Inheritance Tax by IntialLuv
Chapter Six (In which Martina informs, Mark refutes, and Milt gets irritated.)
Martina didn't answer Mark's question; she was only able to look at him in quiet regret. He returned her look with an expression of utter misery, and it was almost more than she could bear.
In the middle of the awkward silence, Hardcastle repeated his earlier inquiry.
"What is wrong with her? What kind of sick?"
McCormick grimaced slightly. "Uh, Marty, you gotta explain it. It kinda went – " he gestured with his free hand, miming "over his head."
"Okay." Martina moved to the chair on the opposite side of the desk, sitting down wearily. Mark sat again as well, and while waiting for Martina to speak, he busied himself by scrutinizing the photographs.
"It's called polycystic kidney disease." Martina paused, looking at the judge. He shook his head. "Sorry. I don't think I've ever heard of it."
She sighed. "I hadn't either, until about two weeks ago. When she first got sick, the doctors had a hard time figuring out what was wrong. PKD – it's just easier to say – isn't really a childhood disease. It's not unheard of, but usually people with PKD don't have any symptoms until they're thirty or forty. So it's considered more of an adult-onset disease."
"But what does it do? I mean, it affects her kidneys?" McCormick briefly looked up from the photos.
"It's basically what the name says: she has cysts on her kidneys, and they affect how they work. The cysts. . . damage them. Olivia was getting infections, and headaches. She was just achy all the time, and tired out for no reason." Martina had to pause again, as she remembered the fear and utter frustration she and her mother had felt during that pre-diagnosis period.
"Now that we know what's wrong, there's things we can do. We have to watch her blood pressure, and she's on a very low dose of medication for that. But she might be able to go off the medication. . . Changing her diet should help keep her blood pressure down. And we need to make sure she gets enough exercise – nothing with a lot of physical contact, though, like soccer or . . . basketball." Martina stressed the last word, gazing at Mark's lowered head. "We don't want her participating in anything where she could get hurt."
"So how do you get rid of the cysts? What do they do for that?" Milt asked.
Martina's response was a slow shake of her head.
McCormick looked up again as he realized there had been no answer to Hardcastle's question. "Marty?"
"There's no cure."
The words were barely out of her mouth when Mark let out a humorless laugh. "Of course there's a cure."
Martina tensed her shoulders, taking a deep breath. She'd been in Mark's place only a few weeks ago.
"PKD can be managed, but Olivia will always have it. It's progressive, and there's no cure."
Mark stared at her, uncomprehending. He turned to Hardcastle. "Judge?" he asked hopefully, as if expecting the older man had different information.
Hardcastle sat back and studied the two young people sitting before him. Martina was looking at Mark with a combination of concern and guilt. Mark was doing his best to avoid meeting Martina's gaze; he was instead still looking imploringly at the judge.
Milt met Mark's eyes, and he could practically feel the kid's inner torment. Hardcastle thought to himself that this was probably a more difficult scenario than if McCormick had actually known the girl before she became ill. And it wasn't just the girl's dire predicament – it was Mark's past that made this whole thing unbearable. McCormick's father had disappeared on him when he was a kid, and now Mark himself, although unknowingly, had not been there for his own child. The irony was ridiculous. And when he finally finds out about the girl, getting a chance to maybe be a positive influence in her life – he gets hit in the gut with a sucker punch.
Milt couldn't think of anything positive to say to reassure his friend. The best he could come up with was, "I think you better listen to her, kid."
McCormick sunk deep into his chair. It was as if the words had pierced him, to let all his energy and animation escape. His face hardened, and when he finally returned Martina's look, it was with dull, emotionless eyes.
"Go on," he directed tonelessly.
Martina faltered, thrown off by what had just happened. She had at first been truly surprised by the way Mark had turned to the judge for reassurance, like the older man was a touchstone for him. And then when Mark had not gotten the answer he'd been desperately hoping for, the way he'd shut down . . . The expressionless face, the monotone voice: that was the Mark she remembered from the hospital. The fifteen-year-old Mark whose mother was dying and whose life was falling apart.
And now she was the one responsible for destroying his life.
Martina tried to remember where she had left off. "What we're hoping is that the cysts don't develop as quickly, now that she's getting treatment," she started slowly. "Olivia's right kidney has less cysts than her left – and that's good, that she has one kidney that's not as affected. But it's not just her kidneys. There could be other complications."
"Like what?" Hardcastle prodded gently. Mark stared at his hands. The photographs, now forgotten, had been set on the table next to the chair.
"Well. . . Nothing's definite. We're all still learning about this, although my mother has been researching and talking to the doctors so much she'll soon be an expert."
McCormick looked up and gave a small snort, prompting Hardcastle to raise his eyebrows in question. The younger man shrugged.
"Her mother's a nurse." And a bitch.
"The complications," Martina continued, "we just have to keep watch for, because we really don't know how extreme her condition could progress. But the cysts could also develop in her liver, or pancreas. And then. . . " Martina swallowed, unsure if she had the strength to finish.
"And then?" Milt was looking at her somberly, and Martina felt an odd kindred with the man. She tried to draw strength from his sympathetic gaze.
"She could have problems with her brain. She could have a brain aneurysm."
Martina looked across the desk to where Mark sat. The hardened look had faded, and he was now staring at her with what looked like despair.
Martina was suddenly reminded that Olivia's possible challenges could be Mark's, as well.
"Now do you see why I'm so worried about you?" she demanded.
McCormick sat back slightly. "Wha – Marty, no. Knock it off. I'm fine."
"I really don't think you are," Martina responded simply.
"What's this?" Hardcastle asked. His head swiveled between Mark and Martina, watching their interaction.
"It's nothing, Hardcase," Mark answered, but he didn't look at the judge. Instead he glared at Martina, as if daring her to explain.
Martina returned the glare.
"I think Mark has the same thing Olivia has. I think she inherited it from him."
"Marty. . ." Mark groaned, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. But even with his eyes closed, he could tell Hardcastle was staring at him. He could feel the gaze of the steady blue eyes like a physical weight upon his chest.
"McCormick."
Mark opened his eyes, but didn't look at the judge. Instead he stared up at the ceiling silently.
"McCormick!"
Mark shook his head, refusing to answer.
Milt had to almost physically stop himself from coming out from behind the desk and grabbing the kid to shake some sense into him. He had actually pushed back his desk chair when he happened to glance in Martina's direction. Probably don't want to be threatening the kid when she's so positive there's something wrong with him.
Hardcastle settled down with some effort, resting his palms on his desk.
"What makes you think he could have this – this cystic thing?" he asked Martina.
"It's genetic – the type Olivia has. It's called 'autosomal dominant.' That means she inherited the gene. And when she was diagnosed, her doctors thought she had inherited it from me. I hadn't had any symptoms, but they didn't think that was unusual - they just figured I was still in the early stages, or that maybe any symptoms I might've noticed I had written off as something minor. Like the flu, or stress. . ." Here Martina paused to look at Mark, who was still studying the ceiling.
"So I was tested. I had a complete physical, blood tests, ultrasound. And they didn't find anything. Olivia didn't inherit it from me. That leaves Mark.
"And then I remembered about his mother, and it all made sense."
Hardcastle narrowed his eyes. He turned to McCormick, who had finally lowered his head.
"What about your mother?"
Mark sighed slightly, but didn't respond. He looked fixedly at a corner of the desk, refusing to face the judge.
Milt gave a sigh of his own. His was loud and impatient. "I'm getting a little tired of this silent treatment, McCormick!"
Mark jerked a hand in Martina's direction. "Ask her. She's got all the answers," he said bitterly.
Hardcastle rubbed a hand over his face and inhaled deeply. "Martina?" he asked.
She nodded, understanding. "Mark's mother died of kidney failure. I had just thought it was diabetes, a complication. But knowing what I know now, I think she had this. PKD can lead to kidney failure if it's untreated or undiagnosed. And I don't know if she was diagnosed correctly. I don't even know if they knew that much about it back then. That was twenty years ago."
"Nineteen," Mark said quietly. "Nineteen this September."
Even though the words themselves had been distressing, Hardcastle was encouraged by the fact that McCormick had found his voice. "So do you think your mother had this thing?" he asked him.
"I don't know!" McCormick shouted. At the same time he heard his words echo, he saw a slight wince cross the judge's face. Mark instantly lowered his voice. "I'm sorry, Judge. But I don't know. I don't remember, or maybe I never knew." He jutted his chin at Martina. "We already went over this."
No one said anything for a moment. Milt was quietly mulling over Martina's words, and what they implied. Martina and Mark regarded each other from their respective spots on either side of the judge's desk. McCormick was suddenly hit with a vision of a courtroom; Martina was the prosecution, he was the defense, and Hardcastle was sitting in judgment. Mark couldn't believe he'd never seen it before: the way the judge had his desk sitting at the forefront of the room, with a leather chair on each side for opposing counselors. He felt amused and disgusted at the same time.
"Okay." Milt sat up stiffly in his chair and looked at Martina. "If he's got this disease, what would the symptoms be? The same kind of things your daughter had?"
Martina made a gesture that was half-nod, half-shrug. "Maybe. It's relative. It depends on the stage of the disease, and a person's age – "
"Okay, I get it, but give me an idea."
"Well, infections, either kidney or urinary. Um, back pain, or abdominal pain. Headaches. The headaches could be from high blood pressure, but a doctor would need to check that, a lot of times people don't even know they have high blood pressure." She paused, looking at Mark for a reaction. He stared back impassively.
Martina took a deep breath, then pressed on. "Sometimes being really tired, and achy - like I said, it could just be mistaken it for the flu."
Milt nodded absently at the words, but he was no longer looking at Martina; he was now intensely studying Mark.
Martina decided it was time to drive the point home.
"Another symptom is pale skin, and bruising easily."
Hardcastle glanced at Martina, hearing the way she spoke the words not to him, but to McCormick. Martina looked at Milt briefly, then spoke to the younger man again.
"I think you need to show him, Mark."
The judge turned his attention back to McCormick just in time to see the kid give Martina a quick negative shake of his head.
"Show me what?" Milt asked warily.
"It's not a big deal." Mark dismissed it with a half-hearted wave.
"That's twice now you've lied to me."
McCormick sighed heavily, dropping his head. "I'm sorry, Judge."
"Stop apologizing," Milt said irritably. "Just tell me the truth. What is she talking about?"
Hesitantly, McCormick stood up and approached the desk. He kept his head down, not looking at Hardcastle as the older man rose to meet him. Mark reached with his right hand to slowly pull up the sleeve covering his left bicep. As he did so, he distractedly noticed that his right hand was shaking.
Milt stared at the dark bruises circling Mark's upper arm, first with confusion and then with a dawning horror. "I didn't grab you that hard," he said, flustered.
"I know." McCormick glanced up, saw the expression on the judge's face, and then quickly averted his eyes. He made to pull away, but Hardcastle stopped him with an outstretched hand. As Mark stood quietly, Milt gently placed his hand onto the ring of bruises, lining each one up with a finger. It was a perfect match.
"Damn," Hardcastle breathed.