I try letting it slide and moving on, but the circumstances of this meeting remain firmly planted in my mind, unable to budge no matter how diligent my attempts to slip past.
Finally, I turn back to my mother, my curiosity getting the better of me.
I open my mouth to speak, but instead of any coherent words spilling from my throat, I find myself erupting with an unexpected cough.
Instinctively, I reach for the tall glass of water on the table next to me, swiftly downing the cool liquid and trying again. However, this time I’m met with the same result at an even larger scale.
Something’s tickling the back of my throat, flooding me with frustration as I struggle to speak or even breathe. I begin to cough harder as expressions of grave concern wash across my parents’ faces.
“Are you alright, hon?” Dad asks.
A sudden, final cough unblocks my throat as air pumps forcefully from within, blasting forth the seed of my discomfort in a singular heave.
I gag slightly, struggling to collect myself as my father pats me on the back with loving grace. “Something go down the wrong pipe?” He chuckles.
I nod, taking another long sip from my water glass. I gaze down at the plate of spaghetti before me, hoping to find the culprit, and gasp abruptly—nearly choking all over again.
A small black insect wriggles atop my pasta, slathered in sauce as it hopelessly flits its wings in a futile attempt to escape.
“Oh my word,” my mother blurts, leaning forward to get a better look.
My father does the same, adjusting his glasses as he struggles to take in this tiny, unexpected guest.
The whole family is silent for a moment, reeling.
“Must’ve accidently swallowed the poor thing,” Dad suggests.
I open my mouth to reply, but this simple movement causes an abrupt spasm to overwhelm my throat. I let out a loud, animalistic retch as a cascade of black erupts from deep within me, pouring through my esophagus and spilling across the plate.
The upheaval is so sudden that my parents nearly fall backward in their chairs, letting out cries of alarm as they reflexively push away.
When this ejection finally stops, I stare down in utter horror, my body trembling as my mind races to understand the bizarre, squirming mass that’s now heaped onto my pasta and scattered across the table.
This black pile is churning and moving, crawling over itself as tiny wings flutter and miniature legs kick the air. I scream as I realize this is not some toxic liquid but a dark porridge of living creatures, little flies born deep within my body before their sudden expulsion.
2
CALL NOW
Luke’s eyes go wide as he bears witness to the crawling, fluttering insects. He glances at my mother, then springs into action.
“It’s okay, it’s okay!” Dad yells, leaping to his feet and rushing to the sink. He crouches down and throws open the cabinets, rummaging around before pulling forth a handful of large garbage bags.
Immediately, my father yanks open a bag and begins to shovel flies inside with his hands, scooping the whole mess across our dining room table, spaghetti and all. I’m still in shock, frozen in abject horror as time continues rolling on around me.
I can hear my mother praying under her breath, but the second she begins my dad reaches out and places his hand on her forearm. This stops Mom in her tracks.
The interaction lasts no more than a few seconds, and thanks to the other bizarre occurrences erupting simultaneously around the room, I might have missed it. However, my father’s action is arguably stranger than the sauce-covered insects scattering in every direction.
Never before have I witnessed Luke Darling silence a prayer.
“Everything’s fine,” my mother abruptly pipes up, desperately helping my dad clean the table. She gets to work swatting some of the renegade flies that’ve managed to keep their wings dry and take flight. “Accidents happen.”
“How is that an accident?” I blurt, my voice even more shrill and panicked than expected.
My father cinches his bag of sauce and insects and stands abruptly, stomping out our back door and disappearing around the corner. I hear the loud thud of a plastic trash bin echo through the darkness, then nothing.
I stare quietly at the open door for a moment, realizing now that Dad is hesitating before making his return. A few seconds pass before he reenters, only this trip over the threshold has drained any sense of urgency from his expression. Not only is Luke calm and collected, but the vague hint of a smile has crept its way into the corner of his mouth.
He seems amused.
“God’s plan can feel pretty crazy sometimes, huh?” Dad says.
I glance over to catch the flicker of doubt on Mom’s face suddenly transforming into agreement. She’s nodding along.
“What do you mean?” I retort. “I’m sick.”
“Oh, honey,” my father continues, shaking his head as he sits down and takes my hands in his. “You’re not sick. You must’ve just swallowed something at the falls.”
“A bug in the water,” Lisa chimes in.
My instinctual reaction is to reject this idea, but there’s something about it that kinda makes sense.
Regardless, I’ve yet to come up with a better explanation.
My father is right about one thing: God works in mysterious ways.
“You think I swallowed a bug? In the water?” I repeat.
Both of my parents are nodding along, agreeing profusely.
“And it…” I start, then cringe as I trail off, disgusted by the thought. “Laid eggs?”
“I guess so.” My father nods. “Nature can be pretty weird!”
“I don’t know many insects with a life cycle that fast,” I say, running through a sudden barrage of potential variables in my head and speaking the thoughts out loud as they come to me.
My dad notices my mind working overtime and interjects. “Hey, don’t stress yourself out. Right now you’ve got more important things to worry about,” he offers. “You’re about to graduate.”
Mom gently pushes my enormous glass of water toward me, encouraging a drink.
I take a long, satisfying gulp as the cool liquid soothes my irritated throat.
I finish and set the empty glass back down. “Don’t you think I should go to the doctor?” I ask with lingering unease. “I’ve been feeling really cold, too.”
“Let’s just keep an eye on it,” my mom suggests, placing her hand gently against my hair and running her fingers along the back of my head in a deeply soothing gesture. “I’m sure everything’s fine.”
“Well, not everything’s fine,” my dad chimes in. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not really in the mood for spaghetti anymore. Who wants to order a pizza?”
* * *
My eyes scan the screen with deep intensity as I carefully work my way through an enormous wall of pixelated text. Above the cascading sentences is a photo of an insect, similar to the flies I coughed up earlier but lacking a select few distinguishing features.
Over the course of the last hour I’ve gone from anxious and worried to deeply fascinated, consumed by a flood of information regarding the common Hexagenia limbate. While the average housefly has the lifespan of one month, Hexagenia limbate experiences an entire lifetime over the course of a single day.