Healthy Smiles Is the Place to Go
By Laura B. Weiss
Your former husband calls from the ER to say your son sprained his wrist. "He's fine," says Ex. "Don't even think of coming."
Your mom-mouth emits a howl. "He needs me."
In the small apartment you rented after the divorce, the shades block the hot July sun. The AC pricks your skin.
Ex left you six months ago "to be happy." It was news to you he wasn't. Now he's got your five-year-old for July at the fog-colored summer house you adored, the house fronting the foaming sea and the pebbly beach, the house with gulls circling, like skywriting planes above the shoreline.
You could drive there in two hours, but Ex might not let you in, and there's your tooth, the ache in your left molar radiating to your temple, and the dental appointment in an hour.
When Ex collected your son, the dream of alone time released within you a golden glow, so now you decide a sprained wrist isn't end times, that Ex can handle things. Your boy will be fine.
Except. You know his father. He'll forget the sunblock and your boy will redden and blister, a plump tomato charbroiled on the grill. Recall that time at the playground, with Ex tap, tap, tapping on his device, ignoring your boy, who darted across the road, a truck bearing down, a truck gobbling gravel, the shouts of bystanders finally rousing Ex from his digital doze, the truck missing your boy by a breath of foul air.
"Don't come," Ex now shoots back. "I told you I have it taken care of. He's watching Wild Kratts."
Repeat, your son is okay, your son is okay, your son is okay. Alone time floats before you again, triggering memories of your long-ago single life, and you scroll through Tinder, but find nothing and nobody, so you decide to see a movie about a feminist ghost. Recall the Prosecco in the fridge. Go to the dentist.
***
You collapse into the chair at Healthy Smiles Dental.
"I'm going to numb you," the dentist says, looming with a syringe.
You hold up your hand. "Wait." You punch Ex's number into your phone.
No answer, and so you sink heavily into the chair and tell the dentist to work fast, that your son is hurt, that you must go to him, that he's with his father.
She nods knowingly. "But this cavity is bad. It will take time."
The anesthetic paralyzes your mouth. You lie back and gaze at the three blue birds painted on the ceiling, a flock flying through the fluorescent light toward a cloud, pink as a lullaby.
The drill shrieks. Finally, the dentist finishes. You grab your phone.
"Why don't you just drive out there?" she asks reasonably.
"Yeah, maybe." The words slur in your frozen mouth.
"Or you could assume he's okay."
You glance at the birds seeking their counsel.
***
Park in front of the movie theater. At the bar next door, a neon sign hangs in the window, the sound of laughter sifting through the screen door. Your phone rings.
"I saw you called," Ex says. "I was making dinner." His voice sags with exhaustion. "Can you come?"
"To the house?" Grab your purse and step onto the curb, scattering a mess of pigeons.
"Yeah."
"I thought you were so on top of things." You slam the car door shut.
Silence hangs heavy in the hot car. The moon hovers behind bands of purple clouds.
"Let me talk to him."
Your boy chirps his contentment. Dinner was chocolate ice cream. His wrist is fine. Daddy turned on the TV and he’s watching Pete the Cat.
Glance at the movie theater. Decide a ghoul won't do, but a bar might. Ex's frantic breathing fills your ear.
THE END
Author Bio: Laura B. Weiss is a fiction writer and journalist with work in Bright Flash Literary Review, 10x10 Flash, The New York Times, and NPR, among others. She is also a reviewer for Bellevue Literary Review and a Virginia Center for Creative Arts Fellow. She authored “Ice Cream: A Global History” (Reaktion Books/University of Chicago Press 2011).