Gramma's Teeth

Gramma's been gone two weeks, but she left something behind. Momma said she's off visiting angels, like I don't know what that means. I know she's dead. Nobody cries that much unless you know you're never gonna see someone again.

         chit...chit...chit...chit...chit...

         Momma said that sound is air trapped in the radiators. It could be rats scurrying between the walls, Poppa seems to think, but I know it comes from that white plastic box on the window ledge in the bathroom. Poppa's been saying I've been looking pasty in the mornings. He said he thought I should stay home and recuperate, then looked totally perplexed when I burst out crying. I know what he's thinking: HORMONES. Or even worse: PERIOD. I can't tell him it's neither of these, even if I am suffering with both, because it's worse.

         I used to share a room with Gramma. Momma and Auntie Dor would split the care fifty-fifty. Every six months Gramma would come stay with us and hijack my room. I'm talking total takeover. I would look forward to it, but after Gramma's second stroke six months just seemed never ending. At night she'd snore so loud, the damaged side of her mouth would flap like a flag in high wind. Her eyes were never fully closed. Two white crescents stared at me out of the darkness. Her mouth scared me the most. Before bed she would remove her dentures and her lips and cheeks would collapse inwards. The skin looked pinched and crimped. If she caught you watching she'd grin at you, smooth pink gums glistening with saliva. The dentures were deposited into a white plastic box on the bedside table - plink-plonk - like pennies being dropped into a dark, shallow well.

         chit...chit...chit...chit...chit...

         I moved the white box to the bathroom a week ago. Seven nights of listening to its constant chatter almost left me insane. I can still hear it, though. I don't know if I'm really hearing it or if it's a phantom sound, like the irritating tune that echoes in your mind long after the radio has been switched off. Maybe I am insane. If I tell Momma and Poppa what I'm thinking, they'll surely think so.

         I read somewhere that fear is ten percent fact, ninety percent imagination. I think that's total horse shit. How the hell do you quantify it? Where's the rational for lying awake, night after night, listening to a sound you think may or may not exist? I do know one thing for sure, though: I never heard that sound before Gramma went to visit with angels.

         chit...chit...chit...chit...chit...

         There it goes again, only it's louder now. That's because a half hour ago I finally plucked up the courage to lift the lid on the white plastic box. After Gramma's second stroke she never could quite manage to do it herself, so I'd do it for her before I climbed into bed, and first thing in the morning before she woke up.

         Call me crazy, but here's what I think: Gramma's missing her teeth, and I think it's mutual. Momma and Poppa would be in touch with the first decent psychiatrist if they knew that's what I thought.

         If Gramma's teeth are still there come morning, I won't stop them.