Brush Your Teeth

He says, "Baby, don't listen to what they say

There comes a time when you have to break away."

He says, "Baby, there are things we all cling to all our life

It's time to let them go and become my wife."

Cowboy Junkies

Brush Your Teeth

By Wendy O’Connell

Mama says to brush your teeth for at least one minute. Daddy said, “Don’t worry about it, Pooh.” And then he would pull out his set of false teeth and give me a gummy grin. I listen to Mama. I wet my toothbrush and put a glob of Crest Bacteria Plus on my medium-bristled brush. Mama says You don’t get a too soft or too hard brush. I stick the brush in my mouth and let the minty flavor fill my mouth. I count 1, 2, 3 as I move the bristles over the back of my teeth. They are hard-to-reach places, as Mama says.

Daddy said, Vanity of vanities. All is Vanity.” He thought I shouldn’t try so hard to look good. He has a twisted view of the Lord since his quoted passage comes from the Bible, and is a Miltonesk follower. I count 4, 5, and 6, continue thinking of Mama’s words, and scrub those hard-to-reach places. Then, for a second, I stop counting and brushing and spit. I step back and see myself in the mirror, really see myself, because let’s be honest, how often do we look at ourselves? At first, I see the space behind me, an eggshell white wall with miniature photos of my travels with my mama to Myrtle Beach.

We are both tan and smiling in all of them, and I can almost taste the cotton candy we bought soon after one of them. It is where we are posed on the beach, clapping onto each other like best friends. I wear a two-piece bright yellow suit, and Mama wears a black whole piece. She looks like Elizabeth Taylor but has dark ebony eyes instead of the violet-blue that was Taylor’s trademark. I compare myself and look at my pale complexion, no longer sun-kissed but sallow and blotched with rosacea. I wet my toothbrush again, counting 7, 8, 9, and 10. This time, I brush the fronts of my teeth, but not up and down.

Mama says it will push your gums back and make your teeth look hideous. I brush side to side. I want pretty straight white teeth like Mama. I want to be as pretty as she is. Mama says, “Pretty is as pretty does.” I spit again just as my husband walks into the bathroom and belches. Mama says, “That’s rude.”

“Excuse me,” my husband says, rubbing his belly.

I roll my eyes and continue brushing. I count 20, 21, 22. I think that’s where I left off. “How long are you going to brush your teeth?” My husband asks.

“Maybe forever. You need to think about brushing yours after that big belch.”

“I said excuse me.” He sits a jar of Ponds’ face cream by me.

“For me?” I ask.

“You said you liked that one, and I thought you might be out.”

Daddy said, “A way to a woman’s heart is listening to her.”

“I can’t believe you remembered I like Ponds.”

“I can’t believe you don’t think I listen to you.”

“Thank you,” I say.

He smiles. “Now, how long are you going to brush your teeth?”

I splash water on him, and he scurries out laughing. Daddy used to make Mama laugh like that. Daddy could do voices, and Mama’s favorite was Winnie the Pooh; this is where my nickname came from. Mama didn’t like the nickname, too close to shi-. Somehow, I think Mama is listening. I never curse in front of her. Not that I’m not grown, but it is a respectable thing. Hubby peaks his head around the corner. “I’m cooking steak on the grill. Are you interested?”

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s nice of you.” My stomach churns. I didn’t realize I was hungry. I narrow my eyes, “What are you up to?”

“It’s a surprise. Don’t come down for at least an hour.”

Warm excitement burns through my chest. It’s romantic, sure, but there’s a security and trust I’ve never known with anyone else except my mama. Still, he hasn’t done anything like this in years. “Okay,” I say softly. “Let me know when I can venture down.”

“Will do,” he says, taking off with a suspicious grin. I load up my toothbrush again and start counting and brushing: 35, 36, 37. This time, I brush the roof of my mouth, spit, load again, and brush my tongue. Mama says don’t forget the tongue. “I don’t forget, Mama,” I say aloud. I count 49, 50, 51. This new mouthwash Ken’s been buying is minty and tastes like cotton candy. It’s delicious. Dad was a Scope guy who was straight and simple. I must admit I like the taste of cotton candy better than Scope. Sorry, Dad. I’m still listening to you, Mama,” I say into the soft orange-yellow glow of the bathroom lights. “I’m still listening.”

In the distance, I hear Ken’s call, “I’m ready.”

I hurry downstairs. I find him standing alongside our round ten-dollar table, now glowing into the dark room courtesy of a well-used round candle, lighting it like a giant firefly. He’s wearing a light blue t-shirt and a pair of Levis clinging loosely to his waist as casually as he stands, confident, pulling me to him in his usual way. The smell of mesquite smoked steak and baked potato permeated the air. Now, more than at the beginning of our relationship, he draws me into his web of hope, magic, security, and love. He is like a firefly in this way. This firefly had chosen for me. Free will is cursed.

“I knew today was the day,” he said in his C minor voice, which did not have my dad’s talent for mimicking other voices. That was okay. It was a constant voice. I wondered if I had brushed for a full minute. I don’t remember getting to sixty.