The Mulligan (15 page)

“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.”

“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.