“I have to go, I just I can’t no I have to go I um sorry there’s not well I gotta go. . . .”
I’m babbling. I can hear myself babbling, but I can’t stop myself from babbling because there are bugs on me and I don’t know if they are bedbugs or regular bugs or harmless bugs or murder bugs, but whatever they are it doesn’t matter because they’re on me now and now they’ll be on everything in the house.
“Cali? You okay?”
But I’m already running, full sprint, back home. Heart in my throat, ready to soak my skin in gasoline.
Back when my parents were still together, we were, for lack of a better term, hoarders. We collected and kept everything under the sun, our house full of junk too precious to throw away. Then my dad returned from a weeklong work trip to New York with bedbugs. We didn’t know we had them. They hid in the crevices of our home, silently multiplying. Microscopic organisms with the uncanny ability to wreak havoc on your life.
I didn’t think much of it when I saw the first bite. I blew it off as a mosquito bite. Until my legs were riddled like freckles and erupted into a rash that took over my whole body. At thirteen, everyone chalked it up to puberty, that I was overreacting to a simple allergic reaction. Nothing serious to worry about. I was given a million explanations but the right one. Then, one night, while combing through WebMD, I found an article, ran to pull back my bedsheets, and found the first of many nests. Hundreds of black dots and blood spots covered the bottom of my mattress.
FACT: Bedbugs are nocturnal creatures. They feast while you’re sleeping, grazing on your skin like cows.
We trashed everything. Wooden dressers, bedframes, mattresses, sofas. It’s what you have to do to truly get rid of bedbugs. They lay invisible eggs that can hatch at any moment, even after extermination.
But after months, I could still feel them crawling on me. I stayed up all hours of the night, hunting with a blow-dryer, re-bleaching clothes, fingers chapped from all the disinfecting. I saw bites that weren’t there, black spots even when my eyes were closed, scratched my legs until they bled. Went to the top allergist in the state before they started sending me to shrinks, saying it was all in my head. Delusional parasitosis—the belief a person is infested with bugs that aren’t there. Comes with a side of hypervigilance (like, obsessive cleaning), paranoia, depression, insomnia, and grade-A anxiety. I don’t remember much from my freshman year of high school. Sleep-deprived, I failed most of my classes and exams. But no amount of affirmations and psych talk could get me to relax. Why should I believe anyone when they didn’t believe me that something was wrong in the first place?
During the summer before our sophomore year, Tamara’s cousin offered me my first blunt, and it was the palate cleanser I needed. But . . . it started to not be enough. The highs were fleeting, never lasting as long as I wanted. Then, I stupidly tore a muscle in track and was introduced to a lovely white pill called Percocet. Long after the injury healed, I found that snorting crushed-up Percs was the right concoction to stop the bedbugs from taking up all the space in my head.
Over the past few years, I’ve perfected the art of stripping and running, tossing clothes in trash cans, a solid distance from my house so bedbugs are not tempted to make their way inside. Standing in my underwear on the back porch, in a new town, makes me realize this might not be so normal. But I don’t care. A thorough skin inspection is critical.
I rub a hand over my arms, picking at beauty marks I’ve seen a million times, taking deep breaths to keep myself from fainting.
You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.
Nothing out of the ordinary. But bites could pop up later. I need a hot shower immediately.
Sammy, sitting on the sofa watching TV, covers his eyes as I enter. “Dude, why are you naked!”
“Long story.”
He waves one arm out. “GAH! I may never see again!”
“So dramatic,” I laugh, running upstairs and find Piper standing at my desk.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
Piper flinches, then spins around, hiding something behind her back, struggling to come up with an excuse.
I bum-rush her, grabbing her arm and pinning it back.
“Ow!” she screeches. “Let go of me!”
It takes nothing to pry her little hands open. The incense I brought from home is snapped in pieces. Below the desk, my sage is crumbled up in the trash.
“You little shit!”
Piper yanks away, rubbing her wrist, tears swelling in her eyes. “I told you, Ms. Suga doesn’t like that smell!”
Here I am standing half naked while bedbug eggs could be burrowing in my arm hairs, and Piper is busy vandalizing my things.
“Well, tell Ms. Suga to suck a dick!” I snap. “This isn’t her house. It’s not even your house. This is my mom’s house. She won that residency, not Alec. If it wasn’t for my mom, you two would be homeless! So maybe you can get your daddy to leave, since he does whatever you want anyways. And then you and Ms. Suga could live happily ever after.”
Piper reels back, lip trembling. “I . . . I . . . you’ll be sorry!” she sobs, then runs out of the room.
“And when you plant your seeds, you will start seeing miraculous deliverance. Thousands of dollars transfer into your account, cure from disease and sickness . . . those who cannot walk, will walk again once more!”
My eyes fly open at the sound of his voice, clear as day through my open door.
Three nineteen a.m. Again.
“Fuck,” I grumble, throwing back the sheets.
I slump down the steps, yawning, and am almost used to the scene—lights on in the kitchen, same glass cup on the counter—except for one huge change that stops me dead in my tracks.
The basement door is wide open.
“You will always harvest what you plant if the Lord wills. As you sow, so shall you reap. Those who do not follow the Lord’s will, will reap what they sow and burn in a fiery hell.”
Something wedges itself inside my throat, mind going blank. The door leans against the wall like it’s always been accessible, easy to open, as if I was just imagining yanking at it the other day. But seeing it from the inside, its rusted doorknob plate dented, its warped ancient wood with a hectic pattern of scratches that could’ve only come from fingernails . . . chills me to the bone.
“Hello?” I call out, like an idiot. Because honestly, who could be down there in the pitch-black dark? Then again, who opened it in the first place?
That smell, reeking of rotting fruit and spoiled meat, answers in the form of a fog drifting up the stairs. I reel back, eyes watering, preparing to slam the door shut when it slowly dawns on me: Buddy isn’t by my side. He wasn’t in my room when I woke up, and he’s not in the kitchen or the living room. Which could only mean one thing. . . .
Oh God.
“That’s why with your seeds, you will be working in God’s favor. The seeds that blossom will bring anointing to your life and you will experience great abundance in areas you pray for. All you have to do is call the number below, place your order . . .”
Hands trembling, I gape down into the black abyss, a never-ending hole, a bottomless well.
“Buddy?” I croak, bending slightly. “Here, Buddy. Come on, boy.”
Oh no oh no oh no. I can’t go down there I can’t—