The Mulligan (17 page)

“Mom,” I say as I pull her into my arms. “Grandpa will get stronger. He's going to, I know it.” It's my turn to avoid the reality of Grandpa's health.

She pulls away, wiping at her face with her apron. “It's more than I can do. Robert can't help, and with your Dad living in town now—I'm not sure if I can keep anything together anymore. You were right. Grandpa's getting bad.”

When she mentions my father, I stiffen. He should be here helping. Doing his duty like everyone else. Isn't that why I'm golfing now instead of painting? So I can win tournaments and show him that our family is worth it? I can't help my mother like she needs me to, and that knowledge drives a wedge into my heart.

“If you quit that school and come home…” she says, more tears welling up in her eyes.

“You know I can't. Next month I try out for Q-School again, and when I make it, I'll be touring.”

“
When
you make it…What if you don't, Bobbi? What if this is a wild dream that God never intended for you? You aren't Robert. Golfing was his dream—not yours. When we chase something we shouldn't, it never works out. I know that.”

“What do you mean? What dream did you ever chase?” I don't want to sound mean, but my mother has always been a homemaker. Period.

She turns back to the turkey and begins stuffing the breaded mixture deep inside of it. Handful after handful. I expect the bird to explode by the time she finishes.

“I chased your father.” Her words come as a whisper. I step over to her and lean against the counter.

“You chased Dad?”

She slathers butter onto the wings and breast. “He didn't want to leave the tour. So I got pregnant knowing that was the only way he would. See?” She lifts her shoulders. “I'm the reason your father is the man he is today.”

“You aren't the reason. He was fine until this spring.” I want to say he was fine until the fire.

My mother stops her ministering to the turkey, wipes her hands on her apron. She grips her hips. “I'm not blind. Robert and his love of golfing might have kept your father here, but it didn't change who he is.”

“But he stayed with us. That's what counts.”

She raises her hands into the air. “Where is he when I need him?” Her question shuts me up.

I don't understand my father. I don't understand why he acts the way he does. But I do know he's needed in this family, and he needs a reason to be part of it. My becoming a pro will ensure that.

We finish the preparations in silence.

Robert has made his way into the kitchen and by ten forty-five, the table is set with our special china. He helps by pointing out whether I've placed the silverware correctly or not.

“Let's go or we'll be late.” My mother shrugs into her winter jacket—the one with the fur around the hood. I reach for mine and give Robert last minute orders to not nibble on the pie crusts while we get Grandpa.

The rehab center isn't far. Cars and families fill the parking lot of the dilapidated brick buildings.

Already, as I go through the front door, the odor of deterioration greets me. Grandpa shouldn't be here. I plan to convince my mother of that today.

“Is my father ready?” My mother speaks to a nurse at the desk in his wing.

“Yes, he's sitting right there.” She points to a man hunched over in a wheelchair.

My heart rises to my throat. Can that be Grandpa?

I follow my mother who has made a beeline to her father. He raises his face when she calls to him. I swallow upon seeing his forlorn expression. Again, I choke back my sadness and reach out to his other side.

“Grandpa. It's me, Bobbi. Are you ready to come home?”

His eyes are glazed over. What kind of medication do they have him on? I want to stalk back and demand to see his chart, but instead I help my mother get him into his walker.

Yes, he walks—although slightly off-balanced. We find his coat and shuffle him out to the car where I put him in the front seat. Grandpa hasn't figured out yet who I am. It makes me want to cry, but I keep up the banter until he finally smiles as we near the river.

“We're almost home, aren't we?” he says to my mother. She pats his arm and swallows hard.

“Turkey is in the oven, Dad. I also made your favorite corn casserole.”

“Corn casserole. Oh, yes. We have it every Thanksgiving.” He smiles again.

Maybe it's just me, but I think his voice is growing stronger the closer we get to home. We pass over the bridge and drive beneath tree wings lightly coated with snow. Soon our driveway comes into view.

Grandpa leans forward. “Time to paint the place again, isn't it, girlie?”

“This spring, Dad. Maybe you can help us do it.”

My father painted the house four years ago. He complained the entire time that Robert and I needed to speed it up. It seems we weren't the best of helpers. But then, why did I want to paint houses when I could paint landscapes?

It takes some doing, but we get Grandpa into the house and into his favorite chair. My mother and I exchange glances when he sighs and shuts his eyes for a moment before reaching for his glasses and the local paper.

“Let's check on the turkey.” She pulls me into the kitchen where Robert is propped in a chair nibbling on pickles and olives.

I push the dish aside. “He seems better, doesn't he? Now that he's here?”

My mother doesn't answer me. Instead she opens the oven door and draws out the turkey. The kitchen fills with the delicious scent.

“Let me help.” I hold the bowl while she spoons out the hot stuffing. How would Rockwell draw this scene? Mother and daughter doing kitchen duty in silence.

“He did seem to brighten as we came around the bend.” She gives me that.

I take the steaming bowl into the dining room and add it to the mix of other amazing dishes my mother made. I stick my finger into the jellied cranberry, licking the sweetness before Robert catches me.

“Hey, who told
me
to keep out?” Robert stands by my side and drapes his arm over my shoulder. “Grandpa is doing better.”

“Tell her that,” I say and then pull out the chair so Robert can sit. Standing isn't yet easy for him, and he walks carefully when he does. He slides down and looks up at me.

“She knows. She's just afraid.”

“But he still needs to be home. As soon as I go on tour, I can pay for help.”

My phone rings and I grab for it where I'd stashed it in my pocket. I glance at the number and shrug at Robert. It's Drew. The front room comes into focus as I hurry to answer.

“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving,” he says.

My voice squeaks as I force out, “Thank you.” I add, “Where are you?”

“About ten miles from you.”

I glance out the picture window and see only trees that protect the river. “You came home?”

“Mark and I flew in last night on my mother's orders. Seems she wants the whole family for dinner. Anyway, I thought I'd call and see if you wanted to get together on Saturday. That is, if you're free…”

I pick at a piece of lint on my mother's good couch. I've been avoiding Drew all semester so I can concentrate on my golf game. I can't use that excuse here. Just hearing his voice sends chills to my stomach. But I don't need a relationship to mess me up. Not now.

“Lunch at the River Bend?” I say, knowing I will regret my decision.

“Noon? You've got it.”

“Have a happy Thanksgiving with your family, Drew.”

“You, too.” I hear a smile in his voice, the same one that is in his eyes whenever I see him.

I slide my phone back into my pocket. Time to think about my own family. That's when I hear the back door open. I return to the dining room to find my father standing next to Robert.

“Dad. I didn't know you were coming.”

Again my father is dressed immaculately. He wears a blue knit sweater, and his hair falls across his forehead. Not a good contrast to my mother who stands behind him looking like she flew in from the fifties. He stands and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I smell his cologne—the one he wore when he and my mother went out for their date night when I was a teenager.

Who's he wearing it for now?

My trust in my father isn't what it was, but I'm trying hard to change my opinion of him. I must or my entire plan is for nothing. It's evident to me that my mother still loves him. Even now, she guides him into the kitchen where they whisper together and she giggles. My dad has that effect on her.

“Good to see we're all here.” Grandpa hobbles into the dining room. He finds his usual chair and works himself into it. “My stomach tells me it's about that time.”

“I think you're right. I smell the turkey.” My words sound falsely happy.

I leave Robert to entertain Grandpa so I can help in the kitchen with the final preparations.

My father is carving the turkey as I enter. “Good to see you, sweetheart. Wish I could have spent more time with you when I was in Florida, but business is business. I see you are walking better. Ankles can take time to heal, so be careful.”

“It's much better now. I've only got three weeks until Daytona so I'm glad.”

He turns back to my mother. “Do you think this is enough white meat?”

My shoulders and spirits fall at being ignored. I gather up the pitcher of water and bowl of applesauce before returning to the dining room. Minutes later, with the turkey placed in the center, the table is completely set. My mother has outdone herself.

Dad sits at the head of the table like he usually does, his hands folded together in front of him.

It's then that Robert speaks up. He sits beside me in his usual seat, as well. “I'd like to say grace, but first I'd like it if we went around and said what we're thankful for.”

My groan stops at my lips. Not this ritual again.

“I'll start.” My mother smiles at my father.

I want to choke on my spit.

“I'm thankful we are all here today. I'm also thankful that we're a family again.”

A family again? I glance at my father who's smiling as though he knows a secret I don't know. My hope shoots up like a fast-growing weed. Maybe something has happened that I'm not aware of.

He takes my mother's hand and squeezes it.

“I'm thankful for all of you, too.” He gazes around the table. “I'm thankful that Robert is on the way to good health.”

Next to me, Robert shifts in his chair. He clears his throat. “I'm thankful to the Lord that He has healed me and that I can go on with my life. I'm thankful for great parents and that my sister and Grandpa can be here today.”

Go on with his life? What does that mean? Yes, he's walking, but not too well yet. If he means golfing like he once did, then my brother is delusional. I know firsthand how hard it is to be good. I know the hours of practice that have to be endured. I know the frustration of hitting a ball and watching it go crazy. I know the wrenched feeling of losing and the harshness of competition.

Robert is not ready for that even if he can walk a course.

“Your turn, Bobbi.” He pokes me in the arm.

“I'm thankful for Grandpa doing better and being with us today. I'm thankful that my ankle has healed and that I might qualify at Q-School next month.” I shoot a look to my father who studies his empty plate.

Doesn't he get it? I'm doing this for him—for all of them!

Grandpa interrupts my anger and speaks next. “I'm grateful for a loving daughter who puts her sick Dad before herself.”

A choking sound comes from my mother's throat. Guilt does that to you—cuts off your windpipe.

“We're so glad you're here, Dad,” she finally manages to say.

Robert eventually says grace—a little long-winded, but that's my brother—and we eat.

My father hangs around to help dry dishes and plays a game of backgammon with Robert while I entertain Grandpa with stories of my school. More and more, he comes back to me.

I can't bear to return him to the nursing home.

After my father leaves, I corner my mother in the kitchen. “It sounds like Dad is intending to stay. Is he coming home?”

A grin creeps onto her face. “He's bringing his clothes back after the weekend.”

“Why wait that long?” I play devil's advocate. Someone has to. My mother is too easily swayed. She must be sure this time. Even though my father's return is what I've hoped and prayed for, I want this time to be the one that sticks. Part of me hopes he's coming around because he sees me giving him back that part of golf he once had.

“He has work to do and it would be better if he stays there to do it. Besides, that gives me time to get Grandpa settled back in here.” She turns to face me. Her eyes are filled with tears. “I can't send him back, Bobbi.”

The fear I'd held inside me leaks out. “I wish I could help more. But with Dad here, you can do it.”

My plan is coming together. Now I need to go on tour and win those trophies.

 

 

 

 

20

 

Amanda looks awful. Her butter blonde hair falls across her face, and her makeup is nonexistent. Her house looks worse. Never before would she leave tissues and dirty mugs all over the coffee table. Her housecoat hangs over the back of a chair and her socks are littered across the carpet.

We sit in her front room where her husband has left us to talk. She has decorated it in a traditional style—all fluffy and flowery. The painting I gave her for her twenty-first birthday hangs above the fireplace. She cried that day, too.

“I'm so sorry,” I say for the third time since she greeted me at her door. Tears continue to spill down her cheeks. How many tears can a person cry in grief? Her pain fills the room like black smoke in a fire.

“What are your plans?” I stroke her arm that's covered in a wool sweater.