Were my actions on that flight a strange version of that peculiar secret exercise? Was there any method to my madness?
To be very, very clear, this is not what an actuary does and I remain deeply embarrassed for bringing my beloved profession into disrepute that day. We do not point our fingers at individuals and tell them how and when they will die, rather we make educated predictions regarding the probability that any individual, belonging to a particular cohort, will die before their next birthday.
Were my predictions related to the fact that the focus of my work before I retired was mortality forecasting by cause of death? Was all that data swirling madly in my head like debris in the terrifying weather phenomenon known as a “twister”? (I am thinking now of the excellent movie Twister starring the talented actress Helen Hunt.)
Did I develop my own set of random assumptions by utilizing the very little information available to me?
For example, Leo Vodnik had held a magazine titled Construction Engineering Australia. Men are ten times more likely than women to die at work. Is that all it took for me to predict a “workplace accident” as his cause of death?
Ethan Chang had his arm in a cast. Was it his injury that made me choose “assault,” together with the fact that injury and violence is a leading cause of death for young adult men?
I know I watched Kayla Halfpenny at the airport and saw her knock over her drink and then her phone. Was it my observation of the sweet girl’s clumsiness together with the fact that road traffic injuries are one of the leading causes of death among young adults that led me to say “car accident”?
Did I simply make random choices? Is that what led me to pancreatic cancer, the most feared cancer, for the vibrant woman who reminded me of my friend Jill, and breast cancer for the pregnant woman?
Did I temporarily believe I was Madame Mae? I must have been thinking of my mother, because I kept saying “fate won’t be fought.”
Had I somehow become a strange alchemy of the two of us?
Both of us, after all, specialized in predictions.
There are certain events in my life that I believe may have had a profound effect on me. For example: the little boy who drowned at the blowhole when I was a child. I have never forgotten the sound of his mother screaming. That boy had brown eyes and dark hair. When I saw that dear little brown-eyed, dark-haired baby, did I think of that poor boy and therefore predict the baby would drown at the same age?
Did I look at the young bride, Eve, and remember the charming woman who came to my mother for readings, who was so excited about her forthcoming wedding, the first wedding I ever attended? Did I think of the time I saw her at the shops, her inner light snuffed out, and remember how she died in a fire believed to have been lit by her husband?
Why did I choose self-harm for Allegra, the beautiful flight attendant? Was it simply that I saw repressed pain in her eyes from the back injury I now know she suffered on that flight? Was it because I knew the rate of suicide in young females has been steadily increasing over recent years?
Was I thinking of death as I boarded the plane and contemplating the fact that everyone on that plane would one day die, and wondering what their causes of death would ultimately be?
Well. That’s the only one of my questions I can answer with certainty. Of course I was thinking of death. I had my husband’s ashes in my carry-on bag. I was missing my two best friends. I was thinking of every person I had ever lost throughout my life.
I was crazed with grief.
At times I am still crazed with grief.
—
All I can do is sincerely apologize and make this clear: I am not a psychic. I am a bereaved retired actuary who suffered a mental health crisis on a flight.
Chapter 123
Eve is at work at the medical center. She forwards the latest news story—“Death Lady Continues to Deny Special Powers”—to Dom as a patient approaches the reception desk.
There was no need for bribery in the end. One hundred bucks saved. Just as she and Paula identified her, the Death Lady released a public apology, explaining she’d had a mental health crisis on the plane. She was not a psychic, she was an actuary and had no special abilities.
Dom is okay. He hasn’t snapped back to his normal self. He’s still worried about money and he’s still worried about hurting her in his sleep, but there is no more talk about breaking up.
“I need to change my address,” says the man.
“No problem,” says Eve, and she smiles radiantly. The woman who trained her said it was important to always be kind and polite to patients, because some of them were nervous, and some were feeling sick, or in pain, and yes, some were just awful people, but you couldn’t tell by looking at them. “So be nice to everyone, please, Eve.”
Clickety-clack, clickety-clack on her keyboard.
“Yeah, I’m moving back in with my parents to save money,” says the patient with a sigh.
Eve looks up at him. He is a businessman. He is literally wearing a tie. She looks at his date of birth on his file as she changes his address. Ten years older than her. If he’s having financial problems, why does Eve feel such shame and self-loathing about their spiraling debt? Some people don’t have family, but Eve and Dom do. They are lucky. Yes, they messed up, yes, it’s embarrassing, but it’s not actually the end of the world, is it?
“All done!” she says, and smiles again, and the guy looks at her for a moment too long, as if he’s about to ask her out, so she angles her left hand to let him see her wedding ring—on your way, buddy—and he gets the message.
The solution is obvious. They will ask Dom’s dad if they can please temporarily move into Dom’s old bedroom and, two birds with one rock, or whatever it is, Dom can stop worrying about hurting her when he sleepwalks because his dad will be there to save her!
Their lease is nearly up. Luckily they only got a six-month lease, which Eve’s mum said at the time was bad but turns out to be good, so maybe you’re not as smart as you think, Mum.
A message arrives on her phone from her plane friend, Paula Binici. They have been trying to decide if they should close down their Death Lady social media accounts now that they have successfully tracked down Cherry Lockwood, like literal detectives, although some guy from the plane got to her first. Paula said it was typical for a man to swoop in at the last minute and take all the credit, but that’s not really true, because he didn’t take any credit at all.
People are still posting constantly. Some refuse to believe Cherry is not a psychic: Get real, people, she predicted three deaths! Her mother was a famous fortune teller! Paula says it might be good to keep the page so they can moderate comments and so people can post when Cherry’s predictions (hopefully!) are proved to be wrong.
But this message from Paula is about something else: I just remembered the person next to me on the flight was an expert in sleep disorders. Tracked him down (easy after Cherry). He is lovely. Said you or Dom can call him any time, he can definitely help. Warning: strong Scottish accent. xx
Eve hasn’t smiled this hard since her wedding day photos.
For better or for worse. That’s what they said in their marriage vows. She hadn’t expected it to get worse so soon, but it’s going to get better.
She thinks of Kayla Halfpenny. Eve knows from her online sleuthing that Kayla’s friend, the one who filmed the TikTok LIVE of the car accident, is out of the hospital and is doing school talks about road safety, together with Kayla’s boyfriend, the overly tall skinny boy from the plane. It’s a way of honoring Kayla, but it seems like they are also dating. They will probably have a baby one day and name it Kayla, or at least make Kayla the second name, which is nice, beautiful even, but it’s also kind of shit, because it proves when you’re gone you’re really gone, and everyone else will keep on having lives, feeling sad about you but also having fun, and your best friend might miss you but she might also date your boyfriend, which you can’t complain about because you’re not there, and Eve feels like there is some life lesson there. Maybe it’s just: Live your life, Eve. Live it hard.
She feels a surge of strength and optimism and power. She is Wonder Woman, she is Barbie, she is Ruth Bader Ginsburg, she is Taylor Swift—
“Hello? Anyone home?” A patient reaches over the reception desk and waves her hand in front of Eve’s eyes.
