Another woman might have found it outrageous that Michelle was already making calls to adoption agencies on our behalf, but I liked the idea of pleasing my mother-in-law, and—this sounds terrible—I think it reduced my level of responsibility. If I couldn’t take care of this baby Michelle was organizing, she would do it for me. She would help me keep the baby alive, and the baby would get me back into my clotted-cream house, where all my fancy dinnerware and wedding boxes were packed away along with my former self, while another newlywed couple paid us rent to live there. Also, I would be doing something “good” by helping out a child in need.
“I think I would like to adopt,” I said. “If David is happy to.”
Of course, we didn’t know what we didn’t know. We didn’t know many of the Korean children adopted at this time were not orphans at all. We didn’t know about unwed mothers being coerced into giving up their babies, or document fraud, or profit-driven adoption agencies. It did not occur to us to think about distressing questions of identity that might face these children when they grew up.
I watched Mum tentatively nibble a tiny corner of lamington as if it were a strange exotic food rather than her favorite cake, then put it back on her plate with a deep sigh of resignation.
I slapped my palms on the table and said there would be no more baby talk. We needed to focus on Mum and her health. This, after all, was the purpose of my visit. I said it was ridiculous that she hadn’t been to the doctor yet, and Mum said, no need to get bossy, Cherry, because she’d been yesterday! Pat had finally worn her down.
Mum looked so pleased with herself. She was experiencing the glorious relief of having faced a fear. She’d believed going to the doctor would make her sick, but now she’d finally been convinced to go, she was convinced it would cure her. Sillier things have been thought.
They were waiting for a whole lot of test results. The doctor was being extra cautious. She probably just needed an antibiotic!
Auntie Pat avoided my eyes. I said, “I thought you read your own cards and you’re going to die?”
She said, “Oh, we’re all going to die, Cherry. I probably misinterpreted it. I am human, after all.”
I asked about the Madame Mae sign and Mum said she’d taken early retirement. It had started to become too tiring. Sometimes she’d been so tired she saw nothing, nothing at all, and she had to make it up. She said this as if we’d be shocked. Once again Auntie Pat and I pointedly avoided eye contact. Didn’t she make it all up?
“All these women, looking at me with such need in their eyes, year after year,” said Mum. “I couldn’t take it anymore. Some of them became too dependent on me. They got addicted. That woman from the Southern Highlands wanted a weekly appointment. I said, absolutely not, you can come twice a year at the most. She wore me down and I let her book in for quarterly visits, but it just wasn’t…healthy.”
“Why were your customers mostly women?” I wondered.
“Because women are more in touch with their intuition,” suggested my mother.
“Because women have less control over their lives,” said Auntie Pat grimly.
For the previous two months, Mum had been “closing up shop,” telling her regular customers that this would be their last reading with her. She was referring them all to a psychic who had set up an office in the local shopping center next to the dry cleaner. “She’s talented and terribly energetic,” said Mum. “She sees twice as many customers a day as I ever did. Charges twice as much too.”
Mum’s regulars had all brought along gifts to their last appointments: flowers, potted plants, homemade jams. There were cards on display all along Jack’s floating bookshelves with heartfelt handwritten messages: I owe my life to you, Madame Mae…I could not have gotten through these past difficult years…you guided me in my darkest hour…if it wasn’t for you, Madame Mae, I would never have had the courage to chase my dreams.
Reading them, I felt guilty. I knew Mum was successful. I knew Madame Mae was often booked out for months in advance, but I don’t think I had been truly aware of how much she meant to people. This was like the retirement of a beloved teacher, therapist, or priest.
Her last ever reading had been at three o’clock the previous day. Unfortunately it had been with grumpy former bank manager Bill Hanrob, who came once a year, and whenever she said, “How are you, Bill?” he’d say, “You’re the fortune teller, you tell me.” Then he’d chuckle disbelievingly at everything Mum predicted. Every job has its negatives. (Yet he came back. Year after year.)
Tomorrow her office would be dismantled.
“I’m not sure what we’ll do with all the space,” said Mum.
Auntie Pat said nothing, but I could somehow tell she already knew what it would be used for.
“What about one last reading?” I said to Mum. “For me?”
Her face lit up and I wondered if I’d hurt her by never asking for a reading before. I deeply respected her fashion and skincare advice, but had it been disheartening to have so many people consider her an oracle while her own daughter scoffed?
“Yes,” she said. “That’s good. That’s better. My last ever reading will be for Cherry.”
I thought she might just read my tea leaves then and there at the table like she used to do when I was a little girl, but she said she wanted to do it properly. She left the room and came back dressed as Madame Mae: the patterned silk scarf around her head, the heavy eyeliner under her eyes, the dark red lipstick, the cape-like dress.
“Oh, Mae,” said Auntie Pat when she saw her. “You didn’t need to—you will tire yourself.”
Mum ignored her.
“Mrs. Cherry Smith?” she asked in her singsong professional voice, but with a roguish lilt. “Here for your two o’clock appointment? I’m ready for you now.”
“I’m a little nervous,” I said, getting in character. This was something I’d overheard customers say, but I did feel a little nervous.
“No need to be nervous,” said Mum. “All you need to do is relax.”
She pulled back the purple curtain. “Please take a seat,” she said. “Make yourself comfortable. It’s important you are comfortable.” She put a soft gold cushion behind the small of my back.
She switched on the lamps and used a nifty lighter I had never seen before to light the candles as well as a thin bamboo incense stick. The scent of frankincense filled the room. It’s a woody scent, a bit like rosemary, and it helps alleviate anxiety.
She said, “Do you have a preferred method of divination? Tea leaves? Palm? Tarot?”
I said I didn’t mind, and she said in that case, could I please give her a piece of my jewelry, my engagement or wedding ring, for example.
I tugged off both rings and gave them to her, glancing at my naked left hand as I did.
She solemnly placed the rings on a small silver tray on the table next to her. Grandma had given her that tray years ago for Christmas. She’d gotten one for Auntie Pat, too, and said, “You girls can swap if you like,” and I think perhaps they did. It was a strange experience seeing familiar household objects become mystical in this setting and seeing my frustrating, headstrong, beautiful mother through the eyes of a “sitter,” who had maybe caught the train and then walked nervously up Bridge Street, hoping to find answers in this ordinary house made extraordinary because of a little sign hanging from the letterbox.
She asked, “Did you bring a blank cassette for today’s session?”
Then she caught herself. “I have a spare one.” She took one out of a drawer and winked at me as she put it in the cassette player and pressed record. “You may have it for free.”
I didn’t know she offered recordings. It had been so many years since I had eavesdropped. She had gotten so polished and professional.
She sat down, took a deep breath, and said, “Cherry. That’s a beautiful name. It suits you.”
