The Mulligan (3 page)

My brother has this way with words. Direct. To the point. Not always what I want to hear and certainly not tonight when I'm bone-tired and trying to survive on rocky emotions. I love him with all my heart, but he has to know that my taking over where he left off is a good thing. For the whole family.

“You know why I'm doing this.” The words squeeze between my teeth.

A long sigh. “Come home, please. It won't change anything. Stop being a martyr.”

Is that what he thinks I am? I pluck a pretzel from the dish and throw it against the wall.

“That's not why I'm doing this. And don't make me cry.”

“I don't want you to cry. I want you home. I want you to be who you really are.”

“And then what?”

Watch Dad withdraw every day from a life he doesn't want? Watch Mom hide her tears because her life isn't anything she ever planned it would be? No thank you.

“Listen, put Mom back on.”

My mother comes back on the line, breathless again.

“Bobbi, he's right. You should be home with us. You should be painting—opening up your own shop.”

I ignore her since there still remains one more person for me to talk to and I will need more than energy for that. “Dad? Is he there?”

“He's in town at a meeting. I'll tell him you called.” My mother pauses as though plotting her next words in a minefield. “He misses you, too.”

My mother is a good liar. My father hasn't spoken more than three words to me since the accident except to hand me pepper spray for my trip. But of course, it wasn't that much better before the accident. Who am I fooling? Before the fire, he had his hopes set on seeing his son become a major golfer.

I found the faded clippings years ago in the attic. The ones with my father and his trophies. I did the math and figured out why there weren't any more pictures of him on tour. He'd been handed a set of twins and all the trappings that went with us, saddled with a desk job he never wanted.

Robert and his love of golf changed all that. So would I.

I fiddle with a nearby pen, scribbling my name on a napkin. “Tell him I'm doing fine. Tell Grandpa again, too. Remind him about the trophies I plan to win. He likes hearing about it.”

“Now, Bobbi, you know he doesn't care about those things. You need to stop thinking that way. The only reason Robert—”

“Mom, I need to do this so let's not discuss it. OK? Listen, I'm going to hang up. I'm beat and we start early again tomorrow. I'll call soon.”

I give another fast good-bye and end the call. No need rehashing with them why I have chosen to give up everything I ever wanted in my life to attend this golf school. Besides, it isn't their responsibility. It's mine. It was my studio that burned down. It was my stupid dream that destroyed Robert's. No amount of denial on anyone's part will change that fact.

 

****

 

The alarm wakes me earlier today. I stumble around in the darkness until I find the wall switch, adding a bedside lamp to my shopping list. I passed a discount store on my way home yesterday. If I can remember how to find it, I will stop today.

After squeezing into what passes as a plausible shower stall complete with moldy shelving, I throw on another pair of khakis, this time matching them with a yellow polo. Thankfully, we only have to wear those stupid jackets one day a week. When I check the mirror, I see how my hair dances with a life of its own. Oh, the complexities of managing thick hair in Florida's unrelenting humidity. Dropping the brush, I search for my shoes.

A partially opened box lays propped against one wall where I'd let it fall the day before. A different golf hat will keep me cooler so I dig into the assortment of junk to search for a visor, find an off-white one, and set it on my bed. I flip through more items in search of something to pull my hair up with when my fingers meet a familiar object.

My mother has slipped my drawing tablet into the box without my knowledge. My breath catches.

Faint gray sketches of the back mountain on our property greet me. With my finger, I trace the light pencil strokes. Stark images drawn with abandonment on the day of the fire. The only saved remnants. Robert and my father had left earlier that morning for a course in the next town. I'd wanted to get some drawing done for the gallery where I worked so I didn't go with them to caddie. I'd already sold two paintings and was excited about a request for more.

It was chilly that day—the thermometer read only forty degrees when they left, but the cold never stopped Robert. His passion for golf rivaled my own passion for art. His dream was to qualify at Q-School and make it on a major tour like Grandpa had years ago. Robert was good—better than good. He was born to golf.

I hate remembering that awful day, but if I don't, I'll never be able to get through this school. My mother keeps saying it isn't my fault, that it isn't my guilt to carry. But if it isn't mine, whose is it?

Certainly not Robert's. He didn't ask to have his life turned upside down. Nor my father, whose dreams for his only son now include relentless doctor visits and therapy and the possibility that the two of them might never share those special father-son moments again.

Right. Who left the heater on? Who screamed to Robert to save her precious paintings?

My chest shudders when I replay Robert's last conversation with me on the day I prepared to leave for school.

“You can't do this, Bobbi. It's not God's plan for you. You're an artist. I'll golf again someday. Let it go, please.” His normally tanned face had faded to a pasty white, making him one with our living room walls. Tears shone in his eyes as he plucked the cotton sheet that covered his lower body. My mother had tried to supply him with everything he needed during his recuperation, but she couldn't hide what needed to be hid most. Robert's injuries.

I studied his strong nose, the playful way his hair fell across his forehead. “You're my twin. I owe you. Besides, you taught me a lot. I'll be good. You'll see. And when I win a tournament, it'll be for all of us.”

“I'm going to pray for you every day. Pray you come to your senses.”

I glanced at his well-worn Bible. Yes, he would pray.

Robert's faith is so much stronger than mine. It always has been ever since that day during Vacation Bible School when we were twelve and we accepted what God did for us. He uses the name Jesus as though he is talking about his best friend—in front of his own friends. The first time he did that, I wanted to die from embarrassment, but no one seemed to mind. In fact, it appeared his friends treated him better. Eventually Robert made us pray at meals and Mom dropped him off at church every Sunday until she decided to go with him. I went, too, but worried more about what I was wearing than what I was learning.

I still have trouble accepting that God loves me like he does Robert. I still have trouble with it, especially now living so far from home. But I'm learning that the circumstances in our lives can't always be controlled. I learned after the fire that sometimes we have to step up and do what it takes to make things right again. Like moving here.

The tablet snaps shut. My mother should stay out of my business. I shove the drawings back into the box, grab my keys, and stomp out to my car.

“Good morning. Welcome to the neighborhood.” The unfamiliar voice scratches like worn windshield wipers on a dusty day. An elderly woman—who definitely shouldn't be outside in that housecoat—comes toward me carrying an aluminum foil-covered paper plate pressed against her sagging chest. A gold chain with a thin cross circles her neck, and she wears pink flip-flops on her bird-like feet. Her frosted blue eye shadow momentarily distracts me from her sunken cheekbones covered in blush.

She holds out her offering and grins, showing two missing side teeth. She reminds me of the last jack o' lantern Robert and I carved before our father decided he didn't need any more pumpkins cluttering the front porch steps.

“Thank you.” I accept the gift with a matching smile of my own. The lady who loves chimes also bakes. I peek beneath the covering. “Chocolate chip cookies. My favorite!”

My neighbor chuckles and holds out one blue-veined hand. “Call me Mattie.”

I take the offered hand and shake it politely, hoping she will cut the introductions short. I'll be late again if I don't hurry, and Drew might lock the door. “Bobbi. With an
I.
”

“I once had a nephew named Bobby. With a Y.” She winks. “Never could get him to do much for me when I asked. Died in a crash.”

“I'm so sorry. Listen, Mattie, I hate to be rude, but I'm going to be late for school if I don't get going.” I glance toward my car.

“What school do you go to?”

“A local golf college.” Balancing the cookies in one hand, I grab my backpack that I'd set by the car.

Mattie steps away and gives a small wave as I call out a quick good-bye.

The cookies will be great for the break between classes. Even though they are the last thing I need to eat. My kinesiology teacher has impressed me with the need to get into shape—so much that I'm considering joining a local gym if I can get a student membership since the one at school is worthless. It's been over year since the last time I jogged. Robert begged me to run every morning with him. I lasted two days.

I pull onto the busy main highway and make it through three green lights before the traffic starts backing up. Two cops speed past me. I look to my right and then my left. Several cars cut through a parking lot but I don't have a clue to an alternate route. I'll be late for sure. I throw my turn signal on and inch my way out of the backlog of traffic to follow behind a pickup truck through a shopping center.

The road curves past several newer housing developments and for a second a wave of fear rolls through me that I might be lost. When I'm about to turn around a sign appears.
Orlando Golf School 1 mile.
A rush of relief leaves my chest.

Nearing the school, I admit that a part of me looks forward to seeing Drew again, though my heart warns against it. I reach for a still-warm cookie and devour it in two bites. It's silly to entertain any romantic thoughts about my teacher. I'm not a schoolgirl anymore. I also don't need complications—especially when I have so much to accomplish. I will stay focused.

The classroom doorknob doesn't budge.
Great.
He's kept his word. My parents did a similar thing to me the time I stayed out with friends the summer after I graduated. I came home well after one in the morning. A curfew at my age made no sense so I'd stormed around to the barn where a pallet of fresh straw kept me comfortable most the night until a mouse squealed near my head nearly sending me into hysterics. Fuming with anger the next day, I swiped my father's house key and went to Big Mike's hardware store in town to make a spare for my purse.

The door opens as I stand entrenched in my memories of Pennsylvania. Drew speaks first. “Miss Bobbi-with-an-
I
. I assume you want in?”

Most people back home think I'm the artsy dreamy type—a girl who would rather paint scenery than attend the Wyoming County Fair and shoot hoops for a stuffed teddy bear. But they are wrong. I won more than Robert last year. I snap back to look up into an expression I would entitle ‘the look of impatience.'

“You want to come in or daydream in the hall?”

Drew's height gives him a distinct advantage over me, not to mention he's the teacher and I'm the student.

“There was an accident.” My tone always turns deep and scratchy when confronted by anyone. “A bad one.” I hate that I don't sound all high-pitched and feminine like other women do when they want to impress someone. “Police and everything.” No, my voice finds the basement of my voice box and etches out sentences like blades on ice.

Clearing my throat to try again, I stop as he steps aside to hold the door open for me.

I dip my head and hunker past to the seat in the back, praying it will still be mine to claim on day two. Again, the stares and whispers trail behind me.

“Please don't go to Orlando.” My brother's voice comes to me as I slide into my seat. Our conversation happened two weeks before I left home. “You don't understand how tough the competition will be,” he said as soon as I entered his room.

“Then you don't know me.” I gripped my coffee cup tighter as I settled in the big chair in the front room near him.

“I know that most people who go to a golf college end up working in the industry—not as golf pros.” Robert tossed me a magazine. “Read the article.”

I picked up
Golf Today
. An article about how to gain employment on a golf course caught my eye. I tossed it back on his nightstand. “So what. That doesn't mean I can't be the one who makes it. I'm going to get the training and maybe learn something more in the process.”

I'd found a website the day after the accident and had pored over the details about a golf college. Normally I could convince Robert of anything. Normally.

He and I share this deep sense of closeness. When one of us hurt, both hurt. As kids, we'd watched out for each other, and that didn't change during our growing-up years.

The last time I needed a subject for a portrait, Robert offered to help rather than attend a golf tournament down in the city with some friends. When he needed to snag a date for a last-minute event, I turned down my own date and attended with him. I even bought him a new offset putter for Christmas last year after hearing him talk about it with my father. It had taken a huge chunk out of my savings, but seeing his eyes light on Christmas morning made it worthwhile. But a new club will never make up for this.

A cough sounds beside me. I try my best to pay attention, but can't seem to manage it today. With half a night's sleep, it's a wonder I'm sitting upright.