Page 36 of The Intruder

Before she can come out and realize she’s dropped it, I pounce.

Once it’s in my hands, I identify it as a piece of lined paper, which looks like it was ripped out of a notebook. The ink on the paper is slightly smudged from the rain, but it hasn’t run so much that I can’t read it anymore. I look over the paper, examining the contents. It’s a drawing, most likely scrawled by Eleanor herself.

And when I realize what I’m looking at, my jaw drops open.

This is much worse than I thought.

27

BEFORE

ELLA

There is nothing to eat in our refrigerator.

It’s ridiculous because there is actually a lot of food. Possibly more food than any other refrigerator I’ve ever seen in my life. Like, the vegetable crispers at the bottom are stuffed to the brim, but most of the vegetables are brown, and some have kind of turned to liquid. And there are probably two dozen condiments, although most of them are hard to open because the caps are all sticky and sealed shut. We’ve also got a bunch of the little sauce containers that come with take-out meals, but because there are no dates on those, I don’t know how old they are. But they’re old. Really, really old.

And don’t get me started on the freezer. It’s one big frozen block of gray mystery meat.

The thing we have most of is yogurt though. My mom is obsessed with yogurt. She will come home from the grocery store with, like, twenty little containers of yogurt. She says yogurt is good pretty much forever, unless the top of the container is puffing out. I think it tastes bad after the expiration date, but my mom says I’m being dramatic. She eats it herself though, and it hasn’t killed her, so maybe it really is okay.

I don’t know what I am supposed to eat in this refrigerator. I don’t want expired yogurt. There are some boxes of dry food in the pantry, but my mom got another fish tank, if you can believe that, and she is storing it on top of the stove, so it’s hard to cook anything right now.

Maybe we can get takeout.

My mom comes into the kitchen, and she’s dressed up again with lots of makeup and a short sundress. Another date, I guess. I wonder if it’s the same guy. I hope it is and that it works out for her. She was so much happier when Chip was living here. Things were actually kind of good back then. She used to tell me that they were probably going to get married, and he would be my new father, and then after he left, all I can remember is her crying nonstop for the next month. The only thing that seemed to make her feel better was going shopping.

“I’m going out,” she tells me, in case I couldn’t guess.

My stomach churns, wondering if she’s going to lock me in the closet again. She probably will, because she’s too scared about me throwing out her stuff when she’s out of the house, especially after she caught me trying to throw away her precious bottles. She also says she doesn’t want her boyfriends to know that she has a daughter, because a lot of men don’t want to date a woman who has children, although it might be okay if she springs it on him later.

“Is it the same guy?” I ask.

Her face lights up. My mom is pretty, but she looks ten times prettier when she’s happy. “Yes. His name is Harvey. I really like him a lot. If this goes well, he could be your new father.”

She likes to say that, but it’s not really accurate to say anyone is my new father if I never had a father to begin with. Since she is in such a good mood, I wonder if she might be willing to answer some of the questions that have been swirling around my head more and more lately.

I shift between my sneakers, knowing I shouldn’t ask, but I can’t help myself. “Mom?”

“Yes?”

“Can you tell me who my real father is?”

Instantly, her good mood evaporates. The smile drops off her face. “Why would you want to know that?”

“Because he’s my father.” And he has the same blue eyes as me. Maybe he likes the combination of chocolate and peanut butter like I do. Or the smell of pine cones. “Maybe he could give us money so you wouldn’t have to worry so much.”

“I can provide for my family,” Mom says stiffly. “Look at how much food there is in the fridge! And anyway, he’s a deadbeat and would just suck us dry.”

“Can’t you tell me his name?”

“I told you, he’s a loser,” she says through her teeth. “Even if he wanted to have anything to do with us—which he doesn’t—we’re better off without him.”

I wish I could say I’m surprised she’s refusing to tell me, but I’m not. Someday I’m going to find out who he is though. There’s got to be a way.

“Shut the refrigerator door, Ella,” my mother says with considerably less cheer than when she first walked into the kitchen. “You’re wasting electricity.”

“I can’t find anything to eat,” I say.