The Mulligan (23 page)

Finally, I look up front when I'm sure Drew is turned around. When I started here I thought he was this big jock. I was so wrong. My lips purse. He's worse than a jock. He's selfish. He could have found a way to be in Daytona, but didn't. If I had an ounce of energy left in me, I would walk right out of here now. Go to lunch. Clean my car. Take a nap.

I don't have an ounce of energy left or guts in me for that matter. I sink in my chair and find a dried up hard candy in my pocket. I stick it in my mouth, sucking on wintergreen.

When class ends, Drew hands out a homework assignment. As he passes my desk, he scribbles something on the paper. “See me afterwards,” it says.

Butterflies churn in my gut. I draw out my pen and cross through his words.

In his dreams.

Later that night, I take inventory of the place I call home. Since coming to Florida months ago, I've purchased two folding chairs. No new clothes. No other furnishings. If I got a job paying more than minimum wage, I might be able to survive—that's it. The newspaper catches my eye. It's a free sample, and so I thumb threw it searching for the want ads. Barmaid. Waitress. Park attendant. Not a whole lot of choices.

The minutes tick by. I heat a bowl of tomato soup and discover my crackers are gone. I'll have to eat it with bread the way Grandpa liked his. Soggy and hot. When I think of him and home, tears well in my eyes and I shove the bowl away.

This is my life. My opened suitcase sits in the corner of the room begging me to unpack it. Last night, I pulled out my pajamas but that was all. For the next twenty minutes, I hang up my clothes and contemplate a trip to the laundry. Instead, I rinse a few items by hand. Wet jeans hang down my bars.

The thought of coming home to this kind of life, day in and day out, depresses me. But surely not qualifying for the tour is an answer, isn't it? Doesn't that mean I'm not good enough and my coming here was all a pipe dream? What was it Mattie said? Superman doesn't exist? I finger my necklace. Mattie was a good friend, and I didn't even recognize it at the time. I saw her as an old lady with too much time on her hands. How wrong I was. If only I had taken more time to talk with her, get to know how she survived her sad life.

My phone rings where I left it in the bathroom. I race to answer it and see Robert's name. “Hey, how's college boy?”

“Wanted to know how your first day back went. I sure wish you were going to be here for Christmas. It won't be the same. Dad's been mucking around like some old mule, and Mom's been nervous as two hens around a rooster. I don't think their being together again is going to work.”

I grip my phone. “Because of me. Right?”

“Not because of you, brat, because of them. I even went as far as to suggest counseling, and Dad looked like he wanted to tear my mouth off. Mom left the room. Guess it isn't cool when your kids act more like the adults.”

I curl into my chair. “I'm so sorry you're the one stuck seeing all this. Wish I was there, but the way Dad acted toward me I probably would be mouth-less.” A giggle at the picture of both of us without a mouth rises up inside me. The situation is far from funny, but Robert has this way of making everything sound funny or at least not as bad.

“I drove past the art store. The “For Sale” sign is still up.”

The store. “Don't even talk about it. I barely have enough money to pay my rent and if I quit school, I'll have nothing.”

“So what's the answer? Finish and try to get a job there or what? I wish you had never gone. This place isn't the same without you.”

Robert isn't the same because of me. The events from the day of the fire loom in my mind. If I hadn't been so bent to become a famous artist, my family would still be intact.

Not even my father acting like he is now can convince me otherwise. He loved caddying for Robert.

Robert loved golf even though he says now he doesn't as much as he wants to preach.

“Are you there?” he asks.

“I'm here. I really screwed up my life, didn't I? I'm so glad you know what you want to do.” I sound pathetic. So much that I consider hanging up before I go on further.

“Come home. Come home and I'll help you figure out what's next, but hiding away down in Florida isn't going to solve anything. Come home and we'll face whatever your life is to be together.”

His words wrap around my heart as I think about our house—our farm and my special place by the river where I said good-bye to Grandpa a few days ago. I can't imagine never living there again.

“I'm not sure I can drive it so soon.” Seventeen hours. I could be home by Christmas.

“You can do anything you put your head to. You're my twin.” His voice turns husky. I see him sitting on the bottom step by the foyer, his feet stuck out in front of him covered in those corny red socks I got him as a joke for his birthday.

“Even starting over after failing so miserably?”

“I won't let you do it alone.”

Tears fall and I lick the salty flavor. They run off my chin and drop into the carpet at my feet. Crying never felt so good. But saying yes to my brother feels better.

 

 

 

 

27

 

Amanda is home, sitting in front of her undecorated fireplace. Usually, the entire room is garnished with garland and two heavily ornamented trees by now. Her mourning is still evident in the house void of any Christmas decorations.

I stop here before finishing my trip to the farm, wanting to put off the inevitable meeting with my father as long as I can. My hands cramp from the all-night driving, and I could kill for a huge omelet.

She sits opposite me, a tight smile on her face.

I guess I expected more.

“So you quit college? What are you going to do now, Bobbi? There aren't many options around here. You know that.”

I tuck my gloves inside my coat pocket. She hasn't even asked for my jacket. “I don't know yet. I couldn't stay in Florida. I guess I finally figured out that golfing isn't my answer.”

Her interest piques and I catch a spark in her eyes. “Answer to what?”

“My family.” I hunch closer, placing my elbows on my knees. Maybe if I share, she will, too. I had hoped by now she'd be more like the best friend I knew. Not this hollow imposter.

“Whatever are you talking about? Your family? You mean the thing with Robert wanting to golf? You taking his place? About time you came to your senses on that one.” She practically snorts.

I straighten. Maybe talking about me isn't the way to go.

“So how are you feeling now?” I ask.

“Now?” Her eyes grow vacant again. “Not sure what you mean. About Christmas and the baby? Jim wants to try again, but I'm not ready. Not really. Maybe not for a long time.” Her voice finally gains emotion. “Why do I want to put myself through such pain again? For what? The doctor said it was a fluke…” She spreads her hands and then wrings them like some scene in a Shakespearean play. The air is thick with her stress, and I smell something burning in the kitchen.

“Are you cooking something in the oven because I smell something…” I wrinkle my nose, and she bolts from her place on the couch, running into the next room of the house like she's on fire.

“My cookies.” A wail follows.

“Everything OK?”

Seconds later, Amanda returns with a tray of burnt cookies in her hand. A smile forms on her lips—the first one I've seen since I arrived. “I made them for you after you called. Sugar and cinnamon. Sure don't look like much, do they?”

I meet her in the doorway. “I bet they're good anyway.” I reach for one that isn't as dark as the others.

“Don't you even eat that, Bobbi. You'll barf.” A giggle erupts from her lips.

I ignore her warning and take a bite, chew, and swallow as gracefully on burnt cookies as I can. “Try one. Really, they're good.” I point to the one next to the empty spot.

She looks dubious but sets down the tray and scoops up a dark golden one.

She takes a nibble, a small nibble, but it's a start. She giggles again. “I remember when you dared me to eat worms behind the garage that one summer. I threw up three times. Never told my mother, even though I wanted to.” She pats my arm through my thick coat. “Why on earth haven't you taken that thing off yet?”

Ah. Amanda. “You haven't asked me.”

She points to the hall closet. “Hang it up in there. Now…before I have to tell you again and you know how I hate repeating myself.”

I laugh.

Repeating herself is Amanda's specialty.

“I can't. I need to get home before everyone is asleep.”

“Are you sure? You can spend the night here.” She glances upstairs, and I know she's thinking of the baby's room.

“Naw. I want my own bed, but thanks, anyway.” I hold my arms out and she comes in for a hug.

“You're the best friend I have. Thanks for putting up with me, and I'm so glad you're home.” Her voice breaks.

I can't answer because my own voice takes a leave of absence. I nod and smile as I rush to the front door. The past few weeks have been a barrel full of emotional scenes. I'm too tired tonight to cry anymore. “See you soon.” I manage to say as I escape to my car. The icy wind whips my hair as I hurry to start the engine.

Amanda stands in the window waving as I pull away. It's a habit we both fell into when we were little. We would wave good-bye as long as we could see each other's car. One time I had to go to the bathroom so I left my spot at the window, putting Robert there instead. He waved as I would, but Amanda called when she got home.

“That's cheating,” she said with a pout in her voice. “I don't have a stand-in like you do.”

A stand-in. I think of that phrase now. Robert and I have always stood in for each other whenever we could. Maybe it isn't fair that I have him. Maybe Amanda's mother should have had more children after her. But I do have Robert, and knowing he's here for me means everything.

I don't live far from Amanda, but driving from her place to mine seems like the longest miles I've driven during the entire trip. I round the bend to see the moon lighting up the farmhouse like a spotlight. Shadows fall from the surrounding maples, making me want to pull the car over to take in the scene.

Next, I discover blue Christmas lights blinking in the front windows and red ribbon-wrapped wreaths hanging over the windows. The decorations are the same each year. My mother spends hours transforming our home into a kind of wonderland. She has done the same this year—even with the passing of her father. The Christmas tree is lit in the front room and I can imagine wrapped gifts already piled beneath it.

I slump against the seat. How can I face my father after the way he looked at me at the airport? Part of me thinks it's a mistake returning home. I don't have anything here except memories—good and bad. Maybe I should have started my life over someplace else—Denver, Seattle?

I shut the car off and place my feet in the snow, crunching back to the trunk. Tonight I grab only my suitcase. The rest of my belongings can wait until tomorrow.

The house is dark except for the tree in the front room.

“Mom?” I call out and wait for an answer.

“In here. Bobbi?”

I set my luggage on the kitchen floor and make my way to the front of the house where my mother is standing with her arms spread wide. She pulls me in for a deep hug. “I'm so glad to have you home. Are you OK?”

Of course, she asks how I am. I nod and drop into the chair opposite the couch where I can tell she's been sitting as her folded magazine is plopped against the pillow.

“Tired. Where's Robert?”

“He went to bed early. He said he had a headache.” A faraway looks enters her eyes. Is she worried about more than Robert's headache?

I settle across from her and kick off my cold shoes.

The tree twinkles in rhythm to a Christmas melody that the lights play over and over. A leftover decoration from my childhood. And I was right—gifts are piled below the tree. A sense of warmth fills me. Where else would I want to be at Christmas?

“Do you want tea? I can make some. You must be hungry, too. There are sugar cookies.”

“The kind with the green frosting?”

She smiles. “Let me get you a plate.” My mother leaves me alone to stare at the tree and take in the quiet of the house. Where is my father? Now that I think of it, I didn't see his vehicle in the driveway next to my mother's car. I glance around the room. Nor do I see his slippers or the sweater he usually wears on cold nights.

My mother hands me a plate and a mug of tea. “Here you go. Now tell me about the drive up. I tried to call you a few times, but it went right to voice mail.”

“Mom, where's Dad?” Call me blunt, but I need answers.

She plucks at the gaudy afghan I crocheted when I was twelve—pink and white. “I was going to wait to tell you in the morning.”

“Tell me now. He's gone again, isn't he? Right at Christmas.” The cookie in my hand crumbles. I set the plate on the coffee table before I crush more. How could my father do this to us?

“He left yesterday. Bobbi, this time is for good. I'm not going to fool myself anymore. I know what kind of man he is”—she wipes her eyes—”and I'm not blind, even though I know you think I've been over the years. I wanted everything to work out, but this time…”

“So he's a jerk. Right? He left us because I didn't qualify, and he can't live his life as a golf caddie. Is that it?” My tone sounds harder than I intend it to be, but I'm angry. Not so much at myself—and that surprises me—but at the man I call my father.

“He's your father. Remember that in the coming weeks. We mutually agreed to end our marriage.”

“It's over? For good?” Words hurt my throat. They shake and come out sounding high-pitched and that makes me angry too. I rise to my feet and cross to stand in front of the tree. What a joke. “What happens now? He moves out and we stay here?”