A retired couple power walked by, clad in matching lime-green sweat suits. A pair of teens held hands, their shoulders brushing as they sauntered down the sidewalk. Squirrels chased one another up a red Chinese pistache tree. The universe mocked me.
“If I fill my life with other things, can I forget that love is the one thing I can’t have?” I asked my father while watching the squirrels.
He set down his fork and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Back in college, I had a crush on your mother. It took all four years to gather the courage to ask her out. I have faith, though, that you will find your match. You have a big heart. You deserve to be happy.”
Dad still had hope—a hope I did not recognize. Hope was not for people who halt an evening engagement blurting out a relationship’s end, or predicting a home burglary, or revealing future unemployment. Only one date had a happy prophecy: a lottery win. He ran out of the restaurant to start his exciting new life without me.
My teeth grazed the extra-large straw as I sipped my boba slush. The creamy powderiness of taro lingered on my tongue while the chewy tapioca pearls provided a satisfying challenge for my teeth. It was one thing to tell myself that I’d been doomed to be forever alone. It was another for a matchmaker to confirm it. I was twenty-seven, single, and still hooked on boba tea. Only one of those was a problem.
Our conversation moved on to breezier topics, the sports pools he had joined and Ma’s chances of winning this year’s mahjong tournament. Dad was still terrible at fantasy sports drafts unless his home basketball team was involved. We both agreed that Ma would take the championship tiara and sash this year. She was due.
As he settled the bill, I grabbed my purse. My drink had a few sips left so I gulped them down, careful to avoid choking on the pearls at the bottom. As I chewed my last piece, I pulled out the straw, tearing open the plastic sealing the top.
I gripped the table to steady myself as my stomach knotted. My father placed his arm around my shoulders.
The prophecy formed in my mouth, larger than anything I had ever experienced. It crackled with energy. A taste of Himalayan salt, with a dominating bitterness of burnt garlic, assaulted my palate. The pressure pushed against the bones in my head until it felt like someone had rammed a rod through my right temple in an aborted attempt to release the tension. My hands wrapped themselves around my stomach as I held my breath, willing myself to stay silent.
“Brendan will have a heart attack during the fourth inning of the Angels baseball game. He will die in your arms.”
Dad’s glasses fogged over. Cupping his hand over his mouth, he sobbed. The gesture did little to muffle his anguish.
He had known Brendan for over forty-five years. They grew up on the same street, played on the same softball team, went to the same high school and college. Uncle Brendan was Dad’s best man at my parents’ wedding. They went on annual fishing trips. He was more than Dad’s friend: he was family.
Dad lowered his hand and wiped the condensation from his lenses. “He took up running. He finally started to eat right. It was so important to him to change.” His voice cracked. “He became a grandfather this winter.”
Three tears slid into the deepening lines of his pale face.
My heart broke.
I made my father cry.
In the engulfing silence, all that lingered was the sorrow the prediction bore.
“Dad, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I repeated my apology over and over as if my words could mend the wound, could take us back to before the damage—before my father cried.
He enveloped me in a tight embrace and kissed my hair as my tears soaked his shirt, mingling with his own.
When learning to roller-skate, I took a hard fall on the pavement. My father ran to my side and carried me back to the house. He comforted me well after the tears had stopped even though it made him late for an important appointment. He placed me above all else.
A sharp, invisible screwdriver slammed into my right temple. My stomach reeled, convulsing with rising nausea. I slumped against my father as my legs buckled.
Dad held me steady. “Are you all right? Vanessa?”
I winced, keeping my eyes closed. “I think I have a migraine.”
He rubbed my back and waited. When the intense pain subsided to a more tolerable level, I stepped back. A backdrop of nausea, and the persistent throbbing in my head, remained.
“Migraines don’t run in our family. Have you seen a doctor? Has it happened before?” he asked.
“The last one was at Cynthia’s wedding. Before that, when I was out with Uncle Michael and Auntie Faye. I’m probably just tired or overstimulated. It’s not a big deal. I’m more worried about you and Uncle Brendan.”
A shadow crept over my father’s dark eyes as he tightened his jaw. “Death is unavoidable. But knowing when it’s coming can be a blessing because it gives you time to come to terms. I know you think this is your fault, Vanessa, but it’s not. You need to understand that.”
I wished I did.
* * *
* * *
I had never predicted death in such a blatant manner. Death had only ever been implied as the final verse to a tragic poem. This, though, was visceral, as though I, personally, had condemned Brendan to death.
My hands trembled before spreading upward until I shook like I was shivering from the cold. Dad held me until the shaking subsided into minor tremors. He took my car keys and called Ma to pick up his car while he ushered me into my car and drove me home.
As he drove, my dear father continued to console me. “It won’t stop me from trying. I’ll call Brendan to check in on him tonight. Vanessa, this isn’t your fault,” he repeated.
I remained silent. My hands gripped the handles of my purse while my breathing came in shallow waves. I had no control over what I predicted—I was a menace. My fingernails cut into my palms. It wasn’t fair that he had to comfort me. Years of wishing the predictions would end had not amounted to anything.
“When I’m upset, I calm myself by figuring out my next steps,” Dad said softly as he turned onto the Oregon Expressway.
“I’m so miserable, Dad. I don’t want to feel like this for the rest of my life. I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore. I’m tired.” I drew a pattern on the passenger window. “Aunt Evelyn is in control. I’m a helpless mess.”
“Those lessons she tried to give you when you were younger never ended well. You want to try again?”
“I need to.” I curled my hands into fists. All my life Aunt Evelyn had tried to help me, and I always fought her.
I couldn’t any longer.
* * *
* * *