Invisible Infestation

Melissent Zumwalt

1. Burrowing 

Curiously, Silverfish—small, crawling creatures named for their metallic-looking, fish-like scales and shimmering motion—are one of the most ancient creatures on the planet, pre-dating dinosaurs by millions of years. Dirty conditions, places with dust and clutter, homes that are infrequently cleaned, attract them. 

The preferred hiding places of the Silverfish recalls my dad’s ceiling-high stacks of National Geographic magazines and the molding rolls of used shag carpet he’d insisted on keeping. My mom’s fastidiousness had kept my dad’s hoarding disorder somewhat in check. She ruled the house, but ceded the garage to him. This compromise lasted until the garage filled up and spilled over into the yard like a garbage dump; broken bicycles, spools of greasy rope, dilapidated cars, rusty ladders, empty paint cans—encroached the open space. One afternoon, a policeman came to our front door and ordered Mom to clean up the mess (there were ordinances after all), or he’d fine her. Directly following that policeman’s visit, Mom packed up our family home and moved us out to the country, where Dad’s hoarding grew, unbounded.

Like my father’s disorder, Silverfish endure by remaining unseen. Silverfish are nearly impossible to spot. If you happen to stumble upon one, there are likely many more—shoved away in crevices and draped by darkness. What chance is there of eradicating an infestation if it remains invisible? 

*

In second grade, we were tasked to draw a picture of a house with our family inside. 

After that school day ended, out in our gravel driveway, Mom and I washed her car, the late spring air warming my back. As soap suds trickled down my doughy forearm and I circled a sponge around rubber and hubcap, I told her about the art class activity: “I asked the teacher whether or not I should include Chris in my drawing. I wasn’t sure, because he’s run away again.” 

The garden hose dropped from Mom’s hand, her energy shifting quick as a lightning bolt. “Of course, you should’ve drawn your brother!” she hissed. “He’s always part of our family no matter where he lives.” And then she turned to face me head-on, looking straight into my eyes to deliver a lesson I would swallow whole, a heavy lump of truth that would fester deep in my gut: “Never talk to anyone about our family! They just want to gossip about us.”  

How was I, a seven-year-old, supposed to determine which events might lead to our downfall and which were okay to speak about? By sharing a seemingly small detail, I’d offered us up for judgment. That meant I definitely needed to keep quiet about the cop cars that appeared in our driveway and the correctional facilities we visited on the weekends. Or about how my brother had had to drop out of high school because of his addictions and truancy. And now, if his former teachers (who were my same teachers in our conservative, rural school where everyone knew everyone), found out about his more recent life, they would think badly of me and worse of my brother and parents. In my child’s mind, the solution became clear. If I hid everything about our lives, no one would ever suspect we were infected. 

My mom’s advice reconstructed my biology on a cellular level, gnawed at my synapses and rotted out my vocal cords. A fissure cut me down the middle like a canyon. 

2. Depositing Eggs

Silverfish never developed wings and can’t fly. You’d think they’d be easy to catch, but their agile speed has served them well as defense against predators. They can also scale walls and ceilings, squeeze through the tiniest cracks, and jump up to two vertical feet. Insidious as shame, Silverfish evade capture at every turn. 

*

Mom placed the tube of medicated ointment into my thirteen-year-old palm. Her directions: “After your shower, apply this all over. Be sure to get it under your arms, and around your breasts and groin; that’s where they burrow.” 

The idea of smearing lotion around the burgeoning mounds of my chest and in-between my legs in order to kill the threat of a parasitic invader was an embarrassing, degrading violation. I wanted to shut the bathroom door in her face and dissolve into a puddle, disappear into the outdated patterns on the vinyl floor. Instead, I simply lowered my head and nodded.

 “Then bring it back,” she continued, “because I need to use it too.” 

Recognizing how her clinical instructions masked her true feelings—of rancid disgust—I felt my posture sag. Mom scoured our home clean with religious fervor on a near-daily basis, but scabies hijacked their way into hour home on my brother’s body. Returning one day from some sketchy location (Who remembers where exactly? A halfway house? Or the apartment of a recently released, convicted pedophile?), he’d heaped further stigma atop of us in another of his failed attempts to move out and achieve adult independence.   

Later, Mom handed me a slip of paper, “Here’s a note to get out of P.E. You shouldn’t be undressing around the other girls. We sure as hell don’t want anyone to catch this from us.”

I understood: Don’t tell the other girls what we have, or they will think we are trash. 

3. Hatching

The lifespan for many insects is around one year. But Silverfish live anywhere from three to six—some of them even making it up to eight years. Since they’ve existed for so many millennia, they’ve become impervious to most traditional pest control poisons. Longevity is their ultimate goal.  

*

A friend grabbed my high school year book from my loose embrace and flipped through the black and white photos until she found the autographs page. As she scrawled in looping cursive, I peered over her flannel-shirt-clad-shoulder to catch a preview of her sentiments. Her inscription began: “To my perfect friend.” 

 “That’s not me!” I laughed, images flashing through my mind: of how sad the afternoon school bell—that released us back to our homes—made me. Of my dad’s perennial unemployment and the suffocating weight of debt. Of the humiliation that accompanied bankruptcy. (We’d all played Monopoly as kids—going bankrupt meant you lost. And my family was losing in real life.) Of my mom’s bone-rattling fatigue. Of the vitriol and expletives that were hurled without a moment’s notice, leaving me constantly on edge. Of how thoughts of my own death had started to creep into my head and provide me with solace. 

“You get good grades, never get in trouble, and are always so positive.” My friend blew a strand of hair from her face and continued writing, her dismissive tone soothing any concerns I may have had. “Everyone likes you—you’re perfect!”

Because if one wanted to be seen as pretty and popular and smart and successful for as long as possible, it wasn’t enough to conceal a diseased interior. One had to create an external façade that approached perfection. 

4. Releasing Larvae 

Silverfish can survive up to a year without food. And when they do eat, they’re able to digest almost anything organic: glue, newspaper, cardboard, fabric, toothpaste. Once established, very little is required to sustain them.  

*

“Becca’s going on a date with a girl!” my college roommate exclaimed in solidarity. She perched atop her twin mattress, legs tucked under her slim frame, “Did you know she’s gay?” 

“Sure,” I shrugged, reaching for my comb, twirling the cheap plastic between my fingers. “Why not?”

“You knew? Did she tell you?” my roommate pressed, eyes wide, while the droning rhythm of the song, “Sex and Candy,” flowed from our clock radio.  

“No, not exactly.” The confined air of our small dorm room caught in my throat and rattled the glass bottle embedded in the space where my heart should’ve been. The bottle housed every secret, every moment I’d lived that I couldn’t share with another person for fear of condemnation (which was most of them). But how much could one bottle hold? (After all, glass isn’t malleable like the heart is.) Because, I swore, mine was already filled to bursting. I waited, anxiety-ridden, for the bottle’s explosion, for glass shards to blast through my chest and eviscerate me. 

But in front of my roommate, I simply walked over to the wall mirror and pulled the comb’s bristles through my fine hair, avoiding her gaze. “I figure we only know a fraction of anything about anybody. People don’t talk about a lot of things that are meaningful to them.” 

“I expect that I know my friends,” she huffed, a note of suspicion in her voice, “that they don’t keep important stuff hidden from me.” 

That’s where I knew she was wrong.

5. Molting

Most insects shed their exoskeletons several times during youth. Then, one final molt locks them into a form they will assume for the remainder of their existence, unable to adapt any further. But Silverfish continue casting off their outer shells well into adulthood. Through the ages, Silverfish have learned: change or die. As their discarded exoskeletons pile up in dirty, abandoned corners, they carry right on molting for the rest of their lives. 

*

My college boyfriend dashed more pepper into the pot of simmering stew. “How was your Thanksgiving?” he asked, pivoting from the stove to face me.

The ends of my mouth turned up so quickly, the smile so automatic, my eyes instantly brightened, and the word: “Good!” skipped out of my mouth before I could even register saying it. That ever-conditioned auto response so engrained it chafed at being overridden. 

As he resumed stirring the steaming mixture, I asked, “How was yours?” 

“My dad made delicious turkey,” he said. “And after dinner, my uncle brought out his guitar and played for us, such a fun time.” 

I envisioned his family sitting around with full bellies and wide grins, singing along to old folk tunes and reminiscing about times gone by. The juxtaposition of his weekend against mine caused me a sharp exhale. The morning after Thanksgiving, my mom, dad and I had gone out for breakfast sandwiches at McDonald’s. And once we were sitting there on those stiff, plastic bench seats, unwrapping our food, a cop marched up to our table and accosted us. Insisted we were harboring a criminal (my brother) and demanded we abandon our meal and return to our house immediately so he could search it. 

“The soup’s almost ready,” my boyfriend said, taking one final taste from his wooden spoon. 

My eyes traced the length of his back, the drape of his shoulders, his tousle of deep brown hair. We’d been spending more and more time together—making it seem possible that we could end up sharing an entire future. But how long could I keep masking my true self? And what chance would we have at forever if I never let him really see me? 

So, I managed to pause a beat, straining against my hardened exterior—even hearing it crack open a fraction—just enough for me to get out the words: “Actually, this holiday wasn’t that great. My brother got arrested again.” 

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