The Australian Psychics Association, of which I am not a member, released a statement condemning my actions. As they should.
My mother never told anyone who sat for her anything terrible or distressing that she saw in their future.
“What would be the point of that?” she said. “They come to me for hope.”
“If fate won’t be fought,” I said, “what’s the point of any of it?”
I knew the point. The point was that it paid the bills.
Chapter 14
Paula rocks Timmy. She uses the breathing techniques she learned for childbirth.
What a creepy, cruel thing for someone to say about her baby. She will not let it worry her. She is not “spiritual.” She is an Anglican.
If Timmy never goes near water he won’t drown. Simple as that. They will move to the desert. She will lock him up. For God’s sake, she doesn’t believe this kind of rubbish.
“Mummy?” says Willow. “Mummy?”
“I think the wee lass might—”
Paula stares for a dull stupefied moment at the document the Scottish man is trying to hand her. She squints to read it, as if it’s a contract or a file she needs to act on, but she really doesn’t have the bandwidth for this right now.
Then she gets it. Of course it’s not a document, idiot, it’s a sick bag.
She takes the bag. A flight attendant hurries down the aisle.
Willow turns her head.
“No,” says Paula.
Chapter 15
In fairness, I don’t think I can be held responsible for the toddler. I saw what she was eating in the departure lounge. You didn’t need any special abilities to predict that particular outcome.
Chapter 16
Allegra shrieks, “No!”
Not the appropriate service language.
Ground School never covered this and Ground School was intense.
She extinguished real fires. She shouted, “Brace, Brace, Brace!” over and over, while imagining her workplace plummeting to the earth. She set up a life raft in a swimming pool while sprinklers poured heavy rain and fake lightning flashed overhead. She swam the length of a pool fully dressed, dragging the dead weight of Anders, who went full Method playing the role of an injured passenger, groaning and crying, and didn’t help her out by kicking even a little bit.
She can resuscitate, placate, and charm. She is word perfect on every drill, every procedure. She is ready and willing to save her passengers’ lives: even the whiny, grabby ones. She is not, however, prepared for a small child to projectile-vomit on her like she’s channeling the kid in The Exorcist. It’s the volume. The velocity. The epic revoltingness. It’s all over her skirt. It’s in her shoes. It’s seeping through her stockings. It’s between her toes.
The distraught mother has an expression of such horror you would think Allegra had been knifed by her child and is bleeding out in front of her, and that is the appropriate expression.
Now the mother is pulling wet wipes from somewhere on her person, like a magician producing a stream of colored scarves, and she is shoving them at Allegra. “Sorry. Sorry. Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not a problem.” Allegra tries not to retch as she dabs at her clothes, recalling that she did not bring a spare uniform today because she didn’t want to be bothered carrying her bigger bag. “It’s really not a problem.”
The lady is talking now to the elderly retired doctors, both thankfully still alive. They are nodding and smiling respectfully, seemingly unbothered by whatever she is saying. Perhaps their former professions and their ages mean they are not afraid to face their own mortality, or perhaps they can’t actually hear a word she’s saying and they’re just nodding along, pretending to hear.
She bends forward and tectonic plates shift in her back.
It’s my birthday, she thinks pathetically as her eyes fill with tears of pain and she attempts to smile at the glassy-eyed little girl now slumped back in her seat, with a relieved, stunned expression on her face and her thumb in her mouth.
“You okay, sweetie?” She deserves an Oscar for her caring tender tone.
“I’m so sorry,” says the kid’s mother again. “I was distracted by that awful lady.”
“Please don’t worry,” says Allegra. “It happens.” Her decision to remain childless is now set in stone.
The lady progresses down the plane as steadily and efficiently as a conscientious crew member distributing snacks.
Chapter 17
It was a cool clear April morning in Hobart.
That day. The day of the flight. The day I did what I did.
I did not eat breakfast. The previous day had not been a good one. There had been a distressing incident at the Fast Fitness Gym, followed immediately by a mortifying incident at the Everyday Fresh Market grocery store, and subsequently there was no food in the house.
I had a flight to catch. There is something about a day when you have a flight to catch. Even a short domestic flight to Sydney. Even when you fly frequently. It’s an obstacle in your day and it’s hard to see around it.
I was to spend just two nights in Sydney. My overnight bag was already packed. Carry-on luggage only. I’m an organized person and an excellent packer.
