Page 48 of Here One Moment

“Oh, no, of course not,” says Sue. She attempts to bite into her bruschetta, with similar results to Caterina’s. “This sourdough is far too crunchy!” She wipes her mouth with her napkin. “We exchanged details with the man sitting next to me and he promised to get in touch if he ends up dying in a workplace accident. Ha ha. He’ll go first if she’s right.”

“So, what, are you saying she made these predictions for everyone on the plane?”

“I don’t know if it was every single passenger, but there were a lot of people at the baggage carousel talking about it. There were some honeymooners. The bride was still in her dress. The lady told her she was going to die of ‘intimate partner homicide.’ ” Sue shakes her cocktail and drains the last mouthful.

“That’s horrendous,” gasps Caterina. She leans forward. “Did the guy look—”

“Violent? No, not at all,” says Sue. “But they never look violent in their wedding photos, do they?”

“Some surprisingly intelligent people believe in psychics, you know,” comments Caterina as she pushes her plate of bruschetta away. “I know this very successful surgeon who—hey, wait, didn’t you see a psychic who predicted Max would have an affair with an Italian? You kept me away from Max for years!”

“It was a short Italian woman—you’re taller than Max!” For some reason the thought of Max and Caterina in bed gives Sue the giggles. They are so incompatible it feels metaphysically impossible. “I never kept you away from him.”

Caterina gives her a look of mock suspicion, wipes her mouth with her napkin, and drops it back on her lap. “I’d love to hear any actual evidence of accurate psychic predictions.”

“Nostradamus?”

“He said the world was going to end in the nineties,” says Caterina. “I remember reading he predicted the day of his own death—”

“Seriously? But that’s impressive.”

“No, but guess when he made the prediction? The day before he died. When he was sick and bedridden.”

“Maybe not quite as impressive,” Sue concedes.

Their ravioli arrives in giant steaming bowls, along with the salad and the wine. Sue takes the opportunity to compliment the waitress on her hair, and Caterina rolls her eyes.

“You are such a grandma,” she says once the waitress has left.

Sue pretends to scratch her nose while giving her the finger: a maneuver taught to her by her oldest grandson. She decides to say nothing more about the plane incident. Caterina has complained before about people who bore her with their medical woes.

Sue understands. She once had a friend call to ask if Sue could please come over to bandage up her son’s leg. Sue lived half an hour away and had five children at home. (She put the boys in the car and drove over. They had pizza for dinner and it was a fun night. But still. Come on.)

Sue says, “So how did you go with that—”

Caterina interrupts, “You’ve got no family history of pancreatic cancer, right?”

“None.”

“And you’re not experiencing any symptoms? Anything you’re worried about?”

“No.”

“None of the risk markers,” says Caterina. She checks them off on her fingers. “You’re not obese, you don’t smoke, you’re not diabetic, no family history.”

“No,” says Sue. “I know it’s silly. Don’t worry. I’m not worried.” She takes a piece of pear from the edge of the salad bowl with her fingers.

“Aren’t you?” Caterina looks at her steadily. In the dim light she could be the same woman Sue met when they took their first babies to their local baby clinic forty years ago and bonded over their dislike of the bossy clinic nurse.

“Well,” says Sue. “I know it’s hard to catch early. I know outcomes are not great. It wouldn’t be my…preferred choice.”

Caterina smiles ruefully.

Sue continues, “And I guess it’s our age, but don’t you find you keep hearing of people getting terrible diagnoses? It feels like we’re all just waiting to see where the axe falls next.”

“I know,” says Caterina. “It’s brutal.”

“It’s annoying because I’ve been in a really good mood since I turned sixty.”

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