Reaction

I forget that I’m allergic to Band-Aids until an unfortunate incident with the peeler has me reaching for one. I hold one end in my mouth while my knuckle bleeds over the sink, trying to hold onto what should be inside with the weak flap of skin I’ve separated from myself, and free the adhesive wings with my teeth. I wrap plastic around the problem and clean a spray of blood from the blades.

“Did you cut yourself?” My boyfriend asks from the other room. 

I don’t know how he knows exactly, but I imagine the pattern of sounds is distinct enough to deduce: rhythmic metal in vegetable flesh, sharp inhale, clattering tools, running water, cardboard flaps slipping open, crinkling paper wrapping, muttering.

“Of course I did.”

“Hospital?” 

“I’d rather bleed out here.”

The Band-Aid compresses my heartbeat into my fingernail. My skin prickles with the whisper of a histamine reaction as I wash the blood off the carrots. I should throw them out. They’ve been permanently tainted by my mishap and should not be consumed, but I don’t have anything to replace them. Red seeps through to the plastic surface. Heat rises in my face as I plunge the vegetables and peeler into the faucet stream. 

The adhesive is the issue. It’s not Band-Aids’ fault. It does its job perfectly. My open wounds are tucked away safely beneath the gold standard of care. My skin takes the bandage as a challenge. It clings to the adhesive like it wants to melt the two together, and when I rip the Band-Aid off, it leaves a perfect ghost shape of inflamed red skin behind.

As a kid, I liked the princess pink banner of a war wound. Scrapes from trips, knocked chins on banisters, the occasional misadventure with a pair of scissors, I was a magnet for injury. I was still learning, dancing on unsteady feet, and I loved having proof of it on my shins, knees, elbows, chin, fingers, all the parts of me that tried and failed, even when there was no physical damage. Now, I’m just a klutz. There’s no charm in the damage anymore. Now it’s just a flap of skin, a stupid miscalculation, the future history of a fucked-up soup.

Skinning carrots should be a simple task. My grandmother spent hours peeling rutabaga, husking corn, ripping out the eyes of potatoes with the small shovel side of the peeler. Her food wasn’t the best, but she had complete control of herself. Her hands were slender and clean, veiny in her old age, but steady. Not a hair out of place. Not a moment caught off-guard. She would rather die than trip in the supermarket, nick herself on her own knives, or hip-check a countertop. When her age caught up with her and the IVs left thick, bleeding bruises on her, the flooded Band-Aids left the perfect shape of themselves across her skin. We didn’t even know she was allergic until then. 

“How do you do this?” 

My boyfriend presses a cube of ice to the wound and wraps the rest in a paper towel. He laughs, mimicking knife motions and safe peeling. He cooks most often, so this was supposed to be a rare treat of a meal by me. He makes it look so easy, his hands steady, his motions measured by complete control. I can’t even look at him. I know how to do it. I can do it. I can walk, jump, run, chop, slice, grate, and peel. The injuries aren’t badges of honor when you’re almost thirty. They’re just proof of failure.

The Band-Aid is pointless, so we rip it off and apply pressure. We set the timer. If I’m still bleeding in ten minutes, it’s time for stitches. I’ll look a disappointed physician in the eye as they laugh it off and tell me they see it all the time. We sit on the floor of the kitchen, all kitchen momentum ground to a halt, and I suck down deep breaths to avoid another round of hyperventilation and tears. The perfect outline of a Band-Aid wells up around the wound and frames the flap of damp, dead white skin. 

All that was in me is out of me. All that is out of me is embarrassed by the mess.