The Mulligan (24 page)

She shakes her head and looks down at the carpet. A Berber carpet Dad ordered installed three years ago when he decided the wood floors were too cold. I miss the dings in the wood. “We're going to have to divide our assets.”

“Sell the house? Are you serious? This is our farm. It's Grandpa's farm! We can't sell. Where would we live? You love this house.” I quickly sit by her and clasp my hands in my lap. “It isn't fair, Mom. Tell him you won't.”

She's crying now. I'm so good at making people cry. “It isn't like that. The courts will make me sell unless I can buy him out.”

“Buy him out?” So all I can do is echo her like some dumb parrot. “Do you have any money? Did Grandpa leave you anything?”

She's crying harder now and wipes her nose on the sleeve of her sweater. “He went broke from Grandma's illness. You know that. There's nothing. I have nothing but my clothes. Dad bought everything else.”

My shoulders fall as I heave out a breath. Nothing. Dad can make us sell the farm so he can have his half. “Maybe he won't. Maybe he'll change his mind. I'll talk to him. Make he'll see we need this place.”

She lays her hand on my knee and faces me, her expression taut.

“You will not ask him. This is between your father and me. I know you want to help, but you can't this time. You can't. No one can.”

I can't help. But I want to. Maybe Robert and I can come up with something—a way to keep this place so Mom can live here and not in some low-income high-rise. I think of the condos at the edge of town along the river, with blue balconies and clotheslines on each one. My mother can't live there. I won't let it happen.

“What's Robert say? You've told him, haven't you?”

“He knows. Dad told him when he left. I'm surprised your father doesn't have a black eye with how angry your brother became at him.” A smile cracks one side of her mouth. “You would have been proud of Robert. He controlled himself well.”

The furnace kicks on. How long before I forget such familiar sounds? I fold the afghan across the cold on my legs. My eyes are heavy, even as upset as I am. “I'll talk with him in the morning. We'll think of something. I promise.”

“There's nothing to think about. I'll get a job. Now you go upstairs to bed, and I'll shut the lights off. Tomorrow will be a better day.”

I take my mother's advice and slip up the stairs to my room. I don't turn the lights on because if I do, I will cry. I love my room. I don't know how I can say good-bye.

 

****

 

My favorite time of day is when the sunlight first streaks through my window. This morning is no exception. My curtains are still open as I didn't mess with them last night, so I have a clear view of the mountains in back of our home. The barn's cupola glistens from melting ice and the bare branches that held my tree house twinkle in companionship.

My toes find the end of my bed and I stretch. First my arms, then my legs. Part of me wants to close my eyes into the nothingness of stupid dreams. The other part, the responsible part, knows I need to be here for my mother today and the coming days.

Tomorrow is Christmas, too. We need to come up with a plan before then, or we might as well take the tree down now.

Robert and my mother already sit at the kitchen table when I enter, scuffling in my dirty clothes.

He rises and gives me a big hug. His shirt hangs on him, making him look as though he's ten years old again and dressing up in Dad's work clothes. “Welcome home. I missed you.” His smile is in place but I know it's for Mom's sake.

She gets up and fills a cup with hot water and sets in before me with a tin of teabags.

“How did everyone sleep?” My voice rasps. I clear it and ask again.

“So you know.” Robert doesn't have to say anything else. His gaze crosses to my mother who busies herself with her scrambled egg. It looks cold and dry, but she persists in picking at it.

“Mom told me last night. What are we going to do?”

“You're both not going to do anything. It'll work out.” Finally, my mother pushes her plate away and leaves the room.

Robert sighs and his shoulders slump.

“Afraid there isn't much we can do. Dad's made his mind up. He's done. He's planning to sell his business and move south. He needs the money from the sale of this farm to do it.”

“We need to find a way to save this place. It was Grandpa's and he wanted Mom to have it, not Dad.” I cross my arms the way I do when I want my way. It used to work. Not anymore, though. I study Robert's outfit again. He's wearing a tie, too. “Where are you going?”

“I told Dad I'd meet him later at the office to discuss options.” His lips turn down.

“What options? What are you talking about? And since when do you dress all up to talk with Dad?”

Robert turns his head toward the backyard. He isn't a good liar, nor can he avoid the truth well. “I'm not only meeting Dad. He has this friend who wants to meet me. This guy wants to talk with me about going to Florida, too, to play golf.”

My mouth drops open. “You're kidding, right? You're going to college next semester to become a preacher. Why would you even remotely consider moving south with him after what he's done to Mom?” I don't believe we're having this conversation.

My brother has lost his mind sometime in the past week. I watch for signs that he's joking—a curve of his lip, a twinkle in his eye. Nothing. I think I'm going to be sick. “You can't save Dad. You told me that yourself. And what about your promise to help me find God's plans for my life? Was that a lie, too?”

He stands and empties his cup into the sink. “Maybe I was wrong about going to school. Maybe I want to play golf instead.”

My glance goes to his leg. He notices and shifts his stance straighter. “You're crazy, Robert. Do you know that? He's made you crazy, and I won't allow that.” My voice rises with each syllable. “Dad has destroyed our family, but he won't get you.”

“Listen to you. You're the one who's nuts. I'm doing what I want—unlike someone who thinks she's a golfer and isn't.”

Ouch. I brace myself against my chair. How can he say that? Someone once told me that love and hate are close emotions. I get that. I get that in a huge way now as I glare at Robert.

He holds my stare for only seconds and looks away.

“I'm out of here. Tell Mom I'll be back later.” I shove away from the table and grab my coat from the hook in the back doorway. My keys are still in the pocket, and although I haven't brushed my teeth or changed my clothes in three days, I don't care. I need to get space to think, and that won't happen at home where Mom is bawling upstairs and my brother has turned into the biggest traitor on this earth.

 

 

 

 

28

 

Not many places of business are open early the morning of Christmas Eve. I find that out as I scan town, driving up and down the streets. I notice that Dad is at his office already. I should have figured he'd camp out there. I'm not in the mood to talk to him yet—especially after Robert's announcement. I might give him that black eye that Robert didn't.

I grip the wheel as I spin on some ice. I still can't believe what Robert said about going south. He knows he'll never be able to play golf as well as he did before. Doesn't Dad know that? Are they both delusional?

Or is there another reason Robert is promising Dad he'll go with him? I pull in front of Dee's Ice Cream Hut and even though it's a freaking thirty degrees out, it's still open. Maybe a chocolate shake will clear my brain. I take a quick glance at my hair and no makeup, wipe sleep from my eyes, and tuck my coat around me. The place is empty except for someone mopping the floors. I place my order, grab a straw, and steer toward the back of the establishment where my family sat after my softball games in high school.

I look like a loser. Feel like one, too, but who wouldn't? A puddle forms around my feet where I walked through a bank of snow near my car. Great. Now I'll catch pneumonia, and my mother will have to care for me when all she needs right now is more to worry about. The milkshake goes down fast. I didn't realize how starving I was. I go back to the counter to order fries.

The clerk gives me another look—so she's all dolled up—but who cares? This is Dee's Ice Cream Hut.

The fries help. One by one I dip them in catsup and suck on the ends. I'm so absorbed in my ritual that I don't notice the parka standing in front of me. I look up. The fry never makes it to my mouth.

“Hungry?” Drew pulls out the metal chair across from me and lowers himself into it.

I swallow the piece, gagging.

He's dressed like an Eskimo, complete with a knit cap and gloves dangling from his hands.

“What are you doing here?” It seems that's all I ask him.

“You were pretty hard to find, but your car sticking halfway out on Main Street was my best clue.” His blue eyes shine—bluer than any time before.

My hands have catsup on them. Probably my lips, too, but I'm too stunned to wipe them.

“You're supposed to be in Florida.” Witty comeback. Right. I unzip my coat and then think better. My clothing is wrinkled.

“I've been looking for you. And besides, it is Christmas.”

“So your mother demanded an encore performance?” At least my memory is still intact.

He sets his gloves to the side and unzips his parka. Where did he get that thing? It must weigh more than me.

“You remember everything. Maybe you can remember how I kissed you not so long ago.”

My toes curl. They do and I'm not joking. How could I ever forget that kiss? “I remember. I also remember a promise to support me in Daytona.”

His face relaxes. “Oh, that. Is that what you're mad about?”

“Oh, that?” Again I echo. I need to think before I speak. “It was Q-School. My big shot and you weren't there for me.”

He starts to roll his eyes and thinks better—my guess because he stops mid roll and puts on this serious face. “My brother ended up in the ER. I couldn't leave him. I tried to call you, but it went to voice mail. Figured you were concentrating.”

“The ER?” I like his brother. I grab a napkin, waiting for something good.

“Fire ants. Seems he's allergic and swelled up badly.”

“Fire ants. You couldn't come to Daytona because of an allergic reaction to fire ants? Really?”

He props his elbows on the table. “I don't want to fight, Bobbi-with-an-
I
. I've missed you so much already.”

Oh, yes, I've missed him as well. He's who I think about when I think about my future and the mess in my family. He's my safe place, but then I remember how Drew let me down. Does going to the ER count as a good enough reason? I meet his look and feel my milkshake gurgling in my stomach. He smells like mint. Fresh mint. I smell like a dog that needs a bath.

“My family is falling apart.”

His hand stretches to cover mine. “How can I help?”

I pull my hand into my lap. “Please meet my brother.”

 

****

 

Christmas morning wakes me at six AM. I'm still tired—worn out from avoiding Robert, who looks at me with loads of guilt. I haven't discussed what he told me with my mother yet. Why worry her? She's got enough on her mind.

My room is chilly. I snuggle under my covers. Yesterday after Drew left the restaurant, I drove around town until I could find items that would pass as gifts for my mother and brother. Since I'm broke it wasn't easy, but I managed to find a pretty bracelet for Mom and a calendar planner for Robert. I borrowed some wrapping paper and put them under the tree before falling into bed early.

 

****

 

Ho Ho Ho. I think today rates as my worst Christmas in my life. Worse than the time Dad left us before, because this time it's forever. My teeth chatter so I reach for my robe and slippers and go downstairs to the thermostat. No wonder. It's set on sixty. I tick it up a few notches, grateful to hear the furnace kick on.

Next I plug in the Christmas lights so when they come downstairs we have some form of festivities. The coffee maker is ready to go—my mother set it last night. I press the on button. Soon the aroma of freshly brewed coffee reaches my nose.

The cinnamon rolls are in the fridge so I take them out, pop the can and stick them into the oven. A tradition even though nothing else seems to be anymore. I think about calling Amanda to say “Merry Christmas” but change my mind. Instead I curl up on the living room couch and watch the tree lights twinkle.

Drew agreed to come over tonight to meet everyone. He said by seven his family is done celebrating and he'd be happy to come over. My plan is for him to talk with Robert about how hard the golf pro life is. Since my brother won't listen to me, he might pay attention to Drew—someone who has been on tour.

I shake my head. I still can't believe Robert can be that stupid. What about all his talk about God showing him His plans for his life? Was it all nothing? I glance to the coffee table and see his Bible sitting there. I pick it up, the leather flaps falling back in my hands, opening to Jeremiah. Robert has marked one passage all in red. It's been a while since I've read anything in mine. A long while. I can barely make out the verses. One he has underlined. Twice.”
For I know the plans I have for you…”
That verse again.

A preacher once said you'll know when God is talking to you if you listen with your heart. I trace the verse with my finger and squeeze my eyes shut. “Are you telling me something, God? Do you care that much about me?”

But has it done Robert any good? One day he wants to be a preacher and the next day he's going off to Florida with Dad to try golfing again. How dumb is that? How dumb is it to think you can be a pro when you'd not even played in almost a year?