The Five Times I Met Myself

by James L. Rubart

  But he did believe it. The evidence was staring back at him with an intensity he didn’t know what to do with. He didn’t need to read the short note scrawled on the photo to remember the date, but he did anyway. October 22, 1989. Underneath the date was a short note from his dad that broke a fissure open in Brock’s heart: Great day, great son. Love, Dad

  Tears rose in Brock’s eyes and he didn’t try to stop them. For whatever reason, his younger self had gone to the game. And whatever gift his dad had wanted to give him must have been given. But whatever the gift was, it wasn’t the gift Brock was soaking in right now. That gift was the crossing of the chasm between him and his dad, which must have begun that day.

  Brock closed his eyes and let the truth sink in. Peace had come for his dad and him. The cold war was over. Not in this moment; the battle had ended long ago. But for him, the report from the field had just come in. He couldn’t imagine anything sweeter. He sat and studied every line in his dad’s face and embraced the warmth that spilled out of his father’s smile. Both of them radiated hope, and it was obvious from their expressions that both longed for the Living Water to drench the parched land inside of them. Brock smiled as he accepted the reality that the water had come.

  He sensed movement in the doorway but didn’t look up. Brock begged God for it to be Karissa, or at least Tyson, but believed it was too much to hope for.

  “Good morning.”

  The sound of her voice seemed to raise his head by magic. It was her. Not in a dream, but in the flesh. Karissa, her robe wrapped around her lithe figure, her eyes still as bright as when they’d first met. The animosity toward him was gone. This was her. Dream girl returned.

  “Coffee’s ready.” She turned and strolled away toward the kitchen.

  “Wait!”

  Karissa poked her head back into the doorway. “Oui?”

  He stood and started to speak, but couldn’t find the right words. “I . . . I’ve . . .”

  “You all right?”

  “I’ve missed you.” He fought back tears. “So much. And I am so madly, deeply, profoundly in love with you.”

  She frowned at him.

  “I just need to tell you that.”

  “Okay.” Karissa gave him a puzzled smile.

  He went to her and held on so long she started to laugh.

  “Wow, I know it’s been a long time from last night when we went to sleep till this morning . . .”

  “Don’t ask.” Brock released her from his arms and kissed her on the cheek with as much tenderness as he knew how to give. “How are you and I?”

  “Not sure I understand the question.”

  “I’d give up anything for you. For your hopes, your dreams, for whatever makes you come alive.”

  “Why do you say that?” She frowned. “You’ve done that all our lives together.”

  Amazing. He’d changed.

  “So our relationship, there’s wind in the sails?”

  “Wind in the sails?” She tilted her head. “I like that analogy. Most of the time there is.” She gave him another quick hug, then turned toward the kitchen. “You coming?”

  “In a minute.”

  She nodded and strolled away. The soft pad of her footsteps down the hardwood hallway faded. Part of Brock wanted to sprint into the kitchen and ask her a thousand questions at once. Was Tyson okay? Was Black Fedora still about to go under? Did he even work there? But another part of him didn’t want to face the possibility the answers would slay him.

  Yes, Karissa was back—and it seemed things were good between them—but that could be an act. They’d faked their way through their relationship for years. Maybe this was just another scene in their performance. After all he’d been through, facing that possibility was monumentally difficult.

  He rose and forced himself through the doorway of his den and down the hall. No doubt now. He was back in the original house where his wild ride had started. But the pictures on the walls had changed. Where was the photo of the redwoods? In its place was a picture of Karissa and him in kayaks up at Ross Lake. He remembered the indecision they had before going on that trip. Ultimately they chose to go to the redwoods. In this version of his life, they obviously went to Ross Lake instead.

  Brock clumped down the stairs, stopping for a moment on each one as he studied the other small changes. The instant he turned the corner, he zeroed in on Tyson’s traditional spot at the kitchen counter. Not there. Sorrow squeezed his throat. Brock staggered into the kitchen and looked at the place he’d always kept his keys. They were there. At least one thing was the same. Next to his keys lay his wallet. Two out of two.

  Before he could find anything else to ground himself, his cell phone rang. Caller ID told him it was Ron.

  “Ron! It’s Brock.”

  “I hope so, since I’m the one that called you.”

  “Right, sorry. Just having a strange morning.” He eased over to the kitchen table and sat.

  “You can tell me about it when you get here.” His brother’s voice was neutral. No clue what their relationship was like. “Are you on your way?”

  “On my way where?”

  “Funny. Hoping you can get here a few minutes early. I want to go over the details of the buyout one more time. This thing has to be done clean.”

  “It didn’t get fixed.” Brock’s body went cold. “Everything at home seemed . . .”

  “What? What didn’t get fixed? What are you talking about?”

  “I’d started to hope.”

  Karissa sidled up to him to top off his coffee, but he hadn’t taken his first sip.

  “Hope for what? There’s nothing to fix.”

  “I promised you I’d fix it, but it didn’t work.”

  “Yeah, you already said that. So I’ll ask again, fix what?”

  “The whole thing.”

  “Are you asleep? Is this my brother or some alien who stole his cell phone?”

  “I’m sorry, Ron.”

  “Have you had your coffee yet?” Ron didn’t wait for an answer. “Get your coffee. Get your head together, and get your posterior in here.”

  “Okay.”

  “You all right?”

  “No.”

  “We’ll talk when you get here.”

  “Wait!”

  Ron’s exasperated sigh sailed through the phone. “I gotta go.”

  “Just answer one question.”

  “Sure.”

  “Is Black Fedora going to survive?”

  “What?” Another sigh. “Just get in here, Brock.”

  “Am I an owner in the company?”

  The line went dead and Brock slipped his phone into the pocket of his sweats. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. He kept repeating the line to himself, but it didn’t help. He’d promised Ron. And he’d broken the promise. He stared at Karissa’s puzzled face and was about to speak when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

  “Hey, Dad.” Tyson clipped across the floor in jeans and a dark-blue collared shirt that covered a well-sculpted body. His hair was cropped short and his eyes were bright. He pointed at Brock as he strode toward the door at the other end of the kitchen that led to the garage. “See ya.”

  “Wait.” Heat swept Brock’s body. “Your hair is . . . and you’re here. You’re not . . . you’re not . . .”

  “I’m not where?”

  “There. You’re here.”

  “Did you take a weird pill this morning, Dad?” Tyson lifted a pretend bottle to his lips. “Or hitting the sauce?”

  “No, it’s just that . . . I didn’t think you were here.”

  “Yeah, still here.” Tyson pointed at the floor. “For about ten more seconds. Then I’ll be headed there.” He pointed east. “For school.”

  “Come here.”

  “I gotta go, Dad.” He glanced at his cell phone. “They’re in the habit of starting class on time.”

  “This is important.” Brock marched over to Tyson and took him in his arms. “I love you
, kid.”

  “Uh, okay. Sounds good.”

  Brock let Tyson pull away but still held him by the shoulders. “I know I haven’t said that enough. And I haven’t told you what an outstanding son you are. But that’s going to change.”

  “Back atcha.” Tyson nodded once and gave a half smile and stared at Karissa like Brock was crazy. “Can I go?”

  “And we’re going backpacking this summer.”

  “Sounds not good. I’m so outta shape.”

  Brock laughed as Tyson spun and loped into the garage. “Love ya, Mom.”

  “Me too.” Karissa smiled at Tyson, then turned to Brock and winked. As soon as the garage door shut behind Tyson she sashayed over to Brock. “What in the world prompted that?”

  “A dream.”

  “One of those lucid dreams you’ve been reading about?”

  “Something like that.”

  She took him around the waist and squeezed. “Don’t worry about Tyson’s reaction.”

  “I’m not. It was better than expected.”

  Karissa let him go and went to the kitchen counter. “How soon do you need to head for the office?”

  Brock balked. “Oh wow, I gotta get going.”

  “Any time for a little breakfast? I don’t teach till ten this morning, so I have time if you do.”

  “Teach? You’re a teacher?”

  She frowned. “Okay, professor of speech pathology and ASL if you want to get technical.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk.”

  “No, I mean . . . I can’t explain.”

  “How about if you try over breakfast?”

  “No time. I’ll grab something at the office.” Brock turned and strode across the kitchen.

  “Latte for the road?”

  “Without question. Triple shot. Maybe a quad.”

  “I’ll put your concoction together while you get dressed.”

  “Thank you!” he called out over his shoulder as he jogged back up the stairs.

  Brock took a three-minute shower and was shaved and dressed in seven. The thought kept pounding through his mind that if things were solid with both Tyson and Karissa, then why was Black Fedora still a mess? He half jogged back into the kitchen and looked for his latte.

  “In the microwave.” Karissa looked up from her laptop and smiled. “Ready for a twenty-second boost just to make sure it will burn your mouth on the way to the office.”

  “Perfect.” He returned her smile, did a rapid shuffle across their hardwood floor, and pushed the button.

  As he waited he glanced at the counter. Everything here looked the same as it did days back, and Brock started to relax. Wait. What in world was that? A cookbook lay open on the counter next to the stove. It was dog-eared in multiple places, and multiple pages were warped from apparent spills and food-laden fingers. It wasn’t one from his collection, and neither Karissa nor Tyson cooked, so who would have been using it?

  “When did you take up cooking?”

  “I didn’t. What are you talking about?”

  “This.” Brock pointed at the cookbook. “Someone has put this book to a lot of use.”

  “Remember that person who left for school about fifteen minutes ago? The one you hugged for the first time in years?”

  “Tyson is cooking?” Brock frowned and ran his fingers over the pages of the open book.

  “Are you all right?”

  Brock called up his inner actor and prayed it was semi-convincing. “Yeah, I mean of course I know he’s cooking, I just didn’t realize he was cooking that much.”

  “That much? He’s been working on it almost every night, and on the weekends too.” Karissa put down her tea and sauntered over to him. “And you’ve been in the kitchen with him most of the time. So tell me what’s going on with you. Real answers. Your acting stinks.”

  “Nothing, I’m just . . .”

  “Just what?”

  “I’ll try to explain it to you someday when we have a lot of time, when your imagination can handle it.”

  “Oh, now you have to tell me.” She grinned.

  “I will. I promise. Tonight.”

  “Pretty high compliment that he wants to follow in your footsteps.” Karissa straightened his shirt.

  “He does?”

  Brock’s cell phone vibrated. A text from Ron. HOW CLOSE ARE YOU? WE START AT 9 SHARP.

  Whoops.

  “Gotta go.” He turned to take a last glance at the cookbook to see what dish Tyson was working on. Eggs Benedict. Brock leaned and took a quick scan of the recipe. Exactly like his own. He shut the book to see who the author was. The instant the name registered in his mind, Brock’s arms went limp.

  “Wha—what is this?” He held it up for Karissa to see.

  “A cookbook.”

  “With my name on it.”

  Karissa put her hands on her hips. “Yes. It’s fairly common for the author of a book to put their name on it.”

  The blood rushed from Brock’s face and his body went weak. “I don’t understand.”

  “Have to say, you’re acting a little strange this morning, love. You better have convincing answers tonight as to why.”

  Brock’s cell phone buzzed again. HELLO? He texted Ron back, COMING.

  “I gotta go.” He tossed the cookbook onto the counter and jogged out the door.

  Chapter 50

  As Brock tore up 405 on the way to the office, he called Morgan. “Yeah. Talk.”

  “Do you follow Jesus?”

  “What?”

  “Are you a Christian?”

  “Hello, McFly. You were there, Brock-O.”

  Relief filled Brock.

  “Did you give me a book on lucid dreaming?”

  “There’s a point to this, right?”

  “Did you?”

  “No, but I have one I can let you borrow.”

  “We have a lot to talk about.” Brock pulled off 405 on his way to Black Fedora. “And I’ll tell you all about it in the days to come.”

  Seven minutes later Brock arrived at the office and rushed into the elevator in the parking garage. He reached the seventh floor three minutes after that and strode toward the conference room. He glanced at his watch. Two minutes till nine. No time to jet into his office and see if he could pick up any clues on the state of the company. No time to put his head together with Ron. And Brock definitely needed the meeting more than Ron did.

  Yes, from what Ron said, the buyout was still happening, but he would still be flying utterly blind on all the details. No chance to save the company when he had no clue where all the players were positioned on the chess board. And there was no way he could stall signing at this point.

  “Thanks for getting here early.” Ron strode down the hall and clapped Brock on the shoulder. “But no worries, we’ll figure it out. Just tell me if you’re leaning yes or no.”

  “Your hand.” Brock pointed at Ron’s right hand as heat rushed through him.

  “Yeah, I have one on the left as well.” Ron gave a questioning grin.

  “You’re still golfing.”

  “And you’re not getting out of playing with me in the scramble tournament next week, so don’t try.”

  “I won’t.”

  “So yes or no on the buyout?”

  “What do you mean yes or no? We don’t have a choice.”

  Ron gave him another puzzled look and pushed open the conference room door. “They’re all in the lobby, but I told Michelle not to send them up till I give her the word. So talk to me, yes or no? And from what you’ve been saying this past week, no is not an option for you, right?”

  They stepped into the conference room as Brock tried to formulate an answer that would draw out a hint of what Ron was really asking. But any thought of responding vanished the moment Brock spotted the posters on the walls. Every few feet was a six-by-four poster, eight posters in all. Four of them featured Ron. Four of them featured himself. At the top of the first poster in hu
ge letters was the line, Cuisine to Live For. At the bottom in a smaller font was Brock L. Matthews Opens His Newest Restaurant April 23.

  The poster next to his was one of Ron. At the top was the Black Fedora logo. Ron sat surrounded by fourteen flavors of Black Fedora coffee. His arms were spread, a huge grin across his face. An easel in the corner of the room held a smaller poster of Brock standing over a lavish island stove with a ladle in hand. Spread out on the counter next to the stove were three labeled dishes: Tuna Scallopine with Parsley and Pomegranate Seeds, Lobster Bisque Soup, and Eggs Benedict. The top of the poster said, The Latest from the Fertile Mind of Master Chef Brock L. Matthews.

  “You look like a zombie. What are you staring at?”

  Before Brock had a chance to respond, Ron shook his head. “I get it. I agree. I asked Carla not to put the posters up—I know you don’t like being the star—but she said it would make a good impression on the folks coming in. And since she’s the VP of Marketing, I respect her opinion, and you have to admit, she’s much wiser than me and maybe even you in that area.”

  Brock turned to Ron and tried to say something remotely intelligent, but what came out was, “I don’t own Black Fedora.”

  “What?”

  Brock said it again, this time a whisper. “Black Fedora isn’t my company.”

  “Technically, no. But you own the company that owns Black Fedora, so technically yes. I’m assuming there’s a point to this feigned ignorance?”

  Brock’s mind spun like a gyroscope. He hadn’t gone to business school. He took another path. One his dad saw for him, the gift he couldn’t remember receiving. Brock stared at Ron and couldn’t stop shaking his head.

  “That was dad’s gift to me. It had to be.”

  “What gift? What are you talking about?” Ron turned his head to the side and narrowed his eyes. “You realize you’re not making any sense, right?”

  “I went to culinary school. That was dad’s gift to me that day at the game, right? He paid for culinary school, didn’t he?”

  “Brocklee, we don’t really have time for a history lesson. We need to let—”

  “What’d you call me?”

  “What?” Ron laughed.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “You’re definitely not doing well.” Ron took Brock by both shoulders and shook him playfully. “I’ve been calling you that for twenty-seven years. Now all of a sudden you don’t like it?”