Knives at the Border

Making Things Go Away

Photo by paul silvan on Unsplash

The white shag carpeting stared up, an enemy and a voice of reason.

Coral Dicenza was willing, more than willing, to sever her own pinkie finger, but not close to willing to deal with her mother's wrath about a bloodstained carpet.

She knew that was fucked up, and she sat on her bed with a knife she wasn't sure could sever an entire finger starting to pre-sob shake at just how fucked up it was.

Maybe she could just remove the carpet entirely and throw it in the trash.

But that would enrage her mother with zero sympathy, while a missing pinkie finger should buy her a little sympathy and…respite…was that the word?…from the rest of the bullshit.

Coral tamped down the shake and fought off the sob, realizing that while her bedroom offered the privacy needed to sever her finger, she could really do the job anywhere-the garage, the ladies room at MacLaren Park, the roof of the old Kitter Plumbing building because no one snuck up there to get high anymore, they all just vaped THC right out in the open.

Of course, Coral thought and immediately hated the idea, she could fall off the roof of the old Kitter Plumbing building and potentially not be pregnant anymore, but that might enrage her mother even more.

Coral stared at the luggage sitting on the white shag carpeting that stared at her. 

Guelph, Ontario was her destination.

 “Trombone Camp” her mother had already told the neighbors, though it was really just her cousin's tomato farm, while her mother sat home eating German Chocolate Cake and drinking Faygo Rock and Rye, fattening up to make plausible the late fall arrival of her “ miracle baby.”

Mrs. Dicenza had been the parent who strongly stressed the virtue of honesty, and that's why Coral had been honest about the pregnancy and her desire for an abortion. She might not have been as forthcoming had she known her mother would choose the option she had for her 15 year old daughter.

Coral could look in the mirror, which she did now, and realize that honestly, severing a finger would be nothing but a cry for attention and a temporary delay into what might not be a horrible stay in Ontario.

She had been across the border enough times to know that the occupants of the car would be asked if they had anything to declare. 

Coral could answer honestly “an unborn child,” and that might be enough for them to get turned away at the border and come back home, where she could use some of that finger severing courage to tell someone that her stepfather should probably be forced to get a DNA test.

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