The Mulligan

by Terri Tiffany

  No answer.

  When I jiggle the handle, the door opens softly beneath my hand. “Hello? Is anyone here?” I call into the semi-darkness. I make out the piles of boxes, and next I see the shadow. I clap my hand over my mouth to stop myself from screaming.

  “Come in. Anyone who would brave an empty house must have cared about Mattie. Don’t worry. I don’t bite.” The florescent lights come on over the kitchen sink at the same time I breathe again. An attractive woman in her thirties or maybe early forties steps forward with her hand out.

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t being nosy. I’m…was Mattie’s neighbor.” I shake the offered hand.

  The intruder wears white capris and has pulled her hair onto her head in a kind of fancy twist. Streaks of red add to an otherwise bland color job. “Nice to meet you. How well did you know my mother?”

  I choke on my spit. “Your mother? I didn’t”—I stutter like a nervous date—”didn’t know she had a daughter. I’m so sorry for your loss. She never told me about you.”

  “Mina.” She nods to the sofa, the only piece of furniture not loaded with boxes. “Please sit. It’s not a surprise to me that she didn’t tell you I existed. We haven’t spoken in over twenty years. I was lucky to find out she died through the Internet. Someone picked up on her obituary and ran with it. That’s what fame will get you—another article at death.”

  I want to say “Wow!” about the twenty-year time frame but instead say, “That’s a long time.” We sit a good foot apart on the couch. My knees shake without my permission.

  “It’s going to be even longer now that’s she’s gone. I should have come sooner.” She lets her head drop for a fraction of a second and pulls it upright again.

  This whole scene isn’t for me. I try hard to think what my mother might say but nothing comes to mind except offering tea, and that’s out of the question since everything is packed. “I wish she’d told me. She was really special.”

  “I see she gave you the necklace.”

  Without realizing it, I have been fondling the golf club between my two fingers—as is now my habit. I drop my hand to my lap.

  “It’s OK. I never wanted it. She won it on her last tournament—Palm Springs. I was there for her victory, but later that night she wrecked the car and that’s history, so they say.”

  “You weren’t in the accident?”

  Mina shakes her head. Her eyebrows form a lovely V while she speaks. I feel like I’m sitting in the middle of a TV show where they bring out guests who tell their life story. I cross my fingers, hoping for something good.

  “I went home with my friends. She stayed and drank with her friends and gave my cousin and others a ride home. I never forgave her. Never is a long time.” A sigh floats from her chest.

  “You haven’t spoken in all these years? What about her community service and all the good she did? Doesn’t that count for something?”

  “Does that change anything?”

  “I think it did for Mattie. She felt good about it. She felt like she was helping others.”

  “I’m glad for her. It still didn’t change the lives she destroyed.”

  I don’t get her. Why is she here if she’s never forgiven Mattie even with all the good she did?

  “I’m sorry. It seems to me that Mattie would have done anything to fix things in her life. I bet that included you.”

  Mina stands and strides over to the sink where she pours herself a glass of water. She turns around. Her eyes are shiny. “Ever wish your life had turned out differently? That you did what you should have done? I was a darned good golfer. Would have been pro, but because of my mother, I put my clubs away and took up knitting. Knitting. Do I look like a person who likes to knit?”

  Honestly, I want to say yes, but I keep my mouth shut.

  “I got married, raised three kids, and practically won the best mother of the year award, but I couldn’t call my mother. You know why? I wanted her to try harder. To make up for what she did and not with community service garbage.”

  “What more could she have done?” I whisper. I regret now that I looked over here when I got home. I will mind my own business in the future.

  She waves her glass in the air. Maybe it isn’t water. “I don’t know. That’s the trouble. I really don’t know. She couldn’t fix everything, I guess.”

  Superman is a myth.

  “Again, I’m sorry for your loss. Would you like this necklace back to remember her by?”

  “No, no, you keep it, honey. I’m sure there was a good reason why she gave it to you.”

  I don’t know what it is, but part of me doesn’t want to let go of Mattie’s gift yet. But I do want to get out of this conversation. I stand and edge toward the door.

  “It was nice to meet you. Let me know if you need any help with any of her things.” I let my gaze fall around the room at the boxes filled with what was Mattie’s life.

  “I’m going to have Goodwill haul this stuff away. I’m not sure why I came. Maybe I thought I’d find some answers here.” A loose laugh bubbles from her.

  I definitely need to be going. In a minute she’ll be sobbing into her glass.

  I reach for the doorknob, and then I think of something. Something Mattie told me one day when we were eating hotdogs on her patio. She said she liked to write before she was a golfer, and now all she ever did was write in a journal at night when she could keep her eyes opened.

  “Did you look in her nightstand?”

  Mina raises her head. “Her nightstand? Whatever for?”

  “I could be wrong, but your mother told me how she jotted things down at night. In a journal. I thought…” my words trail off. Mina is already halfway down the hall. In a matter of minutes, she returns with a plastic coated journal in both hands. She looks like she’s found the lost city of Atlantis.

  I start to sit again but change my mind.

  “I’ll leave you to it.”

  Mina looks up at me from where she’s curled in Mattie’s rocker. Tears trickle down her cheeks. “Thank you for being here with my mother. And thank you for this gift. It might not give me the answers I need, but it’s a start. A good one.”

  I take advantage of my opportunity to leave. I will probably never know what was written in that journal, but I sure hope Mattie wrote about her long lost daughter somewhere in it.

  16

  Robert answers the phone instead of my mother.

  I hold my breath and then speak. “I qualified.”

  Screams tumble through my earpiece, and I laugh along with my brother. I really need to hear him like this today. His support means everything to me.

  “I knew you would do it. You’re amazing, Bobbi. So when’s the next round of tournaments?”

  “Not until December—a week before Christmas.” I sink into my chair. “I’m nervous about it. The competition was stiff at this one. I played well, but anything can go wrong.”

  He’s quick to reassure me. “It won’t. Not now, because you want this so badly. I still don’t agree it’s what you should do with your life, but I can’t tell you what to do.”

  “How’s Dad? Any word from him?” I cross my fingers, hoping. All this work and effort is for nothing if my father decides he’s done with us forever. I want him to be proud of me and regain that pride he had in himself. I want him to be happy we’re his family.

  “He came for dinner last night. Mom invited him.” I hear the resignation in his voice, the concern and the fear for what could go right or wrong.

  “And? How did it go?”

  “Grandpa acted like nothing was wrong. Like Dad has been sitting in his place every night. But then Grandpa took a fall—hit the bathroom radiator and Mom and Dad took him to the hospital. They kept him overnight for observation.” He lowers his voice. “He’s going downhill fast and Mom doesn’t get it.”

  “So he’s OK now?” My breath quickens when I think of my grandfather and how I’ll keep that promise to win a trophy. Will I ever make it?
>
  “He’s been resting. Docs say he probably had a mini-stroke and might have injured his ribs. I don’t know though. I don’t think he’ll be around too much longer.”

  “Don’t say that! He’ll be around a long time.”

  My brother has always been much more realistic than I am in everything. When he injured himself in the fire, it was Robert who told me that his healing would take time and that if he never golfed again—then so be it.

  Maybe I should be more like him. But if I was, who would be the one to put our family back together? My mother certainly isn’t making my father happy. The only time he was excited about anything was when he discovered how good Robert was at the sport. I know my Dad saw his own dreams come true again.

  “Hey. Are you there?”

  I’m fading. “I’m here. Just thinking about what you said.”

  “You’ll be home for Thanksgiving. You can see for yourself. You are coming home, aren’t you?”

  “I plan on it. It won’t be for long since they don’t give us that many days off and I need to practice.”

  “I hope you’re having a life there, too. You are, aren’t you?”

  As in life does he mean my ticket-taking job? Or maybe my now-and-then lunches with Drew and his brother?

  “Sure. I have a life.”

  I hang up right after a few more sentences and shuffle into my bedroom where I fall down on my bed, exhausted.

  I hate my life. I hate that I have to play golf all day. I hate that I can’t date anyone. I hate that Mattie has died and that her daughter never knew her and that she is sitting over there crying over an old journal. I hate that I’m the only one who can put my father back into our family and make him happy.

  ****

  Although I seem more and more to be a natural at playing golf, I’m not a natural when talking to my father. Dad didn’t grow up in the Northeast like I did. His hometown is near San Diego, a place we once visited to meet his parents, my grandparents, who owned a resort in the mountains. I remember asking my father why he would leave this beautiful place and end up where he did.

  “I met your mom and she wanted to live near her parents.”

  That was his explanation. Not that he loved the Endless Mountains or the countryside and the people. He told me he grew up golfing. When he was on tour on the East Coast, he met my mother who was on vacation with her family to watch the tournament.

  My mother said she’d actually enjoyed watching golf, but didn’t ever play. They fell in love that week, and my father dated her long distance, coming to Pennsylvania whenever he had a break from the tours.

  I could see why she fell in love with him. Even though my description is from a daughter’s viewpoint, it is accurate. My father stands over six feet tall and has a head of wavy dark hair that hasn’t thinned with age. His face is that kind of face you see on the old black and white movies—dashing, masculine and appealing. I think Robert inherited some of those looks, but I take after my mother’s side.

  My father also works out—or did up until recently. So all in all, my father looks pretty good for someone in his situation. I’m actually surprised more women haven’t thrown themselves at him.

  But then again, my mother is still attractive. When I look at their faded pictures together I can see why he fell for her. She is one of those perfume model beauties. Light hair with a slight curl to it. High cheekbones. I can’t help it if she dresses awful now and that she forgets to wear makeup. Somewhere along the way, after one of my father’s disappearing acts, it seems she gave up on herself.

  When Robert took an interest in golf, everything became right again with us. Dad was happy. Mom started smiling more, and Robert loved the attention. That left me trying to fit in with my art until the day my passion ruined everything.

  Tonight I want to call my father and tell him about my win. The phone clings to my palm, sweaty and heavy. I punch in his contact information and wait for him to answer. It doesn’t take long. He’s usually pretty good about answering his phone.

  “Hey, what’s going on down there in Florida?”

  “Hi, Dad. I wanted to tell you I made it through the first round at Q-School. I go to Daytona in December.”

  “Not bad. I remember going through that myself. Some stiff competition, I bet, huh? I know Robert wishes he could be there playing. Did you hear that he can walk now? Nothing like before, but at least he’s up and around. I’ll have him out on the course by spring.”

  “That would be great—for him. I also wanted to tell you I’m coming home for Thanksgiving, and if the weather is decent, maybe we could get in a game?” I close my eyes, waiting for his answer, knowing deep inside what it will be.

  “Let me see how work is and I’ll let you know, OK baby? Hey, my other line is ringing. Looks like your mom. I’ll talk with you soon.”

  And just like that, he hangs up.

  I let out the air I’ve been holding in, go to my bathroom where I peel off my clothes, and stand beneath the hot shower for fifteen minutes. I don’t realize my skin has turned bright red by the time I towel off and notice as I look in the mirror over my dresser.

  Will my father only be happy if Robert golfs again? If that’s true, what am I doing here?

  I crawl between my cool sheets and lay on my back, replaying our conversation. Maybe I’ve gotten everything wrong? I don’t think so. He’ll be thrilled when I make the tour. He’ll move back home permanently and take me golfing every chance I’m there. I’ll be the star he wanted, and he’ll finally have back what he lost.

  ****

  Greg waits for me after class. I grab my golf clubs and follow him up to the range. I need to work on my putting, but it will be nice to have company to practice my drives.

  “So how about your win? Are you psyched?” he asks after his first shot.

  I put my gloves on. “I’m nervous about what’s to come. Have you ever thought about trying?’

  Greg laughs. Must know I’m being polite. “I’ll be lucky if I can get my PGA card. I’m planning on getting into Celebration at the clubhouse when I graduate. Maybe I can work my way up to manager.”

  “That would be great.” Most of the guys here have dreams of pro golf, but in reality, will end up working behind a counter or chasing golf balls for rich guys all over the course. One guy wants to be a caddie in England because his wife got transferred there last week. I still can’t see the glamour in that job.

  I hit ball after ball until my arms ache. So much for endurance. Tomorrow I’ll play nine holes after class and work on my short game. I was so close to going into the water hazard last week.

  “Want to go for something to eat after?” Greg has that hopeful look again in his eyes. I hate turning him down all the time, but I have a bowl of ramen noodles waiting for me.

  “Some other time.”

  He shrugs and gives a final shot to another ball. I bend down and pick up my balls and turn to put them back in my bag when pain shoots from my foot up to my ankle.

  “Ooohhh!” I crumple to the ground, grabbing my ankle and watch it swell before my eyes.

  The throbbing tells me all I need to know. I am so clumsy that I’ve sprained my ankle.

  Greg rushes over at my yelp and kneels beside me. “What happened? I saw you twist and go down.”

  I slam my club into the earth. “I think I sprained my ankle when I turned around. Now what am I going to do?” I squeeze my eyes shut and see myself unable to play for weeks and weeks, hobbling around on a stupid pair of crutches.

  “Let me drive you to the ER. You’ll need to have that looked at to be sure it isn’t broken.”

  He’s right, but I hate the thought of going to a doctor. I let him help me up, and we hobble back to the parking lot. It takes only ten minutes, and I’m signing in at the ER desk with Greg’s help. Another hour later and the x-ray tech takes me back. I wait for the young doctor to tell me what I already know.

  “It’s sprained. We’ll give you some crutches. Stay off
it for a while.”

  I’m sure his awhile is much longer than mine, but I smile and hitch the crutches under my pits and find my way out to where Greg waits for me. He finishes his candy bar and helps me out to his car.

  “Good thing it’s your left leg. You’ll be able to drive.”

  “Lucky me,” I say and shift my butt on his seat so I’ll be more comfortable. He drops me off at home, promising to pick me up in a few days, and then he’ll help me get my car home after school.

  “Be sure to ice it and elevate it for the next couple of days. And don’t wrap it too tight. You need to let it breathe.”

  “You sound like a doctor, Greg.”

  His face turns red. “I was.”

  I whip my head around. “What?”

  He tells me the story after raiding my refrigerator of the rest of my milk and chocolate syrup.

  It seems Greg lived in Minnesota but was able to go to college when he was sixteen. “Some kind of genius,” he says as though apologizing. “Maybe gifted is the word today. Anyway”—he helps himself to my last bag of chips—”I excelled in the sciences, so my folks decided I should become a doctor. There weren’t any in our family.” At this point he chuckles. “Only farmers, actually. I come from a long line of farmers.” He passes the last three chips to me. “I got accepted into Baylor in Houston, and I went through faster than most students. Did my residency in orthopedics and discovered I hated it. What I did like was golfing with my buddies.”

  “You liked golfing more than being a doctor?” Now I know my friend is crazy.

  “So it doesn’t pay as well, but it feeds this need in here.” He pounds his heart. “You know that need? To do what you’re meant to do?” He gazes out my side window and looks as if he’s seen an angel. I follow his line of sight and see only old Mr. Howard taking his garbage to the curb. “So here I am.”

  “You don’t regret walking away from being a doctor?”

  At my question, he shakes his head. “Not for a second. I love golf. Life is too short.”