Don't Call Me Baby

by Heasley, Gwendolyn

  Dylan looks up, then back at me. “I’m an insomniac,” he confesses.

  I start to laugh, but Dylan shushes me. “It’s a real thing,” he says. “I watch a lot of Dr. Phil reruns at three in the morning. There was this super-sad episode about a dad who forgot to drop his baby off at day care and he accidently left the baby strapped in its car seat while he went to work. When he realized his mistake, it was too late and the baby had already suffocated in the car’s heat.”

  I put down my spoon. “That’s awful,” I say.

  “It is terrible. The guy was beside himself, so he started a campaign to have parents put a stuffed animal in the passenger seat next to them to remind themselves that their kid is in the backseat of the car.”

  “That’s a good idea, I guess,” I say. “I can’t really imagine forgetting that your kid’s in the car,” I add, trying not to sound too judgmental.

  Dylan stands up. “That’s the big difference between you and me. I can totally imagine it. I think my parents should maybe invest in a stuffed animal.”

  I can’t tell if he’s joking.

  Maybe it’s not just Dylan who doesn’t understand me. Maybe I don’t fully understand Dylan, either.

  I mull over what he’s saying. “You think that I’m lucky my mom has a blog about me?” I finally say. “You think that it means she cares about me more than your parents care about you?”

  “Your words, not mine,” Dylan says. “But yeah, maybe every once and a while, I wish my parents had a blog about me. At least it would be a daily reminder to me that they knew I was alive.” He puts his chair back and makes his way to the door. “By the way, Imogene, I see your parents and your grandma coming this way. I guess they know you pretty well.”

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  Chapter Seventeen

  TAKING A MULLIGAN

  WITH MY BACK TO THE DOOR, I SIT WITH MY BANANA SPILT AND just wait for the door’s jingle. I try to think of clever things to say to my mom, but my mind keeps going blank. Or back to what Dylan said to me.

  I feel a blast humid air mix with the cool AC. I take a breath and turn around. I relax when I realize only Grandma Hope is walking in.

  She smiles and says, “I told your mom that she’s done for the day. Finish up your ice cream, Georgia. I’m going to take you to my happy place.”

  My grandma walks toward the ice cream counter and plucks one of the mini tasting spoons from the bowl. “Actually, I have a better idea. I’ll help you finish this. I already blew my diet with those pancakes, so why stop now?”

  Silently, we finish the sundae and then I follow Grandma Hope out the door.

  “Get in, honey,” my grandma says, and nods toward Green Sherbet Delight. “Your parents are walking home. Sometimes I wonder if your mother has a vitamin D deficiency from all that time she spends inside on the computer. Maybe that’s why she acts so bananas sometimes. I think some UV rays will do her good.”

  Once Grandma Hope and I are in the car and are buckled up, she pulls out of her crooked parallel parking job and heads east.

  After a few minutes, I have a pretty good idea of where we’re going: my grandma’s golf club, the Orange Grove. It’s one of the oldest clubs in Naples, and they say, “No one gets in unless someone gets out.” Grandma Hope says that’s a nice way of explaining that the only time someone new can join is when somebody old passes away.

  “Grandma Hope!” I scold, and point at her injured wrist. “I know where we’re heading, and you’re not supposed to play again for over two weeks. Doctor’s orders.”

  My grandma just smiles.

  After we pull through the gated entrance, Grandma Hope parks in a spot that has a sign that reads 70+ CLUB CHAMPION, HOPE MATTINGLY.

  “It looks pretty neat, right?” she says. “I know that it’s not a Hollywood Star or anything, but I’ll take it. Probably the next thing that my name will be written on is a tombstone, so I’m going to enjoy this. And, Georgia, who in the world said anything about me playing?”

  She pops her trunk and pulls out her golf clubs. She swings them over her shoulder with such ease that I forget that they aren’t actually part of her body. It reminds me of Sage and her fingers on piano keys.

  I follow Grandma Hope past the clubhouse to the driving range.

  “Fred,” she says to an elderly man who’s sitting on a stool in a tiny hut filled with buckets of golf balls. “I need a bucket. Hang on, I actually need two buckets, please.”

  “Anything for you. We’ve missed seeing you around here,” Fred says with a wink. He passes Grandma Hope two buckets.

  From her golf bag Grandma Hope pulls out a large driver with a head the size of a small pineapple.

  “Georgia,” she says. “Here’s a driver, some tees, and a bucket of balls. I want you to get on that driving range and just hit the heavens out of these balls—”

  “Grandma Hope,” I interrupt. “I haven’t played golf since three-hole when I was ten years old. You know that it’s not my thing. I’m a fish.”

  She holds out the driver to me, until I finally reach over and take it from her.

  “This isn’t about golf today,” Grandma says. “This is about frustration. There are certain times when it’s good to just come out here and hit the dickens out of some balls. It loosens up something in you.” Her eyes are brimming with tears. “That’s how I got through your grandpa’s passing. I took everything dark in me and put it into hitting the ball as hard I could.”

  “Okay,” I say. “But the ice cream didn’t really help, so I doubt that this will either.”

  While I carry the driver and the golf balls over to an empty spot on the driving range, I try to remember what I learned back in three-hole. Tee up the ball just enough but not too much. Bend your knees. Stick out your butt. Keep your eye on the ball so intensely that you can read its small print.

  Before long, I had hit the entire bucket of balls. A few of the swings felt decent. It must be in my genes.

  I walk over to Grandma—who’s laughing with Fred about something.

  “You’ve definitely got some of Hope in you,” Fred says with a nod. “A few of those shots were even keepers.”

  I smile, because that’s definitely a compliment.

  Grandma Hope looks me up and down. “You look like you’re better.. . . But finish off this second bucket for good measure.”

  She’s right. I do feel better. I almost forgot to think about my mom—and her blog. And the Plan.

  It seems like every member of the Orange Grove club—and its staff—stops us, gushes over Grandma Hope, and asks her when she’s coming back. When it’s just the two of us again, we grab a table on the patio overlooking the putting green.

  I watch someone miss the hole by about a centimeter.

  “I don’t think that putting looks like as much fun as driving,” I say, pointing at the golfers at the putting green.

  “The driving range is good for getting your frustration out,” Grandma Hope says. “But putting is good for when you want to put something out of your mind entirely. If you think of anything but putting, you’re going to miss the shot. If you just concentrate hard enough, putting can be like a temporary mind-eraser.”

  I nod; I’ve always known that my grandma loved to golf, but I guess that I’m only now understanding why. “It’s more than a game,” like she always says.

  It reminds me of how I feel when I’m swimming. Powerful—and in charge.

  “I’m sorry about earlier today,” Grandma Hope says after we order nearly all the appetizers off the menu. She leans forward and her pearls dangle above her plate. “Here’s my two bits: Your mom was wrong. She shouldn’t have written that speech for you.”

  I take a sip of water and rub my shoulder, which is already sore. “She doesn’t get me at all. I feel like I’m screaming, but I’m trapped underwater.”

&
nbsp; “I think that misunderstanding might be a family trait,” Grandma Hope says. “Does your mom ever talk to you about her golfing?”

  “Other than how much she hates it—no,” I answer.

  The waitress sets down our mozzarella sticks and fries. I should hang out at golf clubs more often.

  “She hates it because I forced her to play,” Grandma Hope says. She points to a little boy and his dad on the putting green. “That used to be us, except your mom would be crying and stomping all around. It took me until she was in high school to realize that she truly hated golf. I guess I just didn’t want to listen—probably because I loved it so much. I wanted it to be something for us to share, but instead it was something that drove us apart.”

  “Are you saying that my mom is going to come around to how I feel about her blog?”

  My grandma laughs. “I don’t know. She’s pretty passionate about blogging, but I think she will eventually start listening to you. Sometimes, it takes decades for the right words to go through our ears so that we can finally get it. Your mom and I are still finishing conversations we started lifetimes ago. Growing up isn’t only hard for kids, Imogene. It’s hard for parents, too.”

  Grandma Hope takes an onion ring off the stack.

  “It’s funny because, like all moms, I spent years wondering and worrying about what Meg would become. Of course, I never knew to worry about her becoming a blogger.”

  I shrug. “I guess there are worse things she could’ve become . . . like a jewel thief or a serial killer,” I say.

  We laugh, but then my grandma stops and reaches across the table for my hand. “Georgia, have you ever heard of ‘taking a mulligan’? It’s a golf term.”

  “Grandma Hope! You know it’s been a long time since I took three-hole,” I exclaim.

  “Okay, okay,” she says. “I’m not a fan of this, but taking a mulligan is something some golfers are okay with doing. If someone hits a bad shot, like an ‘in the woods, never goin’ to see it again’ shot, some players let each player take a mulligan and start over with a new ball. Essentially, it’s a redo.”

  I watch my Grandma mentally critique a putter’s form.

  “I bet that you never take mulligans,” I say.

  “Of course I don’t, and I never will, Georgia,” Grandma Hope says with a headshake. “I didn’t fight with men to create the ladies league to turn around and start taking mulligans. But I do believe in mulligans in life off the golf course.”

  I squeeze my grandma’s hand and then take two onion rings off the stack and place them onto my plate.

  “Are you trying to say that I should forgive my mom?”

  “I’m not telling you anything,” Grandma Hope says. “I’m just saying, when it comes to family, I believe in mulligans. We all need some mulligans when it comes to relationships. Lord knows that family is a way tougher game than golf.”

  “I’m sorry that you can’t play today,” I say. “But thank you for bringing me here.”

  Grandma Hope leans over and whispers, “Georgia, there are some things better than even golf, but don’t repeat me on that. I’ll deny it till the bitter end.”

  I might be willing to give my mom a mulligan for earlier today, but I’m still going through with the Plan, capital P. Hitting a few golf balls isn’t going to stop me from that.

  The Mommy Bloggers’ Daughters: The Girl on That Blog

  “It’s the End of the Internet . . . and I Feel Fine”

  Public Serve Announcement: Have you ever surfed the internet until you can’t think of anything else to look at? If yes, try stepping outside for a change. If the elixir of life exists, I doubt you’ll find it online.

  Unplug: It does a body good.

  Skulls and Bones,

  Call Me Whatever You Want. . . . I Am Who I Am

  PS Hitting golf balls is a great way to unplug.

  The Mommy Blogger’s Daughter: Life With VeggieMom

  “Piano Strikes”

  If Gandhi went three weeks without food, I can definitely go two weeks without a piano.

  Without all the noise, I’m hoping that my mom can actually hear me.

  Mom, no more blogging or force-feeding, please.

  If you’d like to find me, I’ll be at BlogHer (yes, against my will).

  And, yes, I recognize the irony.

  Yours Truly,

  The Girl Formerly Known as Veggie-Baby

  Mommylicious

  “The Countdown Is So ON!”

  Dear Readerlicious,

  “O, silent night, O, holy night. All is calm, All is bright. . . .” Because it’s less than forty-eight hours until BlogHer!

  The bag is packed . . . or should I say, the swag is packed!

  One problem: How am I ever going to sleep tonight?

  Readers, have you ever just needed to get away? For me, my blog has always been my best escape. My readers understand me like no one else. While some find solace in a church or a golf course (here’s looking at you, Mom), I find my peace with my readers and fellow bloggers at BlogHer!

  It nourishes my brain to learn about new blogging techniques and tools, and it replenishes my soul to meet up with like-minded individuals.

  “To Blogging and Beyond!” would be my superhero’s motto.

  Another great thing about BlogHer is that even though so much changes in our lives, BlogHer is a constant, and it’s always a great time.

  For those of you going to BlogHer, can’t wait to see you. For those of you who can’t make it, we’ll miss you—and there’s always next year.

  Butterfly Kisses,

  Mommylicious

  PS CHECK OUT Imogene’s school picture this year. It looks like it was very humid that day. . . . Do they not hand out those tiny combs anymore?

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE WEATHER’S NOT THE ONLY THING THAT’S FROSTY

  MY MOM SHAKES HER HEAD AS WE WALK FROM THE PLANE INTO Terminal C at the Minneapolis Airport. “Thirty-eight degrees in October! That’s just inhumane.”

  Ms. Carter smiles and lets out a sigh. “Home, sweet home. Did you know that we had a blizzard on Halloween in 1991? Twenty-eight, yes, twenty-eight, inches fell. I dressed up as a genie that year. Boy, was that a poor costume choice. Bare midriffs and negative windchill do not mix well. At all.”

  As we make our way down a series of escalators to the rental car counter, my mom and Ms. Carter discuss snow, life with it, and life without it. If they’ve noticed that Sage and I still aren’t really talking, they haven’t mentioned it.

  Maybe they’ll blog about it.

  I did try to make conversation with Sage on the plane, but she just put on her Skullcandy earphones and ignored me. I can’t believe she doesn’t even know about the Plan. We used to tell each other everything.

  While my mom and Ms. Carter figure out the rental car logistics, Sage and I sit on a bench—not talking. I see Sage tapping on the metal bench with her left hand. It’s the first time I’ve caught her practicing since she quit the piano. It makes me a little bit sad, but I’ve learned better than to say anything. Cue the Everglades “You don’t know me” moment.

  When we get into the rental car, a turquoise Impala, my mom toots the horn three times and nearly startles the Hertz employees to death.

  “BlogHer or Bust!” she calls out of the ajar window. Ms. Carter lets out an awkward “Whoop, Whoop!” They’re acting like college kids on spring break—or at least how I imagine college kids on spring break act.

  Most of the short car ride to our hotel downtown involves our moms gossiping about how the blogger behind Mommy’s Lost Her Mittens is going to show up after her online meltdown, and if the sponsor parties are going to be better than last year’s.

  At the hotel, check-in is swarming with bloggers carrying bags of swag—that’s blog-speak for free party fav
ors. The swag ranges from sunglasses to washing detergent samples. More junk for our front closet sundry shop.

  While in line, my mom turns to Sage and me. “Girls, we have big news. Since you two are growing up, we thought that you young ladies should be allowed to share a room. We know that you don’t want to bunk up with your old, boring moms anymore!”

  Sage and I exchange looks. We both know that the real reason that our moms are having us share a room is because they want to stay up late drinking Chardonnay with the other mommy bloggers. And because they probably think that sharing a room will somehow force Sage and me to become best friends again. Even crazier, they might even think that Sage is miraculously going to decide to start playing the piano again.

  But I’m figuring out some things just aren’t that easy.

  I wish I had a Plan for Sage. At least I have one for the panel.

  While our moms meet and greet other bloggers at the opening party, Sage and I sit in the hotel room, eating chicken fingers from room service, and watching a movie on cable.

  A year ago, we would’ve been thrilled to share a hotel room, but not anymore. It’s funny how in a few weeks you can go from telling somebody everything to having next to nothing to say to them.

  Halfway into the movie, Sage’s phone rings and she walks into the bathroom to answer it. I’m sure that it’s Andrew, but I don’t say anything about it when she comes out.

  Not even when her cheeks are all flushed when she returns. I also try not to think about how a part of me wishes Dylan were calling me. He’s definitely not going to ask me to the Pirate’s Booty Ball after our encounter at the ice cream parlor—and the thing is, I’m not even sure that I want him to. Maybe I misjudged him, too, but that still doesn’t mean he should think he knows everything about what my life’s like. I’ve spent enough of my life with everyone thinking that they know me.

  We finish the movie and Sage turns off the lights. We both lie in our beds, flipping around like chickens roasting on a rotisserie since it’s only ten p.m. and we’re not actually tired.