The Five Times I Met Myself (12 page)

He pulled out of the garage and called Karissa as he sped down the street toward 405.

“Forget something?”

“Steve Miller’s
Young Love
CD is in my car.”

“Uh-huh. You’re surprised by that?”

“Do I own his first
Greatest Hits
CD, or only this one?”

“I don’t know. I think only that one. Why?”

“Unbelievable.”

“What?”

“It happened again.” Brock came to a stop on 8th Street and waited for the light.

“What happened?”

“I met myself in a dream and told my younger self I was going to do an experiment. I told him to buy Steve Miller’s second greatest hits album.”

“So?”

“I never bought this album.”

“Sure you did, I remember you doing it. You said you were thinking of getting it for yourself for Christmas, and I told you to buy it. I think it was Christmas 2003.”

The car behind him laid on his horn, and Brock looked at the now-green light. He accelerated and tried to slow his breathing.

“No, I didn’t.”

“I’m pretty sure you did.”

“This is too strange. It can’t really be happening. How would you remember that and not me?”

“I don’t know, but I do know I have to go. Tyson needs breakfast.”

Brock hung up, laughed at himself, and popped the Steve Miller CD back into his player. Did he really believe he could go to sleep and somehow communicate with the person he was thirty-plus years ago? And that their conversation would change the present? No. It was ludicrous. But his laughter faded as he pressed his lips together and tried to come up with a rational explanation for what had happened. He couldn’t. There was only one explanation that made sense, and it made no sense at all. His meeting with Dr. Shagull couldn’t come soon enough.

Brock sat on a bench near the front of the park and looked at his watch; the doc was twenty minutes late. No cell number to call the good doctor on. He’d wait another ten.

Nine minutes later, a man approached. Brock knew it was Dr. Shagull. Maybe it was the way the man sauntered toward him as if studying a lab rat. More likely was the fact that no one else in the park stood a chance of being the doctor.

Brock stood and extended his hand. “Dr. Shagull, I presume.”

The doctor sighed as he shook Brock’s hand. “If you knew how many times I’ve had to endure that opening line, you’d beg me to forgive you for using it.”

“Sorry. I’ll ask for your forgiveness even without knowing.” Brock bowed his head. “I’m Brock Matthews.”

Dr. Shagull’s pale face looked like it had melted slightly years ago, then hardened into a perpetual expression of expectation. He was the type of lean that made him seem taller than he really was. Brock guessed his height at six three, but he probably wasn’t much taller than six feet. His sparse gray-blond hair waved in the light breeze and his thick glasses couldn’t hide bright eyes that flitted from left to right to up and down—as if there wasn’t anything worth looking at for more than a quarter second. He smelled of pipe tobacco, and the effect of all his apparent quirks gave the impression that either he was playing the role of an eccentric professor in a community theater stage play or he’d stepped out of England in the 1950s. The only thing missing was the British accent.

“Thank you for taking the time to see me.”

Dr. Shagull tilted his head down and looked over the top of his glasses. “I rarely meet readers of my book. Close to never.”

“Thanks for making an exception in my case, Dr. Shagull.”

The doctor continued as if Brock hadn’t spoken. “But in your
case, I wanted to. More than that, I feel it’s a necessity.” The doctor’s eyes seemed to laugh as he motioned toward the path to their left. “Shall we?”

They made their way down the trail toward the lake.

“And by the way, call me Shagull, or Thomas, but don’t call me Dr.”

“All right.”

They settled into a slow walk along the edge of the water and for a time didn’t speak. Shagull was the one who broke the silence. “Are you a man of faith?”

“Yes.” Brock glanced at the doctor. “Are you?”

“Yes, I would call it that. Some wouldn’t describe me that way. Which is fine.” Shagull reached into his pocket and pulled out a pipe. “Do you mind?”

Brock shook his head. The reality was, too much pipe smoke would bring on a pounding migraine, but outside he rarely had a problem with it. As long as he and the doctor stayed on the path and the breeze blowing into their faces continued, he’d be okay.

“There is an intelligence behind everything that occurs in this universe, and I believe that intelligence is God. As you know,
God
isn’t a name any more than
president
is a name. It refers to a position only. I’m more than content to call this intelligence God.”

“What about Christ? Was he the son of this Intelligence?”

“The most brilliant man who ever lived.”

“Man?”

“Of course he would be the brightest mind in history, yes? I suppose that comes with being God and all.”

“So you believe Christ was the Son of God?”

The doctor stopped and smiled. “Is this really why you wanted to see me?”

“No.”

“Then why don’t we get on with it.”

“Am I time traveling?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then where am I going? Everything in my dreams is from the past. And the younger version of myself doesn’t think it’s a dream. For him, it’s real. My dream is happening in his reality, in his present and my past.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I’m changing things! I’m talking to this younger version of myself, and those conversations are making him do different things than I did the first time, and when I wake up there are differences. If I wasn’t really back there, truly talking to him, nothing in my present world would shift, correct?”

“Does anyone else notice these changes?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you wake up and things are different, are you the only one that thinks things have changed, or are there other people who think reality has shifted?”

“I still don’t understand the question. Of course I’m the only one who thinks reality has shifted. When the younger version of me changes things, then it changes for him and everyone around him from what happened the first time. Their time line is—”

“If you’re the only one who thinks the present has changed, then how do you know all the transformations you seem to be going through are real? How do you know all the supposed world shifting isn’t happening only inside your own head?”

Brock stopped stone cold and stared at the back of the doctor’s head as he continued to stroll down the path. A numbness overtook him and seemed to freeze his mind. Impossible. Things had
changed even if he was the only one who knew it. But how could he know that for certain?

“What are you saying? That I’m nuts? That I’ve made up this whole thing in my mind?”

“I’m only asking the question.”

“If that’s true, then I’d be certifiable.”

“Most people would come to that conclusion anyway.”

“So what do I do?”

“You have choices. If you are indeed practicing lucid dreaming, you can stop. The next time you encounter yourself, wake up. Or shift the dream in a different direction, away from your younger self.”

Brock watched three ducks fight over bread being tossed to them by two children.

“I don’t want to stop. I want to change things.”

“Most people would. Tell me, then, what would you change?” The doctor winked at him. “If these changes weren’t just occurring inside your own mind. What would you do with this power if you really, truly had it?”

“Two things. I’d figure out a way to have a relationship with my dad, and I’d figure out how to go to business school instead of getting a degree in marketing.”

“Then why not try to do those things?”

“Because a large part of me doesn’t believe this is happening.”

“If that is the case, what do you have to lose?”

Chapter 17

N
OVEMBER
3, 1989

T
he sun woke Brock at five thirty on Friday morning. Five more days in Costa Rica and he’d be on a plane heading back to Seattle. After getting a cup of coffee, he strolled out onto the veranda of the villa where he was a guest and stared at the coffee fields. But after a few seconds he wasn’t seeing the fields any longer. His gaze turned inward, to a question Karissa had posed the morning he left for this trip.

“What if your dad dies earlier than later?”

“What in the world made you think of that?”

Karissa ignored the question. “Would you regret not trying harder to have a relationship with him?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Really? How hard?”

Not hard. Not at all. She was right, and the time to do something about it was now. His dad was a horse, would probably live forever, but Brock should probably make an effort soon. He
wandered back inside the villa and looked around his room for something to write on. He spied a postcard and pen on the desk in the corner of the room. Brock picked up both, intending to ease back outside to one of the wicker chairs and start a note to his father. But the light on his phone was flashing. The front desk said mail had arrived for him, and he went to pick it up. It was one envelope. From his father. Brock shook his head. God had to be laughing. He took the envelope back to his room and opened it.

Hello, Brock,

I suppose I could have sent this letter to your Seattle home, or dropped it off with you at work, but my thought was to get it to you at a time when you were alone and away from any distractions.

Don’t worry, this won’t be long, but I suppose it’s inevitable that at fifty-three I’d start thinking about my mortality.

With that in mind, I’m wondering if we can get together before the leaves are fully gone from the trees. Can we try again? Can we have a cup of coffee together? Can we have a laugh or two and see where it takes us?

Your father and, hopefully,
friend

Brock leaned back and breathed deep. His dad, his friend? He felt like his soul split in two. One part desperately wanted to jump on a plane and have that conversation—the part that still felt eight years old and longed to fall into his dad’s arms before the dark years came. But he wasn’t eight anymore. On the other hand, his dad was trying.

Brock wandered out onto the veranda with pen and postcard in hand and wrote a quick message.

Dad,

Got your letter. Thanks. A cup of coffee sounds good. I’ll be home from this trip in five days. I might even beat this postcard back. I’ll call you then, and we’ll pick a time and place.

Brock

Now if he could just get up enough nerve to mail it.

Brock watched a flock of clay-colored thrushes glide over the coffee fields and prayed that his relationship with his dad would take flight just as easily. Just after midnight, Brock slipped into his bed, pulled the thin blue comforter over his body, and prayed for his calloused heart to soften, for the courage to send off the postcard, and for a new beginning.

Just before sleep took him, the cordless phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hey.” It was Karissa. “Sorry. I woke you, didn’t I?”

“No. I mean I was just falling asleep, but I’m glad you called.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Brock settled back on the bed and closed his eyes. “What’s up?”

Brock heard her pull in a sharp breath. “I have a strong feeling you need to start building a relationship with your dad.” She hesitated. “He called me. Told me he cared about me, about us. Wants us to be happy together. Has always thought I was the right one for you. That he feels close. It was very sweet. Tender.”

He didn’t respond, and she let the silence linger. She undoubtedly knew he needed a moment to collect his thoughts. To
wrestle with the idea that his dad was tender toward her and not toward him. But . . . his dad’s letter did express a longing for restoration.

“Feels close? We’ve already been married a year and a half and he’s hardly spent any time around you.”

“Which says a lot, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, so does the letter he sent me.”

“At the hotel?”

“Yeah. Wants to have coffee.”

“God is in this, Brock.”

Brock stood and eased across the room and through the villa doors onto the balcony overlooking the field of coffee beans. The moon threw splotches of light through the clouds onto the plantation.

“I know he’s in it. I’m just not sure if I’m ready to pull down the wall. Those bricks have been there a long time.”

“Which is why you need to do it now. It’s a chance for healing, and while your dad might not be able to say all the words he wants to, I believe you’ll see in his eyes what he’s truly telling you. Meet with him. You need this.”

Did he? Probably. Definitely. But it wasn’t that easy.

“You ever get to a spot where you’ve always wanted to stand and then realize you’re stuck on the edge of a precipice and there’s no turning back, but there’s no way across?”

“There’s a bridge there if you’d only open your eyes to see it. He cares about you. Don’t you see that you’ve shut him out as much as he’s shut you out? Can’t you see that you two are so much alike, you’re acting like magnets who get too close and shove each other apart?”