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 enough snarky comments about the number of jerk-offs she dated that my pitiful romantic history looked positively successful in comparison. As a life coach for many of Seattle’s successful tech-savvy CEOs, Georgia seemed to run into a never-ending supply of eligible, if not suitable, men. She went through dates the way I might plow my way through a carton of ice cream—with gusto and little regard for the effect on her heart.
“Pfft,” Georgia snorted. “Whatever. I don’t think a woman who hasn’t been laid in six months has any right to pass judgment on me. Who are you ever going to meet stuck in your hairnet back in that kitchen?”
“I don’t wear a hairnet, Georgia. And I just had this conversation with my mother this morning, so I might have to kill you if you push it with me any further.” The light changed and I stepped off the curb to cross the street.
“Oh, fine. You’ll die alone and stray cats will eat your face, but whatever.”
“I’m not alone. I have Jasper. He gives me plenty of lovin’,” I said. I stopped as I came to a crosswalk and dug my cell-phone-free hand deeper into my pocket, jumping around a little to try to stay warm as I waited for the signal to turn. The shelter was on the next block, and I wanted to get there before they closed the door for the night. I’d read that most shelters couldn’t accommodate the lines of homeless who stood outside each evening, waiting for a bed. With the weather turning cold, the line would be long.
“Ew. Dog lovin’? That’s disgusting.”
I laughed. “Not that kind of loving! God!”
“Okay, okay. Calm down.” She giggled. “So, what’re you up to, sweetie? All done feeding the masses?”
“I just finished a ten-hour shift. I’m headed down to a shelter right now. It’s not too far from work, so I thought I’d stop in and drop off my dad’s picture.” Georgia was supportive of my decision to try to find my father, even if she didn’t completely understand the reasoning behind it. She took on a similar mind-set when I decided to go blond a few summers ago, holding fast to the belief that a person has to learn through her own experiences instead of through lecture.
I gave her a quick synopsis of my visit to the morgue, and she gave a short, low whistle. “That had to suck. Are you okay?”
“Sure, why wouldn’t I be? It wasn’t him.” Even as I spoke, the muscles around my heart constricted, thinking of the relief I felt when the beach-boy morgue worker turned over the man’s wrist and I knew it wasn’t my father. He was still out there. I could still find him.
“Yeah, but you were standing next to a dead body that could have been him. In a morgue. Didn’t that freak you out?”
“A little, but I was just happy it wasn’t him, you know?”
“I suppose so,” Georgia said. “I think you should bag the shelter and come out with me and Simon. We’re headed over to Sequins to dance. It’ll be a total madhouse.” Sequins was Georgia’s favorite go-to trendy party spot. It was the kind of place where you had to shout about an inch from your date’s ear and he still couldn’t understand you. Where drunk young professionals tried to get in the girls’ panties through the power of their bullshit charm. With most of the girls, they didn’t have to try very hard.
“That is my personal version of hell and you know it, my friend. I’ll pass.”
“Now who’s the loser?”
“Good-bye, Georgia!” I singsonged into the phone.
“Ciao, chica.” Georgia only knew a handful of foreign words and tended to mix languages together when she spoke them. If you teased her about it, she dismissed you as being culturally uncreative.
I hung up and slipped my phone back into my pocket, shivering against the chilly night air. I kept my eyes open for the address the program manager had given me, since the facility was fairly new and she told me they hadn’t had time to put up a proper sign.
It’s safe to say I smelled it before I saw it. A hard wall of body odor assaulted my senses. I buried my nose down into the collar of my jacket as I approached a line of men, some of whom were speaking loudly, either to the men standing next to them or the building; I couldn’t know for sure. Others stood quietly, heads down, swaying back and forth a bit on their feet. Some had shopping carts filled with their belongings, and others carried a hiker’s backpack stuffed full. I couldn’t imagine my father was one of them. I scanned the faces I could see as I moved toward the entrance. He wasn’t there.
“Hey, lady! This ain’t no YWCA!” one man jeered as I walked past him. My stomach flip-flopped, but I kept moving.
The man continued. “Hey, I’m talkin’ to you! Don’t pretend like you don’t hear me!” I felt his hand on my arm and I jerked away, turning to him with what I hoped was a friendly smile, despite the shakiness I felt.
“I’m not here to sleep,” I said. “I’m looking for my dad.”
Another man sidled up to me; his imposing stature made my shoulders curl a little in fear. “Who’s your daddy?” he asked in a deep-timbred, suggestive tone.
The men around him cracked up and I smiled again, trying to appear more relaxed. They were blocking the door. “Excuse me,” I tried again. “I need to get inside. The program manager is expecting me.”
“It’ll cost you,” the man with the deep voice said.
“What?” I asked, afraid to hear what he might demand.
Just then, the front door swung open and a small woman with spiked, white-blond hair stepped outside. She was the approximate size and shape of a twelve-year-old prepubescent girl. I might have mistaken her for exactly that if not for the eyebrow piercings and tribal sleeves tattooed on her exposed forearms. She gave the larger man a small push. “Sam, leave the poor woman alone.” She blessed me with a smile that took up most of her tiny, heart-shaped face. “Eden?”
I nodded gratefully, smiling at her snug green T-shirt, which read, national sarcasm society: like we need your support. She gestured for me to follow her. The men stepped aside for me to pass and I murmured the appropriate “excuse mes” as I did. “Thank you,” I said to the woman as she led me down a brightly lit hallway. I could hear the low sounds of men laughing and talking through the walls, and the smell of boiled potatoes hung in the air. “You’re Rita?”
“Yep. Don’t worry about the boys. Most of them are completely harmless. They just like to talk a bunch of smack. It’s all part of the survival game.”
“I can imagine,” I said. “Thank you for inviting me down.” We reached the end of the hallway and she opened an office door, sweeping her arm in front of her body, inviting me inside. It was a small space with no windows, piled high with papers, with barely enough room for her desk, a file cabinet, and two chairs. Technically, it could have been a closet.
“Sure,” she said, shutting the door behind her. “Though I don’t know what help I can really be. Our computer system is anything but reliable when it comes to recording our clients’ names. Many of them won’t even tell us.”
“It’s not a requirement?”
“The only requirement we have is their need for a place to sleep and a willingness to be searched for sharp objects that could be used as weapons. We don’t allow those on the premises. A lot of them are paranoid about the system, you know, so they don’t want to give their names. Lots of schizophrenics.” She pushed a family contact form across her desk and asked me to fill it out. “What condition did your father suffer from?”
“Well, he was originally diagnosed as manic-depressive back in the eighties,” I explained as I picked up a pen and began writing in my phone number and address. “But then he started to get a little violent and paranoid, which isn’t really consistent with that disorder. One doctor said he might have a generalized personality disorder, but he never stayed on his meds long enough to find out which ones worked the best, so we’re not really sure what was going on with him, to tell you the truth. We just know his moods and behavior were all over the place and it got progressively worse.”
“Mental illness can be tricky to diagnose.” She cocked her head toward her shoulder, but her prickly hairstyle didn’t move. “And how old were you when you last saw him?”
“Ten.” I leaned over her desk and pulled out a copy of the same snapshot I’d given the hospitals from my purse. She took it and I watched her take him in.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wish I could say I recognized him. Kind of a tall fella, isn’t he?” Just as she said this, her office door flew open and a man appeared at the threshold.
“Have the front doors been locked?” he asked Rita, then noticed me sitting in the chair on the other side of her desk. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you had company.” He was on the shorter side with cropped black hair and an average build. He wasn’t what I would call handsome—he seemed rougher around the edges than that. His overall slightly rumpled look told me he probably didn’t care if he hadn’t shaved for a few days.
“No worries,” Rita said. “And yes, the doors have been locked. Sam was out there giving poor Eden a bad time.” She gestured toward me. “Eden, this is Jack Baker. He’s the crazy bastard who runs the joint. Jack, this is Eden West.”
Jack nodded in my general direction. “Nice to meet you.”
I smiled. “You too.”
“Eden’s looking for her father,” Rita said, handing Jack the picture she still held. “He’s been in and out of institutions and living on the streets.”
Jack regarded the photo a moment before handing it back to me. “Sorry, I don’t recognize him. But we get a lot of faces around here.”
“I’m sure you do,” I said. I pushed the photo back at him. “Would you mind putting this up somewhere? In case somebody else knows him?”
Jack hesitated before answering. “I’d prefer not to,” he finally said.
I sat back in my chair, unable to hide my surprise. “You don’t want me to find him?”
“I don’t think that’s what he meant—” Rita began to say, but Jack held up his hand to cut her off.
“I can explain it to her, Rita. Can you go make sure the lights are out in the bunk room? The natives are getting restless.”
Rita gave me a quick apologetic look and then excused herself, shutting the door behind her. Jack took her place behind the desk. “Look,” he said. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“I think I’m more confused than offended.” I straightened in my chair, tried to look as confident as possible.
“Let me try to explain,” he said. “Our population here is very mistrustful. And rightfully so, most of them. The system has screwed them over time and again. So much so that they’re hesitant to even give up their real names.”
“Rita told me that, but I don’t see why—”
He held up a single finger to stop me. “I know you don’t, and I’m trying to clear it up for you. Can you give me a minute?”
I pushed out a breath through my nose. I could see that he wasn’t that much older than me, but he came off with a surprising air of authority and entitlement. It sort of made me want to hit him. I crossed my legs and started shaking one foot impatiently.
He didn’t seem to notice my irritation, which irritated me more. “Okay. So. We’re a newer facility. I’m trying to build relationships with my clients so they can learn to trust me. If they start seeing pictures of their friends on the walls, they’re going to go off the deep end about my reporting their whereabouts to the government or some such bullshit and I’ll lose credibility. What I do here is very important to me. These people deserve their privacy as much as you or I. It’s not that I don’t sympathize with what you’re going through. I do. It’s just that I don’t want to jeopardize the bigger picture. Does that make sense?”
“I suppose so,” I admitted begrudgingly. “My dad hated systems. The institutions, especially. I get it. And I admire what you’re trying to do here.” I took a deep breath before continuing. “So, since you’re way more familiar with this world than I am, do you happen to have any other suggestions for me? What I could do to try to find him? I have his pictures at all the hospitals and I even went and saw a body last night who I thought might be him . . .” To my horror, I choked up as I spoke, and the tears started to fall. “Sorry, sorry,” I said, wiping at my cheeks with fluttering fingers. “I don’t know where this is coming from.”
Most men get a little panicky when a woman begins to cry and Jack was no exception. His eyes darted around the room until he found the box of tissues behind him and set it in front of me. “Those are the worst kind of tears, right? The sneaky bastards.” He pulled a few tissues out and handed them to me over the desk.
I sniffed and laughed at the same time, again horrified as I made a chortled, snot-filled sound. “Sorry.” I took the tissues. “Thanks.”
He made a dismissive motion with his hand and smiled, a slightly crooked expression that was oddly charming. “Don’t worry about it. As long as it wasn’t me making you cry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I just tend to get pretty protective of this place. And the people in it. I can come off a little abrupt.”
I thought of my brief interaction with Natalie in the kitchen earlier and suddenly, I wasn’t quite as irritated with Jack. I could even relate to the enthusiasm he felt about what he was doing. “I get it,” I said with a sweet smile, figuring I’d see if he had a sense of humor. “You’re more of an impassioned idealist than a jerk.”
Jack threw his head back and laughed. “Definitely an idealist.” He chuckled again, then looked at me. “Have you thought about hiring a private detective to help find your dad?”
I nodded. “I have, but it’s too expensive. I’ve looked all over the Internet and tried to get his medical records from the last institution he was in, but all they would tell me is his last time in residence, which was three years ago.”
“Where was the last place you know for sure he was, besides there?” Jack asked.
“I have an old address on Capitol Hill. But that was years ago. It says in the white pages that a totally different person lives there now. A woman.”
“So you never checked it out?”
“No. I figured there wasn’t much point.”
“It’s a place to start, though, right? You could talk to the neighbors, see if anyone remembers him.”
“I suppose I could.” I smiled again. “Thanks.”
“And you’re welcome to come volunteer any time you like. If you spent some time here, you might get to know some of the guys. If your dad is on the streets, he may even stop by, eventually.”
“You won’t let me put up a picture but you’ll let me come talk to your clients?”
“As long as you’re willing to help out, I don’t see why not. You get information from people by building relationships. To do that, you need to hang out with them. Do you have any special skills?”
“I’m a chef.”
“Perfect,” Jack said, and clapped his hands together. “Let’s say we find out what you can do with a couple hundred pounds of potatoes.”
