Why My Dad and I Hate Aunt Lisa
A Story About a 'Son of a Witch' Aunt
This is the story of how I got buck teeth. One morning when I walked into the kitchen it smelled like any weekday—oatmeal, coffee, and something burnt on the stove.
I’d lost my upper front tooth the night before and made a beeline for my Dad when I woke up. I stood in his shadow and waited for him to put his coffee down. He went for a second swig when I stopped him. I raised my cupped hands with their delicate prize—my tooth.
My dad scratched his head. “Did you knock it out?”
I made a noise for no and fished my tongue in and out of the gap. It both disturbed and thrilled me.
“Don’t do that. Talk with your words.”
I frowned. “No. I didn’t knock it out. Well, not exactly,” I said. “It ached real bad when I woke up, and when I touched the sore spot—it wiggled.”
The memory made me shudder. My dad nodded. He had already turned back for his coffee.
“Did you yank it out?” He asked.
“Uh-huh”
“Atta boy. Let me see it.”
He reached out, and I passed the tooth to him like a bar of soap. He raised it to the light and squinted.
“This’ll go for a pretty penny,” he said.
We moved to the dining table and filled our plates. We continued our conversation through bites of food.
“What’re you talking about?” I asked.
“You know, the tooth fairy.”
“That’s real?”
My dad nodded and chuckled through his food. I imagined a fairy worming under my pillow for the tooth.
“That’s creepy,” I said. “Why would you want some bug-looking thing stealing your teeth while you sleep?”
He considered this through crunches of toast.
“I never thought about it,” he said. “I simply appreciated the five bucks.”
Five dollars did sound nice.
“So…,” I drew out. “You place your tooth under the pillow, and a fairy gives you money?”
“Yep. Right, under your pillow.”
I started to dream about what I would do with five dollars.
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The next morning, it felt like someone had slung a hammer against my jaw. I reached up to investigate the pain, and my finger came back bloody—I had lost another tooth. I searched under my pillow and found a tiny authentication certificate. It read: bad quality tooth. Chipped and discolored, with one minor cavity, I took an extra tooth as a service fee.
When I reached the kitchen, I smelled pancakes and realized the weekend had snuck up. My dad wrapped an arm around me and kept his other on the frying pan.
“Good morning sunshine.”
He beamed—he loved Saturday mornings. My mouth killed me and I couldn’t share the feeling. I gave a thumbs up and jerked my tongue through the new bloody hole. My dad shot me a look, and I stopped.
“Is your mouth still bothering you?”
“Yes,” I said.
I thought of my dad’s prankster streak and gave him a look.
“Did you take my tooth?” I asked.
“What?”
He placed the finished pancakes on the table and grabbed the syrup from the refrigerator. We sat and began to eat. The sugar numbed the ache in my mouth, and I wondered what syrup mixed with blood looked like.
“The tooth,” I continued. “I’m missing another one.”
I pulled up my lip to show another gap, a space away from the first one. My dad shook his head.
“First, gross. You have pancake in your mouth.”
I swallowed. “Sorry.”
“Second, no, I didn’t take your tooth. Are you trying to be funny?”
“No,” I argued. “I thought you were. Someone left a note under my pillow.”
He laughed, but then I handed him the note. He scrutinized it and grew serious.
“Hammond,” He said. “Who put this here?”
I shrugged, and he stood up.
“Who put it here, Hammond? Who?”
“I don’t know, I swear,” I stammered.
My dad scratched the left corner of his lip and left.
“I’m gonna call someone. Clean the kitchen.”
“The whole kitchen?” I asked.
I looked at the coffee stains and leftover bowls on the countertops.
“The whole thing,” he shouted from another room.
It took forever to clean and it pissed me off. I didn’t understand what I did wrong. I ached to rebel, but I knew it wouldn’t help. Instead, I placed a pod in the dishwasher and walked away without running it. Then I had cereal and put the dirty bowl in the sink.
Soon after, my dad popped his head in.
“Your Aunt Lisa is going to stay the night.”
“Aunt Lisa?” I asked.
“Yep.”
He left and I wondered if I heard him correctly. It couldn’t be Aunt Lisa—she and my Dad hadn’t been in the same room for five years. My dad claimed that she practiced witchcraft. Whenever someone brought her up, he’d mutter incoherent words about spells, and cross himself.
I learned early on to adopt an ‘invisible’ attitude with the subject—I’ve never heard, seen, nor known of an Aunt Lisa. This strategy saved countless potential arguments. Nonetheless, I didn’t see my dad for the rest of the day. Ten minutes before she arrived, he showed up in the living room.
“You’re sleeping on the couch tonight.” He said. “No questions.”
I absorbed this and affirmed my earlier idea to spend the night attempting to be invisible.
When Aunt Lisa came in, she made it quick. She nodded at my dad and turned her attention to me. She grinned and swaddled me in a hug. She took off her scarf and wrapped it around my torso. This revealed her necklace—a gold strand with teeth that didn’t appear human.
“Hey, little one,” she said. “I’m sure you’re all shades of worried. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of things. You,” she paused and bopped my nose for effect. “Focus on a good night's sleep.”
I reminded myself to be invisible and smiled.
“Good boy,” she said.
In case you missed it,
When I woke up, it felt like someone had massaged my mouth—which sounds impossible in hindsight. I hesitated to investigate my front teeth. Yet, I closed my eyes and reached into my mouth. My fingers found something—two somethings.
I ran to the nearest mirror and examined my mouth. Two large adult teeth filled the front row of my gums. By comparison to my other teeth, they looked three times the length. I plopped to the floor and put my head on my knees.
A few minutes later, my dad knocked at the door and poked his head in
“Hey,” he said. “I wanted to make sure everything turned out ok.”
He saw me sitting and walked in.
“So, how’s the mouth?”
I clamped my lips shut and criss-crossed my head.
“What’s the matter? Is it bad?”
I repeated my previous motion, but my dad encouraged me nevertheless. I sighed and flashed him my overgrown teeth. His jaw dropped.
“Where’s Aunt Lisa?” I panicked.
My dad fumbled in his pockets and brought out a folded stationary note.
“She had three mimosas and left,” he said.
I could tell he wanted to curse, but he bit his lip. He handed me the note.
It read: Hope these fit! If not, I bet you’ll grow into them. Love, your Aunt Lisa.