The Mulligan

by Terri Tiffany

  I park and head to the entrance. After a few minutes of wandering, I stop in the bakery section and taste drool as freshly baked bread scent wafts toward me. We don’t have stores like this back home. The selection overwhelms me, but finally I select a loaf of whole wheat marked half off, and then find the cereal aisle where I pick up some shredded wheat. The soup aisle is next, and soon my arms are full of tomato soup, crackers, and a half gallon of milk.

  At checkout, I discover I’m short of cash. My credit card is lying back on my dresser with a stash of tissues I took out of my purse that morning. A groan escapes me as I catch the dubious look on the cashier’s face. “I’m sorry.” I dig deeper into my purse—hoping. An older gentleman behind me offers a few dollars but I shake my head fighting back tired tears. “Please take off the crackers and bread,” I tell the clerk, my face heating with embarrassment.

  It takes me a while to find my car since the late afternoon sun nearly blinds me. I pull back onto Highway 50 toward home, Golden Acres, a community for the over-fifty crowd. How I find my way back, I’m not sure, but I park under the awning of the compact silver trailer in relief. I found the mobile home development online.

  Actually my mother did. She’d pointed out the pictures of the swimming pool and lighted tennis courts as though I’d have all this free time to enjoy them. What would she think now if she saw their real condition? I will not be lying around any pool in the near future. Especially since this one hasn’t been filled since the eighties. Nor will I be playing tennis in the weed-infested courts or walking the non-existent trails in the back.

  My home-sweet-home unit sits next to a larger trailer covered with enough purple and red birdfeeders and wind chimes to decorate the entire state. It won’t surprise me to find out the owner is a Red Hat Society member. The chimes thankfully lulled me to sleep last night when two acetaminophen pills didn’t work.

  But my rent is cheap and my student loan won’t cover much more. I drop my head on my steering wheel, close my eyes, and let myself dream of the home where I spent my childhood—a two-story colonial with a wraparound porch that rests on a hundred acres. Lush wooded acres surround it. A stocked pond waits out back while the Susquehanna River meanders down the hill across the hard road from the wagon house.

  When I turned sixteen my mother papered my upstairs bedroom in a federal blue floral pattern I chose. She updated the frilly curtains (she sewed herself) and bought a new matching throw for my bed. The best part of the room was the closet Dad fitted with cabinets where I’d stored all my art supplies until he built the studio out back for me. In an impromptu party, we hauled all my easels and brushes and paper out there when he completed it. I loved my art studio, as simple as it was for as long as I had it. It served as my oasis, my hideaway, my place to dream.

  Until the fire.

  I reach for a tissue from the stash I keep in the glove box. Looks like I’d need to refill it already. Did I cry that much on the trip down? I still can’t believe I caused my brother to get hurt. If only I hadn’t screamed to him to save my work. I could have repainted everything.

  I check my face in the mirror. A quick scan of the neighborhood assures me that no one will see my red eyes. Not even the older gentleman who rode his golf cart past my car three times last night. I carry in my purchases while leaving my clubs in the backseat for tomorrow. All I want to do is eat and take a hot shower to wash off this sticky sweat.

  An hour later, I dig into my purse for my cell phone, noting at the same time that I need to look for a cheaper plan. This one is taking a huge chunk out of my budget, like everything else in my life. A bowl of sesame pretzels waits next to my elbow. My mother sent three bags and enough chips to bump me up another pants size. But then the soup didn’t fill me like I’d hoped it would. I forgot how hungry I get when I golf. I place the call after chewing down another handful.

  “Hello?”

  Grandpa’s greeting sends warmth shooting through me. The gruffness in his voice brings a smile to my face. At the ripe old age of eighty-five, he is our family hero, the man with the golf legacy and the man I have looked up to since I was old enough to understand what a great feat it is to play the Masters. Even though I wasn’t as enamored with golf as Robert was growing up, I loved to sit next to Grandpa and page through his photo albums, oohing with him about his trophies.

  I raise my voice a notch to be sure he can hear me. “Grandpa? How are you doing?” Snapshots fill my head of him leaning back in his recliner next to the telephone stand with a glass of cold soda nearby. He refused to let that chair go when he moved to our home last year despite my mother’s best tantrums. A proud man, proud of his accomplishments and how he lived life the way he chose, he never asked for any help. He seemed to shrink a little the day we came to pack up his belongings to bring him to the farm he’d given my parents when my mother married my father.

  But life caught up with Grandpa, and though in his mind he thinks he needs no one, he does. Black and blue shapes tattoo his legs from frequent falls because he refuses to use a walker or a cane. He’d rather die than resort to those “old-man appliances.”

  “Is this Bobbi-girl? When will you be home, darlin’?”

  “Not for a while, Grandpa. Maybe at the end of August in time for some sweet corn. Will you smoke it for me?” His memory is failing by threads each time I talk with him. Though my mother denies what is slowly happening to her father, I can’t. I want to tell her that Grandpa is slipping and he’ll always be her hero.

  But life changes us. If I speak my heart, will it destroy what little strength is left in hers? My mother depends on her father more than a woman her age should, but what choice does she have? I’m not blind to my father’s ways. He’s not always been here for our family. But when Robert began to golf with him, I saw a glimpse of the man my mother said she fell in love with.

  I clear my throat. “You know how much I love your corn.”

  “Oh yes, my corn. And how about that golf game yesterday?”

  “I didn’t get to see it, Grandpa. I was driving.”

  Will he lose all memory before I have the opportunity to make him proud? Will I have enough time to go on tour while he still remembers my name?

  “What a shame you missed it. Here’s your mother.” I picture my mother dressed in her stretch-waist polyester pants, baggy sweatshirt embroidered with red kittens, her tight perm (leftover from the 80s) and her makeup free face. She comes on the line sounding out of breath.

  “We miss you, honey. How is it there? Did your first day go all right? Bobbi, I wish you’d change your mind and pack up and come home. You aren’t to blame. Don’t give up your own dreams.”

  I grip the phone tighter and lift my bare feet onto the only other piece of furniture in the living room—a stuffed chair that looks like the dogs have taken a liking to it. I trace the muddy stain on the bottom cushion with my big toe. At least I haven’t found bugs like I did in the kitchen sink and cupboards. Tomorrow I’ll buy insect spray and air freshener for the horrible musty odor that struck me in the face when I came inside.

  I ignore my mother’s plea—one I’ve heard over and over since my decision.

  “I took a lesson today. Have another tomorrow and I stopped at a grocery store for food for supper. You’d love the bakery section. All kinds of bread. I miss all of you. How’s Robert?” I swallow hard. It’s expected I include him in my conversations though talking with him makes me cry every time.

  A long sigh trails into my ear. “He misses you.”

  “Tell him I miss him, too.”

  “Why don’t you tell him? Wait, I’ll take the phone to him.”

  My heart thuds louder.

  I’m sure she rushes toward the front of the house—once the good room—now having been transformed via a hospital bed and a three-point commode. He’ll be lying with his open laptop next to him and a stack of golf books piled on his nightstand. Of course, his Bible will be there, too, marked up in his color-coded fashion.

/>   How can I end this call in a hurry?

  “Hey, sis, how’s it going down there?” His voice is deep and familiar. He sounds pleased I’ve taken the time to include him in my call.

  “I’m good. Really good, but a little tired. I had my first classes today.”

  Silence.

  “Are you there, Robert?”

  “I was thinking about what you said before you left. How you plan to be the best female golfer ever. Are you sorry yet you’re doing this?”

  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.