Page 14 of Something Like Fate

I can imagine that having a talkative daughter who parties is like parenting an alien. I’ve always tried to rectify our personality differences by pretending to share the same interests, like watching gritty true-crime documentaries with him and studying forensic science in college. After disappointing my aunts, I felt an obligation to at least follow in Mom and Dad’s footsteps academically. That’s why I can’t bring myself to admit that I’m hating my program and would rather swallow glass than stick it out another three years.

As expected, Dad looks skeptical, like I was snorting hard drugs off the bathroom sink or something.

I describe the city skyline for my aunts. I detail the hearts, the scent of espresso, and the hot sensation I felt on my neck and back. And how it happened a second time, moments later.

“It’s probably nothing,” I say, covering my eyes in shame. While my aunts have taught me the logic of Bazi, palmistry, and face reading, I’m unable to read people intuitively. I’ve tried all the exercises Mei and Ellen taught me, like practicing tarot, meditating, visualizing, focusing on the senses—none of which made a difference. In other words, I’m a complete disappointment to my entire family.

“No. It’s definitely not nothing,” Mei tells me, drumming her fingers over her chin in thought. “Give me your hand.”

I extend it toward her lap and she examines it, the line between her brows deepening before sliding her eyes to meet mine. “Hmm, your fate line is still broken.” Go figure.

“Does it mean I’m going to wind up destitute and on the street?” I ask, panicked that sheknows.

I expect her to confront me about how close I am to dropping out, right in front of Dad. But she just tilts her head. “No ... just that you may have some instability, which checks out with your sun line. Thereare quite a few little creases, which means you have too many interests and lack focus.”

All true. Nothing I don’t already know.

“Anyways, let’s check your love line.” She runs her hand across my palm. “It’s still the same too. You’re very passionate, stubborn, and willing to sacrifice. But your marriage lines—” She pauses to examine closer. “These are new.”

I zero in on the little lines right below my pinkie. Frankly, I have no idea whether I’ve always had those or not. But I trust Mei. “What do they mean?”

“See how both lines are equal in length?”

I nod.

She drops my hand and starts pacing between the kitchen and living room. “It could mean a few things. That you’re prone to love triangles or generally indecisive when it comes to settling down.”

She abruptly turns to Dad. “Did Kim ever tell you her vision?”

My gut tightens at the mention of Mom.

Mei’s determined eyes meet mine. “Your mom saw recurring visions of a pair of thick glasses like your dad’s. Smelled the heavy scent of Dove soap. And a bunch of hearts exactly like the ones you’re describing.”

I clutch my stomach, breath hitching.

“Really? What did it mean?”

“She had these visionsbeforemeeting your dad.”

Now I understand why Ellen and Mei kept sayingthevision.

I dig my nails into my thighs. With each year that passes, I’m terrified I’ll forget Mom. As it is, I don’t have many memories of her. Most of what I “remember” comes from stories my aunts have told me. Like of her and Dad dipping plain potato chips in ketchup and vinegar instead of buying flavored chips, or staring at the world map in our house, talking about all the places she wanted to travel to. Sometimes, I’m overcome with the suffocating sense that I’m forgetting her entirely.

Whenever I feel like that, I look at the only nondigital photo I have of her. It’s a candid shot of her and Dad just sitting on the couch insweatpants. She has no makeup on, hair in a messy bun, legs in his lap. It’s not filtered or posed. There’s no overt show of affection like their wedding photos, but there’s something about it that just makes my heart thrum. Their love for each other radiates through. Maybe it’s the warmth of Mom’s sideways grin. This happy, giddy version of Dad I can barely remember. The way Dad’s palm rests, snug over Mom’s knee. You can just see it in their eyes. Pure love. The kind of love I want one day.

Their connection is so palpable, the pads of my fingers tingle whenever I touch the photo. Dad gave it to me when I was twelve after catching me sneak it out of his wallet one too many times. I keep it tucked safely in my purse as he instructed, to ensure I never lose it.

Keeping her memory alive is all the more difficult given that Dad doesn’t like to talk about her. And who could blame him? Losing the literal love of your life is devastating and unbearable enough to destroy the strongest of people. To be fair, he’s open to talking to me about literally anything else, like puberty or the grisly details of his current murder cases (against my will). But when it comes to Mom, he withdraws entirely and becomes an iron fortress, which is why I never bring her up.

Case in point: Dad has gone quiet, seemingly fascinated with a thread on his pants. I feel bad that this conversation has clearly upset him. But at the same time, just knowing I’ve had a vision similar to Mom’s sparks something inside me. It’s like an invisible magic string that holds us together. A new connection that tethers me to her memory in a way I’ve never been able to grasp.

“Your mom saw the same vision a couple times. She described it like a riddle she could never unlock, like a cruel game of Pictionary. And then when she met your dad, a forensic scientist, it all made sense,” Ellen explains.

I massage my temples, trying to wrap my mind around what this means. “So you’re saying I’m ...”

Mei’s eyes light up like jewels under the glow of the living room lamp. “You’re going to meet The One.”

“But when?”

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