Promise?
Mallory
Pinky promise
44
Mom’s Orders
Mallory
Ipunch the oversized pillow between my hands a couple times before placing it gingerly under my mom’s casted leg. It’s been two weeks, and she’s home from the hospital now, but recovery has been slow.
“There. How’s that.”
“It’s fine, Mal. Stop fussing.” She takes a drink from her water bottle. She’s propped up on the living room couch, which has become her home base.
“I was born to fuss.”
“Not over me, you weren’t. That’s supposed to be my job.”
I ignore her protests as I ease her forward and place a lumbar pillow behind her back. “I like taking care of you, Mom. I don’t mind.”
She leans back against the pillow and sighs. I scuttle around the living room, tidying up the newspaper my dad set next to his chair before he left for the store. I grab my coffee mug, bring it into the kitchen, and rinse it in the sink. “Are you hungry?” I call to my mom.
“You asked me that five minutes ago.” She sounds amused.
I drop the mug into the drying rack and walk back into the living room, plopping down in the chair across from my mom. “So?”
“You’re being a busybody.” She’s smiling, but she arches her brows, daring me to dispute her.
I sigh. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m trying to be useful.”
“You’re on edge. You’re fidgety. You’re wound up about the tournament this weekend, aren’t you?”
My mom always could read me like a book. It’s like a mom super power.
I sigh. “Yeah, of course I am. I’m worried about how Holland will handle the pressure.”
The PGO Championship tournament is being held starting today and running through Sunday in Virginia. It’s the second major tournament of the year, the first having been the Grand Masters, and we all know how that went.
Holland’s tee time is one o’clock, which means he’ll play with the later pairings today and then he’ll get up early tomorrow and have his second round of the tournament in the morning. Depending on how he does and where the cut line falls, he’ll play two more rounds, one on Saturday and one on Sunday.
My mom’s right. I feel unsettled and antsy. I’ve talked to Holland every day since I left Cashmere Cove—sometimes more than once a day. We’ve texted and talked about life, and golf, and my parents, and his training, and how he’s feeling, and how I’m feeling. He’s shown up for me every dang day, even from half a country away.
He sent so many bouquets of flowers to the hospital we couldn’t fit them all in my mom’s room. We started leaving them with my mom’s nurses, and pretty soon the entire nurses’ station looked like a greenhouse.
He’s called me every night and read me to sleep. He’s been funny and lighthearted when I needed him to be, and he’s been a listening ear and a figurative shoulder to cry on when I’ve gotten overwhelmed and anxious about how this injury is going to set my mom back and what it means for her future mobility and independence.
It’s been killing me not to be there to coach him in person, but he’s done what I’ve asked him to do. He’s putting in the time, andwith the help of Cy at the golf course in Cashmere Cove, he’s as ready as he’s going to be for the PGO Championship.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not a ball of nerves.
“You should go.”
My mom’s statement cuts through my thoughts.
I blink and frown. “What? No. I can’t go.”
