Inheritance Tax by InitialLuv

Chapter Twenty-Five

"Hey, kiddo? You up?"

Milt Hardcastle pushed the hospital door ajar as he spoke the hesitant words. Peeking in at the inclined hospital bed, he saw a curly head turn his way. Satisfied that he hadn't interrupted another nap, the judge stepped fully into the room. He raised his left hand to show Mark the duffel bag in his grasp. "Martina thought you might want your clothes and stuff."

McCormick nodded. "No backpack?"

"It's still – I guess she still has that. Was there anything in it you need?"

"Nah. Not in here, I guess. They've already got my pills." Mark shifted in the bed with a slight groan. "Where were you?" he asked next.

Milt placed the duffel on the floor of the small closet, then came to stand near the bed. "I went out to grab a bite." He gestured at the light above the bed. "Can I turn this on?" The room was dim in the oncoming dusk, even with the light spilling in from the hall.

McCormick shrugged one shoulder, and the judge reached up to switch on the light. "I know visiting hours end soon," he said, as he moved back to sit in the chair. "But I wanted to come bring you that. . . " Hardcastle trailed off, closely studying his friend. "What's wrong? What happened?"

Now that the judge could see better, he was alarmed by Mark's appearance. The younger man's face was pale and drawn, there were bruise-like shadows under his bloodshot eyes, and he was resting heavily against the pillows in obvious exhaustion.

McCormick sighed, lifting a hand in half-wave. "The stone made a break for it."

"Whaddaya mean? Did it pass?"

This time McCormick snorted lightly. "Eventually."

"Oh!" Milt raised his eyebrows. "That's. . . good, right?"

Mark shook his head gingerly, as if even that small movement was too tiring. "Oh, yeah. It was great. A mind-blowing experience that everyone should have at least once in their lives."

Hardcastle wiped a hand over his face, hiding a grin that he didn't think McCormick would appreciate. "What did the doctor say?" he asked. "You going to get out of here soon, now?"

Another weak shrug. "He said they'll run some more tests tomorrow, and maybe do another x-ray. Oh, and they want me to eat two meals and keep them down before they talk about discharging me." He looked at the judge with a regretful grimace. "I threw up my supper when – when everything happened. Bad timing."

Milt mirrored the grimace. "Sorry, kid. But at least it's done and over with, right?"

Mark sunk back farther into the pillows. "Yeah. Until the next one." He sighed again. "Once you get a kidney stone, the risk increases that you'll get more. They're gonna analyze the stone and see what it's made of, like calcium, or uric acid. . . I don't know. But whatever they find, I'm gonna have to change my diet to try to avoid getting more stones. Eat less 'bad' things, more 'good.'" McCormick accompanied this last statement with halfhearted air quotes. "But I knew that was going to happen anyway, with this PKD – having to change how I eat. Especially if my kidneys aren't working at full capacity, aren't able to break down the calcium or minerals or whatever." He jerked his head minutely at the bedside table. "At least that's what I get from those papers Shire left."

Hardcastle looked toward the small sheaf of papers, now held together with the clip on a ballpoint pen. He could see there were hand-written notes in the available white spaces on the pages. Lifting the papers to get a better look, the judge found the small notepad underneath. Several sheets of the notepad were also covered with Mark's writing. Hardcastle took a minute to scan over the copious notes, feeling a twinge in his chest that he could only describe as pride. He smiled to himself.

I guess you were jumping the gun a little when you told Sandra he wasn't handling his diagnosis too well. The kid just needed to adjust his idle.

Milt looked up from the papers, his smile fading. He set the pages back on the table, and then regarded his friend apprehensively.

I've got somethin' to tell you, and I don't want you to get all steamed at me again."

"That's not really something I can promise, Judge." After a brief silence in which the older man scowled at the floor, Mark said softly, "I'll try, though. What is it?"

Hardcastle raised his eyes. "Olivia knows about Sonny," he blurted.

Even in his weariness, Mark was able to raise himself up on his elbows. "How?"

Milt spread his hands in frustration. "I don't know!"

"Well, who told her? I haven't said anything to Marty about Sonny."

"I guess. . . Well, I guess I kinda told her." When McCormick squinted a glare at Hardcastle, the older man continued. "I didn't mean to, you know. And I didn't tell her outright – she figured it out." Milt smiled unconsciously.

"This is funny to you?" McCormick had lowered himself back into a more relaxed position, but he was still intently glowering at Hardcastle.

"Did you know your kid could play piano?"

Mark blinked, somewhat confused by the question. "Uh. . . Yeah. I think – yeah, Marty told me. So?" he asked. "A lot of kids can play piano. I might have even learned how, if my mom hadn't had to sell ours."

"I'm not talking about 'a lot of kids,' I'm talking about your kid. And it's not just that she can play piano. She's good. Really good."

McCormick huffed out a bemused exhale. "What did you do, take her out to eat at a piano bar?"

Milt shuffled his feet and adjusted himself in the bedside chair. "Not exactly."

"What, exactly?"

"I went to their place for supper."

"You had supper with them. Olivia and Marty." Mark stared. "And Sandra?"

Hardcastle nodded. "Yeah. I didn't plan on it or anything," the judge said defensively. "She just invited me out of the blue. I couldn't say no."

"Who invited you? Marty?"

"Olivia."

"Oh, Judge." McCormick shook his head. "You had to know she did that so she could grill you for information."

"Of course I knew that! I'm not an idiot, McCormick!" Hardcastle sent a hard stare right back at the kid. "But I figured if I had the chance to spend some time with her, I should take it. Seeing as how she's your kid, and she's gonna be in your life from now on. . . Well, I thought I should get to know her better."

"Oh." Mark took a breath, looking away. "That's. . ." He smiled faintly, then looked back at his friend. "Thanks, Judge."

Hardcastle waved a hand, not replying. Both men were silent for a moment until McCormick remembered the topic at hand.

"So how did Sonny come up?"

Milt made a face, obviously hoping the subject had been forgotten. "Okay. The kid's got some kinda musical talent. I mean, like, inherent. And she asked me if maybe she inherited it from you. When I told her how unlikely that was – "

"Unlikely. Gee, thanks a lot, Judge."

"Ah, we both know you can't hold a tune in a bucket. Anyway, she was pretty disappointed. She got this pitiful look on her face, like somebody just told her her dog died, and I couldn't bear to look at it – "

"Puppy-dog eyes?"

"Woulda stop interrupting me!" Hardcastle raised his voice, glaring at the younger man. McCormick instantly appeared apologetic, nearly to the point of being distraught.

"Sorry, Judge." Mark's voice was quiet, almost sad.

Milt immediately regretted his shouted words. What the hell was he doing, yelling at a man in a hospital bed, a man who looked so obviously sick and distressed and remorseful?

"Aw, that's all right, kid. I'm sorry I yelled at you. You didn't deserve – Damn it!"

"Something amiss?" Mark's contrite expression was replaced by wide-eyed innocence.

"How many times have you done that to me? What have you gotten away with?" the judge demanded.

McCormick grinned. "Not really that much. . . Usually you don't fall for it. I guess when I'm in a hospital the look comes across a lot more pathetic. Or is it just when it comes from a nine-year-old kid?"

Hardcastle hmmphed. "Well, I don't think she did it to con me. I think she really was upset. So I tried to buck her up, told her maybe she inherited it indirectly, that you had a relative who had some 'musical ability,' and she figured out the rest. She's really a pretty smart kid."

"Yeah, another thing she didn't inherit from me? Not the smarts, and definitely not the musical talent?"

"Oh, knock it off!" Milt shook his head in exasperation. "I didn't say anything about you not being smart. Just that you can barely keep a beat with a tambourine."

McCormick tilted his head, as if acknowledging the truth of the last statement. "Well, what did you tell her about Sonny?"

"Not any details. I told you I'd leave the specifics up to you. And it wasn't easy. She was interrogating me, wondering what he looked like, how old he was, where he was, what his talent was –"

"I hope you didn't tell her safe-cracking."

The judge shot McCormick a sharp look.

"I know, I know. Stop interrupting."

Hardcastle shrugged. "I was kinda done anyway. At least with that. There was another discussion that came up later, around the dinner table."

From a speaker in the hallway, both men heard a chime ring over the P.A. It was followed by a quiet recording stating that visiting hours would be ending in ten minutes.

Mark checked his watch. As Milt regarded the movement, he realized the younger man had his watch on his right wrist. "What's with that?" he asked, pointing.

"Huh?" McCormick looked at his watch blankly. "Oh. It's just easier. Every time I move my left arm the IV bugs me."

Hardcastle recalled how his friend used to wear his timepiece on his dominant hand when he first came to Gulls' Way. That was four – no, five years ago.

Five years?

Milt shook off the memories, knowing it wasn't the time to reminisce. "Okay, I've only got a few minutes, so shut up and let me tell you what I need to tell you."

Mark lifted his eyebrows. He made an obvious motion of settling himself, pressing his lips tightly together in anticipation.

There was a strained silence. Milt cleared his throat. "Okay," he repeated. "So after supper Sandra started asking her own questions. Not about Sonny, I don't mean that. Questions about you." The judge paused, not sure how to phrase the next words. He forced himself to push ahead. "And her and I, we got into a, well, I guess you would call it a disagreement." Hardcastle scratched an earlobe, then rubbed his chin. "An argument."

McCormick's lips were no longer pressed together. They were now stretched in a wide grin.

A second chime pealed, followed by the recording informing visitors of the five minutes they had remaining.

Hardcastle glanced toward the hallway, and then turned back to his delighted friend. "Whaddaya grinning about?" he asked roughly.

"Nothing." If anything, Mark's grin grew.

"How do you know I was defending you in this argument? Maybe I threw you to the wolves, you ever think about that?"

"Nope."

"Okay. But you gotta listen to me here, sport. You remember when you met your dad in Atlantic City, and he said that he had a story on his side of it, an explanation of why he left you and your mom?"

"Yeah. I remember." A somber expression had replaced the grin. "But I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"What I'm trying to say is that there's two sides to any story."

"Wait." Mark held up a hand. It was shaking slightly. "Are you trying to tell me Sandra has a side, an 'explanation' for why she's treated me like crap for almost twenty years?"

"Yeah. She does. I think she needs to tell you, and you need to hear it."

Mark slowly lowered his hand. The paleness of his face had increased.

"Attention: Visiting hours have now ended."

"Didja hear me, kiddo?" Hardcastle pressed, leaning closer to the bed.

"Yeah. I heard you. But if you think I'm gonna talk to her about 'her side,' then you're a coupla donkeys short of a herd." McCormick swallowed. "Thanks for bringing me my things, but I think it's time for you to leave." The younger man motioned to the doorway. "Visiting hours have now ended."

Milt rose, uncertainty painted on his face. Mark purposefully looked away, intently studying the window and the darkening sky.

"I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Mark didn't respond. He gaze didn't leave the window, even after the judge had left the room, closing the door behind him.

Mark's breakfast tray had been cleared, he'd provided his (hopefully final) blood and urine samples, and he'd just finished shaving when the phone rang for the second time that morning. Grabbing the IV pole, he rushed from the bathroom in time to nab the phone on the fourth ring. His "Hello?" was a little breathless.

"Mark? Are you okay?"

"Oh, Marty, hi." McCormick smiled cheerily at the sound of the woman's voice. "I thought you were the judge."

"He's not there?"

"No – he called earlier, said he was going to see about renting a car. And yeah, I'm all right. I was just in the bathroom when I heard the phone." He wiped some left-over shaving cream off of his chin.

"So how are you?"

"Actually, pretty good." Mark sat on the edge of the bed. "It looks like I'm getting out of here today, probably right after lunch – as long as my tests are okay. My temp's normal and I actually kept my breakfast down. Which wasn't easy, considering how lousy it was. Lumpy oatmeal and cold eggs. They even screwed up the fruit. It tasted like rubber."

"What do you mean you 'actually' kept it down?"

"Ah, supper last night didn't go too well. Not long after I ate, the kidney stone passed. Which is good, that's what they wanted, but I kinda got sick." He paused, then in a caustic tone, said, "I'm surprised you didn't know that already. I hear you and Hardcastle have gotten pretty chummy."

Martina didn't answer right away, and Mark felt slightly guilty for the harsh words. He was about to apologize when she beat him to it.

"I'm sorry, Mark. It was just vegetable lasagna. I don't think any of us expected what happened."

McCormick scoffed. "Well, I could've told you what to expect from Hardcase. I guess he and your mom got into it, huh?"

"At first. They ended up calling a truce. He didn't tell you that part?"

Mark neglected to answer the question, instead asking one of his own. "Why are you calling, Marty?"

Martina paused again. Mark heard a soft sigh before she answered. "I just wanted to let you know we won't be by to see you today. Olivia's not feeling up to it."

"What? What do you mean? Is she okay? She's not getting sick, is she? What's wrong?"

"Mark!" Martina interrupted his frantic inquiries. "She's all right – just tired. She tires out easier lately. You know, these past few days have been rough for her, too."

"You're sure she's okay? You'd tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?" There was a heavy pressure in McCormick's gut, one that he hadn't felt in a long time – at least not since Hardcastle's mistaken terminal diagnosis. He absentmindedly hoped a doctor or nurse wouldn't choose that moment to check on him. He had a feeling if someone saw his physical distress, his afternoon discharge might get postponed. Mark forced himself to relax, purposefully slowing his breathing.

"She's fine, Mark. She's just resting. But if you get discharged, you should come over here. I know she wants to see you."

Yeah, and Sandra will be thrilled to see me, too. "Yeah, maybe. I think the first thing I wanna do when I get out of here is take a long hot shower at the hotel." Mark looked up as a smiling nurse entered the room. "But I gotta go, Marty – I'll talk to you later, okay?"

The nurse spoke as Mark hung up the phone. "How would you like to get that IV out, Mr. McCormick?"

"If you can take this damn tube out of me, I just might marry you."

ooOoo

By twelve forty-five, Mark was sitting in the bedside chair, repeatedly checking his watch.

He was freshly dressed in his own clothes, a tee-shirt and jeans he'd dug out of the duffel, and his wallet was back at home in his rear jeans pocket. He'd already signed his discharge papers, after an edifying meeting with Lorenzo and Shire, the doctors having entered his room just as Mark was finishing lunch. McCormick had spoken separately with Walter Shire for almost a half-hour. The nephrologist had read the notes Mark had written down the previous afternoon, and had answered or addressed more of the questions than McCormick had expected. Mark had been pleasantly surprised by Shire's change in bedside manner, and had decided maybe it was his demeanor that had improved. You haven't been on your best behavior these last few days, that's for sure, he'd inwardly scolded himself. The nephrologist had ended their discussion by firmly advising that Mark make a follow-up visit before returning to California, and Mark had promised he'd do his best.

McCormick had been given his medications back, as well an additional prescription for the oral antibiotic, and had also been introduced to the dietitian, who had arrived with a binder of papers. The two had shared a short conversation about necessary changes to his diet and eating habits, and the woman had produced a related document for almost any situation. She had left the room to make copies of cooking hints and cookbook references, suggesting he read over the nutritional information while he waited. More paperwork? he'd wondered to himself, fanning the sheaf she'd already given him. McCormick had set the papers aside, instead phoning Hardcastle's hotel room. He'd gotten no response, and then had sat in the chair to grumpily wait for the dietitian to return.

Mark lifted his wrist to check the time again. Where the hell is he? What am I supposed to do, take a cab to his hotel? A sharp knock on the door redirected his thoughts. "About time," he muttered, facing the door and waiting for the judge's venerable presence.

Sandra Rivera entered the hospital room. She looked at the man seated in the chair, and at the duffel bag on the floor beside him. "Have you filled out your discharge papers?" she asked. "Do you have everything?"

McCormick stared at her. When she only gazed back at him in an expectant manner, he jerked lightly, then heard himself answering. "The dietitian is bringing me some stuff yet. Then I'm good to go." He studied her with a growing unease. "Why?"

"I'm your ride."