The Mulligan (16 page)

Instead, I turn away. I know what I'm doing is right.

 

 

 

 

18

 

School is crowded with students today because there's a tournament later (one I won't play in). No one skips. The hallway echoes with shouts and loud comments while I hobble my way to class.

I avoid Drew. Fortunately, I have other classes, and by the time I hop around, I don't have time to chat with anyone. A few guys offer to carry my books (which I politely decline), and a few make wisecracks, but overall I make it through the morning, and then to the gym.

The gym is not my favorite place to hang out. First, the treadmills look like last season leftovers from a defunct sporting goods store. The weight machines are crammed into a corner where it is almost impossible for more than one person at a time to work out. I breathe a sigh when I see I'm the only one here today.

My upper arms are pretty strong already, but working them couldn't hurt. I wriggle into a machine and start doing repetitions. Up and down. Rest. Up and down.

I don't want to think about Drew's question, but my thoughts keep returning to it. What if turning pro won't do it for my father? What if it has to be Robert all along?

I set the weights higher.

No, that's not true. Now that Robert can't golf, Dad will see that he can be just as proud of me, though he never went on to win titles his daughter can. He and Mom will get back together, and life would be as it once was. We'll be a family. I'll always have a place to come home to on the holidays someday with my own family. Isn't that what we all want?

My mother called last night to check on me. She said Dad has been stopping by and seems more like himself. Maybe what I am doing is already working. When I return at Thanksgiving, I'll invite him for dinner. Grandpa would like that and so would my mother.

As I work out, my fantasies of a happy family balloon. I don't notice Dad standing in front of me until he taps my arm.

“I wanted to surprise you. Looks like I did.”

“Dad?” I drop my weights and struggle to my feet. He pulls me into an awkward embrace, and for a moment I forget our past—the last time I saw him. It's just my father and me. I step back and take a good look at him. He's wearing a red polo shirt, khakis, and boat shoes minus the socks. My father looks years younger. Is this what separation does for someone?

“What are you doing here?” My mouth won't close.

“Didn't Mom tell you? I have a conference in Orlando for a few days. I figured I would surprise you.” He grins, but it looks forced to me.

Did my mother tell him to visit me?

“Do you want to follow me over to my trailer and see where I live?”

He looks at his watch. “Sure, I've got time. Need help?” He reaches for my crutches and hands them to me. I hitch my way to the parking lot and give him directions in case he gets caught in traffic. On the way to Golden Acres, I worry if I've made my bed or finished my breakfast dishes. My father will think I'm a slob.

I pull into my driveway and his rental car fits tightly behind mine.

“Not bad.” He tips his head and looks up at the roof (why I don't know) and glances around the court. I see his gaze stop on Mattie's pile of junk yet to be carted away. I should tell him about her. I reach for my necklace. Maybe he's heard of her.

“Can I get you iced tea? It's what I drink now. The Southerners don't seem to recognize anything but.”

My father takes the old chair that is propped in the corner and sits on it all stiff like a robot. He never was too comfortable in social situations. A part of me wishes he would hurry and drink up and leave.

“Not a bad place, Bobbi. Are your neighbors nice?”

I join him and lower myself onto the couch. “Mattie, the lady across the way, just died. She was a pro golfer, Dad. Maybe you heard of her? Mattie Montrose?”

He shifts in his seat. A frown creeps onto his lips. “I might have. Did she have a daughter?”

My fingers tighten on my glass.

“Yes, she does. I met her. Wow, what a coincidence. How did you know her?” Again, I reach for my necklace and wait for the perfect time to show him.

He shrugs.

Is this all I'll get? A shrug?

“Somewhere along the way. She might have been at an event with her mother and we spoke. She's probably married by now.”

“She and her mother didn't speak for years. I think that's sad.”

He stands and roams into my kitchen area. “So, you cook much?” He lifts a frying pan I'd left on the stove. My father knows I never cook much. That was my mother's job and one she didn't want to give up.

“A little more than before. Easy stuff. So how's Robert doing now?”

He face brightens at my question, and he returns to his seat. His hands, always well-groomed, flatten on his knees. “I think he'll be on the course before you know it. That boy is determined. He's going to pick up where he left off and turn pro someday. I know it.”

I curl my lip. “It takes hard work. Do you really think after the accident”—I hesitate on the word none of us are comfortable saying—”he'll be able to?”

My father waves his hand. “No reason not to. It's the plan.”

The
plan
is for me to win the trophies in case Robert never can. Last night when I talked to Robert, he told me how much Dad is pushing him. I don't think he likes it, but I don't tell my father. I need him to believe in the dream in front of him. Not one that might never materialize.

“Are you going to be able to fly down when I compete in December at Daytona?”

He looks stunned that I change the subject, let alone ask something like that. “You're going to give it a shot?”

“I already made it through the first phase. Why wouldn't I?”

Again, he shrugs and I try to read his look. Nothing. What will it take to give my father what he needs again? It seems like he's fixated on Robert and I'm not real to him. I rise and reach for my crutches.

“I guess you probably should get to your conference. Thanks for coming by.”

He jumps from his seat, relief etching his features. “Sure, baby girl.” He leans down and kisses my cheek.

After he leaves, I make my way to my bedroom and pull out my sketch book. On top is a picture of Robert swinging a club. By all rights, he should be camped out in this trailer trying out for the tour—not me.

My father's visit surprised me. He isn't the kind to go out of his way to do something nice. Part of me wonders if he has another motive. Maybe he wanted to see how serious I am about turning pro. Maybe he had to see me here to start believing in me. I like that thought and turn it over and over as I prepare for bed. Tomorrow I plan to leave my crutches behind.

It's time to get serious again.

 

****

 

For the next several weeks, I do nothing but eat, sleep, go to class, and play golf. Night after night, I dream about my shots and wake up determined to do better. My fellow classmates try to get me to lighten up and attend their parties, but I refuse. I practice my putting, my drives, my short game, and everything in between.

Drew stops me in the hallway one day and puts his hand on my shoulder. I flinch at the sudden touch. “You look tired. How about taking the day off?”

“Can't. I've got to practice.” I head toward my car to get my clubs.

“You're killing yourself, you know. Is it worth it?”

I look over my shoulder at the man who could have been my mentor if I'd let him. “Don't ask me that.”

It's raining when I get outside, and for a second I want to take Drew up on his advice. But the driving range will still be open. I pull up my hood, grab my clubs, and head up the hill.

Mark sees me coming and races for my bag. “So you aren't giving up, huh? I have to say, I've never seen a woman so determined as you, except for the last chick, who wanted to get her claws in me.”

I smile at his joke and reach for a bucket of balls. “You can't win if you don't work hard.”

“You also need to pace yourself.”

Am I hearing an echo? I wave and head toward the range. I'm the only player out here today, but I like that. I can hit ball after ball without distraction. I work to break my own record at distance and finally succeed.

It's only when I do that I decide it's time to go home and eat. I've lost weight, so I stop at the grocery store and splurge on a sub. The guy behind the counter asks me what I want on it, and I rattle off my favorites.

“I want a bag of chips, too,” I say and reach for my purse to pay when he hands me my dinner. The checkout line is long. While I wait, my cell rings. Normally I don't answer when I'm in a store, but with another good ten minutes to wait, I do.

It's Amanda. Sobbing.

“What's wrong? Are you OK?”

“It's the baby. We've lost her.”

My breath catches as I clutch the phone tighter.

Amanda tells me between choked tears what happened. She is beyond calming down. I ask to speak to her husband who gives me the facts like a robot.

“Tell her I'll be home in a few days and I'll come see her.”

My promise isn't enough for her, but it's all I can offer. What do I know about such things? It will be years before I can even consider being a mother—if ever. Not if I want to be a pro. I tell Jim again I'm coming home for Thanksgiving. He says he'll tell her and tells me to have a safe trip.

I turn my phone off and look down at my bag with the sub in it. Simple things. I worry about simple things like what my next meal will be while Amanda is dealing with death. It isn't right.

Three days later, I land at the airport where my mother greets me with a huge hug. “I'm so sorry about Amanda's baby. Will you be going over there today?”

I grab my suitcase. The clock over the escalator already reads four. “No, tomorrow maybe. I want to cuddle down with you and Robert and Grandpa tonight. How is Grandpa doing now? Any more falls?”

My family doesn't seem to want to share all their secrets with me anymore. Her secret shows on her face and she tries to cover it. I don't let her. “Mom? Is he OK?”

“He took a bad spill a few days ago. They wanted us to leave him in rehab for a while to work on his balance.” Her hair falls across her cheek. “He doesn't like it there.”

“Is he at Sunrise?” I know the center at the edge of town. I delivered pizza to the staff there when I worked summers for a local shop. I remember the odor. Even the garlicky sauce couldn't cover it up.

“He wants to come home. They said maybe for Thanksgiving for a few hours.”

“
They
said? He's your father.”

“Bobbi. He needs more help than I can give him. I thought I could do it, but without your father around and with Robert still needing so much help…”

“And if I was here.”

She sighs and pulls off the highway onto the road toward home.

I admire the passing farms and an occasional windmill. I love living in the country. I miss it.

“Did you ever read that book I packed for you?” She's talking about the Christian book about letting God lead you where you should go.

I'd riffled through it and set it aside. “Not yet.”

Again, she sighs. “I'm beginning to wonder if you'll ever get back to trusting God.”

Somehow, I'd hoped she and I would avoid this conversation. I pick at a nail. She gets my hint and turns on the radio. We ride in silence the rest of the way home.

Robert is waiting for me on the sun porch even though the temperatures are well into the low forties. “Hey, girl.” He smiles and holds out his arms for a hug. He's dressed in the sweater I gave him last year for Christmas and looks good. Very good.

“So show me your new dance moves,” I say and chuck him in the arm.

“How about a slow waltz?” I watch him cross the threshold and join my mother in the kitchen. Any second I expect to hear my Grandfather call out “Bobbi girl—my Bobbi girl!” But the house is quiet as though we are at a viewing.

“How about a game of chess after I dump my stuff upstairs?”

My twin agrees and moves slowly into the living room where he will set up for us to play. Robert always wins, but today I don't care. I need to be around the one person who understands me.

Because I'm starting not to understand myself.

 

 

 

 

19

 

My mother wakes me at seven the next morning. It's Thanksgiving in Pennsylvania. That means we put the turkey in the oven early. For some uncanny reason, she believes I want to help.

I pull on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and pad down the steps. “It already smells good in here.” The sweet aroma of golden onions and celery simmering in a pot of butter on the stove pulls me close. I check out the counter that is laden with goodies. My mouth waters.

“You can crack the walnuts for the salad.” She nods toward the unopened bag and the bowl stationed on the counter. My mother always makes my favorite fruit salad for the holidays.

“You know they make shelled walnuts now.” I grab the bag and nutcracker.

“What? Take away all your pleasure?” She's dressed in her holiday sweatshirt—a plump bejeweled turkey wearing an apron. She purchased it on sale last year after Christmas. I remember. I tried to talk her out of it. So did my father.

“What time are we going for Grandpa?” I slip a nut into my mouth.

“I told them around eleven. They said they'll have him ready by then.” She doesn't turn as she tells me this. Instead, she stirs the celery mixture into the bread crumbs.

“He doesn't have to stay there, you know. You can sign him out.”

Now she turns around. Tears streak down her cheeks. “I don't think I can care for him anymore, sweetie. I feel awful about it.” Her chin drops to her chest. She covers her eyes with her hands, and silent heaves come from deep inside of her.