The Nine Lessons (18 page)

“I remember.”

“Well, I—I wanted you to know… it was never the sun overhead that brightened my days. It was the son playing on my lap. I know I did a poor job showing it, but you never embarrassed me.” He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

I sat in his driveway for fifteen minutes listening to the steady rhythm of my car’s engine idling. There was more that I wanted to say to my father, too, but—how? So much had already passed between us that could never be taken back. “Some things just can’t be fixed with a mulligan,” I told myself at length, and then threw the car into reverse. Spinning the car around quickly in the road, I popped the shifter into first gear and was letting out on the clutch, when it struck me that my father had forgotten something very important tonight. I pulled to the side of the road, turned off the engine, jumped out of the car, and marched purposefully to London’s front door, knocking on it several times as hard as I could.

“Follow through,” I said sternly as the door swung open.

“Huh?”

I could tell by the moist blotches on his cheeks that the tears had finally found their way past the levee of his lashes. It was a rare thing to see London Witte crying, and it caught me off-guard. “I… our deal,” I continued, fumbling at the words. “I need the next batch of cards.”

He apologized with his eyes. “Of course,” he choked. “Come in, come in.”

Without saying anything else London paced quickly away, wiping at his face as he strode down the hall to my old room where the trunk full of scorecards was kept. I stood alone in the entryway. A cool breeze blew at my back through the open door, and as I turned to shut it I saw a large box on the floor where the cherry hardwood entry met the beige carpet of the living room. I could see from where I stood that it was packed full of something, but what that something was I couldn’t tell. After closing the door I went to check it out.

Standing directly above the box, I had to choke back a gasp. My eyes darted instantly from the box, to the fireplace, back to the box, and then bounced around to every wall within sight. Every single picture of my mother, large or small, was packed in that box. I glanced again at the fireplace mantel, which had long been the home of my personal favorite portrait—the one I would talk to as a kid whenever I felt particularly motherless—but instead of my mother’s face, all that was there were my father’s prized golf balls, each of them teed up inside the safety of its clear glass globe. I wondered, as I looked around once more at the naked walls, if taking down the pictures of Jessalynn had brought him to tears, or if it was the things I’d said before he came inside.

I heard a door close from the opposite direction, and I quickly scooted back to my original post in front of the door. I didn’t want my father to know that I’d been peeking at his well-packed memories.

“Here,” said London a few moments later, handing me the cards he’d picked out.

“Only four?”

He nodded. “All from the same date.”

“I was hoping for more.”

“That’s all there is, I’m afraid. You said you wanted to learn about your mum, and these four cards are the last ones that have anything to do with her.”

I flipped the scorecards in my hands. All four were filled front and back in tiny black pen. The date was September 5, 1978—five days after my mother’s death. “Well, then, you’ve broken the deal,” I said.

“Have I?”

“You agreed to bring me new cards each time we played golf. We still have one more lesson. What are you going to bring me next month?”

He smiled graciously. “Not to worry, Augusta. I’ll bring more cards for—” he paused, glancing at the big box of pictures on the floor. “I think it’s best that you head off now. It’s been a long night, and that sweet wife of yours shouldn’t have to wait any longer for her mulligan on my account.”

“No,” I agreed. “She shouldn’t have to wait.” I pulled the door open and stepped into the cool night air. “Good night.”

Back at my car I turned on the engine again and then flipped on the overhead light. I did want to go see Erin—I’d even resigned myself to the fact that I needed to forgive her—but there was one thing I wanted to do first. I grabbed the topmost of the four cards I’d been given, and started to read.

CHAPTER 19

We learn so many things from golf—how to suffer, for instance.

—Bruce Lansky

S
eptember 5, 1978
—My sweet Jessalynn was laid to rest today. The minister who presided over the affair suggested that her closest loved ones bring something special to send with her on her new journey into the “great unknown.” He said he’d been doing this for years to help the healing process—said the idea just came to him one day long ago by way of inspiration. Isn’t that what the pharaohs used to do, too? Whatever. I agreed to play along, though I didn’t see the point. Before the general viewing, Augusta and I joined Jessalynn’s parents to say our good-byes and to leave her with whatever parting gift we’d chosen.

Oswald gave his daughter a certificate of completion for the smoking cessation course he’d just finished. He asked forgiveness of everyone present for what he described as the “possible, but very unlikely chance” that his foul habit played a part in her untimely death. He cried uncontrollably, and then told Jessalynn’s lifeless body that when my restaurant fails he’ll make sure Augusta is provided for financially.

I never did like Oswald—can’t wait until my debt is paid off.

Her mother brought along copies of Jessalynn’s report cards from Princeton University and tucked them gently under her deceased daughter’s arm, telling her that now she could finish her education without further distractions (I think she meant me).

I gave Jessalynn two putters: my own personal favorite from my bag, and another that I’d purchased especially for her. When I laid them in the casket, I told her that she was to use hers to start practicing with Saint Andrew, the patron saint of golfers, so that she’ll be good and ready to play with me when I see her next. Mine, I explained, is to be kept close at hand for when she meets God—“Hit Him square in the head with it,” I whispered. “He deserves it for taking you from me and Augusta.”

Augusta was the most thoughtful of all. He reached up and placed his veterinary set in the casket and promised his mommy that if she would take care of the animals in heaven, then he would take care of the ones on earth. Somehow, I tend to believe he’ll keep that promise.

The graveside ceremony was a somber event. It rained unceasingly from dark clouds overhead. The clergyman said that even the sky mourned the loss of Jessalynn Witte. If I know my wife, then it wasn’t the sky mourning at all—it was her weeping over the separation from her son. By the time the minister was finished with his sermon we were all soaked to the bone and wallowing in mud. Augusta was worried that the mud would get his mother’s beautiful white dress dirty, but I assured him that angels like his mum would always remain clean and pure.

Since Jessalynn’s last request was that I teach Augusta how to golf, I decided not to wait even a single moment once the funeral was over. I drove with him in the rain to the nearest course and began his formal education in the art of club swinging. Am I mad for doing so? Probably, but golfing numbs the pain.

I’d like to say that Augusta is a natural and that his first lesson went brilliantly.

He isn’t, and it didn’t.

The poor kid barely managed to hit the ball. When he did connect, it invariably went in the wrong direction. It took him thirty strokes just to move the ball the first hundred yards, and then he got stuck in a muddy sand trap. I scolded him worse than I probably should have, given that he’s still not quite five years old and his mother just died, but my emotions were running so high I just couldn’t help myself. “You swing clubs like a bloody trout chopping wood!” I yelled. “If you want to make it on the PGA tour you’re going to have to do a much better job than that!” He reminded me that a trout is a fish, and that fish can’t swing golf clubs. “Precisely,” I said. “You’re a fish out of water, lad. But come hell or high water, you’ll learn how to golf!”

He was shivering from cold when the ball finally went in the first cup, so we packed it in and went home. But I am more determined than ever to keep my promise to Jessalynn—Augusta WILL learn to golf, even if it takes me a lifetime to teach him.

To finish off the day, Oswald stopped by late this evening. He knows I don’t drink, but he brought me a bottle of Scotch anyway; says it’s his personal favorite way of coping. The bottle is next to me on the table as I’m writing this. I hate to admit it, but it’s very tempting. If I didn’t have Augusta’s well-being to think about, I might just down the whole thing right now.

CHAPTER 20

Golf is like faith: It is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.

—Arnold Haultain

E
rin was sitting on the couch
, still weeping, when I slithered in the front door. Emma, the redheaded scribe, gave her a ride home as soon as I left the baby shower, and she had been waiting patiently for me to show up ever since. She still hadn’t opened up all of the gifts from the party because she didn’t want to do so without me.

“Hello,” I said cautiously.

Streaks of dark eyeliner were cascading below Erin’s resplendent green eyes. She brushed at them with the back of her sleeve and then extended her hand to me, beckoning me to her without saying a word.

She took my hand in hers as I sat down on the couch beside her. “I can’t even begin to say how sorry I am,” she whimpered. “That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Which one?” I grinned. “The lying about the football game or the whole
Idiot’s Guide
incident?”

With her free hand she poked me in the ribs. “Neither,” she teased, her voice still choked from crying. “I meant I’m sorry we couldn’t find a more disgusting jar of baby food to give you. Those mashed peas went down way too easy.”

“And they almost came up just as easily!” I grabbed both of Erin’s hands in mine, so she couldn’t poke me again. “Listen,” I said, more seriously, “I want to apologize, too. I shouldn’t have left you there all alone.”

“No,” she agreed with a sniffle. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I know.” I released my grip on her hands so I could poke at her side, taking care not to jab the baby. “I should have
sent
you there all alone in the first place.”

Erin laughed and we kept talking and teasing until everything was okay again. Before we were through she admitted to bending the truth about the football game, but I couldn’t deny that her motive was pure. “I just wanted to be with you,” she explained. “A baby shower with a bunch of colleagues from work sounded nice, but I wanted to experience it with my best friend.”

She took both of my hands and placed them on her stomach. The baby leaped under my touch. “It’s been doing that the whole time you were gone. Which reminds me—where did you run off to?”

“I went to the store,” I lied. “After the drama tonight I had to blow off some steam, so I went and bought myself a nice big-screen TV. It really made me feel better.”

Her eyes got wide but her mouth smiled. “You did not!”

“Are you upset with me?”

Erin squinted playfully. “After what I said to you at the shower, I guess I understand.”

I laughed. “So if I didn’t really go buy one tonight, does that mean I have your permission to go buy one tomorrow?” Before she could say, “No,” I kissed her fervently on the lips and took her in my arms. “Whether I say it in German or English,” I whispered softly in her ear while holding her close, “you really are my treasure, Schatzi.” Giving mulligans had never been so sweet.

With peace and love restored in the Witte household, Erin wanted to dig right in to the next major task on her predelivery checklist. “We have all of these beautiful new baby things, and I really want to get it all organized in the nursery,” she said. “I think it must be that nesting instinct everyone talks about.”

I suddenly felt a strange kinship with Big Bird. “Do we have to
nest
right now? It’s almost midnight, and after all the
fun
we had at Stacey’s, I’m ready to hit the sack.”

“You go to bed, dear. I’ll just stay up a little longer and sort through the smaller items. I’ll leave the crib for you to put together in the morning.”

“I can hardly wait,” I droned as I leaned in to kiss her good night, but before my lips could reach her she bent over at the waist, her face twisting in pain. She was holding the side of her abdomen.

“What’s wrong?” I gasped, grabbing her arm quickly to keep her from falling over.

She breathed quickly for several moments, panting until the pain subsided. “I don’t know,” she winced, “but that really hurt.” She stood back up, still panting and holding her side. “It’s probably nothing.” Erin stepped forward and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and told me not to worry. “I’ll join you in just a little bit.”

I took several steps in the direction of our bedroom, and then turned back. “You sure you’re okay, Schatzi? Maybe we should—
Erin!”
The yell reverberated throughout the house. My eyes were locked on a dark stain on her cream satin pajamas. “You’re bleeding!”

Erin followed my gaze to a spot on her leg that was turning bright red.
“No!”
she howled, immediately, fearing the worst. “Please no!” Her cry was interrupted by another burst of pain that left her gripping her stomach and the small of her back at once.

If it took me a full thirty seconds to grab my keys, put on a pair of shoes, and get Erin loaded in the car I’d be surprised, but it felt like forever. She suggested we call an ambulance, but I knew the fastest way to get her to the hospital was with me behind the wheel. I didn’t want to frighten her any worse than she already was, but I knew well enough from my experience delivering animals that if the baby was in serious distress it would need to be delivered as quickly as possible, and I doubted very much that the local EMT unit was prepared for an emergency C-section.

We flew out of the driveway like a ball blasting off the face of my three-iron, except that in this case we were going in the right direction. Two minutes later I blew through a red light doing at least thirty miles per hour over the posted speed limit. Unfortunately, there was a state trooper watching from an adjacent parking lot, and it didn’t take long before he was right on our tail, lights and sirens whirring madly.

I slowed down, but I didn’t stop.

Another three minutes went by before the hospital came into view. After screeching the car to a halt in front of the emergency room I jumped out and ran through the automatic doors to grab a wheelchair for Erin, all before the officer could get to me. He must’ve thought I was trying to flee, because he kept barking orders for me to stop running.

I didn’t stop.

“Get on the ground!” he screamed as I was wheeling the chair at full speed to Erin’s side of the car. “Get on the ground!”

I could tell by his voice that he meant business, and I reasoned that getting shot or tazed might put a damper on an already disastrous night, so I slowed enough to talk to him. His hand was resting nervously on his holster. He was a young, slender guy who didn’t look a day over twenty years old. “Officer,” I gasped, “I know I broke a few traffic laws, which I’d be happy to deal with later, but if you’re going to shoot me, can you
please
wait until I get my wife the help she needs?”

Erin stepped out of the car and doubled over instantly in pain. The patch of blood on her leg had grown noticeably during the drive. “Oww!” she whimpered. “Not my baby! Not my baby!”

“What’s wrong?” the trooper said, his voice suddenly full of caring and concern. “Is she in labor?”

“No,” I replied quickly as I helped Erin into the chair. “That’s the problem! The baby’s not due for another month. She needs help right away.”

“Well, hurry up!” he shot back. “Get her inside!” He reached up to the radio connected to his shoulder and told the dispatcher to cancel the backup he’d requested.

I pushed Erin quickly into the ER lobby. It looked like half of Burlington was in there with one malady or another, and the triage staff was visibly overwhelmed. “You’re going to have to wait until a doctor is free to see her,” said the dainty receptionist in a nasal voice. “It may be a while. We’re pretty backed up tonight.”

I knew that there were a number of medical conditions that might cause bleeding in the third trimester that weren’t serious, but as a husband and future father I had no intention of waiting to find out if this was one of those conditions. If it was anything serious then time was of the essence. “She needs to be examined
immediately
!” I said, almost threateningly. “There must be someone available!”

The primped young woman relaxed neither her composure nor her position on the matter. “Sir, everyone in here thinks their emergency is the most—” she paused, looking for the best word. “Emergent. But since you’re not a doctor, you have no way to assess the severity of your wife’s condition. I’m sure if you just take a seat over there everything will be fine when we get to her.” She pointed to the waiting area full of people.

I wanted to scream. I had done everything in my power, including evading the law, to get to the hospital in record time, and now that I was there I couldn’t get her the help that she needed. “But I—!”

I was stopped abruptly by the voice of a nurse who had just exited a nearby door. “Hello, Doctor Witte,” she said, waving cheerfully as she rushed by. The receptionist and I both looked up. It was Mrs. Jenkins, the woman whose unfortunate turtle, Fertile, had died on my operating table months before. She was a part-time nurse who worked a rotating schedule in the ER, and she was passing through with a handful of X-rays. Her free hand rested comfortably on her belly, which was just starting to show the unmistakable signs that Skip Jenkins had kept up his end of the bargain. She didn’t have time to talk, but somehow in passing, as if by a miracle, she voiced the exact words I needed to hear. “Thanks for your help with my pregnancy!”

I waved back enthusiastically. “You’re very welcome! Say hi to your husband for me!”

The receptionist snapped to attention. “You’re a…?”

I smiled at the stroke of luck. “A doctor? Yes I am!” I said confidently. “I happen to be a well-known and highly regarded
neuterologist,
” I continued, carefully slurring the last word. “So if you enjoy your job as much as I enjoy helping… the sick and infirm, then you’ll get my wife admitted right now!”

Erin let out a simultaneous laugh and cry.

The receptionist looked stricken. “Of course, Doctor. I’m so sorry,” she said, then called immediately for an ambulatory team. They got Erin on a gurney and rushed off to an exam room in just under a minute. I was asked to stay behind briefly to sign paperwork for admission.

It had only been a little over an hour since I’d last seen my father at his house. The image of him wiping at the stain of tears was still fresh in my mind. Under different circumstances—in years gone by—I would have never thought to call him, but enough had changed in our relationship over the past eight months that, for a host of intangible reasons, I felt obligated to let him know what was going on with Erin and the baby. I took a moment to dial his number on my cell and give him the news before joining my wife. Against my objections he said that he’d get to the hospital as quickly as he could.

Doctor Elizabeth Olds, a seasoned neonatal practitioner, was called down from the fourth floor to examine Erin, bringing with her a first-year resident in training. Each of them measured, listened, probed, and pushed on my wife in all the uncomfortable places. The baby’s heart was beating much faster than they would have liked, which visibly concerned the doctor.

“I’d like an ultrasound immediately to confirm what’s going on in there,” Doctor Olds told the resident, who was covering up Erin’s exposed lower half. “Don’t get a technician. I want Doctor Simms on this. Tell him to focus on the uterine wall. I want pictures in my hands in ten minutes. In the meantime, I’ll go see if there is an OR free.”

“Who needs an operating room?” I asked, naively hoping that it was for someone else.

She wrote down a few notes on her pad before answering. “If I’m right, then I’m afraid your wife does, Mr. Witte.”

I looked down at Erin and then back at the doctor. “Do you know what’s wrong?”

Her expression went from moderately serious to a deep shade of grave. “Best guess?
Abruptio placentae.
It means that the placenta has torn away from the inner wall of the uterus, which would explain the internal hemorrhaging. It would also cause the fetal distress that we’re seeing, because the baby may not be getting enough oxygen.” She hesitated. “Even partial detachments of the placenta can be very serious for the baby—and the mother.”