The Recipient

  “This is beautiful soil, Dad,” she remarked enthusiastically.

  “My own concoction,” Peter replied proudly. “Only the best organic matter—all of it composed of vegetable matter that I’ve grown previously.”

  It was clear how much effort he had gone to. The garden’s presentation was indicative of his devotion to exacting standards; the right soil, sturdy construction, equal distances and straight lines.

  Casey gestured towards the centre of the garden. “I see the cubby house bit the dust.”

  “Well, it wasn’t getting any use,” Peter explained. “Wood was rotting and the dog was paranoid about it. I half expected to come outside one day to find him crushed underneath it.”

  Casey smirked and folded her arms. “As usual, Dad, you’ve outdone yourself. I’m putting my hand up right now for some of that cauliflower. I have two or three dishes in mind I can put it into.”

  Peter chuckled as he bent down to retrieve a rolled up garden hose from a nearby tap. Rounding Casey on his way back, she stepped forward then turned to face the house. A sunroom, featuring large glass panels looked out onto the garden. It was another recent addition to the house which Casey had not yet seen completed.

  “Wow, this has come up a treat,” she commented, outstretching her arms. “Almost wish it had been here when I was still here.”

  Peter smiled at Casey, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “Why don’t you go and have a look?” he suggested.

  Casey stiffened. “N-no. That’s all right.”

  “Casey, the house isn’t going to bite you,” Peter coaxed her. “As I said, your mother’s a good couple of hours away.”

  He shook his head sadly. His daughter’s reluctance to even step foot inside was one thing he had trouble accepting.

  “I do wish you could both bury the hatchet one of these days.”

  Casey flashed him an icy glare. “You shouldn’t be mentioning hatchets, Dad,” she warned.

  Peter detected a subtle shift in Casey’s posture. Her shoulders sagged and her resistance faded just a little.

  “Look. I’ll come in with you,” Peter suggested. “That mail of yours is sitting on the table in the dining room. If you don’t take it now, I’m gonna toss it in the recycling bin.”

  Placing the hose down, Peter gently cupped his hand under her elbow. She didn’t resist. Together, they crossed the lawn and stepped up to the house.

  At that moment, Sam sprinted past them and escaped through the side gate.

  “Crap,” Peter hissed.

  He glanced at Casey.

  “Go on,” she gestured. “Go and get him before he gets squashed.”

  Casey opened the door and passed through it into the sunroom.

  She had to admit, it was a gorgeous addition to what had once had been a simple, enclosed verandah. The engineered quality to the glass and steel construction had her father’s fingerprints all over it. It said a lot that this extension had been designed and completed in the few short years since he’d retired from his career as a civil engineer.

  The old bugger can’t help himself, she mused.

  Casey looked across at a dining table on which sat a shoebox filled with mail. Several mailer tubes sat beside it. She looked through into the kitchen and living room fleetingly.

  Shaking her head slowly, she approached the table and put her hands on both sides of the box. She quickly inspected its contents.

  God, what a mess, she thought ruefully.

  She thumbed through the envelopes inside the box, inspecting them more closely, looking for any signs that they might have been tampered with—as had been the case in the past—but she saw nothing obvious.

  On the far side of the table, Casey noted an assortment of documents and folders that bore the name of Slattery & Gerard, the law firm her mother worked for. They had been left in such a way that it appeared her mother had been working through them and had stepped out with the intention of returning to them. Her eyes drifted over and she noticed among them some documents carrying a familiar logo: a crimson bird’s wing, edged with gold that swept around in an arc to form a large e.

  Casey squinted and tilted her head curiously. She had seen that logo before, but she couldn’t quite recall where.

  “Hello.”

  Though the voice was soft, it still made Casey jump. She whipped her head up to find her mother standing at the entrance to the sunroom. Her silent defences snapped to life.

  Edie Schillinge was still striking in appearance, though there was a weariness in the way she held herself. Telltale lines creased the edges of her eyes, her chestnut hair was flecked with grey. Casey couldn’t be sure if that grey had been there the last time they had seen one another.

  Mother and daughter stood before one another, neither able to offer up the next exchange.

  “I thought you were working,” Casey remarked, deadpan.

  Edie shrugged, stepping around the table and setting her handbag down beside the documents.

  “I had some errands to run for the office. It didn’t take as long as I thought it would.”

  Casey’s eyes shifted between her mother and the paperwork before her, which did not escape Edie’s notice.

  “This is going to keep me plenty occupied,” she ventured.

  “What is it?” Casey asked, her curiosity towards the familiar logo piqued.

  “Just some pro bono work we’re doing on behalf of new migrants to Australia. Slattery & Gerard have several clients on their books. We provide assistance with asylum claims, visa disputes, that sort of thing. Actually, we’ve got Professor Fedele to thank for some of this. He facilitated some of the work through some humanitarian consulting he does.”

  Casey bristled at the mention of her surgeon’s name, but she held herself in check. Instead, she nodded at the logo, now remembering where she had seen it: on the envelope that Fedele was holding when she had seen him in his office.

  “That’s his organisation?”

  Edie looked down and thumbed the document. “Well…not so much his organisation. One that he consults with. Elyria Medical Services. They conduct health assessments for new arrivals, asylum seekers.”

  “Boat people?” Casey ventured.

  Edie nodded hesitantly. “Them too.”

  Awkward silence drifted between them. Casey shifted on the spot, wishing she hadn’t spoken so much, hadn’t expressed so much interest in her mother. Edie gathered up the papers on the table before her, placing them into the folder and closing it over.

  “Anyway…it’s all fairly mundane work,” she said, dismissing it. “There’s just a lot of it.”

  Edie nodded toward the box before Casey. “So, Dad finally convinced you to collect that. Seems like you’ve got your own work cut out for you.”

  Casey regarded her mail and nodded. “Mmm-hmm. I’m sure there’s a whole bunch of bills in here that are well overdue.”

  Hesitating, she moved to pick up the box, her skin prickling with anxiety. She wanted to extricate herself from here as quickly as she could before things had the chance to turn.

  “How are you?” Edie offered, setting aside the papers in her hand and stepping forward. There was a flash of hope in her eyes. “How have you been?”

  Casey looked at her mother, her gaze shifting, unable to meet Edie’s directly. “All right,” she replied tersely.

  Sensing her daughter’s defensiveness, Edie nonetheless persisted. “Dad says you might head up to Hambledown for a bit. That would be good for you.”

  Casey looked down at her feet. “I might. I haven’t decided yet. I still have a lot going on here.”

  Casey attempted to turn away. Edie stepped down from the doorway.

  “I-I was just about to put the kettle on,” she ventured hopefully. “Would you stay for a cup of tea? I have some of that chai you like.”

  “I better not. I have to get going.” Casey stepped back from the table and turned towards the door.

  Watching her daughter leave
, Edie bit her lip, trying to search for something to say. “How was Prof. Fedele?” she blurted, trying to keep her daughter from leaving.

  “Fine,” Casey responded harshly. Her scalp bristled at the mention of his name.

  “W-well, what did he say? Is everything going okay?”

  Casey stopped at the entrance. She turned slowly and, for the first time, fixed her mother with an icy glower.

  Edie faltered where she stood.

  “What do you think he said?” Casey retorted angrily. “After all, you should know.”

  “I-I don’t understa—”

  “Oh, don’t you dare, Edie! Don’t you bloody dare!” The strength of Casey’s rebuke was enough that Edie recoiled and had to stifle a gasp.

  “He told me you called,” Casey continued. “That you were concerned about the pot and the pills. So don’t stand there and play all innocent with me.”

  “I-I’m not trying to,” Edie responded breathlessly. “I’m just…I just want to know that you’re okay.”

  With that, Casey flung the box from her hands, its contents scattering across the floor. She raised an accusing finger at her mother.

  “No!” she shouted. “That’s not it at all and you know it. This is about you interfering again. This is about you being unable to keep your nose out of my business. I can take care of myself.”

  “But are you, Casey?” Edie’s sudden challenge stopped Casey cold. At once, Edie’s demeanour shifted and she crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you really? I mean, look at you! You look like you haven’t slept in days. You’ve got bags under your eyes. Have you spent any time in the sun?”

  “You know I can’t spend a lot of time outdoors,” Casey spat venomously.

  Edie ignored her daughter as she continued, suddenly emboldened. “You’re still doing drugs, Casey. You know that’s completely irresponsible in your condition. And what’s that on your shoulder? Another tattoo? I mean, who does that to themselves?”

  Casey blinked at her mother.

  “I do, Edie!” she screamed, her blood boiling. “I do. I do what I fucking want, when I want and I don’t need anybody’s permission.”

  Casey couldn’t believe she was in the eye of yet another confrontation. Her cheeks flushed pink. Her eyes became swollen and she brushed at them angrily in a futile attempt to prevent the tears from escaping. The last thing she wanted was to appear vulnerable in front of her mother.

  Just then, Peter appeared in the doorway and positioned himself between his wife and daughter.

  “What the bloody hell is going on here!?” he demanded. “Jesus, I leave you two alone for five seconds.”

  “You said she wasn’t going to be coming, Dad!” Casey retorted shakily, her chest heaving. Edie looked helpless.

  “Look,” Peter said, casting concerned glances between both daughter and wife. “Let’s everyone take a moment to calm down a little. This is doing none of us any good.”

  He glared at Casey, waiting for her acknowledgement. After a few seconds, she nodded affirmatively. He then looked at Edie. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead. Her expression was fearful.

  She was looking at her daughter, but not at her face.

  Peter followed her gaze down and then saw what she saw.

  A billowing cloud of red on the white linen of Casey’s shirt bore over her sternum, fresh blood that was seeping into the material from the wounds on her chest.

  Casey frowned through her tears and looked down, realising that the dressing she had placed over the scratches on her chest had peeled away, revealing the angry, self-inflicted welts underneath.

  She gasped and stumbled backwards. The only thing that prevented her from falling over was the door frame behind her and she felt desperately for it to keep herself up.

  She felt dizzy. Her emotions were in turmoil. She couldn’t let anyone see her like this—especially not her parents. Especially not her mother.

  The walls of the house closed in on her. She had to get away from here, but her legs wouldn’t allow her.

  “I need the toilet,” she croaked as nausea beckoned and the urge to vomit overcame her.

  His shock melting into concern, Peter reached her to gently place a hand under her forearm but Casey brushed it away angrily.

  Instead, she lurched forward and ran to the bathroom.

  CHAPTER 8.

  The suite was a quiet and comfortable space, the centrepiece of which were two stylish sofas arranged around a wood cabinet that served as a coffee table. Two large bookcases stood behind in the corner of the office, filled with a comprehensive library of psychology texts, assorted self-help books and one or two fiction titles. These were offset by a number of photos of good-looking, happy people.

  On the wall opposite, framed in imposing black timber, hung a Mark Rothko print. It was a large painting whose bold colours Casey found garish and ugly. The pairing of browns and oranges had been thrust together with an aggressive hand and Casey couldn’t decide if it was meant to intimidate or simply scare anyone who came here. It was a difficult image to ignore.

  This suite was far removed from the modernism of Fedele’s consulting suite. French doors looked out onto a secluded lawn and rose garden, where a fountain and urn provided a haven for birds, a trio of which splashed in the water presently. Large rose bushes, their limbs filled with fat buds, surrounded the urn while a rambling rose grew along a fence farther out. It provided a soft backdrop to the scene that minimised the visual presence of anything manmade. A pair of cast iron chairs sat on either side of a matching table, providing the option for consultations to be conducted outdoors if the therapist and client so wished.

  Casey couldn’t remember if she had ever taken up that option. She sat on the sofa now, facing the garden and taking in the scene before her. She drifted on the nuances of what was taking place outdoors: noting the birds in the fountain, how the breeze tugged at the tenacious foliage of the rambling rose, how the shadows from the building fell across the lawn. She occupied her mind with the scene and added random thoughts to her stream of consciousness, so she could avoid having to deal with her situation in the room here and now.

  “Casey.”

  The voice, though soft and measured, jolted Casey out of her reverie. She jumped in her seat and turned in the direction from which that voice had come.

  The woman sitting across from her was middle-aged with cropped, sandy hair and large eyes that were framed by a pair of stylish glasses. Her face, faintly lined, was still youthful and projected patience and openness: a willingness to listen without foisting expectation.

  Geddie Kirkwood sat in a leather recliner with cushions bolstering her small frame from behind. She wore a brightly patterned scarf that paired well with her soft green blouse—an expensive one, Casey surmised. She rested a clipboard on her knee that held a lined notepad. An expensive fountain pen was intertwined between her fingers. It was her preference to make a lot of notes. She waited patiently.

  Very patiently.

  It had been two months since Casey had last sat in this room.

  She and Kirkwood had danced this merry dance for almost three years. In the immediate period after Casey’s surgery, they met for an hour on a weekly basis as recommended by the transplant clinic. Kirkwood also met individually with Casey’s parents and her brother and also as a group as part of the process of transitioning and adapting to life post-surgery. As Casey’s recovery progressed, the sessions stretched from weekly, to fortnightly, then monthly as Kirkwood reassessed hers and her family’s needs.

  Casey found it difficult to believe that she had once viewed these sessions as valuable. She had felt comfortable in her psychologist’s presence and was readily able to explore and reflect on how she was coping with the changes that had shaped her.

  But, as she had with everything else to do with her medical care, she soon came to resent having to submit herself to Kirkwood’s constant scrutiny. She began to see these sessions in the same way she saw everything else: an
intrusion. As she had done with her mother, so too did she begin withholding herself from Kirkwood by either refusing to talk in these sessions or by simply not attending them at all.

  After yesterday’s incident at her parents, however, her father’s reaction had guilted her into coming here.

  Casey had a way of bluffing her way through the meetings with lengthy explorations about her feelings of survivor guilt, a common challenge faced by transplant recipients. Or she would explore her feelings of fear that the organ might fail again after her most recent rejection scare.

  But it was all fiction.

  Casey had hardly felt any of the significant survivor guilt the research papers talked about. As for her recent rejection scare, Casey had avoided talking about it in any significant detail because she had skipped a multitude of sessions. When Kirkwood tried to visit her in the hospital, Casey refused to see her.

  Casey was surprised that Kirkwood still seemed to buy all of it. Every time they met, the psychologist lapped up Casey’s spiel without question and dutifully framed her “therapy” around addressing Casey’s fictions.

  For her part, Geddie Kirkwood had observed a significant and increasingly disturbing change in Casey Schillinge. The defensive posture Casey had adopted was stark enough and though she played along with Casey’s conversations around her adjusting, Kirkwood knew there was something much deeper happening. She had access to Casey’s medical files and had seen the toxicology reports. The drug use was clearly an increasing problem, one that had to have an underlying reason.

  Casey sensed that Kirkwood was close to the truth. Which was why she had avoided these sessions as much as she could. The defensiveness she had to adopt was exhausting and Casey feared that if she continued to submit to Kirkwood’s probing, the psychologist would eventually discover the truth.