General Hospital: Her Little Gentleman (Dillon, Tracy)
Title: Her Little Gentleman
Author: MinervaFan
Fandom: General Hospital
Characters: Tracy, Luke
Spoiler WARNING: Spoiler for the March 27, 2006 episode
Rating: G
Word Count: 2178 words
Fake Spoiler Ficathon: Yes
Fake Spoiler: Dillon catches his mother in a moment of vulnerability.
Summary: Dillon reflects on his mother's misdeeds, and her moments of generosity.
I guess I got just used to it all. When I first moved into the Quartermaine mansion, all those years ago when Mom dumped me here to gallivant across Europe in search of money and power, it was pretty hard to take. Of course, I guess it was all too understandable that I'd get used to the comments and criticisms about my mother..
You see, I'd grown up on the road with Mom, living in hotels, alone more than not. It wasn't so bad, really, compared to what I hear from a lot of friends about how they grew up. Mom could be manipulative, of course, even when it was just the two of us. I don't remember how many times I heard the words, "if you really loved me…"
But for the most part, she was pretty cool. She wasn’t there a lot, of course. She was busy and worked really hard trying build up the fortune she'd lost when Grandpa and Grandma disowned her. But there were times…wow, there were times when Tracy Quartermaine could be a hell of a good mother.
Like when I was nine and had to do a presentation paper on the Coliseum. I was in regular school then, somewhere in SoHo, back when we lived in that run-down tenement that Mom owned. That was when we were hard up for cash--she owed like, a million and a half in back taxes on the building she'd gotten stuck with.
Of course, she didn't want me to know that. She always pretended everything was just fine, that we were only experiencing a temporary set-back, just a minor glitch in her master plan for material domination of the northern hemisphere. Anyway, I must have believed her, because I was going on and on about that stupid paper on the Coliseum. I really wanted to do a good job on it, really wanted to impress my teacher. Not just because I was a geek and really liked the idea of doing a speech, but because my teacher was tall and blonde and had the prettiest green eyes ever in the history of the human race. Yeah, I was all of nine.
So I was going on and on about the Coliseum, which we had visited a few years before and which had left a huge impression on my young mind. I remember badgering my Mom about it, picking her brain for every detail she could remember from the tour she took me on.
Of course, now that I look back, I realize that was what had impressed me most about the Coliseum. It wasn't so much the ruins themselves, but the fact that my mom took me. She didn't send a nanny. No, she got out her best Italian walking shoes, put on this outrageous white hat and dark glasses, took my little hand in hers, and marched me right down the streets of Rome for a private tour of one the greatest wonders of the ancient world. I can still remember that, all these years later. She was like Audrey Hepburn and a young Lauren Bacall, all wrapped up into one complete package--all class and couture with the hat and gloves and Chanel suit, guiding her little gentleman around Rome for a grand tour of the cultural sites.
At nine, I could barely remember anything about Rome except the outfit she wore, and the smell of her perfume, and how her gloved hand felt in mine, all warm and soft and strong.
I remember asking her at one point while working on the project if we could go back to Rome, just for a little while, over spring break. This was before the Internet, back when your only hope for research was a dusty library that gave me the creeps. Going to Rome, I argued, would help me do a Really Good Job on the project, and would also be Important to My Education. (Those phrases usually got me just about anything I wanted.)
Of course, what I really wanted was for my mom to spend time with me again. I was too young at the time to realize how desperate we were, how broke we were. I never once considered how expensive it was to travel to Europe. It was just a stupid, innocent request from a spoiled little kid who had never wanted for anything in his life.
I remember Mom smiling, saying she'd see what she could do. I don't know if I'm imagining it or not, but I seem to recall her looking sad. Or maybe it's just the film-maker in me, wanting to see that strength in memory, that brave young woman determined to give her child everything she'd never have, all the love and affection and opportunity she'd been denied.
We did go to Rome that spring, just like I wanted. She took me to the Coliseum, and bought me pizza in this little place near the Spanish Steps, and we watched the Pope give Mass at the Vatican on Easter morning, along with about ten zillion other people. I remember I was scared of the crowds, and Mom held me against her, arms around my shoulders, and translated some of the Italian for me that I didn't quite understand yet.
The night before we were supposed to fly home, Mom put me to bed and told me how well-behaved I had been. I remember how great it felt to be just us, no nanny or companion, just me and Mom. I remember falling asleep thinking about the A I was going to get on my presentation.
I don't know what time it was, probably after midnight, when I woke up to go to the bathroom. I passed Mom's room--we always had a suite when we traveled--and heard her talking on the phone. It was obviously a transatlantic call, because she was talking very slowly and loudly.
"I know, Alan, I know. Of course, I'm not going to tell Daddy! It's for my kid, Alan." I peaked into her room and saw her seated, cross-legged, on her bed. She was wearing a robe and drinking a glass of wine. She looked tired and stressed, and frowned more than she smiled as she talked to my uncle Alan. "Look, you'll get it back as soon as I can scrape it together. Just don't let Daddy get nosy. Or Monica. You know she'd like nothing better than to tell Daddy I came crawling to you for money. Alan, you know I'll pay you back…with interest."
Even at nine, I knew what that phrase meant. I'd heard it often enough, usually when Mom had dealings with her family. In my innocence, I knew only that "with interest" meant groveling and humiliation and Mom looking sad and lost all the time. It also meant Mom drinking too much and spending a lot of time away from me.
And I knew, in that moment, how Mom had arranged for the trip to Rome. She'd borrowed the money "with interest" from Uncle Alan. Remember, in those days, she wasn't even speaking with the family. Even Grandma Lila wasn't talking to her.
I remember thinking that, from that moment on, as long as I lived, I would never, ever ask my mom for anything special ever again. I realized that she would do anything for me, sacrifice anything--even her pride--for me. And I didn't want it. I didn't want that sad, defeated woman for a mother. I wanted Lauren Bacall, with her pride and glamour intact.
She saw me in the hallway as she put down the phone, and called me in to sit on the bed with her. She knew I'd overheard. I hugged her. Back then, I still hugged her without hesitation, and back then, she still let me. She rocked me gently and told me how sorry she was I'd heard the conversation.
I remember apologizing for being selfish, and her laughing and telling me that I wasn't selfish. I was just a Quartermaine, with impeccable taste that she fully intended to develop to capacity. I wasn't sure what that meant at the time, but if it meant my mother was laughing instead of crying, it was alright by me.
You know, I hated the Quartermaines when I first came to live with them. I hated how they talked about my mother, as if she was evil incarnate, as if she didn't have a soul or feelings or one shred of integrity. I defended her when I could, even when I secretly agreed with them that she'd gone too far.
But time passes, and all the tours of the Vatican and the Coliseum fade into the background, and you forget the smell of pizza and the sound of the Italians bickering in the alleys and storefronts. Before you know it, you're not nine years old anymore, and your mom can't make miracles appear out of thin air. Before you know it, you start understanding why they all hate her, why they fear her, because you begin to hate her and fear her, too.
And the years begin to chip away at the hero worship and denial and longing until one day, you wake up and find you're a completely different person from that nine-year-old boy.
One day, I woke up and hated my mother.
It took years of scheming and disappointments and interference on her part, but I'd finally reached a point where I couldn't defend her, where I couldn't deny how truly awful Tracy Quartermaine could be.
And the worst part of it was that I didn't even care. Too much had happened, the mess with Georgie, mostly. I was actually relieved not to care anymore. Any thoughts that she might stay out of my life, out of my marriage, just crumbled away. I mean, look at what she'd done to Ned. Why should I be any different? Just because I'd grown up with her, just because I'd traveled with her, just because we'd walked hand in hand through the streets of Rome on that glorious spring break when I was nine?
And just when I was ready to completely write her off, just when I was ready to follow in Ned's footsteps and see her only as "Tracy" and never "Mom," it happened.
It was the night that Luke reopened the Haunted Star. I knew Mom and Luke would be out of the house all night, so I snuck back in (with Alice's help) while they were gone to get some stuff from my old room. Not too much, considering the postage-stamp sized apartment Georgie and I were living in.
Anyway, I got carried away looking through old things and dozed off. It was later than I expected when I headed out, and of course, there was Tracy, on the phone in the foyer, dressed in an outfit that probably cost more than Georgie and I made in the entire month. Not Audrey Hepburn or Lauren Bacall, but pretty impressive nonetheless.
Anyway, she was facing away from me and didn't see me duck into the shadows to eavesdrop.
"Yes, it's me. Well, I must say that you put on an excellent performance. I've already had the thirty-thousand transferred to your account. Yes, I know. No, Nikolas, I don't want to go into why. Yes, I know I owe you a favor now, and I know I probably won't have to wait long for you to collect. Yes. Yes, Nikolas." She paused, and then, just before hanging up, added in a soft voice that seemed achingly familiar, "Nikolas? Thank you."
I didn't understand what that call was about until the next day, when it was all over town how Nikolas Cassadine had lost thirty-thousand dollars at the roulette wheel on the Haunted Star, which in turn helped Luke pay off the money he'd taken from Mom to do the renovations. Everybody was laughing about how Tracy had threatened to sell the casino out from under Luke's nose if he didn't pay her back every cent he owed before close of business, and how Nikolas's loss at the roulette wheel had beat Tracy at her own game.
Everybody was laughing at her. Same old Tracy. Serves her right, trying to steal the Haunted Star from Luke. Did you hear she pushed Skye down the steps? Did you hear how she acted so jealous every time Skye was anywhere near Luke? Why are they still married? Poor Luke, married to that bitch.
I didn't laugh much that day. I was thinking about Luke, and the Haunted Star, and Mom's call to Nikolas. I was thinking about Rome, and the Coliseum, and Mom's call to Alan.
And I knew, no matter what she did to me, no matter how miserable she made my life, I'd never be able to completely hate her, no matter how much I wanted to. She was my mom. And, to tell you the truth, she was pretty cool when she wanted to be.
The End
Author: MinervaFan
Fandom: General Hospital
Characters: Tracy, Luke
Spoiler WARNING: Spoiler for the March 27, 2006 episode
Rating: G
Word Count: 2178 words
Fake Spoiler Ficathon: Yes
Fake Spoiler: Dillon catches his mother in a moment of vulnerability.
Summary: Dillon reflects on his mother's misdeeds, and her moments of generosity.
I guess I got just used to it all. When I first moved into the Quartermaine mansion, all those years ago when Mom dumped me here to gallivant across Europe in search of money and power, it was pretty hard to take. Of course, I guess it was all too understandable that I'd get used to the comments and criticisms about my mother..
You see, I'd grown up on the road with Mom, living in hotels, alone more than not. It wasn't so bad, really, compared to what I hear from a lot of friends about how they grew up. Mom could be manipulative, of course, even when it was just the two of us. I don't remember how many times I heard the words, "if you really loved me…"
But for the most part, she was pretty cool. She wasn’t there a lot, of course. She was busy and worked really hard trying build up the fortune she'd lost when Grandpa and Grandma disowned her. But there were times…wow, there were times when Tracy Quartermaine could be a hell of a good mother.
Like when I was nine and had to do a presentation paper on the Coliseum. I was in regular school then, somewhere in SoHo, back when we lived in that run-down tenement that Mom owned. That was when we were hard up for cash--she owed like, a million and a half in back taxes on the building she'd gotten stuck with.
Of course, she didn't want me to know that. She always pretended everything was just fine, that we were only experiencing a temporary set-back, just a minor glitch in her master plan for material domination of the northern hemisphere. Anyway, I must have believed her, because I was going on and on about that stupid paper on the Coliseum. I really wanted to do a good job on it, really wanted to impress my teacher. Not just because I was a geek and really liked the idea of doing a speech, but because my teacher was tall and blonde and had the prettiest green eyes ever in the history of the human race. Yeah, I was all of nine.
So I was going on and on about the Coliseum, which we had visited a few years before and which had left a huge impression on my young mind. I remember badgering my Mom about it, picking her brain for every detail she could remember from the tour she took me on.
Of course, now that I look back, I realize that was what had impressed me most about the Coliseum. It wasn't so much the ruins themselves, but the fact that my mom took me. She didn't send a nanny. No, she got out her best Italian walking shoes, put on this outrageous white hat and dark glasses, took my little hand in hers, and marched me right down the streets of Rome for a private tour of one the greatest wonders of the ancient world. I can still remember that, all these years later. She was like Audrey Hepburn and a young Lauren Bacall, all wrapped up into one complete package--all class and couture with the hat and gloves and Chanel suit, guiding her little gentleman around Rome for a grand tour of the cultural sites.
At nine, I could barely remember anything about Rome except the outfit she wore, and the smell of her perfume, and how her gloved hand felt in mine, all warm and soft and strong.
I remember asking her at one point while working on the project if we could go back to Rome, just for a little while, over spring break. This was before the Internet, back when your only hope for research was a dusty library that gave me the creeps. Going to Rome, I argued, would help me do a Really Good Job on the project, and would also be Important to My Education. (Those phrases usually got me just about anything I wanted.)
Of course, what I really wanted was for my mom to spend time with me again. I was too young at the time to realize how desperate we were, how broke we were. I never once considered how expensive it was to travel to Europe. It was just a stupid, innocent request from a spoiled little kid who had never wanted for anything in his life.
I remember Mom smiling, saying she'd see what she could do. I don't know if I'm imagining it or not, but I seem to recall her looking sad. Or maybe it's just the film-maker in me, wanting to see that strength in memory, that brave young woman determined to give her child everything she'd never have, all the love and affection and opportunity she'd been denied.
We did go to Rome that spring, just like I wanted. She took me to the Coliseum, and bought me pizza in this little place near the Spanish Steps, and we watched the Pope give Mass at the Vatican on Easter morning, along with about ten zillion other people. I remember I was scared of the crowds, and Mom held me against her, arms around my shoulders, and translated some of the Italian for me that I didn't quite understand yet.
The night before we were supposed to fly home, Mom put me to bed and told me how well-behaved I had been. I remember how great it felt to be just us, no nanny or companion, just me and Mom. I remember falling asleep thinking about the A I was going to get on my presentation.
I don't know what time it was, probably after midnight, when I woke up to go to the bathroom. I passed Mom's room--we always had a suite when we traveled--and heard her talking on the phone. It was obviously a transatlantic call, because she was talking very slowly and loudly.
"I know, Alan, I know. Of course, I'm not going to tell Daddy! It's for my kid, Alan." I peaked into her room and saw her seated, cross-legged, on her bed. She was wearing a robe and drinking a glass of wine. She looked tired and stressed, and frowned more than she smiled as she talked to my uncle Alan. "Look, you'll get it back as soon as I can scrape it together. Just don't let Daddy get nosy. Or Monica. You know she'd like nothing better than to tell Daddy I came crawling to you for money. Alan, you know I'll pay you back…with interest."
Even at nine, I knew what that phrase meant. I'd heard it often enough, usually when Mom had dealings with her family. In my innocence, I knew only that "with interest" meant groveling and humiliation and Mom looking sad and lost all the time. It also meant Mom drinking too much and spending a lot of time away from me.
And I knew, in that moment, how Mom had arranged for the trip to Rome. She'd borrowed the money "with interest" from Uncle Alan. Remember, in those days, she wasn't even speaking with the family. Even Grandma Lila wasn't talking to her.
I remember thinking that, from that moment on, as long as I lived, I would never, ever ask my mom for anything special ever again. I realized that she would do anything for me, sacrifice anything--even her pride--for me. And I didn't want it. I didn't want that sad, defeated woman for a mother. I wanted Lauren Bacall, with her pride and glamour intact.
She saw me in the hallway as she put down the phone, and called me in to sit on the bed with her. She knew I'd overheard. I hugged her. Back then, I still hugged her without hesitation, and back then, she still let me. She rocked me gently and told me how sorry she was I'd heard the conversation.
I remember apologizing for being selfish, and her laughing and telling me that I wasn't selfish. I was just a Quartermaine, with impeccable taste that she fully intended to develop to capacity. I wasn't sure what that meant at the time, but if it meant my mother was laughing instead of crying, it was alright by me.
You know, I hated the Quartermaines when I first came to live with them. I hated how they talked about my mother, as if she was evil incarnate, as if she didn't have a soul or feelings or one shred of integrity. I defended her when I could, even when I secretly agreed with them that she'd gone too far.
But time passes, and all the tours of the Vatican and the Coliseum fade into the background, and you forget the smell of pizza and the sound of the Italians bickering in the alleys and storefronts. Before you know it, you're not nine years old anymore, and your mom can't make miracles appear out of thin air. Before you know it, you start understanding why they all hate her, why they fear her, because you begin to hate her and fear her, too.
And the years begin to chip away at the hero worship and denial and longing until one day, you wake up and find you're a completely different person from that nine-year-old boy.
One day, I woke up and hated my mother.
It took years of scheming and disappointments and interference on her part, but I'd finally reached a point where I couldn't defend her, where I couldn't deny how truly awful Tracy Quartermaine could be.
And the worst part of it was that I didn't even care. Too much had happened, the mess with Georgie, mostly. I was actually relieved not to care anymore. Any thoughts that she might stay out of my life, out of my marriage, just crumbled away. I mean, look at what she'd done to Ned. Why should I be any different? Just because I'd grown up with her, just because I'd traveled with her, just because we'd walked hand in hand through the streets of Rome on that glorious spring break when I was nine?
And just when I was ready to completely write her off, just when I was ready to follow in Ned's footsteps and see her only as "Tracy" and never "Mom," it happened.
It was the night that Luke reopened the Haunted Star. I knew Mom and Luke would be out of the house all night, so I snuck back in (with Alice's help) while they were gone to get some stuff from my old room. Not too much, considering the postage-stamp sized apartment Georgie and I were living in.
Anyway, I got carried away looking through old things and dozed off. It was later than I expected when I headed out, and of course, there was Tracy, on the phone in the foyer, dressed in an outfit that probably cost more than Georgie and I made in the entire month. Not Audrey Hepburn or Lauren Bacall, but pretty impressive nonetheless.
Anyway, she was facing away from me and didn't see me duck into the shadows to eavesdrop.
"Yes, it's me. Well, I must say that you put on an excellent performance. I've already had the thirty-thousand transferred to your account. Yes, I know. No, Nikolas, I don't want to go into why. Yes, I know I owe you a favor now, and I know I probably won't have to wait long for you to collect. Yes. Yes, Nikolas." She paused, and then, just before hanging up, added in a soft voice that seemed achingly familiar, "Nikolas? Thank you."
I didn't understand what that call was about until the next day, when it was all over town how Nikolas Cassadine had lost thirty-thousand dollars at the roulette wheel on the Haunted Star, which in turn helped Luke pay off the money he'd taken from Mom to do the renovations. Everybody was laughing about how Tracy had threatened to sell the casino out from under Luke's nose if he didn't pay her back every cent he owed before close of business, and how Nikolas's loss at the roulette wheel had beat Tracy at her own game.
Everybody was laughing at her. Same old Tracy. Serves her right, trying to steal the Haunted Star from Luke. Did you hear she pushed Skye down the steps? Did you hear how she acted so jealous every time Skye was anywhere near Luke? Why are they still married? Poor Luke, married to that bitch.
I didn't laugh much that day. I was thinking about Luke, and the Haunted Star, and Mom's call to Nikolas. I was thinking about Rome, and the Coliseum, and Mom's call to Alan.
And I knew, no matter what she did to me, no matter how miserable she made my life, I'd never be able to completely hate her, no matter how much I wanted to. She was my mom. And, to tell you the truth, she was pretty cool when she wanted to be.
The End