The Witch's Tooth

Abstract

The Witch's Tooth Kate Felix (bio) My son Lars, a snarl of sticky fingers and unbrushed seven-year-old hair, flies at me with his bloody mouth agape and the first thing I think is ‘Where is his sister?’ He slaps his hand into the middle of my blouse, looks up past my terrified eyes, and laughs. His sister Ana, age ten, careens around the corner and announces, “His tooth is out!” A torrent of possible explanations tumbles through my mind and I say a silent prayer that whatever the story, it does not expand beyond the confines of our backyard. A problem that involves the neighbours will put me to bed for the rest of the afternoon. If worth were measured in diagnoses, our family would be the richest on our street. We sample from many chapters of the textbook that glares down at us from Dr. G’s shelf during Lars’ weekly appointments: Asperger’s Syndrome (Lars), Attention Deficit Disorder/Anxiety (Me), Agoraphobia (their dad—but no points awarded for him since he no longer lives here). It is only Ana who doesn’t—yet—find herself pressed between the pages of that shelf-devil and maybe that is why she is the Lars-Whisperer and de-facto leader of our household—despite her tender age. Since Ana’s birth and the abrupt arrival of my own adulthood, I have dreamed of living in relative tranquility, unfettered by the mutiny of life’s circumstance or the inward rip of my own mind. But crises stalk me like jilted lovers so I am at once divorced, depressed, delayed, and excuse me universe this is my stop and I would like to get off now please. Lars peels his palm back from my blouse and there— in the middle of the creeping stain—is his tooth, clinging to the material between my breasts by the jagged root. He eyes me sideways as the adrenaline buzzes through his small body, and starts to flap his arms. “Stop it,” I say. “No flapping.” Ana gives me a look and I can tell she is thinking of how Dr. G told us the flapping is just part of the syndrome, it is how Lars shows us he is excited, that we should embrace his differences, etcetera, etcetera. But whenever Lars starts to take flight, I remember my own ticks and twitches on the playgrounds of yore, the grief I endured at their expense, and find myself wanting to spare him that dark nugget of childhood through the simple act of clipping his errant wings. I think of Dr. G and how she reassures me Lars will “Arrive to where he’s going in his own good time.” I get it, she’s telling to me relax [End Page 51] and not expect much from the nest of crossed wires that make up my son’s brain but whenever she says it, my eyes drift over to the silver frame on her desk containing a darling photograph of her three Miss-Muffet daughters. I look back at her well-meaning smile and think how would she like, instead, to be the mother of the spider? That is not to say there is anything wrong with the spider per se, and I love that spider—I do—but back to my original point, he is not the character in that story who makes the curds and whey an easy, relaxing dining experience. Ana’s commanding voice snaps me into the harsh light of the present and, as always, she is three steps ahead. She peels back her lips to display a crowded mouthful of adult teeth, proof of her undisputed expertise in all things dental, and starts to rattle off the rules of the Tooth Fairy. Lars snatches his tooth from its precarious perch, bounds from the room, and the high siren of his displeasure sounds its receding alarm. “She can’t have it, it’s mine!” he says, and I look askance to Ana who rolls her eyes and gently informs me, “He’s talking about the tooth fairy.” I follow the sound of Lars’s ragged breath to the living room and...