FicWad

Chapter 1: Traci
I cried again today. Last month when the results to a few routine exams came back--I cried for the first time in thirty-something odd years. I had scheduled my usual six-month checkup with Dr. Conway for the thirteenth of May. And seeing as though I was never one to fall ill I went in that day expecting nothing, but a routine examination.

“Traci,” Dr. Conway said when he re-entered the examining room. “I have some news.”

“News?” I said shocked that there could be any significant development concerning my unusually good health.

“Yes, Traci news. As you know, today I ordered for you to have some blood work taken.”

“Yes. Is there something wrong doctor?”

“Well Traci, I’m afraid that your test results showed that there are a number of your cells that are multiplying uncontrollably, which are destroying your healthy tissue.”

“I’m not sure I quite understand what you’re getting at doctor.”

“Traci, you have a malignant tumor.”

“A tumor? But how?”

“We’re not sure just yet, but we’re going to…”

“Wait,” I said, interrupting him. “What exactly does ‘malignant’ mean?”

“Well, Traci…”

“What does it mean?”

“It means that more than likely the tumor that is invading the tissue around it may spread to other parts of the body.”

“Which would mean?”

“It’s liable to cause death or serious disablement unless effectively treated.”

“So then it’s treatable?”

“Yes, but I’ll need to run some more tests to rule out the different forms.”

“Such as?”

“Such as sarcomas, carcinomas, leukemia’s, or lymphomas. So just try and relax until we have a better idea of what exactly we’re dealing with.”

That was four months ago. Today, I received a call notifying me that my cancer had reached the level of stage four. This phone call had informed me that all of the treatments I had undergone, all of the medications had been completely useless.

And now my only other option was to seek out a hospice care program that would focus on my well-being rather than a cure. An option that included home visits by professionals such as nurses and clergy who would further provide me with drugs for pain management and spiritual counseling. My only other option--to die.

I can remember when I had everything: fortune, fame, love. All within just inches of my grasp. God, how I reveled in knowing that my opinion was the deciding factor. At how my face was the only face that mattered, and how my heart was the only heart worth trying for. But that was back when I was known as Traci Carroll--world famous supermodel; those days had all but come and gone. But out of all of the moments in my heyday, most of all I remembered Adam.

As I looked in the large, dark blue footlocker I kept in the bottom of my walk-in closet I picked up an old photograph of a particularly handsome young man who was holding a camera. Adam Reid, a well-liked photographer who had at one point in time been my long-term, live-in boyfriend; my partner. The great love of my life. As I looked at the picture, I could suddenly remember it all as if it were merely yesterday.


Simpler Times
“Trace!”

“Yeah?”

“I can’t find my lens for Stella Dallas. Have you seen it?”

Adam had personally named each and everyone of his beloved camera’s after specific female characters played by his favorite classic film stars. Because if there was anything that Adam loved more than cameras, it was films and women; and not particularly in that order. Although throughout all of our years together he had always remained faithful, I sometimes grew jealous over his infatuation with his photography equipment.

“Did you check by the lamp?” I asked him for what I’m sure had to have been the umpteenth time that week.

“I already looked over there,” he had then assured me.

I got up from behind my bathroom mirror, with only half of my hair in rollers and walked towards the lamp.

“Well wouldn’t you know it,” I said as I handed him his lens.

“I swear, I just looked over there.”

“Of course you did,” I sighed as I returned to the mirror.

“Trace?”

“Yeah, Adam?”

“Is something wrong?”

“Not at all. I just wish you’d be more serious-minded when it comes to…”

“When it comes to what, Trace? Work? Money?”

I paused, trying to think of what I should say next. We had had this conversation so many times, that I had learned not to rush into saying things; unless I was willing to spend another night without him in our large, shared flat.

“No, Adam. I just meant that I wish you’d take more care with where you place your belongings.”

By the time Adam had started shouting, it was obvious that I had still somehow managed to say the wrong thing.

“What do you mean? You don’t think I care about where I put my things? You don’t think I care about my work?”

“No, Adam. That’s not what I said at all.”

“You don’t think I get a little annoyed when I see one of your many articles of clothing draped around my green room?”

“I’m sorry, Adam. I just…”

“You just what, Trace? Think about no one but yourself, lately?”

“You know that’s not true!”

“Do I? I don’t know Trace, it seems to me that ever since you got picked up for that international spread your heads been screwed on a little backwards.”

“You’re just jealous!” I yelled as I rolled the remaining of my hair into curlers.

“Of you, sweetheart? Never!”

“Oh really? Then why is it that I can’t go anywhere, or say anything to anyone without you knowing about it and throwing a fit like the one your throwing right now?”

“A fit? Me? You’re the one who walks around now acting like you’re so darn untouchable. Ladies and gentlemen,” Adam started, as he grabbed my hairbrush from the counter and began speaking into it. “I present to you miss Traci Carroll - world famous supermodel. Not to mention god‘s subtle gift to all mankind!”!”

“Well maybe I am!” I said as I pulled the covers back on our bed and climbed inside.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” I said placing the blanket right beneath my chin.

Adam walked over to the foot of the bed and pulled the covers up, “Well then, if that were the case you think I’d be able to do this?” he smiled broadly as he began tickling my feet.

“Stop it, Adam. Stop,” I laughed as I pleaded with him.

He laughed slightly as he put the covers back down and climbed onto the bed.

“I’m sorry, Trace,” he said as he kissed my forehead, then hugged me close to him.

Back then, Adam had been the only one to know of my Achilles heel. But now as I sat on my bed, alone, still looking at him in the picture I cried as I realized that he had been it all along.


A Model Start
I’d never planned on becoming a model, it was just something that happened really. From an early age, I had always wanted to become a ballerina; ever since my father had taken me to my first ballet for my fifth birthday. Though it was the last birthday I ever celebrated with my father before he passed, I swore to myself that I’d become a famous ballerina - so that even my father would be able to hear of his daughter’s accomplishments in heaven.

By the time I was seventeen, I had danced on even more stages than Marie Taglioni, herself.

“Traci, darling,” my manager mother, Jacqueline said to me one night after a performance rehearsal. “There’s someone here that I’d like you to meet.”

I had just walked offstage and made my way into the backstage fitting rooms.

“Hello,” I said swiftly to the tall, dark haired man that stood next to mother, as I grabbed a towel and proceeded to wipe beads of sweat from my face.

“Come now, Traci,” my mother said with a feigned tone that was all too familiar to me. “Where are your manners?”

My mother grabbed the towel away from me, before looking back towards the dark haired man, “You’ll have to forgive my daughter here, Desmond. She’s usually much more well-mannered. I don’t know what on earth’s gotten into her, this evening.”

“It’s perfectly fine, Jacqueline,” Desmond smiled. “I’m sure Traci here is more than exhausted after such a brilliant performance. As your mother and I watched you perform from the audience, I couldn’t help but to remind her of what such an illuminating beauty she’s raised. May I,” Desmond said as he extended his arm towards mine.

I looked in Jacqueline's direction to see whether or not she approved of Desmond's request. After she had flashed me an approving glance, I slowly lifted my hand up and placed it in Desmond's.

"Ah," he sighed. "Espléndido."

To this day I’m not sure whether or not it was Desmond’s charming, crystal blue eyes or his suave Catalan accent that I fell for--the only thing I know is that I fell for him; foolishly and wholeheartedly.

Desmond had proposed marriage to me on more occasions than I could remember, but on one night in particular, the desperation behind his proposition had seemed more relevant than ever.

“Traci,” he said, “if you don’t marry me now, you never will.”

It was the desperation that filled his eyes and overpowered his voice that lead me to finally say, ‘yes.’ Sure I was young and impressionable, but Desmond Santos was a cultured, attractive older man; who by entering my life had furthered my career in more ways than I could ever had imagined. I owed him, didn’t I? Besides, he was the catch of a lifetime, wasn’t he? When was I ever gonna get a better offer than this?

Change of Heart
It wasn’t long after our engagement that I began to see a change in Desmond, for the worse. He began to drink more than usual, everything we ever said or did always resulted in a fight, and little by little he began to take control of both my modeling career and personal life.

He forbid me from doing any and all photography shoots that included: modeling swimwear, endorsing makeup campaigns, too suggestive fragrance ads, as well as modeling any formal wear that to him seemed too revealing. By the time my nineteenth birthday rolled around, I was to be married to a man that I could barely stand being around, much less live with.

One night, after a particularly terrible fight with Desmond my mother called me.

“We should have lunch tomorrow afternoon,” she suggested over the phone.

Sure, I naively thought. Anything to keep my distance from my soon-to-be husband. The next day at lunch I’d had to wear a pair of extra large sunglasses in order to cover a fresh new bruise I’d received from Desmond, since my attempt at covering it with makeup hadn’t done the trick. When my mother asked me why I was wearing sunglasses inside, I decided to take them off to show her, her beloved son-in-law’s latest project.

“Oh, Traci what did you do to him? What did you say?” were the first words that spouted from her mouth.

“Me? Nothing,” I managed to finally growl out. “This is it, mother. I’m leaving him today!”

“Now, now Trace. You had to have known Desmond had a bit of a temper before you agreed to marry him. Now just be a good fiancée and do everything he asks of you, until the two of you can work this all out.”

“You mean until he kills me?”

“Traci,” my mother said in a low whisper. “Now you no better than to raise your voice in public, like this,” she said as she feigned a laugh. “Real women know when and how to conduct their personal affairs. They know how to discuss private matters exactly where they belong--in private.”

“Well, mother,” I inadvertently shouted as I stood up, “a real woman would never put up with this. With the cheating and the abuse. Daddy would’ve never laid a hand on you!”

The items on our table rattled as my mother pounded her fist against the table. It was the first time I had ever seen her lose her poise in public.

“Traci,” she said before regaining her composure. “You don’t have the slightest idea of what went on between your father and I. And frankly my dear, you never will. Because I for one, wouldn’t give you so much as the satisfaction to ever try throwing anything in my face whenever you felt the need to. So what I suggest you do dear is go home, dry your eyes, take yourself a nice long bath, and then wait patiently for your fiancée to call.”

Following the argument with my mother, I went home, dried my eyes, and then ran myself a nice warm bath. After spending most of my time in the water contemplating what my next step should be, I slipped out of the tub and wrapped my towel around me. But as I was exiting the bathroom I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. As I looked closer in the mirror, I noticed that I didn’t recognize the sad, swollen eyed face that was looking back at me. This wasn’t me--a sullen faced girl, who had now become the victim of her very own life.

It was then that I made my decision. I removed the diamond engagement ring that Desmond had given me from my right hand and placed it inside of an envelope and put it in my purse. After I had gotten dressed, I packed up everything that I could fit in my suitcases and hauled them out to my car. I went to the bank and emptied all of the contents from my safety deposit box, my checking account, and my savings. Finally, before catching my flight out of New York, I arrived at Desmond’s apartment building.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Carroll, but Mr. Santos just left shortly before you arrived,” the man at the front desk explained.

“Well thank you, George, but his timing couldn’t have been better,” I said as I searched through my purse for Desmond’s spare apartment key. “George, you wouldn’t by chance have a piece of paper that I could use, would you?”

As I rode the elevator up to Desmond’s floor, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of my self-worth being brought back to life, due to what I was about to do. I opened the door and immediately removed the envelope from my purse and placed it on his counter. I grabbed a pen from off of Desmond’s coffee table and began writing on the piece of paper I had gotten from George, downstairs.

After writing Desmond’s name on the envelope I reread the note, before placing it inside of the envelope.

Desmond, it read.

I changed my mind.

- Traci

I sealed the envelope, before taking one last look at what would’ve been my soon-to-be future as Mrs. Desmond Santos, before leaving. When I’d made my way back downstairs I handed George, Desmond’s key.

“Here you go, George,” I said as I gave George the key. “I certainly won’t be needing this anymore.”