By Evelyn Arvey

“This will pinch,” the dentist said, his face looming over me. Dr. Robinson didn’t look much older than I was, and I was only fifteen. “The shots will feel like little tweaks. Are you ready, Evelyn?”

My gaze settled on a rectangular window beyond Dr. Robinson’s left shoulder. It wasn’t a generous window, or a pleasing one, and it showed nothing but dismal, cloudy sky. Twelve white slats ran across it, which I knew because I had counted them to distract myself as three shots of Novocain seared into my upper gumline. I’d trudged a mile and a half through heavy Seattle grayness for this appointment, alone, miserable, weeping. The weather suited my mood.

“That’ll get numb real quick,” said Dr. Robinson, busying himself at my side. Only, the first three shots didn’t numb my tooth. Neither did the next three. “I don’t know what’s going on here,” Dr. Robinson muttered, refilling the syringe. “This will be another pinch.”

I was finding it hard to breathe, as if one of the big round weights from my brother’s weight-lifting set was resting on my chest. Maybe two of them.

“That okay?” asked Dr. Robinson.

“Uh,” I grunted, my mouth gaping and salivating. No, I wasn’t okay. I hurt. Only, it wasn’t in my mouth.

“So, let’s get this cavity taken care of, shall we?” 

I yelped as the drill bit into the tooth. My back arched. My arms spasmed.

Dr. Robinson jerked away, flustered. “Not numb yet? I waited extra time. It should be numb.”

I turned my head away as he went back to the Novocain vial, not wanting him to see my tears.

“Ready for more?” he asked. “I’m really sorry. I hate to do this to you. These next shots shouldn’t hurt as bad.” Dr. Robinson administered the injections, then sat at my side, waiting. “Numb yet? You’ve had nine shots now.”

I only wished I was numb. A tear dribbled out of my eye. Then another.

He frowned. “Evelyn? What’s wrong? Are you nervous?”

I shook my head. “It’s just a bad day for me. A really bad day.” I glanced at him and saw his worried blue eyes.

“Look,” he said. “We don’t have to do this.” He put down the tool he’d been about to use. “What happened? Can you tell me?”

I swiped at my eyes, trying to avoid the suction tube hanging over my lip and the teal-colored bib clipped under my chin. “My boyfriend.”

Was he really my boyfriend, I wondered? Ricky and I had grown close. I’d never known anyone as spontaneous as him, as fun to be around. We played wild games of ping pong in my basement, making up our own rules. We were prone to burst into song— “Another Brick in the Wall” was a favorite—and to reciting as many lines as we could remember from “Grease”. He called himself The Italian Stallion. He called me Elevator.

“Did you break up?” asked Dr. Robinson.

“No.”

“Did you have a fight?”

“No.” I waited until he took the suction tube out of my mouth. “No. He died.”

Dr. Robinson froze. “He…died?”

“Early this morning.”

“Oh, jeez,” he said as he hung the suction tube on a clip on the side table. He turned back to me. “I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.” He paused. “Why are you here?”

I shrugged. “I had an appointment. My mom said I should come.”

We fell silent. Ricky was gone. I’d never see him again. His frail, pale body had given up the fight. Graft Versus Host Disease, it was called. In 1979, it happened about half the time with bone marrow transplants, and the doctors at Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center had done everything they could. Ricky’s mother, Anne, had been with him. She told us that she held his hand and said it was okay for him to rest, to let himself sleep, to be at peace. That was at two o’clock in the morning. Ricky was gone by seven forty-six. That was only four hours ago.

“That’s traumatic. You shouldn’t have come,” Dr. Robinson said.

Ricky shouldn’t have died. That’s what shouldn’t have happened.

He had “Boy in the Bubble” disease, which an older brother had succumbed to a few years earlier. Doctors thought a bone marrow transplant might save Ricky, so he and Anne, and also a third older brother who would donate the marrow, had come from Sacramento, California, to stay with us in Seattle while Ricky prepared for and underwent the dangerous procedure. They were distant relatives by marriage, we hadn’t known them, but it didn’t take long for both Ricky and Ann to become a welcome part of our family. So, was the Italian Stallion my boyfriend? Before he was in the hospital, we held hands when no-one else was around. We even kissed once. Was he my boyfriend? We hadn’t really figured it out. We’d run out of time.

Dr. Robinson unclipped my bib. “Evelyn. I am so sorry. Did you know that stress hormones can break down anesthetic? That’s why we can’t get you numbed up. Why don’t you go on home? We’ll reschedule for later.”

I stood up, wavering on my feet.

“I probably shouldn’t do this,” my dentist said. He leaned in. Put his arms around me. Hugged me. After he let me go, he dabbed his cheeks, which were as wet as mine. “Sometimes, a person has to be human, you know? Even a dentist.” He stepped back, then said, in a voice so soft I barely heard: “I lost my baby son two months ago. You have to let yourself feel it. Go home. Be with family.”

And so I walked home through drizzling cold rain, still feeling raw, still feeling wretched. But the sensation of Dr. Robinson’s hug lingered around my shoulders, and I realized I’d found something in his unexpected kindness: I wasn’t alone.

                                                                  *   *   *

Evelyn Arvey is a writer and artist living in Seattle, WA. Her work has appeared in Kaleidoscope, Allegory, and Pedestal Magazines, among others. She is the editor of two compilations of writings of people with MS, and her novel, “The Architect of Grayland,” was recently released. Evelyn is a member of the Peoria Tribe of Indians of Oklahoma.