CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

After turning around to make sure no one was watching, Tracy carefully lifted the photo off the table and stared at it.

"Hello, Mother," she whispered. She brought the photo with her to the sofa and curled herself into an upright ball. "I, uh," she swallowed. "Wow. I'm not sure I can do this." She gently traced the silver frame of the portrait with her index finger.

She cleared her throat, "I, uh…Mother," she bit her lip. "Gosh, you were so beautiful," she smiled. "Um…Anyway…Wow. All right. I need…I need to ask you something."

Once again, Tracy turned her attention towards the doorway. No one was there, and so she continued talking to the photograph. She closed her eyes, "As I'm sure you've noticed, Daddy hasn't said anything to me the last couple months; well nothing, directly." She paused and opened her eyes. "And maybe Monica's right, and that's a good thing," she was speaking quickly. "No, it's not a good thing," she responded to herself, confidently. "Mother, you know me more than anyone. I can't handle the cold-shoulder. I can't. I need…" she exhaled.

She rubbed her forehead before, "I…Mother, I just want to please him. And yes, getting pregnant at my age wasn't the best way to do that, and that was hardly my fault, anyway, but—," her voice cracked. "Oh, I don't know, Mother. I don't know. I just…I just want him to talk to me even if it's to unleash his anger. Anything," she added softly.

She became restless and adjusted herself, so that her back rested against the arm of the sofa and that her legs were stretched out in front of her.

With the picture still in her firm grasp, Tracy looked off into the distance. She went on, "I need…I…Can you help Daddy realize the mistake he's making? The grief he is causing me? He'll listen to you, Mother…," she stopped speaking. "What am I doing? This…I…No, I can't do this. How are you…How are you supposed…," she was rambling, but she finished her thought. "How are you supposed to make things better when you're not even here?" a tear fell down her cheek.

Once again, Tracy changed her position. She now sat on the sofa normally, her backside rested against the cushioned fabric, and her feet were placed on the carpet. "Oh, Mother," she whispered. "You're not here," she whimpered. "You're not here to fix everything. You know what I wish?" She had her eyes tightly shut. "I wish I could go into the rose garden and expect to find you there. And we could have a real live conversation, and then," she squinted. "I don't know. You'd tell me everything would turn out all right, and I'd believe you, and I…" She paused to focus her thoughts. "I wish…I miss seeing the hope in your eyes. You would've fixed this. You would've have made this better, but—" she squeaked quietly.

She cleared her throat and stood up. "But you can't," she returned the photo to the table. "You know what, Mother? I fix my own problems. That's what I do, and I'm going to fix this," she stated confidently. "But if uh, if your daughter, me, Tracy Quartermaine," she laughed, "needs some backup," she paused. "…you'll be there. Right?" She closed her eyes. "Right."

"Well, I should probably get out of here before Daddy finds me and accuses me of talking to myself. He'd love to lock me up in a mental institution, just to return the favor," she was surprised by how natural she sounded; for a moment, she had forgotten she was talking to a picture. "I love you, Mother," she finished with a barely audible whisper.

Tracy Quartermaine collected herself and headed to the foyer. She didn't expect to find her eldest son standing there.

"Ned?" she questioned.

PREVIEW: Ned wants to be there for his mother.