The Nine Lessons (20 page)

“You’re really enjoying the sound of your own voice, aren’t you?”

He leaned even closer to the microphone. “Head down—knees bent—and swing.”

I swung again, and once more he urged me to bend my knees further. “Trust me, Son. It may not feel natural at first, but sometimes bending your knees can make all the difference.”

“More?” I asked after bending down as far as I possibly could.

“More.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I barked. I’d reached a point where I was practically squatting; any more bending and I would be on the floor. “Nobody can hit a ball like this.”

Dad shuffled away from the pulpit and came back around to stand beside me. My thighs were burning from holding the strange position too long. “No? I was thinking you still weren’t quite low enough.” He reached out, grabbed my shoulder, and pushed me all the way down. My knees hit the stiff floor with a thud. “Perfect,” he whispered.

I twisted back around on my knees to see what my father was up to, but he was kneeling, too. “What are you doing?”

He repeated his earlier instruction. “A good golfer keeps his head down and knees bent. It may not feel natural at first, but sometimes bending your knees can make all the difference.”

I looked around, suddenly much more aware of my surroundings. There were several paintings of Jesus Christ hanging on the walls, plus a large wooden cross overhead at the front of the room. It occurred to me then that it was probably not a coincidence that London chose this particular place for our final lesson. “Prayer?” I asked skeptically.

“Yes, prayer. A golfer never stands taller than when he’s on his knees. There’s nothing wrong with asking for a little help when the events of life are beyond our control. With Erin, for instance, although you can’t be by her side right now, you’re not without hope. There is at least one small thing you can do to help her.”

I rolled my eyes. “How can that help? Prayer is nothing. It’s like a mangy dog begging for his master to throw him a bone.”

Dad thought about my words briefly, and then twisted them all around. “Good analogy! You know as well as any that dogs love bones, but sometimes they need to ask before they’ll get one. Clever. I’ll have to remember that.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He chuckled. “I know, Son. I know.”

“Do you? As I recall, you prayed for help on the night Mom died, and look how that ended up.” I tried to stand up but he grabbed my shoulder and tugged me back down.

“You’re right,” he conceded. “I blamed God for a long time. In fact, after your mum passed away it was a full twenty-two years before I bothered asking Him for any sort of assistance.”

I did the quick math in my head. “Twenty—when? This year?”

“The night you came to my house. After I blew up and sent you walking back to your car.”

“Why then?”

“I don’t know exactly. I guess I just—I know I was never a good dad, leastwise not after I lost Jessalynn. But with Erin expecting, and you worried about being as bad a parent as I was, I just figured it was time for me to start acting like a father again. I wanted to reach out to you, but didn’t know how. So I put my own selfish pride away for a minute or two, knelt down, and asked for some bloody help.”

“And?”

“And as soon as I was done I got up, threw that old bottle of Scotch away, and got in my car to go looking for you.”

I raised a single questioning eyebrow. “You honestly think praying helped?”

He grinned. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

I looked up at the large cross overhead. Even though I was raised by a man who, I now knew, had spent the last couple of decades mad at God, I’d learned enough in my life to understand what—and who—the cross was all about. I considered the pain and trials of the man who centuries before had been nailed to a similar piece of wood. My current struggles paled in comparison. Then I reflected on Erin’s fervent prayers, pestering God for help getting pregnant, and my own selfish pleadings that she wouldn’t. As I thought of Erin, an image of her from earlier in the evening filled my mind. She was crying, doubled over in pain, with blood running down her leg. The image in my head changed. Now she was lying on a gurney in the Emergency Room, her eyes were filled with an indescribable sadness as she learned that her precious baby might not make its grand entrance into the world—that she might never hold the infant in her arms. “If He’s really there, how can you be sure He listens?” I asked softly.

“Does Tiger Woods listen to his caddie? Of course he does, and you can be sure that the Great Golfer of the universe listens to all of His as well.” He paused. “He listens. And while He may not always give us exactly what we want, I believe if we’re willing to ask, He’ll give us what we need.”

My knees were starting to throb under my weight. This obviously meant a lot to my father, but I was finding it hard to convince myself that there was any merit to it. Even if God existed, who was I that he should help me? I thought again about Erin, wondered where in the hospital she was, what kind of pain she was going through. With that thought in mind, I swallowed my pride and decided that if there was even a remote chance that prayer could help her become a mother, I was willing to try. “I… I’m not sure I know how to do it.”

London patted me on the shoulder. “Just think of it as having a conversation with your father—only without the arguing.” He smiled.

I nodded hesitantly.

“The words don’t matter much. Say what’s in your heart.” He folded his arms. “You’re already on your knees, so just keep your head down and take a swing at it.”

I looked around the chapel once more, making sure we were all alone, and then bowed my head. “God… er—Lord? I guess I don’t know what you prefer.” I opened one eye partially and squinted at my father. His eyes were closed, and he was smiling peacefully. I felt awkward, but pressed on anyway. “I—I don’t even know if you’re there, but… if you are, then… can you please help Erin?” As I asked the question, I felt a strange surge of confidence, and the words began to flow more easily. It was certainly not the most eloquent prayer ever uttered, but eloquence didn’t seem to matter—it was
my
prayer, and that was enough. I still didn’t know whether my prayer would help my wife and baby, but as I spoke it seemed to steady my nerves, and that was at least something. “She’s a terrific woman,” I continued. “You already know that, of course, but I want you to know that I know it, too. She’ll be a great mother—please give her the chance. Please don’t take her from me. I know I’ve been stubborn about becoming a father but… I’m sorry. I figured out tonight that I want to be a dad, so if you could please keep my baby safe it would mean… everything. And… I guess that’s—oh, wait. God, you know I’m not the most patient person in the world, so if there is any way that you can speed this operation along or have someone give me an update, I would certainly appreciate it. There. I think that’s it, so…”

I was just about to say “amen” when a woman’s voice began speaking through a speaker in the ceiling just above me. “Dr. Augusta Witte, please come to the main-floor nurses’ station. Dr. Witte to the nurses’ station, please.” It was the receptionist, paging me over the intercom.

The interruption startled me. I opened my eyes and jumped to my feet. My father was still kneeling reverently. “Did that just say what I thought it said?”

He was beaming from ear to ear. “Amen,” he said with a wink.

Our final golf lesson was over.

CHAPTER 22

It’s good sportsmanship not to pick up lost balls while they are still rolling.

—Mark Twain

L
ondon told me
to go on without him. He wanted to sit in the chapel a little while longer. I ran through the hospital as fast as I could, nearly knocking over a man on crutches in the process. The waiting room was just as full as before. The receptionist stood slowly as I rushed up to the front desk. Her face was grave. “Hello, Dr. Witte,” she said, trying to force a smile. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“What’s going on?” I asked nervously. “It hasn’t been an hour. Did you get an update on my wife?”

The woman’s faint smile faded. “I—I don’t know what’s going on. I got a call from the head nurse in Labor and Delivery. All she said is that there’s been a ‘development,’ and that I needed to find you and bring you up.”

A large lump lodged itself in my throat. “What sort of development?”

“She wouldn’t say. I asked but… she wouldn’t give any more details. She said she wasn’t at liberty to talk about it.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling like I’d just been sucker-punched. “That… doesn’t sound good.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Witte. I wish I could tell you more.”

The young woman led me to the nearest bank of elevators and we ascended four flights. The south end of the fourth floor was home to the Maternity Ward, where new mothers recuperated with their new bundles of joy. The north end housed Labor and Delivery. We turned north, pushing our way through a set of double doors, and walked down the long corridor where a group of nurses were talking and preparing charts.

A short brunette stepped away from the group when she saw us coming.

“Are you Augusta Witte?” she asked.

“I am,” I responded dourly.

She extended her hand. “I’m Jeanette Harris, the head nurse on this floor.”

Jeanette looked awfully young to be a head nurse, but I didn’t question it. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Mr. Witte, there’s been a bit of a—”

“Development,” I said. “I know. Can you tell me what the development is?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I’m not the right person.” Her face was expressionless.

I wanted to cry. I’d seen enough movies to know that the nurses never deliver the bad news. That’s the job of the doctor. Even in my own veterinary practice I would never ask one of my assistants to inform a person that his beloved pet didn’t make it. “I understand.”

Jeanette was all business; I imagined she’d had plenty of practice at it. “I need you to come with me.”

I followed the head nurse farther up the hallway. Just past the drinking fountain we stopped in front of a closed door. “Through here.” She motioned for me to go into the room.

I pushed on the levered handle and leaned into the door. It swung slowly open. I heard crying from within, but couldn’t tell who it was because of a sliding curtain that split the room in half. I took a long, deep breath, trying to buoy myself up for whatever sort of “development” awaited on the other side of the divide, then I stepped into the room and gently slid back the curtain.

I froze as my eyes fixed on the person lying on the bed. “You?” It was the Teenage Drama Queen. An IV was dripping fluid into her arm, and a fetal monitor strapped to her stomach was beating with the steady rhythm of her baby’s heart while also measuring the strength of her contractions.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, brushing at a tear. “Did the nurses tell you?”

“What?” I asked, confused. “No. They didn’t say a thing. Are you all right?”

She nodded, and then started panting softly. The monitor showed that a new contraction was starting. She breathed in short, steady bursts through the pain until it subsided. “Sorry,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “Those really hurt.”

“I can only imagine.”

“They say I should be ready to deliver in a couple more hours.”

“Do you have anyone to stay with you during the delivery?”

She shook her head. “My boyfriend dumped me when I wouldn’t get an abortion. And my parents—well, let’s just say that they weren’t real happy when they found out. They said I got myself into this, and I can get myself out, so I’ve kinda been on my own for a while now. But it’s no biggie. I’ve just kept rolling along as best I could.”

“When did they find out?”

“When baggy clothes couldn’t hide it anymore.”

“Do they know you’re here now?”

She frowned. “Yep. I asked them for a ride when my water broke. They told me to go catch a bus. I think they’re embarrassed. Or ashamed. Probably both.”

I know what that feels like,
I thought. “You know, here we are talking and I don’t even know your name. I’m August Witte, by the way.”

The girl nodded knowingly. “I read that in the newspaper. That’s how I learned you were a vet. And your wife, her name is Erin.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m Maggie. At least that’s what I go by. My real name is Magnolia. Magnolia Steele. I was named after a lousy tree. Or a movie—I’m not sure which.” She grimaced.

I smiled. “That’s nothing. I was named after a golf course.”

“For real?”

I nodded, and then waited to see if she had more to say. I felt sorry for the girl, but I had no idea why I was there talking to her. And as relieved as I was that my visit to Labor and Delivery was not for some tragic news about Erin, I was more than a little anxious to get back to the waiting room to see if Dr. Olds had an update on my wife’s surgery. “So, Maggie… you asked the nurses to page me, right? Was there something specific that you needed from me?”

Maggie looked at me thoughtfully, but before she spoke she put her hand on her belly and clenched her jaw, then looked up at the monitor near her bed. The line tracing the strength of contractions was starting to rise. “Dang, here comes another one—” she groaned “—and it feels like—a—big—one!” She breathed again in short bursts until the pain began to wane, finally allowing herself to smile as relief set in. “Ah… much better,” she sighed. Maggie looked at me again with renewed focus. “It’s a girl, you know.” She looked down at her stomach. “I hope she looks like me. I would just die if she looked more like my jerky ex-boyfriend. Do you know what you’re having?”

“We had an ultrasound a while back, but all they could tell is that it’s either a boy or a girl. I’m dying to find out which.”

“You’re funny,” she said very pragmatically. “That’s cool.”

“Maggie, I… I don’t want to be pushy, but the nurse said there was some ‘development’ that needed my immediate attention. Is there something going on that I need to know about?”

Maggie sighed again. It was a sigh of reluctance to say whatever it was that was on her mind. “Mr. Witte—I… after I have the baby, my parents are selling our house and moving us to a different city. They want to get me away from my current friends. Have a new start, that sort of thing.”

“That sounds like a reasonable plan.”

“I know. I’m actually kind of glad. Especially because of school. I was an honor student before I got pregnant. Now the teachers seem to make it extra tough on me. I think a fresh start will be better so I can finish out high school strong. Maybe get into a good college.”

“I think that’s a smart move. But this has what to do with me exactly?”

Maggie bit her bottom lip nervously and then reached for her plaid purse, which was on the small table on the opposite side of the bed from me. She carefully unzipped it and pulled out a few folded papers.

My heart jumped when I saw what they were. “Are those—golf scorecards?”

“Yes,” she said, sounding very apologetic. “Mr. Witte, I—didn’t exactly send everything back from you wife’s purse. There were these cards in there with writing on them, plus some that were blank. I… kept them all. I’m really sorry. I was going to have them sent to you right after my baby was born, but then I saw you in the hospital, and I felt like I needed to give them to you in person. I told the nurse all about it—that’s why she paged you.”

I heard her words, but my primary focus was on the cards. I assumed that Erin had gone through the stacks of scorecards from my father that were lying around the house and pulled some out to read. “She must have forgotten about them,” I said aloud, more to myself than to Maggie. It wouldn’t have been the first time that something got lost or forgotten inside the black hole of my wife’s purse. “Can I read them?”

“Of course,” she said, her voice strained. I glanced at the monitor and saw a new peak starting to ramp up on the chart. Through the pain she handed me the cards, and then began anew her breathing routine.

I quickly glanced at the topmost card to see when my father had written it. Only—he hadn’t. It was missing his distinctive penmanship. It wasn’t a card that I’d ever read before. I flipped it over to read the signature. “What?” I gasped. “Why did she—?” I shuffled through the rest of the cards, trying to make sense of it.

“Just—read—them,” Maggie panted.

And so I read. Some of the cards I read two or three times. Maggie didn’t say a single word while I was going through them, but when I was done we talked—and cried—and talked some more.

When we’d said all that needed to be said, I got up slowly from the chair I’d been sitting on and grabbed hold of the bed rail. “I really need to go check on my wife. Are you going to be okay up here by yourself?”

Magnolia Steele nodded. “I’ve been by myself a lot lately. Another few hours won’t kill me.”

I squeezed her shoulder gently, then turned and slid the curtain back into place and left the room.