The conversation could have been a marble bust on wheels that followed Patricia around her condo.
It was multiple conversations, really, and Patricia’s own voice annoyed her as she played them back in her head.
She hated golf. That part she supposed she could be forgiven for.
Patricia stared off the fourth-floor balcony, where she could see down Arbor Road for at least a mile.
Three cars, none of them Robin’s ugly olive green box.
There was a gift bottle of wine in a rack that held mostly magazines, and she thought about opening it, but if they showed up they both might have a buzz already.
Patricia wasn’t sure if the buzz really bothered her, but the IF bothered her greatly.
She scrolled Instagram.
Kelly had a new bikini that wasn’t very flattering and shit!…there was Robin and Patricia’s mom celebrating a tap-in birdie on 17.
Patricia’s memory of the complaint was more nasally and annoying every time she replayed it.
“All my mom ever wants to do is play golf. That’s it. Sunday is my only free day and if I want to see her it’s on the course.”
Robin would complain about her mother’s dementia, about her mother believing her second husband was in the room with her and Robin. It was heartbreaking, Patricia agreed but suggested Robin humor her mother and converse with the deceased man that Robin had never liked when he was alive.
Robin thought that was a good idea on paper, but didn’t know if she had the fortitude to role play.
Patricia, who met Robin in college, had blurted “didn’t you tell me you were in drama club in high school?”
Robin smiled. Patricia remembered the smile. It was like a little kid biting into a chocolate from an assortment box and discovering there was a whole different gooey flavor inside.
Robin had said “I was in drama club because I thought I was in love with a guy named Corey Izzle. But…”
Now Patricia remembered the pause after the but being pregnant with triplets. Dead air. Negative space. And then: “I was on the golf team because I loved it.”
Patricia didn’t hesitate to suggest that Robin play golf with Patricia’s mom.
It had seemed like a solution.
Patricia looked at the picture of her mom and her alleged best friend on the 17th green.
It had been posted fifty-eight minutes ago.
When Robin’s mom died, Sunday golf with Lillian had become less of a lark and more of a habit.
Based on the photo, Patricia’s mom had even started taking little fashion hints from Robin.
Based on the time, they wouldn’t be dropping by to visit Patricia.
She set the phone on the mantel above the for-show-only fireplace.
She hated golf.
But she hated that she had been relegated to an IF.
She wasn’t going to spend another Sunday hoping that ugly green box with her best friend and sometimes her mom was gonna pull down Arbor Road.
She snatched the phone off the mantel and started typing.
Holy shit golf clubs are expensive, she heard herself whine. She wasn’t sure if she said it out loud or in her head, but she promised herself she wouldn’t complain about the expense next week on the 17th green.
***
Happy Mother’s Day!
Photo Courtesy of Getty Images
anyone is welcome to go golfing with my mom, any given Sunday. I'm buying
You choose your friends.
You can't choose your family.
The ending caught me by surprise.
Called Mom today. Got my wife flowers.
Hope your day went well.
Thanks for the story.