The Mulligan (11 page)

“Hey, there. Hold on, OK? The ambulance is on its way.” I lean closer and whisper, “You're going to be fine.”

She blinks, trying hard to focus on my face. I'm sure it takes all her effort to do so. I stroke her hair back on her damp forehead.

“Check my roses…”

“Don't try to talk, Mattie. Just hang on until we get you help.”

I pat her hands that clutch the buttons on her shirt. What else can I do? I try to remember my CPR from when I worked a summer at the hospital as a candy striper. Her breathing sounds labored to me, but what do I know? I strain to hear the sirens and curse them for taking so long.

“She's breathing hard,” I report to 911.

“The EMTs are two minutes out.”

Two minutes pass like five hours.

“Check my pink roses…for you.”

I look back down at Mattie. “Don't worry about your plants. You'll be better in no time to care for them.” My words must give her comfort because she closes her eyes and her breathing evens out.

I rise from my knees and wait at the front door as the ambulance works its way into the battered driveway. The EMTs rush pass me and carry Mattie out on a stretcher as I stand out of the way in her living room, trying hard not to cry.

It seems like only seconds, but I'm sure it's longer before I hear the siren leaving the community with Mattie on board. By then, a few other residents have ventured outside to take a survey of the storm damage.

“Is Mattie all right?” one woman asks me.

“She fell hard. I should get to the hospital to be with her.” My feet won't move.

The woman touches my arm. “You're shaking, sweetie. Let's get you inside before we have to call an ambulance for you.”

“But Mattie…” I can't let Mattie wait out the night alone in a hospital.

The woman takes my arm and leads me toward my trailer. “George will go and check on her.” She turns to an older man whom I hadn't even noticed come up beside us. “I'm Alice. You let me get you inside and get you warm.”

“George—does he know what hospital?” My question is waved off as George produces a set of keys while this woman guides me into my living room. I can't believe how I'm still shaking.

“Thank the good Lord that Mattie wasn't killed,” she says as she covers me with a light blanket she finds on my bed. “That none of us were killed.”

I pretend to yawn, and Alice finally leaves me alone after making me promise to come see them if I get scared.

I'm not ready to praise God yet, not like she did. Not when He allowed Mattie to suffer alone over there.

 

 

 

 

12

 

The storms didn't damage the golf school by any measure. The next day I sit in computer class wondering how Mattie fared the night at the hospital. The EMTs told me which hospital they were taking her to before they drove away, and I looked it up last night. I intend to visit as soon as I get done practicing today after classes.

Drew passes me in the hallway this morning with a look I can't read, but I am over him. So what if he has the hottest blue eyes and my heart ripples like an accordion whenever I look at him? I have no time for crushes, especially on a jock who thinks he needs to ruin my plans.

If I want abuse, I can call my father.

I try hard to pay attention, but Mr. Barret has the most boring voice of any teacher I've ever sat before. Boring with a capital B. I glance around me and find several students looking at their phones or listening with their earplugs discreetly plugged in. I stretch my feet and count the days left to attend.

A big tournament is scheduled for tomorrow at Orange Lake. We've been told that several companies that make golf equipment will be there, and maybe, just maybe, some lucky golfer might pick up a sponsor.

I need it to be me, and that means I need a few teachers to put in a good word for me. Plus I have to break my own score tomorrow.

When class ends, I rush to my car and grab my clubs. I'll practice at the school range for an hour before finding the hospital where Mattie is recuperating. I smell the thick humidity as I walk up the hill to the range. The heavy air clings to my clothes.

In Pennsylvania, the trees would be turning if it is an early fall. I miss the smell of leaves in a pile and apples being boiled into applesauce on the kitchen stove. Maybe Mark is right. How am I going to travel and be a golf pro if it means staying in cities most of the time?

In all truth, that life isn't the life I'd planned for myself. I'd have been happy buying one of the old cabins along the river and decorating it with my art. I would sit on the porch and watch the fishermen glide down the river. Might even get a dog to lie at my feet and keep me company when I decide to paint. A beagle. A friendly beagle that doesn't bark.

I don't know why I think about painting. This homesickness I carry around with me is making me think about all sorts of things when I should be concentrating on my swing.

I set my ball and pull out my driver.

My fingers find their place and I grip the club the way I've been taught. I try to clear my thoughts. Once, and then twice. My head is too jumbled, and that makes me angrier. The guy next to me swings. His ball flies over 250 yards.

“Nice one,” I say, but I don't think he hears me. He's already swinging at the next ball.

Again I try to clear my head, and this time I swing. I slice it to the left. I bite down on a word that aches to leave my mouth. I wriggle my shoulders, loosening stiff muscles. Maybe I am not warmed up.

The player next to me hits another one—farther than before. He holds his hand up and tips his cap when the ball lands. Yeah. Cheer now, I want to say. You might be someone's gift to golf today, but wait until tomorrow when your body refuses to cooperate.

The sun bears down on the back of my neck, stroking it, burning it. I'd forgotten sunscreen and will pay later. Again, I set a ball and take my stance. I swing.

“Nice shot,” the guy on my left offers.

Nice shot is right. But will I be able to do it tomorrow?

 

****

 

The hospital looks like it needs to be torn down. This is Florida, right? New construction happens every day, so why doesn't anyone care about a falling down hospital? I find the front desk and give the lady in the red apron Mattie's full name.

The volunteer looks through a list and consults a computer screen. I hate hospitals. They smell like antiseptic and this one is no exception. My stint as a candy striper convinced me that the people who work in hospitals become immune to the smells and therefore think everyone else should as well. I didn't. Today proves that my theory still holds.

I tap my fingers on the desk. Lightly. Ever so gently. I don't want to push this woman into working—just give me Mattie's room number.

Finally, she looks up. Her lips are turned into a line somewhere between “May I help you” and “What's her name?” “I'm sorry. It seems your friend is no longer a patient here.”

“What does that mean? No longer a patient? She didn't go back home. I would have seen her.”

Again the thin line. But I catch a flash of something in her eyes. Is that sorrow? I lean across the desk. “She's not here because something happened to her, right?” I'm not sure where my boldness comes from because I don't sound like me. “Please don't tell me she died, because I promised her everything would be OK. Please?”

I'm sorry I put that poor volunteer on the spot. I'm not family. She can't tell me anything, but Mattie has no family. Just the residents of the park who love her and all of those others she helped. The volunteer finally gets her supervisor, and after some hard convincing, they tell me Mattie had passed away last night.

I say “Thank you” and drop my arms to my sides.

She'd passed away alone. Why hadn't I gone to the hospital to be with her?

I make it to my car and sit unmoving for a good fifteen minutes trying to remember Mattie's last words to me. Something about her roses. The pink ones. I hadn't gone over yet and righted her pots. She'd hate seeing them strewn around like that.

I put the car in gear and speed home. When I pull in, I notice the park manager coming up Mattie's walkway.

“Mr. Gordon, have you heard about Mattie?”

“I did—such a sad thing. She had my name down as an emergency contact, you know. Several of our folks do here.” Mr. Greer wheezes. His eyes also water, but I'm not sure if that is his normal look or out of sympathy. “Going to get her paperwork and put things in order.”

By paperwork, I assume Mattie has written a will and Mr. Gordon will take care of it for her. It seems even sadder that your manager has to also be your executor, but by the time someone is Mattie's age, maybe there aren't many choices left. I wander behind him, eyeing the flower pots.

“Do you mind if I straighten these up? I sort of promised her I would look after her plants.”

My host waves his hand. “Sure. Sure. Probably going to put them in the dump. Take any you want or give them away. I don't care.” I leave him to his ramblings and turn toward my promise.

I don't know anything about flowers. My mother has the dubious title of gardener in our family. Sure, I've pulled a few weeds under duress, but have never planted my own garden. But a promise is a promise.

I start with the smaller pots, packing the dirt back around the roots. I line them up nicely and consider putting a sign out for people to help themselves. I work on the larger plants that have been upheaved during the storm. When I come to a rose, a pink one, I crouch beside it and study the half-emptied planter. What was it about the pink roses that made Mattie remember to tell me about them?

I pull the plant the rest of the way out of the pot being careful not to prick my fingers. Not only do I not have a green thumb, but I want to keep what I do have intact. That's when I see the pink envelope with my name on the front.

To Bobbi, the girl with an “I”—for living
.

I can barely make out the scribble, but it is my name, for sure. In a flower pot. Maybe she was farther gone than I gave her credit for. I slip the envelope under my arm, and hoist the plant back into its container. Later, I will sweep up and water them and maybe put out that sign, but right now, the letter burns to be read. I call good-bye to Mr. Greer and hurry across the way to my place.

I've always loved mysteries. My mother read me all her Nancy Drew books when I was growing up until I found authors I loved on my own. Robert said I could make a mystery out of an anthill if I wanted to badly enough. So what if I didn't read the Bible like he did? My stories were far more interesting.

I grab some cookies and sink down on my couch cross-legged. My imagination goes wild. For an older lady, Mattie sure does surprise me. Maybe we had more in common than I realized. Maybe she had been a mystery buff as well and decided to leave clues all over her house for someone like me to find. Maybe, I should go inside, if old Mr. Watery Eyes ever leaves and see if she has left anything else. Within minutes, I decide that perhaps Mattie was an undercover agent working for the government as a spy.

Or not. Maybe she was just crazy.

I flip the envelope over and over willing the suspense to last.

And of course, my phone rings. Normally I would have ignored the caller, but it is my mother. I have yet to tell her about the storm and Mattie and now this letter. Maybe I will keep the letter out of my story and savor it for myself until I know more.

“Hey, Mom. Did you hear about the tornado that hit Clermont?”

“No, I didn't. Is that near you?” Her voice rises. It doesn't take much to make her worry.

“Close, but we only got some damaging winds. Blew everyone's patio stuff all over creation. I think I have an awning lying across my back yard.”

“I hope you used your weather radio.”

“First thing I did, Mom. I took cover in the tub. Just in case.”

“Well, you never know. I was calling to tell you that I saw in the paper where Dan's mother died. Have you spoken to him?”

I take a sharp breath. She died? Poor Dan. I'd read somewhere that death came in threes. Now I'm worried. “I didn't know. He's probably not down here yet if she was that bad. Are you going to the viewing?”

“Thinking about it. At the very least I'll make a casserole and drop it off.” A pause. My mother is good at pausing before a particularly delicate topic.

I brace myself. I'm beginning to doubt I can take any more bad news. I have that tournament tomorrow, and all this stuff isn't going to help my psyche.

“Robert walked today without his walker.”

My air comes out in a rush. “Now that's great news! Tell him way to go!”

“I will. He can't go far, as his legs are a bit shaky still, but it's so nice to see him moving on his own. He's trying to get Grandpa to adopt that walker.”

“Good luck. You have a stubborn father.”

My mother chuckles. I love hearing her do it. Everything is right with the world when she laughs. I start to ask about Dad but decide she'd tell me if anything has changed there.

“I've got an important tournament tomorrow, Mom. I'm hoping maybe I can get a sponsor to help pay for Q-School.”

I know how my mother feels about my decision to come to Orlando. She doesn't like it at all, but being my mom, she supports me. She doesn't have the funds I'll need along the way, though. I've managed to scrape together enough from my savings to pay for round one tournaments and maybe, if I make the cut, for round two. A sponsor will make the difference, but it's not like they show up waiting to find the next great golfer. Honestly, I'm not all that sure how it does happen, but I hope if word gets around that I'm good, someone will want to attach their name to me.