That being said, their larval stage lasts much, much longer. If I were to swallow enough larvae at precisely the right time, then maybe I’d find myself in a situation like the one I just experienced over dinner.
The bedroom doorway to my left is open and vacant, revealing the darkened hallway beyond, and my eyes keep returning to this gaping frame. All the trappings of a loving home are here, wrapping themselves around me in a confident assurance that everything will be just fine.
Everything’s always just fine.
Yet for some reason my gaze keeps drifting over to the darkness, lingering a while just to make sure nobody’s there.
I shake my head, taking a moment to refocus on the task at hand.
I typically love this kind of research, digging deep and unwrapping the skin of a mystery until I understand every moving part, but my usual state of hyperfocus can’t quite latch into place this evening.
Something’s off, all of today’s bizarre sand grains finally coalescing into one troublesome metaphorical pebble in my shoe.
This time I deliberately maintain my focus on the digital words, actively battling any sense of distraction. It lasts all of three seconds.
From the corner of my eye I sense a vague figure adjusting in the shadows, a shape in the darkness that makes my blood run cold. I freeze, struggling to stay present and recognize my imagination must be conjuring up that dark-haired woman from the falls, until the figure suddenly raises its arm—
—Two quick wooden knocks ring out, prompting my body to jump in alarm. I gasp loudly, only to discover my father standing quietly with a thoughtful expression on his face.
“What’s going on, hon?” he asks, his voice calm and soothing.
“I’m just reading,” I blurt. I glance back at the luminous screen on the desk before me. “I think I might’ve swallowed some Hexagenia limbate at the end of their larval stage.”
“Hexagenia lim-whata?” Dad teases.
“Mayflies,” I clarify.
My father laughs. “Why not just say that?”
“Latina sit amet,” I state in return. “Because Latin is fun.”
My father lets out a long sigh and casually crosses the threshold of my room, sauntering over to my bed and perching on the edge. “You’re a very smart girl,” Dad offers. “You’re also very curious.”
I already know where this is headed, and I brace myself for the same conversation we’ve been having for years. Intelligence is a virtue, but curiosity is something else.
“You know, the Lord doesn’t ask much of us,” Dad continues. “The Bible tells of great sacrifice, but I’m not Abraham, and you’re not Ruth. We’re on easy street. We don’t have to pay money to walk in His shadow. We don’t have to abandon our families. All we have to do is have faith. Real faith.”
“I know, I know,” I reply. “I will believe when I do not witness.”
Tenet number two.
“You know, honey, sometimes I’m not so sure you will,” my father continues, a great weight in his tone. “Seems to me you’ve been up here all night reading about fruit flies instead of trusting in His plan.”
“Mayflies,” I correct, “and maybe learning this stuff is a part of God’s plan.”
“It’s good to be thoughtful, but when the desire for more knowledge takes over your life, what you’re really saying is, ‘even in the presence of God’s light, I am not full.’ Do you understand?” Dad continues. “It’s a sin, hon. That feeling you call curiosity is fine in small doses, but when you turn it into a habit it becomes gluttony. A hunger for knowledge is still hunger.”
I hate to admit it, but he’s right. I’ve been up here in my bedroom frightened and scared, turning to these digital walls of text instead of trusting in the Lord. I’m obsessing over something that I’ll never be able to make complete sense of, while the real answer sits right there in front of me.
“God is mysterious,” I finally concede.
My dad smiles. “He really is, honey.”
“How’s Mom doing?” I ask, still concerned about her reaction to all the chaos. Lisa was really shaken up.
“She’ll be fine,” Dad replies. “She’s still downstairs watching TV. God put a lot of resilience into that woman, just like he put a lot of resilience into you.”
We sit in silence a moment longer before my father climbs to his feet, then strolls across the room toward me. He leans down to give me a kiss on the forehead, and with another swift movement he reaches out and shuts my laptop. My father scoops up the gray rectangle and tucks it under his arm.
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.