The Recipient (4 page)

Fedele was a noted humanitarian who had worked for a number of causes. There were high-level state and federal politicians in the photos, including the Federal Minister for Immigration and even the Australian Prime Minister.

Simeera Fedele was also known as a shrewd political operator, particularly when it came to lobbying on behalf of his medical and humanitarian causes. Casey also noted a couple of medals housed in custom frames. Community medals she assumed, although one of them appeared to feature the Rising Sun motif that was synonymous with Australia's armed forces.

Soft music was piped into the room from expensive speakers embedded in the ceiling. A mid-century modern desk sat facing the sofa. Crisp white and lacking any decorative flourishes, the piece appeared to have been hand-crafted. Casey guessed it would have cost a fortune.

Fedele's receptionist had seen Casey through into his office and had ensured that she was comfortable. A cup of herbal tea had been brought to her and sat on a glass-topped table just in front of her. Aromatic wisps of steam curled up into the air from the liquid. She leaned forward and lifted the cup, cradling it in her hands.

On the table was a single photo frame housing a somewhat incongruous image for this kind of ultramodern office. The black and white photograph depicted two soldiers, adorned in heavy field gear, embracing one another in the desert with wide smiles across their dusty visages. Casey had seen the photograph before and it had intrigued her. Leaning forward, she reached out and drew the frame closer to her, squinting as she inspected the name patches on each soldier's breast pocket. The soldier on the left was J. Sonmez. The solider on the right: S. Fedele.

Her Simeera Fedele.

A decorated soldier as well, she mused absently, shifting the photograph back to its original position.

Leaning back in the sofa, Casey twisted and looked out at the panorama before her. She inhaled calmly, filling her lungs. The last vestiges of tension came out with that expulsion of air and she smiled inwardly. She sipped from the cup, appreciating the expensive herbal tea.

Behind Casey, the door to the office clicked and opened and she stood at the sound to see a tall figure enter. He smiled upon seeing Casey.

Simeera Fedele stood nearly six feet three inches tall, with flawless olive skin and a dark, ruggedly handsome face, the most prominent feature of which was piercing blue eyes. His head was shaved completely bald which only added to his intensity. He wore an expensive shirt over his muscular frame. The sleeves were rolled up and the neck was open. A pair of slim charcoal trousers finished the ensemble. He was holding a thick bundle of mail in one hand. He appeared relaxed, as though nothing ever bothered him.

He held up the bundle of mail fleetingly, revealing an elaborate logo on the envelope that was facing towards Casey: a crimson bird's wing, edged with gold, that swept around in a circle to form an
e
. It caught her eye and she lingered on it for a moment.

“It'll take me until the middle of next year to wade through all of this,” he said as he set the bundle down on the edge of his desk. “My mail seems destined to consume more of my time than my patients.”

He approached Casey and offered his large hand to her, which she took. His grip was firm, confident, and she returned it in kind. Fedele smiled again. When he spoke, his voice was smooth and accented; hints of his Parsi background melded with his British upbringing.

“How are you, Casey?” he greeted warmly. “You look well.”

Casey nodded as Fedele gestured towards the sofa. “I am, thank you,” she replied simply, if a little nervously.

Fedele strode to his desk and gathered up a thick folder from the surface. He put it under his arm while he rolled his desk chair around to position it opposite Casey.

He sat down and opened the folder, lifting the first sheet of paper from inside.

“I've had a chance to review all of your test results and I am pleased to say that the picture looks very good.”

Fedele lifted a finger to his mouth and touched the end of it to his tongue then turned over another sheet.

“MRI showed normal heart size, good ventricular function and pulmonary flow. Your ECG shows a remarkable sinus rhythm and an almost perfect set of complexes—comparable to that of an athlete, in fact.”

Casey nodded, then hesitated as Fedele's expression seemed to harden, so subtly that she almost missed it. She knew what was coming, even before he opened his mouth to speak.

“Your mother…called me this past week,” he began cautiously, wringing his hands together as he leaned forward.

Casey's hackles bristled and she dug her fingers into the leather arm of the sofa.
Fucking hell
, she fumed silently.

“She is concerned that you're continuing to use.”

“I'm not,” Casey snapped; the lie sounded hollow, even to her.

Fedele's piercing eyes drilled into her; the emotion projecting from them was a mixture of concern and disappointment.

“Your blood work tells a different story.”

His words hung in the air. Casey shifted uncomfortably, her anger and embarrassment fluctuating wildly. Her gaze faltered and she looked down at her lap.

“Levels of tetrahydrocannabinol detected in sufficient quantities to indicate recent usage of cannabis,” Fedele read from the report in front of him. His voice was flat and cold enough that it chilled Casey. More than any other time today, she felt exposed, naked, laid bare.

He set the report down and reclined in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth thoughtfully.

“I don't understand, Casey,” Fedele said, lowering his hands, palms out on either side. “You are recovering from a significant scare to your new heart, a diffuse histological response indicating an acute rejection of the organ. That was barely six months ago. Now, you've remained compliant with your medication regimen. You've achieved effective immunosuppression that has prevented any sign of a recurrence. It is clear that you're exercising and committing yourself to a balanced diet. Yet, you continue to use cannabis in sufficient quantities that they are detectable in your drug screen.”

Fedele leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Casey retreated further into the sofa, unable to meet his eyes.

“Casey,” he began. “You're an intelligent young woman. I know you're aware of the highly dangerous effects using marijuana can have on the heart, especially a transplanted heart.”

“Cannabis interferes with the function of immunosuppression therapy and greatly increases the risk of fungal infection from spores carried within the marijuana,” Casey's voice was monotone as she recalled information that she had committed to memory.

Fedele's eyes widened in question and he held his hands out, palms open.

“So, what is it?
Why
is it? Ever since I've known you, you have never appeared this troubled.”

Casey began fidgeting. Fedele sensed the defensiveness in her posture; the subtle hints that there was something, some piece of information she was holding close. Information that she was unable, or unwilling, to reveal.

“What?” he repeated once more, hoping that she would respond. Casey gulped, looked down at her hands.

The door to the office quietly snicked open and Fedele's receptionist stepped into the room.

Fedele looked away from Casey and up at her. “What is it, Stephanie?”

“I'm sorry, but I have Elyria Medical Services on line two. They say it's urgent but I can stall them if you like.”

Fedele's lips tightened as he considered the information. He nodded quickly. “Tell them to wait.”

Stephanie nodded and retreated from the room.

Finally, Fedele relaxed back in his chair and closed the folder in front of him.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Look. I am going to tweak your tacrolimus prescription and your steroid, just as a temporary measure to get you across this hump. But…”

Fedele's voice dropped away as he thought about his next sentence. “You
have
to stop using, Casey. It is imperative. If you begin to show signs of rejection again, I am certain that we will not be able to arrest the damage the next time.” He paused once more, allowing the import of his words to reach her. “And if we can't stop the damage to your heart and you find yourself back on transplant list, your drug use will be looked upon very poorly. In fact, I cannot guarantee that you will even qualify.”

Casey dropped her head once more. She nodded, giving him the clear impression that she had at least heard his words.

Fedele reassembled the folder and stood. He returned it to his desk then stopped and turned at the door to his office.

He saw that Casey hadn't moved from the sofa. He waited quietly until she was ready.

Finally, Casey stood, brushed her dress and slung her handbag over her shoulder. Making her way over to the door, she stopped before Fedele and looked up at him.

She hesitated, as though she was about to speak. Fedele's eyes narrowed in expectation, then hope, but at the final moment Casey faltered and she retreated from the office.

“I'd like to see you again in a week,” Fedele called after her. “I'll send you the appointment time.”

Casey glanced back and nodded as she hurried from view.

Fedele closed the door and turned back towards his desk where he touched his hand to Casey's medical file.

He shook his head slowly as he moved his fingers from the folder to the bundle of mail. He touched the embossed crimson logo, the winged
e
. Underneath it were the words Elyria Medical Services.

He scowled.

From his perspective, Casey Schillinge was his most successful recipient. Her initial recovery had set new benchmarks and she had been a dedicated, willing participant in her own journey.

This recent turn of events, however, underpinned a troubling change in the young woman. Something that was totally out of character for her.

And he was damned if he knew what it was.

CHAPTER 4.

R
emoving her leather flats, Casey looked out across the beach towards the cool waters of Port Phillip Bay then stepped down onto the sand. The warm granules shifted between her toes and she glanced up at the late afternoon sun that shone down on Mentone beach.

A long pier in front of her was occupied by a smattering of elderly fishermen, casting their lines out into the languid ocean. None of them were really concentrating much on their angling as much as they were on their raucous conversation. There was a wide variety of people on the beach who strolled either leisurely or with purpose: hand-holding couples, dog walkers, joggers. The sunny afternoon had brought out a few families as well and Casey observed a few of them either playing cricket on the sand or gathered on picnic rugs enjoying an early take-away dinner. The aroma of KFC chicken wafted in her direction and her stomach responded with an envious growl.

Of all the outdoor places, this was one of the few that didn't cause Casey the kind of panic that her agoraphobia had gifted her. It was quite the opposite. Here, she felt a rare peace, a sense of safety and comfort that was unlike anything she felt anywhere else.

She stepped across the powdery sand, approaching the flat sea that lapped gently at the beach. Stopping just before the water's edge, she found a relatively dry, compact area of beachfront and sat down.

Shielding her eyes, Casey looked across the bay again, then lowered her head to the tops of her knees, holding her legs in place with her arms. She exhaled noisily between her clenched teeth.

Thank God that's done
.

Her hand dropped to her side and she pushed it into the pocket of her shorts. She felt the sharp edge of a piece of cardboard there.

Scowling, Casey pinched the edge of the card and extracted it, lifting it up before her. Blocking the sun from her eyes, she read the familiar print on the card.

Geddie Kirkwood - Clinical Psychologist.

She flipped the appointment card into the palm of her hand and crushed it angrily. She then flung it as far away from her as she could. It landed several feet away on the sand just before the water's edge.

A cursory check of her watch reminded her that she had to be back at the apartment soon. Her father was likely there already, taking over her kitchen and revelling in his “newfound love of culinary artistry,” as he called it.

Casey smiled wistfully and lifted her head towards the descending sun. Her father was retired now, though he kept himself busy with various pursuits that included running errands like grocery shopping for Casey, especially on days like today when she had been rushing to her many appointments.

Well, most of them.

The discarded appointment card on the sand in front of her tumbled away on a gust of wind that kicked up, pushing it closer to the water.

Good riddance
, Casey thought acidly.

The sun's ellipse was hovering closer to the horizon now and, as it finally touched the edge of the sea, Casey slowly rose to her feet and collected her shoes and bag from the sand.

Time to go play nice with Dad.

___

As she had predicted, upon opening the warehouse door, Casey was greeted to rich aromas that wafted from her kitchen courtesy of the tall, middle-aged man who hovered over a wok on the stove while referring to an open recipe book that lay on the bench nearby.

Peter Schillinge turned as Casey stepped in and he smiled broadly at his daughter.

“G'day,” he greeted cheerily. “You're just in time. Do you want to set the table?”

Casey grinned wearily as she set down her bag and keys and placed a kiss on his cheek.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” Peter said lovingly as he leaned into his daughter's kiss.

“Thanks, Dad.”

She cast a cursory glance at the wok on the stove and salivated at the sight of numerous plump chicken pieces sizzling away there.

“That smells amazing,” she complimented eagerly, inspecting the luxurious chicken concoction he was nurturing. She drew in the fragrant aromas: a fusion of lemon, coriander, pepper and something else she couldn't quite put her finger on.

“What on Earth have you got going on in there? Cinnamon?” Casey asked as she set about retrieving dinner plates and cutlery, setting them on the centre bench.

“You bet,” Peter confirmed as he chugged a mouthful from a nearby beer bottle. “And not that grocery store garbage either. This is real Kerala cinnamon that I picked up from the market just this weekend. Costs a small fortune.”

Casey smiled as her father worked the ingredients around the wok with something of a theatrical flourish. “I reckon I have just about perfected this baby. I've been working on it for weeks but I wasn't satisfied with the results I was getting until I got this proper cinnamon. I'll just finish it off with my own, homegrown bok choy as an accompaniment and I'll be done. People'd pay big money for this in a restaurant.”

“Whatever, Dad,” Casey sneered as she fetched a beer from the fridge and used the nearby bottle opener to flick the lid off.

Peter's eyes flicked from the beer bottle in her hand to her face and then away quickly. He hoped she hadn't seen that momentary flash of concern in his expression. But she had.

“Don't even,” Casey snapped, but only half-seriously. “After the day I've had, I've well and truly earned this.”

Peter grasped his bottle and held it out towards hers in a peace-offering gesture, to which Casey offered hers and clinked it against his.

“Cheers,” she said.

“I heard the Burnley tunnel was a nightmare,” Peter offered, changing the subject as best he could. “Truck breakdown?”

Casey nodded, lifting herself up so that she was sitting in the bench adjacent to him.

“It wasn't so bad. I came through on the tail end of it so I wasn't delayed very much at all. I still felt like losing my shit though.”

Peter chuckled as he concentrated on the wok while glancing at his daughter. He noticed a few telltale granules of sand on her feet.

“Stopped by the beach, huh?” he ventured happily.

Casey nodded and tilted her head. “It was quiet, just nice. Old Barney and Claude were at it again, dissecting the footy instead of catching fish. I really don't think they've ever caught anything off that jetty.”

“It's nice that you can still go there, you know, without feeling overwhelmed by the outdoors.”

Peter caught his daughter's gaze for a long moment and he held it, concerned that he might have overstepped. He knew that Casey was acutely embarrassed by her agoraphobia. “Mentone has always been a friend to me,” she smiled.

Peter flashed a wistful smile of his own. “I remember when you were a little tacker, we could never get you or your brother off that beach, especially when your grandfather was around.”

Turning to the stove, Peter began serving up his culinary creation.

“We were difficult to keep a leash on,” Casey responded lyrically. “Pa was as bad as we were. He was the one who encouraged us to keep playing cricket until well after sunset when we could hardly see. God, that seems like such a long time ago.”

Peter frowned then, pausing with a full plate in his hand.

“What do you mean, a long time ago? You're only twenty-six now.”

“It's not the years though, Dad,” Casey said laconically, tapping the centre of her chest with a balled fist. “It's the mileage.”

___

They sat together at the counter laughing and chatting as they ate their meal, which was indeed a culinary triumph. They shared a bottle of Riesling that complemented the dish perfectly, a treat that Peter brought with him each week.

Jazz music, Peter's favourite, played on the stereo system. The last remnants of stress from the day had been neutralised by the time Casey took her last mouthful and she sat back on her stool, nodding approvingly.

“That was a master stroke, Dad,” she declared. “Very well done.”

Peter nodded as he finished and gathered their plates together. “Not bad for a birthday meal?”

“Not at all,” Casey agreed, raising her glass.

“So, twenty-six, eh? Three full years since the change-over,” Peter remarked, as he finished loading the plates into the dishwasher. “How does it feel?”

Casey shrugged then grinned at his reference to the transplant.

“Like it's twenty-six? I don't know. How am I supposed to feel?”

Peter considered her question for a moment and then shrugged.

“I dunno. Like any twenty-six-year-old I suppose. I've forgotten what it was like being twenty-six. I think I read somewhere that it is the first year that you can legitimately call yourself an adult. Anything before that doesn't count.”

“Gee thanks, Dad.
I think
,” Casey chuckled. “So I guess that means it's all downhill from here.”

“Not at all. I haven't behaved like an adult for thirty years and I don't intend to start now.”

“Retirement seems to agree with you,” Casey observed.

“Now that I've got you kids off my hands and have commandeered the house the way I've always wanted to, I'm enjoying something of a renaissance. Edie's fears about me becoming a whinging old fart have been turned on their head, well and truly.”

The mention of her mother's name caused Casey's smile to fade and she nervously sipped from her glass to conceal herself from her father.

Peter, pretending he hadn't noticed the sudden change his daughter's disposition, stood and ferried the dinner plates and cutlery to the dishwasher.

“How is she?” Casey asked, realising now that she couldn't avoid the proverbial elephant in the room.

Peter thought about his answer for a long moment.

“She's good,” he answered curtly. “Still doing legal aid stuff for Slattery and Gerard. Their immigration work seems to be kicking along quite a bit. I swear, it's like she's keeping longer hours than I did when I was working.”

Casey didn't offer anything more and Peter went on stacking the dishes. Eventually he returned to the bench and sat down across from Casey. His expression was tinged with concern. “She asked after you.”

Casey set down her wine glass, agitated, and circled the rim with her finger.

“Did she.” She responded flatly to her father's white lie. Peter gulped, knowing that his daughter had caught him out. He was a terrible fibber.

“Look, love. She cares about—”

“Don't, Dad,” she growled warningly.

Casey flashed an icy glare at her father which stopped him in mid sentence. “I know what Mum has been up to. Who she's been speaking to. Fedele told me today that she had been in touch with him.”

Peter held himself, taking a sip from his own glass, as he thought about what he was going to say next.

“She just worries about you, Casey,” he began. “I worry about you. You can't keep abusing your body the way you do, especially after that scare. You can't expect us to stay silent.”

Both Casey and Peter were surprised by the sudden vigour of his observation and both of them blinked in the middle of the silence that followed.

“You don't go anywhere or see anyone,” he continued, emboldened. “You never come to the house; there's three months worth of mail piling up there, including potential job offers. Instead you hole yourself up here for weeks at a time, working ridiculous hours for God-knows-who. I mean, when was the last time you had any sort of time off?”

Casey clutched her wine glass and glared at her father, unable to respond. Peter sat back, withdrawing from a potential confrontation.

“Your mum just wants you to be okay,” he continued, adopting a more gentle tone.

“Well then, why doesn't
Edie
tell me that herself?” Casey challenged, her facade cracking.

“Because she—” Peter began.

“Because she doesn't approve of my life,” Casey pressed, answering her own question. “She doesn't approve of where I choose to live or the work I choose to do or the people I choose to associate with. She would rather I be back at home, in my sickbed where she can be in control. She's hasn't come to grips with the fact that I have carved out a life for myself, that I can take care of myself now and I don't need her to care for me 24/7!”

Peter sat silent across from Casey, digesting her defence, but unsure of what to say next. He knew that she was at least partly right about her mother.

Sensing her father's awkwardness, Casey softened her expression. “Look, I'm good, Dad.
Really
good,” she said. “I've just finished a big contract and I'm going to take some proper time off.”

“A legitimate contract?” Peter probed, cocking one brow for effect.

Casey levelled her own brow into a frown. “Yes, Dad,” she retorted. “A
very
legitimate contract.”

“It's just that…Prishna Argawaal has been sniffing around again,” Peter said solemnly. “She thinks you've been involved in some illegal stuff.”

Casey paused in the middle of lifting her glass and studied her father.

On more than one occasion, Casey's reputation on both sides of the cyber fence had aroused suspicion within the ranks of the Victoria Police—despite the fact she was one of their most valuable assets in an ongoing war against cyber-crime.

The mention of Argawaal's name was enough for her to grind her teeth.

“She would say that. Look, Prishna's just shooting blindly because she's got a problem finding a
real
bad guy.”

“So…you're not involved in anything untoward then?” Peter ventured.

Casey narrowed her eyes. “Dad. How many times do I have to reassure you? I don't do clandestine anymore. I gave that up. You're starting to sound like Mum.”

Peter smiled and shook his head. “All right, all right. I'll let it go. But if Prishna is going to keep bugging us, you know?”