9:49 am. 12 August 2006
He's come into the office just for her. Doctors don't normally work Saturdays when they're Alan's age. Tracy wants to be grateful for his extra effort, but she can't do that just now.
"I've called in some favors with a friend in the lab," he tells her. He's using his confidential voice now, his doctor voice, the voice meant to get patients not to worry when they're scared out of their minds. "Normally it takes a week or so to get the results, but he's moved you to the top of the list. He'll have the test results couriered to the house first thing in the morning. Shouldn't take more than twenty-four hours," he says. "There's nothing to worry about, Trace," he adds.
Tracy has known her brother as long as she's been alive, certainly long enough to know when he's lying. She can smell his fear in the air, or maybe it's her own she senses.
She covers the panic she feels, has been feeling since she first discovered it, with a wordless scowl that speaks volumes.
Alan recognizes her lie, too. They know each other too well to hide things like this, although they've developed a system of silence that works for them. "Try to take some time for yourself, will you?" His voice is gentle. "Don't go in to the office today. Relax a little." He places one hand on hers, strokes her cheek with the other.
She fears the worst.
11:02 am. 12 August 2006
The restaurant she's found for lunch is near the hospital, tucked away on one of the older residential streets in a converted Victorian home. The owners, two gay men, have wreaked havoc with the clichés--mismatched place settings of vintage china; pastel rooms tightly-stuffed with knick-knacks, antiques, artwork and kitsch; a hand-lettered, eclectic menu that demands more than suggests good taste. On a better day, she might have laughed at its audacity. Today, she stares blankly at the walls.
A father and his very young daughter sit at a table nearby, the only other occupants of the dining room. He seems young to her, maybe mid-thirties, dressed casually for a day of play with his red-haired best little girl. She is freckled and adorable, seriously planning a tea party, lisping out the guest list through the loose spaces where her baby teeth have begun to fall.
Tracy looks down at her meal, picking absently at the rosemary foccacia that came with her grilled chicken radicchio salad.
She thinks of her father.
She thinks of her sons.
She thinks of white blood cells and loses her appetite.
1:15 pm. 12 August 2006
There is no one at the reception desk when she arrives. It's Saturday, but that doesn't mean anything to her. ELQ is an international organization. It runs on a broader time clock and a different mentality.
Reception is the first impression of ELQ, and ELQ is a reflection of Tracy Quartermaine.
She fumes, pulling out her cell phone. There are people working today, always people here on Saturday. You want forty hours, work in a bank. ELQ demands more. Tracy Quartermaine demands more.
The Vice President of Administration picks up her phone without branding the call, without announcing her name, without asking how she can help.
There is going to be such a memo sent out when she gets back to her desk..
Tracy doesn't brand her call; she is ELQ. Tracy doesn't need announcing. And Tracy isn't about to offer to help with anything. "I am staring at a vacant reception desk," she says darkly.
Before the VP can even begin to explain or offer excuses, Tracy continues. "Saturday is a work day. Saturday is not Weekly Goof Off Day. I recall mentioning in our last senior staff meeting that reception should be covered 100 during regular working hours. Am I making myself clear?"
There is a low mumble of assent on the other end of the line.
"Next time I see an empty reception desk during office hours, you, your receptionist, and her back-up can have a party together at the Unemployment Office." She snaps closed the phone without waiting for a response and takes the elevator to her office.
The first thing she does when she reaches her desk is Google "mastectomy."
3:46 pm 12 August 2006
The cell rings off the hook.
Tracy doesn't know why she's trying. In her heart, she knows he'll never answer this call. He's probably in Outer Mongolia, or Patagonia, or Timbuktu, with a beautiful native girl on each arm pouring liquor down his gullet, with no cell towers within a thousand miles of him.
She has an unquenchable desire to hear his voice. She has a deep-seated need to feel him close to her, even if only through a tiny receiver on a cell phone. It aches in her stomach, like a hunger, burns in her throat like a thirst.
She is ashamed of this need, ashamed of the emotions behind it. But they are there nonetheless, and right now, more than anything, she wants her husband with her.
She doesn't have a clue what she would say to him if he answered the phone.
Would she tell him about his daughter, about her son, about what has happened between them? About how she never saw it coming? About how she tried to stop it? About how she tried to be compassionate with Lulu, no matter how much the girl hates her? About how she needed his help, wanted him there so badly when it all went down?
Would she tell him about the blackouts, about the stifling heat, about how desperately she wants to be cool, maybe wet and naked even? Would she suggest they meet somewhere cool, somewhere sensual, and get wet and naked together?
Would she tell him about the lump she found in her left breast? About how terrified she is of dying? About how she fears losing her beauty, her desirability, almost as much as she fears losing her life?
Would he care? Would he notice?
She decides she'll just leave a dirty message on his voice mail, something wicked and obscene and funny in its own perverted way.
Something provocative and suggestive.
Something earthy, to remind him of her when he finally comes up for air.
But his voice mail system never clicks in, and her memory never gets recorded.
6:22 pm 12 August 2006
A three car pile-up has slowed traffic on the Interstate to a halt.
It's hot, and she lowers the windows on her car to get a cross-breeze. The radio suggested a wait of at least forty-five minutes before traffic is moving normally again.
She sobs quietly as she wipes the sweat from her neck and waits for the cops to clear the wreckage.
8:17 pm 12 August 2006
It's Saturday night. Date night, she thinks cattily. No one is home. Alan had suggested staying home, but Monica reminded him of a previous engagement they couldn't miss. He argued, tried to get out of it, tried to stay close without revealing his sister's situation, but in the end it was Tracy who made him go.
She wants the privacy. Even the staff is out tonight.
Tracy walks into her mother's study. It's dark here, but she doesn't turn on the lights. She can't. The power has been on and off all night, and right now…
Right now, Mother wants her in the dark.
She wishes Lila were here, wishes her mother's voice could guide her through this. They had their ups and downs, sure, but when things got really tough, Lila was always there for her.
She is horrified to realize how angry she is, at herself, at her body, at her mother for not being there when she needs her most.
This is harder than financial ruin, Mother, she thinks.
This is so much harder than knowing your husband never wanted you, harder than knowing he's sleeping with other women while you wait alone, grieving for a love you never really had in the first place.
This is harder than seeing the revulsion in your own son's eyes when he looks at you.
This is primal, Mother, survival. This is death and life and what the hell have I done with all the time that's passed?
She sits at her mother's desk, hot and tired and frightened as the storm clouds rumble outside over the rose gardens.
Why aren't you here, Mommy? Why can't you help me?
There's no answer, just the low moan of the thunder as the storm draws nearer.
11:44 pm 12 August 2006
The power has come back on. She can hear the air conditioning straining to cool the house back to its normal temperature.
Outside, it's darker than normal, except for the flashes of lightening that fill her room. She thinks she might have been better off at the MetroCourt, better in a strange room than sweating in her own bed.
She's not even sleepy.
She wants to run to Alan's room, like she did when she was very small and afraid of storms. She wants to sit cross-legged on his bed, playing the Alphabet Game with him, silly and sweet and safe in her big brother's care.
A, he'd say to her.
Alabama, Arizona, Arkansas, she'd say dutifully. List the states, in alphabetical order.
B, he'd say, knowing her response.
No states with B, she'd laugh, and he'd tickle her.
They never actually made it to Z. By the time they'd hit Idaho or another one of those middle-of-the-alphabet states, they were usually laughing so hard they couldn't continue, or talking so honestly and sweetly, like real siblings, that the game was forgotten.
Tracy isn't sure she could name the states from M to Z if she tried.
Tracy wants her big brother now more than ever. She wants that safety, that connection to the past, that hero he sometimes was to her when she least expected it.
She wants the boy who clobbered Ryan Packard when he tried to force her to go all the way with him at Tucker's Point when she was seventeen.
She wants the man who comforted her two years ago when her mother died.
But he's with Monica, no doubt thinking of his wife's own brush with breast cancer, holding her to him tightly. Being a good husband. Being there for her.
It's funny how sickness brings people together.
She reaches for her cell phone, but stops herself.
He won't answer.
He won't be there.
She brushes the hot tears from her cheeks as she rolls over in bed. It's too early to sleep, but she tries anyway.
3:24 am. 13 August 2006
Dillon is on the couch, watching Dark Victory on the classic movie channel. Tracy eases onto the sofa next to him, wordlessly, so as not to disturb him.
Bette Davis looks so beautiful, she thinks as she watches the flickering black and white images in the dark. She has such an image as a cold, heartless bitch. How can she be so young, so vulnerable, so innocent up there on their flat screen TV?
"You're up late," her son says, not turning away from the screen.
"You're not with Georgie," she replies, facing forward also. She wants to look at him, to see the child in his grown face, that little boy who always seemed to be wearing the reflection of some old movie in his eyes.
"Apparently, our trial reunion does not include overnight visits," he says, his voice much older than it ought to be. He's just a baby, just a little boy living in his dream world of shimmering lights.
She wants to cradle him, tell him a story like she used to do.
Once upon a time there was a sad, sad princess…
"She's amazing in this one," Dillon says, staring at the screen, at Bette Davis, at this fictional woman facing death and destruction with such bravery.
Maybe Bette's character should have been his mother. Maybe she would have been braver, truer, more faithful, this fictional character who holds his attention so raptly.
Tracy reaches out her hand to touch his hair, wishing for time, wishing for words. Wishing for a script to read from, brilliant dialogue that would heal all the wounds, erase all the pain, make him her little boy again.
She knows that if this death sentence comes through, no force on earth will keep her from expressing her love for this boy, and for his brother, and for the man who doesn't answer his damned phone….
She also knows if the lump is benign, if it's a cyst or just fatty tissue, if it's not cancer….
Nothing will change. It'll be like nothing ever happened.
She hates herself for that truth.
She hates Bette Davis more, for being so damned brave in that stupid movie.
"It's a good movie," she admits, and nudges against her son. Wordlessly, he lets her in, wraps his arm around her shoulder, letting her wrap hers around his waist, like when they were younger and so broke and had nobody but each other to turn to.
They watch in silence, each blanketed in their own pain, together but worlds apart as Bette Davis faces her death with cinematic grace.
When she finally falls asleep, still wondering which would be the better fate, to die honestly, surrounded by love or to live for decades behind walls, the opening credits of Now, Voyager are scrolling across the screen, and Dillon is snoring lightly in her arms.
7:55 am 13 August 2006
She wonders if he's told Monica. Tracy remembers vaguely Monica's fight with breast cancer years ago. She can't remember if it happened when she was in town or during one of her many banishments.
It doesn't matter.
Monica and Alan are quiet over breakfast. They are not looking at her.
No one else seems to notice the three of them, studiously not talking, taking unusual care in their breakfast, pouring their juice, gingerly picking at grapefruit halves.
She looks around--Daddy is reading the financial section of the Sunday paper. Will he care? Will he notice when her breasts are gone, when her hair falls out, when she wastes away to nothing before their eyes? Will he regret the loss of years between them, the harsh words and the cruelty? Will he second-guess his unrelenting stance, his dominating parenting style? Will he say that the hardest thing is for a parent to outlive his child or some damned cliché like that? Or will he be glad to be finally rid of her, once and for all?
Dillon is working a crossword puzzle, slurping cereal, his hair a wreck. Will he grow into a Quartermaine, or a Hornsby? Will he learn honor, ferocity, discipline? Will he continue in his dream world forever, this man-child of hers, without her guidance? Or will he be stronger for the loss of her, stronger for the freedom her death would afford him?
Ned's place is empty, as it so often is. Tracy's heart aches at the sight of it, accusing in its vacancy, a stark reminder of her failure with her eldest son. He wouldn't miss her, she thinks, if she died. He'd grieve dutifully, regret her loss in a way that was socially acceptable, then move on without another thought.
Maybe he'd think of her in the spring, or when he heard an old song on the radio, one that they sang along to during that one wild trip across Europe right after her divorce from Larry.
She is being maudlin, Tracy thinks as she stares at her grapefruit. She hates grapefruit. She wants bacon, and French toast with berries and whipped cream. She wants hot chocolate with ice cream floating in it, sugared strawberries and pancakes--tons of them.
She wants to wear a sundress and drive cross country in a 68 Mustang convertible, her hair in a kerchief, her bare skin hot with sunlight. She wants to sing at the top of her lungs along with the radio, and flirt with truckers on the Interstate.
She wants to make love to her husband in a public place, on an ELQ conference room table, on the deck of the Haunted Star, in that damned boat house. Everybody else gets laid there. Why shouldn't she? She wants to feel his body against hers, like it should be, like a marriage should be.
She wants to be stupidly in love, recklessly horny, wildly satisfied beyond belief.
She wants to be alive.
She wants to live without barriers, without walls, without rules.
And she sure as hell doesn't want this damned grapefruit. Tracy pushes her plate away with a disgusted snort. Alan and Monica snap to attention, their eyes flashing upward, scanning her for any sign of trouble.
She smiles at them--nobody else is paying attention. Nobody else knows, or cares.
The sound of the doorbell startles them, and they all freeze.
Tracy closes her eyes. She breathes in…
Alice comes in a moment later with a manila envelope she hands to "Dr. Alan."
"I, uh…" Tracy stands, pushing away from the table. She looks at her son, who barely registers the motion. "I'll be in Mother's sitting room," she says to no one in particular.
Alan takes a look at the papers inside the envelope, nods his head, and leaves the room.
With the exception of Monica, none of the Quartermaines notices their departure. They just continue on with their reading, another Sunday morning, just as if nothing ever happened.
The End