Outside the Lines (13 page)

“Like put him in the hospital again?” My lower lip quivered as I spoke.

“He might need to be there. It might be better for him . . .”

“Maybe I could ask him to go to the doctor so he can get his medicine fixed. Maybe he’d listen to me.”

She pulled her hand away from my chin and wiped my tears across my cheeks with her thumbs. “He doesn’t listen to anyone, sweetie. He can’t. That’s part of what’s wrong with his brain when he gets like this. It doesn’t let him hear things, even if they’re the right things. Does that make sense?”

“No.”

“I wish I knew how to explain it better, but I just don’t. It’s hard for me to understand, too.” She straightened and stood up. “Frozen pizza okay for dinner?”

“Can we have it hot instead of frozen?” I asked.

She rewarded me with a laugh. “Oh, you want it fancy tonight, huh?” She ruffled my hair. “You’re a smarty-pants. But I love you to pieces.”

Later, after we ate in a silence that my mother tried to fill by asking me silly questions about school and the books I was reading, I went back upstairs. But instead of going in my room, I sat at the top of the stairway, tucked behind the railing. My parents were talking in the dining room.

“You’re scaring her,” my mother said. “You have to get it together, David.”

“Why is it me who always has to ‘get it together’?” my father answered. “Why can’t you?”

“You’re not making sense. I can’t talk to you about this until you get your meds straightened out. If you’re actually taking them.”

“Oh, first you want me on my meds, and now that I’m on them you’re not happy, either? You know what I think? I think it’s you who has the mental illness.” His words slurred. He was definitely drunk. “Not me. You. You’re completely fucked-up.”

“I’m not going to do this anymore, David. I can’t. Not with you like this. I’m responsible for everything. The bills, the shopping, the house, helping Eden with her homework. I might as well be a single parent.”

I heard a chair screech across the wood floor, most likely my dad pushing it back from the table. “Fucking be a single parent, then! What the fuck do I care? Abandon me. That’s fine. Just like everyone else. Just like my parents, just like the galleries. No one wants me. I’m not worth a fucking thing.”

“Oh, poor David,” my mother said. Her tone was soaked in venom. “The tortured artist. What about his tortured wife? Or his child? Does anyone give a shit about them?”

“Not me.” I heard my father’s lumbering footsteps and I scrambled to hide around the corner to make sure he didn’t catch me listening. My heartbeat pounded inside my head.

“No, of course not you!” My mom was yelling now. “It’s never you! It’s always someone else’s fault. Your medication or your doctors. God forbid you actually tell yourself the
truth
.”

“And what’s that?” my dad yelled back at her. “Tell me, oh great and powerful Lydia! Don’t hold back! Give it to me straight!”

“You’re out of your fucking mind! That’s the truth!”

“Fuck you!” my father screamed. There was a terrible crash, strong enough to make the wall I was leaning against shudder. The sound of breaking glass and clattering metal made me race down the stairs and into the dining room. My father had upended the table. Shards of porcelain and glass lay all around my mother’s feet. He’d been aiming for her. She was standing in the doorway between the dining room and kitchen, her right hand pressed flat against her chest. Her face was flushed bright pink and she was breathing hard, her blond hair loose and wild around her head. My father was slumped to his knees on the floor; his head was in his hands. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m so sorry.”

“Eden, I want you to go back upstairs,” my mother said. Her voice trembled. “Now.”

“Are you okay, Momma?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I’m not hurt. I just need you to go upstairs.”

My father looked up to me with tears in his eyes. “I didn’t mean it, Bug. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

I took a couple of steps toward him. He began to sob.

“Eden!” my mother shouted. “Don’t! You’ll cut yourself!”

I looked down at my bare feet. She was right. “I love you, Daddy,” I said. My throat flooded with tears. “It’ll be okay, I promise. Everything will be all right.” I recited the words he’d said to me countless times over the years, when I’d fallen and scraped my knee or had a fight with my best friend. In that moment I realized how empty they were. How pointless it was to say them. I couldn’t make my father promises any more than he could make them to me.

I ran up to my room and climbed under the covers. My sobs came hard and fast, racking my body until I was too exhausted to stay awake. I fell into a deep sleep and dreamed of chasing after a shadowy figure. Every time it came within my reach, each time I thought I might have caught up, it slipped away.

It was still dark when I felt someone shaking my shoulder. My eyes were so swollen they barely cooperated when I tried to get them to open. I had to blink several times before I saw my father standing over me.

“Daddy? Are you okay?”

“Shh,” he said, hushing me. “Yes, I am. I’m so sorry, Bug, for making things so hard for you.”

I propped myself up on my elbows and looked at him. The moonlight shone through my window enough for me to see that he was freshly showered, but his eyes were as puffy as mine felt. “It’s okay,” I said. “It’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is. Your mother was right about one thing. I need to take responsibility for myself. I’m a mess, Eden.”

“If maybe you’d go to the doctor, he could get your medicine all worked out,” I said. “And then you would be okay.” I didn’t want to point out that I was pretty sure he hadn’t been taking it in the first place. At least, not for long.

“I can’t take the medicine. It makes me crazier than I am without it. What happened tonight wasn’t me. It was the medication. I’m going to find another way to get better. Do you want to come?”

“You’re leaving?” A panicky beat pounded in my chest.

“Yes. I’m going to take my paintings on the road. We’ll go to galleries all up and down the coast until we have enough money to come back. I’ve already loaded up the car. What do you say, baby? I need my wingman. Just like selling lemons at our lemonade stand. It’ll be you and me.”

“But . . . what about Mom?”

“Mom will be fine. She’s good at taking care of things, right? So she’ll take care of herself. And you can call her. When we have enough money so she doesn’t have to worry about working anymore, we’ll come back and we can be a family again.”

I tried to imagine what that would be like. Enough money for my mom to never have to work. How happy that would make her. My mind shot off rapid-fire thoughts. I was afraid to leave. But I couldn’t let my dad go. I didn’t know what to do.

“Do we have to go right now?” I asked. “Can’t we wait until morning and talk with her?”

“No, it can’t wait. She’s finally sleeping and I’m leaving.” He turned toward the door. “I understand if you don’t want to come, baby. I’m used to no one believing in me.”

With that pronouncement, he left. I listened for his steps on the stairs, but he must’ve tiptoed because I didn’t hear them. I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I was a little stunned that with all the crying I’d done the night before more tears were already streaming down my face. I didn’t want my father to become like the shadow in my dream. If I let him go now, I might never see him again. I realized I was still in my clothes—I had fallen asleep in them.

Before I knew it, I had slipped on my Keds and was running as quietly but as fast as I could down the stairs and out the door. I grabbed my jacket and my backpack on the way out and raced to my father’s car. He sat in the driver’s seat, his hands placed squarely at ten and two. The motor was already running. He’d been waiting for me.

I jumped into the front seat and he looked over to smile at me. It was then I noticed his left hand wasn’t just holding the steering wheel, but also a prescription bottle. His window was open and he held the bottle outside. The lid was off. He poured the full bottle of tiny white pills onto the street, right where my mother could find them.

“Ready for an adventure?” he asked, and I nodded my head, too afraid of what might happen if I told my daddy no.

After my first successful dinner was served at Hope House, I showed up the following two Tuesdays with plenty of time to make both the meal and a dessert. The catering schedule at work had been too hectic for me to do any other type of searching for my father, so I found myself looking forward to my new volunteer commitment, though it wasn’t only because it gave me the opportunity to keep an eye out for him. I had gone home that first night filled with a kind of satisfaction I hadn’t experienced before—a little astounded by the level of gratitude the Hope House clients showed for a simple bowl of warm, hearty food. I was accustomed to people paying ridiculous dollar amounts to eat the elaborate dishes I prepared. I realized how much I took for granted when it came to catering customers being able to afford whatever food they wanted. It was a decidedly different dynamic to cook in order to fulfill the very basic need of keeping people from going hungry. I found myself craving that feeling again.

My third Tuesday helping with the evening meal I arrived to discover Jack holed up in his office doing paperwork and Rita already in the kitchen trying to sort through the ingredients in the pantry. Several five-pound packages of raw ground beef sat on the counter. “If I make meatloaf again, there’ll be a revolt!” she said, grabbing her blond spikes with exaggerated frustration. Her T-shirt was black today and read
what i really need are minions
in tiny white letters.

“We’ll figure something out,” I said, laughing. Though I’d only spent a couple of evenings with Rita, I was drawn to her irreverent sense of humor and unmistakable affection for her clients. I stood next to her and let my gaze travel over the shelves. The week before I’d used up the shelter’s excess supply of chicken stock, frozen chicken thighs, and flour to make chicken and dumpling stew. Juan had overordered fruit for a corporate event, so I bought a few boxes at cost and served the clients a fruit salad with whipped cream for dessert. Now an industrial-sized container of Mexican seasoning caught my eye.

“What about taco casserole?” I said. I pointed to the multiple boxes of cornbread mix and stacked cans of dark red kidney beans. “I can mix the beans and the meat with some onions and the seasoning, top that with shredded cheese, and cover it all up with the cornbread batter. Bake for an hour and voilà! Dinner.”

Rita hugged me. “You’re a genius. Seriously.” She slapped her hands together. “Okay, if you get started on that, I’ll make a boatload of salad. Jack’s produce guy came through with romaine, cucumbers, and carrots.”

“I thought the clients don’t eat veggies,” I said, a little confused.

She shrugged. “Jack said we should at least try to get them some better nutrition. They devoured the fruit you brought last week, so he figured even if they drown the salad in dressing, they’ll get the vitamins.”

We worked for the next couple of hours, me sautéing ingredients and building the casserole, and Rita chopping up heads of lettuce, shredding carrots, and mixing homemade ranch dressing. While she went to set up the dining room and make coffee, I managed to throw together a huge vat of chocolate pudding with some eggs, milk, and chocolate chips. Jack entered the kitchen just as I was mixing the last batch.

“That’s amazing,” he said, commenting on my ability to crack an egg one-handed to separate the white from the yolk. Our interactions had been minimal during the first two dinner services; he was friendly enough and seemed to be happy with the food I was putting out, but any conversation had been limited by the amount of time he spent with his clients. Which was his job, of course. I couldn’t help but find his obvious compassion for them appealing.

My insides warmed with the compliment. “Thanks,” I said. “It’s nothing, really. Just takes practice. Lots and lots of practice.” I put the last bowl of pudding in the fridge to cool.

He grabbed an egg. “Will you show me how?”

“Sure.” I put my hand around his to help guide his fingers into the correct position around the egg. His skin was warm but a little rough. “So, the trick is to be gentle. The shell wants to crack, and all you have to do is let it do its job.” I pulled my hand back from his.

“Got it,” Jack said. He thwacked the egg against the edge of the bowl, obliterating it. “Oops.”

I laughed. “Like I said, it takes practice. And we’re going to have to work on your definition of ‘gentle.’”

“I’m not a Neanderthal, I promise.” He went to the sink and washed the goopy mess off his hands, then we headed to the dining room. He pushed the cart loaded down with the finished taco casseroles while I carried one of the enormous bowls of salad. In a few minutes, we were open for business.

While Rita and I kept the food line going, I watched Jack out of the corner of my eye, impressed to see him issue a hug or handshake to the people we served. He sat down for a few minutes at a time, chatting with the clients. Mostly he seemed to listen, his head bent toward the person he was with, giving them his full attention. Occasionally, he would reach out and hold a person’s hands in his own. His eyes were always intent upon the person.

“He’s great, isn’t he?” Rita asked. I whipped my head around to look at her, unaware she’d been watching me watch her boss. She laughed. “Oh yeah, I caught you.”

I blushed up to the tips of my ears and suddenly became very interested in stirring the almost empty pan in front of me.

“Don’t worry, sweetie. I won’t say a word. But you could do a lot worse.”

“I’m not looking to
do
anything,” I said.

“Uh-huh.” She gave me a pointed look.

“I’m going to get the pudding,” I said. On the way to the kitchen, I thought about what I’d just said to Rita.
Was
I looking for anything?