Cherry Lockwood, “the Death Lady,” opens the door of her tiny charming home in Battery Point—it’s incredible, she’s been just a ten-minute drive away from Paula all this time—and says unnecessarily, “You’re here!”
Paula’s friend Stephanie has insisted on bringing her over to meet Cherry. “She can reassure you.”
Paula should not need reassurance. It’s been a week since Cherry’s “statement” went out in the press, assuring the world she is not a psychic and apologizing for the distress she caused. Paula felt exactly nothing when she heard this. There was no relief, not even when she learned one of the deaths was a hoax, and she has not changed her actions, although she has had to be more secretive, because Matt is monitoring her.
Stephanie and Cherry hug awkwardly. Stephanie is a hugger, but Cherry is clearly not.
Stephanie steps back. “Cherry. This is Paula.”
“Hello, Paula.”
Those same pale blue eyes, but without that scary blankness. There is more color in her cheeks and her face seems fuller, less sunken than when Paula saw her on the flight. She wears black jeans and a pretty collared blouse. A tiny brooch. No other jewelry. Lipstick that matches the pink in her blouse.
She is nervous. “I’m talking too much,” she says, and keeps talking too much, about the house and its history, something about biscuits, and how she cooks as badly as she dances and she wishes she could make pavlovas like the ones Stephanie’s mum used to make, those pavlovas were to die for, and then she stops and says, “Well, I can’t believe I just said that,” and Stephanie laughs and hugs her again. Apparently they don’t know each other all that well, but Stephanie says her parents adored Cherry and Ned.
That’s why Cherry’s face was familiar to Paula on the flight, because she’d seen multiple smiling photos of her in the devastating slideshow Stephanie and her siblings played at their parents’ funeral.
Cherry makes tea, puts out a plate of Monte Carlo biscuits, but remains standing, clasps her hands, and says, formally, “Paula, I am profoundly sorry for what I said to you on that plane. I have no ability to see the future. It was pure chance any of my predictions came true.”
“Thank you,” says Paula, and she smiles as if she’s grateful, but she still feels nothing. She believes Cherry, but it’s as if her abilities are of no consequence. She knows she will keep up the swimming lessons, she will continue to write out her lines.
“So, Timmy will definitely not drown!” Stephanie claps her hands together.
Cherry clears her throat. “Obviously I can’t guarantee that.”
Stephanie hisses, “Cherry!”
Cherry says, “Well, the child needs to learn how to swim, Stephanie! You still need to take steps to mitigate risk!”
Stephanie says, “Yes, but—”
“And make sure he avoids blowholes. I once saw a young boy drown in a blowhole. I’ve never forgotten it. A terrible, terrible thing. He was a good swimmer too. Just because you can swim doesn’t mean you can’t drown.”
“Okay,” says Stephanie. “Maybe don’t mention—but listen, the point is, you have no psychic abilities.”
“Absolutely not,” says Cherry. “Even though my mother was a very successful fortune teller.”
“Oh my God,” sighs Stephanie.
Paula says nothing. Her attention is caught by a framed photo on the shelf next to her. It must be Ned, Cherry’s husband, the man who died on a plane the same day that Stephanie’s parents died, causing Cherry to break down as she did. He’s a gray-haired, sun-tanned senior citizen with both arms slung back behind him over the railing of a ferry, azure water and misty mountains behind him—maybe Italy?—smiling with laid-back love at the person taking the photo, presumably Cherry. Something about him reminds Paula so strongly of her old therapist, Dr. Donnelly, although the two of them look nothing alike really. It’s something about their kind intelligent faces and nicely cut gray hair.
“Paula?” says Stephanie.
What did Paula think meeting this poor grieving woman would achieve?
“Your OCD doesn’t care about logic,” Dr. Donnelly used to say. “You can’t reason with your irrational thoughts.”
That’s exactly what she’d been trying to do.
She focused so much energy on finding Cherry, as if a different prediction from her would be the solution, but even if Cherry was a genuine fortune teller and even if she said, “Good news! All those swimming lessons have paid off, here’s my new prediction!” it would make no difference. It would be just like when her sister told her she wouldn’t run those people over at the pedestrian crossing. Promised her! But it made no difference.
Paula has been pretending this has nothing to do with her OCD, when it has everything to do with it. “This condition may always be a part of your life,” Dr. Donnelly had said to her all those years ago. “Like asthma or eczema. But you can manage it.”
He’d warned her that her OCD might flare up in times of stress. It’s stressful being a full-time mother of two young children. It’s stressful hearing that your son might drown.
This is not about Cherry’s prediction. This is about Paula and her anxious mind finding ways to live in a world filled with unpredictability and uncertainty. Yes, she’s smart, yes, she knows all about the techniques, but sometimes, as Dr. Donnelly accurately predicted all those years ago, there will be times in her life when she might need a little help. “And there will be no shame in that, Paula,” he’d said at their last appointment, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, No way, I’ve got this sorted now, sayonara, Dr. Donnelly!
“I’m so sorry about your husband,” she says to Cherry, gesturing at the photo. “He looks like a lovely man.”
“He was a lovely man.” Cherry picks up the photo. “Look at him grinning! He’d just made me run to catch that ferry.” Her face is momentarily so grief-stricken Paula has to look away, but then she sees the same dreadful grief reflected on Stephanie’s face, and she looks instead at the very nice rug on the floor.
“May I see a recent photo of Timmy?” asks Cherry. She’s perfectly composed again. “And your little girl?”
“Of course.” Paula takes out her phone.
On the way home she will call Matt and tell him he doesn’t need to worry, she’s making an urgent appointment with Dr. Donnelly, who will help her get back on track, and also she’s going to ask Stephanie to keep an eye out for any part-time contract law positions because the blissful moments of motherhood aren’t enough, and it’s a first principle of law that a mutually agreeable contract offers both parties certainty, and she has to get that elusive feeling somewhere.
Chapter 122
Over the years, when people asked my profession and I said “actuary,” they did one of three things.
Their eyes lit up with interest because they misheard me and believed I said “actor” and they wanted to know what they might have seen me in.
They frowned, perplexed, and said, “What’s an actuary?”
Or, if they had a glimmer of understanding of the role of an actuary, they would make this jokey request: “So tell me, Cherry, when am I going to die?”
“Funny,” I would say (although it wasn’t), but you know what? I always answered the question in my head. I never said it out loud, but I would do a quick analysis of the data available. The person’s age, gender, weight, whether they smoked, their wealth and social status, their hobbies (if I knew they engaged in extreme sports, for example), lifestyle, diet, and so on and so forth, and I would come up with a cause and age of death. For my own amusement.
