You Son of a Witch!
Quick Stats:
1,493 Words
Time to Read:
6–9 Minutes
At seven years old, and in the span of three mornings, I lost my first two teeth, and grew in a pair of buck teeth. It all started with that first morning, when I walked into the kitchen. It smelled like any weekday—oatmeal, coffee, and something burnt on the stove.
Day 1
I’d just spent five minutes facing myself in my bathroom mirror wiggling my loose upper front tooth. One second I was wiggling it like a string in the wind, the next I’m finding my tooth in my hand. So, like any respectable seven year old, I made a beeline for my Dad. I didn’t know if I was a late bloomer, but this was the first tooth I had lost. That morning I stood in his shadow and waited for him to put his coffee down. He went for a second swig when I stopped him. I raised my cupped hands with their delicate prize—my tooth.
He scratched his head. “Did you knock it out?”
I made a noise for no and fished my tongue in and out of the gap. It both disturbed and thrilled me.
“Don’t do that. Talk with your words.”
I frowned.
“No. I didn’t knock it out. Well, not exactly,” I said. “It ached real bad when I woke up, and when I touched the sore spot—it wiggled.”
The memory made me shudder. He nodded, and turned back for his coffee.
“So you yanked it out?” He asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“Atta boy. Let me see it.”
He reached out, and I passed the tooth to him like a bar of soap. He raised it to the light and squinted. It reminded me of a photo I once saw of a jeweler. In the photo, the jeweler raised a diamond to a small light and wore glasses like my dad.
“This’ll go for a pretty penny,” he said.
We moved to the dining table and filled our plates with breakfast. Then we continued our conversation through bites of food.
“What’re you talking about?” I asked.
“You know, the tooth fairy.”
“That’s real?”
He bobbed his head, and chuckled through his food. I imagined a fairy worming under my pillow for the tooth.
“That’s creepy,” I said. “Why would you want some bug-looking thing stealing your teeth while you sleep?”
He considered this through crunches of toast when his face became solonm.
“I never thought about it,” he said. “The tooth fairy didn’t like to visit our house growing up.”
I didn’t know what he was talking about. I didn’t even know about the tooth fairy until a few minutes ago. But Dad never talked about his childhood, and I didn’t want to make him either.
“So…,” I drew out. “Does that mean the tooth fairy won’t like coming to our house?”
I thought I handled the question well, but uttering the words ushered a surpise wave of dissapointment that I had to wrestle from appearing on my face. I didn’t do a good job because I saw a flash of pain appear in my dad’s eyes.
“No, no.” He said. “I’m sure the tooth fairy will come by.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah, buddy.”
I smiled and spent the rest of the day daydreaming about what candy I’d buy with the loose change from my tooth.
Day 2
The next morning, it felt like someone had slung a hammer against my jaw. I reached to investigate the pain, and my finger came back bloody—I had lost another tooth. I searched under my pillow and found a tiny authentication certificate.
It read: bad quality tooth. Chipped and discolored. One minor cavity. I took an extra tooth as a service fee.
I reached the kitchen smelling pancakes and realized that the weekend had snuck up on me. My dad wrapped an arm around my shoulders and used his other to man the frying pan.
“Good morning sunshine, ” he beamed.
He loved Saturday mornings. But that gnawing throb in my mouth made it hard to share the feeling. I gave a thumbs up and jerked my tongue through the new bloody hole. My dad shot me a look, and I stopped.
“Is your mouth still bothering you?”
“Yes,” I said.
I thought of my dad’s prankster streak and squinted at him.
“Did you take my tooth?” I asked.
“What?”
He placed the finished pancakes on the table and grabbed the syrup from the refrigerator. We sat and began to eat. The sugar numbed the ache in my mouth, and I wondered what syrup mixed with blood looked like.
“The tooth,” I continued. “I’m missing another one.”
I pulled up my lip to show another gap, right next to the first one. My dad shook his head.
“First, gross. You have pancake in your mouth.”
I swallowed. “Sorry.”
“Second, no, I didn’t take your tooth. Are you trying to be funny?”
“No,” I argued. “I thought you were. Someone left a note under my pillow.”
He laughed, but then I handed him the note. He scrutinized it and grew serious.
“Hammond,” he said. “Who put this here?”
I shrugged.
He stood.
“Who put it here, Hammond? Who?”
“I don’t know, I swear,” I stammered.
My dad scratched the left corner of his lip and left.
“I’m gonna call someone. Clean the kitchen.”
“The whole kitchen?” I asked.
I looked at the coffee stains and leftover bowls lounging across the countertops. Some of them had been there for a month or two.
“The whole thing,” he shouted from another room.
It took forever to clean and I finished the punishment pissed off. What did I do wrong? I ached to rebel, but knew it wouldn’t help. I compromised by placing a pod in the dishwasher and walking away without running it. Then I had cereal and put the dirty bowl in the sink. Soon after, my dad popped his head in.
“Your Aunt Lisa is going to stay the night.”
“Aunt Lisa?” I asked.
“Yep.”
He left and I wondered if I heard him correctly. It couldn’t be Aunt Lisa—she and my Dad hadn’t been in the same room for five years. Dad claimed that she practiced witchcraft. Whenever someone brought up her name, he’d mutter incoherent words about spells, and cross himself.
I learned early on to adopt an ‘invisible’ attitude with the subject—I’ve never heard, seen, nor known of an Aunt Lisa. This strategy saved countless potential arguments. Still, I didn’t see my dad for the rest of the day. Ten minutes before she arrived, he showed up in the living room.
“You’re sleeping on the couch tonight.” He said. “No questions.”
I absorbed this and affirmed my earlier idea to spend the night attempting to be invisible.
When Aunt Lisa came in, she made it quick. She nodded at my dad, turned her attention to me with a grin, and swaddled me in a hug. Then she took off her scarf and wrapped it around my torso. This revealed her necklace—a gold strand with teeth that didn’t appear human.
“Hey, little one,” she said. “I’m sure you’re all shades of worried. But don’t be, I’ll take care of things. You,” she paused and bopped my nose for effect. “Focus on a good night’s sleep.”
I reminded myself to be invisible and smiled.
“Good boy,” she said.
Day 3
On that last morning, when I woke up, it felt like my gums had spent the night at a spa. Whenever I moved my jaw a pleasant numbness massaged the inside of my mouth. I hesitated to investigate my front teeth. Yet, I closed my eyes and reached into my mouth. My fingers found something—two somethings.
I ran to the nearest mirror and examined my mouth. Two large, and way overgrown, adult teeth filled the front spots of my gums. By comparison to my other teeth, they looked three times the length. I plopped to the floor and put my head to my knees.
A few minutes later, my dad came in from the kitchen holding a cup of coffee. He knocked on the doorframe between the rooms before saying anything.
“Hey,” he said. “I wanted to make sure everything turned out ok.”
He saw me sitting and walked in.
“How’s the mouth?”
I clamped my lips shut and criss-crossed my head.
“What’s the matter? Is it bad?”
I repeated my previous motion, but he continued his encouragement. I sighed and flashed my overgrown teeth. His jaw dropped.
“Where’s Aunt Lisa?” I panicked.
Dad fumbled in his pockets and brought out a folded stationary note.
“She had three mimosas and left,” he said.
I could tell he wanted to curse, but, instead, he bit his lip and handed me the note.
It read: Hope these fit! If not, I bet you’ll grow into them. Love, your Aunt Lisa.