Outside the Lines: A Novel

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?

Luckily, I had too much to do to give the issue much thought. I had people waiting for dessert. The next client through the door could be my father.

“So, it’s been a few weeks,” Jack said several hours later as I was putting on my jacket to leave. “What do you think?” Now that dinner and dessert had been served, we stood in his office while Rita was in the bunk room coordinating the clients’ sleeping arrangements for the night.

Jack helped my arms into the sleeves. “I think it’s great,” I said, turning around to face him. “I’m happy I’m here.”

“We’re happy, too,” he said. “Your dinners are a hit. A lot of the clients are asking if we’ll see you on a regular basis.”

I nodded. “Definitely. I work a lot of nights, but I usually have Tuesdays off. I’m looking forward to talking with everyone more.”

“So they can keep an eye out for your father.”

I glanced at him a bit quizzically. “Well, yes, but I also feel like I sort of fit in here.” I laughed. “Does that sound weird?”

“Not at all. You seem very at ease. And not everyone can relax around this population.” He dropped his eyes to his desk, busying himself by shuffling a stack of papers into a neat pile. I took that as my cue to leave, but before I could, he cleared his throat, looked up, and spoke again. “It’s a little late. Can I walk you to your car?”

“Sure,” I said, grabbing my purse from a brass hook on the wall. I usually tried not to play the damsel in distress but was surprisingly charmed by his chivalrous gesture.

Jack put on his jacket and we walked down the hallway out the front door. The air was chilly and a steady drizzle fell, so I flipped up the hood on my jacket and tucked my hands into my pockets to keep them warm. There was a bar across the street, and a low bass rhythm thumped through the air. Some of our clients stood outside the bar’s door, talking to the exiting patrons—asking, I was sure, for a few dollars or spare cigarettes. Part of me wished I could gather them up and bring them home safe with me.

“Who watches over things when you’re gone?” I asked Jack as we strolled toward the parking garage two blocks down from the shelter. “Rita?”

“Sometimes.” He threw his gaze both ways before we crossed the street, then looked back at me. “I have a couple other people on staff, too, but I don’t take many days off. This place is pretty much my world.”

“Is this what you’ve always wanted to do?” I was curious about what had motivated Jack to feel so passionate about his work. Did he have a homeless family member, too?

A strange look flashed across his face but disappeared too quickly for me to discern what its significance might be. “Not always. I majored in business and got my master’s in organizational development.”

“Sounds like you were prepping for the corporate set. What made you change your mind?”

“Long story.” He smiled, but the words were clipped. The end, they said. I knew enough to figure out he didn’t want to pursue the subject. At least not now. We entered the garage and I directed us to my car, standing by it a moment in slightly awkward silence.

“Well,” I finally said, “thanks for walking me.”

“No problem.” He looked around at the empty spaces and shuffled his feet. “It’s pretty well lit. You probably would have been fine on your own.”

I smiled too. “Probably. But it was still nice of you.” I opened the driver’s-side door and slipped into the front seat. “I’ll see you next week. And hey, I was thinking, if you can get your hands on a bunch of tomatoes from your produce guy, I could make spaghetti. I get a great rate on bulk pasta through work. Seriously. Pennies a pound.”

“That sounds fantastic,” he said. “I can get more ground beef, too.” He placed his hand on the door, holding it open for a moment. He seemed hesitant to speak.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

He nodded. “Oh, yeah. Thanks again.”

I pulled the door shut and started the engine. Just as I looked down to put the gearshift into reverse, Jack rapped on my window, shooting my heart right into my throat. I rolled down the window.

“Jesus!” I said. “Did I forget something?”

“No, but I did.” He took an audible breath. “I meant to ask you earlier, but we were so busy and then . . . well, I felt a little weird about it. But I’m going to ask you anyway. What the heck, right?”

“Um, I’m not sure,” I said. My pulse immediately picked up speed. “That depends on what you’re going to ask.”

He laughed, a staccato noise. “Right. I was just thinking, you know, about what we talked about a few weeks ago? Your father’s old apartment building?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, I was thinking if you wanted, I could go with you to talk with the other tenants. To see if they remember your dad.” He looked down to the ground, then back up to me.

I had half expected him to ask me out, and I wasn’t sure if going to my father’s old apartment qualified. Still, I appreciated his offer to help. “Really?” I said. “You’d do that?”

He shrugged and smiled. “Yeah, really. I was just thinking it might be easier if you had someone with you. I mean, I’m sure you have other friends or family who could help you out, but I thought that since I’m the one who brought it up, it wouldn’t hurt to ask if you’d want some company.”

“I’d love it. Thank you. When do you want to go?”

“How about I call you tomorrow and we’ll figure it out?”

I nodded. “Sure, sounds good. I’m an early riser.” I hoped I was keeping my smile to a reasonable size. I wasn’t the kind of girl who got asked out a lot, so when a man expressed interest in spending time with me, I couldn’t help but be flattered.

“Me too,” he said.

As I backed out of the parking space, I was already anxious for morning to come.

“I think I have a date,” I told Georgia when I called her the next day at her office. “But I’m not sure. I need an expert’s opinion.”

“I have exactly three minutes until my first meeting,” she said. “So spill, but make it fast.”

I gave her the quick summary of my evening at Hope House, including Rita’s teasing and my subsequent conversation with Jack while he walked me to my car. “And he called, just like he said he would.”

“Already? At what unholy hour?”

“Seven. And it’s not unholy, because I told him I’m up early.” I leaned forward on the couch to grab my mug from the table. “He gave me just enough time to have a cup of coffee and let Jasper out.”

“So, he asked if he could come with you to look at your father’s old apartment building?”

“Yep. We’re going today, since neither of us has to work. Is that a date? I mean, technically?”

“Sorry to disappoint you, my friend, but I’m thinking not so much. I mean, he wants to spend time with you and all, which is a good thing. But in order for it to count as a date, it can’t really be an errand.”

“What if we get lunch afterward?”

“Post-errand meal. Sorry.” She laughed. “Look, I’m just happy that you’re doing something with your social life other than going to work and walking your dog. And it sounds like at least he has some potential, right?”

“Right. I know I said I’m not looking for anything—”

“Pfft,” Georgia said, interrupting me. “Whatever. You are so full of crap and you know it. Rita even knew it and she just met you. So stop lying to your best friend and let me get back to work. I expect a full report tonight. Can you do drinks?”

“Sure. I’ll call you later,” I said.

“Aloha, bella!”

I hung up, smiling to myself. “Okay, Jasper. I have to get dressed.” He wagged his tail and looked at me with those loving, soulful brown eyes that suckered me into bringing him home a decade before. “Want to help me pick out what to wear?”

He barked once, which I took as a yes. He followed me into the bedroom, where I chose to keep it simple in jeans and a ­V-necked royal-purple sweater. Georgia considered me wardrobe disabled since I rarely dressed in anything other than my chef coat and kitchen clogs. I didn’t see the point in spending the money when I could save it for opening my restaurant.

After a quick shower and blow-dry, I threw on a little makeup and got dressed. “What do you think?” I asked Jasper. “Meat-flavored perfume?”

He barked again and waggled his rear end.

“Oh, you would say that, you dirty old hound. We wouldn’t want to give Jack the wrong idea, now, would we? This is only an errand, you know, so don’t get your hopes up.”

After I locked up the house and helped Jasper into the backseat of my car, I punched Jack’s address into my GPS and followed its instructions to a neighborhood near the Ballard Locks. I pulled in front of the apartment building to see him waiting under the awning. Jasper barked when Jack opened the door and jumped into the passenger side.

“Hey,” he said, and then twisted around in his seat. “Who’s this?”

“That’s Jasper. Jasper, this is Jack. I hope you’re a dog person. Or at least not allergic. I probably should have asked if it was okay to bring him.”

“Totally okay. I love dogs.” He extended his arm, his fingers curled under to allow Jasper to sniff him. It was good to see he knew proper dog etiquette. Jasper must have thought so, too, because he nudged Jack’s hand with his wet nose. Jack obliged by scratching Jasper behind the ears and thus forever etched himself a place in Jasper’s heart. He was easy like that.

“I’d have fifty if I had the space,” Jack said when he turned back around and pulled his seatbelt on. “But since I’m gone so much, it wouldn’t be fair to have one, even, you know?”

“Yeah, I get that.” I selected the address of my father’s old apartment building on my GPS, then flipped on my indicator to rejoin the flow of traffic. “But Jasper sleeps pretty much every minute he’s not eating or pooping, so I don’t worry about it too much. He’s getting to be an old fella.”

“I plan to have the exact same routine when I’m an old fella.”

“One can only hope.”

Jack laughed, and then we rode in silence for a few minutes. It wasn’t the uncomfortable variety of not speaking, which I took to be a good sign. I’d spent time with men with whom sitting in silence felt akin to having bamboo shoots shoved beneath my fingernails.

“Turn right in twenty-five feet,” my GPS told me.

“Thank you, Bertha,” I said.

“You named your GPS?” Jack asked.

“Sure. It felt too impersonal not to.” I patted the display screen. “Bertha and I are very close. She has saved my life on numerous occasions.” I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m directionally challenged, you know.”

Jack laughed. “Don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you.”

“Turn left now,” Bertha’s computerized voice ordered.

“Bossy little bitch, isn’t she?” Jack said.

“Oh, it’s fine. I need someone who’ll stand up to me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Keep that in mind for what? I wondered. Getting to know me better? Or is he considering having more than a friendship with me? My insides warmed a little at the thought.

“So,” I said after I’d turned up Mercer to head toward Capitol Hill. “Who’s holding down the fort for you at the shelter?”

“Starr and Paul, my other two employees. They’re both social workers, fresh out of college, so they work cheap and they’re almost as gung ho about the place as I am.”

“Anxious to help, huh?”

“That’s what most people think. That we want to ‘help’ our clients.” There it was again, that slightly irritated tone. The same one he used on me in our first conversation. It was easier to stomach knowing he was more impassioned than annoyed, but still.

I flashed him a quizzical look before putting my eyes back on the road. “And you don’t want to help them?”

“Not exactly. How would you feel if someone came to you with this attitude of, ‘Here, let me help you.’ The inherent message being that there is something fundamentally wrong with you. That you’re somehow ‘less than’ because you live differently than they do. Most of my clients don’t want help. They want to be treated like members of the human race. They want camaraderie and friendship and connection. Like we all do.”

“Well,” I said, wanting to tread carefully around what was obviously an important subject to Jack, “I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

“Most people don’t.”

“But—and I hope you don’t mind me saying this—aren’t a lot of your clients caught up with drugs? And crime?”

“Some of them, yes. And they’re just as much in need of connecting as anyone else. Maybe more so.” He sighed. “Is that a good way to live? No, of course not. Are they responsible for ending up in whatever situation they’re in? Sure. At some level, they already know that. They don’t need me to lecture them on it. And it’s certainly not up to me to try to make them change. How well do you react when someone tells you how you should be living your life?”

“Not very well at all,” I said. “I’ve been known to bite. Or kick the offender in the leg.”

He laughed and I was relieved to see a sparkle in his eyes. “Look,” he said in a much friendlier tone. “This is how I see it. I provide a humane environment so any client—no matter what their choices have been—can come in off the streets and feel worthy of love. If I provide them food and general information about what they can do to help themselves, then I’ve done my job. I personally can’t help them. The best I can do is create a space where they can build up their own self-esteem and hopefully as a result make healthier, more productive choices for their lives.”

“Is that the ‘hope’ in Hope House?” I asked, silently impressed with how eloquently he stated his beliefs.

“Exactly.”

After another left turn, Bertha informed us that we had arrived at our destination. I showed off my parallel parking skills, then glanced at the building we were about to enter. It was redbrick and only four stories high. Jack and I got out of the car. I left the windows cracked for Jasper, who was accustomed to waiting in the car while I ran my errands. And that’s what this was, according to Georgia. An errand I just happened to be running with Jack.

Upon closer inspection, I saw that the bricks were crumbling in enough places to make me concerned about the building’s structural safety. The windows were leaded and ornate, but as we ascended the broken concrete steps, I noticed the white paint on the sashes was peeling. “This place has seen better days,” I remarked.

“It’s an old neighborhood,” Jack said. He leaned down and scanned the mailboxes.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Looking for the manager’s apartment.” He ran his finger across the names posted on each box until he happened upon the right one. “Got it. W. Reilly. One-A.”

“All right, then. Let’s go.” We approached the first apartment door. Jack rang the bell, a muffled buzz. After a moment, when we didn’t hear any footsteps, he rang it again.

“Coming!” a woman’s voice cried. “Keep your panties on! Just need a minute to find my hair!”

“Her hair ?” I whispered, and Jack shrugged. I imagined a bald little old lady rummaging around in her apartment.

A minute later the door creaked open and an older woman with cloudy blue eyes and a crooked black wig smiled at us. It was immediately apparent she had opted to locate her hair instead of her dentures. “How can I help you young people?” she asked. “Looking for an apartment? I’m afraid I don’t have any open right now.”

“No, actually,” Jack said. “We’re looking for any information you might have about an old tenant of yours. David West?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “And who are you?”

“I’m his daughter,” I said. “Eden.”

“Oh, Eden,” she said. Her expression softened as her eyes moved off Jack and searched my face. “You take after your dad, no doubt. I’d know those blue eyes anywhere.” She stepped back and motioned us inside. “Come in, come in. Pardon the mess. I wasn’t expecting company.”

“Thank you,” Jack said. “We don’t mean to intrude.”

We both maneuvered through the stacks of newspapers that lined the hallway leading into a small living room. The air inside the apartment was laced with the stale aroma of recently fried meat. My stomach gurgled at me—in my excitement to pick up Jack, I’d forgotten to eat. We were definitely going to need a post-errand meal.

“You’re not intruding.” The woman plopped herself into a well-worn tan recliner; the flowered housedress she wore rode up and exposed her knobby knees. “I’m Wanda. Wanda Reilly.”

“I’m Jack Baker, and you’ve met Eden.” We sat on the only other reasonable surface in the room, directly across from her on a tiny wooden-backed velvet love seat. I found the solidness of Jack’s thigh muscle pressed against mine reassuring.

“How is your father?” Wanda asked. “I’ve missed him around here.”

“Well,” I said, “I actually haven’t seen him. Not for years. Which is why I’m here. He sent me letters from this address and I was hoping you might have some information about where he might have moved. I’m trying to track him down.”

Wanda furrowed her almost nonexistent brows, pulling together the wrinkles on her forehead like a couple of window treatments. “I remember him trying to get in touch with you. He talked about you all the time. I always hoped you’d come see him.”

I looked down, unable to meet her gaze. “It was complicated. I don’t mean to make excuses—”

“Oh,” Wanda said, interrupting, “you don’t need to explain. I understand why it might have been hard for you, honey. What he put you through was just awful.” She dropped her chin toward her chest and gave me a pointed look. “He told me, you know.”

I felt Jack’s eyes on me, but I lifted my gaze and locked it on Wanda. I wasn’t ready to tell Jack the messy details of how my relationship with my father had ended. Outside of my family, Georgia was the only person who knew, and even with her I rarely spoke of it.

“What did he tell you about his life after he wasn’t with us anymore?” I asked Wanda.

“Well,” she said, “as I recall, he spent some years on the streets. Down in California, I think he said. Where it was warmer. David was a good man, but he had his problems, now, didn’t he? There were times I had to use my key to get into his apartment just to make sure he hadn’t done something stupid.”

I nodded. “He definitely struggled with his demons.”

“Don’t we all.” Wanda sighed. “He did good for a while there. Had himself a job at a little diner downtown.”

“What did he do there?” Jack asked. “Do you know?”

“He washed dishes during the dinner shift. The place is closed now, but back then, he claimed to like it since it left his days open to paint, but I never quite believed him on that point. He had his good days and his bad. The bad days got worse and then he was gone. Poof. Just like that.”

I swallowed before speaking. “How long did he live here?”

“Oh, not long, sweetie. About a year. But I remember that man. He had a way about him. So charming.” She tapped the side of her head with a veined and gnarled finger. “Haven’t lost all my marbles yet.”

“Did he happen to leave anything behind?” Jack asked. “Anything that might help us figure out where else to look?”

“A few things, I think,” Wanda said. “We can go check down in storage, if you want. I know I moved his paintings down there. I’m sort of a pack rat that way. Never want to throw anything away. Might be a box of his things there, too. Books and such. Just give me a minute to get my teeth in.” Using the arms of the recliner for leverage, she hoisted herself up, shooing Jack away when he stood up and tried to help her. “I can do it myself, son. Been on my own for going on twenty years now. I’ll probably carry my own casket.” She shuffled down a narrow hallway toward the back of the apartment.

Jack sat back down and took my hand in his. “You doing okay?”

“No,” I said. “Not really.” My pulse thrummed in my neck. I wasn’t sure if it was due to my nerves or the fact that Jack was holding my hand.

Jack squeezed my fingers. “Sounds like he loved to talk about you.”

I nodded. “She said there were paintings. I haven’t seen any of his work for years. I’m a little freaked out to think about what it might be.”

“You’ll be fine. If it gets to be too much, we’ll just leave, okay? I’ll have it picked up and sent to your house or something, and you can go through it a little at a time. Without an audience.”

“What do you mean, you’ll ‘have it picked up’?”

He looked away for only a second before answering. “I have a friend who owns his own moving company. He owes me a favor.”

“Oh.” I squeezed his hand, grateful for its warmth. “I appreciate that. A lot.”

“Not a problem.” He pulled his hand away and stood up as Wanda reentered the room.

“Let’s go, kids!” she said.

We followed her out of her apartment and down the hall to a padlocked door. She rummaged around in her pocket for a ring of keys and we both shifted back and forth on our feet as she tried at least ten before finding the one that opened the lock. A weak lightbulb illuminated a steep, narrow wooden staircase leading to a cement floor below.

“Why don’t you let me go first?” Jack suggested. “I’ll catch the cobwebs for you ladies.” He carefully edged around Wanda, who took his hand before taking her first step.

“Such the gentleman,” she remarked over her shoulder to me. “You better keep your claws in this one, sweetie. They don’t make ’em like this anymore.”

I caught Jack’s eye and gave him a small smile, which he returned with a wink. Errand, my rosy-red heinie, Georgia. He likes me. Why else would he be here? I was pleasantly surprised by how much I was starting to like him, too.

We made our way down the steps. At the bottom, Jack let Wanda take the lead again.

“Down this way, on the end,” she said. “I keep a unit for abandoned stuff that I can’t quite throw out. I covered David’s paintings to make sure they didn’t get damaged, but after a while I had to toss the paints. They started to dry up. Like me.” She cackled at her own joke.

We waited another few minutes for her to sort through the keys and open the cyclone-fence unit. “They’re in the back,” she said. “Propped up against the wall by the couple of boxes of his, I think. I put his name on them, if I remember right. You don’t mind if I let you two get in there and root around? Instead of me?”

“Of course not, Wanda,” I said. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“T’ain’t nothin’. I’ll just wait right here.”

Jack and I made our way back into the unit. I sneezed a few times as the dust rose when he moved a few things out of the way. It didn’t take long for us to find the boxes Wanda had mentioned. Behind those, I saw the telltale white edging of canvas. The paintings were stacked in a row, maybe five deep.

“You want to look now?” Jack asked. “Or do you want to wait?”

My chin trembled before I spoke. “Maybe just one. For now. Okay?”

“Sure.” He bent over and pulled the boxes out of the way, then picked up the first painting. The light was fairly dim, but when he flipped over the canvas, I knew instantly it was my father’s. It was an oil of the last house he’d lived in with us, white and gabled with its small, square front porch. But the house itself wasn’t the subject of my father’s painting. What caught my eye was the flower bed planted out in front of the house—the glorious ocean of red tulips, sunny daffodils, and purple hyacinths. I had handpicked each one of the ugly brown bulbs that transformed into those blossoms. I would have recognized them anywhere.

“It’s the Garden of Eden,” I breathed, and my chest heaved and the tears spilled down my cheeks. “He remembered.” Jack gently set the painting down and rested a comforting hand on my back.

“Everything okay in there?” Wanda called out. “Is she hurt?”

I nodded as though she might see me do it. Yes, I was hurt, though I didn’t know to what extent. And standing in that basement amongst my father’s other discarded things, I wasn’t sure whether finding him was worth the price I might have to pay to find out.