My father’s behavior could still be troubling. Cheryl would sometimes give him a ride. Once, when Cheryl and I had to make a quick stop at our dorm, we left him in the car, and on our way back out, I saw him going through the console, pocketing her spare change. I was mortified, but Cheryl didn’t care. She figured it was the least she could do for him.
My dad doted on me and was interested in hearing about everything in my life—the national team, UW, my Husky teammates. In many ways we had a richer, more loving relationship than I had with my mother or brother. I became dependent on his advice and encouragement. The man who had been absent for so much of my life was now someone I relied upon. For better or for worse, he was family, and I was focusing on the “for better” part.
IV.
One day, my sister, Terry, showed up at my dorm. She was lugging a giant duffel bag and seemed almost hysterical. “Hope, you have to take this,” she said. “I don’t want it in my house.”
The bag was full of my father’s belongings, things he’d left at her house over the years. But now Terry was cutting my father out of her life and didn’t want any trace of him in her house. He had invited a woman over when Terry wasn’t home. So the next time he knocked on the door looking for a shower, Terry refused to let him in. At the time, my nephew was just a little boy, and Terry was concerned about protecting him. My father got upset and wrote her some threatening letters, saying that an “Italian vendetta” was on. After the second letter arrived, Terry called the police.
I was very angry. I thought she was overreacting, and I felt protective of him—his life was hard enough without his family turning on him. And now she had unloaded all of my father’s crap on me. I was living in a tiny dorm room with roommates, and I didn’t have any place to store his giant duffel.
But Terry was insistent. As she left, she warned me not to dare look in the bag.
I don’t like being arbitrarily told what to do. Of course I looked through the bag as soon as she left. There were some sweet mementos: my brother’s first home-run ball that he had given Dad the day he moved out of our house, a balsawood glider Marcus had painted for him, stones etched with portraits of my mom and Marcus, photos of me and Marcus, letters I had written him. But then there were also photo albums of naked women with disgusting letters that some of those women had written him. Many of them appeared to be prostitutes. It grossed me out, but I wasn’t going to abandon him.
IV.
In December, I rejoined the national team. We played Mexico in a game in Texas, and this time I subbed in the second half for Siri. I let in two goals, including one memorably bad one—I tried to clear a ball and miskicked it. I was too far out of the goal to get back to make the save, and Mexico took a 2–1 lead. Fortunately, Cindy Parlow scored twice later in the game to get us the win, but after the game I was still feeling a little shaky.
But April hadn’t given up on me. In January she named me to the traveling roster of a young team she was taking to China, for a two-game series with our longtime rivals. After my mishap against Mexico, I was determined to make a good impression. I was enjoying the trip. I felt that I got to know the veterans who were on the team, like Christie Pearce and Lorrie Fair. I was making some inroads and beginning to find a comfort level.
Early in the trip, April called me into her hotel room and told me to have a seat. I was very nervous. Was she going to tell me, again, that I wasn’t ready to start? “Hope,” she said. “I hear something is wrong with your father.”
My stomach flipped and my heart started pounding. I felt faint. I stood up to head toward the door and then sat back down—not wanting to be rude to April or hurt my standing with her but desperate to get away and call my mom. Did she mean Glenn or my dad? Had there been an accident?
“Your father,” April said, “has been accused of murder.”
PHOTOGRAPHS
With (clockwise from bottom left) Marcus, Dad, David, Terry, and Mom. My mother worked hard to make us all feel like a family.
July 30, 1981, the day I was born, with my mom and Marcus.
My father cradling his Baby Hope.
I idolized my dad, who I knew as Gerry—one of many names he went by.
I learned to walk by pulling myself up on Charlotte.
My dad and I forged an early connection through sports—he was my very first soccer coach, in Richland, Washington.
I was always a forward—and prolific goal scorer—on my youth and school teams.
Grandpa Pete was my father figure, standing by when I won Richland Homecoming Queen.
A rare family portrait at my high school graduation: Dad, Terry, me, Mom, and Marcus.
With Mom, Glenn, and Marcus in the kitchen on Hoxie.
Cheryl (left) and I weren’t angels—we
