I’ve since learned some acquaintances came across my photo online and chose to do or say nothing, assuming if I wanted to be found, I would be. Presumably these are the people who wouldn’t turn me in if they saw my face on a wanted poster, so that’s nice to know.
Although I guess it would depend on the severity of my crime.
Chapter 98
Eve has just walked in the door from her waitressing job when her mother calls to ask if she’s heard about the fourth death.
“He was some kind of up-and-coming YouTube star,” she tells Eve. “He called himself Simon Says Be Kind. He did ‘random acts of sunshine’ like running up to people in the street and giving them a potted plant. Sounds infuriating. Imagine having to pretend to be grateful when some stranger thrusts a potted plant at you. Do you remember seeing him on the plane?”
“I don’t think so,” says Eve. She is looking him up on Dom’s laptop as she speaks. She doesn’t recognize him. He was a good-looking man, although he was one of those people who tilted his head and pouted each time he had his photo taken.
Simon Gallea was twenty-seven years old. The Death Lady correctly predicted he would die of an acute respiratory infection. He didn’t want to worry people so he’d only told one close friend and never mentioned it to his followers. His followers say this selfless behavior is so typical of Simon!
There is talk of a Simon Says Be Kind march to commemorate Simon. Let’s make Simon’s legacy a global kindness movement! Rest in peace, Simon, we won’t forget your message!
Interest in the Death Lady is now reaching fever pitch. Comments pour in as Eve watches:
Does anyone know how to book an appointment with the Death Lady?
I am DESPERATE to find the Death Lady.
I think it would really change my life if I knew how long I had left, I need to see the Death Lady!
I would like to give my mother a session with the Death Lady for her birthday. Does anyone know how I can arrange it?
Could someone please urgently post contact details for the Death Lady?
Surely someone is going to find her soon.
“Remind me when this Death Lady predicted I’d lose my only daughter?” says her mother, and there is fear in her voice, and Eve isn’t having it.
“No,” says Eve. “I will not.”
Chapter 99
The first thing I noticed when I arrived back in Sydney at my mother’s house was that the Madame Mae sign had gone from the letterbox. I had been so embarrassed about that sign, before I came to accept it, and then, it seems, I’d apparently become proud, because I felt such a sense of loss when it was gone. Now our house was just ordinary, no different from anyone else’s in our street. We were no longer special.
Auntie Pat opened the door. She had moved into my old bedroom. I wasn’t aware of this.
Mum was up and dressed, but she carried herself carefully like someone in pain, although she insisted she wasn’t feeling any. Her face was gaunt, but she was smiling, her eyes shiny with happiness to see me.
The last time I’d been home had been for Ivy’s wedding (to my wedding photographer, I was her bridesmaid and was very careful with my bouquet and did not leave a pollen stain on her wedding dress). Mum had been slender then, but I’d been pleased for her, I’d thought it was all the dieting paying off. Now she was fragile and birdlike, her clothes hung off her, her cheeks were sunken and her eyes enormous. Still beautiful but terrifyingly frail. We’d been the same height and build for many years, but our hugs had always been of a parent and child. I had always leaned toward her. Now for the first time it was as though I was taking her in my arms.
Before I could express my concerns, she stood back and surveyed me and said, “You look terrible.”
Auntie Pat said, “Yes, you do.”
“It’s a long flight,” I said defensively. I was not the one who looked terrible!
“What’s wrong with you?” demanded my mother, sounding not at all frail.
I didn’t tell them about the Friday-night parties, or the way my thumping heart woke me in the middle of the night with a gasp of terror, or about my permanently dry, sour mouth and the dull feeling in my head that only went away with my first drink each evening.
I told them I was distressed because we had learned that David and I couldn’t have a baby. I didn’t tell them of my secret relief, and I didn’t tell them I needed a baby to save me and my marriage from the dreadful abyss into which we seemed to be falling.
It turned out this was old news. David had called his mother and Michelle had called Mum.
David would have been just thrilled to know his mother and his in-laws had been discussing his sperm.
(He would not have been thrilled.)
They said it was going to be fine. Michelle had a plan, which she wanted to discuss with me, and Mum and Auntie Pat were already on board. David and I were to be brought on board too. The plan was that we would adopt a Korean baby, and our baby would be so very lucky, because unlike most adoptees going to white families, he or she would have a Korean grandmother and a half-Korean father. Michelle had already been calling adoption agencies. Auntie Pat was waiting to hear back from a friend whose daughter had adopted a baby from Korea, in case she had useful information. Mum had various distinguished people writing character references for us: the mayor, my high school principal, the head of the local chamber of commerce. (They had all sat for her at various points.) Of course, these references were probably not even necessary; David was not only half Korean but had a career in cardiology, saving lives, while I worked for the Australian Taxation Office, helping catch tax avoiders. We were clearly of excellent character and would go straight to the top of any list of desperate parents-to-be.
The mention of excellent character recalled a vision of our behavior at the rooftop parties, hands all over each other, in full view of everyone, staggering down the stairs to bed. It felt sensual at the time but so sleazy and vulgar in the morning, and reprehensible in my childhood home. What would my dad think? What would Jack think? I could not imagine either of them on that rooftop. Sometimes I wondered if my recurring image of two people toppling backward into the inky black night was symbolic. It represented David and me, but I only thought that when I was drunk; when I was hungover I had no interest in symbols or visions and I knew it meant nothing.
“Obviously this is only if you and David are happy with the idea,” said Auntie Pat.
“Really?” I said. “We have a choice in the matter? We won’t come home one day and find a little Korean baby on the doorstep delivered by the postman?”
“Very funny,” said Auntie Pat.
“Didn’t that happen to Betty Carroll?” said Mum.
“Betty’s baby didn’t come from Korea, Mae,” said Auntie Pat.
(It was an open secret nobody was really bothering to keep anymore. The oldest Carroll girl, Bridgette, had given birth at fifteen to the fattest baby you’ve ever seen.)
“Oh, yes,” said Mum. “Fancy me forgetting that.” She frowned. “I think I predicted it too.”