The Girl in the Flammable Skirt Read Online Free PDF

plates were cleared away, my fatherraised his thin white undershirt and beneath it, where other people have a stomach, was a round hole. The skin had curved and healed around the circumference.
    What’s that? I asked.
    He shook his head. I don’t know, and he looked scared then.
    Where is your stomach now? I asked.
    He coughed a little.
    Did you eat? Hannah said. We saw you eat.
    His face paled.
    Where did it go? I asked and there we were, his two daughters, me ten, she thirteen.
    You have no more belly button, I said. You’re all belly button, I said.
    My mother stopped clearing the dishes and put her hand on her neck, cupping her jaw. Girls, she said, quiet down.
    You could now thread my father on a bracelet. The giantess’ charm bracelet with a new mini wiggling man, something to show the other giantesses at the giantess party. (My, my! they declare. He’s so active!)
    My parents went to the doctor the next day. The internist took an X ray and proclaimed my father’s inner organs intact. They went to the gastroenterologist. He said my father was digesting food in an arc, it was looping down the sides, sliding around the hole, and all his intestines were, although further crunched, still there and still functioning.
    They pronounced him in great health.
    My parents walked down into the cool underground parking lot and packed into the car to go home.
    Halfway there, ambling through a green light, my mother told my father to pull over which he did and she shoved open the passenger side door and threw up all over the curb.
    They made a U-turn and drove back to the doctor’s.
    The internist took some blood, left, returned and winked.
    Looks like you’re pregnant, he said.
    My mother, forty-three, put a hand on her stomach and stared.
    My father, forty-six, put a hand on his stomach and it went straight through to his back.
    They arrived home at six-fifteen that night; Hannah and I had been concerned—six o’clock marked the start of Worry Time. They announced the double news right away: Daddy’s fine. Mommy’s pregnant.
    Are you going to have it? I asked. I like being the youngest, I said. I don’t want another kid.
    My mother rubbed the back of her neck. Sure, I’ll have it, she said. It’s a special opportunity and I love babies.
    My father, on the couch, one hand curled up and resting inside his stomach like a birdhead, was in good spirits. We’ll name it after my dad, he said.
    If it’s a girl? I asked.
    Edwina, he said.
    Hannah and I made gagging sounds and he sent us to our room for disrespecting Grandpa.
    In nine months, my father’s hole was exactly the same size and my mother sported the biggest belly around for miles. Even the doctor was impressed. Hugest I’ve ever seen, he told her.
    My mother was mad. Makes me feel like shit, she said that night at dinner. She glared at my father. I mean, really. You’re not even that tall.
    My father growled. He was feeling very proud. Biggest belly ever. That was some good sperm.
    We all went to the hospital on delivery day. Hannah wandered the hallway, chatting with the interns; I stood at my mother’s shoulder, nervous. I thought about the fact that if my father lay, face down, on top of my mother, her belly would poke out his back. She could wear him like a huge fleshy toilet seat cover. He could spin on her stomach, a beige propeller.
    She pushed and grimaced and pushed and grimaced. The doctor stood at her knees and his voice peaked with encouragement: Almost There, Atta Girl, Here We Go—And!
    But the baby did not come out as planned.
    When, finally, the head poked out between her legs, the doctor’s face widened with shock. He stared. He stopped yelling Push, Push and his voice dried up. I went over to his side, to see what was going on. And what I saw was that thehead appearing between my mother’s thighs was not the head of a baby but rather that of an old woman.
    My goodness, the doctor said.
    My mother sat up.
    I blinked.
    What’s wrong? said my