I don’t even think. I drop what’s in my hand and race for the stairs. Stanley—startled by the commotion—jumps off the couch, his nails digging into Wyatt’s legs as he scrambles. I hear Wyatt curse loudly,though I’m halfway up the first set of stairs by then. Stanley barks at my heels, right behind me.
Clementine stands at the doorway to her bedroom on the second floor. Her back is to me, and at first I don’t understand why she’s shrieking.
“What is it? Clementine!” She keeps screaming. “Clementine!”
Almost there,almost there.
Finally, I’m on the landing and only steps away from her. If I looked through the doorway now, up at her bedroom’s ceiling, I would see them. I would understand. But my eyes are locked on my daughter, on her rigid posture. Her arms are tight to her sides, her hands balled up.
And then she stops screaming. Her body ricochets backward, like she’s been hit by something heavy in her center. Without Clementine’s screams, I hear another sound, though at first I can’t place it. It’s rustling, sort of the way sandpaper sloughing off wood grain sounds.
Directly behind her, I’m about to grab her shoulders, but she turns on her own to face me. In horror, I see why she’s gone silent.
She’s covered in moths. I can hardly see skin. Her eyes are wide with terror, and her mouth—oh my god!—is filled with the insects. Pale wings flutter against her lips as they crawl in and out of her mouth.
Clementine reaches for me, a strangling sound leaving her, and a moth crawls from one nostril into her gaping mouth. Her little body heaves, and it’s then I understand that she’s choking.The moths are going to kill her.
I scream for Wyatt, clawing at the moths covering Clementine’s face with desperate hands. Trying to get them away from her—out of her—but there are so many.
“It’s okay, Clem…Mommy’s here, Mommy’s here…Wyatt! WYATT!” I don’t sound like myself, my voice high-pitched with fear.
This all happens in mere seconds, and then Wyatt is there. He reaches around me to grab Clementine under her arms, hoisting her against his body and wrapping his strong arms around her middle. He gives a forceful squeeze with clasped hands to her upper abdomen,then once more, and she vomits onto the floor in front of us. A pile of moths struggles through the mess, their wings saturated.
Clementine is breathing again, crying too.Thank god.Wyatt doesn’t even pause, stepping over the puddle of sick with Clementine in his arms, racing for the bathroom. He shouts at me over his shoulder. “Shut the door, Tilly, shut the goddamn door!”
I watch them go into the bathroom, stunned, my limbs unwilling to move. Wyatt slams the door and the shower goes on. I should be in there, with Clementine, and take a slow and clumsy step toward the bathroom. I can’t feel my legs. I look down and see I’m standing in the moth-laden vomit, in my bare feet. A group of dying, wet moths flap helplessly against my foot. I can’t feel that either. But then Stanley’s barking breaks through, and sensation floods my limbs with an intense prickling that soon moves throughout my body.
“What’s happened?” Shelby shouts, coming up the stairs. “Tilly, what’s happened?”
“Careful!” I yell, pointing at the mess on the floor. I don’t want Shelby to slip.
Shelby follows my gaze into the bedroom and gasps. “Stars and garters!”
I would laugh at this southern curse if things were different. But all I can do is stand in the doorway, shocked silent by the utter chaos in Clementine’s bedroom.
“Tilly, my goodness…those are southern flannels. But…where on earth did they all come from?” Shelby whispers.
Hundreds of moths fill the room. They blanket the floor, the walls, her duvet cover, her desk. So many are in flight that at times you can’t see the far wall through the haze of moths. A seemingly organized group of the insects try to get out the window, which is closed. Undeterred, they continue launching their bodies at the glass as though it isn’t there, over and over.
Stanley barks furiously into the room, and Shelby picks him up.
“Stop, it, Stan.” He continues barking in her arms.
“Stanley! Settle!” Shelby commands, which is followed by a shout of pain. I turn to see the dog, still barking, drop to the floor. Shelby looks at her hand, at the fleshy part between her thumb and forefinger. There’s a small puncture wound, two spots of blood.
“Did he bite you?” I ask.
She nods, incredulous. “I’ve never seen him like this. I have no idea what’s gotten into him.”
Stanley has always been a sweet, mild-tempered dog, though right now he seems anything but. He stands in Clementine’s doorway, a low, menacing growl emanating from his quivering little body. The moths get louder, like sandpaper scratching metal now, as still more take flight. Zigzagging around the room, they bang against the window, the ceiling and walls, one another. And yet, not one flies out of the room.
I need it all to stop. Grasping the handle of Clementine’s bedroom door, I slam it shut.
Wyatt helps Shelby clean the minor wound Stanley’s teeth left in her hand—luckily, he barely broke the skin. Clementine is wrapped in my fluffy bathrobe, which is far too large for her. Only the tips of her fingers, which she uses to tightly hang on to me, are visible from under the rolled-up sleeves. I’m sitting on the edge of the bathtub, Clementine on my lap. The way I used to hold her when she was much younger. Stanley rests at my feet, though he faces the bathroom doorway, his eyes open and alert. His ears are perked up, listening. On guard.
“How are you, sweet pea?” I murmur to Clementine. My watch buzzes continuously.
Heart rate elevated…Heart rate elevated…Heart rate elevated…
