Page 39 of Life Out of Order

You never know, I write. Give me my backpack. I fumble with the zipper, find my wallet. I hand her a twenty.

“Oh, Alba, don’t—I’m too old for that,” Lucinda says, worried. She often sounds worried; she’s such a serious kid.

Will you let me have your wisdom teeth?

She senses that I’m not joking. “What for?”

I don’t know, I tell her, truthfully. One of my older selves asked me to ask you. She said it was important, and that it’s for Isadora.

“Oh,” Lucinda says. “I know what Isadora wants.” She lets out a little defeated sigh, then roots around in her purse and brings out a ziplock baggie. “I guess it’s fine. Yeah, whatever.”

You don’t have to. I have a vision of Isadora as the tooth fairy, sitting atop a hoard of Lucinda’s teeth like a dragon.

Lucinda puts her cool hand on my hot forehead. “It’s a very specific request, isn’t it?”

Yes. We both understand what that means. The future is reaching back to make something happen, and that means it has happened, and we might as well play our part. Whatever it is.

Lucinda hands me the baggie, and I try to give her the twenty, but she says no. “It’s a gift,” Lucinda says. “For Isadora.”

Thank you. She’ll appreciate it.

“No.” Lucinda sounds dubious. “I don’t think she understands what it’s for. It’s for some sort of treatment. Stem cells, or something. But I’ll let her have it anyway.”

You’re sweet.

Lucinda is about to deny it when we hear Mama, Beck and Celia returning. I hide the baggie under my pillow. They fuss over me for a while, then all of them leave for the night. Lucinda leans over to hug me goodbye and whispers, “Don’t tell,” and it’s funny because I was about to say the same to her.

Later, Dr. Kendrick stops by to see how I’m doing. I pretend I’m in less pain than I am; he tells me not to be a martyr. Then he says, “What’s that?” The baggie is poking out from under my pillow. Dr. Kendrick picks it up. Before I can explain he says, “Alba, are you losing teeth?”

They aren’t mine, I write.

Dr. Kendrick looks horrified. “I’m failing to imagine a boring reason for you to have a baggie full of someone else’s teeth under your pillow.”

Can you preserve them? The DNA in them?

“You want to bank them? Why?”

My future self wants them.

Dr. Kendrick turns on the reading light behind my bed and examines the contents of the baggie. I shut my eyes. “When were these extracted? Today?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Do you know what the DNA will be used for?”

No. I guess someone will tell you eventually?

“Okay. I’ll take care of them.” He tucks the baggie into his briefcase. “Whose teeth are they?”

It’s a secret.

“You are every bit as crazy as your dad,” he says, turning out the light. I curl into a ball in the hospital bed and try to ignore the pain in my head.

It’s a gift for Isadora, Lucinda said. She won’t understand what it’s for. I don’t, either, but all the possibilities are alarming. I don’t notice when I fall asleep. I dream I am flying . . . I am waiting to hit the ground, but I never do.

Rosehill

Thursday, September 7, 2023 (Alba is 42, Lucinda is 16)