The Mulligan (18 page)

A shrug followed by another sob.

I'm not good at comfort. I should have sent Robert in my place. He would have prayed with her and said words that meant something. Instead, I sit and finger the growing hole in my jeans.

“Do you want to go for a drive or a walk? It isn't that cold out.”

My best friend shakes her head no. I'm running out of options.

“She was our child, you know? A part of us, and now she's gone.” Amanda speaks in a whisper.

I lean closer, nodding.

If only she will continue to talk. “We had already named her. Jada. Pretty, isn't it?”

Again I nod, hoping she will go on. “You can have more, right?”

“The doctor says this was an accident.” She buries her face in her hands. “But I'm afraid to try, you know? Afraid it will happen again to us. Am I crazy or what?”

“I think it's good to keep trying. Things happen. Maybe God needed her in heaven.”

Lame, I groan to myself. God needed her? I bite my lip hoping she didn't hear me.

She did. “I've thought of that. Maybe it wasn't her time. Maybe she was supposed to live only that long. Everything has a time limit—like an expiration date. It's like God gives you a certain amount of time to do what you should and that's it.”

I don't like where our conversation is going. “I think it's a little more complicated than that. We don't always know what God wants from us. We have to hope we do and then do it and see.”

“Like you playing golf?”

I pull back. Where did that come from?

She turns to me—her eyes more focused than before. “Like you taking Robert's place. Doing what he should. Is that why you're doing it? To see if it's God's plan for you, and not for your brother?”

“What do you mean?”

“It's Robert who should be doing everything you are, but God stopped it. His time was over. So you stepped in and are trying to fill that role.”

I shake my head. My best friend has known me a long time. “Don't worry about me. I'm worried about you and how you're coping.” She's crazy with grief. I need to turn this conversation around. I search the room for her husband who hasn't returned since I arrived. Probably he needed a break, too.

“I'm not talking crazy here, Bobbi. What you're doing is crazy. You are a painter.” She points to my painting. “You should be painting—not hitting a stupid white ball around the grass. Just like I'm meant to be a mother…” Another sob.

“What can I do for you?” I stroke her arm again as she bursts into tears. Maybe I can try one prayer. I search my brain for words that might comfort.

“Hey, let me pray,” I say and take her hand. In her current state of mind, she doesn't remember that I, Bobbi, have never prayed out loud with anyone. All those years in church, I always let someone else take the lead. Through Sunday school, VBS, and in adult groups, I will sit quietly and let the more verbal speak up. Besides, I am not sure God will hear me—knowing how far away I am from Him these days. But today I decide to try for Amanda.

“Dear Lord, please take care of my friend here. She needs You and needs to know that her precious baby is in Your arms right now. Please fill her with Your love…” I stumble. The picture of her baby wrapped in Jesus's arms gets me. I remember the picture from my youth that hung on the wall of one of the church rooms—a picture of Jesus with children crowded at his feet.

Is Jada there now?

Amanda squeezes my hand and picks up where I leave off. She's like that—a caretaker. “Thank You, Lord, for my good friend, Bobbi. Please show her Your plans for her life, too.”

 

****

 

My eyes still burn with tears as I drive away from Amanda's home. I still can't believe she thought of me during her own time of trouble. I guess that's why she's my best friend. My thoughts take me to town where I drive up and down the empty streets. I turn left onto Madison and drive past business after business. Max's on Madison, Pete's Office Supply, Downtown Hoagie Shop…until I come upon the place where I've spent so much time.

Arthur's Art Hut.

I park in front of the one-story building that houses more art than I could ever dream of producing. The sign in the window takes my breath away.

ART STORE FOR SALE

OWNER RETIRING

Arthur is retiring? The idea is disconcerting to me since Arthur is only in his fifties. He has a wife named Joyce who has been sickly. Maybe she's worse? I park my car in the lot next door and get out. Chances of finding him here are slim, but Arthur is the kind of shop owner who comes in almost every day—rain or shine—holiday or not. He's that dedicated to his business. He's also one persuasive salesman. When someone comes in looking for a painting, he makes sure they leave with something. Arthur can talk a dog off a meat wagon.

I rattle the door knob. The back lights shine in the office. Soon, Arthur opens the door.

“Bobbi! So good to see you again! How is Florida treating you?”

Arthur is a big man. When he hugs you, you know you've been hugged.

“Good, I'm good.”

He steers me inside and points to a stool at the counter. The smell of paint makes me dizzy. Dizzy with love.

“I saw the sign. What's going on? Why are you selling?”

He sits across from me, mopping his bald head with a brown paper towel. “It's Joyce. You know she has her allergies. Well, she tells me enough is enough. We're moving to Colorado as soon as I can unload this place.”

“Colorado?” I echo. “But you love it here.”

“I love my wife more.” His grin shows his white teeth. Arthur is of Mediterranean descent and his bronze skin gives him a healthy appearance.

“Do you have any prospective buyers?” I gaze at the paintings propped on easels throughout the space. I know this shop well. I've spent hours inside here chatting with other artists and watching people fall in love with art.

His rounded shoulders arch. “Maybe that's why you're here?”

“Me? I don't think so. Even if I could, I don't have the funds.”

“I plan to owner finance to the right person. And I think I'm looking at the right person.”

My heart slips out of my chest and jumps up and down in front of me. The right person?

“I can't, Arthur. I'm a golfer now.”

He waves his hand in front of his face. “Golfer, golfer. And when did golfing become your passion? Since your fancy brother Robert got hurt?” He leans closer. “I know what you're up to, and it won't work. I know where your love and your passion lives.” Again he waves his hands around the store. “It is here, in this place, surrounded by what you're inspired to do.”

I grasp the counter. “No, you're wrong. I can't.”

“You're a fool, little girl. I say that with love because one day you will see the path that has been chosen all along for you. When you get over this silly notion that you are the blame for a stupid accident and come home. I can't wait too long, but I will wait awhile for you to come to your senses.”

My senses? Is this what my choice looks like to others? I spin off the stool. “I need to go, Arthur. Please tell Joyce I wish her well.” I lean forward and kiss him on his plump cheek.

His sigh reaches me. “It was meant for you to stop here today. You know that, don't you? God planned this meeting, not me.”

God and His plans. What about free choice? I inch toward the door before the idea of owning this shop swallows me whole. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“You know I'm right.”

I close the door on his last sigh, reaching my car as fast as I can walk. My heart is spinning upside down. Within minutes, I drive out of town and head toward the county park where I can walk and think clearly.

As I leave my car, snowflakes begin to fall. Light, airy reminders of past winters. I pull up my hood, shivering. The park is empty. No other fool would come here on this kind of day—dreary and overcast. But I'm here because I need to clear my head. I steer toward the overgrown path that leads up the hillside. My shoulders bend into the increasing wind.

Am I dumb to think I can pull my family together by taking Robert's place on the golf course? Has all my trying been for nothing? I dig my hands deeper into my felt-lined pockets. Maybe Arthur is right. Golf isn't my passion.

Or is it?

I think about the last game I played a few days ago with some of the guys at school. They still joke with me about my abilities, but I beat all of them. I play well—that much I know for sure. But does playing well mean it's something I should chase after the rest of my life? I paint well, too. How can I tell what my passion is?

I kick a stone, overturning it into the grass. I know my truth. I still can't get the smell of the art shop out of my senses. I love to paint. Besides, my father doesn't care that I'm golfing. My mother tells me to come home, and Grandpa doesn't know what I'm doing.

Maybe it's time to give up my quest to save my family and do what I love. Maybe it's time to think about me.

 

 

 

 

21

 

Our home is well lit—the bay window in the front room glimmers from the golden glow of my mother's Tiffany lamp. I often wonder why she turns that one on at the first hint of dusk. I would much rather the weightier standing lamp behind Dad's chair. Its cast is so much farther and deeper.

“I wondered where you went for so long. How's Amanda doing?” My mother greets me at the back kitchen door while I peel off my wet coat. I'm freezing and go to stand near the register where rivulets of heat rise up between my feet.

“I wasn't much help. She's pretty depressed.”

The delicious odor of chocolate wafts to my nostrils. I inhale. My mother has been baking again. I don't know why, since we still have all those leftovers from yesterday. The glass cake dish sits on the counter. “What are you baking?”

She wipes her hands on her flowered apron. “It's a celebration cake. Your father is coming home today.” She grins so wide her teeth could fall out of her mouth.

“Today?” I slide onto a stool.

She moves beside me. Putting her arm around my shoulder, she pulls me close and kisses my cheek. “It's all because of you and what you're doing.”

My chest tightens. “Me? What do you mean?”

“Your golfing, silly. He told me how much it means to him, and he can't wait to go to your first tournament. He's thinking of flying us down to be there when you compete at Q-School.”

I swallow the lump that has formed in my throat. “Really?”

“I've already asked the neighbor if she would stay with Grandpa and Robert for a few days. It will be like a second honeymoon for us.” She leaves my side and spins around. I haven't seen my mother so animated in a long time.

“So you really aren't taking Grandpa back to the nursing home?”

“I told you I wouldn't. Not with your Dad coming home to help. And to think I tried to talk you out of going to Florida. You're my hero, Bobbi-girl.” She swoops down on me again and gives me a tight hug.

I hug her back.

Her hero.

Funny—that's what I wanted to be once upon a time.

 

****

 

Later that evening, after my mother climbs the stairs to bed with my father, I slink down on the couch next to Robert, who's watching some mystery thriller. After a few of my sighs, he clicks off the set.

“What's the matter?”

My twin knows me. It doesn't matter if I try to fake my emotions, Robert always sees through them. Tonight is no exception.

“What do you think about Dad coming home?” I study his eyes. For what I'm not sure.

“I think Mom is happy.”

“Just Mom?”

His bowl of chips finds its way to my lap. I munch and reach for his glass of cola.

Robert turns toward me. “Not just Mom. Me, too. I think Grandpa even perked up when he saw Dad's stuff come into the house.”

“Hmm,” I say, taking another bite of the chips.

“What's that mean? Isn't Dad's coming home what you've been trying to accomplish all along? He told me about wanting to see you play next month. Wish I could make the trip, but it might be too much walking.”

“Of course, I was hoping he'd come home. And Grandpa, too. We're one big, happy family.” I say this without smiling.

“Tell me what's going on. Now.”

I drop the bowl and stand, wandering over to peer out the window. The snow has continued to fall. Our lawn looks ghostly now. White lumps rise here and there, and the tree branches swing low to the ground.

“I stopped to see Arthur today. He's selling the store.”

“Good for him. Hasn't he talked about doing that for a few years now?” Robert pulls himself to a standing position. He joins me at the window. “Tell me what that means.”

“It means what I said. Arthur is moving to Colorado.”

“And what…you're going to miss him?”

I spin around. “Don't you get it? Owning the store was my dream! Now I don't get to do it—ever.”

Robert steps back, his jaw opening and closing like a marionette. “Bobbi, you need to stop golfing.” His statement is whispered, as soft as the falling snow.

Of course, he's right, but how can I quit now? I've saved the whole dang family. “It isn't a choice I can make anymore. You saw how happy Mom is.”

We both glance toward the stairway. Voices filter down. My parents are making up and putting aside their differences because my father has hope in my career. I have offered him a way out of a job he hates. Why, he's probably already planning on being my caddie.

“She'll understand. She wants you to be happy, too.”

I shake my head. “No, it's too late.”