Inheritance Tax by InitialLuv
Chapter Three (In which Olivia makes an "off-screen" appearance, and Martina and Mark share unhappy memories.)
Mark was still dreading Martina's explanation about who was the one who was sick, when the phone began to ring.
Martina looked in the direction of the phone on the desk, and then at McCormick. He waved it off. "The machine will get it." There was no way he was going to pause this current subject in their conversation.
The phone only rang twice before it was unexpectedly picked up in the kitchen, and Mark was alarmed to hear Hardcastle's grumbling voice answering the call. How long has he been inside? What did he hear? Mark's mind ran back through the last things he and Martina had said to each other. It didn't matter that there was more than one wall between the den and the kitchen; Hardcastle was often critical of how much McCormick's voice carried, even when he wasn't having a heated discussion with a former girlfriend.
The judge suddenly appeared, from the direction of the dining room. "Uh, Martina?" He gestured to the phone on his desk. "It's for you."
Martina rose slowly with a bemused expression. Mark stood as well, and faced Hardcastle. Milt nodded his head at Mark and then raised his eyebrows briefly, asking a silent question. McCormick lowered his eyes and shook his head, just as silently.
You get things figured out, kid?
Not even close, Judge.
As Martina picked up the phone, Hardcastle headed back to the kitchen to hang up the extension. Mark had an urge to follow, to forget that Martina was in the den, forget that she had ever come to Gulls' Way.
"What is it? Is something wrong?"
Mark turned to look at Martina as he heard the urgent tone in her voice. She was clenching the phone tightly, speaking quietly but with emotion.
"Yes, I found my friend . . . No. . . I don't know. Maybe tomorrow. Are you all right?"
McCormick sat on the arm of a chair, watching and listening with interest.
"Then why did you call? Wait, how did you even get the number?. . . Does she know you're calling long-distance?. . . I was going to call you. . . From the hotel."
Martina's voice had changed from concerned to impatient. Mark recognized the tone as one he'd personally, and frequently, heard from Hardcastle. It was the tone of an older person chastising a –
A child. She was speaking to a child.
She had a kid.
Mark tried to reason it out, to tell himself it wasn't that big a deal. It had been ten years. Did he expect her to just be exactly the same as she was the last time he'd seen her? He sure wasn't the same person he'd been back then. Of course she would have gone on with her life, had a family. Just because he hadn't found that yet, if he ever would, didn't mean that he should begrudge it of her.
"No. I have to go. . . I will call you later. . . Yes, before you go to bed. Listen to your grandmother, okay?
"I love you too, honey."
Martina placed the receiver on the cradle, then looked up to see Mark staring at her.
"You have a kid."
She moved away from the desk, slowly returning to the chair opposite Mark.
"A daughter."
"Wow." McCormick had spoken the word in his head, and it unconsciously left his lips. He smiled in embarrassment.
"Her name's Olivia."
"After your dad – Oliver, right?"
Martina smiled, pleased. "I didn't think you'd remember that."
He shrugged. "I remember you talking about him, the things you said. You know. Like what a great dad he had been, how much you missed him, all that. Stuff like that sticks in here." He jabbed a finger at his head. "Jealously is great for helping remember things."
Martina's eyes drifted away briefly. When she looked back to Mark, she hoped she was composed enough to continue where she had left off.
"Olivia is the one who's sick."
Mark felt a rush of conflicting emotions. Initially he was tremendously relieved that Martina wasn't the one who was ill. And why did that hit me so hard, when I thought she was? Why do I care so much after ten years? The relief was quickly smothered by a sudden guilt, as he realized there was an unknown child who was sick instead. And finally he felt a deep sympathy for Martina, that she had to go through something like this.
"Is it bad?" he asked hesitantly.
Martina gave a sorrowful shrug. "It's – tolerable. She's better than she was. Now that they know what's wrong, and we've finally got a handle on it. She's home, at least. I wouldn't have left New York if she was still in the hospital. She's been there too much the last two months."
"I know what you mean," McCormick muttered softly, another thought that he hadn't exactly meant to say aloud.
Martina grabbed on to the comment, to segue into what she had to say next.
"Mark, your mother. . . "
Mark looked up in surprise at the change of topic. "What?"
"I. . . I wanted to ask you. . ." Martina seemed frustrated, angry. "Damn, I had this all figured out on the plane. How to do this."
"Do what?" McCormick asked, pulling back a little in alarm.
"When she got sick, did you ever hear her diagnosis? What was wrong, why she died?"
Mark felt his breathing quicken. I should have left when she was on the phone, when I had the chance.
He stared at her now, utter disbelief and a slow anger clouding his features.
"How could you do that?" he asked, his voice icy. "How could you come here – you came all the way here from New York? To ask me that? What the hell are you thinking?"
"Mark, it's important."
"Why?" He was on his feet again without even realizing it. "Why is it important? She's still dead! It doesn't matter how she died, she died!" He knew he was yelling, and that if Hardcastle was still in the kitchen he could probably hear every word, but he didn't care. "I can't believe you came all this way just to throw that at me, to do that to me!"
Martina wasn't swayed by his anger. "Mark, please. I need to know. If you remember. . ."
He threw his hands up, then waved one at her wildly. "You were there! Your mother was there! Why don't you know?"
She nodded. "I remember it was kidney failure. I just don't know why – if it was diabetes, or something else?"
Mark's shoulders slumped; he suddenly felt drained, done. His head was pounding and his chest felt tight. He wandered over to the couch and sat with his head in his hands. He spoke to the floor.
"I don't know, Marty. I don't know if I ever knew. I didn't want to know. I thought maybe if no one gave it a name, she'd get better. She got better before, the first time she was in the hospital." He looked up briefly, and she could see the barely concealed grief in his eyes.
Martina came to sit next to him on the couch, and took his hands in her own.
"Mark, have you ever heard of polycystic kidney disease?"
McCormick shook his head slightly, thrown by the inquiry. "What?" he asked. "What do you mean?"
"Have you ever heard that term? Or maybe PKD?"
He shook his head again.
"Well, I'm not even sure if they called it that back then," she said practically. "Or even how they diagnosed it, without the technology they have now." After a pause, she spoke quietly, almost to herself. "I bet my mother would know."
"Marty, please, can we just drop this?" Mark pleaded.
"No!" She tightened her grip on his hands, then suddenly realized what she was doing and released them, as if she was afraid of hurting him. She settled for resting her hands lightly on his knees.
"Mark, I think that was what was wrong with your mother. I think she had polycystic kidney disease."
He swallowed, and there was an unexpected lump in his throat. "Okay, fine, Marty, whatever. I'm done talking about this."
"I'm not."
"Well, you're gonna have to talk to someone else about it, because I'm done." He made to rise from the couch.
"Mark, stop! I think you have it, too!"
It wasn't exactly how Martina had rehearsed it on the plane, but it got the job done. Mark stopped in mid-rise, his face a mix of alarm and suspicion.
"What are you talking about? Why would you think that?" He sat down slowly, never taking his eyes from her face.
"Because it's inherited. It's genetic – It's not definite that you would have it, if your mother had it, but I still think you do. You probably don't even know it. It – PKD – it doesn't usually start to affect you until you're in your thirties or forties. Or maybe it has started to affect you, but you don't realize it." She made a vague gesture at his arm. "The bruises."
He shook his head in denial. "That doesn't mean I'm sick. And why are you such an expert anyway?" he asked crossly.
"Because that's what Olivia has. She has PKD. And I. . . don't. So that would mean – that would mean she must have inherited it from. . ."
Martina took his hands again, and looked directly into the blue eyes that were so like her daughter's.
"From her father."