Author's Note: This is the last chapter; an epilogue follows.
Thank you to everyone who read this story and reviewed! I hope you enjoyed my fanfic "novel"!
-ck
*There is a flashback in this chapter. The flashback section is in bold.
Inheritance Tax by InitialLuv
Chapter Thirty-One (In which Mark gets behind the wheel, a discussion between Mark and Milt is recalled, and Olivia cops an attitude.
Later, Mark and Martina go on a date, Mark gets two Father's Day gifts, and everyone goes to the airport.)
As the next few days passed, things fell into a kind of routine. McCormick would spend the majority of the day with Olivia and Martina, returning to the hotel after dinner. On most occasions Hardcastle would join Mark and the Riveras for the evening meal, although during the day he typically made himself scarce. McCormick was genuinely puzzled by his friend's forced absences, but often found he was either too preoccupied or too tired to ask the judge about his actions.
The only change in the routine (and McCormick was beginning to realize it would soon be routine) were consecutive visits to the doctor. Following Sandra's advice, Mark called Dr. Lorenzo first thing Monday morning, to explain his probable low blood sugar attack. The physician advised him to come in as soon as possible for blood work.
"A fasting blood test would be best," Lorenzo said. "If you've eaten already, it would be better for you to come in early tomorrow."
McCormick shifted his eyes up to Hardcastle, who was standing nearby, listening without any eaves-dropping pretense.
"Uh, no I haven't eaten yet." Another snippet of advice that had come from Sandra, who had called out a reminder as he and the judge had left after supper the night before.
The judge drove Mark the short distance from the hotel to the medical center, and once again hung around in a waiting room while McCormick was subjected to a variety of tests, including more needle sticks, which left more bruises. Lorenzo instructed Mark to return the next day, to discuss his results. As Olivia's appointment with her pediatrician was also on Tuesday, Martina played taxi, picking Mark up at the hotel and releasing Milt from his chauffeuring responsibilities.
Martina sat in the waiting room between the father and daughter, idly looking at a magazine, as both patients fidgeted: Olivia kicking her feet and Mark relentlessly tapping his fingers.
Martina addressed the girl first. "Olivia, please stop that. It's annoying."
Olivia scowled. Making an overt gesture in an attempt to still herself, she sat on the edge of her chair and stomped her high-top clad feet flat on the floor. Today's color was white, and Mark had been surprised to see that the light-colored Chuck Taylors were still relatively clean.
Martina shook her head at Olivia's antics. She then turned to McCormick. "And you're no better. Can't you settle down?"
"What?" Mark asked. "What am I doing?"
Olivia leaned forward, to look past her mother. "Playing 'Stand By Me.' I need to teach you a new song."
McCormick self-consciously crossed his arms, tucking his hands out of sight.
A nurse came out into the waiting area. "Olivia Rivera?" she called.
Olivia and Martina rose. "We'll meet you back here," Martina said to Mark.
McCormick nodded, smiling briefly at Olivia. When the two had disappeared back into the exam area, Mark relaxed his arms and again began to tap the fingers of his left hand onto his armrest.
ooOoo
That evening during dessert, McCormick tossed his napkin aside and pulled a folded piece of paper out of his jeans pocket. With a theatrical flair, he presented the paper to the judge. "Read it and prepare to be amazed, Hardcase – I'm done riding shotgun."
The judge looked up from his coffee. "What's this?" Milt grabbed the paper, smoothing out the creases.
"Doctor's note. My blood test results were fine, and Lorenzo said everything else checked out. We even did a conference call to Charlie – he says 'hi,' by the way. They both agree the thing on Saturday was most likely a combination of fatigue and not having eaten for a while. Since then I've been doing everything by the book – I'm taking my pills, eating right – and no more dizzy spells." McCormick's face was radiant with his smile. "I've been given the OK to drive."
Hardcastle perused the note, then hmmphed. "And did you mention how fast you ride Scout, Tonto?"
Olivia paused in clearing the table. "Tonto? Don't you mean Crash?"
Mark grabbed Hardcastle's napkin, and flung it at her. "Not helping."
"Maybe I'd be more helpful if you stopped throwing napkins all over," Olivia said archly.
"Fine. I'll help clear. I'm not having coffee, anyway." Mark rose, starting to gather plates and cutlery. As he took Sandra's plate, he smiled at the woman. "I can't believe that cake recipe came from that diabetes cookbook. You're almost as good a cook as Sarah, and that's saying something."
Sandra looked at Hardcastle. "Who is Sarah?"
"My old housekeeper. Although to hear McCormick tell it, her main role was to keep him fed." Milt watched as Mark carried the dishes to the sink, making sure to "accidentally" drop another napkin onto the floor at his daughter's feet.
"You had a housekeeper?" Olivia ignored the napkin, instead turning on the faucet and starting to load dishes into the sink.
The judge mumbled in the affirmative. "Two, actually."
Olivia grinned at her father. "No wonder you're a slob."
"Hey! I am not a slob!" McCormick grabbed the dish soap, squeezing a healthy amount into the running water.
"No? Just klutzy, right?"
Mark grabbed a dish towel and threw it at Olivia. The girl ducked, and the dish towel fell into the sink, immediately becoming soaked. Olivia fished it out of the sink, and wrung the water out of it – directly over Mark's shoes.
"Would you two knock it off?!" Martina stood, moving away from the table to glare at the individuals who were currently "cleaning up" the dinner dishes.
There was no planning, yet the two-pronged attack worked perfectly. Mark scooped up a handful of soap suds to throw at Martina in the same instant that Olivia aimed the faucet sprayer at her mother.
As Martina wiped the soapy concoction off of her face, the room exploded into laughter. Surprisingly, Sandra was the one laughing the loudest.
ooOoo
McCormick drove the rental car back to the hotel that night, reveling in the heady feeling that came with finally having a sense of control. It had been a week since he'd been behind a wheel. In comparison to the amount of time he'd gone without driving when he'd been incarcerated, seven days was small potatoes. But all things being relative, the week had seemed like a year.
Hardcastle had been uncharacteristically somber, and picking up on the odd mood, McCormick decided to delve into the awkward waters. He glanced over at the older man.
"Hey, Hardcastle – how come you're taking off during the day when I'm at Marty's?"
"Whaddaya mean?" The judge seemed surprised by the question. "You're trying to get a relationship going with your kid," he said, "you don't need me around for that."
Mark shook his head. "Weren't you the one saying that you wanted to get to know her, since she was gonna be a part of my life?"
"You were stuck in the hospital then," Milt responded. "Now that you're able to spend time with her, I don't want to get in the way."
"In the way? You?" McCormick was grinning. "Why Judge, what are you talking about?"
Hardcastle just hmmphed, as if to say "See?" Mark suddenly regretted the smart remark. He dropped the grin, becoming sincere. "Judge . . . If Olivia's going to get to know me, you're part of the deal. And they all know that already, so I don't know why you're avoiding them."
"I'm not avoiding them!" the judge returned. "I've been there for supper at least four times!"
"Yeah, and then we take off," McCormick argued. "I think you should hang out with us more. Practice being a grandpa."
That remark earned McCormick a sour look. The younger man turned away, returning his eyes to the road.
And as soon as Mark's head was turned, Milt's unpleasant expression changed to a wistful smile.
As the week neared its end, Mark and Olivia got through the majority of the photo albums and scrap books. When McCormick arrived on Thursday (again alone, this time having driven himself), the girl pulled him into the family room and sat him down in front of the television. "Video tapes today," she announced, turning on the set.
McCormick glanced around the quiet house. "Where is everyone?"
"My mom and grandma are on an errand." Olivia inserted a tape into the VCR, then came to sit by her father.
Mark looked at Olivia in mild alarm. "They left you alone?"
"Oh my God. I'm almost ten." His daughter shook her head and rolled her eyes at the same time. He found himself smiling at the reaction, even as he defended his earlier question. "Well, I just meant, you know, with you being sick. . ."
"I'm fine! You heard what my doctor said!" Olivia's doctor had found no serious reason for the girl's recent fatigue, and had concluded all that was necessary was a small change in the dose of her daily medicine – confirming Sandra's hunch. "And they just left. I was alone for maybe ten minutes." She sighed noisily. "You told me you were alone a lot as a kid."
"Okay, yeah, but that was different."
"How?"
McCormick frowned. After his talk with Martina outside the restaurant, he'd been trying to reveal certain parts of his past to Olivia. She had seemed most curious about what he'd been like at her age, and he'd tried to pick and choose the least incendiary topics. Yet she always seemed to focus on facts that he'd rather not divulge. Yesterday she had peppered him with questions about Sonny, and now. . .
Olivia noticed the hesitation and the pained look. "That's okay, you don't have to tell me," she said quietly.
Mark gazed at his daughter's lowered head. The messy curls obstructed his view of her face. "Hey." He reached out to touch her shoulder. She lifted her head, turning to look at him. The resigned expression she wore made his chest feel tight.
"It was different because I had no other choice. It was just me and my mom – you know that from what I told you yesterday. And my mom worked two jobs, so yeah, I was alone a lot. Sometimes it was okay to be alone, to have that independence – but a lot of the time it was lonely. And a little scary."
"Oh." Olivia studied him thoughtfully. "Because you lived in a bad neighborhood?"
Mark shrugged. "Well, we moved a few times. Some places were better than others. But none were like here." He waved a hand.
"You mean like the suburbs."
He laughed, a little harshly. "Yeah. Little manicured lawns. Block parties. Neighbors that bring you cookies or fudge at Christmas. Doors that don't have three or four locks on them."
"But . . . the judge's house in California – it's not like that there, right? I mean, a bad neighborhood."
McCormick shook off the memories. He looked appraisingly at his daughter. "No, I guess it's not. In fact, I live in a practical paradise." He smiled, suddenly feeling lighter. "Wait until you see it."
Olivia didn't immediately answer. She settled back into the couch cushions, pulling up her feet. She aimed the remote control at the VCR.
"Wait until you see these."
ooOoo
McCormick had thought he had it under control, as the two of them watched the numerous sappy home movies where Olivia varied between hamming it up for the camera and being thoroughly annoyed at the camerawoman. He'd been congratulating himself on that point, proud of the fact that he seemed to be settling into his unconventional role as the "new" father of a precocious nine-year-old. He'd been surprisingly relaxed sitting there on the larger couch, laughing along with his daughter or listening intently as she described the events occurring on the screen. The girl had been leaning against him comfortably, and it had seemed almost natural.
Then Olivia put in the tape of her school's year-end talent show.
As the camera panned in on a single adult on a stage, Olivia got up from the couch and began to rummage through a shoe box on the nearby table. "That's our principal," she tossed over her shoulder. "He's pretty cool." She returned with a folded program in her grasp, and handed it to Mark as she sat down. "Here's the program. It's last year's show – I wasn't able to be in it this year." She shrugged, not needing to explain.
Mark scanned the program. There were children listed from each grade, from Kindergarten through fifth, and each had a specific talent that they were sharing: singing, dancing, playing instruments, magic, even a comedian. "A comedian, huh?" Mark asked, wondering if that was the talent he would've picked if pressed. Comedian would have probably gone over a little better than sharing his talent for lock-picking.
"Mmm-hmm, that's Frank Brandon. He's so funny." Olivia sighed a little, and McCormick gave her a wary glance. Even not having a lot of experience with kids, he wasn't blind to the girl's reaction. She's got a crush on him. I've barely known her a week and now I have to worry about her dating.
Dating? She's not even ten!
On the television screen, the principal had given up the stage to a Kindergartner who was unusually good at breakdancing. Olivia leaned back again, beginning to narrate while Mark read along in the program. They watched a first grader fight through her nerves and complete a decent ballet routine, a second grader who excelled at card tricks, another second grader who played "Frere Jacques" on the harmonica, and the infamous Frank Brandon. Mark thought the boy's humor was a little lowbrow, but the kids (and a lot of the parents) in the audience ate it up, and the laughter was loud and raucous. The principal had to calm the crowd once Frank left – after a low, sweeping bow – and then he encouraged everyone to respect the next participant. A piano was rolled out onto the stage behind the principal, and when he stepped away from the microphone, Mark could see his daughter entering the stage. Maybe an inch or two shorter than her current height, with her hair pulled back in a bushy ponytail, the Olivia on the screen was wearing a casual red dress – and what looked like black dress shoes. McCormick turned to Olivia with wide eyes. "Hey! Not only do your shoes match, but they're not gym shoes!" he teased.
Olivia jabbed him with an elbow. "Stop it. Those were my church shoes. Grandma would have had a fit if I wore Converses for something like this." She gestured at the television.
On the screen, the principal was moving the microphone over to the piano and adjusting it to Olivia's height. Then the man remembered he had to introduce her, and bent awkwardly to speak into the microphone. "And now also representing the third grade, Olivia Rivera will be playing the piano and singing a Simon and Garfunkel song."
The image on the screen became blurry and then changed abruptly, as if the person with the video camera was moving. In fact, Mark could hear Martina's whispered off-camera voice, excusing herself as she finagled her way into a better spot from which to videotape. The image finally settled, and focused in, just as the first notes sounded from the piano.
Mark had read in the program that Olivia was performing "Bridge Over Troubled Water," but the easily identifiable notes still took him by surprise. This Olivia on the screen was only eight, and yet she showed no trepidation or self-consciousness as she played the intro to the song. Then, her clear, confident voice issued from the speakers on the television.
"When you're weary, feeling small,
When tears are in your eyes, I'll dry them all.
I'm on your side. . . "
Olivia's singing faded in McCormick's ears, and he swallowed audibly. He was suddenly finding it hard to keep his breathing even, and he felt like his heart was hammering in his chest. He glanced down at the curly head next to him, but Olivia was still watching herself on the screen, with a slight scowl of criticism, and she hadn't seemed to notice her father's discomfort. At least, not until the song had finished and loud applause erupted in the auditorium. Then Olivia looked up to Mark to gauge his reaction.
"What did you think? I thought I was a little rough at the start, not loud. . . " she trailed off, seeing the averted eyes and the somber expression. "Oh. That bad, huh?"
"No. No, it was . . . It was beautiful. You – I didn't know you could do that." When they had sung "Stand By Me" together, it had been a short verse and the chorus, and although he had noticed Olivia's talent then, he'd been preoccupied with playing his part of the song. But this. . . "The other day, I didn't really realize. You're terrific."
"Oh. Thanks." A slow smile spread on the young face, but soon fizzled, and confusion replaced it. "You're not acting like you liked it."
Instead of answering, Mark picked up the remote control for the VCR, and pressed the "Stop" button. He was quiet for a moment, looking at the floor as he mustered his resolve. After a sigh and a nod, he turned to Olivia.
"Livvie, we've gotta talk."
The confusion was now joined by dread. Then the girl abruptly stood, and left the room. McCormick watched the retreating form with a half-smile.
"Damn. Spitting image." Hmmp.
Mark rose from the couch and went to find his daughter.
ooOoo
McCormick reran the words he'd used as he walked down the hall to Olivia's room. "We need to talk." What the hell was that? Like I'm breaking up with her.
But that's kind of what it is, isn't it?
Yesterday had been a full, tiring day. Hardcastle had joined McCormick and his little, unusual family, and the five of them had spent most of the day in outdoor activities, taking advantage of the comfortably mild weather. They had walked to Olivia's (and Martina's) elementary school, and then further on to the nearby middle school. The middle school had a practice football field surrounded by a decent track, and Mark and Olivia had taken part in an impromptu race. Olivia had won with ease, and had still been energetic and chatty on the walk back home. McCormick, on the other hand, had been spent, and did little to keep up his side of the conversation. Later, he had barely made it through supper without nodding off. On their return trip to the hotel, Mark had relinquished the driving responsibilities to the judge, and the younger man had planned to curl up in the passenger seat and sleep. Hardcastle had had a different idea. Mark thought back now to their conversation. . .
Hardcastle cleared his throat loudly, catching his weary friend's attention.
"Hmm?"
Milt glanced away from the road. "I think it's time I head back."
Mark sat up straighter, looking around at the landscape. "Whaddaya mean? We are headed back to the hotel."
"Back. Home."
"Oh." McCormick laid his head back again. "When?"
"I called the airlines this morning, when you were still putzing around in the bathroom. Tuesday looks like the best choice."
"Oh. Okay." Mark nodded. "I might not have enough cash, but I'll pay you back, okay?"
The judge glanced over again, this time with a furrowed brow. "Pay me back for what?"
"The plane ticket."
Hardcastle frowned. "I don't think you're getting it, McCormick. I'm going back. That doesn't mean you have to. I came out here because you were sick, and I was worried about what kind of trouble you might get into, but we're not joined at the hip, y'know. You got everything sorted out now, and you got a good thing here with your kid. Why would you want to leave that?"
McCormick shook his head. "I don't – not really. But I already told you, I've got to go home. I have things I have to take care of, responsibilities – "
"If you're talking about the estate, you don't need to worry about that."
"You want to put that in writing?" Mark gave a short laugh. "But yeah, that is one of the things. Can you imagine what the place looks like with us both being gone for a week?"
"That's what I've got the service for!"
"Yeah, I've seen what the service does. That's why I was picking up the slack after finals. And that's another thing – my grades should be in by now, and I have to make sure I have everything set up for next semester."
Milt looked sharply at his friend. "You should have that all squared away. You're not giving me any real reason why you need to come home. Listen, you stay here as long as you need – "
"No!"
The abrupt response surprised both men, and there was a brief silence. Hardcastle slowed the car down as he took the exit for White Plains.
The two began speaking at the same time.
"I'm sorry, Judge – "
"Something goin' on – "
Mark leaned back, and extended a hand toward the judge. "You first."
"Okay. I want you to tell me what's going on with you. Why you don't want to stay here."
McCormick took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. "I . . . don't not want to stay. Does that make sense? I think I belong here. Or at least, with Olivia. But I also belong in California. And I can't decide, I can't figure out what to do. When I made the decision to come out here, it wasn't to stay. I just wanted to meet Olivia. And then things got complicated."
The judge snorted, but didn't interrupt.
"I know there are things I have to do at home. School. The estate – "
"I already told you to forget about that. You're not in any shape to take care of it like you used to."
"Judge, I'm fine! I feel fine!"
Hardcastle gestured at the steering wheel. "So why am I driving again? You were so gung ho to get behind the wheel."
"I'm just tired, that's all! The kid wore me out today. And she almost fell asleep at the table herself!"
"Yeah, because she's sick, just like you."
"You know, people don't have to be sick to get tired!" Mark shot back testily. "I feel fine! Okay, maybe not a hundred percent," he admitted, "but better than I felt after finals. I think the pills are helping, and who knows how long I had that kidney stone, that might've had something to do with how lousy I felt. . . I can clip hedges, Judge, and weed, and clean the pool, and maybe even mow the lawn, if we get one of those rider mowers." He looked hopefully at Hardcastle, but when the judge just grunted. McCormick went on. "I should be fine as long as I pace myself, and don't do anything really physical. Like I should probably avoid cleaning the gutters." The younger man grinned. "Getting up on a ladder? Uh-uh, that's asking for trouble."
Milt turned the car onto the street that led to the hotel. "So what you're telling me is you're going to leave your kid so you can go do yardwork."
Mark felt his face flushing, and was unsure if it was from embarrassment or anger. He opted for anger.
"What are you trying to say, Hardcase? That I gotta get a place out here, and I'm not allowed to come home? You'll ship my stuff out to me, and it'll be like the last five years never happened?" Milt shook his head, but McCormick continued. "I know everyone thought you were nuts getting an ex-con paroled into your custody, anyway. . . You might as well just chalk it all up to some sort of retirement panic and write me off."
Hardcastle pulled the car into the hotel parking lot and turned off the ignition. He faced McCormick.
"You know, just because you don't like what I said doesn't mean you have to get ticked off at me. Unless I'm right."
Mark slumped, pulling a hand through his curls. "I don't know, Judge. I just don't know. This is so hard. I really thought I had a good thing going, cleaning up my act, and going to school and all. I didn't expect a kid to come along and throw a wrench into everything."
Milt smiled softly. "That's what they do, kiddo."
"And it's not like I wouldn't have wanted it, wanted her. I already can't imagine her not being there, y'know? I don't want to leave her, but I think I have to. I have to get away from how close this is, get some distance to think.
"Maybe I'll make a change, but I can't make that decision here. If I tried to decide now, with Olivia giving me those eyes. . . " Mark smiled. "Those puppy-dog eyes are brutal. If that's how I look at you when I want stuff, no wonder you let me get away with so much."
"I don't let you get away with anything!"
"Right. Sure." McCormick's face broke into a wide grin.
The judge's grin rivaled the ex-con's. Then he became serious. "I'm not saying you can't come home. I just don't want you to make a decision you regret."
ooOoo
Mark stood outside of Olivia's door, listening to the music that had started almost simultaneously with her entrance. "With or Without You," by U2. He wondered at the irony as he knocked loudly.
The music ceased, but there was no welcome to enter. Mark waited a moment before calling out softly. "Livvie?"
"What?" Surly, the one word dripping with attitude.
"Can I come in?"
McCormick was about to call out again when the door was opened. Olivia left it ajar but went back to sit on her bed, purposefully turned away from her father. Mark stepped into the room, taking a seat in the desk chair. He spun back and forth nervously as he spoke. "I thought taking off when things got rough was my move."
Olivia turned to face him. "That's what you're doing. You're leaving, aren't you?"
Mark stilled the desk chair. He looked closely at the girl. "Did your mother tell you?"
Olivia shook her head. "So I'm right." She lowered her gaze, and began to twirl a curl around a finger. "When?"
"Tuesday."
This time there was no response, just a sad nod. McCormick was surprised to find himself irritated by the emotional reaction. "Listen, Olivia –"
"Oh, it's 'Olivia' now."
Mark drew back at the caustic words. Was I like this at her age? he wondered. Then: Let's face it; you were probably worse. He admitted, and not for the first time, that his mother must have been a saint.
Still, this way she had of grabbing onto his emotions, and shaking them, like a dog playing with a chew toy. He barely knew her – they'd met a week ago today – and she was already adept at pushing his buttons. He considered it could be her resemblance to Sandra or Martina – or hell, maybe even to Sonny – and that the things that annoyed him about those individuals could be the same things that frustrated him about Olivia.
Or maybe you're just seeing yourself.
"Listen." His tone was firm and a little angry, and Olivia looked up, startled. He tried to not let the wide eyes sway him. "I don't live here, you know."
"You could."
Mark shook his head with a sigh. "Okay. Let's look at it this way. What if it was reversed?" Olivia shrugged, but didn't answer. He went on. "What if your mom had brought you out to California to meet me? And the two of you stayed a while, and things were going good, like they are here? And then I asked you to stay. To live in California."
Olivia had been looking at him, but now she tilted her head slightly, looking away. McCormick grunted softly, seeing that he'd gotten through.
"And maybe you'd want to stay. Maybe it would even seem like the right thing to do. But you'd have to leave your home behind. Your neighbors, your friends, your school – your grandmother. How would that feel?"
Olivia crossed her arms. "I dunno," she mumbled.
"I think you do. Just because I'm an adult, it doesn't mean those things don't matter to me. My school, my doctor, my life right now – it's in California. I have to go back." He paused, then spoke softly, almost to himself. "Yeah, I could live out here. And maybe that isn't such an unreasonable request. But I have things I'd have to figure out first. . . "
Olivia's face had transformed. It was shining with hope, and the grin was a full-wattage McCormick special. Mark looked back uneasily. "And I'd have to talk to your mom, and your grandmother, and – and – well, it wouldn't be immediate – it might not work – "
His daughter sprang off her bed to throw her arms around him in a grateful embrace.
Slightly confused by what had just happened, Mark welcomed the hug. He attempted to return it, but Olivia soon drew back. Still a little prickly, he thought.
The girl's earlier grin had softened into a hesitant smile. "So, should we finish watching the talent show?"
"I don't know if we need to." Mark shrugged. "You won, didn't you?"
Olivia made a face. "Second place. There was a fifth grader who taught her deaf dog to do tricks using sign language."
McCormick raised his eyebrows. "Really? Wow. No wonder she won. Yeah, let's go watch it. I gotta see that – Ow! Bruises!"
Olivia left her room, bounding back to the family room. As he was rubbing his arm where the girl had smacked him, Mark was slower to follow. When he finally rose from the desk chair and turned to leave, his view caught the cork board above the desk. He was surprised, and a little awed, to see his hospital bracelet, now tacked up with the others Olivia had collected. He stared at the plastic bands, suddenly feeling his throat constrict.
"Hey! Are you coming?"
McCormick shook himself lightly, blinked a few times, and went to join his daughter.
Once Hardcastle and McCormick had settled on their departure date, the days seemed to mesh together into events that were going too fast (the amount of time Mark was able to spend with Olivia and Martina) and too slow (the plodding, creeping, countless minutes until he and the judge returned home). Olivia and Mark finished going through the scrapbooks and photo albums, and viewed most of the video tapes. On Saturday night, Sandra stayed home with Olivia so that Mark and Martina could go out for dinner. Dinner led to drinks (for Martina; Mark abstained from alcohol not only because of the dietitian's advice but also because he was driving), and drinks led to conversation, first in the restaurant and later while sitting in the car at a nearby park. When the car got too cramped, they left its confines to amble along the banks of a small river, hand-in-hand. And not long after that, the conversation gave way to a more intimate type of interaction.
It was past two a.m. by the time Mark and Martina made it home, yet they were still talking animatedly as they entered the back door, the long day and late hour prompting their punch-drunk behavior. It wasn't long before a sleepy but wide-awake Sandra appeared in the kitchen, and she scolded the couple, saying that their giggling and loud whispers were bound to wake Olivia. If Sandra noticed that McCormick's shirt was buttoned wrong or that Martina's skirt was on backwards, she didn't mention it.
Because it was so late (or so very early), Martina encouraged Mark to spend the night, and set about finding some sheets and pillows for the couch. McCormick was hesitant about sleeping over, even on the couch. "Hardcase is probably wondering where the hell I am," he said, looking warily at Sandra.
The woman waved off his concern. "Call him and tell him you're staying here. It's late, and you really shouldn't be driving all that way with no rest. Anyway, we have Father's Day plans in the morning."
"Oh. Yeah, right." Mark grinned, and this time it wasn't over-tiredness that prompted the wide smile. Father's Day. He still hadn't gotten used to the tinge of excited pride every time he heard the name of the holiday.
Martina returned to the family room, linens in her hands. Her skirt had been re-positioned, and as she passed Mark she nodded at his shirt. "Buttons," she whispered.
McCormick's hand strayed to his chest, and he felt the area where his shirt puckered around the mis-buttoned section. He locked eyes with Martina, and his grin turned sly.
ooOoo
Father's Day was another perfectly blue-skied, mild day. McCormick awoke stiff and sore, but unusually content. Even when Hardcastle arrived – by taxi – and was griping loudly as soon as he entered the door, it did little to dilute Mark's cheer. "I don't know why in the hell I paid to rent a car, if you're just gonna let it sit in the driveway here, and make me take a cab."
"I'm sorry, Judge."
Milt quieted, looking suspiciously at his friend. After a moment, he shook his head. "I guess it made sense for you to not drive back so late. But you coulda told me that you were going to do that earlier, instead of waking me up at three in the morning." He didn't mention that he'd been awake, waiting for McCormick's return.
"You're right. I mean, I didn't know the night was gonna go so late, but I'm sorry for waking you up." The apology sounded sincere, but the smile that accompanied it showed Mark suspected he hadn't interrupted the judge's sleep at all.
Hardcastle tried another suspicious look, but it fell flat in the delivery. "Well, all right," the older man mumbled. He handed McCormick his duffel bag. "Fresh clothes. Go change."
ooOoo
The group of five went out for a late breakfast. Mark was roundly feted, even receiving a free meal from the restaurant, and he was slightly flustered by the attention. He'd never really had a day when he'd been personally celebrated in this fashion. He didn't count his birthday, as for most of his life that date had brought about feelings of loss and anger, rather than enjoyment and happiness.
Olivia shared her itinerary for the day as they were finishing their meals, and the next stop was mini-golf. Milt and Sandra sat at a picnic area and chatted while Olivia and her parents putted their way through eighteen holes. Olivia won. Bowling followed the mini-golf, and Milt and Sandra sat in the scoring area, continuing their chat as they watched the family of three bowl. This time, McCormick won.
The rest of the day was somewhat low-key, as everyone recovered from the earlier activities. Mark and Martina especially enjoyed the lazy afternoon, as they were both still feeling the effects of their extended date the night before. McCormick was nestled comfortably in the larger couch, Martina sitting next to him with her head on his shoulder. Both were half-dozing when Olivia approached with a small wrapped package. She held it out to her father.
"Um, this is for you."
Mark looked up, puzzled. "What? I already got a gift." He nodded down to his feet, clad in brand-new black Chuck Taylor high-top sneakers.
Olivia lifted her shoulders in a quick shrug, and McCormick could see in just the small gesture that the girl was nervous. He sat up straighter on the couch, taking the package. As he started to unwrap it, he realized Martina was now awake and alert, watching closely. Turning his head, Mark saw that Sandra and Hardcastle were standing behind Olivia, also watching and waiting for the reveal.
Feeling slightly nervous himself, McCormick finished ripping the paper from the package, exposing a small velvet jewelry box. Opening the box, he found it contained a religious medal, attached to an expensive silver chain. Unlike his St. Jude medal, this one was oval, not round. And the saint that was pictured. . .
"It's St. Olivia." Olivia spoke just as Mark read the words on the medal. Before he could comment, she went on, talking fast. "It's sort of from all of us. Grandma came up with the idea, Mom found the store in the city, and the judge was kinda the final vote on what you'd like best, you know, like gold or silver or whatever." She paused to catch her breath, then asked, "Do you like it?"
Mark lifted the medallion out of the box, letting it rest on his palm. He swallowed, trying to force down the lump in the throat. He could feel four pairs of eyes on him, and he knew they were all waiting for his response, but he couldn't think of the words to accurately express what the "group project" gift meant to him. He took a breath, feeling his body tremble with the inhalation.
"It's – it's too much."
"Oh, cost too much?" Olivia guessed. "I dunno. I spent most of my money on your shoes, so mom helped me buy that."
Mark looked at Martina. She smiled and shrugged.
Olivia watched her parents exchange quiet glances. She shuffled her feet anxiously, then asked Mark again, soft and hesitant: "So . . . do you like it?"
McCormick turned back to his daughter. Just over her head, he glimpsed Sandra's face, and the apprehension on it.
Her idea? This was her idea?
When Mark spoke, he wasn't looking at Olivia. Instead he looked directly at Sandra.
"It's perfect," he said.
ooOoo
It wasn't until after supper, when Martina, Olivia, and Hardcastle were trying to settle on a videotape to watch (both adults were trying to talk the girl out of Back to the Future), that McCormick was able to speak privately with Sandra. She was in the kitchen, putting away the dinner dishes, when he approached her.
"Sandra?"
The woman turned from the cabinet. "Oh. Mark." Her tone was slightly off-putting.
Mark tried to not let her reluctance sway him. He pressed on.
"Olivia said this was your idea?" He indicated the St. Olivia medallion, now around his neck.
Sandra didn't answer; instead, she bypassed the question. "Martina's really to thank for it. She was the one who found it; St. Olivia medals aren't as easy to find as St. Joseph or St. Christopher, for example."
"But you came up with the idea. You suggested it."
Sandra moved to the table, sitting in a chair. After a moment, Mark followed suit. He stared at the woman and waited.
"It was my idea. I know how attached you are to your necklace, how it's a connection to your mother, and I thought that you – "
"Wait," McCormick interrupted, "how do you know that?" Then he pursed his lips, swearing softly. "Damn it, Judge."
Sandra shook her head. "Milt didn't tell me."
"Then how – "
"I remember, Mark."
Mark's hand went inadvertently to his pocket, where he'd tucked his St. Jude medallion. It was the last gift he'd received from his mother. She'd gotten it for his fifteenth birthday, although in the confusion and preoccupation of her illness, they hadn't celebrated his birthday until early July. He'd opened the box containing the medallion while sitting at the side of her hospital bed.
"I didn't realize you knew," he said.
Sandra nodded. "And I hoped that this one –" she gestured at the chain around Mark's neck, "– would connect you to Olivia the same way. No matter where you are."
Mark smiled, finding that he liked the thought. "That's really nice, Sandra."
"I am nice."
McCormick laughed out loud.
"Okay," she relented, "maybe not always with you. I'll admit I've been a little hard on you."
"A little?" Mark gasped as he fought to control his laughter.
Sandra sighed in disgust, although Mark thought the disgust was aimed more at herself than at him. "It's habit, I guess," she said. "Or maybe a defense mechanism. I have a lot to apologize for when it comes to you, and the guilty conscience brings out my – what does Olivia call it? – my 'snarky' side."
Mark was looking down at the table top, suddenly sober. "I know all about guilty consciences," he murmured. He lifted his head and attempted to smile. "I know you've been trying. I appreciate it. And I really like the gift." He pressed his fingers against his chest, feeling the outline of the medal through his shirt. "Thank you."
"You're welcome."
The quiet conversation was broken by a call from the family room. "Hey, kid, where are ya? The movie's about to start!"
McCormick stood. "Gotta go. I've been summoned." He started toward the family room, then stopped and turned back. "Wait. I had another question for you. About that clipping you gave Olivia. The one from my first win."
Sandra ducked her head, not meeting his eyes. "What about it?"
"Well, that was a good five years before Olivia was even born. So you must have had it that long." When Sandra didn't disagree, McCormick went on. "And I know I wasn't that big of a deal to be in papers up here. I mean, not then."
"But maybe in Georgia?"
"Georgia?" Mark repeated. "Yeah, sure. Georgia, South Carolina. . . What does that have to do with anything?"
"I have a friend who lives in Georgia. She sent me the clipping."
McCormick nodded, smiling slightly. "Aunt Carole. Olivia mentioned her."
"That's right," Sandra confirmed. "I actually knew about your first win before Martina did."
Mark stared, considering the implications. Not only had Sandra had a friend of hers watching the sports section for his name, but she'd kept that newspaper clipping to herself, for years, not even sharing it with her daughter.
To him, it sounded like something that an ashamed, remorseful person might do.
The same ashamed, remorseful person who'd told your daughter you were dead.
The outrage surged without warning, and a hard tone bled into his voice. "If it was so important for Olivia to know who her father was, why did you have to kill me off?" Damn, and we'd been having such a nice talk.
Sandra didn't return the anger in kind. In fact, her demeanor was calm and composed.
"Mark, she was barely four. And you'd been in trouble, been arrested. . . Weren't you still in prison then? Six years ago?"
"You might know that now, but you didn't know then." McCormick glared back moodily. "Why don't you admit you were never going to tell her about me? That the only reason you did now is because of the PKD?"
"Maybe you're right," Sandra conceded. "Maybe we would have told her when she was older, and let her decide on her own if it was worth it to track you down. Maybe we never would've told her." She looked steadily at the angry young man across from her. "But does it really matter now?"
Mark was jolted by her last statement, as he remembered he had said the exact same thing himself.
Hardcastle suddenly appeared at Mark's side. "Didn't you hear me? Your kid's getting antsy!"
"All right, all right." McCormick began to follow the judge, then looked back at Sandra, still sitting quietly at the table. After a thoughtful pause, he moved back into the kitchen, standing beside her and extending a hand.
"Come on. Let's go watch a movie."
On Tuesday, it rained. It was the first bad weather since Mark had arrived in New York, and the grey, gloomy day fit his mood entirely.
After returning the rental car and condensing their luggage (McCormick had crammed his backpack into Hardcastle's suitcase, so that all he'd have on the plane was his duffel bag), the men went about the various airport check-in procedures. Hardcastle checked his suitcase, the two procured their tickets (Los Angeles by way of a stop in Chicago), and after a trip through security, the group of five eventually gathered in the seating area near the gate.
Olivia had been unusually reserved the entire morning, and as Hardcastle and McCormick said their good-byes, she stood close to her mother, looking sorrowfully at the floor while winding a stray curl around her fingers. Out of the corner of her vision, she saw the judge shake hands with her grandmother and accept a kiss on the cheek from her mother. He then bent down to her level. "Hey, honey, take care of your mom and grandma, okay?" he said.
Olivia didn't answer, but she nodded minutely. The judge ruffled her hair, then rose. When he had moved from her sight, Olivia could see her father and grandmother hugging. For a moment astonishment replaced her unhappiness.
After moving away from Sandra, Mark turned to Martina. Olivia backed up a step, watching as her parents gazed at each other.
McCormick and Martina took each other's hands. Neither spoke for a moment. Finally Mark sighed deeply. "I don't know how to do this. How to say good-bye."
"Then don't." Martina squeezed his hands. "It's not really good-bye; it's more like 'See you soon.' It's not like we won't be seeing each other for ten years this time."
Hardcastle sidled over near the couple. "C'mon, McCormick," he murmured. "Flight's boarding in a few minutes. Just kiss her and get it over with."
Mark broke into a grin. "Well, if you say so, Judge." He pulled Martina closer, and the two met in a soft, deep kiss. McCormick lost track of time, and was genuinely surprised when Hardcastle cleared his throat and Martina reluctantly pulled back. "What?" he muttered in irritation.
"They just called our flight. Let's go."
Mark glanced back at the judge, then drew Martina into a quick, tight embrace. When they parted, he looked at Olivia, standing at Martina's side. "Livvie. Hon, I've got to go."
Olivia looked up briefly, then lowered her head. "Okay. Bye."
"Olivia. . . "
"McCormick!" Milt had moved to the ticket desk near the jetway doors. "Time to go!"
"Okay!" Mark called back. He gave his daughter one last, dejected look, then turned to follow the judge.
McCormick had almost made it across the jetway threshold when Olivia broke away from her mother, running toward her father.
"Dad! Wait!"
Mark turned back, letting his duffel bag fall to the floor. He dropped to his knees and opened his arms as Olivia ran into them. She buried her head in his shoulder, crying. "I love you," she sobbed.
Mark held her close, stroking her hair with a shaking hand. He felt tears trying to break through, and blinked in a vain attempt to stop the flow. He pulled an arm away from Olivia, and wiped a hand across his eyes. Then he sat back on his haunches, holding his hands lightly on his daughter's shoulders. Mark struggled to smile, but his response was easy, and genuine.
"I love you too, kiddo."
ooOoo
Once the men boarded the plane and found their seats, McCormick automatically took the window seat. He shoved his duffel bag under the seat before him, then sat down heavily and faced the window. He drew his arms tight across his chest and stared out at the rain falling on the tarmac.
Hardcastle regarded the desolate figure for a few seconds, until the line of passengers behind him forced him to sit down. Settling his carry-on on his lap, he fiddled with the handles momentarily before he spoke.
"Are you all right?"
"No." Mark spoke without turning. "I just did maybe the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my life."
Hardcastle nodded. "I understand that. But you said – "
McCormick gave Hardcastle a sharp look. "I don't want to talk about it. Okay, Judge?"
Milt nodded again. "Sure."
McCormick turned back to the window. He slumped down in his seat, drawing up his legs. "Wake me up when we land in Chicago," he said, then closed his eyes.
ooOoo
Hardcastle had pulled a paperback western out of his carry-on, and after listening respectfully to the flight attendant's emergency procedures spiel, he cracked the spine and started reading. By the time the plane had taxied off the runway and taken flight, he was well into the third chapter.
"You read that already."
Milt held up a finger, finished the paragraph he was on, and then dog-eared the page and closed the book. "So? I like it." He looked sidelong at McCormick. "Thought you were going to sleep."
Mark shook his head. "I can't stop seeing her face. The way she was crying. . . If we hadn't already been at the airport, I probably never would have left New York." He sighed softly, then looked seriously at his friend. "Judge – I'm really sorry about your son. I don't think I really understood before what – Well, I mean, I still can't, but I think now I know a little more. . . But I don't mean to compare this to – Oh, damn it."
Hardcastle waved off the jumbled words. "I get it, kiddo." He gave McCormick's shoulder a brief squeeze. "Thanks."
Both men were quiet for several minutes. McCormick's hand tracked up to his neck, and he rubbed the St. Olivia medal between his fingers. Hardcastle turned back to his book.
The silence was broken by another sigh from McCormick. Hardcastle lowered his paperback and waited.
"Do you think I did the right thing, Judge?"
Milt rubbed his chin thoughtfully, also giving a sigh. "Well, you know, I've been thinking about that since we had our talk. You do have stuff you need to take care of at home. Whether you decide to stay or move. You were right about that." He held up a hand and started to tick things off on his fingers. "You need to see Charlie, for one." He lifted a second finger: "You need to make sure your grades came in, and that everything's on track there." A third finger: "And maybe you can figure out some way to pay Teddy back." Mark made a face that was a mix of embarrassment and resignation. The judge grunted at his friend's reaction before continuing. "So if you're asking about leaving your kid so you can come home and get yourself sorted out . . . then yeah, I think you made the right choice."
Mark nodded slowly. He leaned back in his seat, turning his head to again gaze out the window.
"Then why does it feel so wrong?"
Author's Note: The Simon & Garfunkel song Olivia sings, "Bridge Over Troubled Water" was written by Paul Simon. (Released in 1970.)
-ck