Chapter Fifteen: Faded Pictures and Letters Home

"I was coming home from a business meeting," she said, leaning back into the pew. They'd found themselves in the chapel, having decided mutually that a physical therapy exercise room was not the place for a meaningful reunion. And now, for some reason she could not fathom, Tracy found herself pouring out the story of how she'd stopped drinking. Oh, yeah. Because he'd offered her a drink, let's discuss it over drinks, how 'bout I buy you a drink and we can talk this out? How many expressions in her life pushed at those buttons, she wondered. But he had understood, her son, and had brought her here, to this lovely place with the burning candles everywhere. It was peaceful and safe, and she found herself wanting to tell him this truth. "I wasn't drunk, really, but I was comfortable. It was Seattle, so of course it was drizzly and a little foggy. My condo is in a rather secluded area of town, and there's this steep little road that leads up to the development. Anyway, this other car lost control and bam, there went my last six payments on the Beemer." She smiled, forced, at him.

"Were you booked on DUI?"

"Well, I didn't cause the accident, first off, and second, the other party wasn't injured at all. I, on the other hand, had three cracked ribs, a broken collarbone, a knee that will never be right again, and a totaled luxury car. One of the paramedics, bless his observant little soul, noticed I was slurring my words slightly and did a breath test on me. One-point-five over the legal limit." She sighed. "Many, many legal complications later, I was sentenced to community service and mandatory AA meetings. Thank god they didn't force me into rehab, or my company would have been destroyed. As it was, I had to become Miss Model of Sobriety. I was the poster child for chemical abstinence, and it worked. My business associates commended me for it while they had their three-martini lunches, and I got a reputation of being a straight-shooter who wasn't afraid of change." She grinned at his surprised expression. "Hard to imagine, isn't it? Anyway, when my sentence was completed, I decided to keep attending the meetings. It's a great place to network—you'd be amazed how many movers and shakers go to these things." She shrugged. "Besides…well…"

"You wanted to stay sober?" he supplied.

"I like knowing where I'm going to wake up," she admitted. "I like feeling I have some control, at least over my own actions."

Ned nodded. "When Lois and I divorced—that's Brooke's mom—I just drank myself into the ground. I had lost everything, and I still had to go to work and see her. We run a record label together—L&B—and well…." He sighed. "It's so easy just to get lost in that bottle, isn't it?"

"Yeah." She wanted to reach out to him, maybe take his hand, or stroke his bangs from his forehead. She wanted to pull him into her arms and hold on for dear life. But she sat there, waiting for a chance, waiting for a sign that maybe…

"Grandmother called a little while back," Ned said, changing the subject. "She wanted to know how Edward was doing, and she wanted to invite you and Simon over for breakfast tomorrow morning."

Tracy's eyes grew wide. "I didn't tell her about Daddy, honestly, Ned," she began, but stopped when Ned started chuckling.

"Alan is still laboring under the delusion that he can hide things from Grandmother. She told me she'd read about it on her cell phone and made a point of telling me you didn't spill the beans." He laughed again. "She's quite the lady. Wants you guys there at ten, which should clear the house of all negative forces. It'll just be Grandmother, the two of you, me, and Brooke. If you're interested," he added.

Tracy nodded, thrilled with the invitation. "Speaking of Brooke--she told me she was under house arrest? What's that all about?"

"My daughter, the drama queen," Ned chuckled. "She was getting into trouble in school. Nothing serious, just cutting class and forging signatures." He looked pointedly at his mother. "You do remember that sort of thing, don't you, Mother?"

"Are you talking about when I was doing them, or when you were doing them?"

He laughed. "Both, really. Anyway, Brooke and Lois were at each other's throats about how they wanted Brooke's career to go—"

"Her career?"

"Musical." The pride in his eyes was apparent. "She's a hell of a talented little singer, that daughter of mine. But she wants to go in one direction, and it's the exact opposite direction that Lois wants her to go in. So when she got busted for being in a bar with a fake ID, I decided it might be a good idea to get involved." He leaned back, pulling one foot up onto the pew under his knee before continuing. "I brought her to live with me for the rest of the semester. Private tutors, and she had to get a part-time job. She has to pass the curriculum set by her regular school, plus additional projects set by her tutors. She has voice lessons and piano lessons and composition lessons."

"Wow! Isn't that a bit much to throw at a teenage girl?" Tracy thought back to her own teenaged years, wondering how bitter she would have been at an arrangement like that. "When is she supposed to have fun?"

"It's not as bad as all that. She has friends, and she has her weekends off. I just wanted her to know that she wasn't going to throw away her life just so that she could get into clubs and hear her favorite singers perform." He grinned. "Besides, the voice and piano and composition? That was for her, to sweeten the pot. She lives music, Mother. Breathes it. And she knows that if she wants the voice lessons, she has to do the geometry. If she wants piano, she'd better write that term paper."

"And the job? Dear god, Ned, a coffee shop? Surely there would have been something at ELQ—"

"The coffee shop was for Lois. I'd actually suggested ELQ, and well—" He scratched his head, chagrined. "She didn't want her kid spending any time in that den of thieves. Her words. Lois and I—we couldn't make it, Mom. Grandfather didn't approve of her background, and most of the family thought she was either trash, a gold-digger, or both. Our marriage couldn't survive the pressure. I can understand why she wouldn't want Brooke exposed to the family in that way, so I caved. The hospital coffee shop was a compromise—Alan and Monica were there, as well as Emily, so I knew there'd be somebody to check up on her. But she would also be exposed to enough non-Quartermaine people to help her develop her social skills, as well as develop a little responsibility."

Tracy smiled at him, amazed. How in hell had her son learned to be a good parent? Who had been his role model? Certainly not her. Definitely not Edward. Maybe Alan? She wondered, but didn't ask. It didn't feel appropriate to ask, so she just said in a soft, amazed tone, "You sound like a wonderful father."

"Well, not if you ask Brooke."

They both laughed, and for a moment, they were silent. Then the silence grew, and it became awkward. After another length of silence, the awkwardness grew to pain, and Tracy struggled for something to say. "I…um…" She bit her lower lip, then just plunged ahead. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for coming here unannounced, sorry for throwing a huge wrench into an already difficult situation. I'm sorry I upset Daddy this morning, and I'm sorry I upset Brooke." She couldn't meet his eyes. Once the apologies started, they seemed to barrel out of her with a will of her own, and her voice broke slightly as she continued. "I'm sorry I hurt you, baby. I'm sorry I let you down. You were the only thing good I'd ever done, and I screwed up. I loved you, I really did, but I just didn't know how…." She lowered her face in her hands, not wanting him to see the tears, stunned and grateful when she felt his arms around her shoulders, when she felt him pulling her in, comforting her like she should have done for him all those years ago. "I was a terrible mother, Ned. You deserved more. You deserved so much more than me, and your bastard father, and the family I trapped you with. I won't ask for your forgiveness. I won't put you in that position. But I won't let you spend another second thinking it was because there was anything wrong with you." She looked up, no longer worried about the tears or the humiliation or anything except the knowledge that her son knew and truly understood this one truth. "There was never anything wrong with you. You were a beautiful, good, loving son, and you did nothing to deserve what I did to you."

Ned stared at her a long time before softly kissing her forehead. With the pads of his thumbs, he wiped the tears from her cheeks, his expression kind, his eyes sad and deep. "You…" His voice was hoarse and cracked, and he had to pause to compose himself before finishing. "I saw what Grandfather did today," he said. "In the hospital room. I saw him play you, and I saw you take the fall for it." Ned shook his head. "I don't think I will ever live long enough to understand you, Mother."

Tracy said nothing. She nodded, and admitted at least to herself that she could understand the young man's frustration.

"I have no reason at all to believe anything you've said, Mother. About loving me. About not wanting to leave me. No reason at all."

His words cut into her stomach, played with her insides, and left her breathless with pain. "I know," she said simply.

"I want to believe you. I want to believe this was all some bad dream that got out of control, that maybe you did love me. Maybe you missed me, just a little bit—" His voice cracked, and he found that he couldn't continue for a moment.

Tracy drew in a deep breath, steeling herself to pull out of his embrace. It was the most wonderful place she'd ever been, this embrace from her son, and she was reluctant to give it up. But her selfishness had gotten her here. She couldn't let her greed for this warmth, this comfort, keep her from doing what she needed to do. She reached behind her, got out her purse. In it was an old-fashioned Dayrunner. She'd had it for years, kept it on her even after she got her PDA. She opened it up and turned to the little flap inside the back cover. She pulled out a faded envelope with international markings and handed it to him without a word.

In a young script, the envelope was addressed to Tracy Quartermaine in Port Charles, New York. The post mark was 1980.

"What is this?" Ned asked, his voice shaking.

"Open it," she answered.

He carefully opened the envelope, which was fragile, its edges almost completely worn through, and pulled out a sheet of onion paper and a small picture. It was himself, twenty-four years younger, standing next to a Moped. He had to laugh, both at his hair and the bike. "God," he said. "I hadn't thought about that bike in years." He read the letter, standard fare thanking his mother for the bike, telling her how it would help him get to class on time, blahblahblah.

"The last letter I ever got from you," she whispered. "I've read it so often I could probably quote it to you backwards."

He examined the photo. It was worn too, faded with age. There were fingerprints on it, smudges over the face especially. This picture had been handled, often.

Ned began to cry, and this time, the embrace was instigated by Tracy. His mother.

They stayed like that for a long time. When Simon poked his head in the chapel door, Tracy saw him, but didn't release her son. It was too good, this feeling of togetherness. She knew they were far from resolved, far from completely repairing the damage that had been done. But it was a good start. She smiled at Simon in the doorway, mouthing the words 'I'm sorry' silently.

He smiled back, grateful to see her like that, and mouthed the words, 'I love you.'

And then he was gone.

Coming in Chapter Sixteen: Insomnia