Aimee Bender: The Girl in the Flammable Skirt

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 the head 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 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, bewildered, on the couch, our mother flat-backed on the floor, beginning a round of sit-ups.

Fuck if my mother is going to ruin my body, she muttered. Fuck that shit.

I brought a book on sand crabs into the living room and pretended to read on the couch. Hannah promptly got on the phone. No really! I heard her saying. I swear!

My father watched my mother: head, knees. Up, down.

At least you can do sit-ups, he said.

She sat-up, grit her teeth, and sat-down. Some good sperm, she said, nearly spitting.

It’s miracle sperm, my father said.

Excuse me, I said, I’m in the room.

Miracle? my mother said. Make it your dad then. Tell your fucking chromosomes to re-create him .

Her breasts leaked, useless, onto her T-shirts — cloudy milk-stain eyes staring blind up at the ceiling. She did a set of a hundred and then lay flat.

Mommy, I said, are you okay?

I could hear Hannah in the other room: She died in October, she was saying. Yeah, I totally saw.

My mother turned her head to look at me. Come here, she said.

I put down my book, went over to her and knelt down.

She put a hand on my cheek. Honey, she said, when I die?

My eyes started to fill up, that fast.

Don’t die, I said.

I’m not, she said, I’m very healthy. Not for a while. But when I do, she said, I want you to let me go.

I was able to attend my mother’s mother’s funeral. I kept close to Hannah for most of it, but when the majority of relatives had trickled out, I found my mother huddled into a corner of the white couch — her head back, face drawn.

I sat next to her, crawled under her arm and said, Mama, you are so sad.

She didn’t move her head, just petted my hair with her hand and said: True, but honey, I am sad plus.

Plus what I never asked. It made me not hungry, the way she said it.

She stopped her sit-ups at ten-thirty that night. It was past my bedtime and I was all tucked in, lights out. Before she’d fallen asleep, Hannah and I had been giggling.

Maybe I’ll have you, I said, stroking my stomach.

She’d sighed. Maybe I’ll have myself, she’d whispered.

That concept had never even crossed my mind. Oldest, I hissed back.

After a while, she’d stopped answering my questions. I prodded my stomach, making sure it was still there and still its usual size. It growled back.

I heard my mother let out a huge exhale in the den and the steady count: three hundred and five, three hundred and six, stopped.

Stepping quietly out of bed, I tiptoed into the hallway; my father was asleep on the couch, and my mother was neatening up the bookshelves, sticking the horizontal books into vertical slats.