The Recipient (19 page)

“Why do you believe me, Pa?”

Lionel blinked at his granddaughter's sudden question. He tilted his head slightly, thinking of his answer.

“I see a lot of your mother in you,” he began. Casey stiffened and her features hardened, which caused Lionel to hold up his hand to placate her.

“Just listen,” he urged. “I mean to say that you have a pragmatic streak within you, which is very much like your mother. You've never been one to indulge in anything particularly fanciful or, in other words, believe in bullshit.”

Casey frowned, not quite understanding where Lionel was headed with this train of thought.

“But I have noticed some things, subtle changes, ever since your operation. Your personality. Your likes and dislikes. The way you do things. Yet, you have remained the sensible and driven young woman you've always been.”

Lionel paused, looking out across the jetty.

“I'll confess, I have often wondered whether you might have taken on some of the traits of whoever it was that gave you your heart.”

Casey frowned. “What makes you say that?”

“Let's just say that I've witnessed things in my lifetime that led me to wonder about the very nature of human potential beyond our physical existence.”

“I don't understand,” Casey responded uncomfortably.

Lionel smiled wistfully. “Are you sure about that?”

Her grandfather's curious gaze drilled into Casey and she gulped softly.

“Okay,” he said. “On a much more pragmatic level, I've been able to look at what is publicly known about this case. There were gaps in the original investigation. Enough gaps that I think are worth pursuing.”

“Well, I think I've already run headlong into nowhere,” Casey observed ruefully. She tapped her finger to her temple and continued. “Aside from whatever is going on up here, I don't have anything else tangible to go on. I don't know where else to turn. I haven't been able to find any details about where this girl lived or whether she has any family I can seek out.”

“I wouldn't be so sure about that,” Lionel said, tearing off another piece of fish from the paper between them.

“What do you mean?”

“I've spoken to an old colleague of mine at St. Kilda Road. You know him actually.”

Casey gulped and stifled a feeling of dread.

“Not Whittaker,” she groaned painfully.

“Yes Whittaker,” Lionel shot back. “Despite what others might think of you, he regards you very highly. And he still owes me a favour or two.”

Lionel wiped his hands with a serviette then reached into his pocket. Casey watched him curiously as he took out a piece of paper and unfolded it. He handed it to Casey.

“Your donor was living with her grandmother here in Melbourne, a Mrs. Lesia Andrutsiv. It seems the police didn't think it prudent to interview her at the time of her granddaughter's death, partly because Mrs. Andrutsiv was gravely ill herself and in no state to answer any questions.”

Casey examined the piece of paper. Her eyes grew wide.

It was the address details for Saskia's grandmother.

“He gave you this?” she asked breathlessly. “Pa, he could lose his job over this.”

“It seems he might just think there are enough questions that are still worth asking about this particular case. He just doesn't have the resources to commit to asking them.”

“He's allowing us—”

“He's putting his faith in us,” Lionel corrected her. “Aside from this, he won't be able to give me anything else,” Lionel interrupted. “We'll have to do our own digging. If we find anything worth bringing to his attention, he'll look at it and decide whether to take it further.”

“What about Prishna?”

Lionel flashed Casey a lopsided smile. “I don't think you'll need to worry about Prishna for now. I think this will be much more interesting.”

CHAPTER 19.

T
he van drew up alongside the kerb of a quiet suburban cul-de-sac. Rolling down her window, Casey scanned the relatively modern brick houses, all of which were nestled under a collection of towering gums. They stood in stark contrast to a quaint, clapboard cottage with a bull-nosed veranda, a clear relic from yesteryear. Though it appeared tired and in need of attention, the cottage boasted a number of pretty flower beds which were alive with colour. Several hanging baskets lined the veranda. A compact, grey Toyota hatchback emblazoned with the livery of a community nursing service was parked out front.

Retrieving a scrap of paper from her shoulder bag, Casey checked the address again and nodded. “This is it.”

Moving the gear shift into neutral and extinguishing the engine, Scott sat back and discreetly looked Casey up and down. Her hair was clipped back from her face. The blouse she wore under her business jacket appeared overtly feminine compared to the usual attire he was used to seeing her in, but it definitely suited her. Paired with the skirt and the tan pumps she wore, Casey appeared for all the world like a journalist or lawyer. He couldn't recall ever having seen her dressed so formally. Though he would never say it out loud, he had to admit, she looked good—really good.

“You think you're ready for this?”

Casey quickly flipped her visor down and checked her makeup in the mirror—another addition Scott could scarcely remember having seen her wear.

“I dunno,” she responded, fretting. “How do I look? Is my makeup too much?”

“Are you kidding me? The makeup is fine. Perfect actually.”

Casey whipped her head around and glared at him. Scott's cheeks were actually flushing.

“Cut it out, pervert,” she chided.

“Seriously though,” he ventured. “You're taking a risk. I'm not sure this university graduate research thing is gonna fly. If this woman has any inkling that you're posing then you could be in big trouble.”

Casey gazed at the tidy cottage across the street, then at the clear blue sky above. It was a cloudless morning with bright sunshine. She felt a wave of dizziness threaten her, but she shook it away. Clasping a clipboard folder with the Monash University logo on its surface, she opened it and examined a printout inside.

“If she's as ill as these notes say she is, I don't imagine she'll ask a lot of questions. She might not even capable of talking. But, I'm less interested about whether she can answer anything than I am about learning more of who Saskia was. She
lived
here, had a life here. There's gotta be something I can find.”

“Well. I'll be waiting,” Scott said reassuringly. “Be careful.”

Casey nodded, then opened the door and stepped down from inside. She hesitated, her hand on the door handle. She turned around slowly.

“I never apologised for how I spoke to you that night. You know, before things happened. I treated you appallingly.”

Scott regarded her warmly and brushed his hand at her. “Forget about it, Casey. I understand that things are tough on you. I know you didn't mean it.”

“You're too good to me, Sasquatch.”

Closing the door, she stood in the shadow of the van, taking a moment to adjust her clothing. She took a deep breath and stepped gingerly toward the cottage, promptly stumbling as she rolled her heel to one side. She cursed out loud but stopped herself from falling completely. Watching her from the van, Scott gasped at first, then whipped his hand up to his mouth to stifle a chuckle. Collecting herself, she shot him an angry glower then walked forward once more.

Approaching the cottage door, Casey lifted her finger to a doorbell and pressed it. It elicited a pleasant chime as she stood back and waited, biting her lip and glancing sideways at the window. She could see movement from within.

A lock turned and the front door clicked open. A plump, middle-aged woman with a pleasant face dressed in a nurse's uniform peered out and smiled at Casey.

“Good morning, can I help you?”

“Ahh, y-yes,” Casey began nervously. “My name is Winnie Lextor. I spoke to somebody on…”

“Ohhh,” the woman beamed. “Yes, that would have been me. I'm Raelene. I'm Mrs. Andrutsiv's carer.”

Raelene opened the screen door and stood to one side to allow Casey access. Casey blinked in surprise and stifled an urge to look over her shoulder at Scott.

She found herself in a compact, homey living room that was furnished with antique timber cabinetry, a floral-patterned sofa and matching armchair, both adorned with hand-stitched cushions. The pleasant scent of lavender from an oil burner suffused the room. Casey's eyes were drawn to a collection of photographs on the walls. There were old and fading sepia images housed in ornate frames, mixed with more recent colour photographs that Casey guessed dated back to the 1970's. In a glass display cabinet to her left, Casey locked onto an even more recent image that caught her breath. It was Saskia, posing with an elderly woman in a park.

Saskia was wearing a summery blouse, knee-length shorts and sandals. Her long, dark hair hung down over her slender shoulders. Her pretty smile was warm, affecting. It lit up her face. The elderly woman, also smiling, sat in a wheelchair, and a crocheted rug was draped over her lap. The heart leapt and Casey whipped her hand up to her mouth reflexively.

“Lesia has been at me all morning, wanting to know when you were coming,” Raelene said as she rounded Casey and took a moment to inspect her.

Though her smiling face appeared welcoming, Casey detected a hint of suspicion in the older woman's eyes. Raelene continued to stare, then she gestured toward the sofa.

“Have a seat. Lesia's in good spirits this morning. You've caught her on a good day.”

Casey smiled and then sat as Raelene turned toward the hall. Suddenly, the clickity-clack of metal on timber sounded and Raelene stopped in mid-stride as a painfully small figure rounded into view, armed with a walking frame that she hefted with audible gasps and grunts.

“Speak of the devil,” Raelene observed mischievously.

Casey stood up instantly as Lesia Andrutsiv issued a bell-like laugh, bobbing her head as she entered the room. Negotiating her way around a coffee table, she made for her armchair.

She was bent over the frame, her spine deformed by the cumulative effects of arthritis. Despite this, she moved into position and deftly effected a ninety-degree turn, then flopped herself down in the recliner.

“Good morning! Good morning!” Mrs. Andrutsiv greeted through a fit of coughing. She spoke in a lightly accented voice that ranged between a squeak and a whisper. “It is so lovely to have a visitor to my home.”

Casey shifted in her seat and glanced sideways at Raelene, who folded her arms and leaned against the door frame. She continued to stare intensely as Casey resumed her seat.

Mrs. Andrutsiv raised a gnarled hand and clicked her fingers.

“Tea! We must have tea. You will join me—yes?” Her elfin eyes beamed at Casey. “Would you be a dear, Rae, and fetch us a pot?”

“That would be nice,” Casey nodded quickly, watching as the nurse slowly retreated into the hall.

The elderly woman squirmed in her seat, adjusting herself until she was comfortable. Casey turned her attention back to her.

Mrs. Andrutsiv's thinning salt-and-pepper hair was tied back in a ponytail that hung all the way down her back. Her eyes were uncharacteristically bright, and twinkled with mischief through a pair of ancient spectacles. There was an undeniable wisdom in them, the sum of a long life and experience. Her face, though heavily lined and sporting prominent jowls and liver spots, seemed to take in Casey with a sense of childlike wonder.

“You said your name was Winnie, yes?” she asked curiously, shaking Casey from her silent observation. Casey nodded, noticing the old woman looking her up and down.

“That's right.”

“Hmmphh. You don't look like a Winnie,” Mrs. Andrutsiv remarked unexpectedly, looking at Casey over the rim of her spectacles.

If you only knew,
Casey thought ruefully, trying not to react to the probing observation.

If there had been any doubt about the sharpness of this woman's mind, it had been trounced in that moment.

Casey nervously picked at the folder in her lap.

“I'm a student from Monash University. As I explained on the telephone, I'm involved in a research project looking at families of individuals who've been organ donors. I understand that you volunteered your details some time ago. They were given to me in confidence so that I might ask you a few questions about your granddaughter?”

The mention of Saskia seemed to make Mrs. Andrutsiv's demeanour brighten and though she smiled broadly, Casey did notice the old woman's eyes mist over.

“Ah yes,” Mrs. Andrutsiv sighed wistfully. “My dear Saskia.”

Reaching into the neckline of her dress, Mrs. Andrutsiv lifted out a gold chain with an oval charm hanging from it. Leaning forward, she worked her arthritic fingers along the edge of the locket until it snapped open, revealing a tiny photograph inside.

Casey leaned forward to inspect the photograph. It was a portrait of Saskia, a high quality, studio shot that had been shrunken to fit inside. She lifted her hand to hold the locket and felt a surge of electricity crackle through her chest.

“She had so much life ahead of her,” Mrs. Andrutsiv said. “And she had already lived through so much.”

Casey opened her folder and took up a pencil, ready to begin writing. For her part, Mrs. Andrutsiv relaxed back into her chair and nodded at the notepad.

“Tell me about this project of yours. What would you like to know?”

“Ah, anything really, Mrs.—”

“Lesia,” the elderly woman interrupted. “Call me Lesia, please. You make me sound
positively
ancient.”

Casey smiled and cleared her throat.

“My project is about the people behind organ donations. These anonymous heroes who give such a priceless gift. I want to tell their stories. These donors are sometimes the forgotten ones in this journey.”

Lesia Andrutsiv raised her brow with interest.

“A worthy study. I am pleased to help as much as I can, though, I don't know very much about the medical things.”

“That doesn't matter so much,” Casey said. “It's…their personal stories that I'm interested in. Of course, everything we discuss will be treated confidentially.”

Lesia nodded. Her eyes drifted beyond Casey out through the window.

“Saskia came from my homeland. She lived with her mother and father in the east just outside of Kharkiv. They did not have much but they were a proud family and they worked hard. Her mother was a teacher and her father served in the Ukrainian military. Very early on, Saskia displayed a gift for learning. As a young child, she read and read. It was said that you could not pull her face from a book. She had a hunger for knowledge and she loved language and art. That is why she came here.”

Casey looked up from her notepad.

“Art?”

“Yes. Art history. The great painters. The great periods. Saskia was obsessed with them. She took after her grandfather—my husband. He was an art history professor. We came to Australia so that he could teach. Saskia devoured languages too. Studied them religiously. She could speak three languages by the time she was ten years old. It was her dream to study both art and language. She wanted to visit all of the great galleries of the world and to become an art curator.”

“And she came to Australia?” Casey asked.

Lesia nodded slowly. Her expression become sombre. “Yes. Though how she came here happened out of rather tragic circumstances.”

She paused and looked down at her hands cradled in her lap.

“Her father—my son—was a soldier in the Ukrainian Army. He was stationed on the border with Russia.”

Lesia raised her hand thoughtfully and smoothed her skin on either side of her mouth.

“He was killed in an accident while on a patrol. They never fully revealed to us how it happened. In the aftermath, her mother feared they would be pushed into poverty. Her mother and I talked and we decided it would be best for Saskia to come to Australia. If she were to have any chance at a better life and to further her studies, we agreed she would come and live with me and go to university here. Together, we did everything we could to make that happen. Her own talent helped. Saskia was awarded a scholarship and she was able to come here on a student visa.”

“When was that?” Casey asked as Raelene appeared from the hallway armed with a tray upon which sat a teapot, cups and a plate of cookies. She set it down on a little side table and began pouring a cup for Lesia and Casey.

“It was seven years ago,” Lesia replied and nodded at the realisation that so many years had passed. “I was so happy to have her come and live with me. Since my husband died, I have lived in this old house on my own. I actually thought about returning home to Kharkiv until we began talking about Saskia. She b-brightened this place so much.”

For the first time, Lesia faltered. Her emotions bubbled up, her lip trembled.

Raelene stepped forward this time, and knelt next to Mrs. Andrutsiv's chair.

“Lesia,” she said concerned. “You don't have to do this.”

Lesia brushed her away with a wave of her hand as she composed herself.

“I am fine. I am happy to do this,” she said, sitting straighter in her chair. “Saskia was admitted to the University of Melbourne. She was nervous at first, of course, having come from so far away, but in time, she came into her own. She made friends. She was very happy.”

Lesia's voice drifted away to silence and she lifted her cup to her lips and sipped softly from it.

“You obviously made her feel very happy here,” Casey offered nodding toward the photograph of Lesia and Saskia together.