She placed her hands on her hips. “You were given a gift, and you don’t seem to understand that. You are a fortune-teller. The sooner you accept the realities that imposes, the better.”
I shook with impotent rage. My fingers curled and uncurled into fists while the air around them vibrated with heat. She wasn’t hearing me. How could I accept the stupid rules if doing so meant relinquishing all control of my life?
“Before you tried to teach me, you never even considered breaking a rule. You didn’t have the courage to. You accept every tragedy like a gift because you believe it’s the price you have to pay to have clairvoyance.
“If this is how it really is, that you’re relegated to observing life without the chance to live it, then you’re choosing to be miserable. I told you from the beginning that I never wanted this. You do. That’s your choice. I’m not you, Auntie. I don’t want to end up miserable and alone.”
My aunt’s beautiful face reddened as though I had slapped her. Her eyes brimmed with tears. She turned her back to me.
I didn’t mean to hurt her, but in my anger the truth spilled from my soul. I grabbed my purse and left the shop before the first teardrop fell. My aunt didn’t follow.
I unlocked the apartment door upstairs. After I packed up my suitcase, I booked myself a room at a nearby hotel. Once settled in, I would call Ma and tell her what happened.
This was what I’d feared when coming here, that the differences between me and my aunt were too great to overcome. The same argument at six repeated itself again at twenty-seven. We were too far apart on this one subject and it poisoned everything else. Any hope I had of truly connecting with my aunt during this trip was destroyed.
I jotted down a quick note telling her that I needed space and where to find me. The urge to apologize for what I had said crept in, swaying my pen to write out those two words. I refused. They needed to be said face-to-face, and that wouldn’t be anytime soon.
Every corner of this beautiful apartment reflected my aunt: the striking colors, the fresh flowers, the antiques, the elegance. I’d miss it and, yes, I’d miss her, but to stay here a moment longer would be untenable and improper. If I were my aunt, I wouldn’t want to be under the same roof as my ungrateful niece.
My trip to Paris had been a bust.
This venture with my aunt had not panned out as planned. Instead of a triumphant return as a transformed woman, I would return a failure. Back to the same job. Back to the same devastating predictions. Back to a life I could no longer bear.
The only positive outcome from Paris was my friendship with Marc. We still had time to enjoy one another’s company and explore more of what this city had to offer. I wanted our remaining time together to strengthen our bond and keep us connected after I returned home. For the first time in my life, I had someone to call my own. Red thread or not, I didn’t want to lose what I had with Marc.
I pulled out my phone and sent a text to Marc, relaying the reasons behind my impromptu move with a promise to send another message when I was at the hotel, and left the hasty note for my aunt on the kitchen table before rolling my overstuffed luggage down the stairs. The hotel was on boulevard Saint-Germain, the much wider street that needed three crossings due to how it intersected with the other roads. I yanked the handle along and, after looking both ways thrice, crossed the first and second intersections without incident.
Heading east across Saint-Germain was the trickiest—it was the busiest and widest road. The rolling luggage emitted a creaky squeal. It had been groaning from being over capacity from the extra clothes—the new wardrobe Aunt Evelyn generously gave me.
The secret society of fortune-tellers didn’t know what was wrong with me. The person who was supposed to help me couldn’t help herself.
I let out a long sigh dripping with regret.
We got along well except for this. I loved her and I knew she loved me. Perhaps after a few days of cooling off, we could still meet together for that dinner with Marc. This wasn’t how I wanted it to be between us. I enjoyed spending time with her outside of the mandated lessons.
A crackling sound interrupted my thoughts as the wobbly left wheel gave way. The lopsided luggage swayed, careening to the left as I stumbled off balance amid a cacophony of noise. I looked up to see a black delivery van upon me.
Thirty-Three
My phone dropped from my hand. Fine lines branched out across the screen, turning it into the cracked surface of a thawing, shallow lake. My eyes focused on the approaching headlights of the van, two bright suns I couldn’t tear myself away from.
The low rumble of the engine reverberated through my ears, changing pitch as it neared, accompanied by the spinning tires chewing on specks of gravel.
My distorted reflection in the chrome grille increased in clarity as a hollowness of silence flooded my ears, drowning out everything but the percussion line of my heart.
The driver was staring ahead, his dark eyes looking through me.
He wasn’t slowing down.
The rhythm of my heart accelerated to what felt like the speed of the delivery vehicle bearing down on me. The paralysis of sound transferred into me as I became an observer of my own circumstance instead of an active participant.
No more family, no more aunties, no more cousins.
No Aunt Evelyn. No Uncle Michael. No Ma or Dad. No Marc.
Twenty-seven years alive and I’d finally found love. I had hoped being here would change my life.
No time left.
Here and now, in this beautiful city, I was destined to die.
Fate had decreed it.
Thirty-Four
No.
I’d never been one to follow directions. I wasn’t going to start now.
Defiance marked my presence in this world: it would guide me now.
I wasn’t dying today.
With a heave, I kicked my broken baggage forward. The front of the van hit the hard shell of the suitcase as I was thrown to the curb, landing heavy on my hip and arms. My luggage burst open, scattering my clothes everywhere, a palette of colors fluttering in the wind before settling across the crosswalk in a swirling pattern.
Throbbing pain radiated from my bruised and bloodied hip and forearms as my heartbeat drummed against my rib cage. I pushed myself into a sitting position. All around me, strangers’ mouths moved, but I couldn’t comprehend them. There was only a high-pitched ringing.
Everything was out of focus, as though reality had motion blur applied, no discernible shapes, only blobs of color overlapping one another like dollops of paint on a wooden palette. The smearing, shifting pigments churned my stomach.
With a shaking hand, I picked up my phone with its cracked screen, found my aunt’s contact information, and handed the damaged device to a woman in white. As she took the phone from me, I burst into tears, my chest heaving from the trauma and of what could have been.
* * *
* * *
The American Hospital of Paris felt the same as a hospital back home in Palo Alto. There was comfort in the familiar aesthetic even though everyone spoke French. I was kept overnight for observation.
Aunt Evelyn had hovered by my bedside last night but said little. Curled in an uncomfortable vinyl chair beside me in the semi-private room with knees drawn to her chest, she still slumbered. Her breathing was soft and steady. My sleep had been restless, and I had the luxury of a bed.
“Auntie?” I called out.
She stirred. Wisps of dark hair escaped her elegant updo. Her complexion was pale. She sat up, straightened her blouse and hair, and crossed her legs at the ankles. Only my aunt could look elegant in a hospital room.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
My skin stung from the cuts, and my left hip ached. “Grateful to be alive.”
“The doctor says you have a bruised hip flexor. One to four weeks to heal.” She pointed to a wicked curved scar near my right elbow. “The stitches are dissolvable so you don’t need to come back to have them removed. It will leave a mark though. Considering the alternative, I imagine it’s something you can live with.”
I touched the bubbling, pink skin and ran my fingertip alongside its three-inch length. A new gruesome story for my nieces and nephews. They’d eat it up.
“They gave me a prescription for the ointments to help you heal. And, fortunately, no concussion. The doctor mentioned you’ll be discharged today,” my aunt added. “Depending on your level of soreness, you may need a cane for a while.” An aqua-blue cane leaned near the door—it looked like a question mark with a small, stable base. Subdued, but probably the most fashionable option available.
“Thank you, Auntie.”
Despite our differences we were family. No disagreement could divide us. With what had transpired, with how close it had come to ending, clinging to a grudge felt childish. “Auntie, I’m sorry for what I said. I was angry. I don’t want to argue anymore.”
She reached over and held my hand. “Apology accepted. I’m sorry too. I don’t like fighting with you either. Sometimes I wonder if we squabble because we’re so different or because we’re so alike.”
“Maybe it’s a little of both.”
“After you left, I thought about what you said. I’ve never known anyone who so soundly rejected our gift. I found my calling when my training began, and expected the same for you.”
“I know you’re disappointed. I understand there are benefits, not everything we see is bad, but it’s never been something I wanted, Auntie. I desire neither the power nor the burden.”