Inheritance Tax by InitialLuv
Chapter Thirteen (In which Mark - eventually - tells Milt Olivia's origin story, and the boys visit Dr. Friedman.)
"When my mom went into the hospital the second time, we both knew it wasn't good," Mark started. "School was out for summer break, and I was working then, at a car wash. I'd been there a couple months. It wasn't glamorous or anything, but we needed the money. And sometimes my boss would have 'errands' for me to run, extra jobs that brought in more cash." McCormick gave the judge an unapologetic look. "You do what you have to. I didn't really think about it. Especially after she was in the hospital, and all I had to live on was my income. The rent and electricity and everything had to get paid somehow."
"You stayed in the apartment by yourself?"
McCormick nodded. "I was older – just turned fifteen. And I'd been by myself a lot anyway, with her working all the time. I told her as much." His expression was bleak. "We had an argument about that, and I was pretty hard on her.
"It was like the second day she was in the hospital, and she started to talk to me about how long she might be there, and how we had 'decisions' to make. I told her I was fine, I'd just stay at the apartment and keep things together until she got back home. We were both still in denial at that point, I think. Anyway, she didn't want me to stay at the apartment, she didn't want me working at the car wash, she didn't want me hanging out with Bill Bauer and Trigg and the guys. . . Well, she was right about Trigg in the end. But we just started arguing, and the main point was that she didn't trust me on my own, and there was no way I was going down that road again, bunking with my uncle indefinitely." McCormick smirked suddenly. "Not quite the same 'indefinitely' arrangement you offered, Judge."
Hardcastle returned the smirk, but didn't interrupt. Mark continued.
"So here we are in her hospital room, yelling at each other. Well, I was yelling, she didn't have enough energy. And I got so worked up. . . We both knew it was bad, and she probably wasn't going to get better, but neither of us had the strength to say it yet. So we just fought about the things we could, and we said things we didn't mean to say. And that's when I told her I'd be fine on my own, that I was used to it, because it wasn't like I'd really had her around much anyway." McCormick exhaled, closing his eyes. "You know how she told me I wasn't 'worth the trouble,' and how she wanted to take it back? That's how it was. As soon as it was out of my mouth, and I saw the look on her face, how much I'd hurt her. . . I wanted to apologize, to tell her I'd never felt that way. I knew everything she did, working two jobs, was to try and make things better for me. Before we got evicted in Atlantic City and moved to Hoboken, she even had me in Catholic school for a while, and that tuition must have been expensive. But it was important to her, so she found a way to pay for it. She hardly did anything for herself. She was. . . She was a great mother. And I was a rotten son. She was right. I was a lot of trouble."
"Kiddo –"
"Judge, just let me finish," Mark pleaded.
Hardcastle held up a hand. "No, McCormick, listen to me. You can't beat yourself up. I don't think she felt that way. You're right – people say things they don't mean when they're upset. The two of us are a testament to that. But you know how you really felt about your mother, and I'm pretty sure she didn't think you were trouble. I think she was worried about what would happen to you when she was gone. She knew she didn't have much time, and she wanted to try and make sure you made the right choices, so you would grow up the way she wanted."
"I used to think about that when I was in prison," McCormick said. "How I was glad she couldn't see what had happened to me, how I had screwed up my life. She would have been devastated."
"And what do you suppose she'd think of where you are now?" Hardcastle pressed. "The way you've turned your life around? Helping me bring in the bad guys, being in law school? Hell, even giving your dad a second chance."
The words came slow, but they were eventually uttered. "I think she'd be proud."
"Damn straight."
Mark was pleasantly surprised by the declaration. He smiled wistfully, then took a reinforcing breath before picking up where he had left off.
"Well, after I said that awful thing to her, I had to get out. I knew what I'd done, and I didn't think I could ever fix it, so I just bolted. I took off out of her hospital room, and I ran right into this poor candy striper, this girl who was volunteering, you know? She was outside the room, and I slammed into her, knocked us both to the floor. I didn't even check to see if she was okay, I just picked myself up and kept going. All I was thinking about was getting out of there, getting away from what was happening. I didn't want to use the elevator, and be stuck with other people, so I went down the stairs. I only made it about half a flight before I lost it.
"That was the first time I had a panic attack. I just collapsed, and I didn't know what was happening. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't see, and I thought my heart was going to explode. I honestly thought I was having a heart attack." He shuddered slightly. "That's what it feels like. At least for me. You think you're going to die. Or something terrible's gonna happen. Or both."
"So that's what you meant." Hardcastle had spoken the words before he realized it.
"What?" McCormick asked, momentarily distracted. "What are you talking about?"
Milt shrugged, trying to appear casual. "Well, before. When you were. . .when it happened. You were saying something about how you were gonna die."
"I did?"
"You don't remember?"
"No. I remember trying to hit you, and then Marty talking me down. In between, it's kind of fuzzy. I don't even know how long . . ." Mark looked at the judge inquisitively.
"Maybe ten minutes total, maybe less. It seemed like a lot longer, though."
"Trust me, Judge, it feels like that from my end, too." McCormick grimaced. "And that first one, I thought that was it. I really thought I was dying.
"So I'm sitting there, falling apart, and after a while I hear this voice, someone talking to me. Telling me I'm okay, that I just need to calm down. Some nurse or someone who found me and realized what was going on. It was basically the same thing, over and over: I was all right, I just needed to calm down and breathe, I was going to be okay. And eventually I was. I wasn't great, but I sure as hell wasn't dying. It took some time, but finally I was able to get myself together and look at the person who had helped me." McCormick smiled in remembrance. "It was the candy striper I'd run into. I'd knocked her down, hadn't even stopped to see if she was hurt, and she'd followed me, to make sure I was okay. She'd been there almost from the start, talking to me, trying to get me to settle down. I'd been so out of it I didn't even know she was there."
McCormick stopped, looking at Hardcastle with a frank gaze.
"That was Marty."
Milt looked back, surprise on his face slowly mingling with understanding. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Great story to tell the kid, huh? 'I ran into your mom, literally, in a hospital, and then I puked my guts out in a garbage can.' I think your story of how you met Nancy is a little better."
Hardcastle grinned. "When you're right, you're right, kiddo." He sobered slightly, thinking. "But I have a feeling you losing your lunch didn't scare her away."
"No. She got all Florence Nightingale on me. Took me down to the cafeteria, got me some 7UP to settle my stomach. She stayed with me until she knew I would be okay. And the next time I came in to see my mom, Marty was there. She'd been visiting with my mom, brought her some flowers, but it had been pretty obvious she was waiting for me. At first I was irritated, thought she was hovering. I mean, she was only a year older than me, if that, and I already had my mother asking me all these questions about where I'd been or who I'd been with. I didn't need another person watching me like a hawk.
"But after a couple days, I started looking for her.
"She worked in the hospital coffee shop most mornings, and after the lunch rush was over she'd do the candy striping thing. Marty worked pretty much the same hours as her mom – Sandra was a nurse there, in maternity. Well, I got to know Marty's schedule, and if I was at the hospital in the morning I'd stop by the coffee shop. Sometimes when I went to visit my mother after work, I'd roam the hallways first to see if Marty was still there. It got so that I went to the hospital more to see Marty than my mom," McCormick admitted with chagrin.
"It's just that being with Marty was normal. When I was with her, it didn't seem like my life was falling to pieces. It's not like I forgot that my mom was sick and that I was practically living on my own, but for the first time I didn't feel so lost. Marty was the best thing that could have happened to me then. She. . . she made me want to be better."
Hardcastle hmmphed softly, and Mark stopped, his eyebrows raised in silent question.
"That's not the way I see it, sport. Since Martina showed up here, you haven't been 'better.' If anything, you've been the opposite." Hardcastle spoke quietly, but his opinion was clear.
"But that's not Marty's fault," Mark said earnestly. "The things that happened, what set me off – she didn't have any control over them. She was just guilty by association."
"So she didn't have anything to do with keeping the kid from you? Whose decision was that, do you think?"
"Her mother's," Mark answered instantly, his voice and eyes hard. He tensed his arms and clenched his fists, breathing deeply. "But I don't think Marty really fought her on it, in the end. The timing sucked." He exhaled, and nodded reluctantly. "Okay, I'll give you that, Judge. And I guess getting that news, on top of all the memories that cropped up, is what kinda pushed me over the edge today. Yesterday? Whatever."
Milt looked at the clock, curious himself. It was after midnight. In roughly nine or ten hours, they'd hopefully have the news from Charlie. He felt an anxious pang in the pit of his stomach, and wondered himself if he'd get much sleep tonight. He had a feeling both he and McCormick would be struggling with insomnia for the rest of the night.
Mark shifted in his chair, crossing his leg. He idly played with the cuff of his jeans as he continued talking.
"We were only together for a couple months. When school started we didn't get to see each other as much. We lived in different neighborhoods, went to different schools. She'd be at the hospital on weekends, and if I wasn't working we'd try to hang out. But then things fell apart. It was like one thing happened that triggered the next thing, and so on. Like dominoes.
"My mom was in really bad shape. And I wasn't doing much better. They'd shut off the electricity at the apartment, and I knew it was just a matter of time before I couldn't pay the rent, either. I started skipping school so I could work more. I'd only been back to school for maybe two weeks, anyway. I figured it would be a while before they missed me. So I was at work when the hospital called the school to try and reach me."
McCormick adjusted his posture again, lowering the one leg and then crossing the other. He rubbed his arms, remotely aware of the pain as his hands brushed the fresh bruises.
"I got off work at about three, and took the bus to the hospital. I thought if I just showed up at the same time I would've if I'd been at school, she wouldn't realize I'd skipped. The day before she'd actually been better, more like herself, so I thought if I showed up too late or too early that she'd be with it enough to call me on it, and I was hoping to avoid that. I got to the hospital, and I go to open the door to her room – and it's empty."
McCormick stopped, suddenly aware of how hard it was to breathe, how hard it was to move.
Hardcastle watched the rigid pose and drawn face with dread. He knew what was coming, he'd seen the empty room and made-up bed himself. He'd been there beside Nancy at the end, holding her limp hand in his two strong ones, and after she'd passed he'd eventually returned to her room to retrieve her few personal items. The freshly cleaned and suddenly impersonal room had caught Milt by surprise, and he'd collapsed into the bedside chair, the one he had occupied almost non-stop for the past three weeks. His sudden wrenching sobs had seemed to come from the very bottom of his soul.
Milt saw a slow motion break McCormick's paralysis: one hand traveling up to his neck, to touch the silver chain that hung there. Mark ran the chain through his fingers, grasped the St. Jude medal between his thumb and forefinger. His voice when he started talking was toneless and fragile.
"I just stood there. I couldn't understand it. She'd been better. I had this crazy thought that maybe she'd been discharged, that she'd be at home waiting for me. Or that maybe it was all just a bad dream." McCormick shook his head sadly. "Yeah, it was a bad dream, all right.
"The hospital staff had been watching for me. I was standing there in the doorway, and someone came up behind me, an orderly or a resident or someone. I don't remember. I just felt a hand on my shoulder, and I flipped out. I turned around and slugged the guy. I laid him out, one punch. I felt it in my hand the next day." Mark flexed his right hand absently. "And then I did what I usually did, what worked for me back then – I ran.
"I ran out the hospital and just kept running. I didn't have any idea where I was going, and I don't know how long I wandered the streets. I know it got dark. And then somehow, I ended up at Marty's. She already knew what had happened. Her mother had called her from the hospital and told her. Sandra was working a late shift, and wasn't home yet, and she had told Marty to call her if I showed up. Marty said her mother was worried about me, and wanted to make sure I was all right, and that I should stay there." McCormick's face twisted in anger. "I actually believed it, believed that Sandra might be a decent person after all. But about an hour after Marty called her, her mother showed up with a social worker and a cop. She turned me in."
Hardcastle looked narrowly at his friend. "I take it she wasn't your number-one fan. What, did she just hate you on principle?"
McCormick shrugged listlessly. "She didn't think I was good enough for Marty. I mean, come on, Judge, I wasn't exactly the poster boy for 'The Kind of Boy You Want Your Daughter to Date.'" He heightened his voice to an announcer's tone as he spoke the faux slogan, and accompanied it with air quotes. Compared to Mark's typical humor it was poor, sarcastic fare, but it was an attempt, and Hardcastle laughed – Milt thought if the kid was trying, he should also fulfill his role. The chuckle was short-lived, though, and soon Mark again took up his narrative.
"I don't think Marty's mother liked me from the start. I was kind of known as a trouble-maker at the hospital, especially after my mom and I had that fight. And when Sandra found out Marty and I were hanging out, I think she kept tabs on us, had her co-workers spy on us. She didn't trust me, she didn't want anything to do with me, and she decided I wasn't worthy of her daughter. I bet she and my uncle would have had great conversations about how I was a shady, two-bit delinquent."
McCormick grew silent again, looking in the direction of the television. He vaguely recognized the old western movie now playing on the small screen. Milt had turned down the volume earlier, when Mark had still been sleeping. McCormick watched a decidedly quiet gunfight for a few moments, until there was the requisite scene of a man falling to his death from a rooftop.
"And that's where I ended up, after everything got sorted out – I was sent back to my aunt and uncle. My cousin had moved out. She was living with a friend. I was kind of glad for that, that she'd gotten out. My Aunt Brenda wasn't so lucky. I think it was even harder for her, after Annie left. She was . . . different. She didn't try as hard to protect me from my uncle this time, but sometimes she didn't even know what was happening. She was out of it a lot."
"Out of it? What's that mean?" Hardcastle asked, slightly alarmed that the woman might have fallen victim to the same addiction as her husband. "Booze?"
"Nah. Pills. Valium. But I don't really blame her." He could recall staring transfixed at the little blue pill she had placed in his palm, remotely noticing how the "V" cut-out in the middle of the tablet had looked like a tiny heart.
Mark had grown increasingly bitter and disturbed in the time between his mother's death and her funeral, culminating in physical defiance on the day of the latter event. He'd even pushed his aunt, hard, against a table when she had attempted to prevent the teen from striking his uncle. Mark's punishment for the push, and for his wild swing at his uncle, had been swift, and not unexpected: a smack in the head that had sent him to the floor, followed by sharp kicks in the ribs. When even that typical discipline hadn't quieted Mark's agitation, his aunt had retrieved the bottle of medication from her purse, and had encouraged him to take a dose. His acceptance to her suggestion had been a last, desperate resort.
Less than two hours later, the three of them were driving to the funeral. Mark had been sitting docilely in the back seat, blearily wondering just why he'd been so upset.
Hardcastle was muttering angrily. "You would think the doctor who prescribed her the pills coulda seen what was going on, and gotten her some help, instead of just shoving drugs at her."
McCormick forced aside his memories of that day, not sure that he could handle that, along with everything else. "Yeah," he answered the judge, "but I'm pretty sure my aunt wouldn't have asked for help. She probably figured my uncle only hit her because she deserved it. That's what I – what she felt, I bet. I mean, it makes sense."
Hardcastle had noticed McCormick's quick pronoun change. "Doesn't make sense to me," he said, waiting to see if the kid would pick up the thread.
It took a moment, but Mark didn't disappoint. "That's because you never got abused," he replied quietly.
"You thought you deserved it." Milt's voice was just as quiet.
McCormick didn't confirm or deny the statement. He bypassed the topic, instead choosing to continue his story.
"So with my aunt not up to running interference, I was kind of a sitting duck. I tried to stay out of my uncle's way, but that didn't work out too great. And after a while, I just got fed up. I decided to fight back. I was older, and stronger, and I thought I could hold my own." McCormick winced. "And oh, I just made things so much worse."
His next words were cautious. "You know how I got picked up for joyriding, ended up in juvie?" He waited for Hardcastle to acknowledge the question with a nod. "That was when it happened. I couldn't hack it anymore. I ran. I knew it would be faster, and I could get farther, if I had a car. So. . . I got a car.
"I drove around for a while, just feeling free and powerful. I was gonna go back to my neighborhood, meet up with the guys. I figured they'd be at the bowling alley. We used to hang out there until they closed, and then goof in the parking lot until the owner came out and started yelling at us. But at some point I changed my mind, and I went to Marty's instead. It was pretty late, but I convinced her to sneak out, and she came to sit in the car with me.
"I told her I couldn't go back to my aunt and uncle's place. She knew why – I had told her about my uncle, that night after my mother died. Anyway, I said I was taking off. I didn't know where I was headed, but I didn't care. I had a few personal things I'd grabbed from the apartment, a little money, and a car. Okay, so it wasn't my car," he acquiesced with a sheepish grin, "but that was a minor point.
"I asked her to come with me. She didn't even think about it, didn't try to let me down gently. She didn't have any reason to run. She was living in a nice house with a mother who wasn't sick and who had a good job. Marty's father had died a few years back, but he'd had life insurance, and they'd been pretty much okay. Sandra just went from being a part-time nurse to being full-time. They hadn't had to uproot their lives like my mom and I had after Sonny left us. It hit me then, how different we were, and how we wanted different things. Marty wanted to graduate, go to college, start a family. You know, have a normal life. I was just trying to survive. I think that was when I kind of gave up on us.
"Well, it was probably a good thing Marty didn't come with me. Because about ten minutes after I left her house I got pulled over by the cops. Of course I tried to con them that I was sixteen, and that I had permission to borrow the car. But considering how I didn't have a license, and since my uncle was the one who had called it in, I think they already had a bunk with my name on it in juvie."
"What do you mean, your uncle called it in?" Hardcastle asked, feeling he had missed something. "How did he know you'd swiped a car?"
"More like 'misappropriated,'" McCormick hedged. Milt answered that with a frown that simply said it was too late at night to be playing games. Mark sighed.
"The car I boosted was my uncle's." When Hardcastle just stared at him, obviously surprised, Mark allowed a grim smile. "How do you not know this? You know everything else about my checkered past."
"Not all. Some guesswork. Especially your juvenile records." Hardcastle backtracked. "So he called the cops on you, got you picked up?"
"Yeah. That was the last domino to fall. First it was my mother dying, and Marty's mom turning me in, then ending up back at my uncle's. Later, it was getting shot down by Marty. The final thing was getting caught for taking the car. I spent the next two years in and out of the system: juvie, foster homes, a group home. . . And when I finally had a chance to get out, I didn't look back. Headed down to Florida and tried to forget about Jersey City – until my uncle died five years later. I came back home for the funeral. That was about ten years ago."
"You came all the way back from Florida for his funeral?" Hardcastle asked, disbelieving. "The guy who didn't give a damn about you and treated you like dirt?"
"Well how else was I going to get the sport coat and the bottle cap collection he'd left me?" McCormick rolled his eyes. "I didn't go for him, Judge. I went for my mom. She would have wanted me to go. It was her brother, the only family she'd had, the only family I had. It was. . . the right thing to do."
Milt nodded, impressed. "That was pretty decent of you. Couldn't have been easy."
Mark shrugged. "It was weird. Seeing my aunt and my cousin upset. I couldn't figure it out. I had thought they'd be secretly relieved that he was gone. And then my aunt could barely look at me, and when she did she'd start crying. . . I decided it would be better if I stayed out of the way. I told them I was gonna go have a cigarette, but I think I was just gonna take off. You know, my normal cut and run." Mark remembered how his cousin had looked at him suspiciously when he'd said he was going outside to have a smoke. There had been several other mourners smoking, and ash trays had been scattered around the funeral home. Mark had been pretty sure Annie had had his number.
"Well, I was just about to leave the funeral home when Marty came walking in. She'd seen the obituary in the paper, and she came to the visitation because she was hoping I'd be there.
"It had been at least eight years since I'd seen her. We'd kinda kept in touch. . . When I got to Florida I mailed her a postcard from Daytona Beach. She sent me this goofy gift basket thing when I won my first race. I sent her flowers when she graduated from college. That kind of thing. But we hadn't seen each other since the night I 'borrowed' my uncle's car. We were both at fault for that. . . I had been back in the area a few years before, racing at Lancaster, but I'd been with Kiki then. So I couldn't really call Marty, you know?" He shrugged. "Anyway, we had a lot to catch up on. After the visitation was over we went back to my motel room to talk, and, well. . . " McCormick spread his hands in a "you know" gesture. "I didn't make it to the funeral the next day," he said next, with a sly grin. "I don't think they missed me."
Milt shook his head with a disgusted look. "And here I just said you were decent."
McCormick returned Hardcastle's look with a contentious glare. "It's not like I drove all the way up from Florida looking to spend the night with Marty. Hell, I didn't even know she'd be there. It just happened. And she wasn't exactly resistant, Judge."
"I don't need the specifics, McCormick!"
Mark answered that with a brief, self-satisfied smile. "I almost asked her to come with me again. But I wasn't fifteen anymore. I knew she wouldn't leave. She'd moved to New York, and was student-teaching at a school there. She was where she wanted to be, doing what she wanted to do. I was still trying to find my footing with racing. I was good, and I knew I could be really good, but I got distracted. I was too interested in pretty women, and having fun. Or in the quick buck I could make by repossessing a car here or there. It wouldn't have worked, her and me. So we had a nice night. A real nice night. And then she went back to New York, and I went back to Florida."
"And you didn't have any idea she was pregnant?" Hardcastle tried to recall the bits and pieces of the conversation he'd heard between Mark and Martina, when McCormick's voice had been loud enough to carry from the den into the kitchen.
"I had my suspicions when she called me a month or so later. I wasn't home, but the message she left said it was important, that she needed to talk to me. I wasn't dumb, Judge, I knew what the timing of the phone call could mean. But I actually wasn't sorry about it. Considering the type of girls who hung around the race track, the women I could have gotten pregnant. . . Not that I slept around that much," Mark was quick to defend.
"Of course not," Hardcastle responded dryly. It took immense strength to not bring Kiki back into the conversation.
"If Marty was calling to tell me that she was pregnant, I would've taken responsibility, and I would have been happy to do it. I called her back as soon as I got the message from my roommate. And her mother answered. She wouldn't let me speak to Marty, claimed that she was too upset to talk to me. And then Sandra started to weave this whole story about how seeing me had gotten Marty all worked up, and that the only reason Marty had called was to tell me that us getting together had been a mistake. That there wasn't any room left in her life for me, that she had outgrown me, and that I needed to forget her, forget I ever knew her. Our lives were too different. It was like Sandra could read my mind, she said everything I'd said to myself, every doubt I'd ever had about me and Marty. It didn't even occur to me that Sandra was lying.
"It really screwed with my head. Going from thinking Marty was calling to tell me she was pregnant, and already making plans to move back home and do whatever she needed, to hearing that she was done with me. I didn't realize how much I had actually fallen for her, that maybe I'd never gotten over her. I took it pretty hard. I started acting out, getting a real attitude. I bent up a car during practice laps, and Flip pulled me out of that weekend's race, said I couldn't go back out there until he knew I was thinking straight. I felt terrible, I knew the money I had just cost him. So I took a repo job that was a little risky, not exactly 'official' . . . and it paid a whole lot more. But I still wasn't quite on my game, and even though I shook them off for a day or two, the cops eventually caught up with me. And I know you know that story, Hardcase," Mark threw out, remembering how they had discussed that very occurrence that day in the judge's chambers, when Hardcastle had first broached the idea of McCormick being his "fast gun."
"Then I find out from Marty, just today, that she'd tried calling me again, after I'd been arrested. She said she hadn't known that I had called, or what her mother had done. But when she found out I was in jail, I guess the prospect of having me as the father of her kid didn't look so great. And I'm sure her mother was only too willing to convince Marty that I didn't ever need to know she was pregnant. So here we are." McCormick sat back in his chair, feeling strangely empty now that the story seemed to have come full circle.
Both men were silent for a few moments. Hardcastle spoke first, and his words were slightly flustered.
"Do you think – I'm just wondering – if your kid wasn't sick, and if Martina didn't think maybe you were sick, do you –"
"Do I think she ever would have told me I have a kid?" Mark finished. Milt gave a cautious nod. Mark sighed, rubbing his suddenly weary eyes. "I don't know, Judge. I hope she would have. Maybe when Olivia was older, and could have made her own decisions about trying to find me. But I guess it doesn't matter, now." McCormick rose abruptly. "It's late. I'm going over to the gatehouse, to try and get some sleep in a bed."
Hardcastle stood as well, stretching. "Yeah, that's a good idea, kid." He picked up the remote and clicked off the television. When he turned back toward McCormick, the younger man was looking at him with an unusual trepidation. It was an expression Milt hadn't seen from his friend in a long time.
"Thanks for listening, Judge."
Hardcastle waved off the gratitude. "I just wish you would have told me some of this stuff sooner. It doesn't help to keep it all bottled up inside you, so that when it comes out it drives you out of your gourd."
Mark snorted at the expression. "There's a reason I don't like to talk about that stuff – my mother, my uncle. . . I didn't think I'd ever have to tell you."
"Well, I'm glad you did."
McCormick dropped his gaze to the floor, overwhelmed. He'd gotten through both the stories of his uncle's abuse and his mother's death without feeling close to tears, and now these five words from "Hardcase" Hardcastle threatened to do him in. He cleared his throat, and without looking up, turned to leave the den. He'd barely made it up the steps before he returned, coming to grab the envelope of pictures from the table between the chairs. Then, holding the images of his daughter close to his chest, he made his way out to the gatehouse.
"Wouldya sit down? You're making me nervous, pacing like that!"
McCormick glanced at Hardcastle, sitting in one of the chairs opposite Charlie Friedman's desk. He had a fishing magazine open on his lap, and an irritated expression on his face.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Judge. I'll try to not let my impending doom distract you from your reading. You do realize you have that magazine upside-down, don't you?"
Hardcastle looked down quickly at the periodical, which was indeed facing the wrong direction. He turned the magazine around, and then shot Mark a glare. "Cute, McCormick."
"Just proving that you don't need me to make you nervous. You're obviously not reading that." Mark came to drop into the chair next to his friend. "Why should we pretend everything's all right?" he asked in a defeated voice.
"I told you on the way here – you have to stop thinking like that. Last time I checked, neither of us are doctors, and Charlie just might have better news than you think."
McCormick barely acknowledged Hardcastle's encouraging words, and Milt was about to launch into another lecture about the pitfalls of fatalistic thinking, when the door opened.
A lean, grey-haired man in his sixties, Charlie Friedman had one of those pleasant, familiar faces that even made strangers wonder where they had seen him before. Hardcastle and McCormick both turned as the doctor walked into the room, carrying a folder and a blood pressure cuff. Mark stood awkwardly.
Charlie waved at Mark to stop him. "Please, sit, Mark." He next addressed the older man. "Milt, good to see you." Charlie came around to sit at his desk, placing the items down in front of him. He smiled genially at the two men.
Milt leaned forward, not returning the smile. "So what do you got for us, Charlie?"
Mark gave the judge a sideways look at the use of the word "us." He turned his full attention back to the doctor, who was now looking quietly at the medical chart in the folder. Then Charlie raised his head with an amused expression.
"I see you met our resident 'cat,'" he said to Mark.
McCormick stared back blankly, and Charlie chuckled. "Our newest nurse. Tabitha Katt. But she goes by Tabby. Somewhat of an inside joke around here."
Mark grinned, feeling an unusual relief in the humorous situation. "I didn't notice her name," he confessed.
"Well, her name tag just says 'T. Katt,' so you wouldn't have picked up on it. But there's more – you won't believe her middle name."
Mark thought if he found out her middle name was Danielle he'd probably start laughing hysterically. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that didn't make sense, but after the night he'd had, staring up at the ceiling above his bed while a chilling sense of dread forestalled any sleep, he wasn't thinking very clearly.
When McCormick didn't respond to Charlie's hint, Milt picked it up. "Middle name? Don't leave us hanging, Charlie."
"Kitty." At Mark and Milt's disbelieving looks, Charlie began to laugh. "I'm serious. It was her grandmother's name."
Still laughing lightly, Charlie picked up the blood pressure cuff, then rose from his desk to come around to the front, stopping in front of Mark. "I just want to get a quick blood pressure, Mark," he said. "Just stay where you are, this is fine."
This time McCormick had no request over which arm was used, as they were now both bruised, courtesy of Hardcastle's forceful grip during his fit in the garage. He winced at the pressure of the cuff, looking away in the hope that the other two men didn't see the pain in his face. As the clutch of the cuff began to recede, Mark looked back, watching the doctor carefully as he listened to his stethoscope with an emotionless expression. Finally Charlie unwrapped the cuff, then placed the stethoscope back into the pocket of his lab coat.
"Not as bad as yesterday," Charlie said. He went to sit back in his chair, writing down the numbers. But when he looked up from the chart, his face was serious. "It's still higher than I like, though, Mark."
"What was it?" Milt asked, looking between Mark and the doctor. "And what was it yesterday?"
Charlie hesitated, then shook his head lightly. "Obviously, Mark, I'm assuming if Milt is here, I have permission to discuss your medical results in front of him." Hardcastle scoffed, and Mark smiled briefly.
"Yeah, Charlie. No need to kick him out. You can answer."
Charlie nodded. "Mark's blood pressure results yesterday were unusual enough that I wanted to check again. Tabby's written in here that she got readings of 154 over 92, and 150 over 90. Not terribly high, but your blood pressure has always been low before, Mark. I just now got a reading of 146 over 90. Better, but still higher than usual. I'm going to suggest placing you on medication. Untreated high blood pressure can be damaging to your kidneys, and there's already some indication of possible damage."
"Indication?" Mark echoed, his voice hollow. "What –" he swallowed, then started again. "What does that mean?"
The doctor began to read from the chart. "For one thing, you have hematuria – blood in your urine. It's microscopic, but it's not the only indicator. There's a GFR result, which is determined by the amount of creatinine in your blood. Your GFR level is 83. That is crossing the line into Stage 2 kidney disease. You also have a slightly elevated white blood cell count, which could indicate infection, although that could also be attributed to stress." Charlie closed the folder quietly. "These results are not terribly serious individually, but when occurring together, and knowing what caused you to contact me, I believe you should see a nephrologist."
McCormick closed his eyes momentarily, taking a deep breath. He didn't speak. Hardcastle looked anxiously at Charlie.
"Are you saying he has this cyst thing, or something else?
Charlie regarded both men soberly. "This isn't my field, I'm not a specialist. It's unlikely to be diabetes – Mark's glucose levels were in normal parameters, according to the RPG test. But I did do some more research into polycystic kidney disease after speaking with you yesterday, Mark." McCormick moved slightly in his chair, grimacing. Charlie went on. "And after reviewing your results," he tapped the folder, "I consulted with Dr. Wesson, and we have you scheduled for an ultrasound of your kidneys, tomorrow morning."
"Tomorrow?" Mark's voice rose in pitch and volume. At the same time, Milt asked, "Wesson?"
"Emery Wesson. He's a nephrologist who works with our hospital. He's a good man, and a very good doctor. I was able to speak with him this morning about Mark's results and the possible family history, and he thought it would be a good idea to get him in as soon as possible. And I'm inclined to agree." Charlie was writing down a note on a prescription pad. "This is the time and location where you need to go for the ultrasound. If you come in at the main entrance, they'll direct you to Imaging. I may not be there right at the start of your appointment, but I should be there to discuss your results with you and Emery."
The doctor held the note out toward Mark. When McCormick didn't move, Hardcastle reached over to take the paper, folding it to place it in his shirt pocket. The three men were silent for a moment, then Charlie gave a soft sigh. "Mark," he prodded gently.
The young man looked at him with glazed eyes in a white face. "You think I have it," he said dully.
"I think it's a possibility. With your test results, and the symptoms you described to me yesterday, there's no mistaking something's not right. But," he stressed, "even if this is PKD, it is something that can be managed. You will need to make some changes in your lifestyle, most likely your diet and definitely no more risking your health chasing criminals. But I believe the two of you were toning that down anyway, am I correct?" The doctor looked to Milt for confirmation, and the judge gave an affirming nod.
"But it's progressive. There's no cure. Even if I do these things, I'll get worse." Mark stared at the doctor.
Charlie sighed again. "If this is PKD, your symptoms are still mild. Which means you'll have found out early in the game. That gives you a much better chance of slowing the course of the disease to the point that it doesn't adversely affect your life. But these are all things we'll discuss tomorrow, after your appointment. What I can do right now is write you a prescription – I already talked to Dr. Wesson about the best choice of medications to start you on." Friedman was writing on his prescription pad again. "I'm prescribing a diuretic, and a beta blocker called Metoprolol. These are both low doses to start. We'll need to monitor your blood pressure, as well as do regular lab work, to see if anything needs to be adjusted."
McCormick took the papers without looking at them, his hand shaking slightly. "I don't understand this," he said fervently. "I don't even feel sick. Just achy, and tired. What, Marty tells me I'm sick, and all of a sudden I'm sick? Just because she said so? I was fine." He crumpled the papers in his hand unconsciously.
"I don't think you were fine, kiddo," Milt said softly. "I think you were just ignoring the problem. I saw it, you know. I could see you weren't yourself the last couple of weeks. I just wrote it off, figured it was stress from school, or you being out of shape and not used to doing the work around the estate." Milt shook his head sorrowfully. "Or maybe I just didn't want to believe something was wrong. I'm sorry I didn't ask you about it. I guess I dropped the ball there."
McCormick glared at his friend, and some of the color returned to his face. "I thought you said neither of us were doctors, Hardcase. How were you supposed to figure out I was sick if I didn't know?"
Hardcastle glared back, not wanting to be reassured. "Because I'm supposed to make sure you're all right! That's my responsibility!"
Mark laughed harshly. "That hasn't been true for a couple of years, Judge. Or did you forget you're not my P.O. anymore?"
"That's not what I mean."
McCormick had that distressing feeling again, of tears threatening to surface. He looked down at the prescriptions still in his hand, and placing them on his knee, he tried to smooth out the wrinkled papers. The awkward silence stretched, with none of the men sure what to say next.
"Mark, do you have any questions you want to ask me?" Charlie finally said.
Mark shook his head slowly. "No. I need to think. Maybe after I see this Wesson guy tomorrow I'll be more with it, able to ask some questions. I mean, anything I ask now you're just going to defer to him anyway, right?" he challenged the doctor. "You said it yourself, you're not a specialist."
"McCormick – "
Friedman raised a hand, silencing his friend's angry defense. "He's right, Milt. I can offer my educated guesses, and I'd probably be pretty close. But it's better if I wait until we meet with Emery tomorrow. Once you get that ultrasound, Mark, we'll be able see whether there are any cysts on your kidneys, or if there is another problem. Then he and I can come to a more definite diagnosis."
"Okay." Mark stood, and looked expectantly at Hardcastle. "Can we go home now? I didn't get enough sleep last night, and I'm worn out." His weary face and the slumped posture of his body confirmed his words.
Milt and Charlie both rose, and the judge leaned forward to shake the doctor's hand. "Thanks a lot, Charlie," he said. "We appreciate it."
"I just wish I had better news." Charlie looked somberly at McCormick. The young man nodded shortly, turning to the door. Then a sudden thought occurred to him. "Charlie, is it okay for me to drive?" he asked, hope lighting his face.
If anything, Charlie's expression became more somber. "I don't think that would be a good idea until you know how your body reacts to the medications. You could become dizzy, or fatigued and less alert. I recommend you don't drive, at least initially. Hopefully any side effects you experience will be minor, or will pass with time."
The hope disappeared, replaced with a stony resignation. "Well, come on, Kemosabe," Mark said to Hardcastle. "It looks like Tonto will be riding shotgun for a while." He left the office, flinging the door open harder than necessary as he walked through.