American Chordata: Magazine of New Writing Issue One, Spring 2015 | Page 129

A L L Y W H I T E Horse Girl ( Jenny), 
acrylic and collage on panel, 24 x 24 inches

FICTION

art name

At my last visit, Dr. Fuller said I had healed beautifully. When he
snipped the wires that held my teeth shut, I gulped air so fresh it
seemed to burn. I went to the bathroom, where I drank water from
the faucet and brushed my teeth three times until the rotten smell
went away. In the mirror, I stared at myself. My teeth sat unevenly
on top of one another, the top slanting over the bottom. My chin
hung low, and to the right.
Dr. Fuller said he wanted to take my photo for the Wall of Fame.
He posed me against a white wall, just beneath the portrait of
Brigitte, counted to three, and snapped. He shook the Polaroid dry

111

A L LY W H I T E

I stood in the street as she pulled around. She waved at me as
she went by, a tickly little wave, and I felt it work on someone who
was not me, as if someone beside me was falling in love. Her headlights faded as she turned the corner, and I was left in a soft, orange
dark. Gnats swarmed beneath the streetlight, strobing flecks that
might as well have been dust. I looked at my house from the road
and saw the overgrown yard, the siding stained with rust from the
saggy, weighted gutters. Once inside, I heard a strange sound, a
metallic whir coming from somewhere. I followed the noise to the
living room, where my mother lay on the sofa. She wore headphones,
and I could hear that she was listening to a recording of one of her
nights at Shenanigans, a tape she brought out sometimes. Her eyes
were shut tight. Her flip-flopped feet tapped to the beat. On the
coffee table was a drained bottle of wine.
I went back to my bedroom. On the door was a note:
“You sneak. Your lies have broke my heart. I know you (and
those people) think I’m an asshole, but I’m not. I love you to death.
From the first moment I saw you I never wanted you to feel any
pain, and I hope you know I live to make you smile. LOVE, Mom.”
The air in my bedroom was sour. I opened the window. I climbed
into bed but couldn’t sleep. I retrieved one of the books Mrs. Larkin had given me, the one about the love affair in India. I read from
a random page. “The next morning, she awoke tangled in silk sheets. ‘I
never want to go back to Connecticut,’ she said.” I put the book aside.