“But what about your parents? What about their desire to see you as a doctor?”
“They saw me as a doctor. Now they can see me golf.” With that final pronouncement, he stands and brushes off his shorts. Greg asks me again if I need any help.
I figure I can hop around myself and tell him to go home.
When he leaves, I think about Greg the doctor. He doesn’t seem to care what the consequences are about his choices. My hand finds my heart and I pound on it the way Greg did his.
After a few minutes, I reach beside me where I’ve set the tablet Mom sent, and I start to doodle a picture for him.
17
I hate being stuck in my trailer. The next morning, I haul myself outside and sit down on my plastic chair with my foot propped on a cement block. The humidity clings to my shirt like a piece of slime, and I wonder if October is ever going to cool off like everyone around here told me it should. At this rate, I will melt in approximately two hours.
About fifteen minutes into my sunbathing, Drew’s familiar truck pulls in my driveway. He slides out of the driver’s side, balancing two cups of coffee and a bag of doughnuts that he tosses into my lap before handing me a cup. I take a sip. The aroma teases the insides of my nose. My taste buds applaud. Perfect. Two sugars and one cream.
“Thought you could use some company. Greg told me what happened. Sorry.”
I point to my one other chair, and he pulls it up across from me. I should have washed my hair, but the thought of standing to dry it wasn’t appealing.
“What about classes?”
“Guess you forgot—there’s a tournament today. No class.” He raises his cup to salute me.
I can’t get over the strangeness of Drew sitting in my yard. It’s not like we have progressed to the point of good friends or anything like that. I lusted over him when I first met him, but ever since he made it clear that he is my instructor only, I have taken my sights off him. But today his blue eyes cause me to shiver even though it is ninety degrees.
“Thanks for the coffee.” I peek into the bag and pull out a glazed doughnut—still warm. The glaze oozes onto my fingers. “Oh wow.” I bite one in half and pass him the bag.
He does the same and tips his face toward my leg. “What are you going to do about December?”
“It’s only the end of October. I have time.” I shrug. Sure, he can tell I’m worried. What golfer wouldn’t be with this setback?
“Work on your upper body strength. You always need that.”
“Anything else you want to tell me?” I had already planned to hit the gym as soon as I can drive and maneuver my way on crutches.
Drew smiles and runs his free hand through his hair, making it stand in peaks. “As a matter of fact there is.”
“What? Drink plenty of vegetable juice?”
“I was thinking it’s time to tell you my story.”
Now, that sentence gets me. I set my coffee aside and slide up in my seat. “What are you waiting for?”
Drew clears his throat, and at first it looks as if he’s going to throw up, but then calmness takes over his features. “Unlike you, I started playing golf when I was five years old. My dad bought me a set of clubs for my birthday and made sure we hit the links any day the thermometer read above thirty-two degrees. By the time I was ten, I was playing in all kinds of tournaments for kids and winning. I accumulated a shelf full of trophies. I played with them like other kids played with blocks.
“Anyway, eventually I was good enough that I got sponsors and tried out for Q-School. I made the tour the first time through. Never ever thought about college back then—just golf. It was my life. I lived and breathed it. That is, until I met Katie.
“I was playing in South Carolina at the time, and she worked at a hotel I was staying in. One thing led to another and I fell in love. Hard. Of course, I proposed to her, and we married within the year against my father’s advice. But until then, I’d known nothing but golf, and she was literally a breath of fresh air, if you will excuse my cliché.
“Katie didn’t care that I played on tour. She supported me. So much that she never told me she was dying. I don’t need to tell you what from, and I never could tell myself except that she seemed to tire easily. But one day I got the call…she passed away.”
It is at this point in Drew’s story that I wish I can get out of my chair to hug him. Instead, I swallow back the tears that have been building and wait.
He stands with his back to me. His voice softens as he continues. “We had only been married six months, but they were the best six months of my life. I never realized that something other than golf could make me happy. Even though it was my passion and my life, Katie and her love surpassed that. I quit the tour the next day and went home.
“My father was beside himself and begged me to reconsider—telling me to think of my career.” Drew turns around and slams his fist into his palm. “My career! It was my career, not his. And he wants me to take it back up like nothing has happened. I hung around Pennsylvania about ten months, and then packed my stuff and headed south. A buddy of mine heard about the golf school and suggested I apply.” He held both palms up. “The rest is history.”
I cradle my cup, not sure at all what to do with my hands or how to respond to this story. “I’m sorry, Drew.”
“Don’t be. I like my job. The reason I told you all of this is so you can think about what you’re doing. I know you haven’t told me the rest of your story.” He sits back down. “Your turn.”
“What does your story have to do with mine?”
“Tell me why you’re really here. It isn’t about the golf, is it? Everyone has a reason and I know true passion when I see it. You don’t have that. You like it well enough, but it isn’t what you want to do.”
After hearing his love story about Katie, my story about the fire and Robert sounds pretty lame. But I take a breath and speak.
“You’re right. I never liked golf. But it so happens I’m good at it. Very good, and I’m grateful. I need to be for my brother and for my family. You see, my brother, Robert, was injured in a fire I caused. He was hurt trying to save my art. My stupid paintings. And because of me, he’ll always walk with difficulty and will never play golf again.” I’m not going to tell him the whole story, am I? I look up into Drew’s waiting expression.
His gaze holds mine. “Go on.”
I twist my empty cup and toss it to the steps.
“My father has cheated on my mother. I caught him once when I was sixteen. Anyway, until he figured out Robert might be the next best great golfer, he was miserable being part of our family. But finally he had something—a son who might be a super pro. He started laughing more and taking the family on outings, and my mother turned back into the person I remember her being from years ago. Life was good. Until the fire.”
“You didn’t cause it.”
“Not on purpose, but it was my stupid carelessness that did. My father blames me for everything. It doesn’t matter how sorry I am—Robert is done playing golf. My father’s dream is over.”
“And that’s when you stepped in to take over where Robert left off.”
“I was always pretty good at the sport.” I catch his look. “It’s an answer. I have this chance to help my family.”
“But it isn’t what you want to do.” He almost thrusts the words at me. “It isn’t your passion.”
“But it will save my family, and that’s more important.” I believe what I say, and saying it aloud gives me that extra determination I need to make it to Daytona. I don’t think I’ve convinced Drew, but that doesn’t matter. All that matters is my family will be whole again when my father realizes that he can live his dream through me.
“What about your dream?”
I glance over to the sketch pad where I’ve drawn Greg’s portrait. It looks like him. I plan to give it to him next time we meet.
“This is my dream.”
“Did you ever stop to think that maybe it isn�
�t your father’s?”
“What do you mean? Of course, it’s my father’s. I’ve seen how he is when he’s involved with golf. He’s a different person. He’s the man my mother fell in love with.”
Drew leans close and touches my chin. I want to pull back but I don’t. “Bobbi-with-an-I, I care about you and what you’ll be. Take some time to rethink what you’re doing.” His gaze bores into mine. He’s so close I want to touch his lips.
Instead, I turn away. I know what I’m doing is right.
18
School is crowded with students today because there’s a tournament later (one I won’t play in). No one skips. The hallway echoes with shouts and loud comments while I hobble my way to class.
I avoid Drew. Fortunately, I have other classes, and by the time I hop around, I don’t have time to chat with anyone. A few guys offer to carry my books (which I politely decline), and a few make wisecracks, but overall I make it through the morning, and then to the gym.
The gym is not my favorite place to hang out. First, the treadmills look like last season leftovers from a defunct sporting goods store. The weight machines are crammed into a corner where it is almost impossible for more than one person at a time to work out. I breathe a sigh when I see I’m the only one here today.
My upper arms are pretty strong already, but working them couldn’t hurt. I wriggle into a machine and start doing repetitions. Up and down. Rest. Up and down.
I don’t want to think about Drew’s question, but my thoughts keep returning to it. What if turning pro won’t do it for my father? What if it has to be Robert all along?
I set the weights higher.
No, that’s not true. Now that Robert can’t golf, Dad will see that he can be just as proud of me, though he never went on to win titles his daughter can. He and Mom will get back together, and life would be as it once was. We’ll be a family. I’ll always have a place to come home to on the holidays someday with my own family. Isn’t that what we all want?
My mother called last night to check on me. She said Dad has been stopping by and seems more like himself. Maybe what I am doing is already working. When I return at Thanksgiving, I’ll invite him for dinner. Grandpa would like that and so would my mother.
As I work out, my fantasies of a happy family balloon. I don’t notice Dad standing in front of me until he taps my arm.
“I wanted to surprise you. Looks like I did.”
“Dad?” I drop my weights and struggle to my feet. He pulls me into an awkward embrace, and for a moment I forget our past—the last time I saw him. It’s just my father and me. I step back and take a good look at him. He’s wearing a red polo shirt, khakis, and boat shoes minus the socks. My father looks years younger. Is this what separation does for someone?
“What are you doing here?” My mouth won’t close.
“Didn’t Mom tell you? I have a conference in Orlando for a few days. I figured I would surprise you.” He grins, but it looks forced to me.
Did my mother tell him to visit me?
“Do you want to follow me over to my trailer and see where I live?”
He looks at his watch. “Sure, I’ve got time. Need help?” He reaches for my crutches and hands them to me. I hitch my way to the parking lot and give him directions in case he gets caught in traffic. On the way to Golden Acres, I worry if I’ve made my bed or finished my breakfast dishes. My father will think I’m a slob.
I pull into my driveway and his rental car fits tightly behind mine.
“Not bad.” He tips his head and looks up at the roof (why I don’t know) and glances around the court. I see his gaze stop on Mattie’s pile of junk yet to be carted away. I should tell him about her. I reach for my necklace. Maybe he’s heard of her.
“Can I get you iced tea? It’s what I drink now. The Southerners don’t seem to recognize anything but.”
My father takes the old chair that is propped in the corner and sits on it all stiff like a robot. He never was too comfortable in social situations. A part of me wishes he would hurry and drink up and leave.
“Not a bad place, Bobbi. Are your neighbors nice?”
I join him and lower myself onto the couch. “Mattie, the lady across the way, just died. She was a pro golfer, Dad. Maybe you heard of her? Mattie Montrose?”
He shifts in his seat. A frown creeps onto his lips. “I might have. Did she have a daughter?”
My fingers tighten on my glass.
“Yes, she does. I met her. Wow, what a coincidence. How did you know her?” Again, I reach for my necklace and wait for the perfect time to show him.
He shrugs.
Is this all I’ll get? A shrug?
“Somewhere along the way. She might have been at an event with her mother and we spoke. She’s probably married by now.”
“She and her mother didn’t speak for years. I think that’s sad.”
He stands and roams into my kitchen area. “So, you cook much?” He lifts a frying pan I’d left on the stove. My father knows I never cook much. That was my mother’s job and one she didn’t want to give up.
“A little more than before. Easy stuff. So how’s Robert doing now?”
He face brightens at my question, and he returns to his seat. His hands, always well-groomed, flatten on his knees. “I think he’ll be on the course before you know it. That boy is determined. He’s going to pick up where he left off and turn pro someday. I know it.”
I curl my lip. “It takes hard work. Do you really think after the accident”—I hesitate on the word none of us are comfortable saying—”he’ll be able to?”
My father waves his hand. “No reason not to. It’s the plan.”
The plan is for me to win the trophies in case Robert never can. Last night when I talked to Robert, he told me how much Dad is pushing him. I don’t think he likes it, but I don’t tell my father. I need him to believe in the dream in front of him. Not one that might never materialize.
“Are you going to be able to fly down when I compete in December at Daytona?”
He looks stunned that I change the subject, let alone ask something like that. “You’re going to give it a shot?”
“I already made it through the first phase. Why wouldn’t I?”
Again, he shrugs and I try to read his look. Nothing. What will it take to give my father what he needs again? It seems like he’s fixated on Robert and I’m not real to him. I rise and reach for my crutches.
“I guess you probably should get to your conference. Thanks for coming by.”
He jumps from his seat, relief etching his features. “Sure, baby girl.” He leans down and kisses my cheek.
After he leaves, I make my way to my bedroom and pull out my sketch book. On top is a picture of Robert swinging a club. By all rights, he should be camped out in this trailer trying out for the tour—not me.
My father’s visit surprised me. He isn’t the kind to go out of his way to do something nice. Part of me wonders if he has another motive. Maybe he wanted to see how serious I am about turning pro. Maybe he had to see me here to start believing in me. I like that thought and turn it over and over as I prepare for bed. Tomorrow I plan to leave my crutches behind.
It’s time to get serious again.
****
For the next several weeks, I do nothing but eat, sleep, go to class, and play golf. Night after night, I dream about my shots and wake up determined to do better. My fellow classmates try to get me to lighten up and attend their parties, but I refuse. I practice my putting, my drives, my short game, and everything in between.
Drew stops me in the hallway one day and puts his hand on my shoulder. I flinch at the sudden touch. “You look tired. How about taking the day off?”
“Can’t. I’ve got to practice.” I head toward my car to get my clubs.
“You’re killing yourself, you know. Is it worth it?”
I look over my shoulder at the man who could have been my mentor if I’d let him. “Don’t ask me that.”
It’s raining when I get outside, and for a second I want to take Drew up on his advice. But the driving range will still be open. I pull up my hood, grab my clubs, and head up the hill.
Mark sees me coming and races for my bag. “So you aren’t giving up, huh? I have to say, I’ve never seen a woman so determined as you, except for the last chick, who wanted to get her claws in me.”
I smile at his joke and reach for a bucket of balls. “You can’t win if you don’t work hard.”
“You also need to pace yourself.”
Am I hearing an echo? I wave and head toward the range. I’m the only player out here today, but I like that. I can hit ball after ball without distraction. I work to break my own record at distance and finally succeed.
It’s only when I do that I decide it’s time to go home and eat. I’ve lost weight, so I stop at the grocery store and splurge on a sub. The guy behind the counter asks me what I want on it, and I rattle off my favorites.
“I want a bag of chips, too,” I say and reach for my purse to pay when he hands me my dinner. The checkout line is long. While I wait, my cell rings. Normally I don’t answer when I’m in a store, but with another good ten minutes to wait, I do.
It’s Amanda. Sobbing.
“What’s wrong? Are you OK?”
“It’s the baby. We’ve lost her.”
My breath catches as I clutch the phone tighter.
Amanda tells me between choked tears what happened. She is beyond calming down. I ask to speak to her husband who gives me the facts like a robot.
“Tell her I’ll be home in a few days and I’ll come see her.”
My promise isn’t enough for her, but it’s all I can offer. What do I know about such things? It will be years before I can even consider being a mother—if ever. Not if I want to be a pro. I tell Jim again I’m coming home for Thanksgiving. He says he’ll tell her and tells me to have a safe trip.
I turn my phone off and look down at my bag with the sub in it. Simple things. I worry about simple things like what my next meal will be while Amanda is dealing with death. It isn’t right.
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