Bill Dolphin’s a dentist who cares, Mum says, and she reckons they’re quite an unusual breed. Mum’s relatively new to the practice. I’ve only been three times: a check-up, my whitening tray mould fit and another check-up. I’ve got teeth like tombstones, Mum says.
The air smells amazing: all tingly fresh mint with, like, condoms mixed in, ‘cos I s’pose if you’re flogging teeth hygiene all day, then you’d want to feel sexy.
The blonde girl who takes my name thinks she’s the best. Millions of beanie toys crowd round her desk, like they’re part of her crew and I recognise her from somewhere.
“Miss Mint?”
And I just raise my eyebrows and fiddle with bangles, ‘cos I’m still not sure if it’s lying to say that I am.
“Debbie’s just setting up.”
I sit down; flick through a mag. There’s a feature on looking ten years younger; how rain’s good for the skin, and I think what if they knew whose I’m really in. My mum’s ready now.
And I go up the stairs
And all over my skin
I feel little hairs
Lifting up.
Her back’s hard to turn. I say three things:
Hello
How are you?
Shall I sit?
Then it does. And all the pressed down stuff I’ve had in my head when I’ve wanted to talk to her — mainly in bed — rises up in my throat and my eyes start to throb. But it’s short-lived ‘cos Mum’s really good at her job.
“Any problems?” she says, slipping on gloves that are tough-see-through; grape skin, like membrane. She checks my gums; cool fingers squeezing, easing sore bits. And I realise there are lots.
“You’re quite inflamed.”
“Aye heath hur,” I admit and she nods.
“Not surprised.” She looks grim. “They’re eroding.”
Like geography: cliffs, we’ve done. Beaches. Long shore drift. Groynes. I grin and it hurts. She snaps me back upright and I’m kind of cross, ‘cos I’m used to being told that I just need to floss a bit more. She takes her time before speaking.
“Miss Mint, I won’t do the full clean today. I think it would aggravate what’s already a delicate mouth.”
I think Taff and of my dog, Tao, who had a soft mouth too. And I wonder if she is as well.
“You have acid erosion and we probably both know what from.” She peels off one of the membranes.
I wait to hear more.
“It’s not good,” she says sadly, “ and unlikely to improve ...”
“... if its cause continues.” I say. “Yes, I know.”
We agree with our eyes. There’s relief.
“If you know what to do and you can, then I’m glad.”
And I wish I could understand why she’s so sad.
Mum cleans up while I take in the clinical room she spends half her life in. There’s no bits and bobs, ‘cept a coffee cup she bought for herself in France when we went for my birthday four years ago. Dad saw it and swiped it next day, saying he loved it; he’d ‘buy you another one, Debs.’ And they’d laughed. But he never did, so she took it back when he left, to remember him by.
I miss Dad quite a lot. We speak a fair bit; we Skype and all that, but Sri Lanka’s a long way to go just for tea. So I’m going to visit at Christmas. Mum said, ‘you but not me.’
Oh my god. I’ve just realised. If we don’t switch back, Miss Mint will go, won’t she?
My flight’s the first day of holidays. I’m going for a fortnight, including my birthday. What if we don’t switch our lives back in time? Does that mean Miss Mint gets to go? What if she stays with Dad in his big house that I’ve never seen in Colombo? The thought’s just obscene. But this is sixth night.
And I ache to see Josh. Miss Mint’s wrapped up in Christmas present shopping with Kai, so he might need an ear and who’ll be there? I wonder if he’s read the note yet. He always went quiet if I’d talk about Dad and he’d listen like I wasn’t completely mad. And I’d do the same for him, but I don’t know if she would. Mum’s done.
I pick up my bag but a glint on the windowsill snares me
Dangles me.
Dares me to say, “who’s that girl?”
“It’s my daughter. My youngest.” She smiles, then sighs. “She’s an angel. I love her too much, to be honest, but she lies.”
And I think, no she doesn’t. She used to; not now. But there’s something else in the deep cleft of her brow.
“I’m not sure why,” she laughs. “You might know her, in fact. Lisi Reynolds?”
I say I don’t know about that.
“She’s lovely,” she says, then her face gets all tense, “and I’m terribly worried you might take offence, but your teeth — the erosion — the fact you’re not well; um, the thing that you do that must make your breath smell ...”