Page 32 of Lovebug
“Thank you for that.” He nods his approval.
“The male dies immediately after inseminating the female, at which point she stays connected to his carcass and drags his body along with her until she’s ready to lay her eggs. Wow, huh?”
“Mabel, do you mind?” Dad exhales. “We’re trying to eat.”
“Don’t worry, I’m almost done.Thenthe female lays her eggs on decomposing material found on the ground and dies immediately afterward as well!”
“Sweetheart, are you alright?” Mom asks. “I’ve never heard you speak so negatively about a bug before.”
“But that’s just it! Nothing about what I’m saying is negative. Bugs operate from this fascinating world of instinct. Sure, it looks different than how we operate, but they have their own power. Their own beauty. We’re so dismissive of them when we automatically label them as gross or pests. We just haven’t taken the time to understand them.”
Mom smiles. “This is one of the reasons you’re so special, baby. You always see the beautiful. Even in the ugly.”
“That’s kind of the point I’m trying to make, though. I don’t think it is ugly. I don’t think anyone is ugly. No person. No bug. No… being.”
It’s quiet for a moment as we finish our meal.
It feels good to talk about my work in this way, so I continue. “I also find it amazing that the female of the species is almost always the dominant one. The one who takes charge. She’s the one who makes things happen.”
“Well, I’d venture to say in that regard they’re not all that different from human females, no?”
The look on Dad’s face says he’s not sure how to take Mom’s comment, but rather than arguing the point, he stabs his last scalloped potato and stays surprisingly silent.
“Right,” I respond. “I think the big difference, though, is that they don’t feel guilty about it. They do what they need to do and don’t think twice about it. I say or do things and then regret them almost immediately afterward. I’d love to have that kind of confidence. To unabashedly operate from my instincts. Sometimes I feel like my life is one big apology.”
“Now what the hell kind of thing is that to say, Mabel?” My dad has a little outburst and slams his fork down.
“Abe, let her talk,” my mom says in a soothing tone. “She’s expressing something important to her, so we should listen.”
“Her life is ‘one big apology’? What kind of bullshit statement is that? Where is this coming from?” He gets to his feet. “From the very beginning, we’ve given her everything we can to make her a confident kid and—”
“Abe, please.” Mom tries to reason with him. “Sit down, sweetheart. There’s no reason to be defensive—”
“Hey!” I cut through the argument rising between them with a solid amount of cheer in my tone. “Remember that time we visited Aunt Tina in Tampa? When I was around nine?”
Silence.
“And when we came out of Lettuce Lake Park, there were lovebugs all over the windshield of our rental car?”
“No. I, uh, I don’t remember that.” Mom immediately starts clearing the table and fiddling with dishes in the sink.
“Sure you do! Dad. Remember, you and Aunt Tina had some kind of intense talk on the walk back, and when we got into the car, we saw that—”
“I’m going to go read the paper.”
He pushes his chair in so hard the table shifts a few inches across the linoleum. Then he shuffles out of the room, leaving Mom and me to the cleanup duties. We have one of those “traditional” families—if you can call it that—where Dad has always been the one to go out and make the money, while my mom stayed home with me and took care of all the domestic activities of running the house and family. I don’t judge it. Clearly, the arrangement works for them. I do know, though, that I want something different for my own life.
My mom washes. I dry. It’s been our nightly routine for as long as I can remember. We both know our roles. No discussion necessary.
“You looking forward to your trip?” I ask quietly after a few moments of swirling squeaky circles on a floral plate.
She sighs. “It should be nice. I just really wish you were coming with us, sweetheart. You love the mountains. And I’m worried about leaving you home alone for a whole month.”
“A girl’s gotta work. And Mom, I’m twenty-four years old. I’ll be fine. I’m always fine.”
“I know that. I just… we’ll miss you.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re following the doctor’s orders to make him rest,” I say. “I think it’ll be good for both of you to get away and get some fresh air. I was thinking I should write his boss a thank-you note. Yeah, I’ll do that and send it out in the morning. It’s really generous of him to offer you his mountain house.”
