But what if I do?
But you won’t.
But what if I do.
But you won’t.
And she didn’t, because a nice man from a few rows back stood up and handed Timmy his car keys, then said in a deep Chris Hemsworth voice, “Great pair of lungs, little mate,” like it was a compliment, not a complaint. The keys calmed Timmy instantly. Paula suspected it was because a big strong man had given him the keys. Timmy is a man’s man. He never looks more comfortable or smug than when he’s sitting on his daddy’s lap.
Paula is in the middle seat, with Willow in the aisle. “Don’t let her sit next to some predatory stranger,” Matt had said, so she’d dutifully put Willow in the aisle seat, but the man next to Paula is surely too distinguished and well dressed to be a predator. She’d guess he’s in his sixties, his Scottish accent so thick it’s like it’s been squeezed from a tube, and he’s wearing a beautiful blue tie, which he hasn’t loosened even a fraction. He didn’t look judgmental during the Great Crying Debacle, just winced occasionally as he steadily turned the pages of some densely written book. Meanwhile Paula has had to continually drag Willow back into her seat so she’s not swiped by someone’s carelessly swinging bag or elbow or knocked out by the drinks cart. Thanks a lot, Matt.
She thinks of her former job in a Hobart law firm. Right now, the thought of being in her quiet-as-a-library, air-conditioned, plush-carpeted city office, with a takeout coffee on the desk next to her and a tricky clause to unravel, is like remembering a glorious tropical holiday. She sees now that she didn’t just enjoy work, she loved it. She is a person whose brain requires certainty and control, rules and procedures, perhaps more than the average person, but motherhood has none of that and some days she is bored out of her freaking mind.
No, don’t think that, Paula, that’s awful.
(A thought is just a thought.)
Motherhood is fulfilling, important work, and every day she experiences a moment of pure, piercing bliss. That is true. At least most days, anyway. Yes, there’s certainty and control at work, and satisfaction, but no moments of bliss.
Willow whimpers in her sleep, and Paula thinks: sick bag.
She stretches her hand around Timmy toward the seat pocket, but she can’t reach it without waking him.
“This lady coming down the aisle appears to be causing some kind of…kerfuffle,” says her Scottish companion. He has closed his book with one finger keeping his place.
“What lady?” asks Paula after a second, because there is a slight delay while she deciphers his words through the accent. If she doesn’t panic, she can understand perfectly.
“Heading our way.” He indicates with his chin. “She seems to be talking to every passenger, insulting them, perhaps? Oh, I think a flight attendant might be attempting to detain her—no, flight attendant has been waylaid!”
He raises himself in his seat to see, brightly curious.
A voice from in front of them says, “She’s telling people when they’re going to die.”
Paula and the Scottish man exchange wide-eyed looks and raised eyebrows. Suddenly they are audience members enjoying an impromptu performance piece.
They both watch as a gray-haired lady addresses every passenger in the row ahead of them.
“I expect heart failure. Age eighty-two. I expect diabetes. Age seventy-nine. I expect snakebite. Age forty-eight.”
“This is a bit confronting,” says Paula. “Snakebite! How likely is that?”
“Perhaps a clairvoyant gone rogue, do you think?” says her seatmate. “I believe there was a new age festival in Hobart this weekend.”
“Oh, yes, I saw that advertised,” says Paula. “Are you a believer in all…that?” She’s finding this adult conversation as stimulating as a double espresso.
“I confess I enjoy all things occult,” says the Scottish man. “But I’m not a true believer.”
“What is your profession?” asks Paula, because he seems too distinguished a man to ask “What do you do?”
“I’m a professor of psychiatry in the University of Tasmania Sleep and Chronobiology Department. I’m speaking at a conference in Sydney this week. What about yourself? When you’re not busy looking after these two? I’m guessing you probably don’t get much sleep right now.”
He’s so lovely! Why didn’t they talk earlier? She’s so interested in everything he has to say!
“Contract law,” begins Paula, but now the lady is nearly upon them.
“Did you just tell me I have diabetes?” says the passenger sitting directly in front of Paula.
“Cause of death, age of death,” says the lady tersely. “I couldn’t be clearer.”
“Great way to derail someone’s weight-loss journey!”
An older woman’s voice cuts in, “Danielle, she does not mean you have diabetes.”
“Well, I think that’s exactly what she means, Mum!”
The Scottish man snickers. “I shouldn’t laugh.”
The lady is now talking to the three broad-chested men crammed shoulder to shoulder in the row diagonally opposite. “I expect heart disease, age eighty-four. I expect dementia, age eighty-nine. I expect skiing accident, age fifty-five.”
Three heads turn in startled unison.
“Lots of heart disease,” comments the Scottish man. “Perhaps she’s sponsored by the Heart Foundation?” He chuckles generously at his own joke and Paula laughs along.
The lady steps forward.
“Ooh! Our turn!” The Scottish man rubs his hands together.
Paula thinks, Wait, I know her. Something about her mouth? She can imagine her smiling. Laughing. She’s not smiling now, that’s for sure. She looks grim.
