The Intruder

by Freida McFadden

My father always said that duct tape can be used to fix anything,

I can read a book every other day. Back when I had a television, I had forgotten how much I used to love to read. It’s one of the many bonuses to my self-imposed isolation.

The only way to know if spaghetti is cooked is to throw it at the wall, he used to say. So that’s what we would do. He’d extract a strand of pasta from the boiling water, and I’d toss it at the wall. If it stuck, the spaghetti was cooked. If not, it was still fun to throw food. My dad had a way of making little moments special.

I toss the single strand of spaghetti at my kitchen cabinet, and it immediately clings to the surface. When I look over my shoulder, the girl is staring at me like I’ve lost my mind. It makes me wonder if she ever had anyone teach her when pasta is done or how to be a little silly.

Kids are so vulnerable, and when the most important adult in your life betrays you, it’s hard to ever come back from that.

She wants so badly to have one adult in her life that she can actually trust. Children crave that.

Even now, my first instinct is to pick up the phone to ask him what to do for this girl, and it aches to know that I’ll never be able to ask for his sage advice ever again.

“You’re welcome to go searching for him,” she retorts. “But I wouldn’t expect him to want to have anything to do with you. And I couldn’t even blame him. Who would want to be stuck with a kid like you?”

This isn’t the first time my mother has locked me in the hall closet. But it will be the last.