Milk Teeth
Anna O’Brien
The mother initially refuses to nurse her newborn. She loves the baby of course—instantly and insanely—but it is the oddest thing: the child was born with a full set of enormous teeth. The infant smiles up at her with the grin of one of those chattering, windup, red-lipped mouths that is a symbol of gags from a by-gone era.
No one appreciates gags anymore, the mother thinks. Except for this. This must be a gag.
She squints and then wipes tears and sweat from her eyes with the back of her hand, forgetting the IV catheter taped there. The tubing shifts under her clammy skin and bites somewhere beneath her flesh. She winces. Breast out, she glances at the nurse holding the baby out for her to hold for the first time.
The baby grins again, flashing pearly whites that are straight and perfect.
Impossible. Must be a joke.
And why not? Things have been hysterical so far. She's been splayed open in front of at least six other people, all faceless behind surgical masks, with latex gloves sticking fingers in and around and through. She is the star of her own sitcom, but the laugh track is missing.
Best of all is the running joke: there's no privacy in a hospital, but especially so as a woman in labor. Her most private, intimate moment is staged with lighting, entrances and exits, and theatrical monologues of screaming and moaning in front of a small captive audience, while the weight of the event is diluted with glances at watches, disinterested chart consultations, other appointments. Even the episiotomy is discussed as though it were as simple as sewing up an errant hem. Three stitches. Good as new. A pair of pants to be tried on again, tested at the knee.
Hysterical can describe a joke. Hysterical can also describe a woman. The audience infers the difference.
No one does gags anymore, the mother thinks. No bits, no jokes. No one really laughs and means it—full-bellied, splitting at the seams, crying, roaring laughter so hard you slap a knee. The violent kind of laughter. Sides hurting, gasping for breath, make-you-feel-alive kind of laughter.
She thinks back to the last time she laughed, really laughed. There are gradations for sure; it's a sliding scale. Polite chuckles, smiles passed out like tokens, a guffaw here and there, a rare open mouth ha, cheeks pulled back teasing a peek at molars. But those are for others. When was the last time she laughed purely for herself? At herself? With herself?
She looks down again at her newborn child, wrinkly and pink, bald and squirmy. And those teeth, very disconcerting. Odd, too, she thinks, how no one else has yet to comment. She pales at the thought of nursing.
On the other hand, the baby's teeth are quite straight. No braces, she thinks, impressed despite her initial shock. One less thing to worry about. He—it's a boy—can eat solid food sooner. Right away, maybe. No mashed peas and banana mush, straight to bagels, sandwiches, steak. They could go out to a nice dinner together. Tonight, or . . . ? No. Once he can sit up on his own, obviously.
The mother takes her baby from the nurse who's been staring at her the whole time as if she's the one with something strange going on. The newborn opens his tiny hand. She counts five fingers. She slides her own finger into his palm and he clamps down, shockingly tight, locking those miniature digits around her one large pointer.
She smiles and he smiles back.
She flashes her teeth, he flashes his.
He laughs.
Then she laughs. She laughs and laughs and laughs.
Anna O’Brien is a writer and veterinarian in Maryland. I am contributing editor for the magazine Horse Illustrated and managing blog editor for the speculative fiction journal Luna Station Quarterly. My fiction has most recently appeared in Cheap Pop, XRAY Literary, and Mojave River Review. I am a 2017 Pushcart nominee.