The Five Times I Met Myself (20 page)
A boulder landed in Brock’s stomach. He had to try a different tack.
“If you’re getting this good at business, take a job with another company. Or start your own. Why tie your future to a company you have to run with someone else?”
Young Brock leaned back, took a long drink of his coffee, and shook his head. “Do you want me to repeat myself, or do you just want to play the tape in your own head again? Yeah, my dad and I have a long, long way to go, but there’s something I can’t fight inside. Something I don’t want to fight. So I’m laying down my gloves, because deep inside I do want a relationship with him. So if he ever asks, I’ll go on those trips to Alaska just like you want, and in the meantime I’m going to pour my heart into Black Fedora.”
It was an argument Brock had no answer for. He wasn’t going to convince Brock to leave the company. No chance for that now, but what about Karissa?
“Tell me about Karissa.”
“How do you know I’m still . . . ah, right. You’re me. Uh-huh. Whatever.” Brock gave a mock smile. “Doing a little spying on me?”
“No.” Brock grimaced. “Are you still together?”
“We’re still seeing each other on a fairly regular basis.”
Brock clenched his hands. By the time they were twenty-seven, he and Karissa had been married for more than a year.
“Are you serious with her?”
“It’s not exclusive if that’s what you’re asking. We’re both seeing other people.”
“Who else are you seeing? Sheila?”
“Love to hear why you think that’s any of your business.”
“Are you seeing Sheila?”
“Yeah, from time to time.” A smile and recognition washed over his younger self’s face. “But don’t worry, it’s just friends.”
“You’re not right for each other.”
“I told you, we’re just friends.”
“Keep it that way.”
“Again, why is my love life any of your business?”
“Because I love Karissa. And she’s no longer in my life. And I don’t want to live without her.”
Young Brock stared at him for a long time before he leaned forward and pushed his coffee cup into Brock’s and slid it toward the edge of the table, then pulled his own cup back.
“What are you doing?”
“You tell me, since you are me.” Young Brock looked up from under his eyebrows. “It’s a metaphor.”
Brock took a breath and held it. He did know. “You’re putting distance between you and me.”
“Very good.”
“Why?”
“You think maybe it’s about time you tell me who you really are?”
“It’s impossible, but I’ve stopped saying that, because obviously it is possible. I am you, at age fifty-three, and I want to save you from—”
“Okay, I think we’re done here.” Young Brock stood and opened his palms. “Unless you want to come clean on why you’re doing this, and what your real name is.”
Brock stared up at his younger self and willed him to sit back down. But his younger self didn’t.
“I can prove it.”
“How?”
“Ask me anything. Something you’ve never told another soul.”
“I’m not playing that game.”
“If I am you, then I’d know that you’re the type of person who would have a hard time backing down from a challenge like this. Because I also know there’s an infinitesimally small part of you that believes me, as insane as it sounds, a part that thinks it’s possible this is really happening.”
Young Brock squinted at him for ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Then he sat back down.
“All right. I’ll play.” Another ten seconds. “When I was eleven, I went to basketball camp. Things didn’t turn out the way I wanted them to. After I came back, I hung up my shoes. I’ve never told anyone the reason. So why don’t you tell me what it was.”
The question stunned Brock. Maybe because it was the one
memory he refused to let himself visit. So why would his younger self bring it up to someone he thought was a man sliding off the end of his rocker? But again, it was the perfect question. A memory so deep and protected no one would know about it and what it did to him.
Within the dream, the memory of that day washed over Brock.
J
ULY
1973
B
rock stood flanked by a row of boys along the side of the court, Adidas basketball shoes on his feet that his mom bought the week before he left for the basketball camp. New basketball shorts. New shirt. Ready to take on the world.
The camp’s head coach was teaching the fundamentals of zone defense. The man stood at midcourt in a white T-shirt and black sweat pants. A thick silver whistle hung around his neck on a thin leather cord. Four of his assistant coaches stood twenty feet away, two on each side of the key.
He smacked the basketball in his hand again and again with his palm in a slow cadence.
“Now stay with me, men. I’m guessing most of you have only played man-to-man up till this point in your young basketball careers. But when you get to high school, you’ll need to know zone defense.”
He bounced the ball once and barked, “Okay, let’s do this
right. I need a volunteer.” The coach’s gaze swept the line of boys. Every hand shot into the air and Young Brock strained hard, as if he could make his higher than anyone else’s.
The coach’s eyes stopped. “You, come out here and help me demonstrate this.”
Brock pointed at his chest.
“Yeah, you.” The coach jabbed his finger at Brock. “This your first year at camp?”
“Second,” Brock squeaked.
“What?”
“Second,” he said louder.
“Perfect.” The coach nodded once. “Name?”
“Brock Ma—”
“Let’s go, Brock.” The coach wiggled the forefinger of one hand at Brock and pointed to a spot on the court with the other. “Get out here and help me demonstrate this.”
Brock sucked in a quick breath and sprinted out to the coach, who tossed him a basketball, then guided him by the shoulders to stand five feet away.
The coach’s voice sounded loud behind him. “One more volunteer.” A pause, then, “You. What’s your name?”
“Ben.” A kid with stringy blond hair that hung over his eyes rubbed his hands on his shorts.
“Get to the baseline, Ben. Now.”
The coach pointed to a spot on the baseline and turned back to Brock.
“All right, Brock, think about how you’re going to find the best passing lane to get the ball to Ben. Go, let’s run this.”
Passing lane? Had they talked about that during the past three days? No, he would have remembered. He wrote notes every
night in his bunk about what they’d been taught, and there was nothing about passing lanes. Not last year, not this year. But he couldn’t stand there and do nothing.
The coaches moved toward him and bobbed on their toes. Brock dribbled toward the coach on the right side of the key, but he’d only taken three steps before he pulled up and held the ball. He’d frozen. Stupid. He didn’t have a clue what to do. So what? Fake it. Trying something was better than nothing. A whistle shattered the mumbling from the other kids on the side of the court.
“Brock!” the coach said. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I, uh . . .”
“Can you do this?” The coach smacked his fist into his palm.
“Yeah, but I’m thinking maybe I need to figure out . . . I mean I need you to tell—”
“Then don’t talk about it, do it.”
The coach blew his whistle and shouted, “Let’s run it again. Go!”
As before, the coaches moved toward him like a wall. Run what? He had no idea what he was supposed to run. But like before, he couldn’t stand there and do nothing. Brock dribbled to his right and tried to spot Ben down by the basket, but the coaches towered over him and seemed to move like lightning.
Even though part of him screamed not to pick up his dribble, he couldn’t stop himself and did it a second time. The whistle tore through his ears again and he lifted his head to the coach. He glanced at Brock with disdain and waved his hands like he was getting rid of a swarm of flies.
“Get off of my court.” He turned to the other coaches. “Can you get me someone who has the slightest clue what they’re doing?”
A few of the older kids snickered. Six or seven kids raised their hands and as they did Brock tried to talk to the coach. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t know what you wanted. I didn’t understand what you were asking me to do.”
The coach ignored him and jerked his fingers toward a kid who loped out of the crowd to take Brock’s place. He put the kid in the same spot where Brock had stood.
“I’m sorry, Coach, I tried but I—”
“Yeah, I’m sure you did, but I’d like to get this done before lunch, so let’s move on.” Brock stared at the coach for a sign of compassion, a shred of kindness, but the coach’s face was stone. “You got cotton in your ears, son? Move!”
This time the majority of the kids broke into full-out laughter and the rush of blood to Brock’s face felt like fire. He turned and stared at the spot in the line where he’d come from. The kids stood there with folded arms and stupid grins on their faces. Brock wove his way back to them, not sure where he should stand, wanting to sprint from the gym, pack his bag, and leave forever.
He struggled through the rest of the practice, pain eking out of every pore in his eleven-year-old face. Finally practice was over and he grabbed his bag from the bleachers and hoisted it over his shoulder. He trudged alone toward the gym doors and pushed them open as if there was a heavy wind buffeting them.
He took only three steps before the doors opened behind him. Brock turned and froze. It was the head coach, walking straight toward him.
“Uh, Coach?”
“Yeah.”
“About what happened in there? I’m sorry—”
The coach slowed, but didn’t stop. Brock hesitated, then shuffled along the dirt path that led back to the cabins.
“I’m not understanding you, son.” The coach glanced at Brock, then picked up his pace, so Brock picked up his pace as well.
“In there, the practice, I didn’t run it right and—”
“Oh, you were the one who kept screwing up my practice?” The coach gave a dismissive grin. “Forget it. We got it fixed. Some people aren’t cut out for basketball. Don’t beat yourself up over it. Find something else to do, kid. Trust me, you’ll be better off for it.”
Brock swallowed hard as the memory faded. He’d never told anyone about the conversation with the coach, and he’d never picked up a basketball again.
His younger self’s voice broke through his thoughts.
“Hello? Future Brock? You going to give me an answer? Tell me why I stopped playing basketball? Or don’t you have any idea?”
Brock gazed at his younger self for a few moments before responding.
“That coach was a father figure. He took the place of Dad, and when he crushed you, you vowed to never play again or have anything to do with the sport. Walking away from basketball snuffed out your floundering relationship with Dad, and you’ve felt guilty about that ever since.”
His younger self went pale. But he didn’t move except for a tightening of his jaw. Then a slight nod. Then he rose from his chair and reached into his pocket. He dropped twelve dollars on
the table and tilted his head toward Morgan. “Can you see that Morgan gets that? And stay away from me.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, the dream ended, and Brock woke to a sound that seemed familiar but was completely out of place.
M
AY
24, 2015
H
ad it worked? Had his last dream convinced his younger self to stay with Karissa? He turned over and opened one eye a crack, trying to brace himself against the possibility it wouldn’t be Karissa next to him. But there was no one beside him. No shower, no sounds at all from the bathroom, and none floating into the bedroom from the kitchen. But there was that distant, out-of-place sound. What was it? He knew it but couldn’t quite place it.
Brock opened his eyes fully, rolled out of bed, and froze. Not his bedroom. Instead, he found himself standing in a much smaller bedroom staring at brown paneled walls and windows covered with beige ruffled curtains that looked like they were straight out of the nineties.
He definitely wasn’t in Sheila’s and his opulent spread. Was it possible? Hope rose inside. Maybe his younger self had changed his mind and either moved off the business path or started his own company. Most importantly, maybe he was still married to Karissa.
A pang of longing for her shot through him, and he willed her to be in the next room, sitting in her favorite chair, reading a mystery novel.
“Hello?” Brock wandered toward the bedroom door and pulled it open. “Kariss—”
Her name died on his lips as he stared at the family room in front of him. There was no Karissa, and the room wasn’t his—and yet it was. His books lined the beat-up bookshelves along the far wall. His desk was crammed into a tiny room. His collection of cookbooks were stacked on the small kitchen counter.
It wasn’t until the subtle shift of the floor under his feet that Brock realized where he had to be. He stumbled to the back door, yanked it open, and stepped onto the narrow deck of a houseboat. He stared at the water lapping at the dock. That was the sound he’d heard in the bedroom. What was he doing here? He had an overwhelming desire to click his heels three times. But he knew it wouldn’t take him back.