Diary of an Ugly Duckling (24 page)
choir of
amens
in her head. “Personally, I think
you’re brave as hell to do this—and to tackle it on
TV.” Her smile vanished again. “But you got to give
it to the shrink straight. We’re gonna need that
footage to help explain your reasons for making
such radical changes. Okay?”
Audra’s chest felt tight, as though her heart were
being squeezed in a vise. The idea of delving into
the depths of the pain of the past made her head
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hurt . . . but the possibility of being perceived as
one of those black folks who hated her blackness
was even worse. “I don’t know,” she muttered,
rubbing at her temples. “I’ll . . . I’ll have to think
about it.”
Shamiyah hesitated, as though debating the wis-
dom of lengthening her pep talk a bit. But ulti-
mately, she just nodded. “I’m beat, how about you?”
she said, filling the space between them with a final
elaborate yawn that seemed a little fake. “You should
get some rest, too. You’ll be meeting with the dentist
tomorrow morning and Dr. Goddard again in the
afternoon, I think—”
“And the nutritionist in between,” Audra said,
trying to laugh, but her heart wasn’t in it.
“Right, right,” Shamiyah said, but her tone made
it clear that she was about as interested in the nutri-
tionist’s comments as she was in the current condi-
tion of the polar ice cap. “Oh, I almost forgot. I got
you these.” She pulled a wide-brimmed straw hat
with a red ribbon around its base, an elegant red
scarf and a pair of long, red gloves from her bag.
“Throw away that baseball cap and jacket. These are
much more hip.”
“Wow . . . it’s so . . . so . . .” Audra settled the hat
on her head and wrapped the scarf around her
throat, wishing for a mirror for the first time since
Shamiyah had admitted her to this small apartment.
“Audrey Hepburn.”
“Exactly,” Shamiyah nodded. “I thought you’d
like it.”
“I do. Thank you.”
“No problem. And talk to Doc Goddard. Let’s get
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the situation on camera for all the sisters and broth-
ers out there to see, okay?” she said and waved her
good night.
Thursday, June 28
Dear Petra,
Thanks for the email. I got a little scared when I didn’t
hear from you . . .
It’s funny, isn’t it? I don’t mind letting them cut me
up (well, maybe a little) and I haven’t minded Dr.
Jamison’s treatments. To me, those were meant to
help me be more like you and Kiana . . . and even Ma.
I don’t mind knowing that at this Reveal there will be a
huge blowup of me in my fat, black and ugly glory
beside my new reality: something light and bright and
slender. I know people will draw whatever conclusion
suits them and I’m fine with it.
I don’t mind inviting the public to watch all the
external stuff . . . but I do mind the idea of talking to
this body-image consultant and having my most
personal doubts recorded for public consumption.
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But I don’t think there’s much I can do about it now.
Maybe Shamiyah’s right: Maybe it’s better to explain
myself than to leave it alone and let people reach what-
ever conclusions about me that they want to. Or maybe
it’s not other people I’m worried about at all. Maybe it’s
just that I don’t want to talk about any of that stuff. I
don’t want to go there. It’s one thing to beat Ma over the
head with it . . . It’s something else to really think about
it, what it means to me, who I am, my relationships . . .
I keep asking myself WWPD: What would Petra do?
Enlighten me, oh wise one!
Be careful out there,
Audra
“So. It’s tomorrow.” Edith’s voice was heavy
with the lateness of the hour. She sounded
tired and defeated to Audra’s ears . . . but it could
have just been a by-product of the thousands of
miles between them.
“Yep.” Audra forced her voice to bouncy enthusi-
asm she didn’t feel. “Tomorrow’s the big slice and
dice. Or at least it’s the first of the three days of slic-
ing and dicing.”
There was a long pause. Audra could almost see
her mother’s face: her cinnamon skin a little gray
without her makeup, her latest hairstyle tied down
tight in a colorful do-rag. She would be sitting in her
room by now, maybe on the bed, maybe at the little
desk that housed her computer, where she faithfully
typed an email to Petra every night, just as Audra
herself did, every morning. The image gave Audra
an unexpected sense of comfort.
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“I don’t suppose you’re gonna back out now? I
don’t suppose you might change your mind before
they knock you out and do what they’re gonna
do . . . because . . .” She hesitated for the briefest
moment, before rushing on to say, “You can still
come home. I know there’s been some harsh words
between us. But”—her mother spoke faster still, as if
expecting Audra to rain anger upon her before she
could finish—“like it or not, you’re still my daughter
and you can still come home.”
But instead of prompting anger, a surprising feel-
ing of gratitude welled up in Adura’s heart.
“Thanks, Ma,” Audra said softly. “But it’s really
too late. I’ve come this far.” She shrugged. “I guess
I’ll see it through.”
Edith was silent for a long moment and Audra
half expected her next words to be in the “you’re out
of your mind” vein the woman had been mining for
the past month. But to her surprise, her mother
asked, “You scared?”
“A little . . . I guess.”
“Well, I am,” Edith declared with a little more of
her usual fight and fire. “I got one daughter in Iraq
and the other on a reality show.” She made an odd
strangled noise that sounded like a laugh gone bad.
“From where I’m sitting, I got two children in the
crosshairs and there’s nothing I can do about it but
pray.”
Audra wanted to respond, to reassure her that all
would be well . . . but with thoughts swirling in her
head like the debris picked up by a tornado—each
thought more confusing than the last—she knew
there wasn’t much she could say that would be
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201
credible. It was one thing to submit a tape, visit with
doctors, smear some cream on your skin. It was
something else to spend three days in surgery with
only a picture generated by a computer to guide your
expectations of what you’d look like when it was all
done. It was something else to let people start pick-
ing and prying into your most private of memories
and motives . . . and something else yet again to try
to go home again after the picking and prodding—
both physical and emotional—was through.
“All the ladies down at the shop can’t wait to see
you when this is done,” her mother was saying. “I
keep telling them they won’t know you, but I don’t
go into the details. I mean,” and again she spoke
quickly as if to prevent interruption, “no one really
knows how all this is gonna come out. Let ’em see
for themselves, that’s what I say—”
“Ma—”
“I don’t want to talk about none of that, Audra,”
her mother’s voice rose to strident. “You already
said you’re gonna do it anyway, so what’s the
point?”
“Ma—”
“Aren’t you listening? I said I don’t want to talk
about any of it, so don’t even try to—”
“Shut up, Ma, and listen!” Audra shouted into the
phone. She inhaled deeply into the silence that fol-
lowed. “I just wanted to tell you . . . in case some-
thing happens to me—”
“Nothing’s going to happen to you. Nothing’s go-
ing to happen to you or Petra—”
“In case something happens to me,” Audra re-
peated loudly, drowning out her mother’s words,
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Karyn Langhorne
“that there’s a little document box under my bed—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know about the box under your
bed.”
Audra frowned. “How do you know about it?”
There was an uncomfortable silence, then her
mother said, “I found it when I was . . . cleaning . . .
one day.”
“You haven’t cleaned my room since I was thir-
teen, Ma,” Audra said skeptically. “Now what were
you doing—”
“Okay, okay,” Edith sounded annoyed. “I was
snooping, I admit it.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter now, I guess,” Audra said
smiling in spite of the violation. It was so typical . . .
so Edith. And from three thousand miles away,
there really wasn’t anything else
to
do but smile.
“It’s late,” Edith said abruptly. “Thanks for call-
ing, but you really should be getting to sleep.”
“Yeah . . .” Audra agreed, but her heart wasn’t in
it. Any other time she would have been glad to es-
cape from the nagging that was Edith, but tonight,
she wanted her mother, could have talked to her
mother all night long.
“Well, then,” Edith inhaled, gathering herself to-
gether to perform a difficult task. “Good night.”
“Good night, Ma.”
But neither of them hung up. The connection
stayed open, recording their breathing, each for the
other to hear.
“I love you, Audra,” her mother said at last, and
her voice had the tight, strangled sound of a person
who was trying very hard not to let anyone know
she was crying.
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“I love you, too, Ma,” Audra replied, her own eyes
filling with tears, and it was only then that she heard
the light click of the receiver and knew that her
mother had finally hung up.
Audra sank down on the bed, her mind reeling.
The doctors had advised her to get a good night’s
sleep . . . but that seemed to be shot to hell now.
There was too much to think about, too much to
worry about . . . too much to regret.
With the touch of a button, the television sprang
to life and Audra was transported, mid-story, into
another time, another place. Gene Kelly was danc-
ing . . .
She must have fallen asleep, because when she
came to herself again, the phone was ringing. Audra
almost pulled the pillow over her head to block out
the sound, until she remembered where she was and
grabbed for the phone.
“Officer Marks?”
Audra sat up, alarmed. The voice was female,
youthful, formally polite, unfamiliar. A thousand
thoughts swarmed through her mind as she came
fully into consciousness . . . but only two had
names.
“What is it? Is it Petra? Michael—”
“No, Officer Marks . . . it’s me. Penny Bradshaw.”
Penny Bradshaw?
“How did—” Audra began, but the girl inter-
cepted her.
“My Dad got a call from the show. Asking if we
would come to the Reveal . . . and for permission to
use my name and . . . uh . . . comments.”
Of course. Audra rubbed her forehead. “They
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certainly are thorough, aren’t they?” she muttered.
“How much trouble are you in?”
The young woman at the other end of the tele-
phone line twittered a nervous little laugh. “I’m call-
ing you, aren’t I? To apologize?” Her tone changed
into one flat and carefully rehearsed. “I was very
rude to you, Officer Marks, and I apologize. I hope
you’ll forgive me for what I said to you”—she low-
ered her voice to an eager stage whisper—“but I
think what you’re doing now is totally cool. Are
they going to use what I said? Is that why that
woman called my dad—”
“Hello?”
Penny’s soft tones were replaced by a heavy mas-
culine voice. “Marks?”
A thrill ran up and down Audra’s spine, but she
mastered it and managed a perfectly calm, “Hello,
Bradshaw,” like his call wasn’t out of the ordinary in
the slightest.
There was an awkward silence before he said,
“Seem to be constantly apologizing to you,” in that
slow drawl of his. “Penny told me what she said to
you. I’m beyond sorry—I’m appalled. She’s totally
wrong: I’ve never introduced her to any woman for
the purpose of educating her on ugliness or any-
thing like that. You believe that, right?”
Audra hesitated. Shamiyah started talking in her
brain, reminding her of things done and not done,
things said and things not said in the “Art Brad-
shaw” account. And again, the result was mixed: On
the one hand, he’d called. On the other, the call was
more of a matter of parenting than anything suggest-
ing interest in one Audra Marks. At this point, Audra
DIARY OF AN UGLY DUCKLING