The Girl in the Flammable Skirt Read Online Free PDF Page B

father.
    Hannah walked in. Did I miss anything? she asked.
    The old woman kicked herself out the rest of the way, wiped a string of gook off her arm, and grabbing the doctor’s surgical scissors, clipped the umbilical cord herself. She didn’t cry. She said, clearly: Thank Heaven. It was so warm in there near the end, I thought I might faint.
    Oh my God, said Hannah.
    My mother stared at the familiar wrinkled face in front of her. Mother? she said in a tiny voice.
    The woman turned at the sound. Sweetheart, she said, you did an excellent job.
    Mother? My mother put a hand over her ear. What are you doing here? Mommy?
    I kept blinking. The doctor was mute.
    My mother turned to my father. Wait, she said. Wait. In Florida. Funeral. Wait. Didn’t that happen?
    The old woman didn’t answer, but brushed a glob of blood off her wrist and shook it down to the floor.
    My father found his voice. It’s my fault, he said softly, and, hanging his head, he lifted his shirt. The doctor stared. My mother reached over and yanked it down.
    It is not, she said. Pay attention to
me
.
    Hannah strode forward, nudged the gaping doctor aside and tried to look up inside.
    Where’s the baby? she asked.
    My mother put her arms around herself. I don’t know, she said.
    It’s me, said my mother’s mother.
    Hi Grandma, I said.
    Hannah started laughing.
    The doctor cleared his throat. People, he said, this here is your baby.
    My grandmother stretched out her wrinkled legs to the floor, and walked, tiny body old and sagging, over to the bathroom. She selected a white crepe hospital dress from the stack by the door. It stuck to her slippery hip. Shut your eyes, children, she said over her shoulder, you don’t want to see an old lady naked.
    The doctor exited, mumbling busy busy busy.
    My mother looked at the floor.
    I’m sorry, she said. Her eyes filled.
    My father put his palm on her cheek. I grabbed Hannah and dragged her to the door.
    We’ll be outside, I said.
    We heard her voice hardening as we exited. Nine months! she was saying. If I’d known it was going to be my
mother
, I would’ve at least smoked a couple of cigarettes.
    In the hallway I stared at Hannah and she stared back at me. Edwina? I said and we both doubled over, cracking up so hard I had to run to the bathroom before I wet my pants.
    •   •   •
    We all drove home together that afternoon. Grandma in the backseat between me and Hannah wrapped up in the baby blanket she had knitted herself, years before.
    I remember this one, she remarked, fingering its soft pink weave. I did a nice job.
    My father, driving, poked his hole.
    I thought it might be a baby without a stomach, he said to my mother in the front seat. I never thought this.
    He put an arm on her shoulder.
    I love your mother, he said, stroking her arm.
    My mother stiffened. I do too, she said. So?
    I hadn’t gone to my father’s father’s funeral. It had been in Texas and I’d just finished with strep throat and everyone decided Hannah and I would be better off with the neighbors for the weekend. Think of us Sunday, my mother had said. I’d worn black overalls on Sunday, Hannah had rebelled and worn purple, and together we buried strands of our hair beneath the spindly roots of our neighbor’s potted plants.
    When they returned, I asked my father how it was. He looked away. Sad, he said, fast, scratching his neck.
    Did you cry? I asked.
    I cried, he said. I cry.
    I nodded. I saw you cry once, I assured him. I remember, it was the national anthem.
    He patted my arm. It was very sad, he said, loudly.
    I’m right here, I told him, you don’t have to yell it.
    He went over to the wall and plucked off the black-and-white framed photograph of young Grandpa Edwin.
    He sure was handsome, I said, and my father rested his hand on top of my head—the heaviest, best hat.
    After we arrived home from the hospital, Hannah and I settled Grandma in the guest bedroom and our parents collapsed in the den: our father,