The Gift of Life

by Josephine Moon

  Krystal held up her cake plate. ‘I made a cake to give to your parents.’

  ‘She’s worked so hard on it,’ Evan said, nodding, encouraging Cordelia-Aurora to play nice.

  ‘Oh, lovely,’ Cordelia-Aurora said, sounding genuinely pleased.

  Krystal’s hopes soared. She’d done the right thing! All that sweating in her stuffy apartment and burns and stress had been worth it. Cordelia-Aurora held out her hands for the plate and Krystal proudly handed it over, then looked up at Evan, who winked at her.

  Cordelia-Aurora turned on her heel for them to follow and spoke as she walked away. ‘The caterers have everything sorted for our lunch today but the staff have all just gone for their tea break so I’ll give this to them. They don’t expect anything fancy from us so this will be just the thing.’

  Evan sucked in air between his teeth and reached for Krystal’s hand, squeezing it hard. Sorry.

  She smiled at him. It’s fine! It’s nothing!

  But it wasn’t nothing, and she knew then that Cordelia-Aurora was going to make trouble for her till the day she died.

  She took her hand away from the flags at her apartment window. Cordelia-Aurora would make trouble for her till the day she died … or the day Evan did.

  It was Cordelia-Aurora’s fault that Evan’s heart had been ripped out and given to someone else. Krystal never wanted to do it.

  Could she sue Evan’s sister for emotional distress after she forced her to sign the consent forms? She laughed out loud. Imagine suing one of Melbourne’s elite legal families. It would be like trying to sue the Mafia! It was completely outrageous.

  Except it wasn’t completely outrageous, was it?

  There had to be another law firm in the city who would just love the chance to take down the Arthurs. She simply had to find them. She would throw herself into this vendetta – oh, what a delicious word – and forget all about the woman in the cafe who might, or might not, have her husband’s stolen heart. Instead, Cordelia-Aurora would pay, if not in money then certainly in reputation.

  She found a list of injury claims lawyers in the city and phoned a few until she found Trentino Cossa, who could see her after lunch.

  ‘If he can’t help you, no one can,’ the receptionist chirped cheerfully. ‘He hasn’t lost a case in over three years.’

  Her heart bursting with hope, Krystal pulled on a black skirt suit left over from her days at the restaurant – she was thrilled to find it still fitted – and paired it with a soft white blouse, pantihose and demure heels. She wanted to be taken seriously and to be respected as the grieving widow that she was.

  She treated herself to a cab, not wanting to fuss with parking or deal with public transport in the rain. At the firm, the receptionist ushered her into Trentino Cossa’s office, which boasted a two-metre-long aquarium of colourful tropical fish.

  ‘Please, take a seat,’ Trentino said, eyeing her through his Buddy Holly glasses and gesturing to the plush leather chair opposite his desk. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs Arthur. I met your husband once or twice but knew him mostly by reputation. He was quite the young lawyer to watch. I know my partners would have been happy to entice him over into our firm if they could have.’

  Krystal swallowed. That was a version of Evan she’d never met, but she was still touched. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Please, tell me how I can help.’

  She clutched her sweating hands together and told him everything that had happened at the hospital in Sydney, everything Cordelia-Aurora had said to her, the blackmail she’d threatened, how she’d taken advantage of Krystal’s shock and devastation, and Krystal’s distress at feeling forced into signing the donation papers. Trentino took plenty of handwritten notes, allowing her to talk. When she finished, he put his engraved silver pen down, lifted his stormy-grey eyes to hers and said, ‘You won’t win.’

  His bluntness was like a slap in the face. She wondered if she’d heard him right, or indeed if he’d heard her correctly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said, trying to sound calm, curious even, as though what he’d said was worth a discussion.

  ‘Look, to be blunt, Mrs Arthur, there wouldn’t be a lawyer in Melbourne willing to take on a case against Cordelia-Aurora. The Arthur family are legal royalty in this city.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, hope buoying, because maybe there was still a chance that a law firm outside Melbourne would take on the case.

  ‘But even if you could take away that hurdle, I don’t think you have a leg to stand on. You were Evan’s next of kin and you signed the papers. A whole world of legal process surrounds organ donation, and hospitals have to ensure that everyone is informed before signing.’

  Maybe she could sue the hospital?

  ‘But you wouldn’t get anywhere with the hospital either.’

  She blinked back tears, ignoring the pain in her throat.

  ‘The courts wouldn’t look favourably on your situation. There would be a media storm around the case and the public wouldn’t be on your side. Even if by some miracle you did win the case, your name would be mud.’

  She could put up with that. She’d do it for Evan. Evan deserved justice and this was how she could do it. This was how she could make what she’d done right.

  ‘No firm in their right mind would take this on a no-win no-fee basis, because the chances of winning are slim to none, so you’d be made to pay up front. The legal fees would bankrupt you while the Arthur family would simply find ways to keep stringing it out through the courts for years and years, which they’d legally be able to do, and it wouldn’t cost them a cent.’

  ‘Oh.’ She hadn’t thought of that.

  ‘My advice to you,’ he said, more gently this time, ‘is to take good care of the money you received from Evan’s life insurance payout, invest it wisely, get some counselling, enjoy your kids, live a good life, and try to move on.’

  Rain slid down the cab’s window and the windscreen wipers thumped from side to side. She couldn’t process the depths of her disappointment that there was no way to make amends for what had happened to Evan.

  Her thoughts flicked to Gabriella McPhee the way she imagined a former smoker’s mind must jump, unbidden, to cigarettes. She pulled out her phone to distract herself and went to Facebook to look up The Tin Man, as she’d done before, reading through posts, looking for clues about Gabriella’s life, looking for photos, looking for one of Gabriella where she might be able to see the top of the scar. Then she entered Gabriella’s name in the search function, wondering why she hadn’t done it before. And there was her profile, accompanied by a smiling photo of her with her three children – a boy and two girls. But also listed in the results was another account. Gabriella McPhee Heart Transplant.

  Krystal’s pulse quickened. She clicked on the profile. Heart transplant 5 October 2017, Melbourne. Looking for donor family. There were a number of responses on the page, some as recent as this morning. It looked as though the profile had only been there for a few days – since Monday, when they’d met at the cafe. She read through the posts, her own heart in her throat, hoping someone wouldn’t say something that sounded convincing enough to cut Krystal out of the race. But mostly, there were only awful responses on the page.

  Against God’s will …

  Leave the dead in peace …

  Greedy … you already got their heart, now you want their family too.

  Zombie …

  Zombie? Krystal gasped with disgust on Gabriella’s behalf. How could people be so horrible? Suddenly, she felt a wave of sympathy for Gabriella when all she’d felt before was weird jealousy, desperation and even anger. It wasn’t Gabriella’s fault that she had Evan’s heart. Well, Krystal thought she had Evan’s heart. There was no way of knowing for sure, but she still had this urgent need to meet her and find out somehow. For the first time that day, she felt like she was on the right path. She messaged Gabriella privately.

  It’s me again. From the cafe. I don’t know what happened
the other day with your dog; it was all very confusing. Can we meet? I have Fridays off. Is tomorrow any good? Krystal

  15

  Any chance we can move our

  meeting with Marco to my

  house today?

  Gabby read Luciano’s message while pulling on her brown suede boots. She had been just about to leave the house and head in to The Tin Man for the meeting with the coffee trader. Her mind raced with questions.

  Their trader, Marco, travelled the globe constantly for his work, going into dense jungles and unstable political environments to meet with growers. He had the carefree nature of someone who was used to plans going awry. She didn’t think he’d mind where they met him.

  I’m sure it would be okay with

  Marco. Is everything all right?

  All good, I’m not sick or

  anything. I’ll message Marco.

  See you soon.

  Intriguing. A small thrill of excitement ran through her at the prospect of seeing the enigmatic roaster in his home environment.

  The sun was out again after yesterday’s downpour and she was wearing her brightest maxi dress, a decidedly tropical pattern, deep navy with large green ferns and colourful parrots and flowers; she knew the green intensified the colour of her eyes. She added a cream wool shrug for a bit of extra cover, and hopped into her car, feeling confident in her appearance while also telling herself to get a grip. Even if Luciano was interested in her, she wasn’t exactly a great catch – the baggage she brought with her was enough to sink a ship. Besides, he was an employee.

  Over in Coburg, she passed shop after shop offering mouth-watering food and fantasised about all the multicultural treats she could pick up to take home to her family – falafel wraps, haloumi pies, spinach tarts and European cheeses. Lebanese, Egyptian, Greek, Italian. Coburg had it all. She should have brought an esky with her.

  She found Luciano’s house in a wide street of older, family-sized properties. The homes were bathed in bright sunshine, small lawns at the front behind old-fashioned fences. His was an art deco house with latte-coloured rendered walls and extra-wide architraves around the doors and windows.

  An abundance of sweet-smelling jasmine in bloom spilling over the front fence stopped her in her tracks. The aroma was practically visible, like a halo. Her whole body flooded with optimism as each note spun and sparkled through her senses. In parallel beds through the lawn, mature roses dazzled in shades of blush, candy cane, claret and sunshine, with equally powerful fragrances to match. She beamed with delight – the front yard was like a lolly shop for her nose. Up two concrete steps, she rang the buzzer at the metal grille door.

  Luciano appeared inside the house, wearing jeans and a pale blue polo shirt, the curves of his biceps peeking out below the sleeves. His hair was a bit more dishevelled than usual – a few uncontrolled curls – but his whiskers were the same as always. He wore olive green loafers on his feet. His gaze drifted down her colourful dress and he stumbled slightly as he said hello, which simply added to Gabby’s joy, already ignited by the fragrant garden.

  ‘Come in. Sorry to do this to you at the last minute.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ she said, crossing the threshold into his home. ‘Stuff happens in life that you can’t control – like ex-husbands, for example.’ Luciano gave her a curious look, and she shook her head. ‘Never mind.’ She followed him down the tiled hallway lined with family photographs. In the lounge room a tennis racquet lay abandoned on the grey carpet and a young girl’s denim jacket studded with pink sequins hung over a chair; also strewn about were some kind of monster truck and stacks of schoolbooks. An antique, rounded green couch sat in front of her, perfectly matching the style of the house. Sitting at one end was a young girl. With her long dark hair, delicate chin and caramel skin, she was a smaller, feminine version of Luciano. Gabby quickly connected the dots to conclude that Luciano must be married, which well and truly dampened her fizzing joy from moments ago. She chastened herself for getting carried away. This was a good thing and would make it easier to let go of her ridiculous fantasies.

  ‘This is Antonia,’ Luciano said.

  ‘Hi, I’m Gabby,’ Gabby said, smiling at the girl, who looked up from the book she had open on her lap, her pen poised.

  ‘Hi,’ Antonia mumbled. She didn’t smile. In fact, she had the same dark brooding thing going on that Luciano did so well.

  ‘Antonia is sick today and couldn’t go to school. Normally my mamma would look after her, but she has gone away for a few days to visit my aunt.’

  ‘It’s all good,’ Gabby said, smiling too broadly, trying to rapidly adjust to this new information about Luciano. She followed him into the kitchen, where he hurriedly moved some dirty cereal bowls off the bench and into the sink.

  Marco was already there, sitting at the wooden table, wearing his trademark white turtleneck skivvy and jeans. He stood to greet Gabby, kissing her on each cheek, his greying beard tickling her face. Marco was always on a tight schedule, taking more than a hundred flights a year and a good number of trains and buses in between. He reminded Gabby of a sailor, popping into their port every now and then.

  She took a moment to look around. The kitchen had big windows and lots of filtered light, and hanging from the walls and filling all available bench space were pots of delicate ferns and blooming orchids, in whites, pinks and oranges. ‘This is beautiful,’ she said. ‘It’s like sitting inside a greenhouse.’

  ‘It is,’ Luciano agreed. ‘But I can’t take credit for it. My sister-in-law set them up.’

  Gabby was dying to ask more but the two men were taking their seats and Marco began his rundown of his recent travels and what was happening out in the world’s coffee countries.

  ‘Ideally our sources of coffee would remain the same; but unfortunately, gang violence, corruption and climate change are making things unreliable,’ Marco explained. ‘Leaf rust has been rampant through El Salvador this year and yields are down by as much as sixty per cent.’

  ‘Oh, that’s terrible,’ Gabby said. El Salvadoran beans were her particular favourite.

  ‘Producers are telling me over and over that climate change is their biggest problem.’

  ‘Next time you’re in the cafe, I should introduce you to Ed – Edwina – my head barista. She’s studying meteorology and climate change is her big thing. I’m sure she’d love to hear about your experiences.’

  Marco went on to outline alternative options for South American beans. Gabby tried to concentrate on all the figures – millions of kilos of green coffee produced each year, altitudes and profiles – but she was distracted by Luciano, whose knee had just bumped hers, and whose house she was sitting in, and whose daughter was on the couch in the next room. Before she knew it, Luciano and Marco had agreed on a plan for their next shipment and Marco was on his feet. She stood too and he kissed her farewell on each cheek.

  ‘Till next time, addio.’

  ‘Addio,’ she said.

  On his way out, he stopped to farewell Antonia, saying something in Italian that made the girl smile, and then he was gone, onto his next adventure.

  ‘Well,’ Gabby said, turning to Luciano. ‘That man knows how to live, doesn’t he? I don’t think there’s a corner of the earth he hasn’t seen.’

  ‘Maybe Antarctica,’ Luciano said. ‘I don’t think there’s much coffee grown there.’

  ‘True. Marco is driven by the bean, that’s for sure.’

  There was a small pause then, as they hovered at the doorway to the lounge room, watching Antonia flicking through her maths workbook. Gabby couldn’t help but pry. ‘What kind of illness does your daughter have?’ she asked, wondering suddenly if she should be worried about catching whatever disease was floating around in the air.

  Luciano indicated with a flick of his head that she should follow him back to the kitchen, where they resumed their places at his rustic table. ‘She isn’t really sick. At least, I don’t think so.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t know wh
at to think most of the time.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She isn’t my daughter; she’s my niece,’ he said, lowering his voice.

  ‘Niece?’

  ‘My brother and his wife were killed six months ago in a boating accident.’

  ‘Oh, god, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘In their will, they had appointed me as guardian of their three children if anything ever happened to them.’

  ‘Oh, Luciano.’ Tears sprang to her eyes, leaky sieve that she was.

  Luciano stared towards the lounge room but the faraway look in his eyes suggested his mind was somewhere else entirely. ‘They would never have really believed anything would happen to them. I don’t even know why they chose me. I’d never settled down. Much like Marco, I was travelling all the time, with a girl in every port.’

  To Gabby’s disgust at herself it stung to hear him say that, but Luciano didn’t seem to notice her discomfort.

  ‘This is their house – my brother and sister-in-law’s. I moved in here so the kids could stay in their home.’ His eyes roved around the kitchen. ‘I’ve taken over the mortgage and now I’m raising three kids. Just like that.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Everything changed overnight.’

  She gave him a sympathetic grimace, knowing that feeling well.

  He went on, ‘Antonia’s not really sick, as in she’s not ill. She’s … tired.’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘Grief is exhausting.’

  ‘For you too, I bet.’

  ‘I still can’t believe they’re gone. It was Sergio’s birthday last week. He was younger than me. He would have been forty.’ He stared into the middle distance for a moment and she waited for him to continue. ‘Now I’m my mamma’s only son left and I went from playboy to dad-of-three overnight.’