“Well, I hope you get her a transplant because those are just abnormal. No offense, dear.” Loretta blows smoke out of her nostrils, it unfurls like crumpled paper when it burns. She stares down at our daughter who was playing on the swing set outside our home. Our daughter, Sarah, was perfect. She has my eyes and Loretta’s red hair. She is rather pretty, until you reached her feet. This was the abnormality people always refer to at the many doctors’ appointments we attend and the ‘special’ school where she learns that her feet aren’t right. Indeed. She has duck feet. Yellow and wide with no toes, just that claw like string of cartilage that defines each increment of foot. They have a rubbery feel and cause Sarah to waddle a bit as she dips from side to side to get around.
“Shouldn’t we wait til’ she can decide for herself?” I ask her.
“That is a terrible idea. It doesn’t really matter anyways. Look at her. I would have never agreed to get one if you hadn’t bribed me. She’s a complete bother.” Loretta says those things, but I hope she doesn’t mean them.
I had duck feet too. They were just like Sarah’s but had a greener tint, the kind of tint you see when you rub a blade of grass on a white sheet of paper. It was just that color. They complimented my eyes. A girl told me once at the Learning Center that she thought that gave me character. I think she liked me too. Even with my duck feet I still got around fine. I thought everything the duck feet gave me defined me. People could always point me out in a crowd. It wasn’t until I turned seven that it occurred to my mother that I looked awkward and that duck feet would bring trouble to me. So I had them removed and replaced. Now I have new feet, even the toes work and everything. It’s not the same. Now, I’m like everyone else. The duck feet aren’t a burden at all, they’re power. I don’t want Sarah to have them removed.
“I like them.” I whisper. Loretta looks at me, she is to high class to stand for things like this.
“Oh, Sarah!” My daughter waddles up to speak with us. Her eyes are glassy, she must off fallen of the swing because the seat is hanging and there is a big bloody scrape on her knee. It looks like it hurts very badly but Sarah doesn’t mention it. I guess we didn’t watch her as well as we could have.
“Yes?” her blue eyes have small look of longing for attention that only lasts for seconds when it comes to children nowadays. With laws so different now, things are so different now, and soon nothing will matter at all.
“Do you like those feet you have? Your mother and I were thinking of getting them removed and giving you new feet. Trust me. They are a lot better.”
Loretta slips her feet out of her Marledine stilettos and shows her feet to her. Sarah’s small hands reach up and stroke them, touching the glassy red toenails and feeling the soft skin.
“Do they feel?” she asks.
“Yes, they can get tickled if you aren’t – ,” Loretta giggles much to hard to enhance the special powers that normal feet seem to hold. This causes me to stare down at my own fake feet. They don’t feel any better. They don’t feel special at all. It’s like a man made piece of flesh that replaced a huge part of me. Without feeling and unimportant, like glitter or stars. Sarah looks at me.
“Daddy, what do you think?”
“Father.” Loretta corrects her.
“Sorry. Father, what do you think?”
“What do you think? I bet you want to keep them.”
Sarah glances at Loretta and her feet, then at her own.
“I hate my feet. I want yours, Loretta. I want yours.”
Loretta nods and gives her a hug. Sarah gets a prize for giving the right answer. She receives a bit of affection. I wrap my hands around her neck and kiss her forehead. Her hair is soft and young feeling. It still has that smooth soft respectable innocence. Soft like puppy’s eyes maybe even like the skin of a newborn.
“I think I’m going to leave. I’ll be back in a few hours.” I say.
I still remember hearing the ringing that I had in my ears from the blades after my operation. I can still feel strange, and shiver when I think of that first strong cut, and the sound like an apple getting pulled apart, when the knife hits the bone and the strong scent of rust and sweat hits the air. I remember not seeing the green tinted yellow and the flaps of useless flesh, just bandaged stumps, then later on feet. I wonder if Sarah will remember it too. I wonder if she’ll be just like me.

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