I recognize it now: insect legs scratching the cardboard. I don’t even have time to slam the box flaps closed before a stream of cockroaches pours out, a sea of brown scales and wings covering the island, black antennae stretching up from the twitching mass in every direction. Some of the insects take flight while others shuffle haphazardlyacross the countertop, crawling over one another, their movements frenzied and unpredictable.
I want to get away—I want torun—but fear and disgust root me in place as the palmetto bugs tumble off the countertop, then begin streaming across the floor toward me. I only have time to make note that it’s happening before they’re upon me. As the first dozen reach my bare foot, the barbs on their spindly legs prick into my skin, and theclick-click-click-clicksound of their wings becomes deafening.
Shelby finds me writhing on the kitchen floor, screaming, “Get them off me!” I’m frantically scratching and clawing at my legs, out of my mind with panic. My confused and alarmed mother-in-law kneels beside me, trying to help.
“But…there’s nothing there, Tilly!” she says. Her hands touch my arms, my legs, but they miss the insects. “What is it? What is it, honey?”
A second later the room goes quiet. No mass fluttering of wings. Stanley stops barking. The cockroaches, every last one of them, are gone. Disappeared in a poof, as though by magic.
I whip my head around, looking for the insects. Shelby’s distress at finding me on the floor like this is evident: eyes wide, mouth pulled tight, a slight tremor in her hands.
“I’m sorry, Shelby. I don’t know what happened. There were…bugs, cockroaches! Flying around the…in the box and then…Wow, I must be dehydrated again. I’m okay.”
I’m rattled, all over the place with my explanation. I’m also hyperventilating, which makes each word come out in a forced staccato.
Shelby helps me up from the floor and into a chair, then gets me a glass of water. I apologize again for not making sense, and beg her not to tell Wyatt. She finally agrees, though it’s reluctant.
But I should have known it was a promise only to soothe me in the moment. After all, she was there when I collapsed at twenty-nine weeks with Poppy. On this same kitchen floor. Surely she remembers the blood as well as I do. So Shelby was always going to tell Wyatt about this. In her shoes, I suppose I would do the same.
“Please, Tilly, let’s get you and the baby checked out.”
Wyatt leans against the island, watching me. His voice is low, so as not to be heard over Clementine’s music. Clara the Cloud released a series of sing-along songs, and Clem has been playing it nonstop.
I’m tossing the salad and have already told him, three times, I don’t need to go to the hospital. The health check on my watch came out normal, and my heart rate has stabilized. It’s been hours since the incident.
“There’s no need,” I say again. “Please drop it, okay? There’s nothing to worry about.”
He presses his lips together, and there’s a mild hollowing out of my insides. We both know that “there’s nothing to worry about” is true only once the baby arrives earthside, pinked up and screaming her little lungs out.
I don’t want to think about sad, awful things tonight. Besides, I’m still trying to reconcile what happened. Wyatt’s concern, and scrutiny, is adding to my apprehension.
Turns out there were no cockroaches in my NourishBox. Oranywhere in the kitchen, or on my body. Even Clementine’s book holds no sign of the crushed insect when I inspect it later. Regardless, I call MotherWise to report “a cockroach inside the box…yes, it was highly upsetting…,” wanting this particular NourishBox out of my house. The service replaces it immediately, no questions asked. The drone has already made the switch.
Walking around my still-worried husband, I place the salad bowl on the table, which Clementine is setting. She hums along to the music—Clara is singing about how a cumulus cloud can both float in the sky and weigh hundreds of tons. I’ll end up humming this tune for days.
“We need knives, Clem.” The fish fillet is broiling in a baste of avocado oil, fresh lemon, and dill and parsley from our garden. I’m so hungry I’m nauseated, and want to focus on getting dinner on the table versus what happened earlier. I can’t think about it without a full-body shudder, my gag reflex kicking in.
Close the door. Turn the lock. Walk away, I think, visualizing leaving the cockroach nightmare behind that door. It’s a trick I learned from Maeve to deal with ruminating thoughts. It works about fifty percent of the time, which isn’t great, but I’m desperate for a reprieve.
“Okay, Momma,” Clementine replies, opening the silverware drawer. “And spoons for dessert?”
“Yes,” I reply, applying a mental padlock to the door in my mind for good measure. I smile at my daughter, and she grins back. Clementine loves dessert, and Shelby’s rhubarb custard—on tonight’s menu—is a favorite. Rhubarb is drought-resistant and easily grown in most gardens here. We like it Nana-style: stewed with honey, nestled over vanilla custard.
“Tilly.” Wyatt’s sharp tone forces me to look his way, thoughts of sweetly honeyed rhubarb instantly replaced with scurrying cockroaches.Damn it.
“Wyatt,” I reply in the same tone. Then I offer a tepid smile, the best I can do.
Close the door. Turn the lock. Walk away.“The plum is good, I promise. Let’s eat.”
—
“Did you lose consciousness?” Jenn asks. She’s taking my vitals with her MedAlert glasses. Wyatt’s cleaning up after dinner but listening closely to our conversation.
“I think she did,” he says, then calls over his shoulder. “Mom, did Tilly pass out?”
Shelby’s playing cards with Clementine and Maeve in the living room.
“No, not really,” she replies.
