The Recipient (8 page)

“That's his organisation?”

Edie looked down and thumbed the document. “Well…not so much his organisation. One that he consults with. Elyria Medical Services. They conduct health assessments for new arrivals, asylum seekers.”

“Boat people?” Casey ventured.

Edie nodded hesitantly. “Them too.”

Awkward silence drifted between them. Casey shifted on the spot, wishing she hadn't spoken so much, hadn't expressed so much interest in her mother. Edie gathered up the papers on the table before her, placing them into the folder and closing it over.

“Anyway…it's all fairly mundane work,” she said, dismissing it. “There's just a lot of it.”

Edie nodded toward the box before Casey. “So, Dad finally convinced you to collect that. Seems like you've got your own work cut out for you.”

Casey regarded her mail and nodded. “Mmm-hmm. I'm sure there's a whole bunch of bills in here that are well overdue.”

Hesitating, she moved to pick up the box, her skin prickling with anxiety. She wanted to extricate herself from here as quickly as she could before things had the chance to turn.

“How are you?” Edie offered, setting aside the papers in her hand and stepping forward. There was a flash of hope in her eyes. “How have you been?”

Casey looked at her mother, her gaze shifting, unable to meet Edie's directly. “All right,” she replied tersely.

Sensing her daughter's defensiveness, Edie nonetheless persisted. “Dad says you might head up to Hambledown for a bit. That would be good for you.”

Casey looked down at her feet. “I might. I haven't decided yet. I still have a lot going on here.”

Casey attempted to turn away. Edie stepped down from the doorway.

“I-I was just about to put the kettle on,” she ventured hopefully. “Would you stay for a cup of tea? I have some of that chai you like.”

“I better not. I have to get going.” Casey stepped back from the table and turned towards the door.

Watching her daughter leave, Edie bit her lip, trying to search for something to say. “How was Prof. Fedele?” she blurted, trying to keep her daughter from leaving.

“Fine,” Casey responded harshly. Her scalp bristled at the mention of his name.

“W-well, what did he say? Is everything going okay?”

Casey stopped at the entrance. She turned slowly and, for the first time, fixed her mother with an icy glower.

Edie faltered where she stood.

“What do
you think
he said?” Casey retorted angrily. “After all, you should know.”

“I-I don't understa—”

“Oh, don't you dare, Edie! Don't you
bloody
dare!” The strength of Casey's rebuke was enough that Edie recoiled and had to stifle a gasp.

“He told me you called,” Casey continued. “That you were
concerned
about the pot and the pills. So don't stand there and play all innocent with me.”

“I-I'm not trying to,” Edie responded breathlessly. “I'm just…I just want to know that you're okay.”

With that, Casey flung the box from her hands, its contents scattering across the floor. She raised an accusing finger at her mother.

“No!” she shouted. “That's not it at all and you know it. This is about you interfering again. This is about you being unable to keep your nose out of my business. I can take care of myself.”

“But
are
you, Casey?” Edie's sudden challenge stopped Casey cold. At once, Edie's demeanour shifted and she crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you really? I mean, look at you! You look like you haven't slept in days. You've got bags under your eyes. Have you spent any time in the sun?”

“You know I can't spend a lot of time outdoors,” Casey spat venomously.

Edie ignored her daughter as she continued, suddenly emboldened. “You're still doing drugs, Casey. You know that's completely irresponsible in your condition. And what's that on your shoulder? Another tattoo? I mean,
who does
that to themselves?”

Casey blinked at her mother.

“I do, Edie!” she screamed, her blood boiling. “I do. I do what I fucking want, when I want and I don't need anybody's permission.”

Casey couldn't believe she was in the eye of yet another confrontation. Her cheeks flushed pink. Her eyes became swollen and she brushed at them angrily in a futile attempt to prevent the tears from escaping. The last thing she wanted was to appear vulnerable in front of her mother.

Just then, Peter appeared in the doorway and positioned himself between his wife and daughter.

“What the bloody hell is going on here!?” he demanded. “Jesus, I leave you two alone for five seconds.”

“You said she wasn't going to be coming, Dad!” Casey retorted shakily, her chest heaving. Edie looked helpless.

“Look,” Peter said, casting concerned glances between both daughter and wife. “Let's everyone take a moment to calm down a little. This is doing none of us any good.”

He glared at Casey, waiting for her acknowledgement. After a few seconds, she nodded affirmatively. He then looked at Edie. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead. Her expression was fearful.

She was looking at her daughter, but not at her face.

Peter followed her gaze down and then saw what she saw.

A billowing cloud of red on the white linen of Casey's shirt bore over her sternum, fresh blood that was seeping into the material from the wounds on her chest.

Casey frowned through her tears and looked down, realising that the dressing she had placed over the scratches on her chest had peeled away, revealing the angry, self-inflicted welts underneath.

She gasped and stumbled backwards. The only thing that prevented her from falling over was the door frame behind her and she felt desperately for it to keep herself up.

She felt dizzy. Her emotions were in turmoil. She couldn't let anyone see her like this—especially not her parents. Especially not her mother.

The walls of the house closed in on her. She had to get away from here, but her legs wouldn't allow her.

“I need the toilet,” she croaked as nausea beckoned and the urge to vomit overcame her.

His shock melting into concern, Peter reached her to gently place a hand under her forearm but Casey brushed it away angrily.

Instead, she lurched forward and ran to the bathroom.

CHAPTER 8.

T
he suite was a quiet and comfortable space, the centrepiece of which were two stylish sofas arranged around a wood cabinet that served as a coffee table. Two large bookcases stood behind in the corner of the office, filled with a comprehensive library of psychology texts, assorted self-help books and one or two fiction titles. These were offset by a number of photos of good-looking, happy people.

On the wall opposite, framed in imposing black timber, hung a Mark Rothko print. It was a large painting whose bold colours Casey found garish and ugly. The pairing of browns and oranges had been thrust together with an aggressive hand and Casey couldn't decide if it was meant to intimidate or simply scare anyone who came here. It was a difficult image to ignore.

This suite was far removed from the modernism of Fedele's consulting suite. French doors looked out onto a secluded lawn and rose garden, where a fountain and urn provided a haven for birds, a trio of which splashed in the water presently. Large rose bushes, their limbs filled with fat buds, surrounded the urn while a rambling rose grew along a fence farther out. It provided a soft backdrop to the scene that minimised the visual presence of anything manmade. A pair of cast iron chairs sat on either side of a matching table, providing the option for consultations to be conducted outdoors if the therapist and client so wished.

Casey couldn't remember if she had ever taken up that option. She sat on the sofa now, facing the garden and taking in the scene before her. She drifted on the nuances of what was taking place outdoors: noting the birds in the fountain, how the breeze tugged at the tenacious foliage of the rambling rose, how the shadows from the building fell across the lawn. She occupied her mind with the scene and added random thoughts to her stream of consciousness, so she could avoid having to deal with her situation in the room here and now.

“Casey.”

The voice, though soft and measured, jolted Casey out of her reverie. She jumped in her seat and turned in the direction from which that voice had come.

The woman sitting across from her was middle-aged with cropped, sandy hair and large eyes that were framed by a pair of stylish glasses. Her face, faintly lined, was still youthful and projected patience and openness: a willingness to listen without foisting expectation.

Geddie Kirkwood sat in a leather recliner with cushions bolstering her small frame from behind. She wore a brightly patterned scarf that paired well with her soft green blouse—an expensive one, Casey surmised. She rested a clipboard on her knee that held a lined notepad. An expensive fountain pen was intertwined between her fingers. It was her preference to make a lot of notes. She waited patiently.

Very patiently.

It had been two months since Casey had last sat in this room.

She and Kirkwood had danced this merry dance for almost three years. In the immediate period after Casey's surgery, they met for an hour on a weekly basis as recommended by the transplant clinic. Kirkwood also met individually with Casey's parents and her brother and also as a group as part of the process of transitioning and adapting to life post-surgery. As Casey's recovery progressed, the sessions stretched from weekly, to fortnightly, then monthly as Kirkwood reassessed hers and her family's needs.

Casey found it difficult to believe that she had once viewed these sessions as valuable. She had felt comfortable in her psychologist's presence and was readily able to explore and reflect on how she was coping with the changes that had shaped her.

But, as she had with everything else to do with her medical care, she soon came to resent having to submit herself to Kirkwood's constant scrutiny. She began to see these sessions in the same way she saw everything else: an intrusion. As she had done with her mother, so too did she begin withholding herself from Kirkwood by either refusing to talk in these sessions or by simply not attending them at all.

After yesterday's incident at her parents, however, her father's reaction had guilted her into coming here.

Casey had a way of bluffing her way through the meetings with lengthy explorations about her feelings of survivor guilt, a common challenge faced by transplant recipients. Or she would explore her feelings of fear that the organ might fail again after her most recent rejection scare.

But it was all fiction.

Casey had hardly felt any of the significant survivor guilt the research papers talked about. As for her recent rejection scare, Casey had avoided talking about it in any significant detail because she had skipped a multitude of sessions. When Kirkwood tried to visit her in the hospital, Casey refused to see her.

Casey was surprised that Kirkwood still seemed to buy all of it. Every time they met, the psychologist lapped up Casey's spiel without question and dutifully framed her “therapy” around addressing Casey's fictions.

For her part, Geddie Kirkwood had observed a significant and increasingly disturbing change in Casey Schillinge. The defensive posture Casey had adopted was stark enough and though she played along with Casey's conversations around her adjusting, Kirkwood knew there was something much deeper happening. She had access to Casey's medical files and had seen the toxicology reports. The drug use was clearly an increasing problem, one that had to have an underlying reason.

Casey sensed that Kirkwood was close to the truth. Which was why she had avoided these sessions as much as she could. The defensiveness she had to adopt was exhausting and Casey feared that if she continued to submit to Kirkwood's probing, the psychologist would eventually discover the truth.

The insomnia and the nightmares.

If Kirkwood discovered either of these, she would surely have Casey committed.

Thus, the game continued.

“Casey?” Kirkwood repeated softly.

Casey shifted on the sofa. She couldn't even remember what they'd been talking about.

“You were telling me you were concerned that the doctor had altered your dose of the anti-rejection medication again—that you felt that he was making too many changes too quickly.”

Casey nodded, rubbing her forehead wearily with thumb and forefinger.

Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit.

“Yes,” she responded quietly. She offered nothing more.

Kirkwood nodded, scribbling a note on her pad. “How's work?” she asked, changing the subject. “You're still consulting?”

Casey sat a little straighter in her seat and lowered her hand to her lap. She shrugged her shoulders.

“I am.”

“And how is that going?” Kirkwood ventured.

“Good. It's good.”

Kirkwood nodded. Casey fidgeted some more. More note-taking. Kirkwood's eyes flicked from Casey to the page as she peered over the rim of her glasses.

“Did you want to elaborate on that?”

There was no sarcasm in Kirkwood's voice, though she raised it just enough to imply exasperation at her patient's noncommittal answers.

Casey's features tightened; she was searching for something, anything, to answer with. It was clear from the way she held herself that she was agitated.

“I've just finished a job. A big one…enough for me to take some time off.”

“And how do you feel about that? Taking time off, I mean. I imagine it'll be hard for someone who thrives on work the way you do.”

Casey shrugged once more. “I'll manage.”

“Manage?” Kirkwood echoed with slight puzzlement.

“Yes,” Casey retorted, a little more sharply than she had meant to. “I am managing. Just like everyone else with busy lives is managing.”

Kirkwood offered an empathetic smile. “Sometimes our lives can fill up with commitments quickly, can't they? I'm sure you're in demand.”

Casey tilted her head. “It's a living.”

“How are you sleeping?”

Casey shivered. Kirkwood noticed, but gave no indication that she had.

“What?” Casey faked nonchalance, pretending she hadn't heard the question.

“Your sleep. I can imagine it would be hard to switch off sometimes. Are you having any problems?”

“No,” Casey responded sharply. She fidgeted with the hem of her skirt.

Kirkwood creased her brow and allowed silence to hang in the air for a long moment. “Your dad and mum? They're busy, too, I expect. Your brother?”

Casey's brother's face flashed in her mind. She very nearly smiled but quickly stifled it.

Again, her expression didn't escape Kirkwood's notice.

“Angus is well-established in London,” Casey said simply. “His firm gave him a promotion recently. I got a call from him on my birthday. That was nice.”

Kirkwood removed her glasses and set them down on the chest in front of her.

“What about your parents, how are they?”

Looking away, Casey pushed down a rising lump in her throat. Without realising it, she had reached into her top and rubbed at the dressing that was just visible above her neckline. Kirkwood noticed this.

“Dad is fine as always. Supportive…
unobtrusive
. He keeps things ticking along for me in terms of bookwork and accounts.”

Kirkwood studied her, waiting for additional information, but Casey remained silent. Her eyes wandered nervously between Kirkwood and the garden outside. She reached again for the dressing on her chest and scratched at it.

“What happened there?”

Casey looked down and adjusted her shirt to cover it up. “N-nothing. Just an oil splash from cooking.”

Kirkwood nodded. She lidded her pen and then set both it and the notepad down on the coffee table in front of her.

The hands of a clock on the wall opposite ticked closer to the top of the hour, indicating that they were close to the conclusion of the session. Both of them knew it.

“You didn't mention your mum,” Kirkwood observed.

Casey looked away and down into her lap. “No. I didn't.”

Kirkwood waited a few moments, opening her palms out towards Casey in silent encouragement.

Casey remained silent.

Both knew they had achieved very little. Only one of them was concerned.

Kirkwood looked at her notebook, at Casey and then at the wall. The hands of the clock reached the hour.

“We're going to have to leave it there for today, Casey,” she said.

Immediately, as though a school bell had rung, Casey stood and brushed herself down, while Kirkwood also stood and closed the notepad laying on the coffee table. Casey was already heading toward the door when Kirkwood spoke again and the psychologist almost had to skip to try and catch up with her.

“Could we make a time for you to come and see me again in a week or so?”

Casey opened the door and glanced back at Kirkwood.

“I'll call you,” Casey dismissed, passing through the door and striding down the hall, not bothering to wait for Kirkwood.

Kirkwood considered following her, but paused at the door to her office and watched Casey go.

She sighed heavily, noticing her next client waiting for her expectantly. Kirkwood acknowledged the man with a nod.

“Just give me a moment, Bill,” she said, retreating back into her office and closing the door behind her. She stood there, holding the handle, attempting to process her thoughts. She looked over at the notepad on the coffee table.

Geddie Kirkwood sat for a moment on the arm of her chair and skimmed the myriad notes she had made during the session. There were more words on the page than both she or Casey had spoken during the preceding hour.

Kirkwood had written a number of descriptors as she observed and listened to Casey Schillinge. Concerns about the current treatment regimen. Depression indicators secondary to survivor guilt. Fear about current health trajectory and future. All of them had been crossed out by Kirkwood and adjacent to each, she had written: ‘Not currently relevant.'

Further down the page, she looked over another grouping of notes.

Agitation. Excessive fidgeting. Worsening withdrawal with an unwillingness to volunteer information, particularly about mother (? Conflict worsening in this area). Lethargy with signs of insomnia (medical notes indicate continued use of barbiturates).

Below all of these notes and scribbles, near the bottom of the page, Kirkwood had inked a question mark followed by the following sentence:

Casey is hiding something.