Did it work? I said. Did you save them? A nurse fitted a mask on my face. Someone turned on the gas.

Well, no, he said. The first one I tried, I sliced off its foot instead. There was a lot of blood, actually. It was terrible, he said.

I opened my mouth, but only a little squeak came out.

Shh, said the surgeon. Over my face, his gloved hand hung—you could even say it twitched. Then, with his fingertips, he pushed the lids of my eyes shut. You’ve seen this move before—some man, overcome with shame, unable, for selfish reasons, to look at what he’s done.

MOTHER’S TEETH

Brenda, Mother said—I can’t find my teeth!

So I checked her ornate nightstand, her pedestal sink, and the little glass table near the big iron chair on her private patio where dry bougainvillea blossoms piled like pink paper party favors. Mother followed me with her walker, saying, Do you see them? Where could they be?

They were not in her hutch of collectible china or her cabinet of costly curios. They were not in the closet where she kept the expensive clothes she wore. They were not in the closet where she kept the more expensive clothes she did not wear. They were not in the small, sodden bag of garbage beneath the kitchen sink or in the garage, in the larger bin of garbage that smelled like the corpse of an animal.

I came back to the dining room, where she sat with a cup of coffee. Slowly, she brought the cup to her mouth, took a sip—then curled her lip. She looked up at me.

Brenda, she said, do you suppose they’re in my mouth? She opened it wide—and there they were.

After that we rushed over to the hospital, where Mother was late for her chemotherapy appointment.

A nurse brought us to a room dimmed by dark blinds, crammed with chairs. In each one sat a person attached to a sack of clear liquid that drained down a tube into the person’s arm. The nurse lightly smacked Mother until her vein stood up to receive. Within a few minutes, Mother was asleep. It took four hours for the liquid to drain fully into someone.

I took her purse from her lap and drove to the recreational facility that looked like a coliseum. In the middle, rather than a gladiatorial arena, was a large, round swimming pool. I made a big splash. I pushed to the bottom of the deep end, where I sat quietly, emitting little bubbles.

On a yellow chaise longue I dried myself. A group of elderly men were sunning their bodies nearby. Soon one of them got up and came to stand above me. He had a rigid torso and skin like baked bread, tufted all over with wiry white fluff.

I’ve never seen you before, he said.

Just visiting, I said.

I’d be happy to give you the grand tour, he said. He lifted his arms high, like he was holding the sky. Heaven on earth! he said.