Inheritance Tax by InitialLuv

Chapter Twenty-Three (In which Mark is pensive and Hardcastle is defensive, and an invitation is accepted.)

When Dr. Shire had exited Mark's room, Milt hadn't made any effort at courtesy, as he had earlier with Lorenzo. Hardcastle had moved away from where he'd been leaning against the heating register, but not to follow the doctor to the door – instead, the judge had come nearer to Mark's bed, to sit in the chair Dr. Shire had recently vacated. Once back in his familiar seat, Hardcastle was able to look more closely at his friend.

The younger man was sitting very quietly, staring straight ahead. His right hand grasped the papers that Dr. Shire had left, while his left hand tapped repeatedly on the bed. Other than that small, continuous movement, McCormick was unnaturally still.

"McCormick."

The hand stopped tapping. Mark looked up, startled. "What?"

Milt pulled the chair even nearer to the bed. "Are you okay?"

Mark shook his head slightly. "You heard the guy, Hardcastle. I'm pretty much not okay." He waved the papers clutched in his hand.

Milt took in a breath. "What I heard," he replied sternly, "is that you're in the early stages. 'Minor cystic formation,' the doc said. I also heard that you can slow down the progression by taking care of yourself, and maybe not doing anything stupid." Here the judge waved around the room, in a gesture that was meant to include the ill-advised plane trip that had eventually landed Mark in the hospital. "If you really listened to what Shire had to say, instead of just assuming the worst, you'd see that things aren't so hopeless after all."

"Says the guy who's not sick."

Hardcastle leaned closer to Mark. "I want you to tell me something, and think before you answer it. Don't just give me some wise-ass comment."

McCormick eyed the judge suspiciously. After a moment he silently nodded his assent.

"How do you feel right now? I don't mean mentally, I mean physically. Tell me the truth."

It was nearly a minute before Mark responded. He sank back against the pillows and closed his eyes. When he spoke, the words that came out were slow and careful.

"I – I don't feel. . . terrible. Tired. But I feel better than I've actually felt in a while." Mark opened his eyes, and the look on his face was annoyed bewilderment. "I don't get it. I mean, I was feeling crappy for a week or more before Marty even showed up, but I just ignored it. I thought it would pass. I'd figured it wasn't a big deal. You know, like you did." When Hardcastle shifted his eyes guiltily, McCormick was quick to continue. "I don't mean anything by that, Judge – it's just I think we both kind of decided it was nothing serious. Just stress from finals or a bug or something. Even when I noticed the bruises and I started feeling more sick, I still wrote it off." Mark's expression was rueful. "When Marty showed up and all of a sudden I was worse, I think it was almost – what's it called? Psycho – "

"Yeah, psycho is right," Hardcastle broke in, grinning.

"Shut up," Mark said, trying to restrain his own grin. "No, it means when you feel something physically because of how you feel mentally. Somatic! That's it – psychosomatic. I think when Marty threw all that news at me, and I didn't know how to handle it, or how to handle all the memories that came up . . . Then it was like I couldn't ignore how bad I'd been feeling. I didn't have the energy left to pretend I was okay." McCormick shrugged. "I don't know if that's right, if I'm describing it right." He paused again, shaking his head. "So how is it I find out I've got PKD, and I don't really feel that sick? I'm just confused." He looked despairingly at the informative paperwork Dr. Shire had left. "I can't really absorb this right now. I wish . . . You know, I think I would feel a lot better with Charlie handling this. Or even that Wesson guy – if Charlie recommended him, he'd have to be good, right?" McCormick gave the judge a hopeful look.

Hardcastle sat up a little straighter in the chair. "I think the docs here are . . . fine, McCormick," he said haltingly. "I mean, I like that guy Lorenzo – you talked to him again when I was gone, what did you think?"

"He was okay," Mark said. "I guess he was pretty encouraging when I told him I'd talk to Shire." A slight grin lit the man's face. "And he told me what the 'M' on his jacket was for. His first name's Marco. So he can't be all bad, right?"

"I guess the only thing better would be if the 'M' stood for Milt," Hardcastle teased.

"I don't know about Shire, though," McCormick continued, and now the grin had been replaced with a frown. "He just seems – removed. Like he thinks a few sheets of paper are enough to let me know what I'm in for."

The judge had gotten a similar impression of the man. Dr. Shire had finally entered Mark's room over an hour after Milt himself had arrived, and then had remained only fifteen minutes, which was roughly the amount of time it took to discuss the details of Mark's ultrasound. Granted, Shire had asked both Hardcastle and McCormick if they had any questions, and the kid had clammed up, which left Milt as the only one whose concerns could prolong the doctor's stay. But the question Hardcastle had really wanted to ask – would the kid's health decline to a point where dialysis or a kidney transplant might be necessary – wasn't something he could bring himself to speak aloud. So both men had silently shaken their heads, and it wasn't much longer before the doctor had excused himself, with a comment about needing to see another patient.

"Well, kiddo, he probably wanted to give you some time. He knows it's going to take you a while to process it all," Milt said. "The information in those papers is more general, anyway. Didn't you listen to anything the guy said?" The judge scowled in mild annoyance. "Anyone who has this PKD is going to handle it different. It depends on age, and if the person has any other health issues, and how they change things, like their diet. I think what that means is it's up to you how 'sick' you really are." The judge reached to take the papers from McCormick. "I bet the doc figured we'd need to go through these, and see what we have questions about, for the next time he sees you. Maybe we should make some notes. I suppose if you're gonna be stuck here until that stone passes, we'd better make some use of the time."

Mark stared at the judge guardedly, without speaking. Hardcastle held the look, raising his eyebrows.

"What are you getting at, Hardcase?"

"What? Whaddaya mean?" Milt replied innocently.

"All of a sudden you're a big supporter of these doctors. You told me you were ready to call rank on them when you first got here because they wouldn't tell you anything or let you in my room in the middle of the night. And now it's all, 'They know what's best, McCormick.'" Mark's voice had deepened to a Hardcastle-ish growl. "'Gotta do what the doctors say, McCormick.'"

"Is that such bad advice?"

Mark opened his mouth to quickly respond, then closed it again. "No," he finally admitted. "It's just. . . I don't know." He sighed heavily.

"Shire is your kid's kidney doctor too, you know. I think if Martina or her mother didn't like him, they'd have said something."

"Yeah. You're right." McCormick conceded, his voice low and weary. Then he surprised Hardcastle by smiling. "Y'know, I knew there was a reason why I wanted you to come back here. Between you an' Livvie harping at me, I think I'm startin' to see what a whiny dope I'm bein'."

"What did you – 'Livvie'?"

"Hmm?" Mark blinked, looking at Hardcastle's amused grin. "Wha'?" It was obvious from his expression and his faltering speech that sleep was in the offing.

"Nothing, kid." Milt set aside the papers that Shire had left – he had a feeling McCormick wouldn't be in any condition to go through the information in them until he'd had another nap. The judge reached for the bed control, lowering the head of the bed so that Mark was no longer in a sitting position. The younger man jerked slightly at the unexpected motion. "Whaddaya doin'?"

"Quiet." Hardcastle reached up to turn off the light over the kid's bed. "Just don't sleep through supper, okay? You'll never get out of here if you don't start eating."

"What letter you think it'll be?" Mark perked up slightly. "Since it's Friday, maybe 'F' for fish?"

"Sure, maybe." Milt played along. "Flounder, or flatfish. A nice fried filet."

When Mark finally gave in to sleep, there was still a shadow of a grin of his face.

ooOoo

Hardcastle had barely left McCormick when a younger but just as curly-haired individual was in his path. "What happened?" Olivia demanded. "What did Dr. Shire say?"

Martina was following her daughter, irritated. "Olivia, you are really trying my patience." The woman looked guiltily at Hardcastle. "I'm sorry for the ambush, Milt – she's been pacing the waiting room and she took off as soon as she saw you in the hallway."

Milt nodded, smiling at the girl. "Don't worry about it. I can try to tell you what the doctor said, but I don't know exactly how much I'll get right. I mean, you know more about this stuff than either of us, although I think I'm getting the gist." Milt tilted his head back toward McCormick's room, and then addressed Martina. "Shire gave him some info. I left the papers in there. I'm hoping maybe Mark will look at them in a little better frame of mind when he wakes up."

"He's asleep again?" Olivia whined, agitated. It was hard to tell if the reaction was more of concern or annoyance. Martina placed a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Honey, calm down."

Olivia shook off the hand, jerking away. Martina persisted, now taking both shoulders and turning her daughter around to face her. "Mark's recovering from a bad infection. You know what it feels like to be sick that way – you've been in his place more than once, and not that long ago. And it's not just that he's ill . . . The last few days have been rough for him. He needs to rest, and you need to settle down."

"Not my fault he's had a bad coupla days," Olivia muttered. "I'm not the one that flew to California on Tuesday to tell him he's got a daughter and a progressive kidney disease."

Martina dropped her hands from her daughter's shoulders, looking stung. Olivia stared at the floor, but did not give any indication that she was ready to apologize for her tactless, if essentially true, words.

Hardcastle wasn't sure what to say to end the awkward moment. He silently wished he had McCormick's gift for humorous asides. The judge settled for clearing his throat, and both mother and daughter looked at him expectantly. He smiled wanly, idly checked his watch, and then brought up the only thing he could think of.

"It'll be getting on near suppertime soon. You know any place nearby where I can get something decent? I'm not really looking forward to more cafeteria food."

Olivia's face had changed in an instant. The gloominess disappeared as hope and a kind of excitement took over. "You should come to our house. My grandma's making vegetable lasagna for supper. It's actually really good. And she always makes too much."

Milt's gaze lifted from the girl to her mother. Martina's expression was surprised, but when she spoke, she seemed sincere. "I know it's probably not what you meant, Milt, but we'd be happy to have you come for supper."

Hardcastle considered the girl's spontaneous invitation. He wondered if Olivia had ulterior motives. It was possible she was hoping for a continuation of their earlier interrupted conversation. Typically he wouldn't think a nine-year-old girl could have devised a hidden agenda that quickly, but then again, this was McCormick's nine-year-old girl.

Well, you wanted to get to know the kid better. She's giving you an in; might as well take it.

"Vegetable lasagna sounds great," he lied.

ooOoo

From the moment Hardcastle had accepted the invitation to supper, Olivia had burst into an almost non-stop patter. From the hallway to the elevator, from the hospital exit to the parking area, from the side streets to the interstate, the girl chattered. Any and all topics were fair game: familiar landscapes were pointed out and described, plans for the upcoming weekend were discussed, a favorite song on the car stereo was appreciated ("Broken Wings" by somebody called Mr. Mister). The only time Olivia took a breath was when, after again asking about her father's visit with Dr. Shire, the girl waited anxiously for the judge to report. Hardcastle tried his best to sound encouraging as he shared what the doctor had said, making sure to repeat the terms "early stages" and "mild."

Apparently Milt's summary passed muster, at least for the time being. Olivia was off and running again in less than a minute. Sitting in the rear seat next to the girl, Hardcastle nodded absently from time to time when it seemed appropriate. He was lost in his own thoughts, wondering if he really felt as optimistic about McCormick's prognosis as he had led Olivia to believe. As he looked distractedly at the scenery, he heard the young girl's voice almost as white noise.

Familiar white noise.

Milt turned to Olivia, looking directly at her. Not waiting for her to pause in her current spiel, he said, "You know, you don't have to try so hard."

Olivia broke off, lowering her eyebrows. "What? What do you – I don't – I'm not –"

"You just sound a little worked up. Like maybe you're nervous about something."

Olivia leaned back, fiddling with her seat belt. "I'm not nervous," she said defensively. All of the previous gregarious jabber had faded. "I just. . ." She glanced up at the rear-view mirror. Hardcastle followed Olivia's gaze, and saw that Martina was watching them both in the reflection. When Martina realized she'd been caught, she quickly directed her eyes back to the road.

"You just what?" Milt prompted.

Olivia let out a soft, but heartfelt "Shoot!" before confirming, "Okay. I'm just a little nervous."

"About what?"

Now Olivia was twirling her hair around her fingers. "About you. Meeting my grandmother."

"Ah." The judge smiled to himself. "Well. . . " He waited until was sure the girl was facing him, "Can I tell you something?" Hardcastle asked cautiously.

Olivia nodded immediately, looking intently into the warm blue eyes.

"I'm a little nervous about that, too."