The Recipient (12 page)

CHAPTER 12.

P
eter and Edie sat in silence.

Across from them, Francis Arlo sat on the arm of a chair.

An oppressive thickness hung in the air. Peter and Edie had been unable to look at one another or speak for several hours. They didn't know what to say.

Arlo had tried to buoy their spirits by conversing about the mundane, but he was feeling increasingly awkward. Yet, he felt as though he couldn't just leave them.

Edie eventually looked across at him.

“You look exhausted, Arlo. Why don't you go and get some rest?”

Arlo smiled wearily. “I'm on days off now, Edie. I've got time to spare for you both. Fedele would be here also but he's got a large theatre list today.”

Edie reached out and squeezed Arlo's hand.

They waited anxiously for something—anything—to happen. But, as the hours passed and days melded into one another, it was becoming evident that their daughter had locked herself away from the outside world for reasons known only to herself.

Edie had purposely refrained from seeing Casey, reasoning that her presence would only make matters worse. Even Peter—whom everyone figured was best placed to communicate with her—could not break through to his daughter. Casey was as much a stranger to him now.

He sat forward, resting his arms on his knees and rubbing his hands together. His features were stony as he struggled to hold himself together. His eyes were raw. He swatted at fresh tears in muted anguish, not wanting his wife to see.

Edie regarded him with something akin to sorrow but outwardly, her expression remained flat and lifeless.

She was well aware of the turmoil raging inside her husband. She had reached that point long ago. After months and months of trying to reconnect with Casey, of battling against her growing alienation, she had realised bitterly that her daughter was lost to her. Edie didn't know this person that had stepped into Casey's shoes.

Edie had grieved and moved on.

She could only surmise that Peter was now arriving at the same realisation. It was his turn to grieve; yet she did not seem to have the energy to support him.

Peter looked up and saw her dispassionate expression. Through his tears, he furrowed his brow. “How can you just si—”

“Sit here?” Edie interrupted him.

She felt a flash of anger but she let it go.

“This has been coming for a long time,” she offered with grim resignation. “Maybe you haven't seen it. Or maybe you have and you've just refused to acknowledge it, but I've known that we would be sitting here eventually.”

“But she was never like this,” Peter protested breathlessly. “She's always been so pragmatic
.
A problem solver.”

Peter's eyes drifted across the coffee table upon which sat his wallet, car keys and phone. He reached for his wallet and took it, unfolding it as he brought it close to him.

His eyes fell across a photograph inside, secured in a transparent sleeve. It was Casey.

She stood on a cliff-top overlooking a beautiful, lush jungle vista. Dressed in a grubby singlet, hiking shorts and a small backpack, she stood with a hiking stick, tall and proud. Her head was turned towards the camera, her face was haloed by the setting sun. She wore an enthusiastic, almost triumphant, smile.

Glancing at Arlo, Peter offered the image to him. Arlo took it and gazed at the photo. He bowed his head respectfully.

“She's always been so determined,” he offered softly.

Peter nodded slowly.

Dawning realisation taunted his conscience. The young woman in the picture was indeed gone. He wept openly now.

Edie's facade began to crack. Tears came freely, more for the grief she could see in her husband than her daughter's predicament.

“What is it that has damaged her so much?'” he whispered.

The glass door to the lounge clicked. Edie and Arlo looked up to see Geddie Kirkwood standing there, hesitating.

“Should I come back later?”

Edie stood. “No, no,” she said. “It's all right. Please, come in.”

Peter didn't look up as she entered, but nodded absently in support of his wife. His eyes remained unfocused, staring downwards as Edie motioned for her to sit. Arlo stood and sidestepped as Kirkwood passed him. They greeted each other with a silent nod. Arlo set the photograph down on the table as Peter tried to compose himself.

“Sorry, Geddie,” he apologised, squeezing his nose between thumb and forefinger to stop it from dripping.

“No need to apologise,” Kirkwood responded sympathetically.

“Has there been any change?” Edie ventured flatly, almost reluctantly.

“No,” Kirkwood replied solemnly. “She continues to eat a little. Her doctor reports that she is, otherwise, physically well. She just refuses to speak.”

Peter leaned back shaking his head. He hissed in frustration. “Six days. Six
bloody
days
.
”

“I know this is an impossible situation,” Kirkwood said. “But we can only review her current orders when—and if
—
she decides to speak. Until that time, I can't establish whether she will be a risk to herself.”

“I just want to understand why,” Peter whispered.

Kirkwood gestured to the photograph on the table. “Do you mind?”

“No, of course not. Please.” Peter slid the image closer to her hand and she picked it up.

Normally, Kirkwood would have put on her glasses to examine a photograph as small as this one but there was no need. Even in the soft light of the lounge, she could make out the image of Casey.

“She is indomitable,” she remarked.

Peter raised his eyebrows at her. “
Is
?”

Edie was as equally surprised by her remark.

“Mmm,” Kirkwood mused. “Anyone who can go a week without giving ground to any questioning from me must have an incredibly strong will.”

“What are you getting at?” Peter asked with a hint of exasperation.

“Casey is doing her level best to prevent anyone from getting inside her head. That doesn't strike me as someone who is weak, or dare I say it, suicidal.”

Edie reacted first. She glanced at Arlo then lifted her hand to her forehead, rubbing it in frustration.

“How can you say that? Your saw her apartment…what she tried to do to herself. How can it be anything other than a suicide attempt?”

Kirkwood nodded, then smiled sadly. “Because it was so chaotic. Casey is a methodical person, right? I heard you say it yourself, she's a problem solver. If Casey were going to attempt something so drastic as suicide, I'm betting she would plan it down to the finest detail. It's not in her nature to act so randomly.”

Peter and Edie exchanged bewildered glances. Edie shook her head.

“It's a long bow, but I'm asking you to trust me on this. I've worked with her long enough now to know what she is and what she isn't. I don't believe she tried to commit suicide.”

“Well, what was she trying to do?” Peter asked, trying to remain calm, to allow himself to go along with Kirkwood's line of thought.

“We've suspected that Casey has been avoiding sleep, haven't we?” Kirkwood ventured. “You've said it yourself, Peter. You've told me that Casey has often hinted to you that she doesn't sleep well and, in all likelihood, hasn't done so for at least a year.”

Peter nodded. “Yes, but she's a workaholic. She always has been. It's a personality trait she's picked up from me.”

“And that is, in all probability, quite true, but don't you think there is something wrong about it? You've surely seen the signs. The sleep deprivation, the mood swings—not to mention the use of drugs, stimulants especially. She's not using them to keep herself working.”

Kirkwood paused.

“I think she's using them because she's
afraid to sleep
.”

Peter felt a rush of conflicting emotions as he digested Kirkwood's theory. On one hand, there was relief that Kirkwood didn't think this was an attempt at self-harm. At the same time, he felt a perverse sense of curiosity as he began to search for the possible scenarios that her hypothesis opened up. Yet, as he did so, those scenarios also compounded his confusion and then his fear.

“Do you think someone has spooked her?” Arlo ventured curiously. “Threatened her perhaps? A stalker?”

Kirkwood seemed to consider Arlo's suggestion, but she shook her head. “I don't believe so. I think this is something more visceral. Something within herself.”

A pager inside Kirkwood's bag vibrated and she retrieved it, checking her watch. Inspecting the pager's display, she looked at Arlo, Peter and Edie apologetically.

“I'm sorry. Looks like I'm going to have to leave you for now. Have you given any further consideration to finding someone outside of your immediate circle here in Melbourne who might be able to help us in encouraging Casey to open up? You mentioned your son?”

Peter shifted uncomfortably. “We haven't told him about her being in here. Angus has just settled into his job in London and we didn't think it was fair to put him into the middle of this. Even if we could set something up, a video conference or something similar, he would rather get on the first flight home. Angus and his sister have always been close. But, with things as bad as they are right now, we're not even sure that he could get through to her either.”

Peter stood and walked aimlessly around the table, stopping before a window that looked out onto the city.

Kirkwood watched Peter as she collected her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. Her eyes drifted to Edie.

Though Edie's eyes were glazed, she had tilted her head suggesting that she was thinking through something. “There may be someone.”

Peter turned around and Kirkwood paused at the door.

Edie looked across at Peter and held his gaze.

“There
is
someone.”

___

Peter made his way along the bustling arrivals hall of Melbourne airport's domestic terminal, heading towards a gate midway along the thoroughfare.

His troubled mind had refused to relent on the drive out here. Since Edie had put forward her suggestion, he'd wrestled with it.

Bringing further unpredictability into the situation carried a huge risk and Peter wasn't at all sure that this was the right course of action. He feared the damage it could do, yet he'd driven out here anyway. His inner voice told him to go with it.

Approaching Arrival Lounge 8, Peter scanned the crowds to see the first passengers disembarking from the evening flight. He took a moment to collect himself, realising that he'd hurried from the car park more quickly than he'd intended. He brushed the droplets of water from the sleeves of his windbreaker and dragged his fingers through his wet hair. Peter noted that the rain was falling heavier than it had been when he'd set out from the hospital.

“Welcome to Melbourne,” he mused darkly.

The individual he'd come for stepped through the entrance into the lounge and immediately scanned the crowds with something of a bewildered expression, but when he spied Peter he smiled warmly and waved.

His thinning, silver hair was combed neatly back. His tanned, leathery face boasted jowls that had grown slightly more prominent with age, yet they did not fully consume his visage. He was dressed in a suit jacket, shirt and tie that was paired with moleskin jeans and leather boots. As he stepped around a group of passengers, Peter noted how put-together his father-in-law looked, despite the little time he'd had to prepare.

They approached one another and offered their hands simultaneously.

“Hello, Peter.”

“How are you, Lionel?” Peter offered in return before embracing his father-in-law warmly.

Lionel Broadbent slung the strap off his shoulder bag with his thumb and lowered it to the floor.

“I'm well,” he chuckled gruffly in a pleasant British accent. “Melbourne has turned the weather on, predictably.”

Peter nodded, distracted. “I take it it's all sunshine in Hambledown, as per usual.”

“Is it ever not?” Lionel asked sarcastically. “I was in shorts and flip flops before I left this morning. I packed accordingly. Thankfully Ruth checked the forecast before we left for the plane.”

A moment of awkward silence crept in between them, then Peter crouched down to pick up Lionel's bag.

“Is this…ooof!” Peter grunted as he hefted the bag up. “Jesus, what did Ruth pack into this thing?”

“Bare essentials, apparently,” Lionel replied as they walked toward the arrival hall. “Although her definition of essentials varies greatly from mine.”

“Apparently.”

___

The SUV cruised along the slick Tullamarine freeway, untroubled by the downpour. Through the rain-peppered windshield and the wipers swinging rapidly back and forth, Lionel watched the approaching skyline of the city grow more prominent.

“How long has it been?” Lionel asked.

“A week,” Peter replied with a soft gulp. “
Physically
, there's nothing wrong with her. It's just that she won't talk
.
”

The dashboard lights threw an unearthly glow up onto Peter's features. Lionel noted deep lines of tension across his forehead. He could see that he was thoroughly exhausted. Peter appeared twenty years older.

“And you think it's because she's hiding something?”

“That's what her psychologist thinks. I don't know what to think anymore,” Peter's shoulders slumped. He leaned back into his seat.

“
Psychologists
,” Lionel remarked acidly. “They're more trouble than they're worth.”

Looking out the window, Lionel shook his head slowly.

“And no one has been able to reach her?” he asked.

Peter didn't respond. His eyes remained forward, unable to look at his father-in-law. Lionel noted that his eyes were glassy and his lip trembled as he struggled to keep himself from breaking down.