The Recipient (14 page)

“Don't leave,” she pleaded again, her tear-filled eyes fixed upon him.

He did not move.

“I can't make them stop,” she seethed desperately. “They keep c-coming for me and I can't make them stop.”

Lionel turned back to face her while keeping his hand on the door handle.

“What, Casey,” he whispered urgently. “What can't you stop?”

Unfurling the index finger of her left hand and tapping angrily at her temple, she steeled her jaw and ground her teeth together. Her body shook once more in reaction as she prepared to let go of that which she had held onto for so, so long.

“The…the…” Her face became a mask of anguish. “The nightmares.”

As the revelation spilled from her lips, Casey sagged against the wall and began to wail uncontrollably.

Swiping his own tears away, Lionel dropped to his knees and took her into his arms. He held her tightly as her entire body seemed to crumple in his embrace.

“It's all right,” he soothed gently. “It's all right. Let it go, Casey.”

“I can't make them stop, Pa,” she heaved desperately. “They've been with me for so long and I can't make them stop. I've tried so hard to fix this on my own. I couldn't fix it, Pa. I couldn't fix it!”

Adjusting himself on the floor while not letting her go, Lionel looked over at the mirror on the wall opposite and nodded. Behind it, Kirkwood and Peter stood silently, unable to look at each other immediately.

Finally, Kirkwood turned her head.

She was visibly shaken.

“He got to her.”

CHAPTER 14.

I
n a pretty flower garden, in a quiet corner of the hospital grounds, Casey sat on an ornate bench. Her legs were drawn up, her arms wrapped around them and she held them tight against her body. Her eyes were closed as she rested her head on her knees, luxuriating in the warmth of the sun on the back of her head.

It was a beautiful morning. To Casey, having realised she'd lost count of the days she had been held indoors, it had an almost hyper-real feel to it. A light breeze tugged at the upper branches of nearby shade trees, whistling through the foliage in such a way that she felt she could hear the crinkling of each individual leaf. It caressed the hedgerows behind her and the rosebushes surrounding her. Birds twittered on the lawns and splashed in a nearby fountain; it sounded as though they were right beside her.

The brightness of the morning necessitated sunglasses, even though Casey knew instinctively it was just an average sunny day. Colours appeared so much brighter. Then there was the presence of others around her. People—other patients—walked or sat nearby, either with family or hospital attendants, engaging in conversation or, like her, revelling in the solitude the gardens afforded. Casey felt unsettled by their proximity.

Lifting her face, she felt the luxurious warmth of the sun and she smiled. For a moment, Casey almost felt free.

At least the illusion was nice.

She could not deny that she felt a release from the psychological imprisonment that had tormented her for so long. She was grudgingly appreciative of her grandfather's persistence. In its place, however, was far less certainty. There were now more questions.

And she did not know where to begin answering them.

Glancing to her left, she spied a hospital attendant pacing nearby. Though he was keeping a respectful distance, there was no doubt he was keeping a close eye on her. She smirked.

Casey looked back towards the main building of the hospital and spied Kirkwood approaching her from across the lawn. As their eyes met, Kirkwood hesitated and seemed to consider leaving her be. Casey sat forward in expectation and gestured with a small wave. Acknowledging her, Kirkwood continued forward, closing the short distance to the garden seat.

“Gorgeous morning,” Kirkwood greeted. “How are you feeling?”

Casey nodded. “Awake. But not in a bad way.”

Lowering her legs to the ground, Casey shuffled aside in a silent invitation.

Kirkwood looked across at the hospital attendant as she sat and nodded subtly at him. She set the clipboard down beside her.

Casey noticed their silent communication. “Was the chaperone
really
necessary?”

“Well, this
is
your first time out in nearly two weeks,” Kirkwood observed. “As much as we'd like to give you the space you want, we're obligated to ensure you are safe.”

“Afraid I was gonna run?” Casey mocked gently. “I don't think I'd get very far if I tried. I still feel like a zombie.”

“Quite an eventful past couple of days,” Kirkwood remarked. “I have to admit, your grandfather? I did not see that coming.”

“Lionel is a tough cookie,” Casey said. “Always has been.”

Kirkwood raised her brow. “Tough is right. I'm thinking of offering him a job on staff.”

“He's an old-school detective, and a fiercely independent one. He would probably break every rule in your text books. Any lesser patient would have shattered in that room.” Casey raised her eyebrows and allowed a smirk.

Kirkwood smiled knowingly. “You may be right. Between you and me, he would do more good for the patients here than most of my colleagues.”

“Did Edie really suggest bringing him here?”

Kirkwood nodded. “Your mother knows you better and loves you more than you want to believe.”

Casey bit her lip angrily at that observation. She looked away again.

“Well…I can't say that I'm
not
glad to see him.” She bowed her head slightly. “I've missed him. My brother and I used to spend a lot of time with him and Nana when we were growing up.”

Kirkwood turned to the clipboard beside her. Her hand hovered over it. “They sound like good people. Kind people. Your grandfather is very concerned about your well-being.”

Casey's smile faded. “I guess I should add him to the list then.”

Another moment of quiet passed between them. Casey fidgeted with a piece of loose thread at the edge of her dressing gown.

“Shall we pick up where
he
left off, so to speak?” Kirkwood ventured.

Casey stiffened. “Don't push it,” she said warningly.

“Well,” Kirkwood nodded, maintaining her posture. “How about we start somewhere else?”

Casey frowned wearily.

“Look. You've made real progress. Probably the most significant progress in all the time I've known you. Don't you want to try to build on that?”

Casey glanced sideways at Kirkwood. As much as she might have tried to deny it, Kirkwood had a point.

“When did it begin?” Kirkwood ventured, sensing Casey was open to her questioning. “The sleepless nights. The insomnia?”

“That's pretty obvious, don't you think?” Casey said flatly, nodding at Kirkwood's folder. “I'll bet you can pinpoint exactly when it began.”

Kirkwood nodded. “My guess is that it was around a year after your transplant. There was definitely a tipping point where I felt you were beginning to withdraw. You're saying that was when the nightmares began?”

“At first I was just shocked by it.” Casey's eyes drifted down across the grass. “It was so…v
iolent
. Disturbing. I'd never had any sort of dream like it before. I remember being so unnerved that I didn't go back to sleep that night. But, it seemed like it was just that one time. It didn't come back and I put it out of my mind. I didn't think anything more about it.” She sat forward, straightening her back and she took a breath. “It came again, maybe two weeks later. Same nightmare but much more intense. More detail. More violence. I didn't sleep for days afterwards. But it caught up with me eventually and, as soon as I did sleep…” Slowly, Casey removed her sunglasses and rubbed her eyes. “It happened again and again. Not every time I slept, but close to it. The same nightmare. The same violence. More powerful each and every time.”

Kirkwood watched Casey closely. Her eyes revealed a deep pain. Gone was the defiance, the defensiveness that had so characterised Casey Schillinge. In its place, Kirkwood saw resignation. Casey would give her the answers she sought. There was no sense in holding onto them any longer.

“I couldn't predict them. I didn't want to. I began skipping sleep as much as I could. Working helped. I had enough work to keep me going for days at a time. But, eventually I exhausted myself and I'd fall asleep on my feet. The nightmares would come. So I began looking for other ways of avoiding sleep.”

“Drugs,” Kirkwood said flatly.

Casey nodded.

“What are you seeing in the nightmares that frightens you so much?”

Casey shivered. “I'm on a road…
somewhere
. I don't know where. It's isolated and remote.”

“And what's happening there?” Kirkwood pressed cautiously.

“I am running, trying to get away. Someone is coming after me. Chasing me
.
”

“Do you know who it is?”

“It's always too dark. I never see their face.”

“Why are you running? What has the person done to you?”

Casey began rubbing her hands together. “I'm being…attacked,” she whispered raggedly. “Beaten and…
mutilated
. I don't know why. I try to get away but I can never escape. I'm forced to the ground. There's blood everywhere. It's all around me. It's coming from me
.
”

Casey turned to face Kirkwood. Her eyes were filled with anguish. Tears trickled down her cheeks. Kirkwood reached out and placed her hand on Casey's shoulder. She squeezed reassuringly.

“What happens when you're on the ground, Casey?” Kirkwood pressed, suppressing a rising lump in her throat. She feared she knew what was about to come next.

Casey drew her hand up reflexively and she gasped. The pain of revealing herself was searing.

“Like I said, I'm being attacked,” she hissed. “Violated and tortured. But…”

Casey paused involuntarily as her voice caught in her throat. Her eyes flicked left and right as if she were trying to understand something within the memories of her dream. Kirkwood leaned in closer.

“What is it, Casey?”

“
It'
s not me.
” Casey agonized.

Kirkwood's blinked. “Not you?”

Casey began to shake. “It's as though I'm there and experiencing it. But at the same time, I'm watching as though it's not me.”

Casey faltered and covered her mouth with her hand. Her gaze drifted, as though she were trying to comprehend what it was that was happening in the dream.

“It's okay, Casey. Take your time.”

“There's someone else. A third person. I'm watching someone else being attacked. I don't know who it is. Every time I get close to seeing them, I wake up.”

Casey squeezed her eyes shut, trying to calm herself, realising that she was beginning to panic.

Kirkwood carefully processed what Casey had just told her. She did not know what to make of Casey's description of the nightmare or why she was having them, but seeing her acute distress, after only ever witnessing her defensiveness in the past, quickly pushed those questions to the background.

“You must have felt very isolated,” Kirkwood offered sombrely.

“I could never tell this to Dad or Edie,” Casey replied bitterly. “They would never have understood. Jesus, I don't understand it.” Casey rubbed her eyes. “I spent so long trying to regain my independence after the transplant that if I'd revealed any of this, it would have been fuel for my mother to argue I'm not well enough live my own life.”

“And now that you have?” Kirkwood posited.

Casey flashed a bitter smile that faded almost the instant it appeared. “Well, I'm here already, aren't I? Seems I'm buggered either way.”

“I don't know about that,” Kirkwood countered. “You're not nearly as crazy as you think you are. The question is…what to do about these nightmares.”

“I want them to stop,” Casey retorted angrily. “How do I do
that
?”

“Well,” Kirkwood began, considering that very question. “It would be useful to know why it is you're having them in the first place. There's nothing in your history to suggest you've ever been the victim of a sexual assault or systematic abuse.”

Casey whipped her head around and glared at Kirkwood. “Definitely not! Jesus!”

Kirkwood tilted her head. “It
may
be, that the answer to this lies within the dream itself.”

Casey frowned, watching as the psychologist pondered her statement silently, then her eyes widened. She understood where Kirkwood was heading with this but she wanted to hear it from Kirkwood herself.

“What are you suggesting?” she questioned worriedly.

“I'm suggesting that there may be a way,” Kirkwood said.

She looked at Casey with an expression of burgeoning confidence.

“A way to find out what is going on inside your dreams and maybe, to stop it.”

___

Casey sat across from Kirkwood in her hospital room. The cold and clinical chunk of foam that had been originally assigned to Casey had been replaced by a proper bed, with comfortable and attractive linen. A table and chairs had also been brought in, along with a small sofa and a television set. The lighting in the room was considerably softer now that Casey was no longer on intensive watch.

Lionel sat nearby, having been invited by Kirkwood to sit in on this session, much to Casey's relief. Having him present made Casey feel more at ease than she otherwise might. It also lent a legitimacy to what she was about to subject herself. She couldn't believe what she was going to do—what Kirkwood was encouraging her to do—nor could she believe that her grandfather was supportive of it.

“Okay, Casey,” Kirkwood began. “In a moment, we'll begin. Remember, myself and Lionel are here with you. If you feel overwhelmed or frightened, we'll stop. Okay?”

Casey rubbed her hands over the tops of her legs and exhaled. She nodded, glancing at Lionel who smiled at her. His expression betrayed him. She could see the hesitation in his eyes—a sense that he wasn't convinced of the benefit of what was about to happen.

Kirkwood nodded, then stood and walked over to the window. She lowered the curtains, further softening the light in the room.

“Are you ready?”

Casey smiled. “No.”

Kirkwood smiled and sat down, resting her hands on her knees. “Remember. You'll be able to control the imagery in your mind, almost as if you were controlling the playback of a movie. You'll be able to fast forward or rewind or pause or even stop it. I'll keep talking to you and ask you to interpret what you see.”

Kirkwood lowered her voice, adding a softness and evenness to it that was calming. Casey leaned back into the chair and nodded.

“Close your eyes. Slow your breathing. Listen to my voice and let your body go. Starting with your head, allow all the muscles in your body to release.”

Slowly, Casey lowered her head and closed her eyes. She followed Kirkwood's instruction, relaxing back into the seat.

“Feel the muscles in your arms, your hands and fingers. Let them go loose. The muscles in your chest and torso, moving down to your legs, your calves and ankles. The soles of your feet. Your toes. Release the tension in them.”

A warmth washed through Casey. She could feel the individual muscles slacken. Casey could hear the sound of her own breathing and with it, the beat of the heart.