Page 67 of Here One Moment

“No, you didn’t,” Grandpa would argue, “you heard something, like a rustle, or you caught a tiny movement out of the corner of your eye.”

Grandma would cross her arms, stick out her bottom lip, and say nothing more until Grandpa said, “All right, Lizzie, you’re right, you knew, you just somehow knew.”

He wasn’t silly.

Then he’d get his cup of tea.

—

Before my father was struck by lightning, my mother was ordinary.

Well, not to me. She was charismatic and clever, clearly the prettiest of all the mothers I knew, with the most beautiful complexion, and she was the first mother on our street to learn to drive, which made me very proud, but what I’m trying to say is she wasn’t “unusual.” She spent her days on domestic tasks: sewing, cooking, laundry, and gardening. She swore when the magpies dropped mulberries from our tree over her clean washing on the line. She cried over the brick-sized romance novels she borrowed from the library.

Yes, she read palms, but it wasn’t serious. She was mimicking Grandma. She never charged a fee and if she did a reading for her girlfriends they normally ended up in fits of giggles. I think Mum predicted wicked things about tall, dark, handsome men. She read my tea leaves, because I begged her to, but it was like asking her to tell me a story. I don’t think either of us truly believed it.

We had the same superstitions as most people we knew. We knocked on wood. If we spilled salt we threw some over our left shoulder. If we cracked a double-yolk egg we said, “Someone is having twins!” and we never checked if anyone actually did have twins. We crossed our fingers for luck. It was all in good fun.

But after Dad died, everything changed. All our superstitions got serious.

I don’t know. Maybe Mum really did foresee his death.

But you’d think if she truly believed Dad would be struck by lightning she might have suggested he avoid rock fishing on a day with the possibility of a summer storm heavy in the air.

A heads-up might have been helpful, Mum.

Chapter 56

“Have you done those tests yet?”

Sue has dumped her shopping basket on the floor and taken the call in the middle of the fruit and veg section of the supermarket, where she is squeezing rock-hard green avocadoes in the hope of finding one likely to ripen this century. It’s Caterina, sounding unusually tense.

“Not yet,” says Sue.

After their dinner, she’d felt a weight lift. Knowing she had the forms to do the tests somehow meant she didn’t need to actually do them. Her concerns about the lady had come to seem absurd.

Is Caterina annoyed with her for wasting her time writing out the referrals? Or, and this seems more likely, is she concerned she recommended unnecessary tests?

“I don’t need to do the tests if you’re worried—”

Caterina interrupts. “You haven’t seen this video that’s going around today?”

“What video?” Sue’s phone is beeping. She replaces the avocado and glances at her phone. Her youngest son is trying to call her.

She puts the phone back to her ear.

“It’s a girl. Seems like she was on your flight,” says Caterina. “It’s…distressing. I’m surprised it hasn’t been taken down yet.”

Now Sue’s phone is buzzing and vibrating like a child’s toy.

“It’s probably just a coincidence,” says Caterina. “Like Nostradamus getting lucky.”

Someone approaches the avocados with a determined expression, and Sue steps aside, kicking her plastic shopping basket across the floor.

“Sue?” says Caterina.

“Has someone died?” says Sue. “From the flight? Is that what you’re saying?”

A pause.

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