Diary of an Ugly Duckling by Langhorne, Karyn (general ebook reader .txt) 📕

nothing but the

sad reality of life without its presence . . . until the

image of Art Bradshaw, walking at her side along

the dim corridors of Manhattan Men’s Correctional

Facility filled her mind’s screen.

Her body relaxed, her mind cleared, her lips

curved into a smile . . . and she drifted back to sleep.

Chapter 17

July 5

Dear Petra,

Are you okay? No email in over a week . . . I’m getting

worried now. Please write as soon as you can.

Be careful, please . . .

Audra

One big, oozing incision.

That’s what she felt like when she came fully

to herself again about four days later, covered in ban-

dages from what felt like forehead to foot. For the

first few seconds, she had no idea where she was,

even though it was the third time she’d woken up to

the sounds of beeps and buzzes in the little recovery

room, the third time an oxygen mask had made her

face feel heavy and stiff, the third time for the pulse

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oximeter clipped to her finger and the EKG wires

feeding from her chest. And for the third time, there

was an odd sense of anxiety—a nervous impulse

that bordered on absolute panic, that only subsided

to manageable when, for the third time, a recovery

nurse leaned into her face and said sharply, “Au-

dra!” as though she were in trouble or something.

And it was so cold in the place, just like the other

two times. Cold enough to make her want to beg for

a roaring fire, or a trip to Phoenix in the middle of

July. “Cold,” she managed to force out of her numb

lips, hoping the nurse would understand the word.

“Cold . . .”

“From the anesthesia,” the nurse said matter-of-

factly. “I’ll get you some extra blankets in a bit, but

first we’ve got check on some things. Make sure

you’re all right . . .”

Then, for the third time she started the poking

and prodding that went part and parcel with the

whole experience. Audra lay still, focusing on noth-

ing, still struggling to make her brain function.

“Looking pretty good, considering everything,”

the woman said, her examinations complete. “I’ll

tell Dr. Koch. He’ll want to come in and look you

over himself, but it’s all over, Audra. You did it.”

All over . . . you did it.

The words echoed in her mind, fraught with sig-

nificance. All over . . . you did it.

But what have I done? Audra thought, the panic

flashing fresh in her mind. At this moment, thick

with bandages, drainage tubes in her belly, her

thighs and buttocks encased in some kind of tight-

fitting girdle that probably would have seemed

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211

sadistic even by medieval standards, she wasn’t en-

tirely sure what she had done. It might have been

her imagination, but she could have sworn there

was a camera in the corner of the room . . .

It was all too much to think about right then.

“Think . . . think about it . . .” she murmured.

“Hmm?” the nurse asked. “What are you trying

to say?”

“Think about it . . . tomorrow . . .” Audra mum-

bled, closing her eyes.

“Why, of course, dear,” the woman replied. Audra

couldn’t see her face, but there was a smile in her

tone. “Like Scarlett O’Hara said: Tomorrow is an-

other day.”

“It’s probably going to take three to four weeks for

you to feel well enough to resume normal activi-

ties.” Dr. Bremmar smiled as though this were a

particularly wonderful thing, then did his little toe-

heel bouncing bop like he was pirouetting for the

camera behind him. “But I have to tell you, Audra,

the surgeries went wonderfully.”

“Better than I thought,” Dr. Koch added, sound-

ing like he really wished for a cigar and ice-cold

beer. He was unshaven and tired-looking, as if her

extended surgical procedures had taken something

out of him as well. “I’m still a little concerned about

the potential for scarring, but we’ll keep a close eye

on it. The pressure garments—”

“You mean the girdle?”

He nodded. “That should help . . . but if neces-

sary, we may have to look toward the corticosteroids

to break down keloids if they form. If that doesn’t

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work . . .” He shrugged as if to say, “there’s not

much more I can do.”

“Goodbye Ugly Duck, hello Frankenstein’s mon-

ster.” Audra managed to say it cheerfully enough,

but the words stirred her deepest anxiety—

especially as stiff and bloody and bandaged as she

appeared right now. What if the surgeries had done

nothing more than make things worse? What if—

she thought quickly of her mother, of Petra, even Art

Bradshaw and his daughter crossed her mind—she

really became some kind of monster? What if, in her

bid for beauty, she’d only made it all worse? And

there were no mirrors, no way to check—

She shook the grim thoughts from her mind,

fighting with a sense of depression bordering on de-

spair.

As if reading her thoughts, Dr. Bremmar offered

his optimism once again, and Audra received it with

a tidal wave of gratitude. “I really think we’ll be fine.

Especially the face,” and he stretched his fine-boned

fingers toward her bandaged features as though he

could already imagine the end results. “I was able to

work toward the hairline for everything but the

nose,” he said, brushing at the air around her face in

demonstration. “You may have to style your hair

more toward your face in the future. Maybe some

bangs?” he suggested with the happy hopefulness

of a wannabe hairstylist. Audra could almost hear

her mother grumbling, “Don’t know what he’s talk-

ing about,” as the man continued, “And I’m opti-

mistic that Dr. Jamison’s treatments will minimize

any scarring from the nose.”

The nose. Audra couldn’t understand why he was

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so excited. She could barely breathe out of the thing,

packed with cotton as it was. But Dr. Bremmar kept

bouncing and smiling, then clapped his hands to-

gether. “I’ve got to say, I’m excited about this