Dr. Harris examined the molars with the small mirror, gently touched one tooth with the explorer, and Lily immediately shuddered.
She didn’t scream, but she clenched her fingers so tightly that her nails turned white.
“Uh-huh,” he murmured. “We have sensitivity here.”
Then he paused.
Too long for a single tooth.
He looked at Daniel again.
“I’m going to order an X-ray,” he finally said. “Just to be sure.”
The hygienist took Lily to the next room and, for the first time since we came in, Daniel and I were left alone with the dentist.
The silence immediately became strange, as if there were too much air between the three of them.
Daniel was the first to speak.
—Is it serious?
Dr. Harris did not respond immediately.
He slowly took off his gloves, placed them on the tray, and looked at him again with that strange calm of polite men when they are no longer being cordial, just precise.
“That depends,” he said.
Daniel frowned.
—Depends on what?
—How it happened.
I felt the change in the room before I understood the phrase.
My skin tightened, the back of my neck turned cold, and suddenly the buzzing of the lamp above the armchair sounded too loud.
Daniel let out a dry, forced laugh.
—It’s a toothache, doctor, not a crime scene.
Dr. Harris did not smile.
He didn’t even try to soften the blow.
“We’ll know when I see the license plate,” he replied.
At that moment Lily returned, pale, with enormous eyes, and something inside me rearranged itself with a silent violence: my daughter seemed to want to disappear from her own body every time Daniel spoke.
Why hadn’t I wanted to see that before?
The x-ray took less than three minutes.
The screen lit up next to the doctor’s desk, and the four of us stared at the bluish image of Lily’s childlike jaw as if there could be something more than a cavity hidden there.
