Inheritance Tax by InitialLuv

Chapter Twenty-Nine (In which Mark and Milt talk about the hard things, Martina recounts a familial loss, a broom is needed,
 and Tears lead to an argument between Mark and Martina.)

Even though it was barely past eight p.m., McCormick fell asleep during the half-hour car ride again, this time as the judge drove the rental car back to the hotel in White Plains. Hardcastle had to practically drag the kid upstairs to the room, and when he pointed to the correct bed, McCormick sunk down on the mattress. After kicking off his sneakers, Mark lay down on top of the sheets and grabbed at a pillow.

"Get off'a there," Hardcastle grumbled. He swatted at McCormick's arm. "Pull back the covers, at least."

Mark rolled ungainly off the bed, mumbling unintelligibly. He knelt by the bed, dragged the covers aside just enough, and then crawled back in.

"You're gonna sleep in your clothes?"

McCormick snuggled in. "G'night, Judge."

Hardcastle stood, arms crossed, scowling down at the younger man. He was about to deliver another direction to at least take off his pants, when he heard a snore come from the fully-clothed form in the bed. Milt's face softened.

"Good night, kiddo."

ooOoo

After watching the TV with the volume low (yet loud enough to be heard over the kid's snores), Milt finally turned in himself a little before eleven. Less than two hours later, he was awakened by noises in the bathroom. He dozed for a few minutes, then realized a light was on in the room. He rolled over to see Mark sitting at the small table in the room, reading over his hospital paperwork.

"What're you doing up?" Hardcastle asked.

McCormick jerked, then looked over at the judge. "I didn't mean to wake you up. Sorry."

Milt squinted at the clock on the table between the two beds. "It's twelve-twenty. That's not even half of the eight hours, sport."

Mark nodded grimly. "I've been up for a while. Damn antibiotics."

The judge half-rose from his bed. "You okay?"

"I will be. Just gotta watch what I eat for a few days." McCormick leaned back in the chair. "Well, gotta watch what I eat the rest of my life, actually." He gestured at the papers.

Hardcastle watched a despondent look come over the young features. He sighed, then pushed aside his covers and clambered out of bed. McCormick sent him a worried glance. "You don't have to get up, Judge. I said I'm okay."

Not answering, the judge moved over to the table. "Give me," he directed. After a pause, McCormick silently handed over the paperwork he'd received from the dietitian.

After reading for a few minutes, Hardcastle lifted his head. "This isn't so bad."

"Are you kidding?" McCormick grabbed the papers back, beginning to read aloud. 'Limit alcohol intake.' 'Reduce consumption of salty foods.' 'Avoid caffeine.'"

Milt shrugged. "I don't think it'll be that hard. I should cut out the salty crap, too, and we can drink decaf." He didn't make a comment about the limit in alcohol consumption, because he really didn't see that as an issue for his friend. Milt could count on one hand the number of times he'd know McCormick to be obviously inebriated, and he didn't think it was because the kid had built up a tolerance. Mark drank socially and enjoyed a beer with dinner or an occasional glass of wine when they happened to go to a fancy restaurant, but he rarely drank to excess. At first Milt thought it was McCormick being on "good behavior," when he was new at the estate. Then the judge thought it was possibly a reflection of his career – racing was a pursuit wherein healthy, clear minds were required. But now Hardcastle thought Mark's non-essential view toward alcohol was most likely because of his experience with his alcoholic uncle.

Mark bypassed the alcohol limitations as well, focusing on what he thought was the bigger issue. "Decaf?" he repeated incredulously. "In between busting bad guys and doing stuff around the estate, I live on coffee to get through my classes. Sometimes when I'm studying, it's the only way I can stay awake."

"Yeah. . ." Hardcastle rubbed his chin. "That's something else. You know you can't do that anymore."

Mark stared at the judge. "Which part?" he asked uneasily.

"Well, you know," Milt said, vaguely waving a hand. "Charlie said it wouldn't be a good idea to be chasing down the bad guys anymore. In case something happens. And you know we'd already been tapering off."

"Okay, tapering off, but not quitting altogether!" McCormick tossed the paperwork on the table. "You think those guys in your files care if I've suddenly got some stupid kidney disease? Do you think they're gonna stop embezzling and running guns and dealing drugs and killing people?"

"I didn't say that! But I knew we couldn't do this forever, and you had to know that, too. Why do you think you're in law school? So we can get the guys on the other side, without having to having to worry about dodging bullets – and without you doing your damnedest to end up back in prison with those crazy 'second story' jobs you pull."

"Sometimes the 'other side' isn't good enough, Judge! That's why you started your whole Lone Ranger routine," Mark shot back stubbornly. "I can't believe you'd just drop it, when you know how good it works."

"Yeah, it worked real good with Falcon and Price, didn't it? Worked so good you almost died."

McCormick looked away, uncomfortable with the judge's blunt reference to his near demise. "We got them," he murmured.

"Well, if I'd lost you in the process, it wouldn't have been worth it." Before McCormick could respond to the unusually candid remark, the judge went on. "And what would happen if you got hurt again? Now that you're sick?"

"I'd be careful."

Hardcastle gave a short laugh. "If you can't work on my truck without falling on your rear out on the driveway, how am I supposed to believe you wouldn't take unnecessary risks if you keep playing Tonto?" He shook his head. "No, it's not gonna happen. Maybe I can't convince you to lay off chasing bad guys to concentrate on your law career, but you've got an even better reason now. You have to make sure you're there for your kid."

McCormick sighed deeply, slumping in the chair. He stared at the table without speaking. Hardcastle watched him, waiting.

"I don't know how to do this," Mark finally said, speaking quietly.

"What do you mean?" Milt answered, equally quiet. "Do what?"

"I just – I don't know what to think anymore. I had a plan, I had a future. And I've never really had one before, not one I could rely on. Even when I was racing, and when I was doing good, I knew I was only one crash away from losing it all." He paused, looking thoughtful. "I know a lot of guys who make their living racing, and it doesn't stop them from having families and plans . . . but you know they're just waiting for the day when they're financially secure enough that they can hang up their helmets and live a normal, long life."

"You think that? I thought you told me before that racing's in the blood, that it's not something you can just forget. That racers thrive on the adrenaline and the risk."

"I also said that racing was an intelligent, precise sport. Figures you'd think it was all about the risk." McCormick made a face. "But yeah, you're right, that's part of it. It was for me – well, it used to be. I don't know. I'm different now."

"You can say that again."

"Judge, knock it off, this is hard, okay?"

"Sorry."

Mark nodded, accepting the apology. "What I was saying is maybe when that's all you have, all you're interested in, it's fine. You know, to make your living racing. But I found something else. It started with nabbing the bad guys with you, and now it's law school, and maybe being an attorney. Racing's not the only option anymore. And that made me feel really lucky. That I had something else to plan for, something normal that I could look forward to, and feel proud about.

"And now that's all changed."

"Why? Because you're sick? That doesn't have to change your life. Okay, yeah, it changes some things, but not the big things. You can still finish law school, you can still be an attorney, if that's what you want. As long as you take care of yourself and don't do anything stupid."

"I know that. Well, sometimes. And other times I just feel lost. And angry. Thinking about what's been taken from me." McCormick sighed. "Maybe I need to talk to somebody, like Olivia does."

"What, like a psychiatrist?"

"Yeah. A therapist. Olivia says it helps her, because she can talk about things that she doesn't want to tell Marty or Sandra. Stuff that she thinks they can't handle."

"Are there things you can't tell me?"

Mark didn't answer. He glanced over at the judge, and then glanced quickly away.

"Oh." Hardcastle cleared his throat. "Okay, fine."

"Judge, don't get sore. Hell, I just found out about this on Tuesday! Friday, if you want to get technical. Give me some time to process it, okay?"

The judge harrumphed. After a beat of silence, he offered, "You can ask Charlie, maybe he knows of a support group or something like that. That's something you should look into, when you get home."

"Like Alcoholics Anonymous?" Mark asked. A grin appeared, the first one seen during this discussion. "What do you think it's called, Bad Kidneys 'R' Us?"

Milt returned the grin in spite of himself. Both men were silent again, but this time the quiet had a pleasant, relaxed feel. The judge stood, stretching. "Well, I'm gonna hit the hay. You think you'll be able to sleep now?"

Mark shrugged. "Maybe. My stomach's not bothering me as much now. I'm not looking forward to the next dose. Gotta get me some bananas or applesauce or something." He got a wistful, far off look on his face that Hardcastle recognized. The older man paused, and looked seriously at his friend.

"You know, you being sick could affect law school or playing Batman and Robin or getting back into racing, if you were even thinking about that. But none of that is important. Hell, you being sick isn't even the most important thing." Milt made sure the younger man was paying attention before he continued. "The only thing that should matter to you right now is your kid."

With that, Hardcastle turned and headed back to his bed. McCormick watched quietly, a disgruntled expression on his face. A moment later, he rose and strode back to his own bed, to sit on it facing Hardcastle.

"Way to make me feel like a heel, Hardcase!"

Milt sat up, sighing. "I didn't say it to make you feel like a heel, kid. I just want you to keep your priorities straight."

McCormick leaned forward, glaring intently at the judge. "You don't think I have my priorities straight? Why do you think I'm worried about my future? What if me being sick means everything I had planned falls by the wayside? What if I can't keep up in my classes, or if I can't handle the bar exam, if I even get to that point? What kind of a father can I be to her then?"

Hardcastle stared back just as intently. "The kind of father that cares about her. You think it matters to her what you have for a job – as long as it's legal? What if your father had stuck around? Would it have mattered to you if he was some famous singer, or if he was just a regular nine-to-five guy?"

Mark lowered his head. "You know better than to ask me that, Hardcastle. I wouldn't have cared, as long as he was in my life. But that's not the same thing –"

"No, I kinda think it is. She hasn't had you in her life, either. She'll just be happy that you're there."

"But that's just it." McCormick's face fell. "I can't be there, not forever, anyway. I – we have to go home. I know I grew up out here, lived out here almost twenty years, but California's home now. It's where my friends are, my school, my doctor. And I really miss it. I wouldn't think I would – I would think being back East would distract me, but if anything it's made me miss California more. It's weird."

Milt found he was smiling at the kid in affectionate understanding. When he saw McCormick give him an odd look, he attempted to erase the smile. Achieving a more neutral expression, he said, "Well, California's not going anywhere. It's not like you have to leave tomorrow."

"I know. I told her I'd stick around until Father's Day. That's next Sunday, so it's another week."

"Father's Day, huh?" The smile returned, and as Mark mirrored it, Milt didn't see the need to rein it in this time.

"Yeah," McCormick grinned, "Father's Day. Never really had a reason to celebrate it before. Well, a biological reason," he quickly added.

"So you got a week, at least. Make it good. Take some time to get to know each other, do things together."

"Yeah," Mark muttered. "We can go see our doctors together. Or maybe we can go to joint therapy. Good times."

Hardcastle laughed shortly, then lay down, rolling over. "Go to bed, McCormick."

The judge lay with his back to the kid, but kept his eyes open, and his ears alert. He eventually heard Mark rise, to turn off the light over the table. The room darkened. The next thing Milt heard was the soft movement of the sheets on McCormick's bed, and the younger man's weary sigh as he climbed under the covers.

Milt was almost asleep when Mark spoke.

"Thanks, Judge."

"'Welcome. Go to sleep."

ooOoo

Mark slept straight through until ten the next morning, when Milt finally roused him to force him to take his pills, and eat something. After eating the oatmeal, toast, and fruit the judge had acquired in between the nearby convenience store and a local diner, McCormick again lay back in his bed, dozing. Hardcastle was finishing his own late breakfast – a surprisingly good vegetable omelet from the diner – when Mark suddenly rose from the bed and headed for the bathroom.

Hardcastle looked up with a frown, noticing the kid's paleness. When the bathroom door slammed, he called out, "You okay?"

"I'm fine!" It was muffled, but firm.

Milt sighed. "Antibiotics," he murmured, around his last bite of omelet.

ooOoo

It was ten to twelve ("By the time we get there, it'll officially be afternoon!" McCormick had declared) when they left the hotel to drive to Martina's. Milt was again chauffeur. Mark had whined and cajoled and pouted and yelled, but Hardcastle had stood firm, not allowing the younger man to drive himself from White Plains to Tarrytown. "Martina was right yesterday," the judge had stated, "when she pointed out you could have had that black-out when you were driving."

"It wasn't a black-out! I just got dizzy!"

"Whatever. You're not driving."

McCormicks's grumbles receded the closer they got to Martina's, and anxiousness set in. Hardcastle watched the nervous energy with mild interest, as Mark began to fidget in the passenger seat. The younger man crossed and uncrossed his legs, jiggling his foot and tapping his fingers. At one point it seemed Mark's left hand was playing an imaginary piano.

"What's your problem?"

McCormick turned to the judge with a look of surprise. It was almost as if he had forgotten the other man was in the vehicle. "Problem?"

"You look like you're ready to jump outta your skin."

Mark huffed out a breath. "I don't know. Just edgy. I'm still not used to this. Having a kid."

"Well, you better try. This is the new normal, kiddo."

Mark looked sidelong at the judge. "Most guys get a little warning. Nine months is customary."

The judge grinned. "Well, no one can say you do things the easy way."

McCormick snorted at that, but didn't respond. He began to tap against his knee with his left hand, making a repetitive motion with his fingers. After a few moments, a quiet humming began to accompany the tapping.

Hardcastle was about to say something humorous, about how the humming was hurting his ears, but when he looked at his friend he refrained from commenting. Mark had suddenly relaxed, and even looked content. He had a small smile on his face, and the judge found himself smiling in reaction. He turned his attention to the road, listening as the kid continued to hum what sounded like "Stand By Me."

ooOoo

Sunday's activities included more in-depth photo album viewings. Hardcastle had dropped Mark off but hadn't stayed, claiming he had "Stuff I gotta do," and Sandra had also not been present, as she was meeting some former co-workers for a monthly get-together. So it was just the three of them, their own little unorthodox family. Mark and Martina were seated on the love seat in the family room; Olivia was perched on the piano bench. The girl had pulled the bench over so she was on the side of the love seat nearest her father.

This time the baby pictures were identified by Martina, as she offered descriptions and stories to go with the photos. There were pictures of Olivia's first outing (pushed in a stroller to a nearby park), pictures of her first time eating solid food, and a picture of her in a gaudy outfit, a gift from Sandra's best friend and sent all the way from Georgia. "We had to dress her in it once, so my mom could get a picture and send it back to Carole," Martina explained, when Mark raised his eyebrows at the photo of Olivia in the offending getup.

"I like Aunt Carole," Olivia said, "but she's got really bad taste. I've seen pictures from Aunt Carole's wedding – Grandma was the Matron of Honor, and Mom was the flower girl. Anyway, Aunt Carole's hair looked ridiculous. Like a big poufy cone on top of her head. Her veil hardly fit."

Martina laughed, smiling affectionately at her daughter. "Honey, it was 1962. That was the style back then."

McCormick looked up from the photo album. "Oh, you mean the beehive? Yeah. I remember, when I first met my aunt, she had a beehive. That would've been '64, I think." His face became thoughtful, then abruptly changed to tense. He cleared his throat lightly, turning back to the photos.

"An aunt?" Olivia asked, curiosity preventing her from seeing Mark's uneasiness. "Do you have cousins, too? Are they around here? You grew up out here, I mean, not here, but Jersey, right, like Mom?" Mark didn't answer, but Olivia barely noticed, as she prattled on. "Aunt Carole's not really my aunt. She's Grandma's best friend, they grew up across the street from each other and they've been friends their whole lives. Mom and I just call her Aunt Carole. I kinda had an uncle. . . Well, I would have, but he was stillborn." The girl quieted, looking somberly at her mother.

Mark shook his head, suddenly alert at this piece of information. "He . . . what? Marty? What is she talking about?"

Martina ducked her head with a soft sigh. "It was a few years before I was born. My parents didn't talk about it. My mom barely got to see him before the doctors took him away, and my father never got to see him at all. The hospital buried him in a communal grave."

"Marty – that's terrible."

Martina nodded. "It was what they did in the '50s, at least that hospital did."

"Still doesn't make it right," McCormick muttered. Then he became indignant. "Why didn't you ever tell me? Didn't you think I'd want to know about that?"

"I didn't really know much about him myself, Mark. Not until I was pregnant. Then my mom told me more. It was pretty hard on her, but she thought I deserved to know." She paused, struggling to keep her voice even.

"His name was Oliver Benjamin."

Mark shook his head sorrowfully. "I'm really sorry, Marty."

Martina gave him a sad smile. "That's one of the reasons I named her Olivia." She gestured at their solemn daughter. "It wasn't just to honor my father, it was also to honor my brother. I had decided on Olivia for a girl, or Benjamin for a boy."

Olivia spoke up."Yeah. It's a family tradition. You know, naming people after relatives? Grandma's named after her grandmother, Mom's middle name is Grace, after her dad's mother, and I got named after my grandpa and uncle."

"And after your father," Martina added. "Mark's middle name is Daniel."

The unexpected fact caused Olivia to again cease her chatter. She looked to Mark for confirmation. He gave her a short nod, then turned to Martina. "I didn't even know you knew that," he said softly. "I don't remember telling you."

Martina tilted her head, then shook it briefly. "You didn't. Your mother did. It just came up one day when we were talking. . . She told me that your father had wanted to name you Martin Dean." Mark scowled, imagining the possibility of being named after a Rat Packer. Martina smiled at his reaction, then continued. "She said he had that name all picked out, because he was sure you were going to be a boy. And then when you were born your father wasn't at the hospital, and your mom got angry with him. So she named you Mark Daniel, and that was what the hospital put on your birth certificate." Her smile softened as she remembered. "We laughed about it, about how if they had named you Martin, our names would have been only one letter different."

Olivia looked at Mark with a grin. "Like our middle names are only two letters different."

Mark attempted to return the smile, but Martina's story had made his heart ache. He looked away from Olivia and down at the photo album, although no longer seeing the pictures. He spoke to Martina without raising his gaze.

"Sandra told me you visited my mom when I wasn't there. I didn't know you did that."

"She was funny, and she was nice. I liked talking to her, spending time with her. I just liked her."

McCormick sighed heavily. "Yeah. Me too." After a brief silence, Mark set the album aside and stood. "I think I should eat something. Right? Little meals, healthy snacks? I'm gonna go find something to eat." He headed for the kitchen.

Olivia watched Mark leave, then turned to her mother. "He did that yesterday, when he said something about – about his past." Olivia decided it wasn't important just which part of Mark's past he had mentioned. "He got weird and sad, and left. That was right before he got sick."

Martina gazed in the direction of the kitchen. "Mark's past is . . . hard for him to talk about. He just needs to ease into it. Give him time."

Olivia frowned. "It's not really like I asked him that much. I mean, I just asked about his aunt. He brought her up in the first place." She gave her mother an annoyed look. "You were the one who talked about his mother."

Martina was about to reply when there was a crash in the kitchen. Both mother and daughter rose from their seats, rushing to the other room. Martina beat her daughter by a half-step, to see McCormick standing near a cabinet, holding his hands out to prevent them from coming near. "I'm fine! I'm fine!" he insisted. "I just dropped a plate, that's all! Don't come too close, there's broken pieces all over the floor." He looked at the shattered fragments surrounding his feet. "Man, you've got some fragile plates."

Martina stopped, reaching out a hand to hold Olivia back. "Honey, go get the broom and dustpan from the basement."

"The basement?! Why not the broom closet? That makes more sense." The girl gestured across the room.

"I don't want you walking through this mess. And watch the attitude, young lady," Martina ordered. "Just get them now, please."

After looking one more time at her father, Olivia left, grumbling. Once she was gone, Martina moved toward Mark.

"Marty, watch out, the plate – "

"I have shoes on. It's fine." Martina reached out to Mark, placing her hands on his arms. "Well, it's no wonder you dropped it, you're shaking."

"I'm all right." McCormick mumbled. "You're the one who was baring her soul back there."

"Well, I'm okay." Martina didn't remove her hands, instead letting them slide around to Mark's back.

"You are?" he asked, encircling her waist with his arms.

"I am."

When Olivia returned with the broom and dustpan, her mother and father were hugging. But this time it wasn't an embrace of passion, like she had witnessed the day before. Instead, it appeared that her parents were holding each other up, making it seem that if one of them released their hold, then the other wouldn't be able to stand. It was disconcerting, yet comforting at the same time.

"Um. . . I got the broom."

"Thank you, Olivia." Martina pulled away from Mark, giving his shoulder a squeeze as they parted. She reached for the broom, and began sweeping up the broken pieces of the plate. Mark watched for a moment, and then looked to Olivia. Catching her eye, he grinned sheepishly. "Klutzy. Sorry."

Olivia slowly shook her head. "You used to race cars?" she asked dubiously. Mark's grin grew at her teasing tone. After a moment, Olivia began to grin as well.

"And I guess they called you 'Skid' because 'Crash' was already taken."

ooOoo

When the three eventually returned to the family room, the visit took on a cautious feel. There was an unspoken direction from mother to daughter, to avoid asking Mark any questions that could possibly trigger painful memories. Olivia, who was outwardly curious about anything to do with her father's past, disliked the restrictions on the conversation. She finally excused herself from the family room, saying that she wanted to lie down. Martina nodded, telling her to get some rest. Mark watched his daughter leave with concern.

"That's been happening a lot? That's why you want her to see her doctor?"

"Basically." Martina had a small smile on her face.

"What? What's funny?"

She held up a hand. "Just wait."

They sat quietly for maybe a minute. Then music started to play in Olivia's room, loud enough to carry throughout the house. "She's not tired," Martina scoffed. "You hear how loud that is?"

McCormick had a distant look on his face. "Yeah. . . "

"I think she's ticked at you."

Mark didn't answer. His head was tipped, and he was listening avidly. "That's Tears for Fears," he said in amazement.

"Oh? Right." Martina waved a hand. "I have a hard time keeping all of her music straight."

There was again no response from Mark, as he was focused on the song. Martina watched him curiously, seeing him nod his head to the beat, as he softly sung a few lyrics.

". . . knows in his heart you won't be home soon,
He's an only child, in an only room . . . "

"Mark." Martina reached out to touch his arm. He inhaled sharply, blinking. Then his expression became puzzled.

"What do you mean, she's ticked at me?"

"She's being very impatient with getting to know everything about you. She doesn't like being forced to respect boundaries."

"Ah." McCormick looked in the direction of Olivia's bedroom. His face suddenly hardened.

"I guess she's gonna have to be ticked, then."

Martina raised her eyebrows fractionally, but she didn't comment. Mark held the hard look for another few seconds, then his face slackened and he suddenly appeared unsure. When he realized there had been no reply from Martina, he turned to her, assessing her suspiciously.

"What, you think I'm wrong?"

"I didn't say anything." Martina turned a page of the scrapbook they'd been looking through.

Mark sat in quiet thought. During the silence he heard the song change in Olivia's room. "Watch Me Bleed" began to play. I forgot how depressing the song titles are on this album.

"There are things I don't think I can tell her. Things I haven't even told you."

"I understand that. It only makes sense. It has been ten years since we've seen each other," Martina pointed out. "And we really haven't had any time to talk, to catch up, without being interrupted."

McCormick looked sidelong at Martina. "We had some uninterrupted time to ourselves that night in my motel room. I remember we talked for hours. Well, when we weren't otherwise occupied." A slow smile accompanied his words.

"I don't really think that's an option right now, Mark," Martina said gently. "Anyway, you're changing the subject." She leaned to the side, bumping his shoulder with her own. "You're good at that."

"No, I don't think I am. Changing the subject, I mean. I'm good at lots of things." There was another wolfish grin, then Mark's smile flattened out. "I think we need to take some time, you and me, to catch up. Anything about me that's . . . not great . . . I think you should know first. We could decide, together, what I need to tell Olivia," the hard look returned, "if I tell her anything."

Martina took Mark's hand. "Mark, you can talk to me about anything you want. If you want to know how I feel about Olivia learning about certain parts of your past, that's fine. We can discuss it. If you just need to talk . . . I'll listen."

Mark looked in the direction of Olivia's room. "I don't think I can do that here, though. Little pitchers and big ears, you know? Hell, she saw us yesterday, when we – well, before you guys left to go sight-see or whatever you did."

"I thought I saw her peeking in the hall." Martina shook her head with an aggrieved expression. "It's a good thing we stopped when we did."

"Good thing you stopped me." Mark was running his thumb over Martina's hand. "I don't know, Marty. Something about us. You wouldn't think we could pick right up after so much time, that night, but we did. And now, well, I think I could pick right up again. And I'm pretty sure you feel the same way."

Martina looked down at their joined hands. "I do," she said softly. "But there are things you don't know about me, either."

"What, like Kurt?"

Martina jerked her head up. "How do you know about Kurt?"

"Olivia." When Martina's face clouded over, Mark was quick to defend the girl. "It's not like she was telling me to get a rise out of you or something. It just came up. If anything, I think I have a right to get upset about it," he groused. "She told me that I reminded her of Kurt. His personality and his looks. . . She also said sometimes people mistook him for her father." There was a tinge of hurt in Mark's voice.

"What do you think, Mark, that I was trying to replace you as Olivia's father with a look-alike?"

"I don't know, I'm just telling you what the kid said." The hurt was swapped for anger.

"You weren't even here to be replaced!"

"That's not my fault! You didn't try to find me until Olivia got sick!" McCormick had pulled his hand out of Martina's. "And what if she hadn't gotten sick, would you have ever told her about me? Or was my checkered past too much of a liability? I'm beginning to think you were the one who didn't want me in Olivia's life – that it wasn't your mother after all!"

"That's ridiculous, Mark –"

"Is it? After talking to her yesterday, it seems to me like she put more effort into looking out for me than you did! After I got picked up for taking my uncle's car, I never heard from you again until I was down in Florida. What was it, I was far enough away then? You didn't have to worry about being personally involved with such a head case?"

"I don't know! Maybe!"

Mark closed his eyes, sighing. "Damn."

Martina reached for him again, now taking both hands. "Mark, after your mother died. . . You scared me. The way you were acting. I hadn't really seen you like that before, and I didn't know if I could handle it. Handle you."

"I know. I'm sorry." McCormick opened his eyes, but wouldn't look at Martina. He studied the floor.

"You don't have anything to apologize for," Martina stressed, "you were grieving. You were distraught. But you were also a little manic, and you weren't making a lot of sense. If you . . . I was worried I wouldn't be able to stop you if you tried to hurt yourself. I was sixteen."

"Yeah, you were probably right to keep your distance," Mark said bluntly. "My aunt was thirty-something and she couldn't stop me."

A heavy silence fell. Martina stared at Mark. Her hands rose to his arms, clenching them tightly.

"Marty, ow! Watch the bruises!" He shook her hands off.

"What are you talking about, Mark? Stop you from what?"

"Nothing." Mark was rubbing his upper arms. "I was rambling. Forget I said anything."

"Oh, no, you don't." Martina rose, and stood over Mark, her hands on her hips. "If you won't tell me, I'll ask Milt."

"Fine." Mark had no problem with that; the judge had no knowledge, as far as he knew, of his suicide attempt. It was likely he knew about Mark's stint in the group home, but he was fairly positive that any records of the counseling sessions were out of even Hardcastle's long reach. And he hadn't divulged that much in counseling, anyway, just the bare minimum. It had ended up being enough – in his final one-on-one session with a psychologist, the woman had informed him of what she'd written: "After a cooperative effort of individual behavior modification and group counseling, subject has achieved a healthy mental status."

And as soon as the mentally healthy subject was sprung from the group home, he'd high-tailed it down to Florida.

Mark had now risen as well, to face Martina. "Go ahead, ask the judge. See how far you get."

"Why do you have to be so stubborn?" Martina exclaimed in frustration.

"I've got good reason, okay?!"

The two of them were glaring at each other when Sandra stepped into the room. "What on earth is going on here?" she asked. "I could hear you both arguing before I even got into the house."

Martina forced her focus away from Mark, looking to her mother. "I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't even hear you come in."

"That's obvious," Sandra replied dryly. She studied the couple for a moment, then cocked her head. "Well, I hear Olivia's listening to her music at her normal volume. Maybe trying to drown the two of you out?"

Both Mark and Martina looked chagrined. "She had it on loud before we started arguing," McCormick answered feebly.

"Mmm-hmm."

Martina glanced briefly in the direction of her daughter's room, then turned hopefully to her mother. "Mom, you're not going anywhere else, right? Can you keep an eye on Olivia? She said she was lying down – I doubt it – but can you stay and make sure she's all right?"

"Of course." Sandra waved a hand. "You don't have to ask that. Why?"

"Because Mark and I are going for a drive." Martina looked pointedly at McCormick. "I'm not sure how long we'll be gone. It depends on how cooperative he is."

"What are you – " McCormick broke off as Martina took his hand, leading him out of the room and toward the back door. "Marty! I don't want – "

"Do you want to talk here? Get into all the details and specifics in a place where Olivia can overhear it all?" Martina paused briefly to take her keys off a hook in the kitchen.

Mark shook his head. "Who says going someplace else is going to make me want to tell you that stuff? 'Details and specifics.' That's not exactly what I meant by catching up, Marty."

Martina opened the door and coaxed Mark out to the car.

"We'll see."

Author's Note: The Tears for Fears song that McCormick sings is "Suffer The Children," written by Roland Orzabal. It's from Tears' first album, The Hurting. And Mark is right; the album title is accurate, as many of the songs (and lyrics) are depressing. I still love it, though.

If you have a chance, check out the lyrics for "Suffer The Children." You'll see why I picked that song for McCormick to sing.

-ck