Diary of an Ugly Duckling

by Langhorne, Karyn

  wasn’t sure who . . .” She let the sentence die with a

  hard swallow. “It wasn’t until you were born that I

  knew . . . and so did James. He’d suspected anyway.

  Some of those no-good buddies of his had seen me

  and Andrew together. But when you were born—”

  “Because I was so much darker,” Audra finished.

  “I always knew my coloring didn’t fit with the fam-

  ily palette.”

  “I don’t know why, but James’s suspicions made

  me deny it that much more. Insist he was wrong and

  you and Petra were full-blood sisters in every way.

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  Stay with him even though . . .” She shrugged. “I

  don’t know. Maybe I thought that’s what I deserved.

  And when he finally walked out on me”—her face

  swung toward Audra’s tear-streaked one in the dim

  light—“I thought I’d paid my dues.”

  “But he’s been gone for years, Ma. You could have

  told me any time—”

  “No.” Edith shook her head. “No. You were getting

  older, smarter. At first we were all dealing with the

  aftermath of James’s leaving, and I couldn’t add this

  other burden to it. And then you were a teenager, a

  teenager always on the verge of rebellion because

  you were so different. I could see how you and Petra

  needed each other, kept each other from getting into

  too much trouble. And I was afraid if I told you I’d

  mess that up. And then you were an adult, and . . .”

  She sighed again. “I should have told you, but I

  couldn’t bear to see that look in your eyes. That

  judgment for all the mistakes I’d made”—a fresh

  wave of tears misted her eyes—“so I just kept on

  denying it and denying it and denying it, even

  though every I time I looked at you, he was there

  and I’d feel like maybe I wasn’t so”—her voice

  cracked—“alone.”

  “Ma—”

  “I wish I could undo it—I wish all kinds of things,

  but I can’t!” her mother cried. “The past is past. If

  you have to hate me for the rest of your life, I sup-

  pose it’s no less than I deserve but—”

  “Ma, I don’t hate you. At least . . . I don’t want to

  hate you anymore. I want—” She hesitated, strug-

  gling with the words. “I want to understand. I want

  to be able to talk to you about this . . . and I want to

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  know about him. I want to know what he was like.

  Am I like him . . . at all?”

  Her mother grimaced. “Audra, I really don’t see

  the sense of—”

  “Please, Mama,” Audra grabbed her hand. “Am I

  like him?”

  Edith stared hard into her face, then sighed, her

  shoulders collapsing in on each other as though she

  were a much older woman. “No, Audra . . . you

  looked like him, but you’re not much like him.

  But . . . you’re an awful lot like me . . .” Her walnut

  brown hand covered Audra’s beige one. “And you

  always have been.” She gave a faint smile. “I know

  that isn’t what you want to hear, but—”

  “No, Mama,” Audra squeezed her mother’s hand.

  “It’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

  There was just a moment, when the two of them

  stared at each other, each rooted to her spot by uncer-

  tainty. Audra didn’t know who moved first—and

  didn’t care—but in another moment, her arms were

  locked around her mother’s body and she felt the

  woman’s embrace tight around her back.

  “I was going to tell you the night before your sur-

  gery,” Edith whispered, clinging tightly to Audra’s

  shoulders. “I tried and tried, but I couldn’t get the

  words out. And then, you started talking about dy-

  ing and loving me and all that. Even after you hung

  up, I couldn’t get it out of my mind, so I called back.

  Got a busy signal.” She pulled herself out of Audra’s

  arms, wiping her face again. “I called and called and

  called . . . until finally I dug up that girl Shamiyah’s

  number. And I told her ‘I got to tell Audra some-

  thing really important about herself and you gotta

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  help me.’ I told her, ‘Once she hears what I have to

  say, she’ll stop talking about all this surgery and

  skin bleaching and come on home.’ ” Edith shook

  her head. “She said she’d try to get you a message,

  but that the phones were being disconnected in your

  apartment there. For a whole week, to help speed

  your recovery—”

  Disconnected? That didn’t ring true. Not at all . . .

  “Phones disconnected?” Audra asked, frowning.

  “The phones were never disconnected. At least not

  that I know of.”

  “Well, that’s what she said. She said she’d try to

  get you a message before your surgery, but it might

  be too late, since they were going to start the first

  procedure so early in the morning.”

  “I never even got a message from Shamiyah that

  you’d called . . .”

  “She wasn’t able to get to you. At least that’s what

  she told me.” And when Audra turned toward her

  in query, she continued. “She called me back. A cou-

  ple of times. To tell me how you were doing after all

  that cutting . . . and to give me an idea of when I’d

  be able to call you. She kept asking ‘Is this about her

  father? Is this about her father?’ until finally I broke

  down and told her yeah. That’s when she got all ex-

  cited and started talking about how much it would

  mean to you, and when she promised not to use it

  on the show.” Edith smiled. “She’s a nice girl. Seems

  to really like you.”

  Audra’s frown deepened. It all sounded right,

  sounded logical and feasible enough, and yet, some-

  thing nibbled at the back of Audra’s brain like an

  unwelcome pest.

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  “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  Audra shook her suspicions away. “Nothing . . . I

  hope.” She pulled herself up from the curb. “I’ve

  got to get to work, Ma—”

  “Just a minute. I got something else to say,” Edith

  announced, giving her face one last treatment with

  the smock’s sleeve before facing Audra. “About

  Bradshaw—”

  Audra sighed. “He’s not talking to me, Ma.”

  “Well, what did you expect? He sends his girlfriend

  off a thick slab of dark chocolate and she comes back

  a ladyfinger!” Edith exclaimed. “That’s enough to un-

  settle any man—”

  “I’m not his girlfriend,” Audra interrupted.

  “Yes, you are, Audra. And the two of you are the

  only ones who don’t know it. Now, shut up and lis-

  ten, Audra, because I’m only going to say this

  once.” Edith paused, chewing on her lips as though

  what she was about to say hurt her m
ore than any of

  the prior confessions.

  “You were right,” she said slowly, at last. “He’s

  your soul mate.”

  Chapter 27

  Her mind was spinning with a million thoughts:

  Ma, Andrew Neill, Art, Laine, Shamiyah and

  the Ugly Duckling show . . .

  Fortunately, it was the graveyard shift and she

  had the perfect assignment: patrolling the quiet cell-

  blocks, making sure inmates were safe and quiet, if

  not asleep. Other than double-checking doors and

  peering into cells to insure that “lights out” rules

  were being strictly complied with, she expected a

  quiet-enough night.

  Which was a good thing, with the world flipped

  upside down.

  Her mother confessing to a long-ago passion of

  which she was the product; meeting Laine and find-

  ing, for the first time, the beauty in her old image,

  now that it was nearly impossible to retrieve it for

  herself; Art suddenly turning evasive and quiet,

  treating her with a courtly arms-length distance

  and sudden formality that seemed particularly

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  strange after all their intimacies. It was as though

  she’d gone on the Ugly Duckling show to turn the

  tables, but they’d all ganged up and spun the tables

  on her.

  “You know how to whistle, Audra . . .”

  His voice sounded so near, Audra started, peer-

  ing down the dimly lit hallway, half expecting to

  see his tall, broad form emerge from the shadows.

  She thought she heard the echoes of footsteps—

  there were several other COs on the floor, pa-

  trolling at intervals through the sleeping prison.

  Art worked nights from time to time, so it could be

  him . . .

  But the sound died as she concentrated on trying

  to decipher it. Instead, another sound, like a faint

  whisper, seemed to taunt her through the rails of a

  cell halfway down the hallway.

  She moved along the corridor toward the sound,

  straining her ears to translate it into words—if in-

  deed it was words. It sounded more like the moan of

  an inmate in trouble or pain.

  She touched her communication device, reporting

  quickly the nature of the sounds and her location,

  according to procedure.

  “Find out which unit it is, then wait for backup,”

  came the expected response from the Central Con-

  trol. Audra acknowledged, then crept down the hall

  toward the sound.

  It came to her again, a low moan, a definite sound

  of sickness or pain. Audra pulled her flashlight from

  her hip belt and peered into cell after cell, looking

  for the source of the sound until she saw him, curled

  up in a tight ball on his bunk, holding his stomach.

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  “Ugghhh . . . ” the man moaned. “Ugghh . . . ”

  Audra shined her light along the cell number,

  reaching for her walkie-talkie again.

  “Officer . . . Officer . . . Marks?” the inmate stut-

  tered, breathless with pain. “Oh . . . thank . . . God.

  Help me! H—help— ahhhhhh! ”

  If she’d thought about it or been focused enough

  to be suspicious, she might have wondered how he

  knew it was she. But between her own distractions

  and the man’s howl of pain, Audra was swept away

  by concerns for the man’s well-being.

  “What’s the matter?” she shouted into the cell.

  “What’s wrong?”

  The man let out another low moan . . . and then

  fell silent. Audra could hear nothing, not even the

  ragged sounds of breath.

  “Hey!” Audra shouted, already reaching for the

  card key that would open the cell door. “You okay in

  there?”

  Silence was the only response. Audra hurriedly

  slid the card key through a slot on the cell panel, and

  punched in her code, wishing that the lights weren’t

  on a central system at the other end of the hall. But

  still, the door slid open quickly and she stepped in-

  side, hurrying toward the room’s single bunk.

  “Hey! You okay?” she began, bending toward the

  man.

  He was on her in an instant, pouncing catlike as he

  grabbed her arms, pulling her down on the narrow

  bed beneath him. Before she could struggle or cry

  out, he’d clamped a sweaty palm over her mouth

  and slid her gun out from its holster, pressing it tight

  against her temples.

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  “Thanks for making this easy, bitch,” he hissed in

  her ear. He paused and she felt his fingers groping

  her breasts. “You’re half the woman you used to be.”

  Haines. Audra knew the voice, even if his face

  were barely visible in the low light.

  “Yeah, a man might actually like to fuck you now.

  And trust me, I will. But first you gonna help me

  walk right out of this prison, okay?” He jabbed a

  knee into her abdomen, hard enough to take her

  breath. “That’s for busting my damn ribs,” he mut-

  tered, then raised himself off her, still holding the

  gun’s cold metal against the skin covering her skull

  and her brain.

  Audra lifted herself slowly off the bunk, her

  brain racing. Central Control had already dis-

  patched other officers, based on her report, but it

  was pretty clear that Haines intended to hold them

  off, using her as shield. And as if he’d plucked

  the thought out of her brain, the man grabbed her,

  thrusting her in front of him, his fingers tight

  around her neck just as they heard footsteps ap-

  proaching.

  “Don’t you dare say a word.” He tightened the

  grip around her neck. “Not one fucking—”

  Audra thrust out an elbow, jabbing the man so

  hard in the solar plexus that the gun slipped from

  its station against her temple. In the fraction of the

  man’s surprise, she bent forward at the waist sud-

  denly, working with his headlock to flip him over

  her shoulder, like she’d been trained to do in the

  inmate restraint workshops and the self-defense

  classes that were the cornerstone of a corrections of-

  ficer’s training.

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  The maneuver just barely came off before bang!

  the report of the gun filled the air, echoing in Au-

  dra’s ears in the darkness, followed an instant later

  by the sound of metal hitting the hard surface of the

  floor. She dropped to her knees, her eyes acclimat-

  ing to the darkness, feeling around for the weapon.

  Her hand closed around something smooth and

  hard .. . just as Haines grabbed her ankle and

  yanked, pulling her away from it and tighter into his

  wiry arms.

  They both heard the footsteps clattering toward

  them; they both heard the voices.

  “Help!” Audra shrieked, bellowing the words at

  the top of h
er lungs as she struggled and kicked—

  not only in the hope of freeing herself, but in the

  hope of kicking the gun away in the process, mak-

  ing it impossible for Haines to retrieve it without re-

  leasing her. “Help!”

  “Shut up!” Haines hollered, hoisting her to her

  feet like she was nothing and shoving her against

  the bunk again. With catlike grace, he stooped, feel-

  ing the floor in the low light, furtive and deter-

  mined, even as the footsteps pounded closer and

  Audra heard clearly, “Officer needs assistance!

  Shots fired, Block C, Cell 1211! We need the lights!”

  She heard a familiar heavy voice growl from the

  hallway and then the crackle of response from

  Control.

  “Bradshaw!” she cried. “Don’t come in! He’s got

  my gun!”

  She heard the footsteps hesitate, knew they were

  right outside the open cell door. Haines was still

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  feeling along the edge of the bunk, his eyes focused

  on the entrance, where Audra could hear the COs

  whispering to each other as they took their posi-

  tions for containment and rescue.

  Crap, Audra had time to think. This is exactly the

  kind of incident that gives female COs a bad name—

  Then the lights came on, flooding the room with

  fluorescent light. Audra blinked, her eyes shifting

  painfully with the abrupt adjustment from dark to

  light. Then she saw it.

  The gun.

  Lying between her feet at the foot of the bunk,

  tantalizingly close and yet so far away. Haines saw

  it, too—it wasn’t two feet from where he knelt, and

  an easy sweep of the wrist from being once again in

  his hand. Audra heard the music of the great west-

  ern classic, High Noon, playing in her ears as

  Haines’s eyes locked on hers, his lips curving into

  that trademark sneer of his. Then the two of them

  made their move: Haines for the gun and Audra for

  Haines.

  Her right foot connected to his jaw, just as he

  stretched out his fingers for the weapon. But her left

  foot had already connected to that too, kicking it

  like a soccer ball for a goal toward the bars.

  “Bradshaw, weapon on the floor!” she shouted.

  “Coming to—”

  Haines’s fingers went around her throat, squeez-

  ing, choking out any further hope of words, let

  alone breath. Audra grabbed for his hands, but the

  man leaned into the work now, forcing her down,

  weakening her with every second that passed until