Diary of an Ugly Duckling (27 page)

lightening or her parentage—“being the family ugly

duckling. And . . .” She sighed. “I’m not much of a

writer, Bradshaw. Or a feeler if you want to know

the truth.”

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Karyn Langhorne

“Not all that crazy about it myself,” he offered af-

ter another of his signature pauses. “When you’re a

guy of my size, people think you’re invincible. A big

block of flesh that don’t feel nothing. They say all

kinds of things, act all kinds of ways, because you’re

supposed to be so big . . . so tough . . .” He paused

for a long moment, as though reliving a memory he

chose not to relate. “Bought that bullshit myself for a

long time. Too long. But the truth is, I’m human too.”

Another silence, but this time, Audra heard hesita-

tion in the pause, as though he were looking for the

words to say something he wasn’t sure would be

well received. “I’ve heard some of the things people

say about you. You’d have to be deaf to miss them,”

he muttered in a low voice. “And I can understand

why you want to do what you’re doing. So you won’t

have to feel that hurt anymore. But people say nasty

things about all kinds of people: big ones because

they’re big . . . fat ones because they’re fat . . . beauti-

ful ones because they’re beautiful, ugly ones because

they’re ugly. Point is, you’re gonna get your share of

hurt from other people one way or the other . . . and

you got to learn to deal with it.”

The dude was more than just handsome . . . He was

deep, Audra decided. And since she was protected by

miles and miles and miles, she felt completely com-

fortable saying, “Thank you, Dr. Bradshaw.”

This time the pause at the other end of the phone

stretched and expanded into something almost

large enough to have a life of its own. Audra felt

something palpable taking shape between them,

something that might mean something. Something

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223

exciting and different. Something world-changing

and terrifying.

“Whistle if you need me,” he rumbled, a bit of a

sexy chuckle in his voice. “You know how to whis-

tle, don’t you, Marks? You pucker up and blow.”

Chapter 18

July 15

Dear Petra,

I hope you’re okay. I’m not sure I am. They tell me I’m

depressed . . . I guess I am. Maybe I just miss my

sister. I miss home. I even miss Ma.

Be careful out there,

Audra

“So what color are you now?”

Edith’s voice had a familiar edge to it, like

she was trying to sound like she was joking, when

almost anyone with half a brain would be able to

tell a joke was the last thing on her mind. Audra

closed her eyes and pictured her: dramatic eyeliner

and lipstick, her hair in some fashionable, youthful

style.

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225

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Audra shot

back, trying not to grunt in pain as she resettled her-

self on the bed. Reaching for the phone had been an

uncomfortable stretch that jangled all the nerve end-

ings in her torso, but to admit to pain would give

Edith ammunition that Audra didn’t want her to

have. “It’s two in the afternoon. Aren’t you sup-

posed to be at the salon?”

“I am,” her mother replied. “But I own the joint,

remember? I can take a break if I want to and make

a few phone calls. Besides, I got something to tell

you. About Petra.”

A tingly feeling of anxiety coursed from Audra’s

stomach to her mouth, drying up every bit of mois-

ture between them.

“You heard from her? You got through?” she stut-

tered over a tongue that felt like a dead leaf. “Is she

all right? Michael, too?”

“She called,” Edith said, sounding bright and re-

lieved. “She’s all right. Michael, too. Her detail’s on

the move, that’s why she hasn’t been able to write.

They’re going to be manning a new supply sta-

tion.”

Audra exhaled relief and inhaled a breath of fresh

suspicion. Edith thought she was a decent actress,

but Audra knew every nuance of her mother’s voice

too well to be fooled.

“A new supply station?” she repeated. “Where?”

“I don’t remember,” her mother lied.

“You don’t honestly expect me to buy that, do

you, Ma? You and I both know you memorize every

word Petra says! Now tell me where the new supply

station—”

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Karyn Langhorne

“Well, I wasn’t sure you’d want to know, consider-

ing you’re out there in California trying to change

yourself
into
your sister. I thought you might be more

worried about how much you weigh, or the shape of

your nose or whether your skin tone is closer to cof-

fee or toffee—”

“Nice try, Ma. If we were talking about anything

other than Petra, I might be distracted by those

insults. But I love her, too, Ma, so I’m just going

to have let all that bullshit slide.” Audra sighed.

A pounding headache started behind her eyes, a

headache she would have liked to have blamed on

the healing pressure of her face-lift, were she not

certain its cause was a certain attractive hairstylist

on the isle of Manhattan. “Now, where’s the new

supply station? Where’s Petra now?”

“Well . . .” Edith dawdled. “I
think
she said a camp

set up in the southern part of the country—”

“Fallujah,” Audra said, feeling the hairs rising on

the backs of her arms. “Is that where she is? Fallu-

jah?”

Thousands of miles away, Edith heaved a little

sigh that Audra knew instantly signaled the affir-

mative. “Shit,” she muttered, knowing fully well

that the Iraqi city was one known for violence and a

high number of U.S. casualties. “Shit.”

“She said she’s fine,” Edith continued quickly,

covering her own concerns with annoyance at Au-

dra’s reaction. “No need to panic. She’s fine. She

even said to tell you her superior officer got a call

from that girl—Shamya—”

“Shamiyah.”

“That’s the one. About her coming home for the

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show. She said she’d email you as soon as they get

the infrastructure set up.”

Infrastructure.
Audra nodded to herself. That was

a word straight from Petra’s mouth,
infrastructure
.

Army-speak.

“Thanks, Ma.” Audra sighed, feeling a week’s

worth of tension drain from her body in a single

breath.

Her mother didn’t reply right away, and when she

did, she took the conversation in a different direc-

tion altogether: “I guess I should start getting ready,

shouldn’t I?”

“Ready? Ready for what?”

“I ain’t stupid, Audra. You’re up there, erasing

yourself, erasing me and your father and our entire

family—”

“I’m not erasing you, Ma,” Audra told her. “I’m

going to look more like you, not less. And as for my

father, it’s kind of hard to erase someone when

you’re not sure who he
is
—”

“His name is Andrew Neill.” Her mother blurted

out the name in a tumbled rush of syllables. “An-

drew Neill. Not James Marks.”

Audra caught her breath. “Ma,” she began in a low

voice. “You know this call is being recorded . . .”

“His name is Andrew Neill . . . or it was. He’s

dead now. Been dead, almost as long as you’ve been

alive.”

The words stretched around Audra like a swath of

cotton, swaddling close, blocking out light and air.

“Ma—” she began again.

“He was a good man . . . a good man,” her

mother ’s voice rose, defensive and angry. “And

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Karyn Langhorne

you are so much like him. If he’d lived, I would

have left James Marks—I would have left Petra’s

father for him and you would have known him,

Audra. Then maybe you’d be proud to look like

him.”

“I look like him?” Audra repeated. “He’s where

the dark skin and bumpy nose come from—”

Edith sighed.

“All these years every time I looked in your

face . . . I could remember . . . you don’t know how

many times I looked at you and felt—felt—”

“Ashamed?” Audra muttered. “That’s what I read

in your face over and over, time and time again

every since I was a child.” Audra heard her voice ris-

ing and swallowed hard, struggling to keep it down.

“And you know something else, Mama? I’d bet

every cent I’ll ever have that we wouldn’t even be

having this conversation if it weren’t for this sur-

gery . . . if it weren’t for
Ugly Duckling
. You’d have

been happy to keep staring at me like you didn’t

know where I came from—like you wished I’d never

been born—”

“Not true, Audra.”

“Then why now, Mama? Why
now
?”

From the other end of the phone, a long painful

silence, but no words. Audra felt her anger crest and

subside in that silence, making her insides hollow

and dry, as though every drop of feeling inside her

had been wrung out.

“That girl Shamiyah. She said they need it to help

you. That you need it to . . . move on. She said they’ll

keep it confidential . . .” Edith continued. “I been

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229

thinking a lot. And maybe I should have told you a

long time ago, but I didn’t. I thought it was for the

best.” Her voice had an edge of nastiness to it as she

said, “I suppose now you blame me.”

“Well, who else is there?”

“Fine, then, blame me,” Edith said tersely. “But

while you’re blaming me, you ought to under-

stand. It’s not so simple. I was a young woman

with two little girls. In the time James Marks and

I stayed together I was able to get this salon up and

running. Provide for you two. That’s something,

isn’t it?”

Questions swirled in Audra’s mind by the

dozens: angry questions, sad questions, practical

questions, dumb questions. But before she could

stammer out the first of them, her mother muttered,

“Shit, my customer’s here. I told that girl Shamiyah

I won’t be coming out there. You do what you gotta

do. I don’t need to see it,” and Audra could hear her

proclaiming to someone in the distance, “Well, girl,

I know why you’re early. Your head is a
mess
—”

then the connection was severed and Audra was

alone with the information she’d waited a lifetime

to hear.

“Andrew Neill.” Bradshaw repeated the man’s

name slowly. “That’s it? That’s all you know? Just

his name?”

“That’s it.” Audra repeated.

She wasn’t sure why, but he was the first person

she’d called.

“This is pretty heavy, Marks,” he began.

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Karyn Langhorne

“I guess that’s not even my name,” Audra inter-

rupted, trying to laugh it off. “My name should

probably be Neill, too . . .” She stopped, her voice

faltering. She was silent for a long moment, trying

to master herself and failing. Tears slipped from

her eyes and rolled unchecked down her face.

Art Bradshaw seemed to know what was going

on. For the longest time, he didn’t say a word, and

in a way, his silence just made it worse. Audra

dabbed at her face, still bandaged at the brow

and around the chin, her nose still packed with cot-

ton. She snuffed in a ragged breath through her

mouth and muttered, “I’m sorry,” in a shattered

voice.

“It’s okay,” he murmured and Audra heard the

words as license to sob in earnest.

“I don’t understand her,” she stammered. “How

she can just drop this on me . . . then go and do

some woman’s
hair
”—she gave a wild chuckle—

“Have you ever heard anything like it?”

“Beats any movie I’ve ever seen.”

“You got
that
right.” Audra sniffed, struggling to

bring herself under control. “Of course, they pretty

much didn’t do story lines like this back in the thir-

ties and forties. I think that’s one of the reasons I

like those movies so much . . . Everything was so . . .

squeaky clean.”

“This isn’t your fault . . . uh . . . Audra.” Bradshaw

sounded uncomfortable in a way Audra hadn’t ex-

pected. Not with the information, but with her pain.

Like he wished he were closer or something. “Might

not be hers, either. Your father—at least the man you

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231

thought was your father—he doesn’t sound like

much of a guy if he walked out on you guys all those

years ago.”

“He did . . . and he wasn’t. I—I—always felt like

that was my fault, too . . .” Audra whispered, feeling

her fragile control slipping away again. “Like . . .

they might have stayed married . . . if only . . . if

only . . . I’d never . . . been born . . .”

And then the tears were there again, drowning

out any hope of speech. Audra covered her eyes