Chapter 26 - The Tooth Box
Three years after the ballroom, Hattie was ten.
We moved some furniture in her room.
Under the bed we found a small wooden box.
Inside:
Four baby teeth.
Including the one from the ballroom.
I had forgotten we kept it.
Hattie had not.
She picked it up.
“This one?”
“Yes.”
“The Evelina tooth?”
I hated the name.
“That’s the one that came out that night.”
She rolled it between two fingers.
“It tiny.”
“Yes.”
“Dentist said almost falling anyway.”
“Yes.”
She looked toward the trash can.
Then:
“Tooth fairy paid?”
I laughed.
“Twenty dollars.”
Her eyes widened.
“You overpaid.”
“It was a difficult night.”
She considered.
Then tossed the tooth into the trash.
I stared.
“What?”
“Don’t need.”
“You’re sure?”
“It’s gross.”
Ten-year-old clarity.
She closed the box containing the other teeth.
“Those less gross?”
“Those normal.”
Fair.
Later that night, we attended my mother’s birthday dinner.
Small.
Family only.
There were place cards.
I had not arranged them.
Hattie entered first.
Looked.
Her card was at the opposite end from mine.
She shrugged.
Sat.
No checking.
No fear.
Halfway through dinner she traded with Diana because the air-conditioning vent was cold.
My mother objected:
“You are ruining my seating plan.”
Hattie said:
“Grandma, it’s a chair.”
I nearly choked on water.
My mother stared.
Then laughed.
Three years earlier, a chair had been used to tell Hattie she was not good enough.
Now she could move one without asking what it meant about her.
That was recovery.
Not forgetting.
Not ceremonial victory.
May you like
Furniture becoming furniture again.
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