Chapter Text
London // Saturday, November 16, 1968
On a quiet Saturday morning, a few weeks after they arrived in London, Dr. Paul Bramley opened his office for his Beatle patient to have privacy during his dental appointment. He had mentioned that his girlfriend and her daughter, both of whom were living with him, would tag along. Curiously, though Heather insisted on him going, the thought of going herself struck a chord of terror. He and Linda both agreed that the best way to quell her fear was to see someone she cared about go first. In a few months, it would be her turn again.
Paul’s black Aston Martin came to a stop about a half block from the office. Confused, Heather leaned toward Paul, who was in the driver’s seat, reminding him, with a light British inflection, that there was no dentist there—just a long, white building that curved with the road. Evenly spaced throughout the Georgian-style building were small archways. The one they were sitting in front of had the number “24” on its green door in a faux-gold-plated metal. Tamping out his cigarette in the ash tray, Paul explained that Dr. Bramley’s surgery was just a few doors down. Heather’s eyes widened. Quickly, he tacked on that what the British call a ‘surgery’ is what Americans call an ‘office’.
Still troubled by this explanation, Heather shook her head ‘no’. Why had she insisted that he even go in the first place? It seemed like a fun idea at the time but, now that it had arrived, she wanted to abandon ship; at least Paul was the one going and not her. Her fingernails digging into Kitty’s orange tabby fur, she curved her back to mold the curve of the frame of the car as she wiggled her loose tooth with her tongue. The radio, meanwhile, hummed with the sounds of guitars.
In the front seat, Linda passed Paul a very welcome joint. Directing the smoke out the open window, he looked into the distance. Linda tugged his left arm, pulling the plug on the thoughts that filled the bathtub of his mind. With a sheepish smile, he graciously passed it. Rolling up the windows, he turned off the car's engine. For a brief second, he sat until his father’s voice took over: “do it now”.
Paul stood up, unexpectedly making his toothache throb. He popped his head into the car, offering Heather a hand and a PR smile. His pulse felt slightly off center. “Come ‘ead, treacle. I can’t leave me junior doctor behind.”
Heather’s favorite shoes clicked down the pavement as Paul and Linda walked hand in hand. A few feet later, Paul veered to the left, arriving at a shiny black door with no numbers. She noticed that the gold mail slot reached her chest. Peering up, she saw a half-moon window with white trim. On the door, in front of Paul’s forehead, was a foreboding door knocker of a lion. Resting comfortably in its mouth was a circular gold hoop.
“Is this the dentist?” Heather asked.
Paul gulped, his mouth a bit dry. Bending down, he scooped Heather up, feeling the suede fringe from Heather’s jacket between his fingers. He asked her to read the plaque above the buzzer: “Doctor Paul Bramley. Please ring bell.” Heather did as the sign instructed.
“Hello?” a posh old man’s voice answered through the tinny speaker, startling Heather.
“The prodigal son returns,” Paul joked. Linda chuckled.
“I’ll be down in a minute.”
Heather distracted herself by looking around at the neighborhood with people hurrying along just like they would in New York. Hearing the click of a lock, the door opened, only to find an older, man with warm brown eyes, a square-headed handsome face and a neatly-trimmed, perfectly coiffed grey hair. About Paul’s height, his young, handsome face hid that he was a bit older. Faint creases accented his forehead and around his eyes but his hands were what gave away his age. His boxy yet thin-framed glasses slid down his petite nose. “Come in, please,” he offered, motioning his white-coated arm toward the opened doorway to a fluorescent-lit room. As Heather’s shoulders turned inward, Paul gave her a squeeze. After introducing everyone, Dr. Bramley escorted Paul through the darkened waiting room; his steps nimble and adept, Paul had always figured the he must have been a dancer in his youth.
Peering around the surgery while hanging onto Paul, Heather frowned. Everything in the room looked familiar—the chair, the moveable overhead light and, of course, the dreaded tray of tools. This room felt more cavernous and inescapable. Dr. Bishop’s office in New York, at least, had a window, which looked onto an office building of some kind.
Paul set Heather down and helped her take her jacket off. Handing it to Linda, he gave her a graceful kiss on the lips. Feeling her squeeze his left hand, she then took her place on the avocado green moral support chair. Paul took his as well, climbing into the dark green recliner in the center of the room. Making eye contact with Paul, she waved, causing him to laugh so she could see his fang.
Heather tenuously offered her trusted orange tabby companion to Paul, who placed Kitty across his lap. As she promised weeks ago, she stood beside him, dutifully holding his right hand. Kitty’s white paws contrasted with his light pink pants and worn black leather custom pointed dress shoes.
“Good to see you, Paul. It’s been a while,” Dr. Bramley said as he sat beside his estranged patient.
“It has, y’know. Brian used to make me appointments…” Paul trailed. Wistfully, he noticed the tank of nitrous oxide sitting in the left corner of the room.
“Oh, yes…he did. I haven’t seen you since then.” Dr. Bramley heaved a sigh. “I’m so sorry, Paul. That was quite a shock to all of us. It must’ve been incredibly difficult for all of you.”
Paul nodded, frozen.
“Who’s Brian?” Heather interjected, massaging her right cheek.
“He was a good friend of mine, treacle.”
“Why aren’t you friends any more?”
Biting his lip while rubbing the side of his nose, Paul sighed and plainly explained that Brian had died.
“Why?”
“We’re not sure, Heather.” Paul scratched the white fur on Kitty’s chest.
“Oh…” Heather trailed. “Were you sad?”
“I was, yes. I still am.”
Heather hugged Paul’s lower legs, the only part of his body she had easy access to on that side. Dr. Bramley took the opportunity to refresh himself on Paul’s chart. Sliding down on the chair, Paul scooped Heather into his arms. Her tiny arms wrapped around him as best they could. Though he had known her for barely two months, Heather already felt like his daughter.
“Daddy, I didn’t mean to make you sad. I’m sorry.”
“I know, treacle. You didn’t make me sad," he reassured to her in her left ear.
“Do you miss him?” she whispered.
“I do, y’know. Brian was the one who helped me and me mates become professional musicians. He helped get auditions with record labels here in London. Without him, I’m not sure I would’ve even met your Mummy. He allowed her to come to a party and take photos for an album that me mates did. Have you ever seen the photo of John and I laughing and shaking hands?”
Heather nodded against his shoulder as she rubbed her left cheek. “I like that one.”
“I do, too, treacle. That one’s Mummy's.” Paul continued rubbing Heather’s back.
Paul and John shaking hands at the Sgt. Pepper album party at Brian Epstein's flat in Fitzrovia, London. May 19, 1967.
photo credit: Linda McCartney
“What was he like?”
“Brian? He was very kind, smart as a whip, a brilliant listener…he loved the theater. Brian originally wanted to be a theater actor but never made it. He worked for his dad up in Liverpool at a record shop called NEMS.”
Looking up from the file, Dr. Bramley smirked when noticed how easily Heather lay easily against Paul's chest. Since she had been here, she stayed very close to her father. In return, Paul seemed to be comforting Heather. He wasn't sure who was rescuing who. “If I remember correctly, Brian originally wanted to be a dress maker.”
“Cor…how different our lives would’ve been, eh? Makes you think…” Paul ran the fingers on his left hand over the rounded green plastic-like material covering the arm rests. He exhaled a short, weighty breath through his lips.
“One person really can impact the lives of others.”
“That sounds like something the Maharishi would say.”
“Have you continued to meditate? I remember Groovy Bob mentioning that you went to India for a bit.”
“Yeah, I have. It’s helped a bit, y’know. I used to…” Paul paused, not wanting Heather to hear. “Everything was just a little too much. Just a little left of center, y’know. Meditation’s helped center me. Helped to keep me feet on the ground.”
“Daddy, your feet aren’t on the ground now,” Heather pointed.
“It’s just an expression, y’know,” he chuckled. “It means that you’re quite sensible about things. Right now, the most sensible thing to do is to sit in Dr. Bramley’s chair. Come ‘ead, you’ll hold my hand so I don’t float away then,” he instructed as he allowed Heather to get down..
“Would you like me to turn on the radio, Paul? As long as it’s alright for everyone else.”
“Yeah, that’d be brilliant,” Paul perked. The music would soothe his nerves (and his toothache) now. Once Heather left, he'd be able to relax with some nitrous oxide.
“It’s alright with me,” Linda nodded, her hands wedged between her knees.
Heather cautiously nodded.
“Alright, then,” Dr. Bramley chuckled. “Is Radio 1 alright? It seems to be the most stable these days.”
“Sure,” Paul nodded. “I used to like to Radio Caroline sometimes when I used to be able to get it. I heard they had some problems earlier this year.” Playing with Kitty’s tail, he added “I’m surprised you remembered.”
“Of course, Paul,” he sincerely smiled. With a chuckle, he added “you might even hear yourself.”
Paul noticed Dr. Bramley had moved onto washing his hands. “How’ve you been, Dr. Bramley?”
“I’ve been alright, thanks, Paul. I went on holiday to the south of France in August. I’d never been. Everywhere I went looked just like a postcard.”
“Oh really? I was there a while back shooting some footage for a project. It was quite lovely, y’know. Saw the sun rise from the mountains.”
“Sounds picturesque. Which project?”
“It was for a song called ‘Fool On The Hill’. It was for the Magical Mystery Tour special.”
“Oh yes…” Dr. Bramley mused aloud. He remembered the wave of negative criticism he heard about the special. He didn’t much care for it but felt a bit badly for the Beatles being dragged through the mud. “Looks like the last time I saw you was when I fixed up that front tooth. I haven’t heard from you since then. I assume no complaints, hmm?”
His heart thumped against his rib cage, which reverberated to his hips. “No, no,” Paul nervously chuckled, giving Kitty a pet. “It’s been alright, thankfully.”
“What was wrong with your tooth?” Heather inquired. “Daddy, what happened?”
“Oh,” Paul couldn’t help but smile at Heather’s name for him. Pointing to his left front tooth, he explained “I, uh, I broke me front tooth when I fell off a motorcycle.” Heather gasped. “It was just an accident, though. I’m alright, treacle. That was almost two years ago.”
“You haven’t been to the dentist in that long?!” Heather’s eyes lowered. “That’s not fair! Mommy, Paul didn’t go to the dentist so why did I have to?!”
“Heather-bear, going to the dentist is important, especially with your loose tooth.”
“But Paul didn’t go for a long time! His Mommy didn’t make him go!”
Linda bit her lip as Paul felt a verbal punch to the gut. Dr. Bramley interjected as he scrubbed his hands. “Your Mum’s right, Heather. Going for an exam is important.”
“Do you get them, too?”
“Of course. Every six months, just like I should.”
“Are Daddy's teeth ok?”
"That's what I'm going to see today, Ms. Eastman,” Dr. Bramley postulated. He began drying his hands.
Paul and Linda exchanged a glance, snickering to themselves at Dr. Bramley’s polite response; it was, occasionally, the name that he used for Linda in bed. It provided a brief moment of relief—he was feeling the heat from all sides about having neglected going. “I did forget but was very glad that you reminded me, Dr. Heather,” he smiled, offering his hand. “Me junior doctor ‘ere thought it’d be a good idea to come for a visit. Her and her mum have both had exams when I visited them in New York. Dr. Heather thought it was important for me to have my turn.”
“Very good job, Heather. That’s not an easy feat.” Dr. Bramley praised from across the room.
“Heather, leave your tooth alone,” Linda reminded her daughter from the moral support chair toward Paul’s feet. Her tan ribbed turtleneck flattered her complexion and bust.
“Mommy, it’s really loose,” Heather whined.
“It’ll fall out soon, Heather-bear.”
The dentist walked behind Paul, picking up the napkin from the metal tray and small sink beside him. 'Here we go,' thought Paul, taking a deliberately slow deep breath. His back left tooth momentarily throbbed again. The jagged tools underneath beguilingly rested in an orderly line as Dr. Bramley clipped the deliberately creased napkin over Paul’s white collared shirt. Heather gave her father a look of concern.
Tilting his head to the left, he focused on her. "Alright?" he tenderly asked. He could tell his question was moot. Heather's attention had been rattled by the pointy tools that lay beside him. Paul couldn't blame her. "Heather?" he whispered again as he squeezed her hand.
Heather's frame shuddered. Tugging her father's right arm, she coaxed him off the deceptively comfortable looking seat. "Put it there, treacle" he consoled with a squeeze of her hand.
"Daddy, those are Dr. Bishop's tools," Heather attempted to whisper.
Paul shook his head. "Those are Dr. Bramley's tools."
"But they look like Dr. Bishop's." Heather tugged her father's arm again, trying to point him toward the door.
"Mmm," he nodded. Sitting on his knees, Paul paused. "But Dr. Bramley's using 'em today, treacle."
Heather shook her head, wary of her father's positive insistence. She felt him place another kiss on her cheek as he returned Kitty to his rightful owner. His extra bit of reassurance seemed suspect. Her heart thumped hard against her chest as she cradled Kitty. Why had she done this to her father?
"Daddy, can we leave?" Heather anxiously begged.
"But we just got here, treacle. I haven't even had me exam yet."
Heather shook her head 'no' in distress as she tugged her father's arm. "We have to leave."
Linda crouched down beside her daughter. "Encouraging Daddy to come here was a very good thing, Heather. Dr. Bramley even said so. I'm very proud of you for coming and for being so brave," Linda praised as she gave Heather a warm smile.
"Come 'ead, Dr. Heather, you'll hold me hand, just like the song," he winked as he gave Heather tickles on her chest and neck. Once he heard a giggle, Paul gave her a fleeting kiss on her cheek. Quickly, he settled into the uninviting yet warm chair, mentally preparing himself for his teeth to be picked at and picked apart by the tools that lay beside him. This time, he held Heather's left arm; Kitty rested comfortably under her right arm.
Dr. Bramley waited patiently, internally marveling that an uneasy patient cast his fears aside to comfort his daughter. The comforts he gave to his niece, Audrey, were similar to when she needed cheering up or encouragement, especially when she came for an appointment.
"The tools here are very common for a dentist appointment, Heather," Dr. Bramley explained as he straightened his doctor's coat. "Today, I'm going to give your Dad an exam, cleaning and polish. I was also going to take some x-rays of his teeth."
Paul exhaled slowly. Dr. Bramley's plan sounded very matter-of-fact. Deceptively simple, even.
Linda unpursed her lips, almost letting a comment slip about that being very similar to Heather's appointment with Dr. Bishop. Seeing as how her daughter was already on edge, she refrained.
"Most of these tools are to help me clean your Dad's teeth."
Heather nodded with unease as she squeezed her feline companion. The comforting smell of her bed had been replaced with tinges of the dentist.
"I can help you understand but I need to know what you have questions about." He offered his patient's very tenuous daughter a friendly smile.
Heather turned to look at her mother, patiently sitting and watching just like she had been at Dr. Bishop's office in New York. At least, here, there was music.
"You always have such good questions, Heather. I'm sure there's something you're curious about."
"Why do the tools have to be pointy?" Heather asked her mother in earnest. "They look scary."
"That's an excellent question. I'm sure Dr. Bramley knows the answer."
A smile crept upon Dr. Bramley's lips. "That's a very good question, Heather. Let me find something to help me explain." Dr. Bramley arose from his seat to find the model of teeth he had on his counter. His ordinary movements had a touch of grace, shifting his weight from his left to right foot. Sitting back down, he showed Heather the model of adult teeth with his patient sandwiched in between them. "This is a model of a set of teeth just like your Dad has in his mouth, except it's a bit larger to make it easier to see." Opening it, he pointed "teeth are quite small, Heather. And your teeth are even smaller. Think about how small your toothbrush is!"
Heather paused, conceding that her toothbrush was fairly small.
"If your teeth are small, the instruments I use to clean them need to be even smaller. There are places between teeth or where you chew that have a lot of small spaces, like here or here," he pointed. "They can only get them very very clean if their tools are sharp. No matter how well anyone tries to clean their teeth, there's always a few places we miss. That's why people visit the dentist."
Heather nodded, accepting the sensible answer that Dr. Bramley gave. He seemed almost friendly. Maybe Dr. Bramley really was friendly like Daddy promised.
"Not all of them are, like the mirror or the polisher or even the water squirter," he chuckled. "But most of the ones on here are used for cleaning."
Heather nodded again, her heart slowing to an enthusiastic flutter. Kitty always helped.
"What do you say, Heather?" Linda reminded her.
"Thank you," Heather replied shyly.
Paul squeezed her hand. Pulling her close, he gave her a kiss atop her golden head of hair. in return, she gave her orange tabby companion back to her father.
"You're very welcome, Heather. If you have any other questions, you're welcome to ask. I rather like answering questions."
"Thank you," Heather nodded, leaning on Paul's legs. He offered Kitty to his daughter, who staunchly shook her head 'no'; Kitty needed to protect Daddy. If he was going to get an exam, he needed a fierce protector and who also had a comforting presence. The softness of his fur upon her fingertips calmed her nerves. She imagined him purring.
"Want to go sit with Mummy?" Paul asked as Dr. Bramley washed his hands. Though he appreciated the company, one nervous patient was more than enough.
Heather, once again, staunchly refused as her blonde hair tossed about.
"Alright, treacle," he happily sighed. "Promise you'll be good then?"
Heather nodded emphatically, noticing Dr. Bramley taking his place next to her father.
Paul noticed, too, when he heard him putting on gloves. “What’re the gloves for?”
Because it had been a while, Dr. Bramley could sense that Paul was, understandably, a bit more nervous than usual. Stalling for time, Paul meanderingly explained to Heather that not only did he and Dr. Bramley have the same first name, but they also were both left handed. Heather perfunctorily nodded, not finding this fact interesting in the slightest. She tugged at Paul's arm again.
"Eh," Paul mildly admonished. "No more tugging. You can stay here and hold me hand if you like or go and sit with Mummy."
Heather mumbled that she'd stay.
Paul scratched Kitty’s stomach fur. Doing so made him miss his dear Thisbe, who would have been purring as she moved to show her owner where else he should scratch. As his exam drew closer, he now had a first-hand understanding of Kitty’s soothing appeal.
“I usually don’t allow animals in the exam room but, in your case, I’ll make an exception," Dr. Bramley chuckled. "Who’ve you got there?”
“Oh, him?” Paul answered, holding up the orange tabby cat for Dr. Bramley to see. “This is Kitty. He’s Heather’s but she gave him to me to hold. He’s a very good cat, y’know.” Turning to Heather, he asked “does Kitty like being scratched under his chin, too? Just like our Thisbe?”
Heather nodded cautiously Dr. Bramley’s heart softened. Heather reminded him of his niece, Audrey, about 12 years ago—full of nerves as she waited for her turn with her teddy. Roller coasters didn't frighten her but, ever since her first filling, her uncle's exams gave her the shivers; like Heather, the tools frightened her because of what he might find. Now a teenager, she would have flipped if she knew that her uncle was treating her second favorite Beatle.
Noticing Dr. Bramley putting on rubber gloves, Paul inquired “what’re the gloves for?”
“For your exam. I started using them recently because it’s much more sanitary. I like it better than with bare hands.”
“You always were very tidy, y’know. I can’t get onto that.” Kitty’s tail glided through his fingers.
“It makes everything run smoother, I think. The patients say that they do taste a bit odd.”
“Mmm,” Paul mused to himself. Peering down, he saw Heather rubbing her left cheek again.
“Come 'ead, Heather. Let it alone.”
Paul felt the chair begin to slightly recline. Hearing the drone of the chair’s motor signaled that, now, there was really no turning back. Exhaling, he pet Kitty’s fur with his left hand, knowing that his toothache would spoil his chance of a good report.
Heather heard two clicks—one for the chair locking into its partially reclined position, the other for the switch on the bright light above. Feeling Heather squeeze his hand, he squeezed back. Shielding her eyes with Paul’s hand, Paul gave a chuckle as he involuntarily shuddered.
“Daddy, don’t be nervous! All you have to do is open your mouth and say ‘aaaah’. That’s what you told me. You have the easiest job.”
“Mmm, I remember, treacle.”
“Now it’s your turn, Daddy,” she smiled to her father, pulling his arm. “Will you be nice to Daddy?”
“Of course, Ms. Eastman.”
“Heather,” she corrected.
“Heather,” he graciously repeated. “I promise to take good care of your Dad.”
“I’m in good hands, Dr. Heather. Honest.”
“But, Daddy, you said you won’t even get a prize at the end! That’s not fair.”
“I’ve already won me prize, though—I’ve got you and Mummy with me. Kitty, too.” Leaning down, he gave her a kiss atop her golden head of hair and a grin so wide he showed his fang. His smile faded when he saw Heather wiggling her loose tooth. “Come ‘ead, Heather,” he reminded.
“Is that your first loose tooth?” Dr. Bramley asked.
Heather shyly nodded.
“You must be very excited. That means the tooth fairy’s going to visit soon! How old are you?”
“Five and a half.”
Dr. Bramley gave a pleasing smile. “And when will you be six?”
“December 31.”
“New Year’s Eve? Ah, the whole world has a party that night. It’s sort of like everyone’s celebrating your birthday, isn’t it?”
Heather nodded in agreement as she tightened her grip on her father’s hand. He could tell she didn’t enjoy being the center of attention, which was just as well, seeing as he had someone else to focus on. “Alright, Paul, let’s have a look. Open please.”
With false confidence, Paul opened his mouth while Dr. Bramley’s mirror gave a once-over, noting every crevice where his tools would need to spend more time. Instinctively, he picked up his explorer, making Paul flinch. "Shall we count your Daddy's teeth?" Heather nodded but then whined as she saw the dentist pick up the sharp hooked tool. As Paul squeezed her hand and rubbed it with his thumb, Dr. Bramley counted and made the same familiar back-and-forth motions with his hands that Dr. Bishop had a few weeks ago. As he did his job, however, her interest in his movements grew. Standing beside the chair was better than being on it.
Though Paul assured Heather that it would be alright (as clearly as he could with his mouth open), as he heard Dr. Bramley counting his teeth, he doubted it would. Ever the optimist, when it came to the dentist, Paul knew that avoiding it would only cause more trouble. And yet, still, he stayed away. His enduring sweet tooth, likely, played a large part.
While Dr. Bramley counted up as he formed his expert opinion, Paul’s ears perked the same way that he would while listening to a mix in the studio. He heard the pointed scythe-shaped tool easily catch on something as it grazed the hole on tooth number 13. He certainly felt it, too. “Oh,” Paul softly groaned, shuddering as he gripped Kitty’s paw. Linda frowned, concerned by Paul’s outburst. At least Heather was there to help him.
“Daddy!” Heather interjected with concern. Linda shushed her.
“Alright, Paul?” Dr. Bramley asked.
“Oh, yeah,” he lied, sharply inhaling. “I’m alright.
“Mmm, a bit sensitive?” Dr. Bramley mused.
“Oh, uh...yeah, a-a little.”
Dr. Bramley knew Paul was fibbing. “For how long?”
“Daddy!” Heather gasped.
“Heather, stop.” Linda shushed. "Let Dr. Bramley do his work."
“Just a second, treacle,” he assured. “Not long.”
Dr. Bramley moved on for now; he knew he put on a brave front for his daughter. With a cavity that size, Paul would likely have been in pain for at least a week.
“Daddy, the song you play on the piano is on the radio!”
Listening closely, he heard his voice emanating from the radio as he sung “Lady Madonna”. “It is, y’know! Very good job, treacle,” he grinned, turning his head to the right. “Did you know that I wrote that song?”
Heather gasped. “Really?! You did?”
Paul nodded, feeling his hair rub against the head rest. “It’s called ‘Lady Madonna’.”
“Daddy, you’re on the radio!” she jumped, raising their clasped hands in the air.
“I am!”
“Can you sing it to me?”
“Now?” Paul chuckled. “Dr. Bramley needs to check me teeth, Heather. When we get home, I’ll sing to you.”
“Promise?”
“Promise, treacle.”
"I've counted 14 on the top so far, Heather, and 5 on the bottom so far. How many teeth do you think your Dad has on the bottom?" Heather shook her head as she pursed her lips. She felt Daddy squeeze her hand again. "12," Heather guessed.
"Let's count and see. Open please." Turning his head toward the ceiling, Paul's heart skipped a beat as he obliged. He heard Dr. Bramley begin at one again.
“Daddy, are your teeth ok? Do you need silver band aids?” Heather piped up. “Can I see?”
Dr. Bramley answered on his patient's behalf. “4, 5...I’m still checking, Heather, but, he does need to floss more. 6, 7... Since you're his junior doctor, I’ll let you have a look after I’ve done my exam if you like.”
After appraising the rest of Paul’s teeth, he set his tools down with a clink. "Your Dad has 14 teeth on the top and 14 on the bottom as well. You were very close with your guess!" Dr. Bramley smiled. "Let me find a small mirror for you."
Dr. Bramley returned, handing Heather the mirror he promised. With the foot pedals, he reclined the chair horizontally and lowered it as close to the ground as it would go so Heather could have a look. Paul gave his junior doctor a doting smile--this exam would be much more welcoming. Obliging her request to say 'aah, she curiously peered into her father’s mouth. His teeth were white in the front but also tinged with revolting shades of yellow, brown and silver. She quickly turned her head away in disgust. Daddy’s teeth looked so pretty when he smiled--why did the inside of his mouth look different? Daddy brushed his teeth like he should. Dr. Bramley explained that while part of it was natural, it was mostly because Paul had stayed away from the dentist for so long.
Leaning the chair forward, “For someone who hasn’t had a cleaning in more than a year and a half, Paul, your teeth are in pretty good shape. However, you are very much in need of a cleaning—the backs of your front teeth are particularly stained, though I think that’s from the cigarettes and tea. Before you leave, we’ll see if we can get that cavity in the back patched up, too. In the meantime, let’s take some x-rays to make sure there aren’t any others.”