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Bloodline

By Fiona Yates

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Amid the droning of empty feminine chitchat and the electric mixer in potatoes, Margaret cut off her finger.

Not all of it, she realized, instinctively clamping her hand over the bloody digit. She could feel most of the finger within her grasp. She took a deep breath, willing that Thanksgiving would not be ruined. It probably looks worse than it is, she reasoned. She experimentally loosened her grip to inspect the wound, but quickly hid her hand when Nick’s aunt approached her.

“How’s it coming with the green beans?” she asked, and Margaret nodded enthusiastically.

“Great!” she replied, a bit too loudly. Nick’s mother glanced over, looking vaguely annoyed, the only manner in which she seemed willing to acknowledge her. Her disapproval silenced Margaret’s urge to ask the woman for help reattaching her fingertip; though it was life threatening, it was also embarrassing.

“Well, we’re almost ready to eat.” The aunt whose name Margaret had already forgotten gave her a suspicious glance before carrying a plate of cranberry sauce into the dining room. With another wary glance, Nick’s mother resumed scooping corn from a saucepan into a serving bowl. With everyone’s back turned, Margaret swept the missing chunk of her finger off the table and into the pocket of her apron, which Nick’s mother had reluctantly loaned out.

She began to feel slightly woozy, and she leaned back against the wall. The white napkin that she had wrapped around her finger had turned red. She was somewhat relieved that the injury was on her left hand; she held a fork in her right. She would make it through dinner, and then perhaps she and Nick could slip out for a quick trip to the drugstore for some gauze. The effort it took to decide this nearly made her collapse. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Just a little nap, she thought.

“DINNER!” Nick’s mother screeched, causing Margaret to jerk back into semi-consciousness. She heard the motion of people shuffling loudly toward the dining room. Margaret joined them, her limbs as heavy as if she were walking through a snow bank. She kept her hand concealed, clenched against her stomach.

“How’s it going?” Nick asked her quietly, coming up behind her and putting his fully-fingered hand between her shoulder blades. Margaret smiled dazedly.

“Fine,” she replied. Nick grinned. I hate your family, she thought suddenly, and was surprised at herself.

“Mandy, you sit here,” his mother directed, gesturing to a folding chair. Nick’s eye twitched at the misnomer, belonging to a girlfriend long gone and long missed by his mother. Margaret knew the Ghost of Sex Life Past had probably never lost her appendages in dinner. She fell into her chair gracelessly.

“Mom,” Nick said tensely.

“What?” her tone was innocent.

The family sat down to dinner, and each began shoveling mountains of food onto fine china. Margaret didn’t move. Eyeing her oddly, Nick heaped mashed potatoes onto her plate.

“Are you okay?” he asked. She nodded, her head bobbing like a marionette’s, a parody of reassurance. She channeled all her strength into lifting her fork and moving some potatoes from her plate to her mouth. She thought she was going to throw up.

“So, what do you do, Margaret?” Nick’s dad questioned, his stiff voice laden with the obligation of talk. It was the fifth time he’d asked her that, and she feebly acknowledged that she would now need two hands to count that high.

“Dad, you already asked that.” Nick sounded exhausted. Nick’s father seemed satisfied with this answer and went back to his dinner.

“What did you say your parents did, again?” Nick’s mother quizzed. Other voices chimed in.

“And where did you grow up?”

“Have you ever done drugs?”

“Are you a felon?”

“Are you a Democrat?”

“Are you on birth control?”

“Are you poor?”

Margaret stared at her plate, unresponsive, and Nick interpreted her silence as hurt feelings and not blood loss.

“Just leave her alone,” Nick pleaded, his hand snaking over to supportively grasp Margaret’s.

“AHHHHHHH!” she screamed, shocked into cognizance, feeling physical pain for the first time and not the shame of being clumsy. Nick leapt up from the table, terrified.

“What the fuck?” Blood coated his hand.

“I cut myself.” Margaret forced herself toward nonchalance, though her voice trilled high and screechy. She was the only one still sitting now; the rest of the family had gotten up and were standing behind their chairs, as if for protection.

“Let me see it!” Nick yelped. She had never heard his voice so high.

“No.” Her own voice wobbled.

“Margaret,” he threatened.

Margaret reluctantly lifted up her hand, still covered in the blood-soaked napkin that clung to her skin.

“I didn’t know we had napkins that color,” the nameless aunt observed to the cousin standing beside her as Nick gingerly pulled the napkin away. Blood dripped from the wound and gushed down her arm.

“AHHHHHHHH!” Nick screamed, dropping the wet, sticky napkin onto the floor.

“I just had the carpet cleaned!” his mother cried.

“What happened?” Nick demanded.

“My hand slipped.”

“You need stitches!”

“I have the piece that came off.”

“A piece came off?”

“Nick, why did you bring her?” another whiny cousin questioned.

“Shut up, Sarah,” Nick barked. Sarah. The one with the nose ring is Sarah, Margaret repeated to herself. Sarah Sarah Sarah. Nick snapped his fingers in front of Margaret’s face. “Margaret! Let’s go!” He dragged her up from the table, and she staggered toward the foyer. Nick threw her long back coat over her shoulders, and, forgoing his own jacket, urged her out the door.

“I just wanted them to like me,” she whimpered. The door slammed closed behind her.

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Fiona spends most of her time in her apartment. She hopes her writing will lead to global enlightenment and a bigger apartment. You can reach her at fiona_speaks @ yahoo.com.

© 2005 Me Three