Novicane

“My tooth hurt.”

That was my mother’s suicide note: “My tooth hurt.”

There was no letter explaining any further reason why she chose to take my father’s hunting rifle and blow off the top of her head. There was no “I love you”; there was no “I’m sorry”; there was no “My bad.” Instead, I got “My tooth hurt.”

They let me see her body. Or rather, I pushed my way past the EMT’s and stormed into the room. She was perched upright at the head of the kitchen table. She was all neck and torso and legs. No head though. That was splattered all over the walls, all over the floor, the stove, the ceiling. The chalkboard that typically held notes such as “buy milk” and “dinner @ Cathy’s—8pm” was surprisingly blood free, save for a few pieces of bone and hair. The words “My tooth hurt” remained delightfully untouched.

It was a mess. A mess I was going to have to clean up.

Only my mother could be manipulative enough to make me do chores from the grave.

Much to the EMT’s chagrin, I lit a cigarette over the gas stove and sat across the table from what was left of my mother. “You couldn’t just go to the dentist like an ordinary person, huh Mom?” I asked. Head or no head, some part of me expected her to respond. “It never occurred to you to take some aspirin? Maybe throw back a shot a whiskey to dull the pain a bit? Nope. YOU had to go ahead and blow off the top of your head.”

“Miss, we have to take the body now. Is there someone we can call for you or…?”

I let the “or dot dot dot” hang in the air for a moment while I put my cigarette out on the table. The blood that seeped through the wood had already ruined it, so it would have to be tossed anyway. 

I wasn’t ready for them to take her. She hadn’t had a chance to yell at me about maxing out my Visa, yet again. She was supposed lecture me about my dating choices. She needed to tell me what to do about that annoying orange light that kept flickering on the dashboard of my car. She had more “bitching” to do. She had more “loving” to do.

She had more “mothering” to do.

The laughter escaped from my lips before I had a chance to stop it. The laugh was shrill, uncontrollable and seemingly never ending. The EMT’s stood there, not knowing what to make of me. Stupidly and still laughing, I tried to stand up but slipped on congealed blood and fell flat on my ass. This made me laugh even harder.

That’s how my father found me—laughing heartily on the blood covered floor, tears running down my cheeks, snot flowing from my nose. His first instinct was to lift me up and pull me into his arms. He rocked me back and forth, holding me so tightly I could hardly breathe. Once the laughter had ebbed from my lips and the tears had subsided he let me go to talk to the police officer who’d escorted him into the house.

The phone rang and on impulse I went to pick up the receiver. I swore out loud and dropped the phone when I felt a sharp prick of pain on my right hand.

There was a tooth imbedded into my palm.

I called for my father. He was obviously distracted and held up a finger for me to wait.

Well, this couldn’t wait. 

I stomped over to him and held my injured hand up close to his face pointing to the tooth protruding from my palm. “You’re the dentist,” I said. “Can you remove this?”