The Five Times I Met Myself (37 page)

“How? Why would you—”

“Yesterday Karissa called me. Told me everything.”

“And you believed her?”

“I did. Because it finally made something done long ago that made no sense, make total sense now.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will.” Ron grinned. “Right now.”

Ron stood and strolled over to the picture hanging on the wall to the right of his maple desk. A picture of a sailboat on the crest of a wave, the sky above it cobalt blue. Wind in the sails that would carry it forever. The perfect illustration of where Karissa and Brock were now. Ron pulled the photo back and revealed a small safe behind it.

“This is why I believed her.”

“Because of what’s inside.”

“Yes. And because of the picture.”

“Did Karissa tell you about the conversations she and I’ve had about sailboats recently?”

“No, but your reaction tells me God is in this.” Ron reached for the lock. “Do you like the classic behind-the-picture hiding place? It’s so cliché it makes the perfect spot. The place no one would look. Nice ‘Purloined Letter’ feel to it I think. Although any thief who did look would be disappointed at what’s inside.”

Ron spun the lock forward, back, and forward again. The safe clicked and the door swung open with a soft squeal. Apparently the safe hadn’t been opened in a long time. Ron didn’t block the view, so Brock easily saw the contents. Not what he expected. The only thing inside was a thick manila envelope. His brother pulled the envelope out and held it in both hands for a moment before shutting the safe door and swinging the photo back in place. Then he settled back into the chair next to Brock and laid the envelope across his legs.

“Before I give you this, would you like to know where I got the photo?” Ron pointed back over his shoulder.

A slight smile grew on Brock’s face. “Are you kidding?”

“Good, because I can’t give you the envelope without telling you where the picture came from.”

“I see.” Brock crossed his legs and tried to figure out what the enigmatic look on Ron’s face meant.

“No you don’t, and what I’m about to say probably won’t make your vision any clearer. Plus it might be a little hard to believe. I know I still find it hard to believe.”

“Try me.”

“All right.” Ron put his hands and elbows on the armrests of his chair and leaned back a few inches. “In the spring of 2006 I was given the photo and the envelope at the same time. I was also given the safe. The person who gave me these items made me swear on my father’s grave that I would do three things. First, guard the envelope as long as I lived. Second, tell no one about the envelope. No one. Not even the slightest mention of it, even to the person who gave it to me. And third, when the time was right, I would give the envelope and the contents to you.”

Ron stopped and paused as if giving Brock time to assimilate the information.

“The third requirement was of course the hardest to comply with, simply because I had to be the judge of when the time would be right. And now that the moment has arrived, I hope I’ve judged rightly, and this is indeed the correct time to tell my short side of this story.”

“What’s inside the envelope?”

“I have no idea.” Ron tilted his head. “Can’t say I haven’t been tempted to look at times over the years. But I never succumbed to the temptation.”

“You still haven’t told me who gave you the photo and the envelope.”

“No, I haven’t.”

Ron leaned his head back till it touched the back of his chair.
He closed his eyes for so long Brock wondered if he’d fallen asleep.

“Who gave them to you?”

Ron opened his eyes, leaned forward, took hold of the envelope, and set it on the coffee table between them, laughter about to break out on his face. “You did.”

Chapter 52

W
hat?” The blood rushed from Brock’s face. First Mt. Pilchuck, now this. “I gave you the envelope? Me? And the photo? Are you kidding?”

Ron shook his head slowly, then glanced back in the direction of the picture. “I have to confess I almost broke the third rule the first time you stepped foot into this room back in 2009, just three years after you gave me the packet, looked at the photo, and asked me where I got it. I almost laughed but then realized you were probably testing me—to see how strong my promise to you was. But over the years I realized that for some strange reason you truly didn’t remember that you yourself had taken the photo, framed it, and given it to me.

“So as much as you’ve been waiting for this day to come, so have I, because as you can understand, I’m supremely curious as to why you forgot, and if whatever is inside that envelope can answer that question. And now you know why I believed Karissa’s story about what has happened to you over the past four weeks.”

Ron leaned forward slowly and with one finger slid the envelope on the coffee table closer to his brother. Brock pulled in two breaths before reaching forward to take the packet. He lifted it off the table, took hold of the string that held the flap closed, and unwound it like it was a gold strand he was in fear of breaking. The rapid-fire pulse of blood through his temples seemed to drown out all other sounds.

As soon as he opened the flap, Brock slid the contents into his hands. On top of a thin leather journal lay a letter. On the bottom was a copy of the photo that hung in front of the safe. He glanced at Ron’s questioning eyes, then began to read.

July 22, 2006

Dear Brock,

What should I call you? Old Man Brock? Future Me as I did so many times when we were together? It’s odd writing to myself, but I suppose I’m not writing to myself—but to the person I’ll become. Have you thought much about that? How the experiences in the past are simply memories of events that define who we were then, not who we are now? I’m guessing we’ve both learned we are not the same person in the present that we were in the past—or the days to come.

When you first appeared in Morgan’s coffee shop in the summer of 1985 I of course didn’t believe you. Who would? But over time I entertained the possibility that God was doing the impossible. And if you’re reading this letter, then you were who you said you were, and God did indeed make the impossible happen.

As you’ve no doubt figured out by now, I took your advice
and went to the Seahawks game. Dad told me he’d enrolled me in the New England Culinary Institute and had paid the entire tuition and housing in full. He took me by both shoulders and said, “Pursue the dream, Brock.”

He’d seen my feeble attempts at cooking during my teens and early twenties, dreamed of what I could become, and acted on it. That meant the world, more than words could ever accomplish. And it started a reconciliation between us.

I graduated with honors from culinary school, and after slogging it out in San Francisco, Austin, and New York restaurants for ten years I opened my own, and that’s when things took off.

But my greatest accomplishments are being a good husband to Karissa, a good father to Tyson, and loving God with all that I am.

I’m going to give this letter and a special photo to Ron on my 44th birthday. I’ll tell him to give you these things when God’s Spirit tells him the time is right.

Yours for eternity,
Brock Lee Matthews

Brock folded the letter, slid it back into its envelope, then picked up the journal and leafed through the pages. The first twenty or so pages were notes from his times with his younger self. Strange to see dates at the top that were more than thirty years old, yet in his time line they’d happened only days ago.

Brock looked up, but Ron was gone. Brock slid the journal, the photo, and the letter back into the envelope and rose from his chair to go find him. He found his brother out on the back deck sitting in one of six chairs that surrounded a gas-powered fire pit.
An assortment of cheeses, olives, and fruits sat on a plate atop the pit’s thick marble frame.

“Since the great Northwest doesn’t often serve up days as fine as this one, I thought we should move our discussion out here. Drink in as much of the day as we can before night steals the light once again.”

“When did you put together this spread?”

“While you were reading whatever was inside the packet.”

The land in front of them sloped off at a forty-degree angle, leaving an unobstructed 180-degree view. Brock could make out what he thought was Shaw Island and Blakely Island.

“The view is stunning.” He slipped into the chair next to his brother and focused on a sailboat moving across the water at least half a mile away. “Do you ever get tired of it?”

“Never. I still take the same picture time after time as if I don’t have a hundred other shots already.” Ron motioned toward a cold coffee drink sitting on the armrest of the wooden chair. “The ice is half melted, but I guarantee it will still taste pretty good.”

“I’m sure it will.” Brock lifted the drink and took a sip.

“It’s all right?”

“Perfect.” Brock took another sip, then set the drink down and turned to Ron. “Do you mind if I say something so sickeningly sentimental it will make your brain melt?”

“Not at all.”

“I love you as my brother, but even more so as my friend.”

Ron stood without speaking, raised Brock to his feet, and embraced him for what felt like hours.

Sleep came easily that night, and so did a dream that Brock would treasure forever. He sat once again with his father in the backyard he grew up in, but this dream wasn’t the terrifying
recurring nightmare that had haunted him. This was his dad from the Seahawks game just weeks before he passed away. His dad’s eyes were tender, his hands folded across his lap. They faced each other, and the sun behind his dad’s head had just risen.

“Are you controlling this dream, Dad? ’Cause I know I’m not.”

“Not me. I think Someone else is.”

The lawn around them didn’t swirl, and the evening breeze was as light as if it came from a butterfly’s wings. After a time his dad unclasped his hands, knocked the armrest of his chair twice, then gazed deep into Brock’s eyes.

“There are so many things I’ve wanted to say to you for so many years, you know? Not sure why I waited.” His dad sighed, but he didn’t seem sad. “Yeah, I do know. The truth is I was too weak to come to you. Too much pride. Too ashamed of what I did to you in the days I wasn’t in my right mind.

“The hardest part, thinking back, is knowing you were old enough to remember the man I was at the start of the dark years. Your brother wasn’t, so there was never that wall between Ron and me that there was between the two of us.”

Brock’s dad gave a tiny shake of his head that reminded Brock of himself. “I should have fought harder to tear it down than I did. I know the clouds I created still block you from seeing the sun. And I’ve longed to see those clouds burned away by a sun so bright no darkness could overcome it ever again.”

“It’s okay, Dad.” His dad turned and Brock looked at his father’s face in profile. They had the same nose, the same chin, the same look of contemplation.

“I think it is, Brock. I really do.”

His dad turned and stared deeper into Brock’s eyes than anyone in his life had ever done.

“I love you, Dad.”

“Me too, Brock. I’m so proud of you.”

His father laid his hand on top of Brock’s and held it tight till the dream faded and Brock fell into the arms of the best sleep he’d ever had.

Chapter 53

M
AY
23, 2015

W
hen Brock woke the next morning, he kept his eyes closed and basked in the memory of his dream from the night before, but the moment he opened them his heart rate spiked. He wasn’t in Ron’s cabin. He was home.

Brock lurched to the edge of the bed and sat with his feet on their tan carpet, staring out the window at a gray sky, trying to remember what must have happened. Why would Ron bring him back here in the middle of the night? Brock spun to look at the other side of the bed. Karissa wasn’t there. He wobbled around the edge of the bed and called her name as he pushed open the bathroom door. Empty.

“Karissa?” He called her name at the top of the stairs and again when he reached the bottom. No answer. And no sign of her in the kitchen, the family room, or anywhere else in the house. It wasn’t till he opened the garage door and found himself staring at her empty stall that the truth started to creep into his mind.

Brock spun and loped back across the kitchen. He took the stairs two at a time, strode back into their bedroom, and snatched his cell phone off his nightstand. Karissa picked up on the second ring.

“What do you need, Brock?”

“Where did you go this morning? And why am I here instead of Ron’s cabin?”

“You’ve never been to Ron’s cabin.”

“No.” Ice shot down his back. “This can’t . . . where are you?”

“Do we have to go over it again?”

The blood drained from his face as the words sputtered out of him. “You’re at your sister’s.”

“And?”

More chills washed through him. “It was real. All of it. I swear it wasn’t a dream. It can’t have been.”

“What was real?”

Brock whirled and headed for the top of the stairs. He grabbed the railing on the way down or he would have fallen. His legs felt detached from his body as he watched his feet clomp down the steps as if they belonged to someone else. He staggered into his den, stared at the walls, and despair buried him. There was one picture of his dad and him in Alaska. One. And no picture at a long-ago Seahawks game.

“Brock, are you there?”

“We went three times, Karissa. Three.”

“Where?”

“And we went to the game. I went! And you and I . . . we’re so good now. So good.”

“What are you talking about?”

He squeezed his head and didn’t answer.

“What is wrong with you, Brock?”

“It can’t have.”

“Can’t have what?”

“Can’t have not happened.”

“I need to go, Brock.”

“Wait.”

But the line went dead.

Brock collapsed into his desk chair as quick, heavy breaths puffed out of him. Had to think. Figure out what was going on. But he knew already what to do. He needed to talk to someone wise. Only one person came to mind. A friend who most likely would think he was crazy.