“Good thing. Because I have enough to worry about without my girl running off with the dentist.”
“’My girl,’ eh? Wouldn’t want your voters to hear you talking such blatant possessive objectification.”
“You don’t like it?”
“It’s pretty hot, actually.”
I walked over to Avery and wrapped my arms around his now-bare shoulders. I kissed him on the neck and lingered there, breathing in his skin, for—well, not as long as I would have liked. He had a meeting with his campaign manager and some other people in the morning and I knew he ought to turn in early, so I untangled myself.
“An hour in the dentist’s chair sounds pretty good compared to the day I have tomorrow,” he said, pulling on an old T-shirt. A really old T-shirt. Tour dates for Foreigner fell down the back. “I feel like I’m treading on my own last good nerve. I don’t know why I did this to myself.”
He crossed to the window and gazed out. I said nothing and let him contemplate. From our brick-front townhouse in the Court House section of Arlington, Virginia, we didn’t have a view of the Capitol dome, but its imposing silhouette was out there across the Potomac, representing everything Avery wanted to do.
Although we weren’t too far yet into our new domestic arrangement, I’d witnessed his bouts of self-flagellation just enough times to know when to intervene. So I let a couple of well-timed minutes pass, then spoke. “You and I both know why you’re doing this,” I said. “For truth, justice, the American way, and purple mountain majesties. Plus, you’re the best-looking House candidate out there right now, so it doesn’t take an experienced pollster assure you the female 18-35 demographic. Now you just have to reach a few more voters and you’re in. So spare me the crap.”
A smile played at the corner of his full, sexy bottom lip, and I saw it reflected back at me from the night mirror of a window. “Gemma, you always know the right thing to say. And then you choose to say something else entirely. I can’t figure out why.”
“Listen, I wasn’t in polling for nothing. I know my stuff.”
“Doubtless.”
“Besides, I already told you I’m happy to do a TV ad where I threaten to beat the hell out of anyone who doesn’t vote for you. The boys at Smiley’s will back me up.”
He pushed the window up a few inches to let in the April air, and drew the curtain before stripping down to his Washington Capitals boxer shorts. “Though I have full confidence that you and your ‘Fight Club’ buddies could get the job done, I think I might prefer to not run a political campaign in such a—well, Mafia-esque fashion.”
“Fear is a powerful motivator,” I said, sitting on the bed. “The offer stands when you change your mind.”
“You’re a scary broad.”
I picked up my cup of before-bed chai tea from the nightstand and took a careless gulp. It scalded its way down my throat. I never waited for it to cool. “Seriously,” I said with a slightly scratchier voice. “you don’t need my help. You have to win. You’re the good guy.”
“So was my dad,” Avery countered.
Avery’s father, Johnson McCormack, had been an outspoken, charismatic shoo-in for office—until an ugly campaign money scandal materialized and covered every newspaper’s front page from here to the border. Johnson was exonerated, but his career was a casualty that couldn’t be revived.
I knew Avery felt the eyes of the nation on him, on each thread of his suits and ties, and on every move he made. To the voting public, the younger McCormack had a dark and handsome appeal, a bright mind, a can-and-will-do attitude and, a small handful of cynical pundits insisted, was a train wreck waiting to happen. How, they asked, could district attorney Avery McCormack be so infallible in his campaign for the House of Representatives when his old man went down like a tower of empty beer cans?
They knew politics, so they thought they knew Avery. But I knew Avery. No skeleton had ever taken up residence in any of his closets, and no scandal had ever sniffed its way around any of his ethics. He was good, through and through. He was an idealist, a hard worker, and would be beyond reproach—if politics played honestly with him. And Avery didn’t trust that to happen.
“You’re not your dad,” I said now.
“I’m still the closest thing to it. If I make one wrong turn, no one will give me an inch of leeway.”
“Why worry about that when nothing will go wrong? You’re perfect. And I’m—well, I’m not, I guess, but I can be low-key.”
“Offering to punch people’s lights out as they leave the voting booths is your idea of low-key, eh?”
“That was a joke, sir. Maybe I do, on occasion, speak without thinking. Once in a while, I might have a small emotional outburst.”
Avery slipped into the bathroom and turned on the tap, but he’d left the door slightly ajar and I could hear his muffled laughter.
“What,” I yelled, “is so funny?”
“Nothing,” he called over his splashing.
“You lying politician. Or, I’m sorry, is that redundant?”
“Babe,” he said, returning with his face in a towel, “occasional outburst? Half the time it’s like ‘Gemma, Interrupted’ around here.”
I downed the rest of my chai and flopped back onto the pillows. “I don’t know why you continue to mock me when you’re fully aware I could crack your head open like a coconut.”
“That’s my girl. Solving conflicts with brute force.” He chuckled. “What I don’t understand is how someone so numbers-and-concrete-proof oriented in her career could ignore logic and reason in favor of her emotions the rest of the time.”
“I don’t do it on purpose,” I said. “I don’t know why I’m—I mean, I know I should be—“
Avery kneeled on the floor, and I sat back up, swinging my legs around to embrace his shoulders. “You’re exactly the way you should be. An unpredictable puzzle, and that’s the best part about you. I love you more than anything,” he said.
“I know,” I said, softening.
When he kissed me, I tasted minty-fresh toothpaste.
When we drew apart, I said, “The original point to this conversation was that I’m happy about my dentist’s appointment because it gives me something to actually do tomorrow.”
“I didn’t ask you to leave your job. Go back to work if you’re unhappy.”
“No,” I said. I shook my head with such emphasis, a strand of my hair lodged itself under my contact lens. I rubbed at it, then realized I’d forgotten to take them out. I hopped off the bed and jogged to the bathroom. “We made a decision and I’m sticking to it,” I said, filling each compartment of the little case with saline. “It’s only until you’re Congressman McCormack. I didn’t feel right doing polling work during your campaign.” I plucked out my left lens and plopped it into the case, then looked at myself in the mirror. Through only one lens, I resembled a blond, blurry Picasso painting.
“Your work doesn’t have anything to do with my campaign.”
“I don’t want even one idiot to insinuate a possible conflict. And,” I added, removing my other lens and sealing it up, “I need a break anyhow.”
Which was the purest white of all lies. I loved my job. But I didn’t feel bad about saying it, because I knew Avery was lying right back at me when he said he thought I should go back to work. It was true that he hadn’t outright asked me to leave my job, but his protests now were weak and obligatory. I knew full I was relieving him of one less worry.
I also white-lied by omission by not mentioning whatshername who appeared out of thin air today—maybe literally?—with her strange offer for some kind of job. I didn’t tell Avery about it mostly because I was suspicious that I went unconscious for a few seconds and dreamed her. I’d never gotten knocked around so hard that it had caused me to hallucinate. I was willing to buy that explanation. But the hallucination had a conversation with me, and that was what worried me. I didn’t want Avery to worry too.
But I needed to know: “What is a migraine l
ike?” Avery got them sometimes and had complained about strange swirly aura of light crossing his vision.
“Well, for one, you get a headache like someone beat you over the head with a club quite similar to the kind Captain Caveman carries around,” Avery said.
“No. I don’t have a headache.”
“You’ve never had a migraine before,” he said. “Did you take a few to the head today?”
“A few,” I admitted. “I’m getting those swirly light things you said you have when you get a migraine. Not now, not since I got home, but before.”
“Maybe it’s a concussion.”
“No,” I said, dismissing it with one hand. “I’ve had a couple of those.” I blinked hard, keeping my eyelids closed until I could feel wetness under my lashes. “When you get those little lights, do they look watery and kind of … alive?”
I heard him pause. “Are we sure it’s not a concussion?”
“Positive. And I haven’t had it in a few hours.” I thought. “Not-Rocky said I was just seeing stars, and he’s probably right. It was right after a spar and as I was leaving the gym, the sky was kind of weird so maybe my eyes just did the same thing.”
“Maybe,” Avery said, “you want to wait a couple of days anyway before you get in the ring again.”
“No.”
“Okay, maybe I want it.”
I sighed. “Fine.”
“Gemma?” he asked. “Can we back up a little in this conversation? I need to tell you that I don’t want you to think for a moment that I don’t realize your sacrifices or that I don’t appreciate them.”
I stepped out of the bathroom and leaned against the door frame. “Yeah, well, I’m okay with it because now you’re my bitch.” I grinned.
“Let’s keep that between you and me for the time being.”
“I plan on it being you and me for a very long time.” I took in his smile, then ran both my hands through my short, straight hair, suddenly hot despite the cool spring breeze blowing through the gauzy, raw-edged curtain. “Go to sleep already, before I jump you.”
Avery stood and flicked off the bathroom light as I switched off the lamp. He slid into bed beside me, but instead of settling himself into the sheets, he leaned over me.
“What?” I asked, even though I knew very well what.
“Are those my choices? Sleep, or you jump me?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“I cast my vote for,” he said with a grin I couldn’t see but could hear, “jump me.”
I pushed up and flipped him over on his back, my knees straddling his hips. I yanked my tank top over my head and flung it away. He laughed.
I loved democracy.
>=<
That night, I had the dream again.
The dream that kicked my ass; the dream that was always an omen, a warning to me that life was about to spin into confusion.
I crawl out of bed and stumble, and my hand goes to my mouth, which hurts. It hurts from the inside of my lips to the back of my throat and all around. I press my back teeth together and instead of feeling the comforting close of molars, it’s shaky in there, like a city sidewalk moments after an earthquake. I blink hard and grab the door frame, pulling myself into the hallway. I let go of the wall and try to take one step, but setting my bare heel down on the thick carpet is too jarring for my fragile mouth, and a small, smooth tooth drops onto my tongue. It slides around, sticky, salty, metallic, and I spit it out. It hits the carpet with a physically impossible but distinct echoey tinkle, and the sound and horror of looking at my own tooth weakens my knees and I fold down onto the floor. I fall hard and struggle against my fear and fatigue to prop myself onto my forearms.
My jaw is on fire but I can’t open my mouth—I won’t open my mouth. I don’t want another tooth to drop out. I seal my blood-sticky lips together until it fills up, my mouth fills up with it, the pressure building behind my lips until I can’t breathe, and I open wide, gasping like a guppy from an overturned bowl.
In a gush of blood and saliva, my teeth fall out. All of them. I press my chin to the scratchy rug fibers and stare at the macabre, wet little pile. My mouth is still hanging open, and as I breathe, I can feel cold air whistling through the new holes in my gums. A warm stickiness trails from my jaw line down my neck and pools hot into my collarbone.
I collapse onto the mess, and my freed teeth push sharp into my skin, biting my cheek.
Then I abruptly scramble to get up and grab at the teeth. I have to get them. I have to put them in my pocket. But every time I get a fistful, they slide from between my fingers and fall away again. No! I have to collect them, save them, keep them, I need them… But now I hear whispers, musical laughing whispers. I can’t make out the words, yet I know what they’re saying: Grab the teeth, get them all, don’t lose them...
I woke up sweaty, blurry, disoriented.
I flailed an arm out and my knuckles thumped a sleeping Avery. He clasped my hand and held it still against his hard chest. I poked my tongue against my front teeth, testing their fortitude, and stopped upon realizing they weren’t going to pop out in front of my face.
I slid my hand out from underneath Avery’s and went to stand naked by the window. I stared through the transparent curtains as they blew into the room, kissing my forehead, sliding against my nose.
I wondered, and worried.
Stupid dream, stupid nightmare. I hadn’t seen this punch coming.
In the boxing ring, I had to know how to land a punch, but to win, I also had to know how to evade one. And I was pretty good at the landing and the evading. Boxing was a dark kind of dance, moving in and out of invisible boundaries, touching while remaining untouchable. When I was fighting evenly matched, I won more than I lost.
But this dream was never my fair opponent.
It waited—sometimes for years—until its chosen night, when I was asleep and vulnerable, when I’d surrendered my physical ability and my mental control. Then it held me down and unleashed one sucker-punch after another. I couldn’t fight back and I couldn’t pull away. I could only scream into a black void until the dream chose to release me, and I awakened sweaty, blurry, disoriented, and afraid to stand.
Tonight, I hadn’t seen it coming.
I knew recurring dreams weren’t an unusual phenomenon, and I’d began extensive research on the dream, oh, maybe the third or fourth time I had it, years ago, and I learned teeth-falling-out is one of the most common dreams that people have. I collected all the different interpretations and so-called deep meanings. There were a lot of them: anxiety about outward appearances, fear of embarrassment, feelings of powerlessness, fear of uncontrollable events, fear of getting old.
The one time I told my mother about the dream, she seemed strangely alarmed for a moment, but then told me that she’d heard the losing-teeth nightmare signifies a loss of childhood innocence. I surmised at the time that she was digging for information the way wily single moms do, so I said nothing further to incriminate myself.
Eventually, I decided I might never narrow down the meaning as it pertained to me personally, but I did pinpoint a pattern to the dream’s occurrence—always immediately preceding a significant life- and attitude-altering event.
Example: One week before I graduated high school, I had the dream. It kicked off a week of insomnia, in which I panicked every moment I spent in the dark, wondering how I would eventually pay off my college loans, find a great man, deal with the pain of childbirth—maybe more than once—on top of doing my own grocery shopping and laundry. The prospect of adulthood crushed down on me, pinning me to my bright yellow sheets and daring me to struggle against it. I did finally fall asleep—at the graduation ceremony, during the speeches, my head dropping down. My mortarboard landed on the scuffed gymnasium floor.
Another example: I had the tooth dream, then three days later, my college sweetheart-slash-fiance informed me that he was trading in the previously unbreakable love that we shared for a woman he met on the subway and had
sex with within the hour.
And the first time I had the dream was the night before the day my father left us.
So now, I stood shivering in the warmth of the dark. It had rained while I dreamed, and I breathed in blossomy fresh water evaporating off the steaming sidewalks. I worried more, and I wondered more.
Was it possible that this time, this one night, my omen dream simply had the timing wrong? That it was just a little late? Because my life-altering event had just happened last week, when I’d moved in with Avery and taken a leave from my polling job. It marked the first time in my adult life that I wouldn’t be working, the first time I’d be a “domestic partner,” and the first time I had offered up such a commitment to—anyone.
And I hadn’t been scared to do it. I had been confident and sure, even upon leaving the office with my box of desk supplies, even upon collapsing on my end of the sofa after we hefted it into our new living room. Especially when Avery had slammed the door and we both jumped into the sofa to make love, a still-open U-Haul on the street with half our belongings inside.
In my personal history book, this was a life-changing, noteworthy event. I was about to become a full-time stay-at-homer, helping Avery in his campaign for the U.S. House of Representatives. Going to fundraising parties and getting my picture taken. Watching daytime TV and reading magazines. Training at the gym. A temporary life of leisure. Still, a very big change.
He was having a great run. We were having a great run.
I shook my head, took a deep breath and pushed the curtains aside to smile at myself. My white teeth grinned at me in the window, my form a darkening shadow against the brightening dawn. I nodded at myself, acknowledging the familiarity of my own face. That’s all, I told myself, before turning around, peeling back the damp sheets on my side of the bed and sliding back beside Avery’s warmth. The dream was just a little late. Maybe even a good sign, confirming this important milestone for me—for me and Avery.
My worry took a few more minutes to dissipate, minutes in which I allowed the sound of my breath to overtake the lingering sound of those sweet, teasing whispers. They faded away, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to clearly recall their laughing entreaties until the next time I heard them, another night.
Tooth and Nail Page 2