The Hygienist

The bell above the glass door chimes. The noise always makes her cringe. Catherine lets go of the door and steps into the standard climate of fake wood chairs and neat stacks of old magazines. The waiting room at Sunset Dental Services is every bit as empty as her heart. The night’s cold breeze blows dead leaves ahead of her. The bell jingles again as the door closes behind her. The sound echoes in her empty heart, taking her back to the last time she saw her son, Connor. Maybe after tonight, she can end the pain once and for all. Maybe she’ll be whole again.

The office smells vaguely of candy, the way watermelon gum tastes like watermelon, which is to say, not at all. She kicks the leaves aside and waves to the receptionist, Darlene, a cheerless crone with severe hair and yellowed teeth. Seems like she’s always here, as much a fixture as the sign on the wall: You don’t have to brush all your teeth, only the ones you want to keep!”

“Full moon tonight,” Darlene says. On her dry lips, the words sound like an accusation.

Catherine nods. “Full house?”

Darlene stares at her through horn-rimmed frames. “I just hope we can make it through the night without an incident.”

“We’ll see, won’t we? What time is the final patient?”

“4:15.”

She sighs and pockets her keys — clutching them so they don’t jingle. Through the next door, she walks down the hall. The doors to the restroom and the exam rooms are all open, but Doctor’s private office remains shut. Typical. He hides from the patients until he absolutely has to face them. She can’t blame him.

Catherine doesn’t have an office. She’s only a hygienist. She ducks into the bathroom and sits on the toilet.

The room smells of artificial lemons. She rummages in her purse, pulls out a silver flask, and swallows a generous belt of espresso-flavored vodka. She closes her eyes and savors the clean heat. It burns pure behind her breasts. She imagines white-hot flames gnawing at her empty heart. She licks her lips and pops a wad of gum into her mouth. Watermelon. Sure.

Her first patient is scheduled for 9 p.m. Doctor caters to a very particular clientele, the sort that keep late hours, pay well, and have special needs.

The bell above the door never chimes, but sure enough, Darlene offers her standard raspy greeting at 8:59.

“Good evening. Fill out this paperwork and our dental hygienist, Catherine, will be right with you.”

A few minutes later, Catherine spits out her gum and walks down the hall. She opens the door to find a pale, blond-haired woman in the waiting room. She peers at Catherine over a well-worn issue of Entertainment Weekly. Brad Pitt grins from behind a peeling address label. The patient’s wearing too much eyeliner.

“You must be Lisa,” Catherine says.

The patient flashes a smile. “Yes, I absolutely must.”

“Come on back. We’ll be in Exam Room Two.”

Catherine doesn’t bother holding open the hallway door. Instead, she walks straight back to Exam Room Two. Sure enough, Lisa’s already draped in the dental chair. Catherine ignores the theatrics. Such trickery no longer impresses her. It never did.

The room has no windows, though a set of venetian blinds hangs pointlessly on the outside-facing wall. A mural of cartoon sunshine with a wide smile is painted on the space behind the blinds, for the rare occasions when Doctor sees child patients. Right now, the blinds are closed.

Lisa arches an eyebrow at the blinds. “Am I your first victim of the night?”

“Hmm. You are.”

“It’s a full moon. I was surprised I was able to get an appointment.”

“No, they tend to book the later appointments.”

Catherine puts on her mask first, to hide her breath. She slides her hands — no longer shaking — into blue latex gloves. She learned the hard way that pink gloves make the patients aggressive. Blue is the least appetizing color, after all.

“Okay, open up.”

Lisa opens wide, and Catherine can’t help thinking of a bear trap. Her teeth gleam white. Her flawless skin might as well be air-brushed. Catherine resists the urge to run a blue finger down Lisa’s sculpted cheek. She scrapes her probe at some plaque on the right mandibular central incisor but the night’s final appointment weighs on her mind. Not thinking, she reaches for a dental mirror.

“That won’t do you any good,” Lisa says.

“I know. Sorry.” She fumbles the mirror back onto the instrument tray.

“You sure you’re ready for this? I can smell the watermelon on your breath.”

“I’m fine.”

Except she’s not fine. Clearly. The patient — this night and what lies ahead — have her rattled. She accidentally makes eye contact with Lisa, a big mistake.

The patient’s eyes are the color of marble, flecked with sunset pinks and ocean greens. Her pupils become endless holes that have their own gravity. Catherine’s consciousness falls slowly inside that perfect darkness, a rapturous descent as sensuous as feathers over bare skin. Slices of frozen memories slide across her vision, like the photographs that ooze out of photo booths.

Her son walks alongside her through the nighttime woods. The leafless tree limbs shred the pale light from the bloated moon.

Metal jingles as her son hits the ground. The beast stares at her. Its yellow eyes gleam in the dark.

She runs after the monster that took her son. The leaves crunch under her feet. The beast howls in the distance, and she screams helplessly. Hot tears stream down her cheeks.

The images shatter. The darkness recedes.

Catherine’s back in Exam Room Two’s artificial light. She’s sitting next to the patient on the exam chair. Lisa clutches her elbow, keeping her from falling.

Lisa has closed her eyes.

“Look away,” she says, her voice now much deeper and distant.

The two words act like puppet strings, yanking Catherine’s head to the side. She blinks and lets out what sounds like a stifled yawn. She takes a breath, and the patient pats her knee.

“You’ve lost someone,” Lisa says, her voice back to normal.

Catherine can’t look back, not yet. She tries to recall exactly how much the patient saw. The words come out of her, maybe something she heard in a movie or read in a book.

“It’s like having a tooth ripped out,” Catherine says, “except the roots never seem to heal. Everything’s so fake now. Nothing feels real.” She tips her head back and laughs. Not a pleasant sound. “And now I’m talking in bad rhyming poetry.”

Lisa squeezes her hand, her grip cool and strong like a python. “You think you’ll find him here? Would you even want to know him now?”

“He’d be about college-aged.” She jerks her head, as if shaking free of the phantom puppet strings.

Enough of this. She won’t sit here and have this thing fumble with her mind any longer. She retrieves the dental mirror from the floor — she doesn’t remember it falling — and picks up instead the silver sickle-shaped scaler. The curve of its sharp hook gleams under the synthetic light.

“Okay, open up.”

Lisa shrugs and opens her mouth. Her tongue lies flat and pink. She probably fed recently. Catherine presses her finger into the patient’s mouth, adjusting her pretty lips to better see the molars.

“All the way, please.”

The patient’s upper lip curls into a snarl. Her four cuspid teeth, two on top and two below, slide out of the gumline like a cat flexing its claws. The four fangs each have a pink buildup of hard plaque around the gumline.

“You have to do a better job cleaning these,” Catherine says, now scraping with her silver scaler. “Solenoglyph bacteria thrives below the gumline. This is a real problem for your kind.”

The look on Lisa’s face — wide eyes and furrowed brow — tells her that the patient has something to say. She retrieves her fingers from the open mouth.

“I’ve actually seen victims stare at the stains when I flick my teeth,” Lisa says. “Their faces go from shock and horror to revulsion. I never wanted to be gross.”

“You’ll lose your fangs if you don’t take care of them.”

“It’s hard when you can’t see your reflection.” It doesn’t appear she’s being defensive, just pointing out a fact.

“You do well enough with your makeup.”

“Do I?” She half-smiles. “I worry that perhaps I go overboard with the eye liner.”

Catherine chuckles. “You look great. At least you’re not wearing that damned body glitter. That stuff gets everywhere. You wouldn’t believe the places I’ve found it — sometimes days after a cleaning.”

Lisa snarls. “Ever since those damn books came out.”

The rest of the night is more of the same — a parade of freaks and creatures, some coming from as far as five states away. Doctor has a reputation among this community. By the end of the night, her feet throb. Her flask is near empty. The next to last patient just about slays her. Not even a surgical mask can block the stench of a mummy’s breath.

Her final patient arrives at 4:19 a.m. Their kind is always running late.

Darlene always schedules the newbies last, just in case. The patient waits for her in Exam Room Three.

This room is identical to Exam Room Two, except the chair has metal bands and the dental tray holds no silver instruments. No matter how thoroughly Darlene cleans this room, it still smells vaguely of wet dog. There’s always at least one hair clinging to Catherine when she leaves. She closes the door.

The new patient looks about twenty years old, with a Caesar haircut, warm eyes, and predictably stubbly cheeks. He drums his fingers on his lap. His fingernails are dirty, though his hands are well scrubbed. Hairy palms, of course.

“Chris?” she says, and he nods. “This is your first time.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Did Darlene review the procedure?”

“She did.”

Mask. Blue gloves.

“I’ll need to strap you in before we begin.”

He nods. “I understand.”

“I can’t give you the anesthetic until you change,” she says. “After that, you won’t remember a thing.” Normally, hygienists can’t administer anesthetics, but this isn’t a normal practice.

“I’ve forgotten more than my share of nights,” he says. “Especially in the early days. Kinda goes with the territory.”

Catherine pulls the metal bands across his shins, thighs, waist, and chest. Even through his clothing, his body heat blushes like a fever. He’s not wearing the usual torn clothes and muddy soles. This one has it together. He’s been at it for awhile. He fits the profile.

“I’ll start by reviewing your history.” Catherine places his chart on the counter and holds up her pen. “What’s your primary birthday?”

“June 2, 1975.”

She writes down his answer. “Birthplace?”

“Topeka, Kansas.”

“What’s your secondary birthday?”

“March 1997.” He shakes his head a little, like a flower in the breeze. “Not sure of the day.”

“That’s fine.” She does some mental calculations. “Secondary birthplace?”

“Louisville, Kentucky.”

Catherine’s heart stumbles over his words. Her blood cells push and shove past each other in her veins like bargain shoppers on Black Friday. Can he smell her excitement?

“You ever visited Lexington?” she says. “I lived there once.”

He shrugs, as much as his safety bindings allow. “Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know. Those days were a blur. Even now, I can’t stay in one place for too long.”

“Even now?”

“I’ve gone green. No two-legged meat for me. See, me and the wolf, we have an understanding. It took a long time, but I showed him who the alpha is. I tamed him.”

“That’s commendable,” she says. “And how many times a day do you brush?”

“At least four when the moon is waning. It’s like I can’t get the taste of it out of my mouth. When the moon’s waxing, morning and night. When it’s full, it all depends if I can find my toothbrush.”

She’s doodling now. No point in recording his answers.

“How often do you floss?”

“I don’t like having fingers in my mouth.”

She holds up a gloved hand. “You’ve come to the wrong place.”

“With the latex, it’s fine. It’s just…I’ve tasted enough skin.”

“You really should floss. Your other self, does it only feed during full moons?”

“Usually. Sometimes a few days before or after.”

“What are its dietary preferences?”

He sighs. “Cows, mostly. Dogs or cats, if necessary.”

“Just meat, or bones, too?”

The patient winces. “Bones.”

“What about before you went green? What did it prefer to eat then?”

“Is this necessary?”

“We need a full medical history, Chris, so we can understand how to treat you. Your kind suffers from some of the worst dental conditions. The biting and chewing, the bad hygiene, and the nature of solenoglyph teeth…you’re high-risk for many conditions. So tell me, what did your other self prefer to eat?” She’s careful to say what, and not who.

“It seemed to like them young, usually boys.”

“I see.”

She doesn’t bother writing down any more. Instead, she presses the button on the chair. It whirrs in response, and the patient reclines from sitting to almost lying down. He swallows hard. A beard now covers his cheeks.

“You smell like watermelon,” he says. “And relief.”

“I need to put in the mouth prop before you change.” She holds up a metal device fitted with two hinges, a nylon strap, and silicone pads. “It’ll keep your — its — jaws open during the exam.”

“My shoes. Do you mind?”

“Of course.” She takes off his loafers and socks, surprised by the smoothness of his bared soles. His toenails are dirty — already sharp. She places his shoes neatly on the floor.

He nods. “Do what you have to do.”

She can’t meet his gaze. “Okay, open up.”

He does.

She works the mouth prop into his mouth, until his jaws are spread open like the belly of a dissected frog. The final metal band holds his forehead in place.

“Whenever you’re ready,” she says.

His body jerks and twitches. She closes her eyes.

With the prop in place, the patient can’t scream. First, she hears his fur sprouting, a scratchy swoosh that sounds like static on the radio. It reminds her of speed-lapse footage of flowers growing, something dynamic that happens every day all around her but too slowly to perceive. Next, the bones. They transform in bursts of splintering snaps, like an oversized bag of popcorn in the microwave. Now comes the leathery squeak of stretching skin. The mouth prop clicks as its hinges adjust to the patient’s extending muzzle. The transformation ends with a growl, a rusty motor revved in a dirty garage.

She opens her eyes and gasps.

The beast stares back at her. She knows it well. The brown fur with patterned highlights of black and white. Those yellow hateful eyes. The long sharp teeth.

She locks the door and pulls her silver scaler out of her pocket. The beast’s growls deepen, a chainsaw cutting into burnt wood.

“Open up,” she whispers.

As she makes her first cut, she remembers her son — not the way he was the night he died, but the way he was as a baby.

He was such a perfect infant with his warm smile and baby powder scent. The milk stains around his lips. The sound of his gentle snoring. The urgent pressure at her breast. She prefers to remember him like that, so pure and genuine. In those few precious months of infant bliss, she found the wholeness that her late husband could never provide. She was complete.

It didn’t last.

When her son got older, their harmony fell apart. He grew sullen and willful. He no longer laughed at her jokes. They spent many dinners sitting in painful silence. She grew to despise this spoiled thing that she’d somehow raised. He was no better than his father, possibly worse. In fact, she no longer saw him as a real person but more like one of those mannequins at the mall.

That final night, he rattled off question after question as she led him deeper into the woods. A full moon hovered over the leafless trees.

“This is lame,” he said. “Why are we going on a walk so late?”

“Because I have something to show you.”

“And it can’t wait until morning? I’m missing my shows.”

“It has to be now. Tonight.”

“Why are you squeezing my hand so tight?”

“Because…I love you.”

She remembers the feel of his neck — as fragile as a bird — beneath her hands. She kept her eyes closed until he stopped struggling. When it was done, she opened her eyes and gasped. His face no longer looked like a mannequin, more like some cheap Halloween mask. She released him.

He fell to the ground. The loose change in his pocket jingled together a single death note. She took a deep breath.

Her tears spilled downward, hot on her cheek. They felt so genuine. So real. The night was crisper, somehow. The stars above burned brighter. The full moon seemed to shine solely on her. She was whole again. Complete.

Until something growled behind her.

She turned. A horrific beast crouched at the edge of the clearing. Part man, part wolf. Its yellow eyes stared at her, hating her. Judging her. It growled, leapt forward, and knocked her to the ground. The vile thing scooped up the lifeless boy and ran away. Whimpering.

That night, she cried so many tears. She wasn’t sad. No, she was angry. It had all felt so real, so crystal clear, until that dirty beast showed up and ruined it.

She never figured out if the monster took her son in a futile attempt to help or if the vile creature simply meant to feed on easy meat.

Honestly, she doesn’t care.

She takes her time with the patient, cutting away strips of furry flesh and tearing out all the vital things beneath. He thrashes and whines. His chest rises and falls quickly. Near the end, all the fur falls out, revealing the mutilated man beneath. In this long blissful moment, the emptiness inside her heart fades. She is whole. Complete.

When she’s finished with the patient, she bags up the pieces, unlocks the door, and calls for Darlene. The older woman’s chair squeaks. Her slow footsteps shuffle down the hall. Darlene opens the door, steps inside over a puddle of blood, and closes the door.

“Can you help me get this room cleaned up?” Catherine says.

“Doctor is going to notice if we keep losing patients.”

“He fit the profile.”

“So did the last seven.” Darlene puts her hands on her hips. “Are you sure? Is this the last time?”

“I think so. I really do.”

She chokes back a sob. Her lower lip trembles. Darlene pulls her in and hugs her tight. The old woman smells of baby powder and mints. Her wrinkled hands pat Catherine’s head, and that’s when the tears come out. She’s not sad. She’s not even angry, anymore. She’s just savoring the moment. It feels so perfect and real.

The crying is such a blessed relief. She savors the tears’ clean heat and pure burn. She enjoys it while it lasts.

It never lasts long.

The sun nudges against the horizon when she finally leaves the office. Dead leaves scurry across the asphalt. She clutches her keys tight. The door shuts behind her, and that bell jingles cheerfully behind her.