[Happy pre-Halloween! All week long the Mercury will be publishing classic tales of local Halloween horror from our archives, as well as brand spankin’ new (and creeeeepy) pieces… this one is from our 2017 special feature “The Tell-Tale Tooth: True Tales of Dental Horror.”—eds]
My family had a thing about discarded body parts.
When my brother and I got our tonsils out, we took them home in small bags of formaldehyde, where they hung on our fridge for years under little “his” and “hers” clips—that is, until our parents worried about the structural integrity of the swelling bags, and we had to throw them out. My parents also kept our crusty amputated baby belly buttons—I’ll give you a moment to process that—which were kept in envelopes in our baby books, serving as the baseline of every drunken dare in high school.
So when I got my wisdom teeth removed as a teenager, of course we took them home—where my mom immediately lost them.
I used to finger the holes in my mouth where my teeth used to be and wonder: Where could they have chomped off to? Was there a secret jar of children’s teeth somewhere in our house that my parents never told us about? The ones they stole while posing as the Tooth Fairy so they’d have a complete collection? Did somebody take them for my DNA? (Follow-up questions: Is DNA valuable, and is it even in teeth?) Often I’d lay awake at night, swearing I could hear a faint chitter-chatter of my ghost teeth in our walls, tapping out a message I could never understand. Chitter chatter… chitter chatter… chitter chatter.
