You wake to your husband’s fingernails digging into your shoulder blade. Swallow a wince as Jimmy squeezes the skin on your back. He grunts, pinching harder, before flourishing a black and white feather in your face. Lays it on top of the pillows stacked between you in bed. As you stare at the feather, the alarm clock starts to scream and scream until the baby wails from her crib and the kids bang at your bedroom door begging you to turn it all off.
What the fuck, Jimmy says. You grew another penguin feather. Same like the one I pulled out yesterday. Gross.
You twist your arm behind your back. Rub your fingers against your shoulder blades. But you can’t feel any feathers growing in your skin. Don’t joke, Jimmy.
Jimmy shrugs. He slaps the pillow hard. The penguin feather rises into a high patch of sunlight just out of your reach. Floats down to land on your belly.
Jimmy’s been throwing What the fucks at your outfits, your cooking, your books, more than usual. Ever since he tagged along with you and the baby on last month’s trip to Costco. As you’d lifted the carton of 48 Great Value Skipjack Chunk Tuna onto the check-out counter, the cashier winked at you. Hey! How’s it going? Still enjoying that tuna, I see.
What the fuck? That’s my wife, Jimmy told the cashier, his words six icicles. When the young man's eyes dropped to the floor, you picked them up. Sorry, you whispered as you leaned across the counter to slip him his eyes before Jimmy noticed. On the car ride home, Jimmy’s tone was accusing. Dude was staring at your boobs. They look ginormous in that breastfeeding shirt.
Jimmy turns off the alarm clock on your side-table. Your phone rings softly. It’s your old school-friend Violet calling again. The only one who still does. You can’t answer. Not since Violet had come to the house while you were out to try to sleep with Jimmy, stripping down to a pink thong in the living room, telling Jimmy she wanted to fuck him. Jimmy of course kicked her ass to the curb. Says he’s known plenty of women like Violet.
It’s hard to believe your best friend would do that. You thought Violet hated Jimmy. Tried to convince you to leave him last year. But she’s been going through her own stuff since her husband got sick. Maybe she’s lonely. Jimmy’s always been easy on the eyes. Fighting off the ladies all night again, he laughs when he rolls in from The Crafty Drake every Saturday at 2am.
The kids are outside the bedroom door whining for their morning cuddles. Jimmy heaves up to unlock the door and let them in. Waggling his eyebrows, he shows them the penguin feather he plucked from your back. Gets them to line up so they can run their fingers over its smoothness. Their eyes widen when he shows them a speckle of pink at the feather’s base. That’s Mommy’s blood, he tells them. I had to yank like crazy to get that sucker out.
The baby starts crying again and you want to escape with her for some fresh air but you stopped going for strolls when Jimmy said the neighbors were complaining. They say you look like a homeless person, waddling around. They’re such snobs with their precious manicured lawns.
Jimmy is trying to help. Explains it’s not your fault you haven’t lost the baby weight. Or that you smell like sour milk and sweat because there’s barely time to shower. He still loves you and doesn’t care if you’re fat and stinky. Says don’t worry what the stupid fucking nosey neighbors say. To just stay inside from now on. Stop accepting meal drop-offs from your so-called friends.
Jimmy gets the baby from her crib and gently places her on your breast where she stops crying. The other kids pile onto the bed. Jimmy stands at the foot of the bed grinning and clapping to get attention. Throws his arms up like a circus master, startling the baby off her latch to stare up at him. Guess what kids. Mommy’s turning into….a penguin!, he announces, as if surprising them with a trip to Disney World. We’ll move to that Galapagos place with the other penguins. Just our family. No-one will laugh at us there. I’m so goddamn sick of everyone judging us.
You know you can’t be a penguin. But the baby hormones are messing up your brain. Sometimes you can’t tell if you’re dreaming or awake. You’ve been scratching yourself raw ever since Jimmy told you that Violet tried to sleep with him. There’s a stirring beneath your skin, like an egg cracking open and spilling through your blood.
The kids giggle at Jimmy’s words and the oldest boy leads the others in a chant, Penguin Mama! Penguin Mama! He pumps his fist in the air as he chants and the others follow along, pointing at you. Jimmy joins in. Their laughter rises into the storm clouds forming in the bedroom. Freezes into hailstones. Falls hard, piercing your skin. Jimmy opens the window and a gust of icy wind blows in. You gather up the downy bed blankets. Pull them around your shoulders like a cloak of feathers. Hunching over your penguin chick, you use your body to shield her from the sudden cold.
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