12

 

The storms didn’t damage the golf school by any measure. The next day I sit in computer class wondering how Mattie fared the night at the hospital. The EMTs told me which hospital they were taking her to before they drove away, and I looked it up last night. I intend to visit as soon as I get done practicing today after classes.

Drew passes me in the hallway this morning with a look I can’t read, but I am over him. So what if he has the hottest blue eyes and my heart ripples like an accordion whenever I look at him? I have no time for crushes, especially on a jock who thinks he needs to ruin my plans.

If I want abuse, I can call my father.

I try hard to pay attention, but Mr. Barret has the most boring voice of any teacher I’ve ever sat before. Boring with a capital B. I glance around me and find several students looking at their phones or listening with their earplugs discreetly plugged in. I stretch my feet and count the days left to attend.

A big tournament is scheduled for tomorrow at Orange Lake. We’ve been told that several companies that make golf equipment will be there, and maybe, just maybe, some lucky golfer might pick up a sponsor.

I need it to be me, and that means I need a few teachers to put in a good word for me. Plus I have to break my own score tomorrow.

When class ends, I rush to my car and grab my clubs. I’ll practice at the school range for an hour before finding the hospital where Mattie is recuperating. I smell the thick humidity as I walk up the hill to the range. The heavy air clings to my clothes.

In Pennsylvania, the trees would be turning if it is an early fall. I miss the smell of leaves in a pile and apples being boiled into applesauce on the kitchen stove. Maybe Mark is right. How am I going to travel and be a golf pro if it means staying in cities most of the time?

In all truth, that life isn’t the life I’d planned for myself. I’d have been happy buying one of the old cabins along the river and decorating it with my art. I would sit on the porch and watch the fishermen glide down the river. Might even get a dog to lie at my feet and keep me company when I decide to paint. A beagle. A friendly beagle that doesn’t bark.

I don’t know why I think about painting. This homesickness I carry around with me is making me think about all sorts of things when I should be concentrating on my swing.

I set my ball and pull out my driver.

My fingers find their place and I grip the club the way I’ve been taught. I try to clear my thoughts. Once, and then twice. My head is too jumbled, and that makes me angrier. The guy next to me swings. His ball flies over 250 yards.

“Nice one,” I say, but I don’t think he hears me. He’s already swinging at the next ball.

Again I try to clear my head, and this time I swing. I slice it to the left. I bite down on a word that aches to leave my mouth. I wriggle my shoulders, loosening stiff muscles. Maybe I am not warmed up.

The player next to me hits another one—farther than before. He holds his hand up and tips his cap when the ball lands. Yeah. Cheer now, I want to say. You might be someone’s gift to golf today, but wait until tomorrow when your body refuses to cooperate.

The sun bears down on the back of my neck, stroking it, burning it. I’d forgotten sunscreen and will pay later. Again, I set a ball and take my stance. I swing.

“Nice shot,” the guy on my left offers.

Nice shot is right. But will I be able to do it tomorrow?

 

****

 

The hospital looks like it needs to be torn down. This is Florida, right? New construction happens every day, so why doesn’t anyone care about a falling down hospital? I find the front desk and give the lady in the red apron Mattie’s full name.

The volunteer looks through a list and consults a computer screen. I hate hospitals. They smell like antiseptic and this one is no exception. My stint as a candy striper convinced me that the people who work in hospitals become immune to the smells and therefore think everyone else should as well. I didn’t. Today proves that my theory still holds.

I tap my fingers on the desk. Lightly. Ever so gently. I don’t want to push this woman into working—just give me Mattie’s room number.

Finally, she looks up. Her lips are turned into a line somewhere between “May I help you” and “What’s her name?” “I’m sorry. It seems your friend is no longer a patient here.”

“What does that mean? No longer a patient? She didn’t go back home. I would have seen her.”

Again the thin line. But I catch a flash of something in her eyes. Is that sorrow? I lean across the desk. “She’s not here because something happened to her, right?” I’m not sure where my boldness comes from because I don’t sound like me. “Please don’t tell me she died, because I promised her everything would be OK. Please?”

I’m sorry I put that poor volunteer on the spot. I’m not family. She can’t tell me anything, but Mattie has no family. Just the residents of the park who love her and all of those others she helped. The volunteer finally gets her supervisor, and after some hard convincing, they tell me Mattie had passed away last night.

I say “Thank you” and drop my arms to my sides.

She’d passed away alone. Why hadn’t I gone to the hospital to be with her?

I make it to my car and sit unmoving for a good fifteen minutes trying to remember Mattie’s last words to me. Something about her roses. The pink ones. I hadn’t gone over yet and righted her pots. She’d hate seeing them strewn around like that.

I put the car in gear and speed home. When I pull in, I notice the park manager coming up Mattie’s walkway.

“Mr. Gordon, have you heard about Mattie?”

“I did—such a sad thing. She had my name down as an emergency contact, you know. Several of our folks do here.” Mr. Greer wheezes. His eyes also water, but I’m not sure if that is his normal look or out of sympathy. “Going to get her paperwork and put things in order.”

By paperwork, I assume Mattie has written a will and Mr. Gordon will take care of it for her. It seems even sadder that your manager has to also be your executor, but by the time someone is Mattie’s age, maybe there aren’t many choices left. I wander behind him, eyeing the flower pots.

“Do you mind if I straighten these up? I sort of promised her I would look after her plants.”

My host waves his hand. “Sure. Sure. Probably going to put them in the dump. Take any you want or give them away. I don’t care.” I leave him to his ramblings and turn toward my promise.

I don’t know anything about flowers. My mother has the dubious title of gardener in our family. Sure, I’ve pulled a few weeds under duress, but have never planted my own garden. But a promise is a promise.

I start with the smaller pots, packing the dirt back around the roots. I line them up nicely and consider putting a sign out for people to help themselves. I work on the larger plants that have been upheaved during the storm. When I come to a rose, a pink one, I crouch beside it and study the half-emptied planter. What was it about the pink roses that made Mattie remember to tell me about them?

I pull the plant the rest of the way out of the pot being careful not to prick my fingers. Not only do I not have a green thumb, but I want to keep what I do have intact. That’s when I see the pink envelope with my name on the front.

To Bobbi, the girl with an “I”—for living.

I can barely make out the scribble, but it is my name, for sure. In a flower pot. Maybe she was farther gone than I gave her credit for. I slip the envelope under my arm, and hoist the plant back into its container. Later, I will sweep up and water them and maybe put out that sign, but right now, the letter burns to be read. I call good-bye to Mr. Greer and hurry across the way to my place.

I’ve always loved mysteries. My mother read me all her Nancy Drew books when I was growing up until I found authors I loved on my own. Robert said I could make a mystery out of an anthill if I wanted to badly enough. So what if I didn’t read the Bible like he did? My stories were far more interesting.

I grab some cookies and sink down on my couch cross-legged. My imagination goes wild. For an older lady, Mattie sure does surprise me. Maybe we had more in common than I realized. Maybe she had been a mystery buff as well and decided to leave clues all over her house for someone like me to find. Maybe, I should go inside, if old Mr. Watery Eyes ever leaves and see if she has left anything else. Within minutes, I decide that perhaps Mattie was an undercover agent working for the government as a spy.

Or not. Maybe she was just crazy.

I flip the envelope over and over willing the suspense to last.

And of course, my phone rings. Normally I would have ignored the caller, but it is my mother. I have yet to tell her about the storm and Mattie and now this letter. Maybe I will keep the letter out of my story and savor it for myself until I know more.

“Hey, Mom. Did you hear about the tornado that hit Clermont?”

“No, I didn’t. Is that near you?” Her voice rises. It doesn’t take much to make her worry.

“Close, but we only got some damaging winds. Blew everyone’s patio stuff all over creation. I think I have an awning lying across my back yard.”

“I hope you used your weather radio.”

“First thing I did, Mom. I took cover in the tub. Just in case.”

“Well, you never know. I was calling to tell you that I saw in the paper where Dan’s mother died. Have you spoken to him?”

I take a sharp breath. She died? Poor Dan. I’d read somewhere that death came in threes. Now I’m worried. “I didn’t know. He’s probably not down here yet if she was that bad. Are you going to the viewing?”

“Thinking about it. At the very least I’ll make a casserole and drop it off.” A pause. My mother is good at pausing before a particularly delicate topic.

I brace myself. I’m beginning to doubt I can take any more bad news. I have that tournament tomorrow, and all this stuff isn’t going to help my psyche.

“Robert walked today without his walker.”

My air comes out in a rush. “Now that’s great news! Tell him way to go!”

“I will. He can’t go far, as his legs are a bit shaky still, but it’s so nice to see him moving on his own. He’s trying to get Grandpa to adopt that walker.”

“Good luck. You have a stubborn father.”

My mother chuckles. I love hearing her do it. Everything is right with the world when she laughs. I start to ask about Dad but decide she’d tell me if anything has changed there.

“I’ve got an important tournament tomorrow, Mom. I’m hoping maybe I can get a sponsor to help pay for Q-School.”

I know how my mother feels about my decision to come to Orlando. She doesn’t like it at all, but being my mom, she supports me. She doesn’t have the funds I’ll need along the way, though. I’ve managed to scrape together enough from my savings to pay for round one tournaments and maybe, if I make the cut, for round two. A sponsor will make the difference, but it’s not like they show up waiting to find the next great golfer. Honestly, I’m not all that sure how it does happen, but I hope if word gets around that I’m good, someone will want to attach their name to me.

“You’re good, Bobbi. You know we’re praying for you here. Grandpa asked about you today at lunchtime.”

I decide not to tell her about Mattie. My mother doesn’t need to hear about her dying with Grandpa and all he is going through. She’s in denial anyway, thinking her father isn’t losing his mind and that she’ll be able to continue to take care of him at home. Especially without Dad’s help or income.

“Tell him I’ll call soon, OK?” The unopened envelope in my lap calls me, so I cut the conversation short.

My mother never seems to notice—there’s a lot she doesn’t notice these days, and the guilt that I’m not around to help her sometimes swallows me whole. In the long run, though, what I’m doing here in Florida will help more than me being there taking care of Robert and helping Grandpa get dressed in the morning. I’m so sure of it I’ve given up what I love most to do it.

The last time I opened anything that was a true surprise was a gift for my sixteenth birthday. No one can keep anything secret from me, but that year Robert totally surprised me when he showed me a huge box. Where he’d hidden it, I still don’t know. I’d checked the closets and underneath all the beds and found out that Mom and Dad were giving me the outfit I wanted from the mall.

“Try guessing first,” he’d said with a smirk across his face.

Yes, I love being surprised. Really surprised, and that’s why I was often disappointed when no one ever did manage to do it to me. But this time, Robert outdid himself.

I tore open the box and stood back, my jaw turning to mush. The most beautiful oak chest stood before me. Robert had engraved my name on the lid with the date. I rubbed my hand over the smooth lid. “How? When?”

Let me say this. Robert is not a handy guy. That’s what made this gift even more special. It seems he spent all his free periods in school in the shop department learning how to use tools without cutting his hands off just so he could surprise me.

I hugged his neck tightly, trying not to cry.

Why I thought of this particular gift right now as I sit with Mattie’s letter in my lap I don’t know. Maybe because she’d been a special part of my life the way Robert has been. Is still. Maybe Mattie needed me to remember her, and this is a way that I would.

I flip the envelope over and unglue the flap.

I’m not sure what I expect, but as I reach inside and feel the cool metal between my fingers, delight fills my thoughts. Mattie has given me a jewel. Actually, as I turn it over and over in my palm and take in each delicate detail of the necklace, I know she couldn’t have left me a more marvelous gift.

A thin gold chain. A pendant covered in tiny diamonds and could it be? I bring the gift closer to my face. The design is shaped like a golf club. A tiny sparkling golf club. The initials M.M. (for Mattie Montrose, I guess) are engraved on the back.

Where did Mattie get a golf-club-shaped necklace and why?

My shoulders sink against my battered chair as I try to recall any bit of information from our conversations that told me she might have golfed.

Nothing. Or had I not been listening? Sometimes my neighbor went on and on. The most important tidbit I remember her saying is that she had a nephew named Bobby who’d been killed in a car accident. That’s it. Nothing more comes to me.

I look down at the piece of jewelry in my hand and slip the chain over my head. The pendant falls to my chest. It’s then that I realize I haven’t looked inside the envelope to see if she’s left me an explanation. I tear the envelope open and find what I need. Mattie has written me a short few words on a sticky note. A sticky note with flowers bordering it.

I’ve seen that pad on her kitchen table. I’d borrowed a sheet to write down one of her recipes that I’d loved. Now a page holds a few short words to me.

 

Bobbi,

Superman is a myth.

Mattie

 

Superman? So she’s left me more advice. Advice I don’t get. I smile knowing this note is so much like Mattie. But still, I’m not sure how she’s connected to the necklace. A golf club, after all, isn’t the first choice a woman makes when selecting something to decorate herself.

I go to bed that night with the necklace dangling from my bedside lamp. First thing in the morning, I dress in my favorite yellow polo shirt. I slip the chain over my head and tuck it inside my collar. I’ll wear it for this tournament and think of Mattie.