“Oww!” said 13-year-old Ivy. The surrounding mountains echoed her cry.
She hopped in the heat on the path on one bare foot. Ivy looked at her injury and saw blood making a trail down her dusty foot, dripping off her toes to the dirt and stones beneath.
“How did you cut yourself?” asked Paula, as a rare breeze ruffled their hair.
“I stepped on that glass,” said Ivy through tears. They looked down at the sun-dappled gravel path on the grassy playground. There lay the jagged, brown beer bottle that cut into Ivy’s foot.
Disappointed, Ivy frowned at the swings on their chains. She wouldn’t be flying on them today. She and Paula had looked forward to coming to the small park after school.
“There’s still a sharp piece in my heel. I need Mom to take it out,” said Ivy.
“My house is closer. My mom can take it out,” said Paula.
Ivy wanted her mother. Going to Paula’s mom made her nervous, but she didn’t want to hurt her friend’s feelings. Ivy put her arm over Paula’s shoulder and hopped as Paula did her best to help her limp through each step along the sidewalk.
“Will your mom have tweezers?” asked Ivy.
“Maybe,” said Paula, “or she might try something else.”
“What?” asked Ivy.
“I don’t know because Mom is different,” said Paula.
Ivy glanced at Paula’s face but saw nothing to explain the comment that put knots of worry in her stomach.
After the slow journey up the hill, they reached Paula’s small, gray house and stopped at the top of the shaded steps leading down a small slope to the front door. Thick, green bushes taller than Ivy lined the steps. Paula descended and yelled for her mother. When Paula’s mom opened the door, Paula explained about the glass in Ivy’s heel. Paula’s mother ascended the stairs to Ivy. Mrs. Maxwell listened to the account of the injury as Ivy sat on a gritty cement step and let her examine her foot.
“Did you bring the broken bottle?” asked Mrs. Maxwell.
“No,” the girls said.
Mrs. Maxwell said, “I want the broken bottle from which the glass came. That’s the only way to remove it all. It’s the old way our ancestors did things way back.”
Ivy’s teeth clenched. I wonder why she doesn’t use tweezers like Mom. It’ll hurt to use the glass bottle. Mrs. Maxwell’s polished nails and pretty dress suits seemed to clash with the old-fashioned idea of using the glass bottle. Paula locked eyes with her mother and nodded as if she understood.
Paula said, “I’ll go get the bottle.”
Ivy hoped Paula wouldn’t find it. While Paula’s mom and Ivy waited, she cleaned Ivy’s cut.
“We can call my mom for a pair of tweezers,” said Ivy.
“We have to have the glass that it came from. The bottle is the only way to remove the glass pieces. I’ve put a pot of water on to boil to clean the bottle,” said Mrs. Maxwell.
Ivy’s ears started ringing. “Will the bottle make my foot bleed?”
“I don’t know, Ivy. I know the glass is the best way.”
Ivy’s stomach felt queasy as Paula returned with the bottle. Ivy stared, unblinking, as Mrs. Maxwell poured boiling water over the bottle, and the air filled with steam wafting from the glass. The water spilled into the grass filling Ivy’s nose with the pungent smell of the greenery. Paula’s mother set the pot on the cement step next to Ivy. Ivy’s dread climbed another notch.
To Ivy’s relief, Paula’s mom waited until the bottle was cool to the touch before beginning. Ivy tried not to look afraid when she took a firm hold of her heel. She examined the edge of the broken bottle for a sharp point before she touched the bottle with quick darts to Ivy’s heel to remove the offending glass piece.
“Oooh,” said Ivy. “That hurts.”
She bit down on her lip and tasted copper. Ivy watched for blood from the round, glass bottle. A red trickle appeared, but it wasn’t much.
Paula’s mother said with consolation, “There it is.”
She removed the bit of glass from Ivy’s foot and placed a colorful band-aid on the wound. Ivy put her foot down to press on it.
“Yes, it’s gone. It’s better, Mrs. Maxwell. Thank you.”
Paula looked at Ivy and asked, “Mom, could Ivy spend the night? We didn’t get to play at the playground.”
“Girls, remember, there’s school tomorrow. Maybe Ivy can stay Friday night if her mother says it’s okay.”
Ivy thanked Mrs. Maxwell and bid them goodbye as she walked down the hill to her house. She shivered when she thought about the glass bottle. Ivy wished she’d gone the longer distance to her mother with her injury. She knew she wouldn’t be going to Mrs. Maxwell for help again. Ivy wanted to talk to her mother about it.
Ivy wasted no time seeking her mother in the kitchen.
“Mom, did you ever remove glass from your foot with a broken glass bottle?”
Her mom said, “I’ve heard of doing that, but I’ve never done it myself.”
“Mrs. Maxwell took a piece of glass from my foot with a broken glass bottle. She wanted the glass the piece came from, so Paula went back to the playground and got the bottle. She took the glass out with it.”
Ivy’s mother frowned. “It’s an old superstition, and I’m surprised she believes in that kind of thing. I wish she hadn’t done it.”
Ivy’s mom lifted the band-aid and peered at the small wound. “It seems to be okay.”
“Yeah, but I like your tweezers better,” said Ivy, watching as her mother turned to season dinner and tossed salt over her shoulder.
Donna Gum began writing non-fiction with several published articles and ghost-writing, but couldn’t resist the call of fiction. She enjoys writing flash fiction in the Appalachian Mountains. Borderline Tales and CafeLit published her latest fiction in December 2024 and January 2025.
**Featured image from publicdomainpictures.net