The Recipient (2 page)

Peter sat holding a foam cup in his hand. He swirled the liquid inside it absently. A silent TV hanging on the wall of the waiting area flashed the early news. The only sound in the waiting area was the distant pattering of the rain. Peter debated whether to swallow the last of the caterer's blend, but decided against it. Screwing up his nose, he set the cup down on the floor underneath his seat.

He glanced up at a clock on the wall. They had been here for almost fourteen hours.

Edie felt she'd barely had the opportunity to say anything to Casey before she went in. She had rehearsed speeches over and over. She had thought about this moment for so long. She'd promised to hold her hand. When the moment arrived it was all too rushed, too urgent. She had said nothing. Edie couldn't remember if she had held Casey's hand.

Peter studied Edie as she stood with her back to him. She was still as beautiful now as when they first met. Tall and stately, with fine shoulders and thick chestnut hair that hung stylishly to the top of her neck. She stood, serene at the window, though he knew she'd be wrestling with the guilt of not having spoken to her daughter before she was wheeled away. Edie was a perfectionist. She had planned for this moment, knowing that Casey needed her to be strong. It was a blessing and a curse. She had missed her opportunity to say anything of value to her. Though he knew she shouldn't punish herself, Peter knew better to try and sway his wife from her guilt. She would have to come to peace with it in her own time.

As if on cue to this very observation, Edie's shoulders relaxed. She turned to her husband. Her eyes were red. Her features lined with exhaustion. She was still beautiful.

She came and sat. She leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder.

Smiling, Peter noticed that she was holding a photo of Casey as he took her hand.

Edie gazed down on a photo of her daughter—an image from her Asian holiday. With the sun setting off to her left, Casey's eyes were focused on the photographer. Worldly, youthful, inquisitive—they were Casey's strongest features, her most beautiful. There was comfort in those eyes.

“Indestructible,” Peter mused, his voice filled with emotion.

For the first time since they'd arrived, Edie managed a wistful smile. “She always grabbed the world with both hands.”

“She will again,” Peter replied. “I know it.”

Edie craned her neck to look up at her husband.

“Will she?” she questioned. Her eyes were plagued by doubt. “Will she really, Peter?”

Her question caught him off guard and he studied her for a long moment. It was as if she resented his faith in their daughter.

“You're not sure?”

“I don't know,” she responded. “There's so much that can go wrong—so much that she has to
contend
with.” Edie's voice faltered. There were no guarantees. She had read the literature. Not only was the transplant surgery itself not without risk but risk would remain for the rest of Casey's life. Casey would not be able to live the kind of life she had lived before.

The door to the waiting room clicked open and Peter and Edie looked up to see a man dressed in green scrubs and a theatre cap step inside quietly. He was tall, with tanned skin and a kind, handsome face. Dark sideburns were visible, poking out from the edge of the theatre cap. This was one of Casey's surgeons, Dr. Francis Arlo. Both of them stood anxiously as he nodded in greeting.

“How are you both?” he said softly.

“Good, Doctor, we're good,” Peter said hurriedly, his eyes searching Arlo's face for an immediate indication of what was happening.

The surgeon placed his hand on Peter's shoulder and gestured for them to sit as he sat down beside them.

“We've finished the surgery,” Arlo said, a weary but victorious smile spreading across his face. “She made it through. Casey has a brand new heart.”

Edie gasped as an involuntary squeak caught at the back of her throat and she whipped up her hand to cover her mouth. Her emotions spilled forth all at once.

Peter put his arm around her and held her close. He reached out to Arlo with his free hand and squeezed his shoulder, his gesture filled with gratitude.

“When can we see her?” Peter asked raggedly.

“Fedele is just closing up now. In a few minutes we'll wheel her through into the recovery suite. She will have a breathing tube in place and she'll still be asleep, but I'll make sure you get a few moments with her. Okay?”

Peter nodded while Edie took a tissue from inside her bag and wiped her eyes.

Arlo took his cue and stood. He turned to leave when Edie looked up suddenly.

“Doctor…” she called after him, her voice shaking.

Arlo turned and regarded her warmly.

“What about her donor? What will happen to the…”

Her voice trailed off as she suddenly felt self-conscious at having asked the question.

Arlo nodded with not a trace of scorn or disapproval.

“The donor will be cared for, then released back to the family. They will all be looked after.”

He turned from them once more.

“Please,” Edie said, “Thank them.”

Pausing at the exit, Arlo smiled.

“I will.”

___

A theatre nurse led Peter and Edie towards a large bay, occupied by several beds. Nurses and doctors manned each bed space, all of them attending to their patients.

Entering the bay, Peter began searching the faces in the beds as they were led over to a corner cubicle. A bed stood in the centre, flanked by various machines, IV poles, and monitors. So overwhelmed by the activity that was taking place, Peter failed to recognise the patient who lay in the bed. It wasn't until they were standing before it did he realise.

It was Casey.

A second nurse, stationed beside the bed, turned and acknowledged both her colleague and Peter and Edie.

She appeared so small, Peter thought. She was inclined, so that she was almost in a sitting position. A breathing tube protruded from Casey's mouth. The blankets rose and fell with each breath that was generated by the ventilator beside her. IV lines exited from a port on her neck, leading to a trio of nearby pumps that whirred rhythmically as they delivered fluids into her body. A myriad of coloured leads snaked out from underneath the blankets and joined a single cable that led up to the monitor upon which Casey's vital signs were displayed. Numbers flickered beside rhythmic wave forms on the screen. Edie's eyes were immediately drawn to the familiar green ECG trace of her daughter's heartbeat and she tilted her head curiously at it.

The waveform was vital and bright on the screen, accompanied by a beep that was steady and strong.

Her heart
,
Edie thought. Her new heart.

Casey's nurse turned and smiled warmly as she stepped out from beside the bed and set her chart down on a nearby workstation.

“You can step closer if you like,” she encouraged in a pretty Scottish accent. “Talk to her. Let her know that you're here.”

Edie hesitated, looked to Peter who seemed equally unsure. Casey's eyes were closed. She appeared peaceful.

“Go on,” the nurse said. “It's all right.”

Together, they approached Casey.

Edie reached out with a hesitant hand and touched her forehead, moving a limp few strands of hair from her brow. Casey's skin was warm—warmer than it had been in a long time. Edie felt a surge of hope.

Peter felt under the blanket for his daughter's hand and took it. Casey's fingers flinched under his touch. He felt them search for his and he looked into her face.

Her eyelids fluttered opened. Instinctively, Peter leaned in closer as Casey fought to focus on her parents.

She grimaced, aware of something foreign in her throat. A flash of panic passed through her as she worked her jaw instinctively. The nurse signalled to her colleague who nodded and turned to one of the pumps.

“I'm just giving her an extra dose of medication, to help her relax,” she explained. “We're allowing her to wake up slowly. She's breathing largely on her own but we just want to be sure.”

Casey sank back into the pillow. The panic washed away and she closed her eyes. Edie stroked her brow once more.

Through the fog of the sedatives, Casey recognised her parents. And though she couldn't express it, a font of joy welled inside her. She felt her father's fingers entwined in hers and with as much effort as she could muster, Casey squeezed them.

“Rest, darling, just rest,” Peter whispered. “You made it, kiddo. You pulled through. Just like we said you would.”

Peter was rewarded when Casey's mouth stretched around the breathing tube and, for the briefest of moments, formed a smile.

Her expression, as fleeting as it was, sent a surge of love through him and, in that moment Peter felt, for the first time in a long time, that everything was going to be all right.

Edie reached across the bed and squeezed Peter's free hand. She smiled through tear-filled eyes and they leaned in close to their daughter, touching their heads to her own.

The disembodied but steady beep, beep, beep from the monitor sounded in Casey Schillinge's ears and she wondered where the sound was coming from.

12 months later.

Her rhythm was steady, her stride confident. She had set the treadmill to challenge herself, increasing the speed of the machine incrementally until she ran with considerable speed. Beads of sweat speckled her forehead and ran down the sides of her face. She felt a satisfying ache in her legs and arms as her athletic body approached its anaerobic threshold. She savoured the intensity; she revelled in it, feeling confident in meeting the challenge.

Though the music from her phone played loudly in her ears, her consciousness was detached from it—a distant echo in her mind. Instead, a much more organic sound jockeyed for her attention and won it.

The rhythmic beating of her heart. Or, rather, the heart that had been gifted to her.

Its beat was strong, vital—a healthy organ that was now very much a part of Casey Schillinge, even though it was not born from her. This was a concept she still wrestled with, all these long months since her surgery.

Casey powered herself onward, her breathing steady as she fed oxygen into her body. Into her bloodstream. Into the heart.

Then, turning a dial on the control panel, she slowed herself to a jog. She took a towel from the hand grip and wiped the sweat from her brow. She smiled broadly.

Placing her hand to her chest, Casey felt a powerful thump against it. She enjoyed testing it, pushing it as hard as she could, to see where its limits lay.

All at once, an intense pain exploded from the centre of the heart and spread out across her chest. It was strong enough to take her breath away, to cause her to stagger on the machine. She stopped on the treadmill, grabbing at the side rail with her free hand while she clutched at her chest. The pain grew in strength, holding her captive for several moments until, finally, it began to subside, reducing itself to a dull ache.

Casey became aware of something new. A sensation? No, a feeling. An emotion. It was a darkness that seemed to emanate from within the heart itself, bringing with it a sense of unease—and fear.

Shaking herself from the moment, she stepped off the treadmill, tossing her towel on the rail. Looking back at the machine, Casey Schillinge felt that potent dark sensation remain.

It chilled her.

CHAPTER 2.

3 years later

A
masculine fist rapped three times against the green metal of a huge industrial door that faced onto a darkened corridor.

The owner of that hand, a tall and angular middle-aged male dressed in an expensive grey suit stepped back, crossed his hands low across his front, and waited patiently.

He couldn't be sure if he could hear anybody behind the door, though a cursory glance at the floor revealed a thin shaft of light coming from inside.

Waiting patiently, he was distracted by the faint aroma of cinnamon that seemed to surround him here in this dark and dingy hall. A single light globe that dangled from a cobwebbed cable above his head flickered in the gloom, illuminating the remnant of a painted sign on the brick wall beside him.

Mitchell & Sons Granary Supply, in a faded, antique font, was declared proudly over an image of a pair of Clydesdale horses. They were hauling a vintage wooden wagon, piled high with what the man assumed were sacks of grain. Curiously, the visual cue touched off an olfactory hallucination within him. He thought he could detect the scent of oats—a hint to this building's long forgotten past.

He checked the face of his Tag Heuer watch and scowled. It was 10PM—a ridiculous time to be conducting business, he thought. He had been given little choice, however. His superiors' instructions to him were explicit: Be at this address no earlier than 10PM and no later than 10:05PM.

His lips shifted into a fleeting, ironic smile.

He would bet his left testicle that the instruction had come not from his superiors, but from their contractor. And that very contractor had earned a reputation for a being a hard arse.

Suddenly the green door groaned on its track and rumbled sideways, revealing a petite young woman. Her tousled wet hair was a dark nut-brown. He thought he saw hints of red in it, but he couldn't be sure. Upon first glance, it appeared to be a short bob tied back in a pony tail, but he noticed that both the back and sides were shaved close to the skin. A long fringe hung low over her large green eyes. Those eyes were ringed by liner that made her appear almost Gothic. Though her features were attractive and feminine, her powdery visage was stony, dangerous even.

She wore a grey, long-sleeved Lycra gym top that hugged her lithe figure and ended at the waist.

His eyes, almost involuntarily, scanned downward as he noticed that she wore bikini bottoms only; her long legs and slender feet were bare.

The corner of his left eyebrow raised appreciatively.

“What do you want?” the young woman snapped, jolting him from his procession of impure thoughts.

She folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the door frame suggestively, maintaining an interrogatory glare at the stranger before her.

“Schillinge?” he queried, shifting uncomfortably.

She nodded once.

“Is it done?”

Wordlessly, she reached down to the elastic waist of her bikini bottoms and plucked forth an object.

The man watched as she flipped the shining golden object into her palm and held it up for him to see. It was no bigger than a stick of gum; an ingot that was perfectly smooth and shining in the half-light.

With a flick of her hand, one end of the ingot suddenly swung open on a hinge revealing its true nature as an ingenious, delicate container.

The man leaned in closer to see and found himself gazing down on the small ingot. His brow furrowed. Squinting in the low light of the darkened hallway, he attempted focus on something printed on the high capacity USB key, but all he could make out was a symbol—a single octagon etched into the golden surface.

He looked up at Casey. “Is that it?” he questioned incredulously. Casey merely shrugged.

Slowly, the man reached up to take the key from her when, without warning, the lid snapped shut and she whipped it away before he even registered what she had done.

“Money first,” Casey snapped as the man blinked at her.

Brushing down his jacket, the man reached into his inner pocket and took out a thin rectangular box. He held it out and she took it, stuffing it into the elastic of her bikini bottoms. Without taking her eyes off him, she handed over the golden key.

The man took it and pocketed it, then glanced down at her hip, at the shining rectangular tin tucked there.

“You're not gonna check it?” he queried.

She allowed herself a smirk.

“I designed your people's system, remember? You fuck me over, all I have to do is press a key.”

The man grinned. “They told me that you're a hard-on,” he leered. “So, all they have to do is plug this in?”

Casey nodded. “It'll do the rest. Deployment should take a half hour at the most. Your entire network will be upgraded to the new protocols, as per the contract.”

The man raised one eyebrow, impressed. “Sounds good.”

Casey watched as he turned on his heel and disappeared down the stairs. Once he was out of sight, she retreated into the semidarkness of her warehouse apartment, locking the heavy green door behind her.

In stark contrast to the dingy hallway outside the door, Casey Schillinge's apartment was an altogether different environment. The converted granary and flour mill offered a spacious living space that was modern and comfortable while incorporating elements of its historical past. A fully equipped, yet minimalist, kitchen lay to her right while a luxurious living area occupied the space to her left. Two leather sofas sat facing one another, watched over by a large, flat panel TV and entertainment centre. Up a steel staircase that was bolted to the exposed brick wall was a mezzanine level populated by a master bedroom and bathroom. Casey hardly ever went up there. It acted as little more than storage. Near a large window and balcony that extended the full width of the building, the space had been converted into a stylish bedroom that was divided from the main living area by a tall, Gothic-styled wardrobe.

It was an item in the centre of the apartment, through which Casey passed now, that presented the most divergent example of decor in the otherwise stylish home. A large architectural workbench with a tempered glass surface stood in middle of the room. On it sat an LCD screen and a keyboard that had been fashioned from a piece of glass. The light from the LCD screen accounted for much of the apartment's illumination presently, bathing everything in its immediate proximity in a turquoise light. The work bench, the screen, and keyboard were her tools of trade.

She set down the metallic cash box and she regarded the LCD screen fleetingly. With a quick tap of the glass surface adjacent to the keyboard, the screen went dark; its unearthly glow vanquished for the time being. Casey considered opening the case, but she decided to leave it untouched.

Having performed work for this particular client several times before, she knew they were good for the money. And she knew the payment was considerable.

For the past three years, Casey had employed her remarkable skill set—gleaned from her double degree in mathematics and computer science—and directed it into a career in which she operated on the edge.

On one hand, she contracted herself out to big businesses, providing her expertise in constructing and maintaining security systems and network infrastructure that was considered second to none. On the other, Casey performed work for various underground groups who would be considered an enemy of the legitimate corporate interests from which she earned her considerable living.

She was a “grey hat” in every sense.

A grey hat who was, finally, in between jobs.

This latest contract—the construction of a particularly complex security system for a prominent investment firm—had consumed her life for the past three months. It had involved writing a state-of-the-art encryption language from scratch, deploying it across a vast network, then testing it for weaknesses and flaws which she then had to eliminate one by one, before testing the system again. She put in long hours, had rarely left her apartment and had thought of little else other than the contract. Now, with the exchange of her signature gold-plated USB key with the company's representative, she had nothing left to apply herself to—at least for now. Casey could finally relax.

But therein lay a unique and difficult dilemma.

Casey turned from the desk and faced the exposed brick wall that separated the living area from the en suite bathroom. Hanging from the bricks there, bathed now in a soft orange hue from a street lamp outside, was a painting by the impressionist master Modigliani.

The woman in the painting looked down on Casey with overtly large, expressive eyes and lips that curled upward ever so slightly in a smile that could, for all the world, have been meant for Casey herself. Auburn hair hung down on either side of her elongated features. There was a beauty about the woman in the painting, who Casey knew to be Jeanne Hebuterne, Modigliani's lover and muse.

Though not an original, the painting was Casey's favourite possession: a gift from her grandparents on her twenty-first birthday. Her grandfather often said that she reminded him of a Modigliani painting. Casey smiled at the recollection, then absently clutched at the back of her head, feeling the short, sharp bristles of her dark hair. It had once been as long and as beautiful as Modigliani's muse.

It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Touching a hand to the glass that protected the print inside, Casey went to the fridge in the kitchen and plucked out a bottle of wine. A long-stemmed glass was already waiting for her on the adjacent countertop and she poured a generous lug of the sauvignon blanc into it.

Time to celebrate
, she thought wryly.

Walking past the workstation, bottle and glass in hand, Casey looked over to the entertainment centre, locking her eyes onto a familiar looking object there: a voice activated R2-D2 toy from the Star Wars saga. It was one of Casey's little indulgences.

“Hey, R2,” she commanded.

The little droid's flashing red and blue light winked to life and its domed head swivelled in the direction of her voice.

“Play music.”

A door on the barrel chest of the droid flipped opened and an extendible arm appeared from inside.

This was not an accessory that came “out of the box” when Casey purchased it. Rather, its presence was a result of some considerable tweaking and customising by Casey herself.

The little droid rolled over to the front of the entertainment centre and aimed its arm at the infrared pick-up of the sound system.

In an instant, the frenetic rock music of the Foo Fighters filled the room. Casey allowed herself a satisfied smile.

Setting her glass on the edge of the work bench, she peeled her gym top off and tossed it at her treadmill in the corner of the room where it landed on one of the handles of the machine. The cool air of the apartment caressed her skin, causing her nipples to stand erect and she shivered, invigorated by the sensation. Reaching up, she massaged a knot of tension from her left shoulder. An intricate tattoo of a Japanese cherry blossom adorned her left shoulder blade, its pink flowers catching the light from the street.

For a moment, Casey considered remaining topless, but she opted instead to take a linen shirt that was hanging on the corner of her wardrobe. She quickly threw it on.

Collecting her glass and the bottle and opening the glass sliding door, Casey stepped out onto the balcony of her apartment. Immediately she felt the balmy summer evening air on her skin and she sighed.

She set the wine bottle on a table and sipped from her glass as she surveyed the bustling scene below her from the balcony railing.

This was the Esplanade, the main thoroughfare of the beachside suburb of St. Kilda. The street was thick with Saturday night traffic, both pedestrian and automotive, as people made their way to and from the myriad eateries and entertainment venues that lined the strip. To the north, Casey could see the lights from the iconic Luna Park fun fair, as well as the equally famous Palais Theatre, where large groups of people were milling about its entrance, waiting to be admitted to whatever gig was playing tonight. Further on, she could just see the famous Espy Hotel, another St. Kilda landmark that routinely drew large crowds most nights of the week.

The sight of so many people below caused Casey to shiver. She could feel an unpleasant knot of tension in the pit of her stomach.

She hated crowds as much as she hated being outdoors. The very thought of being trapped down there in the throng of Saturday night revellers filled her with dread.

Taking a larger gulp from her glass, Casey pulled her eyes from below and cast them out across the inky waters of Port Phillip Bay. A collection of flickering lights emanating from various ships and boats captured her focus, taking it away from the chaotic throng below. Her anxiety abated. Her breathing relaxed, the heartbeat slowed.

The heart, she thought darkly as she retreated from the balcony edge and sat down on a lounge chair.

Balancing her glass on her knee, Casey closed her eyes and closed out the sounds of the street until there was nothing but the sound of the beating heart inside her chest. Its thump was vital and strong.

Casey reclined on the chair, lifting her feet and laying her head back on the cushion. She placed her glass on the table beside her and reached towards the buttons of her shirt, undoing a couple of them, allowing the balmy summer breeze to caress her chest, her almost perfect skin. A single blemish resided there, dark red in the half-light. A thick, raised scar that ran down her sternum, perfectly centred on her chest.

She hated that scar more than anything.

Though it was from a life-giving surgeon's cut made in order to deliver the heart she now carried, it served as a permanent physical reminder of the journey she had taken from the edge of death, an abyss from which she thought she would never escape.

She was alive.

Whoop-dee-fucking-doo.

She was alive but she was imprisoned by the realities of a life post-transplant. The ongoing medical support and treatment and medications were an omnipresent, oppressive fixture in her daily existence. The regular visits to her doctors, the constant tweaking of her medications, the continual tests to ensure that her new heart remained functional and optimal. The medical team had inserted themselves into every aspect of her life, observing how she ate, how she drank, how she slept, how she worked. They were constantly advising her and counselling her.