Camp Damascus(10)

Of course, my first instinct is to protest, but I already know that approach is going nowhere.

“I think you’ve had enough computer time for a while.” Dad turns and heads toward the doorway once again. “Alright, lights out.”

He disappears down the hallway.

I stand up and walk to the threshold, ready to shut my door and turn in for the night, but stop in my tracks. I stare at the frame in confusion, stepping back and forth through it a few times as though I might find better understanding from the opposite side.

There’s no bedroom door, only a frame.

“Uh … Dad?” I call out. “What happened to my door?”

My father appears at the opposite end of our upstairs hallway, peeking out from his bedroom. “You never had a door, honey.” He laughs, a curious expression working its way across his face.

I narrow my eyes, glancing between my father and the empty frame.

“Pretty sure I had a door,” I counter, a little more aggressively than intended. As the sentence leaves my mouth I immediately back down, remembering my place in the Darling household. “Sorry.”

Luke’s good-natured demeanor falters. My father removes his glasses and rubs the ridge of his nose for a moment, clearly frustrated. “We both know how you can get sometimes.” He sighs. “When you fixate on little things, you stop noticing the world around you.”

Dad returns his spectacles to their rightful throne.

I’m racking my brain, desperately searching for answers to help this all fall into place. I have very distinct memories of opening and shutting a door in this very spot, but admittedly none of them are recent.

However, I certainly have no recollection of taking a door off.

“You still don’t believe me?” my father finally continues.

Luke stares back at me with searing intensity, the face of a hero now dismissed.

The hair on the back of my neck has quietly bristled. This is a warning sign from my sympathetic nervous system, one I don’t entirely understand.

Piloerection: small muscles at the base of one’s hair follicles involuntarily contracting in response to shock or fright.

My father has asked me a direct question, but his abrupt shift in demeanor makes me uncertain if he really wants an answer.

“Check for a hinge. Check for screw holes,” Dad challenges, his words less of a friendly suggestion and more of a command.

I carefully turn my attention back to the frame, searching for any disturbance in the structure. I run my fingers across the place where holes or wet paint should be if construction had occurred at any recent time, and I find myself greeted by smooth, dry paint. A door could’ve been removed from its hinges right here, but certainly not today.

I turn my attention back to my father. “Weird” is all I can think to say, sensing a pang of guilt at the pit of my stomach.

Tenet number one: Respect. I will honor what I do not understand.

My father’s burning gaze stays fixed on me a moment longer, then dissolves just as quickly as it arrived. He grins wide and nods, chuckling to let me know the bit is over.

He’s just messing around.

“It’s been a long day,” Dad announces. “I don’t blame you for feeling a little out of it. Do you want us to get a door for your room?”

“I … guess,” I reply.

He nods. “I’ll head down to the hardware store when I have some time and see what I can do. Should be an easy fix. Night, hon.”

With that, my father turns and heads back into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

The house falls quiet once more.

I creep back into my room under the soft yellow glow of my bedside lamp. I undress and pull on a long green T-shirt featuring the logo of a classic condiment. RELISH is written across the top of this familiar design, while the center part continues with two words: SWEET JESUS.

I slip under the covers and turn off my bedside light, but I don’t shut my eyes. Instead, I stare at the ceiling above me, my mind flooded with all the curious thoughts I’ve been explicitly told to avoid.

Whether or not I swallowed a mouthful of mayfly eggs, the creatures are still absolutely fascinating.

You know how you can get, my father said, a phrase I’ve heard before.

Focused. Tuned out. Obsessive. Single-minded.

Curious.

I glance back at the empty doorframe, searching for any movement in the dark hallway beyond and then finally sliding over to the edge of my bed. I reach out and grab my phone, which rests on the side table, then quickly turn down its brightness as the device springs to life.

Having technologically illiterate parents can be frustrating, but it also has its advantages. Case in point: the fact I can access all the same information on my phone that I can on my laptop seems completely lost on my father.

I open up a new tab and do a quick search for Ephemeroptera, which means the whole mayfly order instead of any specific species.

I slowly peruse this endless trove of information, the dim light of my phone a pale glow in the darkness. Several pages that I’ve already read appear, but I scroll onward in search of fresh information.

Strangely, the more I read about these insects, the less I think about my traumatic expulsion over dinner. I’m filling my brain with just enough logical stimulation that the rest of my consciousness can take a break.

While mayfly larvae eat plant matter, the adult mayfly is a rare example of an animal that has no diet. They don’t live long enough to eat.