The Mulligan (22 page)

“The river?” Something about his remains floating in my river repulses me.

Why not the back mountain or where Grandma was buried? She tells me no, the river was where he wanted to be. Maybe if I think of one of my good memories with him it will be easier, she suggests.

So I think about a time I spent with him on the river.

A memory comes to me that evening.

I was eighteen and had gone down to the river to set up my easel. The temperature hovered in the low seventies and not a cloud reared. Caterpillar green leaves cloaked the trees, and butterflies flitted from plant to plant.

If I remember correctly, it was the first time I'd ever travelled back in time to paint. I was not aware of his presence until he touched my shoulder and called my name.

“Where you at, girl? You look like you're in a trance.”

My brush fell to my side. I'd been thinking about a time when we were seven and Robert and I had skipped rocks here. I looked up at my grandfather. “I'm sorry. I didn't hear you.”

He slid to the bumpy ground next to my easel, wheezing with the effort. “I can see why. It's like you aren't here, but your hand is. Painting like fire.” He leaned over to see my work, a low whistle coming from his chest. “You've got talent, Bobbi-girl. That you do, even if you have to leave the earth to find it.”

I plucked at the grass. “I don't leave the earth. I just remember things that way.”

“Never seen anything like it. Kind of reminds me how I focused when I played golf. If you would ever take golf seriously—you could use that talent.”

“I'll never be as good as you were.”

“You can be anything you want to be. Just put your head to it. That's what I did. You think someone like me was born into golf?” He laughed in that deep rich tone. “Shoot, my father had to beg the local golf club to let me caddie weekends in trade for lessons. Lucky thing I took to the sport, but it wasn't easy. Nothing comes easy.”

“But you played the Masters. That took talent.”

He rolled his chin. “Takes perseverance. Takes wanting to pursue your passion.”

A knock on my bedroom door spills me back to the present.

Robert sticks his head in. “Dad wants to know if he should book it.”

I run my gaze over my clubs that lean in the corner of my room. “Tell him yes.”

Grandpa is counting on it.

 

 

 

 

25

 

The crowd surprises me. So many spectators out to watch Q-School. I can't help but think that my parents and Grandpa should be here with me. Instead, I flew in alone last night, found a rundown but cheap hotel room, and showed up an hour early so I could get some practice shots in. I honestly don't know what good a few shots will do.

I'm not ready for the biggest day of my life. My dream attempt of going pro happens in minutes. All I can think about is I'm missing the funeral of the man I loved most in this world. I reach for Mattie's necklace at my throat. I'd almost forgotten to put it on this morning.

Not that I'm superstitious or anything like that, but Grandpa told me he carried a coin in his pocket. He said it was one he found during his first tournament. Kept it ever since. I wonder where it is now.

I scan the line of people, searching for someone I know.

Drew texted this morning that he would be here today, even though he's busy with end of semester tests. I look again, willing his face to appear.

No one is familiar and now the people in charge of this whole show are telling me where I need to wait so that I'll be ready for my tee.

 

****

 

I'm next. The day is one of those classic Florida days—blue sky, cloudless, and low humidity. I could not ask for a better day. What I need, though, is a better attitude.

Drew has told me over and over that most of the game of golf is played between both ears. I believe him today. If I don't stop thinking about the funeral and my family, I'm going to fail, and then where will that leave us?

Dad would give up and move out, and then Mom might lose the farm because she wouldn't be able to afford it.

Even though Grandpa won so many tournaments, he used all his money to travel when he could, and then take care of Grandma before she died. I think Mom once said he was virtually penniless—except for his social security benefits—by the time he paid the burial expenses.

I need to make pro. I tell myself this over and over as I wipe my hands and adjust my cap. I tuck my shirt in for the fifth time and then bend to check my golf shoes. What else can I do?

Robert's final words to me come to mind.

“Before you take your shot, pray that God will guide every stroke and take you where He wants you.”

So OK, I will pray. I'm at the end of my wits anyway as to what more I can do. I glance around at the other golfers. Each one looks calm and ready to do this. My hand is shaking.

I don't have a choice. I close my eyes and whisper the words Robert told me to say. I ask God to show me His plans for my future and that hopefully it is as a golf pro.

They announce my name.

 

****

 

My father greets me at the Wilkes Barre airport two days later. Alone. He doesn't hug me, but grabs my clubs and luggage.

I ask him how Mom is doing, and he shrugs saying something like she'll work it through.

I study his profile. His lips are drawn together. A muscle twitches in his chin. I recognize this expression and dread the forty-five minute ride back to our house. The last time he looked at me this way was the day of the fire, the day I destroyed all his hopes and dreams. Yesterday I did it again. I didn't qualify. The months and months I spent in Florida developing my game mean nothing now. I wasn't good enough.

My whole family can attest to that. I'm not even sure I can spend the night before I get in my car and start my trip back south. As soon as I say hello to Robert and Mom I plan to start driving. What else can I do?

I blew it.

I stretch my feet and let my head fall back against the headrest. My stomach hurts. My head aches. My fingers are tight. Someone, throw me into the river with Grandpa. When I think of him, I realize how empty our place will be now. His chair. Did Mom get rid of it? Or will it always remain as a reminder of him?

“So what are your plans now?” My father's voice is tight and tinged with disappointment.

“I don't know. I need to drive back to Florida to get my stuff.”

“Plan on coming back and hanging around here?” He grips the wheel tighter. His knuckles appear white to me.

I'm not sure how to answer. I don't know what my plans are. I've got one more semester of school to graduate, but then what? Work behind the counter of a pro shop? Sure, I can try again.

Robert said that to me when I called him, bawling. “You can try next year. Work on your game all summer and do it again.”

Right. Next year. By then Dad will have dumped us, and we'll be forced to live in an apartment over the bank.

Mom got on the phone after Robert and told me it was OK. I had tried, and that's what counts most.

I shut my eyes. Isn't that what mothers are supposed to say?
Try your best. Win or lose, it doesn't matter.
When I took that final shot, my dreams evaporated. I was no one's hero. I couldn't even be one to myself.

We veer into our driveway.

Dad still hasn't said much more than to ask me about my plans. He shuts off the engine and turns to me. “I want you to know I didn't count on you winning. Robert was always the better golfer in this family, anyway. Maybe someday he'll get his shot.”

His words explode into my chest. They never expected me to do well? He's been waiting on Robert all along?

I clamp my lips together and yank the car door open, slamming it shut.

My father follows me into the house with my belongings while I race upstairs to my room, throwing myself across my bed.

“Bobbi?” Robert taps on my door. “Can I come in?”

“I want to be alone.”

“Let me come in. Please.” He's persistent. Always has been.

I roll over on my side and see him standing in the doorway. I should have locked the stupid thing. My eyes are watering and my nose runs like a fountain. He hands me a tissue from my dresser and then scoots next to me on the bed. I snuggle my head against his shoulder, corralling my sobs.

“He never expected me to qualify! He said that. He never expected me to be any good. It's about you, Robert. Always has been for him, and I should have known it.”

“That isn't true. It's about him. It isn't even about me. Dad made his choice years ago, and now he can't live with it. He blames everyone around him for his mistakes. He didn't have to get Mom pregnant. He didn't have to quit the tour. But he did. And it isn't your fault.”

“But I made them happy. Doesn't that count?”

“You can't fix what you didn't break. You didn't make this mess. Mom and Dad are the only ones who can work this out.”

I blow my nose. “And when did you come to this conclusion?”

“Maybe when I told them last night that I don't ever want to golf again. I'm going to college to become a preacher.”

I roll away from him and stare into his face. “You're kidding, right? If you think this joke will make me feel better, it doesn't.”

Robert shakes his head and that smile appears. “I start Bible college in January.”

“You're serious?”

“As serious as you were about saving the family. It's what I'm supposed to do. My accident was the final piece of the puzzle. I had time to think and study my Bible and pray. And I also saw how you were doing something you didn't want to do. That's how I kept feeling about the thought of golfing again. Sure, I was good, but it was Dad's dream and not mine. One night it came to me that God wanted me to share His plans for us rather than going off on my own merry way. I called the school and sent in an application.” He reaches for my hand. “Be happy for me.”

“I am happy for you. I'm just in shock. So does Mom agree?”

He tugs me to my feet. “She's on board.” He rolls his eyes. “Dad is another story. I love him, but I have to follow God's will for my life, not Dad's dreams. You need to do the same. Figure out what makes you happy and what God's plan is for your life and do it. Dad has to work out his own issues.”

“I don't think I can even talk to him now.”

“Then don't. But you will someday. We'll figure this one out. So what do you say, want me to beat you at a game of chess?”

The long trip back to Florida beckons me. “Not this time. I'm going to grab my stuff and return to school. Maybe by the time I get there I'll know what I should do.”

His smile fades, but he helps me ready my stuff and convince Mom that I don't need two garbage bags of snacks. After a round of hugs and a nod to my father, I put my car in gear and pull out of the driveway. When I see the river, I turn into the access road, shutting my car off. I can't leave without one more good-bye to Grandpa.

Robert told me my mother released his remains at the dock. I force myself to walk down to it and stare into the murky December water. I don't plan on returning for Christmas. The thought of being alone doesn't faze me. Everything has changed at the farm with Grandpa's death. No longer will I greet him in the morning and hear his laugh. I fold my hands in front of me and whisper to him. “I love you, Grandpa. I hope you tell Arnold Palmer hello and shoot your best game yet.”

I've got seventeen hours to think. Seventeen hours to wonder why Drew never showed up or called.

 

 

 

 

26

 

Only a week of classes remains until winter break. I pull on my jacket and drive to the school, determined to avoid Drew if at all possible. He let me down when I needed him the most. Doesn't he realize how scared and nervous I was? He's been through it before. If his no show is an example of how we're going forward with a relationship, then he's mistaken.

I miss a red light by seconds. My car stinks from trash from my hurried trip home, and I vow to clean it after class. No more long practices for me. I'll finish the week and then decide what to do. On my trip back I thought about how it would be living with a father who has no use for me. I've done that long enough. But where else can I go?

My options are limited, at best. I can finish college and try to get a job here in Florida, pay my loan, and maybe try Q-School again, or I can go back home, get a job, and move out. Robert says to look for God's finger on my life. He says God will open the right doors if I'm looking and not trying to do my own thing.

So far, all the doors have slammed in my face.

I'm late. All the school parking spaces are filled by the front so I drive around back to park. Drew's class is my first one. I grab my pack and enter the hallway.

Another guy waits outside the door, his hand poised to turn the knob. He goes in.

I take a breath and reach for the knob next. It won't budge. I look through the glass and see Drew's back to the door. I tap on the frame, waiting.

All eyes turn toward me except his.

Drew opens the door. “We missed you.”

I step around him. “Save it,” I say in a low voice meant only for him. He lets the door close and straightens his shoulders. I don't feel sorry for him. He's the one who let me down.

A few of the guys say hi as I find my seat at the back of the room. Maybe I was wrong to return. I have nothing here now. I can't even bring myself to look at Drew as he teaches. Why did I think we could have anything? He's going on tour and I'll be who knows where?

Life is too uncertain. I think I should be doing one thing, and then it all falls apart. I slump on my desk, scribbling nothings on my paper. My head hurts, this time from lack of sleep. Even though the sun is out, I don't care.