first, Mom,” CeCe says as we walk up to what we all decided would be our last hole of the day. I drop my blue ball on the starting line and get into position as if I know what I’m doing. I stand with my legs apart and square my shoulders like Tommy told me to, and bring the putter back before swinging it to make contact with the ball.
It flies, getting pretty good distance until it bounces off a windmill, which sends it rolling back almost halfway to where it started.
I shrug and move out of the way so CeCe can take her turn, trying to get her purple ball through the windmill and into the tiny hole on the other side.
Beside me, Tommy leans back against the heavy trunk of a tree, breathing slow and shallow.
“You okay?” I ask, afraid to hear the answer, terrified I cursed us by thinking about the perfection of this day before it’s ended.
“I’m fine,” Tommy snaps. He tries to soften the sting with a smile, but the pain on his face makes it look more like a grimace.
He slips the oxygen tubes into place before walking over to the green. He drops his red ball onto the fake turf and CeCe moves it into place so Tommy doesn’t have to bend down. He ruffles her hair in appreciation as she steps back to watch him in action.
I watch as he gets himself in position as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. He brings the putter back and swings. It makes contact, but instead of flying through the opening of the windmill like I expected it to, Tommy’s ball makes a similar trajectory to mine, and ends up almost back at the beginning.
“It’s okay, Daddy,” CeCe says, quickly by his side. He huffs and walks, oxygen bag in hand, up to the ball. We both watch with bated breath as he swings the putter again. This time, the ball hits just to the left of the windmill’s opening. It bounces back a few inches, lined up perfectly with the opening.
“Now it’s just messing with me,” Tommy says, an unfamiliar gruffness to his voice. CeCe looks over at me, unsure. I give her a small smile, hoping that this is just a fleeting moment. Tommy isn’t used to being physically challenged, especially at something that should be as carefree and fun as mini golf.
Tommy hits the ball a little harder than necessary, and it glides toward the windmill’s entrance at the exact time the spinning arms cross in front of it. The ball bounces back again, but Tommy stops it with his putter, moving it in one fluid motion so it finally rolls through. I exhale the breath I’ve been holding, and I imagine CeCe doing the same. Tommy’s posture immediately changes; he looks exhausted but satisfied.
“The windmills are always the hardest,” he says, flipping the putter so it’s resting on his shoulder. “What do you say we get out of here?”
I expect CeCe to protest—I know she’s been looking forward to the wave pool—but she nods, agreeing with her dad.
“Yeah, let’s get out of here,” she says. “Up for some ice cream at Bruster’s?”
“That sounds good, kiddo,” Tommy says.
CeCe rewards him with a smile before running around to the other side of the windmill to collect our balls.
AS SOON AS we’re in the car with the AC blasting, Tommy shuts his eyes. He’s asleep before we’re even out of the parking lot. I turn and look at CeCe in the backseat. It’s amazing how quickly she can go back and forth between a little girl and a young woman.
“Thanks for being a good sport today,” I tell her, keeping my voice down even though I know it would take more than that to wake Tommy from his slumber.
“It’s not a big deal,” she mumbles.
“It is,” I tell her. “And I appreciate it.”
She shrugs and I put the car in drive. I slow down when we get close to Bruster’s in case CeCe still wants to stop.
“Do you want ice cream?” I ask.
She shakes her head, and I keep going. I’ll find a way to make it up to her. We’ll pick a day soon and I’ll take her back to the water park so she can go on all the slides, not just in the wave pool. And afterward, we’ll stop for ice cream and compare notes about which slides we thought were the best.