The Five Times I Met Myself (24 page)

“What’s on the tape?”

“You both were such idiots, but you won the prize.”

“What’s on there, Shelly?”

“You still have a VHS player?” She slapped the tape against his chest and he reached up and took hold of it. But she didn’t let go. “Last chance to leave it alone.”

Part of Brock screamed at him to do exactly that. But a larger part had to know what had happened to his brother, because only a fool wouldn’t be able to see he was an integral part of the horror that caused Ron to lose his hand.

Images of what could be on the VHS streaked through his mind all the way home and fueled a well-orchestrated plan of procrastination once he shut himself into the houseboat for the night. But by ten o’clock the scales tipped, and the pressure to know outweighed his trepidation. It took twenty minutes of searching, but he finally found a VHS player buried in a storage closet in one of the extra bedrooms upstairs.

After he hooked it up to his TV, he closed all the blinds, turned off every light, and pressed play. Thirty seconds later, as the images of Ron and him filled the screen, his mind screamed at him to shut the video off. But his hand wouldn’t obey.

Chapter 34

T
he date stamp on the video said 08/12/1997.

“We really going to do this?” Brock bounced on his toes in a tight circle as Ron mirrored him.

They moved on a thick lawn, with what must have been a bright sun overhead. Ron’s backyard if Brock had to guess. The camera angle shifted, and Brock caught the flash of one of Ron’s golfing flags in the background. Definitely Ron’s backyard.

“Is that your way of saying you want to concede before we even start?” Ron jabbed a finger toward Brock. “Go ahead, back down, hand me the cash, admit you have no chance, and it’s over.”

“No way.”

“We go till one of us taps out, agreed?” Ron grinned.

“You better practice saying uncle, bro.”

“Not needed. Never going to say it.”

The two of them increased the speed of their circling, and both raised their arms and flicked their hands at each other as if to attack.

A voice next to the camera mumbled, “Idiots in the king’s court. I can’t believe they’re doing this. Midthirties and still acting like they’re sixteen. You’d think at their age, they’d give up acting like macho jerks who have to prove something to each other.”

Karissa’s voice. The sound of it shot a pang of longing through Brock, and he leaned closer to his TV screen.

“I can believe it. Completely.” That was Shelly. “They have a disease almost impossible to overcome.”

“What disease?”

“Being unfortunate enough to be born male.”

“Hey! Are you filming?” Ron turned to the camera.

“Yes.” Shelly raised her voice. “So the whole world can see how stupid you and your brother are!”

“A psychologist could make a career out of those two.”

“Without question.” Shelly giggled. “This will be wonderful play-by-play for them to listen to when they watch the tape.”

“Unfortunately even if they listen, they won’t hear the truth in it,” Karissa said. “Remind me when men are supposed to grow up?”

The two wives continued talking, but the action on screen took all Brock’s attention. He and Ron had stopped circling and started grappling each other as if in the finals of Olympic wrestling. And while the women might have found the match amusing, the looks on his and Ron’s faces said this was a deadly serious competition.

Why were they doing it at this stage of their lives? Sure, he and Ron had fought and wrestled like all brothers do growing up. Brock lost a couple of teeth over the years. Ron still had scars from some of their bouts. But by their early twenties they’d grown up enough to forgo the wrestling for more mundane forms of dueling. Obviously that wasn’t the case in this time line.

By now Brock had shot for Ron’s legs twice and missed both times. Unlike organized wrestling, it was clear in this match there were no breaks between rounds. After another forty seconds of each looking for an opening, Ron faked high, dove for Brock’s legs, flipped Brock onto his back, and drove his knee into Brock’s ribs. Brock grunted and tried to spin out of the hold before Ron could lock on. Not fast enough. Now Ron had Brock on his stomach and ground his elbow into the spot where he’d sunk his knee into Brock’s ribs.

Brock shot his head back and cracked Ron in the face. His brother staggered to his feet and held a hand up to his now bleeding nose. After pressing it hard for a few moments, he dropped his hand to his jeans and wiped it off.

“Okay, that’s enough. Game over.” Karissa’s voice was loud enough to snap both brothers’ heads over in her direction. But just as fast they turned and locked their gaze on each other.

“We done?” Brock gasped out.

Ron pulled in a quick breath and wiped his nose again “Not . . . even . . . close.”

“Oh come on you macho freaks,” Shelly shouted. “Can’t you just play chess?”

Ron turned and pointed a finger at her. “Keep filming.”

“Remember what I said about them being idiots in the court? I take it back. They’re royalty. The rulers of the Imbecilic Nation. Co-emperors of stupidity.”

“I agree.” Karissa raised her voice. “It’s over, Brock. This is no longer a game.”

Brock continued to move in a slow circle, his gaze flitting from her to Ron. “This was never a game.”

“Then what is it?”

“Life.”

“For crying out loud, you two are brothers.” Shelly’s voice.

Ron glanced at the camera. “Exactly.”

Bouncing on their toes as they circled was long past. Each of them drew in ragged breaths as they staggered around each other in a slow arc. Ron had dominated the match, and as he lunged at Brock’s legs, Brock held little hope that things would change. His brother had lorded his physical strength over Brock since the day he matched him in height and weight at age fourteen, and he’d done the same in their professional life. This match wouldn’t end much differently than any of their competitions had ended, no matter what time line it was in. But as Brock stared, riveted to the screen, he realized he might be wrong. Something in his eyes on screen said this time the sands would shift in his favor.

Ron lunged for the second time since his nose was bloodied. Somehow Brock sidestepped the attack at the last moment and wrapped his arms and legs around Ron’s off-balance body. They crashed to the ground, and their bodies tore into the sod. The thud of their fall was accompanied by a whoosh of wind out of Ron’s lungs. But Brock didn’t let go. As Ron gasped for air, Brock grabbed his brother’s hand and secured it in a hold that would cause excruciating pain if he tried to move.

As Brock stared at the screen he didn’t have to imagine what was going through the mind of the Brock in the video. He knew. It was splayed across his face in a blazing display of triumph. Part of his mind was screaming to let his brother go, let him catch his breath before they continued, but it was drowned out by the voice shouting to give no mercy till his brother submitted. Finally, he would win.

Ten seconds later Ron had caught his breath and rocked back
and forth in an effort to free himself from Brock’s grip. As he did, Brock applied more pressure to Ron’s hand.

“Arrrghhh!” Ron cried through gritted teeth.

“Cry uncle.” Brock dug his feet into the sod and pushed all his weight down on his brother.

“No way,” Ron spit out.

“Say it!”

Ron’s only response was to growl.

“Say it now!” Brock squeezed harder. “I won.”

“You’ll never win.”

Brock whispered, “Say it, little brother.”

Again, a cry of pain shot out of Ron’s mouth.

“Just say it, Ron. Admit it. I’ve won.”

Ron’s voice dropped to half its volume. Brock was surprised the tape picked it up.

“Maybe you won some stupid wrestling match, but I won the Dad Olympics and that’s real world. You lost, bro. Forever.”

Brock stared at the screen and knew what was about to happen before it did. Something inside him would snap, and he’d make a move he’d regret forever. Brock lifted off his brother six inches, then threw his entire weight down into his arm, into his hand, into his grip that held Ron’s hand in his.

The snap of the bones in Ron’s hand sounded like a set of miniature dominoes being knocked over at quadruple speed. It couldn’t have been that loud, but the noise of his brother’s hand shattering spilled out of Brock’s TV speakers as if the sound was cranked to a hundred decibels. The cry of Ron’s pain seemed to split Brock’s ears open.

The camera went shaky a second later, and the view on screen was of the sky, the grass, and then back to Ron and Brock.
Whoever was filming must have set the camera down on a chair or table but didn’t turn it off. A second later Shelly and Karissa shot into the frame and rushed toward Ron and him.

“Get off him! Get off him!” Shelly popped Brock in the side with both hands, and when that didn’t work, reared back and kicked him in the ribs with her cowboy boot.

Brock rolled off and landed on his back, his arms splayed to each side. His breathing came fast and as his eyes closed, Shelly punched him in the stomach, shouted, “What were you thinking!” then turned to Ron. “Are you all right?”

Karissa knelt between Ron’s and Brock’s heads. She glanced at Brock and scowled. “Happy now?”

“Are you okay?” Shelly asked again.

Ron’s eyes were shut and he grimaced as if in agonizing pain. Which he assuredly was.

“We’re going to emergency.”

“I’m coming with you.” Karissa glanced at Brock in a way that said he wasn’t invited.

Brock tried to pull his gaze from the screen but it wasn’t possible. On screen, Brock’s face went pale, probably from realizing what he’d done. Shelly and Karissa helped Ron to his feet as Brock rose to his. Brock started to speak three times, but nothing passed his lips. As he started to speak a fourth time, Ron lasered him with a look of hatred, and Brock mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”

Ron turned away and hobbled toward the house. In three seconds he, Shelly, and Karissa were out of the frame, leaving Brock alone. He rubbed his face as a sigh came from the depths of his chest. He stood with head in hand for over two minutes before finally giving a start as he realized the camera was still on. He shook his head, walked up to the camera, and shut off the tape.

The video ended and the screen filled with black-and-white snow, accompanied by a hiss. In his houseboat, Brock didn’t move, didn’t bother to shut the tape off. No mystery what had happened. He’d destroyed so many bones in his brother’s hand there was no way to rebuild it into anything close to usable. So at a certain point a doctor must have suggested amputating the hand in an effort to see if a prosthetic could give Ron some semblance of a normal two-handed life. But Ron’s golf? Gone forever.

M
AY
26, 2015

Brock lay in bed that night trying to sleep for two and half hours before he gave up. He was so wired after seeing the video that his brain refused to shut down. So what was he supposed to do while he ground through the next day, waiting to dream again?

Easy answer. Try to reach Shagull. No idea if the doctor would be in this time line, but it wouldn’t be hard to find out.

Brock got out of bed, walked into the living room and across it into the small den on the other side of the kitchen. He searched for a picture of his dad and him in Alaska. Not there. Not even one. Brock turned to the desk and tore through a pile of notes and papers. Nothing. Nothing in the top drawer either. Had he made contact with Dr. Shagull in this time line? He desperately wanted the answer to be yes, but evidence was mounting that said no.

He started to reach for one of the lower drawers of the desk when he saw a card lying on the brown speckled carpet. Shagull’s. Yes. So he had contacted the doctor in this reality. Brock glanced
at his cell phone. Almost midnight. Too late for the doctor to answer, but he could leave a message.

The phone didn’t even finish the first ring before the doctor answered.

“Hello?”

“You’re up?”

“Obviously. Who is this?”

“Brock Matthews. Do you remember me?”

“Yes, Brock.”

“We’ve talked before.” Of course they had. The card wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t.

“You don’t recall?”

“I remember, but I didn’t know if you would.”

“Why is that?”

“I woke up in a very different place than where I went to sleep, and everything has changed, and I don’t remember any of it. So I don’t know what we’ve talked about from your perspective.”

“I see.”

“Do you?” Brock wiped his damp forehead. “Is this really happening to me?”

“I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“How can you not understand the question? Am I really going into the past and talking to myself? Am I causing a younger version of myself to change things in the present? Am I living out that old movie
Back to the Future
in real life?”

“We talked about this before, but I will reiterate. I have no way of knowing if these things are truly happening to you. I have no context to judge against. All I can observe is what I see around me. You tell me things were dissimilar before, but evidence for that comes only from your words. There’s nothing you can show
me or anyone else that indicates things were at all different previously.”