My condo was at the edge of Midtown and Charleston Gardens, about an eight-minute commute to work and ten minutes from my parents’ craftsman home in Crescent Park. As Dad pulled into my street, I saw a familiar white Tesla Model S parked before my building. The car’s owner waited at the doorway.
Aunt Evelyn.
Six
Aunt Evelyn and I stood in the kitchen of my 1,200-square-foot condo. For the first time in a while, we weren’t arguing. Instead, a strident silence stretched between us, a still lake teeming with unspoken thoughts.
Dad had stepped outside to call Ma. I muted my phone. I didn’t need any outside distractions. The only person I needed now was with me.
“I saw a death, not some oblique reference to dying: it was one of Dad’s closest friends.” I met my aunt’s steady gaze. “I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to live like this. It’s too hard. It hurts too much. Please, I need you to help me find some measure of control.”
Aunt Evelyn opened her arms. I stepped into her embrace and buried my face into her perfumed shoulder. Tears trickled onto her cashmere sweater, soaking the light yellow silk blouse underneath.
“When I saw my grandfather’s death, I felt the same.” Aunt Evelyn rubbed my back in small circles. Her peony perfume soothed me as the sobs subsided into silent hiccups. “I was thirteen. We were sitting at the heart surgery clinic together, waiting for his appointment. Ye-ye was recovering from a triple bypass. He was the type that, if he thought no one was watching, would eat all the skin from a crispy, roasted pig. He loved salty and fatty foods. Thankfully, Aunt Charlotte was with us. I couldn’t stop vomiting. The emotions we feel are so intense. Death is the hardest, more so when it concerns those we love.”
“Can you help me, Auntie?”
“I can. But why did you avoid lessons all these years?”
I began lessons with Aunt Evelyn the week following my third birthday and was, at first, a keen student. However, in my last weekly lesson, I had a graphic prediction of a car accident involving my librarian from first grade, Mrs. Chiang: a transport truck T-boning her car, her right arm and leg amputated, the taste of half-cooked beef liver, metallic.
The vision was intense, and I could not comprehend its details except that Mrs. Chiang wasn’t at school the next day, or the following week, or the rest of the school year. Soon, kids in the schoolyard spoke about her with immature callousness and a fascination with the gory details. Only then did I understand the gravity of my words. I vowed never to return to prophecy lessons: they forced me to see visions with a clarity I never wanted. Without my aunt’s guidance, my predictions returned to a preferable vagueness.
“I had a vision I didn’t want to see. It terrified me,” I replied. “But now they’re worse. I need your help.”
She squeezed me tight. “Come with me to Paris.”
“What?”
“You need to be where I am for me to help, and I have to leave for France tomorrow. No one else understands what you’re going through.” She reached for her satchel purse and pulled out her phone. As her fingers danced across the smooth surface, she smiled. “It’s done. I bought you a first-class ticket on the same flight. Being away from everyone and everything is ideal.”
“But what do I tell my parents? The aunties? The family? The firm?” I asked.
“Your father is inviting your mother over. We’ll have dinner and I’ll explain everything.”
I frowned. “Leaving tomorrow is so sudden.”
“You want my help, don’t you?”
“Yes, but . . . you’re asking me to put my life on hold and fly halfway around the world. I can’t just drop all my responsibilities to take prophecy lessons. I’m not one that resists change, but I’m still trying to process the fact that I saw one of Dad’s friends die and I’m expected to go to Paris tomorrow. I don’t think this is the best time.”
“The time is now,” she replied, patting my arm. Returning to her phone, she sent another flurry of messages. “I invited Michael. Between us, we’ll figure out what to tell the family.”
She opened the stainless-steel double doors to the fridge. My fridge was as empty as my cupboards. Auntie Faye and Ma had helped decorate my kitchen to make it appear like it belonged to someone adept at cooking. They had created convincing window dressing. Dinners were spent at my parents’, relatives’, or out at restaurants with cousins. Ma and my aunties were excellent cooks, but I never learned. I was too busy eating.
Aunt Evelyn glanced under the counter. “At least your wine fridge is full.”
“For whites and rosé, yes. The reds are in the rack near the living room,” I said with a wobbly smile. “I do have proper cutlery and plates, so there is that.”
My aunt laughed. “I’ll order dinner. Tonight calls for sushi.”
* * *
* * *
Uncle Michael and Ma arrived at the same time. I didn’t entertain often. When I did eat at home, I ate at the quartz countertop in the kitchen. My formal dining room was pristine from disuse. Crystal and sterling silver barware along with bright, colorful cocktail glasses filled the modern hutch near the circular dining table. Each had been gifted by various aunties last Christmas.
I sat between my parents. We picked at the various maki rolls packed in a large round plastic tray. Uncle Michael poured prosecco into flutes and kept the open bottle between him and my father, ready for refills.
“I will ask Gene to manage your work. It won’t be a problem. You’re due for a vacation anyway. Three weeks is definitely doable,” Dad said, sipping his wine.
Ma waved her chopsticks in the air. “If Chester complains, I’ll clip his—”
“Linda! Faye will keep him in check,” Aunt Evelyn said.
“Not how you expected today to unfold, I’d imagine,” Uncle Michael said to me as Ma and Aunt Evelyn continued to discuss their nephew. The wrinkles around his eyes deepened, making him look closer to his true age.
I plucked a piece of the spider roll from the tray. “I’m excited about Paris.”
I always wanted to go for the art and food, but I never went because I didn’t want to go alone. It wasn’t that I cared about what people thought, it was more that I wanted to experience the city with someone. No one else in the family had mentioned any desire to go, and if I had known Aunt Evelyn was interested, I would have been tempted to ask despite knowing that we would quarrel.
“Now is your chance to see the Mona Lisa in person.” Dad held my hand. “Evelyn knows what she’s doing. You’ll come back a master fortune-teller.”