The Five Times I Met Myself (14 page)
“This is happening, Brock. I don’t know how, but it’s real. It isn’t just a dream. And I need to talk to you about something else.”
“Yeah?”
“Business school.”
But his younger self just laughed, then turned and strode toward the hangar and Brock woke up.
M
AY
21, 2015
T
hat night after work, Brock slid behind the wheel of his Lexus and ground his teeth. The dashboard clock read ten fifteen. Far later than he wanted it to be. If he had something to show for it, he might feel okay. But all he’d accomplished that day was confirm there was nothing he could do about the volcano about to explode under Black Fedora. And from what he could glean from Karissa and Ron, nothing had changed between his dad and him. So his younger self had done nothing.
Brock glanced at the time again. Should check in with Karissa. She didn’t pick up so he hung up and called again. This time she did, a heavy distance in her voice.
“Where have you been?”
“The office.”
“Working late again.”
“Yeah, trying to build an ark.”
“The flood is coming, isn’t it?” She went silent for a few seconds. “And there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”
“I won’t quit trying till the waves bury me. I’ll figure out a way. I promise.”
“Okay.”
Brock turned onto the freeway. “How are you?”
“I’m good.”
Her tone said the opposite.
“I don’t believe you.”
“No, don’t worry about me, I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
“Don’t worry about me, please.” The sigh that sailed through the phone told him not to push it.
“Okay.”
“How soon will you be home?”
“Twenty minutes.” Brock pulled onto 405 and merged into a light flow of traffic. “What are you doing?”
“Tyson’s out. So I’m just sitting here. Thinking.”
“That’s what worries me.” Brock laughed.
She didn’t join him. “See you in a few.”
The line went dead without her saying good-bye, and Brock tried to steel himself against a conversation he guessed was coming. One he’d already had with her a million times; one he wasn’t up for having again right now. The talk about the nest going empty when college stole Tyson away from them, and what she would do with her life now that her identity as a mom was vanishing. He knew she needed to process it, also knew he didn’t need to do much more than just listen, but with the pressure of Black Fedora pounding down on his brain, he wasn’t up for another spin through the same water they’d rowed through so many times before.
He put in the
Young Hearts
CD and tried to enjoy the music, but even “Fly Like an Eagle” didn’t help his mood.
He turned onto Sutherland Street, which offered glimpses of Lake Washington, and slowed down. Lights on a smattering of boats far out on the water winked at him as if they knew something he didn’t. A few minutes later he pulled into the garage and sat with his hands on the wheel, and sent out a silent request.
I’m tired. But she needs me. Your strength, your understanding, your wisdom.
Brock pushed through the door from the garage into the kitchen and squinted into the darkness. No lights were on, Karissa’s usual Jeff Johnson music wasn’t playing, and the TV wasn’t on either. Just silence. Not a good sign. He stopped in the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine, and one for her as well.
“Karissa?”
Brock strolled to the bottom of the stairs and called her name, but there was no answer. He clomped up the stairs to the halfway point and called her name again. Again no response. Brock descended and ambled past his den. Next he tried their media room, but why would she be sitting there when he couldn’t hear anything coming from the TV speakers? Where was she? He went back past his den to the stairs and climbed them two at a time.
“Karissa?”
He called louder as he went down the hall, then into their bedroom, but there was still no answer. On the veranda? No. He went back downstairs and was about to go into the kitchen when he heard a faint noise from behind him. Did it come from the den? He spun and walked back and glanced again at the lamp that was on in the corner. Wait. He’d missed it the first time. That lamp was on? He never left that lamp on.
He stepped inside and caught movement out of the corner of
his eye to his left. Karissa. She sat in the shadows in the brown suede love seat she’d bought for him three Christmases ago. Her legs were tucked underneath her, shoulders slumped. Her hair was tied into a ponytail and she wore his ancient University of Washington Huskies sweatshirt.
Both her hands were wrapped around a cup he’d bought her ages ago during a trip they’d taken to Victoria, BC. The soft glow from the lamp across the room didn’t provide enough light to tell him what her expression was, but her body language shouted the answer. Her gaze was straight ahead.
“Karissa?” Brock stepped into his den and set their wine glasses on his desk. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
She nodded and kept staring out the window at the light rain splattering against the glass.
“Why didn’t you answer?”
Her only response was to take a sip of her tea.
“What’s going on?”
Still silence.
“Do you want to be alone? You’re thinking about Tyson going off to school, right?” Brock slid out of his coat. “Do you need to talk about it? You’re going to make it, you know.”
Karissa shifted and set the cup down, glanced at him, then focused on the window again. She wiped her cheek.
“It’s going to be okay. He’ll be home for weekends, home for Christmas, spring break. And you’ll find new hobbies and—”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
She turned and stared at him for a long time before answering. “Money is like gold leaf covering wood that is rotting underneath. And our gold leaf is blowing away.”
“What are you talking about?” Brock took two halting steps into the room.
“Our money has kept me alive. It’s allowed me to do things for Tyson and other people. Allowed me to buy things I want and go on trips I wanted to go on.” Karissa drank more of her tea. “It’s a salve for us. For me. It’s been an ointment that numbs the truth, keeps the pain from registering. Allows us to trudge on down the path, never noticing the gangrene spreading in our feet. Without it . . .”
Brock settled into the chair across from Karissa and waited, but she didn’t continue.
“We’re going to survive. Even if I can’t save this company, I promise. We will figure out a way to keep most of our lifestyle, and even if we go totally bust, I can start over, rebuild, create—”
“You don’t get it, do you? Didn’t you hear what I just said? It’s not about our lifestyle.”
“Then help me understand what it’s about.”
The silence stretched out, but Brock stayed quiet. Finally Karissa spoke.
“I had coffee with Britt today.”
“Oh?”
“She asked me a question and it uncovered something deep I didn’t even know was there. Or didn’t want to admit was there.”
“What was the question?”
“It was simple.” Karissa glanced at each wall of Brock’s den. “We were talking about how we’ve supported our husbands’ hopes and dreams and careers, and Britt asked me, ’How does Brock support you and your dreams? What does he do to keep you going? How does he really show he appreciates everything you’ve done for him over the years?’ ”
“What did you say?” Brock rose and made to join her on the couch.
“No.” Karissa jabbed a finger at his chair. “You stay there.”
He sat back down and repeated himself. “What did you tell her?”
“The truth.” For the first time since he’d entered the room, she looked him in the eyes.
“And that’s when the gold fluttered away, and I saw what was underneath. The thing I’d never seen before. Or seen but never admitted it to myself.”
“Is that what’s been bothering you?”
“A lot of things have been bothering me. It’s just another on the list.”
But he knew it wasn’t just another item on the list. It was
the
item.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? Wow, thank you. That makes it all better.” Karissa shifted in her chair. “You gave your heart to that wretched company.”
“So we could have—”
“What about my life, Brock? The things I dreamed about doing? I put my entire existence on hold for twenty-seven years so you could build that company, and what do I have to show for it? Soon it’s going to just be you and me. And you have your career. You’re a rock star of the coffee world—and like you just said, you might be able to rebuild even if you can’t save Black Fedora, but me? What do I have?”
“I thought you wanted to be a mom.”
Karissa smacked her teacup down on the saucer and a smattering of tea spilled onto a stack of papers. He was smart enough not to react.
“I did want to be a mom. It was my dream to be a mom and pour myself into Tyson, and I did, but you drained me. So many ideas, so much pressure for Black Fedora to break out, so much time hearing about your battles with Ron, all the dinners and parties and grand openings. Events I loathed going to, but I still went. Every time. I’m worn out, Brock.”
“I remember asking you once what you wanted to do, and you told me you weren’t sure. I would have supported you—”
“How many times, Brock? Once?” Karissa turned in the love seat, held up a finger, and fully faced him. “You asked one time! Then you checked it off your list and moved on to the next hobby, or dream, or big idea on your list. It’s always been about you. And about that company. I never worried about you having an affair with another woman, because your mistress was right in front of me all the time. Black Fedora is the love of your life, not me.”
“Not true.” Brock again tried to rise and go to her, and again Karissa stopped him.
“I asked you about your dreams every day. I encouraged you, believed in you, listened to you as you told me about your and Ron’s plans to turn Black Fedora into a company far beyond what your dad ever dreamed it could be. I put up with the seventy-hour workweeks, the vacations you always put off.”
Brock stayed quiet as the truth seeped through his defenses. What could he say? Anything that came to mind seemed stupid.
“What do you want to do? You can do it now. Take classes, learn how to—”
“You are such a man. The years are gone, Brock.”
“Start now. It’s never too late.”
“Really?” She poked her legs. “You think I can become a dancer at my age?”
“You . . . I didn’t . . .”
“Didn’t know?” A sad little laugh escaped her mouth. “Because you didn’t ask about my dreams. Because there was only ever room for yours.”
She looked at him with eyes of sadness, which was worse than accusation. When she turned away to stare at his wall of achievements again, she spoke in a whisper.
“I was always the wind. You never were. And I have no wind left.”
B
rock tried to watch
SportsCenter
, but he couldn’t get his mind off Karissa’s words. Was he that bad? Was it his job to pull her dreams out of her? After wrestling with his thoughts for an hour, he shuffled upstairs intending to go to bed, but something stopped him before he stepped into their bedroom. A distinct feeling shot through him. He couldn’t name it, but definitely an impression that he needed to go up into the attic.
He eased down the hall and entered the empty bedroom next to Tyson’s. He walked into the room’s closet and pulled the cord that released the ladder that led up to their attic. He plugged one ear against the screech of the metal ladder as it opened up. Obviously it had been a few years since either Karissa or he had been up there.
His dad’s words from the recurring dream streamed across his mind’s eye as he gazed up into the attic:
Embrace it, Brock, even though it will be difficult. Face the truth though it will be painful, for the truth will set you free.
The rungs groaned as he climbed. When he reached the top,
Brock fumbled for the string, found it, and pulled. Light filled the eight-by-eight-foot space. He’d carpeted it years ago and put in shelving to store all the memorabilia he couldn’t part with. He’d forgotten about the chair he’d brought up. A black leather chair brought up in pieces and assembled by a friend of his who used to work at an upholstery shop. If they ever sold the place, the chair would stay.
Brock settled into the chair and glanced around the small space. So many books he’d never get around to reading. Hot Wheels cars from when he was a kid, old pictures of the football and baseball teams he and Morgan had played on. He picked up a photo from 1980 and smiled. The only year he played hockey, after being talked into it by Lennie Buck.
There he stood, with Lennie’s arm around his shoulder, big stupid grins on both their faces. Lennie missing a tooth. Brock had kept all his teeth. Lennie claimed that showed Brock wasn’t serious about the game. He pawed deeper into the box and found an old puck, scarred by too many games outside on the street. He sighed. Why had he hung onto all this junk for all these years? He hadn’t missed it. But now that he saw it, he was glad he hadn’t tossed it out.
He glanced at his old yearbooks. He pulled out the one from his senior year and opened it. Seconds later his fingers found the page Sheila had signed. Her note and the drawing took up most of the page. It’d been years since he last thought of the image she created.
She’d drawn a picture of a lion’s head and a unicorn’s head next to each other in semi-profile. Brock had forgotten how talented she was. The animals’ faces were strong, their eyes pulsing with strength and purpose. Lion and unicorn. That’s what Sheila had said they were.
“Amazing,” he’d told her as they sat on the back deck of her parents’ house going through their yearbooks together right after graduation. “I’ll keep this page of my yearbook forever.”
“Glad you like it, because that’s just the warm-up.”
“What?”
Sheila rose from the picnic table, sauntered into the house, and returned a minute later holding a picture frame with its back to him. She smiled and slowly spun it around till the front faced him. It was the lion and unicorn again, but this time twice as large, and with such detail it was hard to believe it wasn’t a photo. In the lower corner she’d signed it, just below a line that said, “Forever.”