Inheritance Tax by InitialLuv

Chapter Sixteen (In which questions are answered, and temperatures rise.)

Olivia Rivera stood riveted, pinned by her father's candid smile.

My father. This man, this Mark McCormick, was her father.

Okay, I kinda already knew that, Grandma gave me that news article when I was a little kid. She'd looked at it so often, staring at the young man with the dimpled grin and the curly hair, that she knew the brief article by heart. She could repeat it by memory, and there were times when she had. When she'd had a fight with her mother, when there had been a father-daughter event at school, when she'd felt utterly alone. Then Olivia would retreat to her room and close the door, turn her music on loud, and take the clipping out of the envelope. She would lie on her bed and close her eyes and speak the words quietly.

"McCormick, protégé of Johnny 'Flip' Johnson, took his first checkered flag on Sunday. After placing second in the preliminary heat, McCormick earned a prime position in the sprints feature, and never looked back."

And then she'd stare at the picture, wishing that things could have been different. That she had a real flesh-and-blood father, not just one that existed in a newspaper clipping.

But now that he was before her, actually there, able to be touched, she could only think of one thing.

"Where were you?" she burst out, hitching back a sob.

The warm smile was replaced by an apprehensive frown. Mark - Dad - looked quickly at her mother, and then lowered his eyes with a soft exhale. There was a moment of silence so thick, Olivia felt like she couldn't breathe.

"He didn't know about you."

Mark looked up. His frown had cleared, but the apprehension was still present.

Olivia turned her head, looking quizzically at her mother. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice still trembling.

"I didn't tell him I was pregnant. He didn't know." Martina's voice was soft, and she moved toward her daughter, reaching out to touch her shoulder. Olivia flinched from the touch, and backed away, moving closer to Mark.

"I don't understand. Why wouldn't you tell him?"

This time her mother dropped her head, avoiding her daughter's eyes. Olivia looked from her mother to Mark, and was startled to see that he was glaring acidly at her grandmother.

"Why don't you ask her why I didn't know about you."

Sandra was returning Mark's glare with a practical, unapologetic gaze. Olivia swiveled her head between the two, bewildered by Mark's open hostility.

"Grandma?"

Sandra broke her gaze with Mark to take a long look at her granddaughter. Finally the older woman shook her head with a resigned sigh. "If we're going to discuss this, I think we'd better go sit down."

Mark spoke from where he was still seated on the bed. "I'm already sitting down." He took quiet satisfaction in Sandra's annoyed expression.

In a heartbeat, Olivia was sitting on the bed next to him. She crossed her arms, lifted her chin defiantly, and said, "So am I."

McCormick gaped at the girl in wonder. She smiled back in solidarity, and Mark felt a foolish grin spread across his face.

"This isn't what I meant. . . " Sandra looked to her daughter for support. Martina shrugged, pulled out the chair from Olivia's desk, and sat down.

"Guess you'd better grab a chair, Mom."

ooOoo

Once all four were seated – Sandra still near the doorway, but now occupying a chair from the kitchen – a feeling of tension settled over the group. Olivia shifted restlessly and started to play with her hair. "Honey," Martina said in a warning tone. "Stop that. Pretty soon all you'll have are tangles, and we'll have to cut it all off."

"Don't you dare." McCormick spoke the words with a low ferocity that he had a hard time understanding.

"She's not serious." Olivia rolled her eyes, but she pulled her hand away from her hair and placed it primly in her lap.

Sandra cleared her throat, and waited until three faces were turned her way. Nodding shortly, she addressed her granddaughter.

"Olivia, it would make sense that you have the most questions – "

"I have a few," McCormick interrupted. When Sandra and Martina both seemed unhappy with his comment, he ducked his head in apology. "Sorry. Go on."

Sandra continued. "Olivia, we'll tell you whatever you need to know."

McCormick had to stifle a snort. "Need" to know versus "want" to know. He wondered if Olivia had picked up on the syntax.

Olivia sat quietly for a few moments, studying her untied shoes. When she raised her head, she first looked at her mother, and then at the man seated next to her.

"Were you two in love?"

Mark blinked. He opened his mouth, closed it, and took a breath. When he shot a quick glance at Martina, he saw that she was as dumbstruck as he was.

"Are you sure that's what you want to start with?" McCormick asked, attempting a smile that ended up feeling somewhat wooden. "I mean, I don't know . . . Why not ask something easy, like how old I am?"

Olivia studied him soberly. Her eyes traveled from his face to his clothing – a long-sleeved Henley-style tee shirt, khakis, and his newest Nikes. Then the girl was gazing at his face again. Mark fidgeted slightly, trying to retain the smile.

Finally, Olivia nodded to herself. "Thirty-four," she concluded.

Mark's smile faded. "What? Well, not yet. Not for another few weeks." He could hear Martina laughing quietly, and he gave her a withering look. "Do you want to answer her question first?" he offered.

The laughing stopped rather quickly. "You can go first – I'm actually a little curious about your answer myself," Martina admitted.

McCormick sighed deeply, trying to relax. The room was so quiet he could hear the soft buzz of cicadas outside. Little early in the summer for them out here, he thought absentmindedly.

"Okay." Mark took another deep breath. "In love." He looked sidelong at Olivia. "We were young. Not as young as you, but young." He smiled wistfully. "I don't think we thought of what we had in those terms. But it was more than friends. It was . . . more. I don't really know how to explain it. Your mother meant a lot to me. She was the first person I was serious about. Well, as serious as you can get at fifteen." Mark turned to Martina, and was momentarily startled to see her gazing at him with tears in her eyes. Martina crossed the back of her hand over her eyes, gave herself a little shake, and then smiled at him encouragingly.

Mark went on, slowly. "And even when we were apart. . . It was like I was still kinda linked to her. Anyone I dated after your mom, I sort of compared them to her. I held her up as some kind of test –"

"A litmus test?" Olivia provided.

McCormick grinned. "Yeah, okay. Although that wasn't really fair to your mom, or to the other girls I dated. To make them have to live up to whatever idea I had in my head of what your mom had meant to me. I think I let my imagination get away with me a little, made things more romantic than they were." He looked at Martina again, and addressed her. "But you have to understand, what you did for me – you were probably the best thing that could have happened to me back then. I don't know what I would've done if I hadn't gone to you after – After." He avoided mentioning his mother's death, both because it was still so difficult, and also because he wasn't ready to get into that subject with Olivia.

Olivia was listening pensively. When she realized Mark had finished, she cocked her head at her mother.

"Mom?"

Martina smiled sadly. "Mark's right – we were young. But we connected. And there was love there." She paused, and when Mark looked at her, she met his eyes. "It was why I hoped to find you, when I saw your uncle's obituary. I hated how things had gone the last time we saw each other, and knowing you might be so close. . . I just needed to see you. Long-distance cards and flowers couldn't say what needed to be said."

Sandra made a sudden huffing noise. Martina looked at her, distracted. "What, Mom?"

The older woman waved a hand dismissively. "Nothing. I was just wondering exactly how much talking happened during that 'reunion'."

McCormick felt heated anger spreading through him, and his body tensed as his senses seemed to heighten. The cicadas were louder. The hair on his arms tingled. He could feel the hum of the air conditioning through his feet.

"What does that matter?" he said. "We were adults. And I don't think you're entirely disappointed by the result." He indicated Olivia. "The only thing you were disappointed in was that I'm her father, and you did a pretty good job of keeping that quiet for ten years!" Mark's voice had become rough and loud.

"Mark, calm down," Martina begged.

McCormick glared at her. "Why? Why should I put up with this?"

"She gave her that article," Martina pointed out. "She did tell her about you. Olivia knew about you."

"Yeah, but she told me he was dead."

Mark's face, previously reddened in anger, now blanched in shock. "She what?"

Olivia gave her father an embarrassed half-shrug. "She told me you died. In a crash, in one of your races." The girl turned to Martina. "That's why I never showed you that article. Grandma told me not to – she said that if I showed it to you, or talked to you about Mark, you'd be sad."

Mark stared at Sandra. "You killed me off," he said in quiet disbelief.

Sandra refused to look his way. She grimaced slightly.

"I can't believe this." McCormick rose from the bed, and had to drop his head briefly to wait out a short dizzy spell. I thought I was done with those. He then began to pace, and continued to rant at Sandra. "Just when I think you've done something decent, when I think that maybe I've been wrong about you, you pull the rug out from under me. And I don't get it. I just don't get why you hate me so much."

"I don't hate you, Mark. I never hated you."

"You could've fooled me." McCormick stopped pacing to face the older woman. "You never gave me a chance. Not from the start. Thank God Marty wasn't like that."

"Martina wasn't thinking clearly," Sandra said. Martina inhaled, ready to respond, but her mother pressed on. "I could see the path you were on, and I didn't want her to be dragged along with you. I didn't think it was fair for her to have to pay for your mistakes."

"What mistakes? What had I done at that point?" Mark questioned hotly. "You were just waiting for me to screw up, so you had some reason to get rid of me. You were probably thrilled when I hit that guy in the hospital. Just like you were relieved when I got arrested, so you could convince Marty to not tell me she was pregnant."

"I wasn't 'relieved'," Sandra hedged. "I wasn't surprised. After everything that happened when you were young – stealing the car, juvenile hall, not being able to follow rules in the foster homes –"

"How do you know all of that?" McCormick felt a slight wave of dizziness return. "Were you keeping track of me? Why?"

"What's going on?" Olivia asked plaintively. When Mark turned at her voice, he saw she was also standing, and was now looking his way with barely restrained tears. Mark tried to think of a response, but his head felt muddled and confused. Before he could sort through the haze, Martina and Sandra were both approaching the girl to console her.

"Olivia, settle down," Sandra said, while Martina placed her hands on the young girl's shoulders. "Why don't you sit down again, honey," Martina requested, soft but firm.

"I'm not gonna get sick again just because I'm upset. Leave me alone!" Olivia brushed off her mother's hands. "I just want to know what's going on. You said I could ask questions. I don't understand any of this. Grandma, why do you and Mark –" Olivia shifted her gaze from her grandmother to her father, and suddenly changed her questioning. "What's wrong?" she cried out.

Martina and Sandra turned simultaneously, to see that Mark was seated in the chair by the doorway, his head in his hands. He was breathing erratically and in obvious pain.

Martina was at his side as quickly as she had previously attended to her daughter. "Mark. Mark? What is it?" When the only response she received was a curt shake of his head, she knelt before him and took his hands down, so she could see his face. Martina touched his cheek gently, and then drew back to look at her mother in concern. "Mom, he's burning up. Something's wrong."

Mark shook his head again. "I'm okay," he rasped. "Just tired. Jet lag."

"Jet lag doesn't give you a fever. Why can't you just admit you're sick, Mark?" Martina asked in frustration.

Olivia came up slowly to stand behind her mother. "He's sick. He has what I have," she said bluntly.

Martina turned briefly to look at her daughter in surprise. Olivia returned the look with an irritated expression of impatience. "I know it's inherited. And you're not sick. I'm not stupid, I knew I must have gotten it from my father. I just didn't know my father was alive."

Sandra was approaching the trio with a thermometer she had retrieved from the bathroom. "Mark. Let me get your temperature."

McCormick pushed her away weakly. "Stop it. What's the hell with those cicadas? You got some kind of swarm out there?"

Sandra cut her eyes to her daughter, then attempted the thermometer again. Mark finally gave in, too exhausted to continue his protests. Martina touched her mother on the shoulder. "Cicadas?" she repeated quietly. "What is he talking about?"

Sandra kept her voice pitched low as well. "It could be tinnitus. Or maybe he's confused by the fever. I don't know."

Olivia watched as the two women hovered over Mark. After a few moments she asked, "What's tinnitus?"

"Ringing in the ears," Sandra answered distractedly. She retrieved the thermometer and read the results with an ease that came from much practice. McCormick was sitting rigid in the chair, staring ahead with unfocused eyes. He lifted his hands and pressed them against his ears, released them, and then repeated the movement.

Sandra bent closer to him. "Mark, where does it hurt? Where's the worst of the pain?"

It was a moment before Mark answered, and the older woman was unsure if it was because he was hesitant to reply truthfully, or if he was having a hard time comprehending the question. Finally he confessed, "Mostly my lower back. Aspirin usually helps. I just need the bottle from my backpack."

Sandra had seen Mark's things earlier, when she had gotten the kitchen chair. She now beckoned to her granddaughter. "Go grab his backpack, please. It's in the kitchen." Olivia quickly left the room, eager to help. Once she was gone, Sandra backed away from Mark, and spoke softly to Martina. "His temperature's 102.5. I can't be positive, but he might have an infection."

Olivia rushed back into the room, carrying the canvas backpack. Mark reached for it, but before he could grasp it Sandra had taken it from Olivia's hands. She opened it and began to explore the contents. "Hey!" McCormick groused, again reaching for the backpack. Sandra ignored him, and soon had three pill bottles in her hands. She read the prescription bottles quickly, and then held up the half-empty bottle of aspirin. "How much of this have you been taking?" she asked, looking hard at Mark.

He looked away. "Just what I needed."

"Does your doctor or pharmacist know that?"

McCormick shrugged noncommittally.

Sandra straightened her shoulders and nodded decisively. "Well, we'll take these with us. They'll need to know what medications you've been taking."

"What are you talking about?" Mark looked up anxiously.

"I'm taking you to the emergency room," Sandra answered, and before Mark could attempt a protest, she held up a stern hand. "You have a fever of close to 103, you're apparently in a good deal of pain, and probably have been for a while. Not to mention you look miserable. You can blame it on jet lag or stress or whatever else you want to use as an excuse, but I think we both know what's really going on. You're going to see a doctor. No argument."

McCormick glared back. He was ready to deliver an obstinate retort when he was suddenly aware of a tight grip on his right hand. He looked down to see that Olivia was grasping his hand in both of hers.

"Please?" she said. "Please listen to her." She gave him a look that Mark could only describe as "puppy-dog eyes." What is that goofy saying? Holstered by my own leotard? No . . . that's not right. Yeah, you're out of it, McCormick.

"Okay," he relented, "I'll go." And any lingering aversion he had at conceding to Sandra was extinguished by the absolute relief on his daughter's face.

The siren, most likely attached to an ambulance, was what woke him.

Distant at first, it rose in volume until it sounded like it was right outside the window. He opened his eyes and blearily gazed in that direction. He saw it was almost light outside. What time is it? He knew it had probably only been a few hours since the nurse was last in to check his temperature and blood pressure and to generally annoy him, but when had that been? He tried to lift his arm to look at his watch, but the IV attached to his arm pulled painfully.

Well, at least the pain in his back had subsided some since he'd been admitted the last evening. He supposed he had the medicine in the IV to thank for that. Although he still felt feverish and wrung out, and the hateful cicadas were still there. He lifted his right arm and pressed his ears shut, one at a time. The high-pitched whining buzz persisted. "Damn it," he muttered, closing his eyes and sinking back into the pillow.

"You awake, kiddo?"

Mark McCormick opened his eyes again, and turned toward the voice. Milton C. Hardcastle was seated in a chair near the foot of his hospital bed.