Outside the Lines by Amy Hatvany Read Free Book Online Page A

plastered against his head. His eyes were so empty and sad I couldn’t stand to keep my gaze locked on his. I busied myself by scooping him up some salad and pasta onto a plate. He sat down, slowly, like an old person. Like my grandpa who was dead, but who used to give me a quarter to sing him a song when we visited him in the nursing home.
    “I made it with extra cheese and bacon this time,” I said. “I thought you’d like that.”
    “Thank you, honey,” he said, his voice cracked by tears. “I don’t deserve this.” He reached for a fork and held it for a moment but was shaking too hard to keep it in his grasp. It dropped to his plate and then the wood floor with a clatter. He let go of a shuddering sob.
    I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him. “It’s okay, Daddy. I’ll get you another one.”
    “I’m useless,” he cried. “Totally useless. I’m a terrible father. I’m a terrible painter. I should just leave . . . you’d be better off without me. Everyone would.” He shoved his face in his hands, making it awkward to keep him in my embrace. I could feel his tears drip down on my forearm. His pain bled into me, pushing through my skin. It made my stomach clench. He only used to cry once in a while; now it was happening all the time.
    When he got like this he would crawl into bed for days. He wouldn’t shower or work or play with me. He wouldn’t paint or dance with my mother in the living room. I didn’t understand how he could be Bob Barker that morning and turn into this sad, broken man the same night. I didn’t understand why he just didn’t take his pills like he was supposed to so he wouldn’t do this anymore.
    I didn’t understand why loving me wasn’t enough to make him want to stay.

October 2010
Eden
     
    I headed out the kitchen door around ten o’clock that evening with a quick salute to Juan, who was managing the third and final wave of deliveries to the party in the banquet room upstairs. Thankfully, the off-site cocktail parties went smoothly. The food arrived on time and intact and the servers called in to report that all was well. Things got a little crazy when a server dropped a tray of satay skewers on his way up the stairs to the banquet room, but I had made enough extra for it not to matter. I managed my kitchen by the Six-P Plan: Prior Planning Prevents Piss-Poor Performance. In catering, forecasting probable disasters was a lot less work than cleaning up after them.
    “Be careful out there, boss,” Juan warned me as he wiped the edge of a white serving tray with his apron.
    “Yessir.” I laughed, and turned my salute into a dismissing wave as I stepped out into the cold, drizzly evening. I threw my hood up to cover my head and tucked my hands into my pockets. The streets were well lit and there were still plenty of cars out, so I decided to walk rather than drive the few blocks over to the shelter. I’d called a few other shelters to inquire whether they had a David West in their system, but this one, Hope House, was the only one that actually invited me to come. My father’s name hadn’t shown up in their files, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been there. I’d spoken to the program manager earlier in the week and she invited me to bring a photograph.
    Just as I turned to walk up the hill from the waterfront, my cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I typically set it on vibrate while I was working and had forgotten to turn the ringer back on when I left the kitchen. A glance at the screen told me it was Georgia.
    “So . . . what’s the loser’s name who brought you home so early on a Friday night?” I said with a smile.
    “Ha!” Georgia laughed. “You wish. My night is just about to begin, thank you very much. And the loser’s name is Simon. Only he’s not a loser. He’s a defense attorney. A very successful attorney.”
    “Oh, great. An egomaniacal loser.” I loved that I could tease Georgia about her revolving-door love life. She made