Briefly, a Pelican

ZOË WISE

When Jeanine’s father walked into her bedroom to wake her, he found that she was now a pelican. Instead of climbing down her bunk-bed ladder, she flew off the ledge and landed wobbly on her webbed grey feet, brushing her feathers against her father’s head on the way down.

Jeanine waddled into the kitchen and flew to the top of the fridge to grab the bread. Perched over her father’s head, she began to peck the bag open with some difficulty. Eyes puffed and strained from crying, her father took the bag and put two pieces in the toaster. When the crisp bread popped out, Jeanine shrilled unlike anything he had ever heard before. Her father spread lumps of butter and jam across the toast and bleakly tossed strips of torn bread into her beak. He was far away, and toast was no longer satisfactory to Jeanine.

The drive to church was quiet as her father played with the idea of skipping out on their usual Sunday routine. Through the window Jeanine noticed a squadron of pelicans flying, how they made it look so easy. She produced a low, sad shrill when the birds flew out of view. Her father watched Jeanine through his rearview mirror; she was buckled into her booster seat and pulled her neck into her body to make room for her beak. She looked rather uncomfortable, her father noted, and he resolved that he was content to mourn with his fellow churchgoers.

At church Jeanine perched on her father’s shoulder while they listened to the sermon. Some patrons complained about having to see over the bird, so the two of them resigned to the back of the room where they would be less of a distraction. As he let more salt-laden tears escape from his tight eyes, Jeanine dabbed the handkerchief she had tucked into her beak against his course, stubby face. Her father did not flinch as she occasionally poked him in the eye.

When the service was over Jeanine remained on her father’s shoulders while guests shook his hand and offered kind words. Someone had set up a bucket of tiny fish that each leaving guest threw into her mouth. Jeanine swallowed respectfully.

Jeanine’s father took her to the beach where he had been trying to teach her how to swim. It was the same beach where he had learned to swim when he was a young boy. He dog-paddled in the water while Jeanine curled her ash colored feet, clinging to the edge of the dock. He opened his arms, ready for her to fall into them as a daughter should. Jeanine leapt back to the center of the dock, picked up speed with her trot, then plopped into the water and swam around where her father was paddling. She gurgled as she came to an abrupt stop to scoop a fish into her beak.

When Jeanine’s father gave up on swimming lessons he sat on the beach watching while his daughter continued to fish. After Jeanine was finished, he dried her off with a towel. He bought her an ice cream cone and tried to hold it for her, but she ended up swallowing it whole and then spitting the cone back out onto the sand.

Jeanine and her father lingered at the beach until the sun was about to set. All day they had watched the other birds flying inland. When it started to get dark Jeanine swallowed the last bit of fish she had been storing in her scooping-beak. She kissed her father on the check as gently as she could, leaving a red mark where her beak collided with his rough cheek. Jeanine’s wings gathered strength as she left the beach and flew up. She rose above her father and cried out. She soared across the blue-grey sky until she found a pod of pelicans in formation and latched onto the end, following their heavy movements that shifted gracefully with the wind.

Jeanine felt like herself once more.