Author's Note: This chapter contains a flashback. The flashback portion is in bold.

-ck

Inheritance Tax by InitialLuv

Chapter Twenty-Six (In which Mark finds religion and Sandra reminisces.)

McCormick had held out hope that Sandra was just dropping him off at Hardcastle's hotel, but was discouraged to learn that, after a stop at a pharmacy, the "ride" would be to Tarrytown. Bristling at the idea of having to share a vehicle with Sandra for a half-hour, Mark tried to find a bright side. He had survived the trip with Sandra on Thursday, when she had driven him to the emergency room. Although he had been a little distracted at the time, gasping through the back pain while flopping around like a fish, trying to find a comfortable position.

McCormick decided to concentrate on the fact that he would be able to have a prolonged visit with his daughter in a place other than a hospital. But he had a hard time holding on to that pleasant thought during the humiliating wheelchair ride from his room to the curb where Sandra's car waited. And that took barely five minutes.

How am I going to get through a half-hour?

ooOoo

McCormick exited the pharmacy with the standard small white bag grasped in his hand. That's three new prescriptions in four days, McCormick, count 'em, three. He opened the front door of Sandra's car, and after seating himself, he threw the paper bag into the back seat. The antibiotic pills rattled in their bottle as the bag landed near his duffel. Sandra glanced at the young man as she started the vehicle. Mark had wedged himself against the passenger door, in an attempt to get as far away from the woman as possible. He sat with his arms crossed, staring mutely out the windshield.

Sandra drove for a few miles before speaking. "This isn't exactly what I had in mind."

"What did you expect?"

She shook her head tightly. "I expected you to be a little more receptive. He said you were willing to listen."

Mark uncrossed his arms, looking hard at Sandra. "He? Oh, no wonder he didn't call me back. Hardcase set this up, didn't he?"

Sandra exhaled. "Judge Hardcastle did suggest this, yes."

McCormick snorted at the woman's propriety. "Boy, you've got a real problem with nicknames." When she didn't answer, only pursing her lips, he went on. "Or is it just me you have a problem with? You really hate that I call Martina 'Marty.'"

"I didn't name her 'Marty,' I named her Martina," Sandra answered. "Not to mention Marty is a man's name."

"A man's name," Mark muttered. After a moment he said, "How would you like it if I started calling Olivia 'Ollie'?"

The look Sandra sent his way was so horrified that McCormick was surprised into laughter. "It's a joke!" he sputtered. "Calm down, Sandy!"

Sandra ran a hand through her hair. "I don't know why I thought this was going to work. You just can't be serious."

"You want serious?" Mark shot back. "Fine. I am seriously angry at you for keeping Olivia from me for almost ten years. And I seriously don't think I can ever forgive you for that."

"You're right."

Mark leaned closer, sure he had heard wrong. "What? What did you say?"

Sandra sighed. "Do you want me to write it down? I said that you're right."

"Well, I knew that. I just didn't expect you to admit it." McCormick grinned. "Senility must be creeping up on you."

Sandra brought the car to a stop at a red light. She turned to Mark. "This is exactly why this won't work. It's impossible for you to talk to me without getting mouthy. I have more intelligent conversations with Olivia."

"Yeah, and you're a real delight to talk to."

When the light turned green, Sandra abruptly flipped on her blinker, quickly turning right. A horn blared from a car behind them. Ignoring the sound, Sandra pulled over into a nearby parking lot behind a church. She turned the ignition off.

Mark looked around. "What's going on? Why'd you stop?"

"We're going to talk. Without sniping and crude remarks. We have to sort this out between us," Sandra stressed. "Otherwise we'll never be able to co-exist. And I won't do that to Olivia."

Why do I always get trapped in vehicles for talks like this? Mark wondered. He took a weary breath, leaning back against the car seat.

"I don't mean to get so smart-mouthed. I'll try to tone down the wisecracks. But you know, some people think I'm pretty funny."

"Well, I don't think I'm one of them."

Mark raised his eyebrows in derisive surprise, then shrugged. "You probably don't get my best material. When I get upset or uncomfortable, I'm more rude than funny."

"Then I must make you really uncomfortable."

"You have no idea."

There was no response from Sandra. When Mark chanced a look over at the woman, he was amazed to see she was almost smiling.

Feeling slightly humbled by the unexpected smile, no matter how thin, Mark was encouraged to make an effort. He looked away as he spoke, still wary of this forced interaction.

"The other day, when you took me to the ER, and stuck around," he started, "I didn't really thank you for that. I mean, I don't think I did – I wasn't really thinking straight so I'm not sure. . . But anyway, thanks."

"You don't have to thank me for that, Mark," Sandra said quietly.

McCormick looked up at the comment. "Oh," he said, in a defeated tone, "that's right. You're a nurse. Or are you retired? I guess it wouldn't matter, Hardcastle's retired but he's still an officer of the court, he still has legal rules he has to follow. . . You didn't have a choice, did you?"

Sandra's expression hardened, the smile fading at Mark's assumption. "You think I stayed with you at the hospital because of my nursing pledge? Is that what you're saying?"

McCormick didn't answer, only shifting his eyes to avoid Sandra's stare.

"If that's all it was, I would've gone home as soon as they had gotten you into an exam room. For that matter, I could've called an ambulance for you, and stayed home with my daughter and granddaughter. Once you were no longer in my care, I wasn't obliged to 'stick around' – it's not like you were a minor, or unconscious. If you think the only reason I stayed with you was because of some sense of duty, you must think very little of me."

It was hard, but Mark was able to reserve comment on Sandra's last statement. "Then why did you stay?" he inquired.

Sandra waved her hands in frustration, irritated with his naiveté. "You needed someone to help you," she said. "You were sick and in a strange hospital, with doctors who didn't know you. And then when your fever rose you started getting delirious. . . I couldn't leave until I knew you'd be all right." She lowered her eyes, sighing sadly. "I owed her that much," the woman murmured next, almost to herself.

"Owed who?" Mark wondered. "Marty? Or Olivia?"

Sandra turned to face him, her hazel eyes (Just like Marty's, McCormick thought) looking directly into his blue ones.

"Your mother," she said.

Mark stared back, momentarily uncomprehending. "What do you mean? My mother – you owed my mother? I don't – Why?"

"Because of what we talked about. What she wanted me to do. I told her I didn't think I could, that I couldn't make that kind of promise, but she was so sad and scared, and. . . I didn't even go in there to talk to her, I was looking for Martina – "

Mark held up a hand, stopping the woman's nervous words. "Just tell me," he ordered through gritted teeth.

"She made me promise to look after you."

Mark's face blanched. He sat silently for a beat, his hand still in the raised position. And then he was moving, turning and exiting the car in one fluid motion.

McCormick crossed the parking lot to the back entrance of the church. Grabbing the brass handle of the carved wood door, he was relieved to feel it open in his grasp. Stepping inside the cool building, he waited a moment in the entryway for his eyes to adjust to the change in lighting. Once he could clearly see the sparsely-filled seating area, Mark made his way to a shorter pew near the wall, away from the other worshipers. He instinctively dipped his fingers into the holy water font as he walked by, using the damp fingers to make the sign of the cross.

Mark had been sitting for about five minutes before Sandra stepped up to the edge of the pew. Feeling her presence, he spoke without facing her. "Leave me alone. I'm claiming sanctuary."

Sandra paused, as if seriously considering his sober words. Then with a soft exhale, she sat in the pew next to him.

Mark tensed, suddenly angered by the woman's proximity. Momentarily forgetting he was in a church, he rounded on his daughter's grandmother.

"You were supposed to look after me? You did a lousy job!"

"I know."

"Stop doing that! Stop agreeing with me!" McCormick exploded. When Sandra stared at him incredulously, he sighed in exasperation. "It doesn't change what you did, or fix anything. And it sure as hell doesn't explain anything!"

Sandra looked around the church, saw the few parishioners regarding them with mixed expressions of curiosity and disapproval. "Mark, wouldn't you be more comfortable back in the car?"

"No." Mark settled back, trying to appear relaxed in the unpadded, wooden pew.

"I just think we should take this discussion somewhere else."

"No," Mark repeated. "I feel safe here."

Sandra closed her eyes briefly. "I intimidate you that much, that you feel you have to be in a church to have a discussion with me?"

"I don't. . ." McCormick struggled to convey what he was feeling. "Maybe you don't bother me as much as the topic does. I just – I don't understand why you talked to my mother. Or why she talked to you." He looked away, knowing he needed to hear the explanation, but suddenly unsure if he could bear it.

Sandra settled in as well, clasping her hands in her lap. She looked down at her intertwined fingers as she spoke.

"Did you know Martina would visit your mother when you weren't there?"

Mark shook his head. "She never told me." He didn't specify whether he meant Martina or his mother, but it didn't matter to Sandra. She nodded, then went on. "I don't think she did it often, but it was enough that her supervisor noticed, and said something to me about Martina neglecting her other duties."

"Duties? She was a volunteer!"

"Just because she was a volunteer, that doesn't mean her job was less important, or unnecessary. She had specific tasks she was responsible for."

"Right. Delivering flowers and filling water pitchers." McCormick shook his head in irritation. "She shirked her important duties to spend time with a dying woman. Call the cops."

"Mark."

McCormick sighed, waving a hand in a gesture of apology. "Go on."

"I had thought about visiting your mother before, when it was obvious that you and Martina were more than friendly. But for some reason I never got around to it. Maybe I was hoping whatever you and Martina felt for each other would wane, I don't know. So it was late August when I finally met your mother.

"I was looking for Martina, and when I couldn't find her I went to your mother's room. You weren't there, you were at work or out with friends, I'm not sure. Martina wasn't there either. I had just peeked in, really, not wanting to disturb your mother, but she was awake and she saw me before I could leave. She asked me if I was a new nurse, and when I told her no, that I was a maternity nurse, she said. . . Let me see if I can remember. . . She told me, 'I hate to tell you, but I think you're lost.'"

Mark's smile was wistful, and brief. "Yeah," he whispered. "I can almost hear her."

"No, I'm not lost." The nurse shook her head with an amused smile. "I was actually looking for my daughter. Martina Rivera. She's a friend of your son's. I was told she visits you occasionally."

The woman in the bed tilted her head, looking at the nurse with more interest. "You're Marty's mother."

Sandra's smile became forced. "Martina. Yes. I'm Sandra Rivera."

"Donna." The ill woman held out a hand. Sandra stepped forward to take it, noting the thin skin over the slender fingers. Donna's grasp was weak, and when Sandra released her hand, it fell limply onto the coverlet.

The two women were silent for a moment, each studying the other. Donna broke the silence. She drew a labored breath, then said, "So – our children are an item."

Sandra looked around the room silently, appearing unsure of her next move, or her next words. After a quick look at her wristwatch, the nurse sat in the visitor's chair alongside the bed. She crossed her legs, pulling her white skirt forward to cover her knees.

"They have been spending some time together, yes. I don't know if I'd necessarily say they are in a relationship. Martina is only sixteen. And Mark . . ?"

"Fifteen."

"You see? They're too young," Sandra said firmly.

"Too young? They're hardly Romeo and Juliet."

"I should hope not," Sandra said, pondering the tragedy of the impulsive, star-crossed lovers. "This is just a crush. It'll pass." The words were decisive, but the woman's voice faltered.

Donna nodded slowly. "If that's what you think," she said simply.

Sandra regarded the pale, somber face. "You don't agree."

"No. I've seen how Mark is around your daughter. How he's different." Donna paused thoughtfully. "I rarely see him without Martina now. She comes in with him, or she meets him when he's on his way out. It's. . .cute."

"Cute?"

"Romantic." The woman in the bed smiled faintly. "He's a charmer, my boy, but your daughter has him spellbound as well."

Sandra squared her shoulders offensively. "Excuse me? My daughter does not have your son under any spell. She is not like that, and I don't appreciate the insinuation."

"Oh, please." Donna lifted her hand marginally, attempting a wave that fell a little flat. "I didn't mean anything by it. I know she's not stringing him along, or whatever you think I meant. I just mean that he's fallen for her."

"Well." Sandra settled back a little in the chair. "School starts next week. Martina will only be here for half-shifts on the weekends. Once they're apart, I'm sure whatever 'hold' your son has on my daughter will break."

Donna laid her head back against her pillow. Her auburn hair lay lank around her face, emphasizing the paleness. Sandra saw that while the wavy hair had no luster, it also had no grey streaks. Sandra had started noticing grey strands in her own dark brown hair at least a year prior.

She won't live long enough to see her first grey hair, the nurse realized with a sudden jolt.

Sandra was still absorbing that disturbing thought when she became aware of Donna's grey eyes watching her.

"You don't like Mark, do you?"

Sandra fumbled for the words. "It's not a matter of me liking him. I – I don't think he's right for Martina. She doesn't normally have an interest in boys like him. He's a summer crush, an infatuation."

"Boys like him," Donna repeated tiredly. "I think I know what you mean." She shifted in the bed, wincing. "He has trouble in school. He gets into fights. He spends too much time at that car wash 'job' of his. His friends are bad influences, sometimes with worse upbringings than Mark has had. God knows, I couldn't give him the decent home life he deserved."

Sandra just looked at Donna, not sure how to respond, or even if she was expected to. After a moment, the woman in the bed took a deep breath, and then smiled. The effect was astonishing. Her face brightened, and her eyes sparkled. Even her limp hair seemed to glow. It was like the sickness that was killing her had vanished.

"Oh, but he's so smart. And he'll stick up for his principles, or defend someone else, even if it means he has to fight. He's trying so hard to take care of everything, the apartment and the bills. . . In between being here and being at work, he barely has time to sleep. And he's loyal to a fault. He doesn't care if I think his friends are hoodlums or trouble – they're his friends, and he won't abandon them." Donna quieted, suddenly exhausted. The life seemed to ebb out of her, until she once again looked like a gaunt caricature of a once attractive woman.

"He's so much more than I could have ever wanted in a son, and I love him so much." Donna's voice lowered to a mournful whisper. "I thought we'd have more time. I don't want to be done being his mother."

Struck by the despairing words, Sandra was once again hesitant in her reply. "He. . . sounds like a very. . . competent young man."

"He's had to be. It's just the two of us."

"Where is his father?" Sandra asked. She had heard no mention from Martina about Mark's father, and had obtained no information from her own informal inquiries around the hospital. None of her co-workers had seen Mark's mother receive any visitors that would have fit the description of an ex-husband.

"Gone. He left when Mark was five. We weren't married." The woman's tone was dull, lifeless.

"You must have family. Someone who can take Mark in."

Donna scoffed. "I have a brother. We don't talk. He lives nearby, but he hasn't even come to visit." She sighed deeply. "He'd probably take Mark in if he absolutely had to. He did once before, for a short time. But Mark doesn't get along with my brother. I think because of how Douglas treats me. Loyalty." Donna smiled again, yet the faint upward turn of her lips was nowhere near the previous radiant beam. "I think if Mark had the opportunity to stay with his uncle, he'd refuse it. He'd say he'd rather be on his own."

"Well, that's ridiculous. He's fifteen. He can't stay on his own."

Donna raised her eyebrows fractionally. "That's what he's doing now. But you're right. Even if he could manage it, I'd hate what it would do to him." Her sunken eyes scanned the hospital room almost unseeingly. She blinked, then turned to the nurse with a frown. "What time is it?"

Sandra checked her wristwatch. "Almost four."

"He'll be back soon. Please, Sandra, you have to help me."

Sandra rose, quickly moving to the bedside. "What is it? What do you need?" Her eyes tracked up to the IV, and then down to the catheter. She placed a reassuring hand on Donna's arm. "Just tell me."

"You have to take care of Mark for me."

Sandra stepped away unconsciously. "What?"

"Please. He needs someone who cares about him, someone he can trust." Donna's voice broke as she spoke the plaintive words. "You have to say you will."

Sandra shook her head, unable to comprehend accepting such a responsibility. "Ms. McCormick, you can't – "

"Donna. Just Donna."

" – fine, Donna, you can't ask that of me. You don't even know me. Why would you even think I'd be willing to do that for you?"

"You're a mother. And he's only fifteen. Please." Donna was openly crying now. The tears snaked off her cheeks, sliding into her hair. "I can't bear to think of what could happen to him when I'm gone. Please! Promise me you'll look after my boy."

And even as Sandra continued to shake her head, she knew in her heart she had already agreed.