The Recipient (7 page)

CHAPTER 7.

T
he black Volkswagen sedan pulled up outside an attractive red brick house on a leafy, suburban street. Casey killed the engine and leaned back in her seat, surveying the house pensively. She held the key in the ignition, wrestling with whether to actually leave the car, until she slowly withdrew it; then she removed her sunglasses.

The house and gardens were immaculately groomed, largely the result of her father's labours. A freshly-painted cream picket fence with an ornate letterbox framed lush green lawns, the centrepiece of which was a pretty Japanese maple with deep red leaves. It was centred in a circular bed resplendent with colour. Completing the scene was a restored railway bench seat where she knew her father often sat to admire his domain. He was a proud man.

At this home, on this quiet street, the world had always seemed so much more vibrant and alive compared to the dark, cloistered warehouse Casey sought comfort in.

Casey rested her hand on the door handle. Her visits to her family home were rare now. If it weren't for the gentle prodding of her father, Casey doubted that she would bother putting in an appearance here at all.

She had conflicting memories of her life here.

The Oakwood Avenue house had been a tranquil childhood home, safe and nurturing. She'd been raised in a loving family. Her mother and father had both worked hard to provide for both herself and her brother Angus. They wanted for very little and were encouraged to pursue their dreams and aspirations. Accordingly, they had both flourished.

After Casey's surgery, that love became constrictive, suffocating. Her recovery presented challenges for her and everyone around her and her initial needs were so great, she could rarely leave the confines of this house. The walls quickly closed in on her. Her family's concern for her well-being became twisted by the realities of what she had endured and continued to endure.

While her father and her brother were able to recognise this and curtail their protective behaviour, her mother could not.

Perhaps due to an innate sense of motherly protection, Edith Schillinge took it upon herself to care for her daughter, to assist in every aspect of Casey's recovery. From researching and implementing a healthy diet, reading up on appropriate physical activity, ensuring she was up-to-date with her daughter's medication management to encouraging healthy living, Edie immersed herself in the minutiae, believing that whatever she could to do to assist Casey would be a welcome distraction.

In the beginning, Casey had welcomed it.

Over time, Edie's involvement became overbearing to the point of intrusion. For a young woman wanting to recapture some sense of normalcy and, more importantly, independence, Casey railed against it. Mother and daughter clashed bitterly. Casey refused to submit to the endless scrutiny of her health and well-being. She began to distance herself and fight for the freedom she so desperately wanted.

She decided to pursue the career she had put off for so long. Then she moved out of her home altogether—to put as much distance between her mother and herself as she could. While her father understood and supported that need, Edie could not. Their relationship fractured.

But her move opened up more problems.

The nightmares began; and they stayed, tormenting her night after night. Like they had done just last night. To even think about what had happened filled Casey with horror and disgust and she squeezed her eyes shut in order to banish the memory.

Bringing herself back to the present, Casey's eyes drifted across the front of the property to the carport. Her father's 4WD sat in the left-hand space. The right-hand space—where her mother's BMW would normally be—was empty.

Good,
Casey thought.
Timed that well.

A flash of resentment passed through as she recalled Fedele's revelation that he had spoken to her mother, but she batted it away, gripped the car's door handle and took a deep breath. She opened the door and climbed out just as her father came into view from the side of the house, armed with a wheelbarrow.

Upon seeing the VW, Peter stopped, waved and smiled broadly.

Breathing steadily, focusing only on her father, Casey locked the car and walked briskly around to the path. The exaggerated feelings of vast space around her threatened as she approached him. She quickened her pace as Peter held his hands out and embraced her warmly.

“Hello, love,” he greeted, planting a kiss on her forehead. “This is a pleasant surprise. How are you?”

As he held her, Peter noticed the rapid breathing and sensed the crippling agoraphobia clawing at her. He'd worked out a long time ago how to keep Casey anchored, to stave off the panic so she could bring it under control. His patience was welcome.

She drew back.

“Good, Dad. I'm good,” she responded quietly, standing away from him and holding herself straighter. She nodded, confirming as much to herself as to him that she had, for the moment, prevailed.

She glanced at the wheelbarrow filled with soil and then across to a neat, paved area against the fence where a similar pile of organic material lay.

“At it again, huh?” Casey observed with a sardonic grin.

“Of course. Got new vegetables to get in. I'm aiming for a champagne crop of cauliflower this year—even better than last year.”

Casey laughed and nudged him in the ribs.

“Give me a hand. My back's killing me.”

Casey took hold of the handles of the wheelbarrow, hefting it and rolling it towards the pile where she deposited the load. Peter watched her, smiling proudly, admiring her tenacity, her unflinching focus, knowing that the battle still raged inside of her. She'd always been like that, even before. Tenacity was a quality that had never changed, despite all the other changes.

She returned the barrow with a grin and set it down between them.

“Wanna have a look at what I've been up to?” he ventured hopefully, gesturing towards the rear of the property.

Casey glanced over his shoulder at the back gate, then she looked towards the empty space beside his 4WD.

“She's out,” Peter said reassuringly. Casey could hear the tightness in his voice as he held up his hands defensively. “Don't worry. She won't be back for a few hours yet.”

“C'mon,” she nodded, relaxing a little. “Before I change my mind.”

Picking up a shovel, Peter took the wheelbarrow and gestured to Casey to go on ahead of him.

They passed through the gate just as an apricot-coloured Cocker Spaniel bounded up to Casey, barking enthusiastically. It leapt up, planting its paws on her thighs and wagging its tail furiously.

“Hello, Sammy,” Casey greeted, dropping to her haunches and scratching the dog affectionately behind his floppy ears. Sam was actually her dog, but Casey had long ago surrendered him to her father, knowing that the warehouse was no place for an active pooch such as this.

That Peter was not at all disappointed by her decision had assuaged much of the guilt she harboured about leaving him here. Holding her palm out flat, she motioned for Sam to lower himself and he submitted obediently. She grabbed the handles of the wheelbarrow from her father once more and hefted it forward as the dog fell into a measured step beside her and then bounded across the back lawn towards the vegetable garden.

“So,” Casey began evenly. “Where is she?”

Peter eyed his daughter, surprised that she would ask the question. “Doing a few extra hours for Stephen today. I did suggest that you might call by today. But she was already committed.”

“Probably a wise idea,” Casey said simply.

An awkward quiet descended between them until Peter gestured towards his vegetable garden.

“What do you think?”

Casey looked upon four rectangular beds, each bordered by a timber box which Peter had built himself. The pungent odour of fresh compost rose from the soil which Peter had patiently collected over many months and had turned into each bed. Freshly planted seedlings poked up into the mid-morning sunshine, lined up in impeccably straight rows and spaced equidistantly. Stooping down, Casey dragged her fingers through the soil of an empty box and lifted her hand to her nose.

“This is beautiful soil, Dad,” she remarked enthusiastically.

“My own concoction,” Peter replied proudly. “Only the best organic matter—all of it composed of vegetable matter that I've grown previously.”

It was clear how much effort he had gone to. The garden's presentation was indicative of his devotion to exacting standards; the right soil, sturdy construction, equal distances and straight lines.

Casey gestured towards the centre of the garden. “I see the cubby house bit the dust.”

“Well, it wasn't getting any use,” Peter explained. “Wood was rotting and the dog was paranoid about it. I half expected to come outside one day to find him crushed underneath it.”

Casey smirked and folded her arms. “As usual, Dad, you've outdone yourself. I'm putting my hand up right now for some of that cauliflower. I have two or three dishes in mind I can put it into.”

Peter chuckled as he bent down to retrieve a rolled up garden hose from a nearby tap. Rounding Casey on his way back, she stepped forward then turned to face the house. A sunroom, featuring large glass panels looked out onto the garden. It was another recent addition to the house which Casey had not yet seen completed.

“Wow, this has come up a treat,” she commented, outstretching her arms. “Almost wish it had been here when I was still here.”

Peter smiled at Casey, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. “Why don't you go and have a look?” he suggested.

Casey stiffened. “N-no. That's all right.”

“Casey, the house isn't going to bite you,” Peter coaxed her. “As I said, your mother's a good couple of hours away.”

He shook his head sadly. His daughter's reluctance to even step foot inside was one thing he had trouble accepting.

“I do wish you could both bury the hatchet one of these days.”

Casey flashed him an icy glare. “You shouldn't be mentioning hatchets, Dad,” she warned.

Peter detected a subtle shift in Casey's posture. Her shoulders sagged and her resistance faded just a little.

“Look. I'll come in with you,” Peter suggested. “That mail of yours is sitting on the table in the dining room. If you don't take it now, I'm gonna toss it in the recycling bin.”

Placing the hose down, Peter gently cupped his hand under her elbow. She didn't resist. Together, they crossed the lawn and stepped up to the house.

At that moment, Sam sprinted past them and escaped through the side gate.

“Crap,” Peter hissed.

He glanced at Casey.

“Go on,” she gestured. “Go and get him before he gets squashed.”

Casey opened the door and passed through it into the sunroom.

She had to admit, it was a gorgeous addition to what had once had been a simple, enclosed verandah. The engineered quality to the glass and steel construction had her father's fingerprints all over it. It said a lot that this extension had been designed and completed in the few short years since he'd retired from his career as a civil engineer.

The old bugger can't help himself
, she mused.

Casey looked across at a dining table on which sat a shoebox filled with mail. Several mailer tubes sat beside it. She looked through into the kitchen and living room fleetingly.

Shaking her head slowly, she approached the table and put her hands on both sides of the box. She quickly inspected its contents.

God, what a mess,
she thought ruefully.

She thumbed through the envelopes inside the box, inspecting them more closely, looking for any signs that they might have been tampered with—as had been the case in the past—but she saw nothing obvious.

On the far side of the table, Casey noted an assortment of documents and folders that bore the name of Slattery & Gerard, the law firm her mother worked for. They had been left in such a way that it appeared her mother had been working through them and had stepped out with the intention of returning to them. Her eyes drifted over and she noticed among them some documents carrying a familiar logo: a crimson bird's wing, edged with gold that swept around in an arc to form a large
e
.

Casey squinted and tilted her head curiously. She had seen that logo before, but she couldn't quite recall where.

“Hello.”

Though the voice was soft, it still made Casey jump. She whipped her head up to find her mother standing at the entrance to the sunroom. Her silent defences snapped to life.

Edie Schillinge was still striking in appearance, though there was a weariness in the way she held herself. Telltale lines creased the edges of her eyes, her chestnut hair was flecked with grey. Casey couldn't be sure if that grey had been there the last time they had seen one another.

Mother and daughter stood before one another, neither able to offer up the next exchange.

“I thought you were working,” Casey remarked, deadpan.

Edie shrugged, stepping around the table and setting her handbag down beside the documents.

“I had some errands to run for the office. It didn't take as long as I thought it would.”

Casey's eyes shifted between her mother and the paperwork before her, which did not escape Edie's notice.

“This is going to keep me plenty occupied,” she ventured.

“What is it?” Casey asked, her curiosity towards the familiar logo piqued.

“Just some pro bono work we're doing on behalf of new migrants to Australia. Slattery & Gerard have several clients on their books. We provide assistance with asylum claims, visa disputes, that sort of thing. Actually, we've got Professor Fedele to thank for some of this. He facilitated some of the work through some humanitarian consulting he does.”

Casey bristled at the mention of her surgeon's name, but she held herself in check. Instead, she nodded at the logo, now remembering where she had seen it: on the envelope that Fedele was holding when she had seen him in his office.