Nothing had changed except the arrival of the flowers, etc.
I went into my adoptive father’s study, where I switched on the light, and sat in the chair. It was a leather chair that had an animal smell. I reviewed everything that had happened so far. The main thing that stood out to me was the image of my adoptive brother covering his mouth with one hand while he spoke. I tried to picture his teeth; I knew they were white and nicely shaped, possibly because he was the only one who kept up with his twice-yearly cleanings by the same dentist from our childhood. Our childhood dentist sang songs from the ’60s while he cleaned, and scaled, and examined, almost everyone hated the singing, it made going to the dentist unbearable, so even my adoptive mother stopped going. They never found a new one, the idea of searching for a more expensive, professional dentist was unthinkable to them. Better not to go at all, they thought.
I was the only one who didn’t mind the singing dentist. What really bothered me about going to my childhood dentist was the hygienist who always had her breasts in my face. She asked me every visit without fail if I had a boyfriend and every time I snorted with disgust. She told me once about her trip to Cancún with her boyfriend, her lover, she called him. I was probably in high school when she started asking whether or not I had a boyfriend and when she talked about hers, I pictured them fucking, which was so nauseating and appalling, I almost enjoyed it.
I turned on my adoptive father’s computer and I tracked down the phone number of the dentist’s office after a simple internet search. It became very clear to me what I would have to do: I would call the office and ask if my adoptive brother had been a recent patient. If I remembered correctly, the dentist’s office always kept immaculate records.
For the first time since I had been home, I knew EXACTLY what to do, I said to no one. When I called the number a receptionist answered pleasantly. I introduced myself and before she could speak, I asked her to picture in her head my adoptive brother, I described for her what he looked like, what our adoptive mother looked like, what I looked like, etc. Start with the physical and then proceed to the mental. I told her in great detail what happened to him, and she seemed utterly shocked.
Oh no, she said, oh no.
The pleasantry drained out of her voice and then there was a distracted silence.
Hello? I said, because I thought she might have hung up.
I’m sorry, she said quickly, I’m here. I’m so sorry.
Then she was silent again.
Do you have his records or not? I said.
We do. I just looked. Although the last time he came here was two years ago. You can have them if you want.
There was the silence again, a vast desertlike silence. What would his records from two years ago tell me? Nothing, I shuddered, except that he always had perfect teeth. Then the receptionist must have handed the phone to a new person, because a different voice came on, a lower, more masculine voice with a pleasant cadence.
Ms. Moran, it said, if you’re at your parents’ home, and you want to get a cleaning, we can squeeze you in this week. Just let us know. We’d be happy to squeeze you in.
22
Of course I didn’t want to be squeezed in, I hated to be squeezed, physically or metaphorically, it didn’t matter. I stopped caring about my teeth around the time I stopped caring about my skin. I’m sure I had a mouth full of calcium decay. A lot of people have it, I thought, and some have it even worse.
I pictured the dentist’s office: a small building that looked like a halfway house, cramped sweaty rooms with hot plates, bachelors in undershirts sitting on beds covered with moss. I would walk or have someone drive me there, and the next thing I knew, I would have his records in my hands. But of what importance was it? What would dental records from two years ago tell me about his suicide?
My stomach rumbled; I went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. What was I doing in such a large and extravagantly empty house? I found a red apple at the bottom of the crisper drawer. Its skin was waxy and shining; it looked like an apple from a fairy tale. All humans have an inflated sense of ego, I thought, except the ones who commit suicide, in fact, they have the exact opposite problem, no ego at all. I took a bite of the apple, then another. I was chewing the apple thoughtfully when I bit into something soft with a very fine granular texture. I spat it out into my hand: pieces of a black worm. Of course the apples in my adoptive parents’ refrigerator would be mealy and filled up with worms, I thought as I entered the study, it made perfect sense for this disgusting house. I considered calling the cleaning woman, but I knew better, I knew that extra cleanings were not calculated in my adoptive parents’ monthly budget, already thrown off balance because of the funeral costs, etc. I threw away the rest of the apple into the trash can next to the desk. I noticed it was filled to the brim with wet balled-up tissues.