Believe in the Tooth Fairy
by
Owlcroft
Lydia was finally home, groggy and uncomfortable, but she relaxed on the sofa with only a faint sigh.
"You just take it easy now, okay?" said a still-anxious Beetlejuice. "Anything you want, you just let me know and I'll get it for you."
His wife nodded, then grimaced as the anesthesia continued to wear off. It was no fun having all four wisdom teeth out at once, but the pains in her jaws had increased greatly over the last few weeks and her oral surgeon had said this was the best option. Her husband had been fretful, concerned, and nervous but had gotten her home almost the instant she was cleared to go.
The idea of Lydia having four teeth surgically removed had unsettled Beetlejuice from the first explanation. The post-procedure instructions disturbed and frightened him. "Stitches? Blood clots? Dry socket?" he'd read in horror. But he'd made copies of the instructions and now there was one in every room of their flat as well as Lydia's office and the shop itself.
He'd insisted on closing for that day, and half of the next, to allow her to recover more quietly; she'd agreed after realizing he'd have to do some recovering of his own. They'd been married now for just over four years and she was becoming familiar with Beetlejuice in hover mode.
The first thing he did when his wife was settled, leaning her head against the back of the sofa, was to produce a couple of frozen gel packs. "They said to use these, remember," he told her. "Now don't talk any, just hold these against your face . . . your poor face," he said mournfully. "You look like a chipmunk." When she blinked at him in surprise, he quickly amended that. "A totally beautiful adorable chipmunk." And snapped his fingers. A pillow appeared which he proceeded to place behind her head, carefully and tenderly. "You want something to drink? Nothing cold or hot," he reminded her. "But I have some juice or some herb tea or broth I could fix to just the right temperature."
Lydia shook her head carefully, holding the ice packs to her face and closing her eyes. She really wasn't hungry at all. Tomorrow, maybe, she'd have to have some oatmeal or cottage cheese. Ice cream would probably feel good, but now . . . she just wanted to rest and take her pain meds and reassure her suffering husband.
After several minutes, a thoughtful Beetlejuice said, "I never had to worry about somebody the way I worry about you. Well, how could I? I never had somebody. If I'm over-doing this stuff, you just say so. No! I mean . . . you just write me a note. Okay?" There was a pause, then, "So, anything I can get you?"
When she looked at him and held out one of the gel packs, he took them both at once and replaced them with two frozen ones. "I think," he said diffidently, "you ought to go to bed. Try to sleep." When she shook her head, he offered to turn on the television, or bring her a book, or get her sketchpad. All his offers were refused, with a grateful look and a sigh.
"Okay, so, want me to read to you? Just . . . sort of keep you from being bored?" He was gratified by her slight nod and managed to smile at her. "Long as I don't make you laugh, right? Say anything funny."
Lydia sighed again and leaned back, ice packs held to her face with her fingertips. This was going to be hard on both of them.
ooooo
The next morning, Lydia had some room temperature juice and wrote a note that she might try some broth for lunch. Beetlejuice hovered.
In late morning, he finally allowed her to walk, by herself, downstairs to her office, where she did a couple of hours of desk work, then had some broth and more juice. Then he whisked her upstairs again for a short nap.
"Itchy's got the shop, dear one," he told her. "And he's got some ideas for a new line he wants to tell you about."
She raised her brows and looked very interested.
"Well, it's his idea, and he wants to tell you the details, but I think it's a good one. Basically," Beetlejuice fluffed up the pillow he'd materialized and tucked behind her head, "it would be a whole wardrobe. Going back to the idea of mix and match, you know. Two good jackets, three tops, two bottoms, a few accessories, and you don't really need any more. The ad campaign could be something like 'we can sell you the fancy stuff, too, but what you really need is day-to-day', see?" He snapped his fingers and a skeleton bird popped out of a suddenly-there cuckoo clock and grunted, "It's two-seventeen, you idiot," popped back inside and the clock disappeared. At once, a glass of water and two pain pills appeared in his hand. "Sell them a custom-selected wardrobe that will get them through a year 'til the fashions change again. He made it sound real good." The ghost handed her the water and pills and looked at her. "What do you think?" Abruptly, he held up a finger, "But no talking!"
Lydia smiled with only a small grimace of pain and nodded enthusiastically.
"Okay. If you're feeling up to it tomorrow, maybe I'll watch the shop and he can come up and explain it all to you." He made sure she got the pills down then took the glass back and asked, "Now do you want anything before your nap? We have more –" he shuddered briefly, "fruit juice."
She shook her head and beckoned him in for a gentle kiss. Smiling tenderly, she put her hand on his face and told him she loved him with her eyes.
ooooo
Lydia woke after only half an hour to find Beetlejuice napping next to her on the sofa, one finger gently resting on the back of her hand. She'd woken a few times in the night from the discomfort and every time she had, she'd found him also awake, watching over her in case she needed anything. Now, he was snoring gently, head against the sofa back, just barely touching her so he'd know if she wanted something.
At that moment, there was a quiet tap on the parlor door frame, and Itchy peeked around. "It's time for me to go. Is that okay?" He looked in concern at the twosome on the sofa for an instant and then remembered to ask, "Are you okay, Lydia? How are you feeling?"
Beetlejuice came awake, a little muzzy, but aware enough to caution her with a finger not to speak. "She's doing . . ." he shrugged, "about as well as we figured." He yawned and stretched, then added, "Yeah, go home. Nine tomorrow morning, okay?"
Itchy nodded and departed.
Lydia nodded and gestured toward the floor. Office, she mouthed, then reached for her notepad and wrote quickly.
"Just for a minute, huh?" read her husband. "Hmm." He thought, frowning slightly, then said, "Okay, just for a little while. And I'll take you there."
Her response was a pleased smile and her hand for him to take as he transported them both to her small office behind the shop.
"Now just sit there and . . ." Beetlejuice waved a hand vaguely, "do whatever it is you have to and then you can watch me fix dinner."
He got another smile for that as he settled into the one armchair in the room.
ooooo
When he woke two hours later to find his wife still working on her accounts, he was speechless, but only for a few seconds. "Dearest! Why didn't you wake me up?" Then he realized what he'd said and hurriedly added, "By rapping on your desk or throwing something at me."
That made her start to laugh; she managed to smother it quickly but Beetlejuice still leapt to her side. "Pain pills? Is it time? Don't laugh, babes, dearest. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to!"
Lydia shook her head at him, then pointed to her watch and mimed drinking water. Instantly, she was handed her pain meds and a glass of water.
"You think you could have some soup tonight? After the warm packs, I mean, and the salt water swish." He disappeared the glass and perched on the arm of her chair. "Or you could just have the best meal in either world: lots and lots of –" He stopped and looked contrite. When she raised her brows in question, he muttered, "Might've made you laugh again. Sorry."
Lydia tugged on his sleeve and urged him with a palm to tell her.
"Was going to say a meal of ice cream. Now don't laugh!" he warned.
She didn't, but did smile and nod enthusiastically.
ooooo
After a satisfying meal of fudge ripple, Lydia pulled her husband toward the stairs and then up to the parlor. Settling onto the sofa, she pointed to the television with her head tilted, then spread her hands quizzically.
"Okay," he replied. "What do you want to watch? Anything you want, heart. Even," he pulled his collar a little and gulped, "a romantic comedy."
She grinned at him then got a speculative look as she reached for her notepad. This time she drew a little stick figure with wide wings and presented it to him.
He was clearly puzzled, then guessed, "Is that . . . Tinkerbell? You want to watch 'Peter Pan'?"
She gave him The Look – that patient and amused stare with a tilted head he'd become accustomed to – then pointed at the sketch then him, nodding her head.
"Me? That's supposed to be me?" He scowled at the drawing, then said in a querulous tone, "You really think I look like Tinkerbell?"
That earned him a half-hearted swat on the arm with the notepad as she grinned and shook her head. Then she quickly drew in a tooth next to the figure and pointed to it triumphantly.
"You can't think . . . babes, I'm a ghost, not the tooth fairy!"
She wrote furiously, then showed him the pad. "But you said I looked like a chipmunk!"
He crowed with laughter until she showed signs of laughing, too, then clapped a hand over his mouth. "Sorry," he said. Then, "Hey, wait a minute!" He assumed a look of puzzled affront and pulled up one corner of the pillow she was leaning against to peer under it. "Where's the money?" Then he had to apologize yet again.