The Mulligan (21 page)

I pull up my computer to check flights out of Wilkes Barre to Florida. The cheapest flight costs over five hundred dollars. Stupid holiday travelers. I shut my computer off and look outside. The weather up north has been calling for snow. I saw it on the news this morning. I could get caught in a blizzard, and then what. So why drive? Why not fly? Again I open my computer and check the flights forgetting that I can't afford anything.

I'm stuck here while my family is going through a trial. I kick the couch. My toe twinges, but the pain makes up my mind. Rushing to my bedroom, I pull out my overnight bag. After tossing in a few outfits, I find my keys, shut off the lights and lock my trailer. Seventeen hours is a long time, but I can do it.

 

 

 

 

24

 

I'm sick of the radio and the hits from the seventies, but it's the only clear channel I can get as I pass through Virginia. My phone has not rung since I started my trek north. My mother must have forgotten her promise to call, or she has been so busy with Grandpa that she can't get away to call. I hope it's the former.

So far, the roads have been clear, but the weatherman is still forecasting snow. I'm good in snow, always have been, but the thought of driving I-81 in a blizzard after driving fifteen hours does not thrill me.

The bell tone I picked out for my phone intrudes on my worries. I reach for my cell on the seat next to me and breathe a sigh when I see it's Robert. With a quick glance in the rearview mirror, I pull to the side of the road before answering.

“Tell me what's happening,” I bark.

My brother will be honest with me, unlike my mother who thinks I'm still twelve and can't handle the truth.

“It isn't good. Grandpa is dying, Bobbi. I wish you could be here.”

“I'm going to be there. You tell him—and I mean this Robert—you tell him I'm coming and he is to hold on to see me. He isn't going to die because I am telling him so.” My voice is hard.

Robert doesn't have a clue how badly I want to bawl, but I need to keep focused.

“Can you catch a flight this morning? I'm not even sure if he's going to last another hour. He's that bad. I wish you were here. Mom's a wreck and Dad isn't any help at all. He keeps saying things like, ‘It's his time. Let him go…' I think he just doesn't want to take care of him anymore.”

“He's a jerk. Get him away from Grandpa until I get there. I mean it.”

“Are you going to try to come up? I don't know…”

I glance at my mileage. A few more hours. He can hold on a few more hours.

“I'm in Virginia. Give me another six hours and I'll be there.”

“Virginia? What are you doing? Driving home? Are you nuts?”

“Maybe. But it was the only thing I could do. Listen, call me if anything changes, but get Dad away from Grandpa. Tell Mom I'll be there soon.”

“Drive carefully, you hear me? You must be exhausted.”

I yawn and stretch my toes. “I'll be OK. I promise. Give Grandpa a hug for me. And Robert?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm sorry I wasn't there for all of you. I'm so sorry…” My voice breaks. I need to hang up before I do cry and I can't let myself do that. Not yet. Not when I have a possible storm to drive through.

“Don't even go there. Listen, I'm going to be praying for you. Now. And you do the same. I want you here in one piece.”

Again, I choke back a sob for the love I have for my brother and family. We hang up and I turn my radio off. The dark highway hugs my car as I careen back on the road north. Robert said I should pray. When was the last time I did? Does the one with Amanda count? It's been a while. Maybe God won't want to hear from me. Maybe I've been doing my own thing for too long?

“Dear God,” I say, thinking it best to address him formally. “Dear God, I really need help right now for my grandfather. Please let him live until I can see him. I need to God. I do.” I stop talking out loud. I start praying in my head, telling God all about how tired I am and how long this trip has been and my mother needs someone to take care of her and how Grandpa had this dream for me and now he'll never see me realize it.

I go on and on for over a half hour until the first flakes of snow hit my windshield. Funny thing, I'm not worried. Something about letting God know what's worrying me has taken away the ache that filled my chest since I drove out of Winter Garden.

 

****

 

By the time I pull into the hospital parking lot, my hands are shaking. I'm starving, as well. The granola bars I'd brought are long gone, as is the bag of popcorn I'd bought at a gas station in Maryland. The ground is covered with fresh snow. Tracks lead the way to the main entrance where Robert told me he'd meet me. He'd checked in with me every few hours to assure me that Grandpa was still alive and that I was, too.

The women's restroom is on the right of the information desk. I hurry inside and catch my reflection in the mirror. I look like a zombie. My eyes are bloodshot, my hair is a mess, and my clothes are wrinkly. Water helps with the hair, but otherwise this is who I am. Grandpa has seen worse.

I remember when I was ten and fell into the mud pit behind the barn. Robert and I had been playing tightrope on the fence when I lost my balance and tumbled into three inches of sloppy mud. Grandpa had come around the side of the barn right when it happened. While Robert laughed, Grandpa reached in his back pocket and brought out his handkerchief and began to wipe my face so I could see.

“You're still the prettiest girl in this whole town, sweetheart,” he'd told me as I cried harder.

He picked me up and carried me on his shoulder to the house with a promise of a game of checkers when I was all cleaned up.

Who is Grandpa now?

My mother looks worse than I do. I see her first, slumped in the vinyl chair by the window of the intensive care waiting room. Dad is nowhere in sight. I'm glad. When she raises her head, she discovers me and rushes to her feet, arms outstretched.

“I can't believe you're here!” She touches my face and hugs me again.

Now I cry. Buckets.

My mother eases me to the chair next to her and begins to explain to me in a hushed voice that Grandpa is ill, very ill, and it's nothing short of a miracle that he is alive right now.

“I need to see him,” I tell her once my sobs subside.

She nods. “Of course, but I want to warn you—he doesn't look like Grandpa.” When she says his name, her voice dissolves into tears. This vigil has sapped her strength, and now I'm angrier at my father that he isn't holding her up.

She takes me to the ICU door. “Do you want me to go in with you?”

“Where's Robert?” I'd rather he was by my side.

“He's with your father in the cafeteria.” She waves her hand toward a long hallway. I know where the cafeteria is. I can almost smell the food.

“I'll go in alone. I'll be OK.” Again, I lie to my mother. I will never be OK. Not with seeing my Grandpa on his deathbed. But I shrug through the doorway and enter into a room filled with strange beeping noises and lights. She's told me he is in the bed nearest the window. Good. He likes looking outside.

I'm not sure what I expect to see, but not this shrunken form beneath a white sheet. His ashen face is covered with a clear oxygen mask, and his eyes are shut. I locate his hand beneath the sheet and grasp hold of it.

“I'm here Grandpa. It's me, Bobbi. Your Bobbi-girl. Come all the way from Florida to tell you I love you.” More words form in my throat but won't pass through my mouth. I've told him I love him and that's what counts. Isn't it? Isn't him knowing he is loved the most important thing to hear as he lies dying? My tears stain the white sheet—making gray spots appear on his chest.

“Please wake up. Please wake up for me Grandpa.”

I watch his face for a sign that he hears me. Anything. A blink. A twitch. Nothing.

“He can hear you. That's what the nurses tell us.” Robert. He puts his hand on my shoulder and I turn into his chest, hugging him with more strength than I thought I had left.

“He's dying. I'll never get the chance to make him proud.”

“Hey.” He pulls me away from him. I love my brother and the tender look he gives me as he cradles my cheeks. “He's been proud of you since the day you were born.”

“I'm supposed to golf for him. I'm supposed to win those trophies for him.”

“You are enough for him. He doesn't need trophies to be proud of you. Trust me. That's your own head talking—not his.”

“How come you think you know so much all the time?” I give him a small smile. My brother is always taking care of me. I want to return the favor. I look into his face and see his exhaustion. “You need to sit down. Go on back out in the waiting room and I'll stay with Grandpa a few more minutes.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure.” I turn back to the bedside and reach for Grandpa's hand again. He hasn't moved or groaned or made any sign of life since I've come in. I'll wait. I'll wait for him.

The nurse asks me to leave about ten minutes later. “He doesn't know I'm here yet.”

“He does. He does.” The nurse has a kind voice—the kind every ICU nurse should use with family. I reach over the bed and stroke the only spot not obscured by the oxygen mask on Grandpa's face—his forehead.

His eyes twitch.

I yank my hand back.

The nurse checks the closest machine. “Say something to him,” she tells me.

“Grandpa, it's me, Bobbi. I'm here.”

Again his eyes twitch until they fully open. He looks up at me—with an expression as if he wonders where he is. He struggles with his mask, until the nurse takes it off his face. My hopes soar—is he going to live? Is he getting better?

A light touch drops onto my arm. “Sometimes patients experience a surge of activity before…”

A surge. Before they die?

I lean over his bed, closer to his face. “I love you, Grandpa.”

“You're my girl.” His voice is barely a whisper, but I hear him. I turn to the nurse who is hovering beside me. “Will you get my mother?”

She disappears while I hold back my tears. Grandpa is staring at me, and then he winks. He winks like he does when he knows a secret I don't.

“Grandpa?”

My grandfather is a special man. He played golf and won more tournaments than most golfers ever will. He raised a daughter who loves him dearly. So I step aside when my mother reaches the bed.

It's her father, after all. I have my own.

 

****

 

I find Dad and Robert in the entryway of the hospital. My father gives me a hug when he sees me and begins to lecture me on the dangers of driving all night until Robert steps in and suggests I go home and crash for a few hours. His suggestion sounds good, so he drives my car home as I tell him what Grandpa said.

“The nurse says this happens before people die, but I think it means he's going to live. When I wake up, take me right back, OK. I want to be there.” I chatter all the way into the house, forgetting that my brother just drove my car with both legs until I reach the landing.

“You drove!” I grab the banister and hop down the two steps.

“Surprise.” His smile lights the room. “Doctor took off all precautions. I'm good to go, well, that is within reason.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I like surprises, too.”

He's talking about me driving up from Florida. I decide to ask the question. “Can you golf?”

His face pales. “I don't need to. You're the golfer in our family.”

I don't know what to say. Robert knows why I'm in school and trying out for the tour. He also knows I don't love it. I haven't told him that I'm painting again and selling my work for more than ever. Right now, I feel as though I'm going to fall off my feet, so I kiss his cheek and tell him I need to crash.

I sleep four hours. It's almost dark when I wake and realize again I haven't eaten anything since the popcorn. I stumble down the stairs and flick on the light in the kitchen. Mom's refrigerator is stocked with the usual supplies. I make a turkey and cheese sandwich before I wander into the TV room where Robert is talking on his cell. He looks up at me when I enter, putting his finger to his mouth.

“We'll be here.” He puts his phone on the table and pats the seat next to him. “Grandpa is gone.”

I spit the bread out of my mouth and sob.

 

****

 

The funeral will take place the day I should be playing in Daytona. My father offers to pay for the flight if I plan to go to Florida. He and my mother say they understand if I need to leave. Life is for the living. Grandpa would want me to go. He's gone—there's nothing more I can do. The platitude list grows longer the more I debate.

I brought my clubs with me in case Grandpa improved and I could still play. But play now? How can I?

I hole up in my bedroom. My eyes swell from crying, and I'm sick of all the well-wishers who have converged in our living room. Sure, we have lots of food to sample, but my appetite left the day we got the call.

My father is playing the perfect host, acting as though he and Grandpa were best of pals when, in truth, they weren't. Grandpa wasn't a fool. He saw the way my father treated my mother.

Robert has come in twice, once to pray with me—yeah, I let him. After all, God and I have grown a little closer since my trip—and a second time to tell me he'll back me with whatever decision I make.

I ask my mother if she can postpone the funeral. She looks stricken. Her father must be put to rest as soon as possible. It was his wish. He wanted to be cremated and his ashes scattered into the river.