David missed his daughter, but he knew he couldn’t go back. He’d looked too long and too hard to find a way of life that worked for him. If he went back to her, he knew he’d fall victim to trying to please her, to doing the dance he had done with Lydia time and time again. He went back to the life he knew, to sketching strangers for enough money to get by. To sitting on park benches and staring up at the sky.
He wanted to be the father Eden so desperately deserved, but after years of struggling, years of trying to force himself into a role he just couldn’t play, he’d learned to settle into the man that he was. He was a man ruled by his demons, a man who didn’t fit in. He chose a life on the edges of society instead of in the midst of it. It was the only way he knew, the only way he’d survive.
Still, he missed her. He would see a woman with long, black hair and want to run after her. He stuck close by Seattle in the months after he left her house. He fought against the urge to see her, to give in to her demands for normalcy—to conform. He knew they were both better for his staying away; the voices in his head counseled him against doing anything that would put his freedom in danger of being taken away.
And then the day came when David saw her. Not in person, not on the street, but in a newspaper he pulled from a garbage can. There she was in black and white, just as she had been in her culinary school graduation picture. Only this time, she stood in front of a small window. Her dark hair hung past her shoulders and she was smiling ear to ear in her white chef’s coat. The headline read in bold, black letters: local chef opens the garden of eden. David quickly read the story.
Eden West, longtime head chef of Seattle’s largest catering company, Emerald City Events, has opened the doors on her lifetime dream: her own restaurant.
“I’ve been waiting for this day my entire career,” West said with a smile as warm and welcoming as her café’s elegant yet comfortable décor. The seasonal menu includes robust, spicy butternut squash soups in the fall, heirloom tomato caprese salads in the summer, and a few consistently amazing pasta dishes and seafood plates, like the ones this reporter sampled: smoked tomato risotto with prawns.
West supports a local homeless shelter, Hope House, by offering jobs in her kitchen to the shelter clients who want to work. She also plans to mentor any of them as fledgling chefs, should they show any interest in the trade. West’s fiancé, Jack Baker, is the founder and program manager of Hope House and silent partner in her restaurant. West continues to cook the Tuesday evening meal for Hope House clientele.
When asked why she was inspired to name her business the Garden of Eden, West credits her father, a talented artist who has battled mental illness most of his adult life. “He gave me my love of food and taught me how to plant a garden,” she said. “He was the best father he knew how to be.”
Choking back his tears, David carefully tore the small clipping from the paper and tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat, next to his heart. Within a few hours, his impulses took him and he made a decision. He hitched a ride to Portland, back to the city where Eden had found him. He thought distance might be the answer, but soon he found himself on the doorstep of Common Ground. He waited until he knew Matt was inside the building, and then he knocked.
“David!” Matt exclaimed when he saw him. “Long time no see.”
David nodded, and Matt invited him in. They entered the living room, where David’s eyes went straight to the painting of his daughter, the innocence and fear so perfectly captured on her face. It was an expression that had burned into his mind when she was a child, that blend of terror and hope he knew his illness created inside her.
“You haven’t been admitted through the hospital,” Matt said. “I would have gotten a phone call. What can I do for you?” He looked at David expectantly.
David stared at the painting, then turned his eyes to Matt. “I’d like my painting,” he said. “I’d like to take it with me.”
“Did you find a buyer?” Matt asked. “I thought you were dead set against selling.”
“I was. I mean, I am.” He looked at Matt with pleading eyes. “Please. Can I just take it?”
Matt reached above the fireplace and took the painting off its hook. “Of course,” he said. “It’s yours. Though I’ll be sad to see it go.” He handed it carefully to David, who held it gingerly in his hands. “You sure you don’t want to talk to a doctor while you’re here? We can get you all set up on another treatment plan,” Matt said. “See if we can make it work for you this time around.”
“I’m fine,” David said. He was done with meds, done with doctors and their treatment plans. What was he being treated for, anyway? Not adhering to society’s rules? He liked only answering to himself. It was the only treatment plan that seemed to work.
Matt wrapped the painting in a couple of thick plastic garbage sacks, taping the edges to protect the canvas from moisture. David thanked him and was soon on his way back north. It took longer than he thought it would to find a ride, but once he was safely ensconced in the backseat of a trucker’s rig, he knew without a doubt he was doing the right thing.
It was a cold and sunny spring morning when the driver dropped him off on the Seattle waterfront. It was early yet; a low, white mist rested on the sound. The fishermen were loading up their trucks to take up to the Pike Place market but store owners had yet to unlock their doors.
David stood on a corner, considering making the hike to Eden’s house, but he was too afraid she’d be there. He suddenly remembered the shelter Jack mentioned he ran, and quickly David scanned the area for someone he could ask for directions. His eyes landed on a man tucked up beneath a doorway off the side of the pier.
“Good morning,” David said. “Do you happen to know where Hope House is? A shelter around here, I think?”
The man opened his eyes sleepily, his right arm curled tightly around a huge bottle of beer. “Over on Pine Street. Around ten blocks from here, near Pioneer Square. Good eats there, but don’t think they serve breakfast.”
David issued his thanks and walked in the direction of the shelter. The wind off the water was icy and brisk; the sun hadn’t risen high enough in the sky to take the edge off the chill in the air. He tucked his coat around his neck and held tight to his belongings—the pack on his back, the painting he’d so carefully transported. As he approached Pine Street, David turned up the alleyway, thinking he’d be less likely to be discovered if he went to the back door. He hoped there was a sign so he could find the right building.
Halfway up the alley, a scent caught David’s attention. A sweet aroma lifted on the wind and brushed past him. He quickened his pace, and as he did, the scent grew stronger. It was then that he saw it. A fenced lot filled with a crazy mess of flowers—a wild configuration of hyacinths and daffodils, tulips and pansies. He stood in front of the chain-link fence, the fingers of his left hand looped through the links. He’d never seen anything like this in the middle of a city, nothing so beautiful since he’d lived in the house with Eden and her mother those many years before. There was a sign posted next to the locked gate. the garden of eden, it read in happy yellow print. for daddy, it said in tiny letters below. David’s eyes filled at the sight of his daughter’s handwriting. He knew it was hers from the loopy y at the end.
He looked at the sky to make sure it was free of clouds; he didn’t want the rain to ruin his gift. It was clear and blue as far as his eyes could see. Carefully, he unwrapped the painting he had retrieved. He touched the outline of his daughter’s face on the canvas, gazed into her blue eyes one last time. He knew she would find it here. And then, without question, despite all that he had failed to be, she would know the truth. She would see the painting and have no doubt her father loved her still.
