Page 2 of Sweeper
Except it does because I’m back in the US now, and you’re still in London. Another complication is the fact that you’re already raising five children on your own. I came to tell you about the baby before I left for my new job in Boston, but you were in the middle of a massive fight with your eldest son, and there was so much pain in both your voices, so much hurt and loss. I couldn’t stomach the idea of adding more to your plate, so I left without telling you.
And that’s wrong. I know that’s wrong. I’ve spent the past eight months watching this baby grow inside my belly and hating myself for not telling you. However, I can’t get over the fact that it’s been six years since Vilma died, and there’s still so much agony in your eyes, in your home, and with your children. Vilma was my best friend, but she was the love of your life and a mother that five children lost much too young. You do not need this complication in your lives.
And maybe that’s okay because I’ve met someone. His name is Jerry, and he’s in accounting at my new job. He’s wonderful, and kind, and sweet, and safe. But most especially, he’s not still madly in love with his wife that died years ago. I’m sorry if that comes across as harsh, but it’s the truth. You and Vilma were soul mates. I knew that the night I saw you two meet in that London pub, and if I’m being honest, I knew it the night you and I slept together. You were in pain, and I feel awful that I took advantage of that.
Which is why I think it’s best if we go our separate ways. Jerry and I are getting married. He loves me so much, and I love him. And he’s excited for the baby. He’s always wanted to be a father, and I know he’ll be a great one. And I want my baby to grow up with two parents. That’s important to me after losing my own father much too young. I know that might not be fair to you, but you have your own children to focus on, and I hope you can respect my decision on this.
So please, don’t call, don’t write. Just try to understand that with you in the UK and me in the US, this is what’s best for everyone. I truly do want the best for you, Vaughn. And all your children. I hope eventually you can heal with your family and begin a new life with a love like I have been blessed with.
All the Best,
Jane
The letter was dated one month before my birthday, so I knew without a shadow of a doubt that my mother was talking about me. And I knew my mom had gone to college and worked in London for many years before I was born. She never spoke of it much, but I was aware of her time there. A lot of fucking shit matched up, and I did not like the feel of it.
I wanted to confront my mother from the jump and demand to know the whole story, but she was so depressed over losing my dad, I had to drag her to the funeral. Then I had to get back to Seattle for the season, and dropping this bomb on her right before I left seemed cruel…even if she may have lied to me my whole life.
And my dad…did he know? Had he lied to me too? Or did my mom lie to him? That thought has fucked with my head every single day. So much so, it still hasn’t fully sunk in that he’s gone.
His funeral feels like a shitty dream, and he’s still back home in Boston sitting at his nerdy home office with double computer monitors where he edits my match highlights together like always. I could come home next week, walk into his office, and he’d whirl around in his giant swivel chair and say, “That was a killer stop last week, buddy boy. Check out this highlight I captured of it!”
My hand runs over the inside of my bicep where his nickname for me is etched into my skin.Buddy boy.I got this tattoo the night my mom called to tell me Dad was gone and before I got on a plane to see her. After hearing such horrific news, I had to do something to mask the pain that tore through me when I realized he wasn’t going to be at the airport to pick me up in his stupid minivan. He was fucking gone.
The ink felt right at the moment. Honorable. Now, it serves as a constant reminder of a lie I’ve possibly been living my whole life.
Did I even give a shit about who Vaughn Harris was? It’s kind of fucked up to be curious about him when my dad’s ashes are barely cold in the ground, right? And maybe my mom got it wrong. Maybe she slept around back then and just assumed Vaughn Harris was the father. Maybe it’s some other random dude?
The problem is, (well, one of the problems, because there are many) Vaughn Harris isn’t just some rando in England who might be my birth father. Vaughn Harris is a legend in the world of soccer. Not only did he used to play professionally for Manchester United, but sometime after I was born, he began managing a club in London that catapulted its way up from the Championship League to Premier League along with his four sons, who all play professionally as well. They are infamously known as the Harris Brothers, and a quick Google search shows pages and pages of these players and their careers. The four of them won the World fucking Cup for England…you’d have to live in a damn hole not to have at least heard of the Harris Brothers. The entire Harris family is a legend in professional soccer, and here I am, an American kid playing professional soccer, so I can’t help but wonder if there’s some truth to that fucking letter.
Could I be related to those people?
Fuck, every time I think of that thought, my entire body starts shaking. I seriously need more therapy. Coach made me talk to the team counselor when I returned after the funeral, but I didn’t even get a chance to mention the letter. The doctor was more focused on the fact that I still hadn’t shed a tear over the loss of my dad. Apparently, not crying like a baby when one of your parents dies is concerning or some shit.
I tried to cry. I’d stare at myself in the mirror and remember my mom sobbing into my arms and how I wish I could do anything to take her pain away. I’d remember standing at the gravesite where my dad’s urn was buried. I reminded myself we couldn’t have an open casket because his body was too messed up from the accident. Surely, that should trigger something inside me to break.
Nothing worked. My mind was stuck on that letter.
When my soccer game started to suffer, I decided to open up to Jude about everything. I thought maybe telling a friend about the letter would help snap me out of it. Bring me some perspective. Bring me back to reality. His reaction wasn’t what I expected.
“You’re not crying because you don’t know who you’re grieving. And you won’t until you sort out this Harris family situation.”
And since talking to my mother was out of the question, Jude went completely rogue on me. He called his friend Shawn who was the recruiter for Bethnal Green F.C. in London. He thought that getting recruited to Vaughn Harris’s club was the best way for me to find out who the Harrises really are and if I even gave a shit about being related to them. Apparently, one of the twin brothers is an assistant coach, and the youngest one is still the team keeper, so there are lots of opportunities for me to see what kind of people they are.
Jude said the primary goal would be that I’d get a giant leap up in my career and the secondary goal was to meet them while I was overseas to see what they’re like.
I didn’t think I had a shot in hell at Premier League, so I just rolled my eyes and let Jude spin his wheels. However, I will admit that having a goal to strive for helped my game a lot. It was a lot easier to kill it on the soccer field than to consider the fact that I may have been betrayed my whole damn life.
But now, if Bethnal Green really is here to make me an offer, shit just got really real.
“Jude, you gotta help me out here. What do I do if they make me an offer?” I ask, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Go there and play for Vaughn Harris’s club and pray like fuck there’s no family resemblance?”
Jude winces as his eyes rove over my face. “That’s probably not going to work because you really do look just like the eldest brother, Gareth.”
“Fuck you!” I growl, shoving my friend away from me. “God, I can’t believe I let you talk me into this. How the hell did we make this happen? Seriously! Who just cherry-picks their fucking pro soccer club like this?”
“I’m kind of in shock over it too. Manifestation always seemed like utter bollocks to me.” He laughs nervously and then steels himself to look calm and collected. “But just relax. No one will put two and two together. It’s not like people see their doppelganger on the street and say… Oi! I think you might be my long-lost brother! Can I get a DNA sample?”
My teeth crack at his cavalier tone. “This is my life here, Jude.”
