Edith Pope
by Miranda Campbell
I was trying to show off. He asked if I could cook. I said yes, because I can. I could cook the things you could cook with closed eyes and a preoccupied mind. Chicken on a hot skillet. Baked sweet potatoes. Zucchini squash under a steamed lid.
I cut the onion fine. Small quarters, eyes welling with sweet tears. I took the butcher knife and tried to flatten a bulb of garlic. It slipped, the knife lifted, sliced my skin so quick I didn’t feel the stab. No physical pain; pain to my pride. The fatty tissue reminded me of feta cheese. Drip, drip, drip—my blood pooling in small circles on a fine, wooden cutting board. I wondered if from now on when he cooked, he’d think of me. A stain. He lets the spots of blood dry to the color of red wine. Maybe he favored scars too.
I ran my hand under the kitchen sink, a cold rag pressed tightly against my palm. He hoped I’d get blood on his ex-wife’s bar stool. I wondered why he was thinking of her.
“Should I take you to the ER?” I said no. I wanted to be brave though my vision waned blurry and black, the pits and back of my shirt soaking with sweat as if it were July in Florida. Clammy. Nauseous. Craving a cold, crisp beer.
He drove to his mother’s for liquid bandage. He told her that he cut his hand. I asked why. I felt like a dirty secret. “Because she’s a mom. If I told her you cut your hand, she would’ve panicked, driven over.”
I heard, “I’m hesitant to share you.”
He wrapped my hand in gauze, we drank craft beer, listened to The Black Keys. He played his bass guitar, and I held my hand to my chest. It was a simple night. But all I could think about was how almost blacking out from a wound felt a lot like falling in love.
Miranda Campbell recently graduated with her MFA in creative writing from Georgia College and State University. She freelance edits for Triplicity Publishing. She’s a sucker for tacos, The Office, people who can quote The Office, and a good used bookstore. Much of her inspiration comes from her favorite place—her home, Flagler Beach, FL. Her work appears in The Laurel Review, Hippocampus Magazine, Chaleur Magazine, littledeathlit, The Helix Magazine, Saw Palm, and others.
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What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “Edith Pope”? During the origin of this draft, I thought of my interest in short, concise pieces of writing, of sharp, zoomed in moments of time. How sometimes when you peel away events, there is much more to find and unearth in that moment than what is obvious, than what is on the surface. The last line of “Edith Pope” came to me in the final draft when I realized what the piece was truly about. More than accidentally cutting yourself, it’s about letting yourself feel what you want despite the risk. “Edith Pope” is a pain scale.
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