The Five Times I Met Myself (19 page)

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

A
s 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.”

“I want to hear all about it.”

“Great.” His younger self pointed at a table in the farthest corner of the coffee shop. “I’ll grab us a couple of drinks. What do you want?”

“Why don’t you grab me a grande white-chocolate mocha cut once?”

“A grand what?”

Brock smiled inside. Right. Back in the mideighties Starbucks was still getting ready to take over the world. Few people had heard of the million and one concoctions the company would later create and everyone else would copy.

“Maybe I should describe it to you and you can tell Morgan and his dad and they can beat Starbucks to the starting line.”

“Who is Starbucks?” A wave of recognition splashed across his younger self’s face. “Oh, yeah. Those guys down at the market who make the burnt coffee.”

“Yep, that’s them.”

“They’re a fad. Morgan says they’re never going to go anywhere.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“Oh yeah, you know something, Future Man? Does Starbucks take over the world?”

“Just about.”

“You just snag that table before someone else does. I’ll snag us
some drinks—I should know what you’d like—and you can take a sip of yours and tell me if I’m right about your taste buds.”

It wasn’t till Brock reached the table that the utter hopelessness of the situation hit him. Young Brock had just said going to business school was the right choice. So he’d already started down that path. Of course he had. It had been two years since their last talk. So what could he do at this point to change things? He could try, that’s what he could do. He could talk to Brock about Karissa. And he could plead for the Lord’s help.
Guide me, please. I’m out of control once more.

Brock settled into the chair against the wall and watched his younger self and Morgan interact. He could tell there was some debate about the two drinks, but he couldn’t decipher what it was about. A few minutes later, Young Brock arrived with two vanilla lattes.

“Looks like you and Morgan were arguing about these concoctions.”

“Yeah, he was acting weird. Let’s just say for some reason he didn’t think you should have a drink too.”

“Why?”

“No idea. Thought one drink should be enough for the both of us.” Young Brock toasted and they knocked their cups together.

“To you, Future Me. I thought you were crazy that day in the park, but I have to give you at least a twenty-one-gun salute. You were right. Absolutely right. Thank you.”

“No, it wasn’t the right call. That’s why I’m here.”

“What?” Young Brock laughed.

“Going to business school. It wasn’t the right path. It changed things in the future. Not in a good way.”

Young Brock leaned back and grinned. “So you’re still on that you’re-me-in-the-future kick?”

“I don’t know if this is a dream or if this is real, but trust me, you need to—”

“Hang on, my turn.” Young Brock leaned in, elbows on the table. “I trusted you last time, whoever you really are, and went to business school. So now it’s your turn to trust me. When I say you changed my life, I don’t mean just my career. Turns out I’m quite good at business. More than good. My professors see it, and more importantly, my dad sees it. For the first time ever, he and I have something to talk about. We’re getting along. More than getting along. I’m only twenty-seven, but I’m already a vice president at Black Fedora. Dad is talking about Ron and me running the company together fifty-fifty when he retires. He’s never said that before. Trust me, things are working out like I never dreamed. I’ve fallen in love with Black Fedora.”