Free The Girl Who Ate Kalamazoo by Darrin Doyle Page A

old.
    “No, no, no,” Grandma said, sticking her finger into Audrey’s mouth to dislodge as much soil as she could. “I ate dirt, and no granddaughter of mine will do that again. Not while I breathe.”
    “She
likes
it,” Toby said. He ran up to see the action. “She’s crazy. I’ve seen her eat dirt before. Is she crazy?”
    “Never call a girl crazy,” Grandma told him. Her tone was sharp.
    Later that night, the twins lay in their beds.
    “
Don’t ever call a girl crazy
,” Toby said for the tenth time, his voice mocking. “
Never, never, never
. Stupid Grandma.”
    “She’s not stupid. She’s just old.”
    “Dad thinks she’s stupid.”
    “But Audrey isn’t
crazy
. She’s a baby. All babies are crazy.”
    This is how it went.
    Grandma told Murray and Misty about the dirt-eating. Misty took Audrey to the pediatrician. McKenna and Toby tagged along.
    “It’s not uncommon,” Doctor Burger said.
    He had checked Audrey—had seen that she was able to make eye contact and that her pupils dilated properly; had poked the otoscope into her ears; had pressed his fingers into her belly and found her organs to be well-situated and unswollen; had found that she could clap and could hold two objects at once; had checked her stumps for proper circulation (this was before the Dr Pepper cans). When the exam was finished, Doctor Burger pronounced his double-negative judgment: “It’s not uncommon.”
    He probably would have left it at that and scuttled his bulky, white-coated body out the door—obliqueness and terseness were his trademarks—if Misty hadn’t still looked so worried. Or was it sad? Spaced-out from the pills? Take your pick.
    Her expression touched Doctor Burger; it made him uncomfortable. Standing in the center of the examination room, he lifted his glasses, massaged the bridge of his nose, and squinted. Then he took off his glasses, folded them, and pinched them between his fingers at his side. As if hearing a voice no one else could hear, he nodded. Then he sat on his stool and cleared his throat. He put the glasses back onto his face. He sucked in a profound breath in preparation for giving Misty more information.
    Doctor Burger hated giving more information. Or else he liked to give the impression that he hated giving more information.
    We should assume the best about Doctor Burger. We should assume he was only being codgerly, that deep down he loved every one of his patients. We should assume nice things about dead people. Reserve your scorn for the living, if you please.
    “There’s nothing harmful about eating dirt,” he said, “despite what common sense might tell you.” His neck wattle thrummed above his tight collar. McKenna imagined popping it with a safety pin, air whistling through the hole like a leaking balloon. “Like I said, many babies go through this phase. Dirt, sand, soap, paint chips, and so on. Keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn’t choke, don’t let her eat any cleaning products.” He handed Misty a roll of puke-green stickers of round faces drawn to resemble the famous
Have a Nice Day
Happy Face. Except these faces weren’t happy. They grimaced, Xs for eyes, and stuck out their tongues. “Slap one of these on every poisonous item in the house.”
    Doctor Burger made his way to the door. He opened it, broadcasting a pleasant, official smile to Misty. He gave Audrey one last sidelong glance. The door closed.

23.
    Audrey grew up separately from her siblings. They attended St. Monica’s while Audrey was sent to North Park.
    Everyone knows this already. It’s been documented in fifteen books and a low-budget CBS miniseries. Audrey’s public school education is always mentioned as evidence of her spiritual and moral deficiency. As in, “See!
This
is what made her eat that city! I’ve found the solution!” The number of ex-schoolmates who’ve been handed obscene wads of cash by fly-by-night media outlets for a personal recollection of the time Audrey ate