Inheritance Tax by InitialLuv

Chapter Twenty-One (In which Mark's ears, guilt, jealously and fear battle for dominance.)

The insomnia was back.

Since he'd been admitted the night before, he'd been more asleep than awake. The tendency to doze off had been annoying, but at least if he was asleep, he wasn't aware of his life being hijacked. And now, after getting the news that he just wanted to forget, sleep wouldn't come. He was wide awake, staring up at the ceiling and trying not to give in to despair.

He wasn't sure how long it had been since the judge and Martina had left. He had heard Martina in the hall after they'd left the room, speaking loudly and angrily, presumably at Hardcastle. The words had been mostly clear. . . Something along the lines of her not wanting to leave him alone. He hadn't heard Hardcastle's reply, which had either been because the judge's voice had been softer (not likely) or because he had moved away down the hall (much more likely). Possibly a half hour after that, a dietary aide had come in to retrieve his mostly uneaten lunch. An annoyingly cheerful nurse came in next, and as she did a blood pressure and temperature check, she scolded him for not eating, practically wagging a finger in his face. She then replaced the bag for his IV, meanwhile chattering about how once the kidney stone had passed and the infection could be handled with an oral antibiotic, the IV could be removed. He'd mumbled his understanding and had promised he'd eat his supper, mainly just to humor her. But after she'd gone, the solitude and the silence of the room had crept up on him, and the tinnitus had kicked in seemingly out of nowhere.

He'd turned on the television and had flipped through the scant channel line-up about three times before giving up on finding anything entertaining. He'd tried sitting in the chair, standing up to stare out the window at his view (the parking lot), and had made another trip to the bathroom. On the way back, he'd half-heartedly explored the room. Other than the pleasant surprise of finding his watch on the table by the phone, the room had held nothing else to warrant his attention. He'd eventually ended up back in the bed. Now, with the ringing in his ears, the dread in the pit of his stomach, and the ever-present ache in his side and back, he wondered if he'd been a little hasty in giving his support system the bum's rush.

A soft knock on the door startled him. For a moment he wavered between being hopeful that Hardcastle or Martina had returned, and being angry that his request for privacy wasn't being respected. And then a young girl with curly hair poked her head in the door.

"Can I come in?"

Mark hesitated only a moment before answering. "Y-yeah." He watched as his daughter warily entered the room, to stand stiffly behind the chair.

"Hi."

"Hi," he returned. "You came back."

She rolled her eyes at the obvious statement. "My grandma brought me back."

He nodded quietly, swallowed, and then the words came spilling out. "Olivia, I'm so sorry I yelled at you. I didn't mean to make you upset."

She gave him a half-smile. "It's okay."

"No, no it's not," Mark said vehemently. "I wasn't even mad at – I mean, I didn't mean to yell at – "

"I understand," Olivia reassured him. "My mom explained it. Really, it's okay."

Mark quieted, but still looked guilt-ridden. Olivia came around to sit in the chair, and McCormick was able to see she was wearing two different colored high-tops – one blue and one yellow. Fairly certain she hadn't been wearing mismatched shoes earlier that morning, he peered at her feet, curious. Seeing the direction of his gaze, she quickly lifted one leg under her and sat upon it, hiding one offending shoe. He quirked his eyebrows at her.

"I did it on purpose," she defended.

"Good – I thought maybe you were color-blind."

Olivia exhaled impatiently. "It's a fashion statement."

"It's some kind of statement." Mark grinned, but it was weak and didn't last long. Olivia noticed the sudden change in mood, and was reminded of why she was there.

"My mom said you got your ultrasound results."

McCormick turned away with a sigh. "Great. They sent you in as the mouthpiece."

"The. . . what?"

"You're smart. Figure it out."

There was no response to his terse comment. Mark turned back to see Olivia staring at him impassively. He was pretty sure she had grasped the term.

The two of them looked at each other silently. Olivia broke the eye contact first, cutting her eyes to the side as she shook her head in irritation. "You're not making this easy."

"Making what easy?" he grumbled.

She didn't answer directly. "You know, they just want to help. I want to help. I kinda know where you're at right now, feeling overwhelmed and scared –"

"I'm not scared."

Olivia gave him a dubious look. "Not scared," Mark repeated, "I'm. . . 'unsettled.'"

Olivia seemed to accept that as enough of an admission. "Well, I was pretty 'unsettled.' I've been seeing a therapist. It really helps to talk to someone, to be able to be honest and not have to worry about other people getting upset. I can tell her things I can't tell my mom or grandma. They wouldn't understand." The girl was quiet for a moment, then said in a soft voice, "You'd probably understand."

"Try me."

Olivia shifted in the chair, swapping legs so she was now sitting on the blue shoe, with the foot clad in the yellow Converse dangling. She started twirling a loose curl around her finger. Her next words were not what McCormick was expecting.

"You first," she directed.

Mark leaned back against the pillows, exhaling quietly. "There's nothing to tell," he said.

This time it wasn't just a dubious look, it was also a snort. "Okay, you don't want to talk to me, either, huh? I get it. Maybe it would be easier for you to talk to a therapist, too –"

"A shrink? I don't think so."

"A therapist. "

"Po-tay-to po-tah-to." McCormick was again looking at the ceiling. He heard Olivia make a frustrated noise. She followed that with, "Boy, you're in a bad mood."

"I think I've got a right to be in a bad mood! You don't have to stay if you don't like it!"

Olivia sat back farther in the chair, her eyes wide.

I did it again. Yelled at her for no reason. This time he was able to apologize immediately. "Oh, God, Olivia, I didn't mean that. I'm sorry. I keep taking this out on you." He smiled sheepishly. "Usually it's Hardcastle who gets the brunt of this."

Olivia nodded. "And what does he do when you yell at him?"

"Tells me to calm down and knock it off. Or yells back. It depends." McCormick studied the girl in the chair. "So, which one do you think I need right now? Your pick."

Olivia shifted in the chair again, pulling her leg out and placing both of her feet on the floor. She stood, faced her father, and began to vent.

"I think you're being stupid!" she began. "Everybody is worried about you, and wants to help you, and you push us all away! How is that supposed to help? You think if you don't talk about this, it'll go away? It won't! It'll never go away! You have to talk to the doctor, and listen to him, and do what he says! Because I just found you, and I'm not gonna lose you because you're too stubborn to take care of yourself!" Finished, she dropped down in the chair and crossed her arms in a determined pose. Then, as an afterthought, she added, "Oh – and knock it off and calm down."

Mark stared, speechless. It took a moment before he could gather himself, exhale, and respond.

"I'm scared."

She smiled gently. "I know. I am too."

Mark closed his eyes for a moment. "And I don't know what scares me more – what's gonna happen to me, or what could happen to you." He opened his eyes to look despondently at his daughter.

She shrugged. "It's kinda the same thing. I mean, we have the same thing, the same diagnosis. I'm feeling pretty okay right now. When you get out of here, and take your pills and follow the diet and stuff, you'll probably feel fine, too. Well, better," she amended.

"Yeah, but for how long? How long until the next infection, or kidney stone, or something? How long until – " He broke off, not sure how to phrase his fears. And I'm just going by what I remember Marty saying a few days ago. What she said about the progression, the complications . . . Cysts in the liver, the pancreas. The possibility of a brain aneurysm –

"I know," Olivia said again. "But just because those things could happen, doesn't mean they will."

Mark shook his head. "You don't deserve this," he said grimly. "Me, I get, but you're a kid. What could you have done to deserve this?"

Olivia moved to the edge of the chair, closer to the bed. "What do you mean? Do you think you deserve this?" When Mark didn't answer, only looking away, she continued. "What, like some kind of punishment?"

"Penance." McCormick lifted his hand to his chest, to touch the medallion that rested there.

Olivia took a shaky breath. "What could you have done that was so bad that you think you deserve this?"

Mark lowered his hand, and looked wearily at his daughter. "When I yelled at you earlier – this morning – I didn't mean to yell, but I meant what I said. There are some things you don't need to know, not yet. Things your mother doesn't even know, at least I think she doesn't." How much did that private eye find out, anyway? But no, Marty seemed like she didn't really know that much about Hardcastle, so she probably doesn't know about Weed Randall. Possibly. Hopefully.

An alarming thought occurred to McCormick – Sandra. She knew things about him that Martina didn't. How? Why?

"Your grandmother's a wild card, though," he found himself continuing. "She's got some kind of an inside track on me. Don't ask me why." He scowled, then muttered, "I wouldn't be surprised if she had a running tally on how many times I didn't wash my hands after going to the bathroom."

Olivia leaned back, startled, and then began to laugh. McCormick realized it was the first time he'd heard her laugh, and he felt his heart swell.

"That was funny," Olivia said, still giggling. "You're kinda funny."

Mark grinned. "You should hear me when I really get started."

Olivia smiled back, and then looked thoughtful. "Kurt was funny, too."

Mark's grin faded. "Kurt. Who's Kurt?"

Olivia's face had also become sober. "Um, my mom's old boyfriend. He was a teacher, too. A French teacher at the middle school."

"A French teacher." Suddenly Martina's easy recollection of "le mot juste" made more sense. "How long was he her boyfriend?"

"Um . . . about a year. I think."

A year?

"When was this?" He didn't know why this was bothering him so much. He and Kathy had dated seriously, and if she hadn't taken that job in Chicago, well, who knows where their relationship might've gone. And hadn't he just thought, a few days ago, that he didn't begrudge Martina moving on with her life as well?

That was before I knew we had a kid together.

Olivia was looking nervous, as if she had just understood why Mark had been unwilling to tell her certain things about his past. "They were still together until about last June, I guess. They were sort of serious, but then he left."

"He took off on her?" McCormick's tone was slightly hopeful.

"No." Olivia gave Mark a hard look. "He took a job in another district. At a high school. . . He said they had a bigger foreign language department, and he was also going to be an assistant football coach. After he left, Mom was really sad for a while." She shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, but her delivery of the details made Mark feel like Olivia might've had as much invested in the man as Martina had.

Olivia went on, and confirmed his guess. "He was nice. All three of us did things together, went places. Sometimes people thought he was my dad, and that was nice, too. I didn't always tell them he wasn't." She looked up, her face flushed with guilt. "I thought you were dead, you know."

"Not my fault. That was your grandmother's doing."

"She liked Kurt."

"Now why does that not surprise me?" McCormick huffed. "Probably because he was nothing like me."

"No. . . " Olivia hedged. "He was actually kinda like you. I mean, he was funny, and nice, and he even looked a little like you." At Mark's bemused expression, she clarified, "He had curly hair. I think that's why some people thought he might have been my dad."

Mark didn't know how to respond to that, so he remained quiet, with a slightly grumpy look on his face. Olivia fell mute as well, and a tense silence settled. After a few moments, McCormick shook his head and then repositioned on the bed, moving over to the left side and sitting sideways. He patted the open space now on his right, and gestured at Olivia. "C'mere."

Olivia rose slowly, then perched on the edge of the bed. Mark looked at her fixedly. "Okay. Ask me one question. I'll try to answer the best I can."

It was only seconds before Olivia spoke. "How long are you staying? I mean, when you get out of here, how long will you stay in New York?"

"Oh. . . You don't pull any punches, do you?" Mark lifted his eyes up to the ceiling. When he looked back, Olivia was watching him expectantly. He sighed, suddenly tired.

"I don't know, kiddo. I'm just trying to get through the next couple of days. I guess it depends on what the doctors say – they probably won't want me flying back right away. It's a long trip." Mark realized that wasn't much of an answer, and he shrugged apologetically. "I gotta talk to your mom, and I guess your grandma, and figure out where I fit in all of this."

"You're my father. I'm your daughter. That's where you fit."

Mark smiled, and she mirrored the expression, although her face soon grew serious. "You know what would make me happy?" she asked.

"Matching shoes?"

Olivia tried to look indignant, but giggling soon took over. "Stop that!" she commanded, and McCormick obliged, miming zipping his lips. Olivia attempted to regain her earlier seriousness. "What would make me happy," she said again, "is if you could stay in New York until at least the nineteenth."

"What's today?" Mark looked at the dry erase board at the front of the room, where the on-duty nurses wrote their names and the date. "The tenth. Okay, yeah, I think I can swing staying until the nineteenth." He turned back to Olivia with an inquisitive look. "Why?"

"That's Father's Day."

He was rendered speechless again, and all he could do was grin.