By Nan Wigington
Our mother loves animals, all kinds, big and hairy, slim and smooth, howling, purring, clucking. They come; they ravage; they leave a scar, a seed. The scars stay forever. The seeds blow out the window or they land in Mother’s belly and grow. I landed in the belly. As did my sister.
My sister’s father, with his rows and rows of teeth, bit Mother so hard, I thought she might bleed to death. My sister made our mother sick. She came out like a fish. Her flesh was pink, skin rough as sandpaper. I caught her, almost fit her into my mouth. Mother slapped my nose, growled at me, cooed at my sister.
My sister sang like a siren, shook her long green blonde hair, charmed the foam off the waves. I don’t know why Mother kept trying to improve her. She took my sister to a plastic surgeon, had her caudal fins turned into feet. The surgeries that followed gave my sister legs, hips, a stomach, breasts.
I saw the attention she got, wanted electrolysis at least, but Mother refused, said it would kill me or change my personality. Mother reminded me that without legs, my sister wouldn’t be able to walk. When I remembered to stand on my back legs, I walked just fine.
“You’re big boned,” our mother said. “So what?”
I snarled.
“Enunciate,” Mother said, and when I couldn’t, she hired a speech language pathologist.
My sister got plastic surgery. I got an elocutionist.
“Now, dear,” the elocutionist would say, pushing her lips forward, “Give me your best grr.”
I obeyed.
“Now, dear, let’s put an ending on it. Try girrl.” Her lips would retreat.
Try as I might, I had no lips. Endings killed me, would always kill me.
What made me most jealous was when my sister got special treats – dragonflies, midges, worms, leeches, girl scout cookies.
I was told that I was getting too fat and that I should “take it easy” on the honey and trash cans.
My sister was allowed to swim in the pond whenever she wanted.
I was forbidden even the woods.
“You scare people,” Mother said.
I slashed at her. She had my claws removed, replaced with fingers. My one good moment. It meant I could hold a pencil, type on a computer. I didn’t need to rely on the elocutionist to communicate.
When it came time to go to school, my sister got a pink dress that shone like the sea. I had to wear refashioned drapes.
“Listen, Ursula,” Mother said. “Goldie’s your little sister. You’ve got to protect her.”
No way, I thought. I’m going to hook her and dangle her like bait.
But some girl on the bus called me fat, and my sister slapped her with a ventral fin I didn’t know she had.
When some little boy teased her for walking like a penguin, I tripped him.
We were a team. Invincible.
Our mother was so happy, she went out with a wolf, didn’t come home until the cows mooed. She was covered in bites and scratches.
“You’re going to have a little brother,” our mother says now. She’s patting her belly.
My sister and I look at each other.
My sister shows her five rows of 3,000 teeth, says, “Don’t worry. I’ll drown him.”
I lift up my 1,300 pounds, dance on my back legs, think “Oh, but I’m going to eat him first.”
Nan Wigington recently retired from the Denver Public School system. She misses the kids, not the chaos. Her work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Pure Slush, and New Flash Fiction Review.
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