For her first meal with the new teeth, Vera bought an apple.
She ate it standing outside the clinic, juice running over her fingers. The sound astonished her. She hadn't bitten into anything that made a sound in seven years.
The clinic occupied a converted shop between a betting office and a closed bakery. Its window offered RESTORED DIGNITY at prices Vera could almost afford. The dentist had called the teeth reclaimed. People donated things when they died. She hadn't asked what kind of person had owned them.
At home, her grandson watched her eat a slice of toast.
"You're smiling differently," he said.
"I have something to smile with."
Ben laughed, then pressed a hand to his stomach.
He was hungry again. He'd just eaten two sandwiches. Vera made him another, pleased to have food in the house and someone to feed.
By evening, he had eaten everything she'd put aside for the following day. His face looked sharper. When she touched his wrist, the skin felt loose around the bone.
His mother collected him and said he was growing. She asked Vera whether the new teeth hurt.
"Only when I stop eating."
That night the teeth wouldn't come out.
Vera stood over the sink, pulling until her eyes watered. Something beneath the lower plate tightened when she pulled. She could feel a small movement in her jaw, delicate and purposeful, like a finger testing a seam.
At two in the morning she ate a spoonful of jam. The ache stopped.
Through the wall she heard her neighbor's baby begin to cry.
She ate another spoonful. The crying grew thin.
Vera put the jar down.
At the clinic the next morning, the dentist looked into her mouth and said the fit was excellent.
"They won't come out."
"An adjustment period."
"My grandson ate six sandwiches. Then his mother took him to the hospital."
The dentist lowered his mirror.
"You shouldn't eat with children close by."
For a moment Vera thought she'd misunderstood him.
"What?"
He turned toward the counter and began putting his instruments away.
"They have very little to spare."
She tried to stand. He pressed her shoulder against the chair.
"You can control it. Eat alone. Choose your surroundings. The teeth are not unreasonable."
"Take them out."
"They've settled."
His hand lay on her shoulder, warm and well fed. Vera thought about biting it. The thought arrived with such pleasure that she began to shake.
He saw her looking.
"Please don't make this difficult."
On a tray beside the sink, another set of teeth lay beneath a damp cloth. The cloth moved. A narrow wet root felt along its edge, then withdrew when the dentist tapped the tray.
Vera asked what they were.
"Useful," he said. "You came here because the alternatives cost more than you have."
In the waiting room, the receptionist called the next patient. Vera could see his shoes beneath the door. An old man in slippers, someone else who'd stopped expecting an apple.
She put her hands on the lower plate and pulled.
The dentist caught her wrists. She screamed, and the old man in the waiting room knocked on the door.
The dentist turned his head.
Vera pulled again.
Something tore beneath her tongue. The pain filled her ears. She couldn't see the sink anymore, but she could feel the plate separating, roots stretching from the pink underside into places they should never have reached.
The dentist tried to push it back.
Vera bit his hand.
He struck her face, and the lower plate came free into her lap. The upper one followed with a sucking noise. Both sets of roots moved toward the blood on his fingers.
"Don't touch them," she tried to say.
What came out was mostly blood.
The dentist snatched a towel from the counter and wrapped it around the teeth. Blood from his bitten hand soaked through. Vera slid from the chair and crawled toward the door. Behind her he made a surprised little cough.
When she looked back, roots had threaded through the towel and fastened around his wrist. He tried to shake them off. His arm jerked upward, striking his mouth. He bent over the sink and spat out a broken tooth. Something pale moved between his lips.
The old man opened the door. He helped Vera into the waiting room and called an ambulance on his phone. The receptionist stood beside the appointment book, staring into the surgery.
The dentist came after them. His cheeks were drawing inward. He opened the cupboard where the staff kept their lunches and began eating with both hands.
The receptionist bent over, clutching her stomach.
Vera pointed at the exit. The old man understood. They got outside with the receptionist, who locked the street door behind them. The dentist beat against the glass, his mouth full of somebody else's sandwiches.
The receptionist bent over again. Vera pulled at her sleeve, pointing down the street. They kept moving until the pain in the woman's stomach began to ease. The ambulance found them outside a furniture shop, far enough away that they couldn't hear the dentist anymore.
At the hospital, Vera's daughter brought Ben to see her. He looked tired but had eaten a normal breakfast. He brought two pots of applesauce so they could eat together.
Vera couldn't speak yet. The surgeons had shown her what remained of her gums and explained what they might be able to repair.
Vera took a spoonful and watched Ben. He finished his portion, scraped the lid clean and asked his mother for a drink. Only then did Vera take another.
It was sweet and made no sound.
