If You Follow Me by Malena Watrous

Author:Malena Watrous
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2010-09-10T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

kawaisou: (ADJ.) poor; pitiable; pathetic

The dentist’s office is inside the Jade Plaza shopping center, tucked between the 100-Yen store and a kiosk that sells cell phone cozies and charms. I don’t know how I missed the door, painted with a cartoon tooth face, the paint chipping so that one eye seems to be winking at me. At seven on the dot, a hygienist wearing a pale pink uniform that fits her like couture unlocks this door. I’m wearing an old pair of gray sweats, my hair is corralled in a greasy ponytail, and I can smell the whiskey on my breath. She backs away, justifiably alarmed by the half-drunk gaijin moaning at the door.

“Kinkyu desu,” I declare. It’s an emergency.

“The dentist will be with you in just a moment,” she chirps, showing me to a small room with a chair covered in a narrow band of paper that rips when I take a seat. There are posters on the ceiling, photos of the Japanese countryside in every season, and one of a kitten up a tree. I wonder if the Japanese characters spell, “Hang in there.”

“Hello,” says a man upon entering the room. “I am dentist.”

“Hello,” I reply as he looms over me. He’s wearing a white plastic face mask with a perforated mouthpiece and his eyes are hidden behind dark goggles. Standing beside him, the hygienist is also wearing a face mask.

“I am dentist,” he says again. “You are…”

“I am Marina,” I say, and because he seems to be waiting for me to introduce myself in greater detail I add, “I teach English at Shika Koko.”

“Miss Marina English teacher,” he repeats. “Nice to meet you. How are you?”

“Not so hot,” I say. “My teeth are killing me.”

“Killing me,” he echoes. “Like…murder?”

“Exactly.”

He asks me which tooth hurts, and when I explain that I can’t tell anymore, that they all hurt, he says something in Japanese to his hygienist, and she hands him a delicate metal hammer. He snaps on a pair of rubber gloves, layering a second pair over the first. I wonder if all patients require this much protection, or if they are taking extra precautions with me. Prying open my jaw, he hammers on one of my front teeth and my head clangs like a bell.

“Howdy?” he says.

“What?” I whimper.

“When you feel pain, please say ‘howdy.’ I like Western movie.”

“Howdy!” I say as he hammers the next tooth. Clink. “Howdy!” Clink. “Howdy!” Clink. “Howdy!” As he plays my mouth like a xylophone, tears slide down my face, soaking the paper beneath me. I ask for a painkiller, but he says that if I can’t feel any pain, he won’t be able to catch the bad guy. He asks me where I’m from and I tell him San Francisco. It’s hard to squeeze out the word with my mouth open, his fingers all bunched up in it.

“I thought New York.” I can hear the frown in his voice. I explain that this is where I went to college. “I don’t like big city,” he says.

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