yes. Karissa was there. So were Ron and Tyson. He got voice mail for Karissa and Ron, a disconnected number for his son. Brock then went to the computer in the small office and scoured the Internet for clues to what had happened to Tyson and to Ron. But he found nothing.
By midafternoon exhaustion fell over him and he lay down on the couch intending to close his eyes only for a few moments, but sleep stole over him. When the dream started Brock’s mind fought to wake up, because somehow he knew exactly who he’d be talking to—and he wasn’t up for another conversation. Wake up! But he couldn’t. This had all the properties of a lucid dream, except for the fact he wasn’t in control.
Once again his dad and he were in the backyard, the sun now straight overhead. Once again, his dad held the brown-wrapped rectangular box in hand. Once again, Brock tried to shift things to no avail.
“What’s in the box, Dad?”
His dad stared at the rectangular box as if he didn’t realize he held it. He glanced at Brock and fixed his gaze on the box again. “Nothing.”
“Can I see it?” Brock held out his hand.
“No.” His dad tossed the box behind him and before it struck the ground it vanished. “So tell me, Brock. Are you finished screwing up your life? Or do you have more work to do?”
“Why are you doing this to
me?”
Brock’s dad sat back as if stunned the question would be asked. “What about what you did to me?”
“I don’t under—”
“No, you never did.” His dad let out a disgusted sigh. “Never knew what you did to my heart.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You really want to know?” His dad narrowed his eyes and didn’t wait for an answer.
“When you quit playing basketball.”
“I had to.”
“Had to? You had to!” His father smacked his fist into his palm. “I wanted to teach you everything I knew about the game. You had the skill. The height and build for it. The brains. But poof! One day at the end of summer you just give it up without a shred of warning.”
His father jabbed his finger in Brock’s direction. “Yes, basketball was my thing, thought it could be our thing. But you dumped it all. Wouldn’t talk to me about it. Wouldn’t explain why to anyone.”
“You abused me! Why would I come to you? I was terrified of you.”
“You remember when you were fifteen? I score courtside tickets to go see the Sonics, get that pass to go to the locker room before the game to meet the players . . . you think I did that because I couldn’t stand you? And you turn me down.”
“Dad, I—”
“And now?” His dad rose from his chair and towered over Brock. “You’re making things worse. So much worse. You need to fix things. Fix things!”
Brock woke up breathing hard. That wasn’t his dad, it was just a dream. His dad had changed, his dad did love him, but the thought wasn’t enough to convince his heart it was true.
Chapter 31
I have to talk to you, Karissa. Call me back. Doesn’t matter what hour of the day.” Brock hung up and paced back and forth across the carpet of his houseboat.
It was the sixth message he’d left during the past twelve hours. In their life before he’d fallen into this new life, Karissa was religious about returning phone calls within five minutes if she was available. So she either wasn’t available or was choosing not to call him back. Brock put his cash on the latter.
It was a few minutes after midnight. He’d have to wait till morning to try again. Brock lay down, but after thirty minutes he knew sleep would elude him till at least two. The dream with his dad had spooked him too much to easily fall asleep. He wandered out onto his deck and looked up. A light curtain of clouds moved across the sky, but the moon was strong enough to shine through them. When he was little he thought the moon burned through the clouds with its light. If only it could burn through the clouds he had created. But if Beth’s silence was any indication, they would grow significantly darker.
He rose off his wooden chair, stepped to his door, and started to turn the doorknob to go back inside when the squeal of Beth’s door stopped him. She stepped onto her deck wrapped in a tie-dye robe that made her look bigger than she was. Her gaze was fixed on the moon as his had been, but he had little doubt she saw him.
“You could use some WD-40 on that door.” Brock wandered to his railing, which separated his house from Beth’s by less than four feet.
“But then you might have sneaked back inside without me getting the chance to talk to you.”
“True.”
“You get ahold of Karissa?”
“Not yet. But you probably knew that.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I think I tell you most of my stuff, and you probably tell me most of yours. And I think you know that Karissa avoids me like Ebola and she’s never going to return my calls.”
Beth settled into her jade-green camping chair, gripped her railing with both hands, and gazed up at the moon. “I just brewed up a fresh pot of coffee, you want some?”
“At this hour?”
“Coffee never keeps me awake.” She motioned back inside. “Was just finishing when I stepped out here. Let me grab you a cup.”
“I’m done drinking coffee for a long time. Black Fedora has screwed up my life so completely, I’m done. Until I get it fixed, no java on my lips.”
“Okay. Be right back.”
When Beth returned she set her I think, Therefore I’m Beth mug on the railing and said, “It’s going to be okay, you know.”
“What is?”
“Everything. Like you always say to me, God is the God of hope. And even though you’re going through a storm right now, the calm waters are coming. I believe it.”
Brock tried to believe it as well, even if for a moment, but he couldn’t. How could Beth know everything would be okay? That anything would be, for that matter.
“If I wanted to talk to her, if I had to talk to her, where would I go?”
Beth smiled and hesitated for only a moment before answering. “I’d probably go to choir practice.”
“She’s singing in a choir?” Brock leaned on the railing with both elbows.
“Karissa leads the choir.”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course.”
“She sang in high school, but she’s never taught a choir.”
“This is an unusual choir.”
“How so?”
“It’s not easy to describe. It’s one that’s best heard, rather than told about.”
“And where would I find such a choir?”
“They’re practicing for their end-of-the-year concert.”
“So the choir is made up of students.”
“Yes it is.”
“Karissa is teaching,” Brock said, more to himself than to Beth.
“Just go see them, Brock. See her. Just don’t tell her I told you anything.”
“Done.”
The next afternoon Brock pulled up to the address Beth had given him, parked his car, and wandered toward a two-story brick building. After he stepped through the double doors, an Asian woman who looked to be in her midthirties greeted him from behind a wide desk.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see the choir.”
She smiled. “Can’t wait for the performance?”
“I’m friends with the director.”
“You’re fortunate then.” The woman smiled. “Karissa is a special one.”
“Yes, she is.”
The woman motioned with her hand. “Down this hall, second right. That will lead into the auditorium. Head for the back and through the door on the middle left. I’m guessing you’ll hear them from there.”
Brock pushed open the doors of the auditorium and saw a small stage with forty or fifty light-tan seats on either side of a wide middle aisle. The place looked old and in need of paint, but bright banners obviously created by children hung from the walls on both sides and they gave the auditorium a warmth new paint and a remodel would never bring.
He ambled down the aisle and gazed at each banner. When he reached the last banner on the right-hand side he stopped and felt a sweet sorrow rise in his heart. It was a badly done portrait of Karissa that somehow captured a joy he’d not seen in her in years. It was signed with at least thirty signatures and at the bottom in bright blue letters was written, “We love you so much, Ms. Karissa.”
Of course it would be her first name. When she taught school before they had Tyson, she had never let her students call her by her last name. It was always Ms. Karissa.
I need to reach her heart, Lord. Show me Beth is right, and there’s hope.
As he stood in the silence, eyes closed, a noise he’d never heard before pricked at his ears. The sound was muted as if coming from a distance and was garbled. Was it a crowd of people shouting? No, not shouting—it was a kind of groaning that rose and fell in a rhythm. Almost a mutilated singing.
He eased toward the door at the far side of the auditorium, then passed through it into a hallway. The volume of the voices increased, and he followed the sound till he reached the door it came from. He took tiny steps up to the door and peeked around the edge. At the back of the room at least forty children between ten and fou
rteen years old stood on risers. Girls and boys mixed together, tall, short, all different races, all with faces shining, all with an unintelligible sound pouring from their mouths.
It was singing, but the most awful and most beautiful song Brock had ever heard. There was no melody—and each student sang their own song with their own cadence, and yet somehow the sounds all intertwined with each other to create a symphony of resonance that buried Brock in its splendor.
But the magnificence was so much more than their singing. They didn’t just sing with their mouths, but with arms and hands and bodies and eyes and faces as well.
And while their voices weren’t connected by any kind of familiar harmony, their arms and hands and fingers flowed together in a symmetry that stunned Brock. No choreographed dance he’d ever seen held the fluidity of these students’ performance. It was evident their guide had unleashed this beauty inside them. She believed in them, taught them, inspired them, and brought out a radiance few would fight to uncover.
Karissa stood with her back to him, her exaggerated movements guiding them as they sang with utter abandon. As she swayed, her long dark-brown hair moved back and forth across her back like a wave.
Tears came to his eyes as he watched her fully immersed in her glory—setting these students free in a way he could never imagine doing. A glory he’d been too blind to see, a glory he hadn’t looked for. Even if he had somehow woken up to the truth that was right in front of him, would he have urged her to pursue it? Or would he have been so consumed in Black Fedora that her dream would have never stood a chance? Is that why she left in this time line? Or what had broken them up in the one before?
Brock tried to remain still, but he couldn’t help moving to a music that was like nothing he’d ever heard. As he watched, a little boy on the end turned and spotted him. He nudged the Japanese girl next to him and she turned. Those two were enough to catch Karissa’s attention. She stopped the performance and spun toward him before Brock could slip back behind the door.
Her broad smile faded like the sun on a rainy Seattle spring day. She turned back to her students and signed a message to her students, who signed back. Then she gazed to her right and spoke to a young African American girl who appeared to be in her midtwenties. The girl stood and came over in front of the students. Karissa turned and wandered over to him as if she didn’t want to come but didn’t have a choice.
The Five Times I Met Myself Page 16
