Clementine shrugs against me and gives a loud sniffle, her body jerking involuntarily. The final throes of her panicked sobbing. I’ve turned her away from the bathtub, which is layered with the now-dead moths. I don’t want Clementine to see.
“She can’t sleep in her room tonight,” I say, to no one in particular.
“No, she cannot,” Wyatt replies, his tone grim as he applies a bandage over Shelby’s wound. “There you go, Mom.”
“Clemmie can stay with me tonight,” Shelby says. “We’ll do a girls’ night! A sleepover party. How does that sound, my sweet girl?”
“Good,” Clementine says, smiling at her grandmother. Her eyes are swollen and red, her skin splotchy. My stomach lurches, remembering the moths streaming from her mouth. I inhale sharply, and Wyatt gives me a quick, concerned look. I shake my head.
I’m fine, I mouth at him. It’s a lie, but I’m also a mom to a traumatized kid and that takes priority.
I take a quick shower in Shelby’s washroom before helping Clementine change into a pair of my pajamas. Shorts and a tank top that swim on her, but they’ll do for one night. Shelby takes her downstairs for a cup of hot chocolate, while Wyatt disinfects the floor and bathtub. I sit on the stairs outside the washroom (he doesn’t want me breathing in the cleaner, though it’s nontoxic) as he cleans, and we discuss what to do next.
He calls a friend, Travis, who has a pest-control company and, based on our description of the moths, agrees we’re likely dealing with the southern flannel moth.
“Haven’t those been eradicated?” Wyatt asks.
“Mostly,” Travis replies. “But we get the odd cluster, every now and then. How many would you say were in the room?”
Wyatt has him on speaker, and we’re sitting on our bed with our door shut. I don’t want Clementine to hear anything further about the moths tonight. “A whole bunch,” Wyatt replies.
“Like, more than ten?” Travis asks.
“Oh, there’s more than ten,” Wyatt says, chuckling without mirth. “When I say her bedroom is full of them, I mean fucking full, Trav. Like…thousands of moths.”
There’s silence on the other end.
“Travis?” Wyatt asks, and we glance at each other, wondering if maybe we’ve been disconnected. “You there?”
“I’m here,” Travis says, letting out an audible breath. “Thousands? Literally thousands?”
“Thousands, it had to be,” I repeat. My voice shakes slightly. Wyatt rubs my shoulder. My watch buzzes. I don’t check the notification.
“Well, dang it. That’s a lot. An infestation for sure, which means there are eggs and babies around.”
Wyatt scowls, mutters, “Christ almighty,” and I want to cry, the trauma of seeing Clementine like that still reverberating through me. I press my tongue hard against the roof of my mouth, which is a trick I learned after my mom died to keep the tears at bay. It works.
It’s late and Travis has a sick kid at home, so he says he’ll come to our place first thing in the morning.
“Keep the door closed and maybe put a rolled-up towel against the bottom, to make sure nothing can get out,” Travis says. “I know I likely don’t need to say this, but I wouldn’t go back in there tonight. You don’t want to give those moths a chance to head anywhere else.”
“Don’t have to tell us twice,” Wyatt replies.
I whisper to Wyatt that I’ll get a towel from Clem’s bathroom. I don’t want to use our good ones for this. He nods, and I head downstairs, averting my eyes from Clementine’s shut bedroom door.
Choosing an old towel from under the vanity’s sink, I’m about to leave when something catches my eye. On the floor, mostly hidden under the corner of the cabinet. It’s small, beige colored. Maybe one of Clementine’s hair barrettes?
I crouch to get a closer look and suddenly the thing moves. No, itflutters. It’s one of the moths, somehow still alive.
My body recoils, and I fall hard onto my hip and arm on the tiled floor. The needles of pain take my breath away. The buzzing against my wrist becomes constant, and I glance at my watch.Elevated heart rate, Tilly. Time for breath work.I touch the OK button and try to breatheonly through my nose. My eyes dart back to the moth, which is clearly struggling. I see now that one of its wings is broken.
I crawl forward on my hands and knees, reaching out for the moth. It resists my finger at first, but then climbs onto it like one might a life raft in the middle of a vast ocean.
“There, there,” I say, my voice low. Only for the moth. I stand, holding it at eye level. The moth’s one good wing flutters.
“You are a pretty thing.” And it is. Lovely golden down covers its body, with antennae that look like tiny feathers. Black-tipped furry legs, and these fuzzy, patterned wings that evoke a desire to pet them. “But I can’t let you live. Not after what you did to Clementine.”
I catch my reflection in the mirror over the sink. There’s a pallor to my skin that’s concerning, dark hollows under my eyes. I don’t look like myself. I don’t feel like myself. The dreamlike, heavy-limbed sensation is back. As though I’ve drunk too many glasses of red wine, too quickly. All thoughts a slurry, except for one that is so clear it’s impossible to ignore.
