Page 64 of Sweeper
“Yes,” she replies but doesn’t sound happy. “I’m starting a new medication again.”
I flinch at that response. It seems like she’s always starting a new med, which basically feels like she’s always starting over. “I hope it helps.”
“Me too,” she says quietly. “Oh, I wanted to ask you something.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you want these old baseball cards of your father’s?”
“What?” I ask, my brows furrowing in confusion.
She inhales sharply, and her voice is garbled when she responds, “Your father’s baseball cards are still sitting in his office, and I can’t stand to look at them every day, so I need to get rid of them.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously,” she blubbers into the phone line. “I know I should be stronger by now, and I am trying, Zander. I just can’t keep looking at these things because I picture him looking at them with that stupid magnifying light mounted to the wall. My therapist said I should remove items that trigger me. If you don’t want them, I’m going to sell them.”
“Mom, of course I want them,” I cry, my hand gripping the phone tightly. A knot forms in my throat because I have countless memories of my dad making me wear white gloves before he’d let me even touch one. He was nutty for those things.
“Great, I’ll get them packaged up to ship to you,” she tuts, her voice distracted.
“They can’t just sit in a closet or something? They’re pretty valuable. Shipping them is risky.”
“No, Zander, that’s not what my therapist told me to do.”
My jaw clenches as I silently scream to myself before replying stiffly, “Fine, Mom. Mail them over the ocean.”
“Okay. Thank you, buddy.”
“No problem.”
“And hey, I’m proud of how well you’re doing out there. Keep it up, okay?”
“Yep, sure.”
We hang up, and it takes everything in me not to throw my phone into the damn street. I’d hoped the fact that she was watching my games meant that she was doing better, but she’s clearly not. She’s no better than when I left.
It’s no wonder I haven’t cried over the death of my dad. There’s no damn time to. I had to plan the funeral, pick out her funeral dress, pick out the urn. Buy burial plots. Did you know a family plot is a wise investment because they appreciate in value over time? I sure as fuck didn’t. So, I bought three plots next to my grandparents. One for my dad, my mom, and me whenever I kick the fucking bucket. Which better not be before my mom because she’s clearly incapable of burying me, and I’d rather not rot in some morgue somewhere.
And why wouldn’t I want to store valuable memorabilia in my tiny apartment in London? I’m only a professional soccer player with a brand-new team who has no idea if I’ll still be with this club next year. But sure, Mom, send me all the things from my dead dad, who, oh by the way, might not even be my dad. He might just be a fucking liar, like you.
I glance down at my feet and wonder when I started running? I have no memory of deciding to run. But the burning in my lungs indicates I’ve been running for a while.
There’s only one thing I can think of to make this ache inside me go away. At least for a little while.
Daphney
“Alright, let’s lay out some rules,” Zander states as he walks into my flat without knocking. He drops his backpack on the floor and hunches over with his hands on his knees, clearly out of breath.
“Did you run here?” I ask, removing my guitar from around my neck and setting it in its stand.
“Yes.”
I stand and walk over to him with a frown. “Well, rule number one. Knock.”
He huffs out a laugh and stands to his full height, hitting me with those eyes of his that smolder, especially right now. He cocks his head to the side, a clear look of annoyance marring his boyish features. “Really? I can eat your pussy, but I can’t enter without knocking?”
“Zander!” I snap and cross my arms over my chest. “Why are you being vile?”
