Page 13 of Something Like Fate

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When you think of psychics, you probably envision a Cher lookalike with a faux-silk headwrap. Maybe she’s draped in an eclectic array of mismatched fabrics, waving long fingernails over a misty crystal ball, excessive jewelry clinking with each wheezy breath.

That’s not Aunt Mei. She looks straight off the runway in a stark-white power suit and a pair of four-inch fuchsia pumps (she won’t be caught dead in flats), dark, silky hair in a chic, blunt bob. She’s a fancy Bay Street stockbroker by day and a psychic by weekends, which means she doesn’t sleep or know the pleasure of comfortable clothing. I like to joke that she uses her psychic abilities to predict the stock market. She’s never disputed the theory.

“Why is Mei here?” Dad asks, tilting his head toward the window as she struts up the walkway.

It’s a fair question. It’s 7:15 on Saturday morning—a peculiar time for an aunt drop-in. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised. When I got my first period, she drove to our house in the middle of the night with a bag of pads, jumbo tampons, Tylenol Extra Strength, a heating pad, and a crap-ton of personal anecdotes I’d have preferred not to know.

Before I can explain her presence, Mei waltzes in without knocking, as she always does. “Tell me everything,” she instructs, no formal greeting. Part of me feels guilty that she’s come all the way here for probably nothing.

“I like your shoes,” I tell her, winking at Dad, who chokes down a laugh, fully expecting Mei to launch into a story about where she got them and for how much. And she delivers.

“Twenty dollars at T.J.Maxx. Can you believe it?” She stretches her shoes out, admiring them, face alight at the mention of a bargain. She might be fancy, but she’s a Zhao through and through—which means she’s obsessed with shopping on the cheap, and even more obsessed with bragging about said deals. “Anyway, make with the details.”

I sit on the edge of the coffee table across from Mei, who’s perched on the arm of the couch, crossing and uncrossing her legs, unable to stay still. She’s always had a frantic energy, always doing five things at once.

“Honestly, it was probably nothing. Just some weird hearts and—”

Mei clasps her chest and lets out a muffled sound reminiscent of an injured pigeon. Before she can get a word out, her phone vibrates in her alligator-skin bag (75 percent off at a Black Friday sale at Nordstrom). “Oh, it’s Ellen,” she declares, putting her on FaceTime.

Ellen is in bed, satin face mask pulled over her forehead. A bedazzled pink maternity sleepshirt that readsMomma Needs a Night Inin Curlz font stretches over her seven-months-pregnant belly. “What’s going on!?”

Mei, Dad, and I simultaneously wince at the shrillness of her voice. As an elementary school teacher and toddler mom, screaming is her default.

I hide my cringe and lean in. “I was hanging out with Mark B. when—”

“Mark B.? Who is Mark B.?” Ellen sits up, back straight against the headboard, and squints into the camera to get a better view.

“Yes, who isMark B.?” Dad asks with an expression of abject terror. He’s usually one to sit back and quietly observe, with the exception of these subjects: science, dad jokes, true crime, Marvel, or my safety.

“No one!” I assure. “Just a guy. I don’t like him that way—”

“Anyway, Lo hadthevision,” Mei informs them prematurely.

Weary, he stretches his slender six-foot frame on the couch, pale skin turning a shade of ketchup. I have half a mind to bring him a cool cloth to drape over his forehead.

Ellen sucks in a breath, dark eyes glittering, like she’s watching a juicy scene from one of those K-dramas she’s obsessed with. “Thevision?”

Mei nods.

Ellen clutches her chest. “Oh, thank gosh. I was scared she’d end up like Cousin Lin—”

Before she can continue, Mei shoots her a stern look through the camera, instantly shutting her up. “Shhh. We don’t talk about her!”

Ellen makes a zipper motion over her lips, like she always does when she’s said too much, which is more often than not. It’s a running joke in the family that she can’t be trusted with secrets.

“What about Cousin Lin?” I demand. I don’t remember much about her, aside from her being vaguely mentioned as one of my grandmother’s cousins. She died the year after Mom.

“It’s nothing for you to worry about. Just some silly lore,” she explains, waving it off, but not before arrowing anotherWhy did you bring that up?scowl at Ellen.

“Anyway, make with the details! I need to go feed the monster,” Ellen says, referring to Maisey, her two-year-old daughter.

I’m tempted to keep pressing, but once Mei has made a decision, she doesn’t budge. Besides, I know I can get Ellen to spill the tea at a future date. “Well,” I start again as the guilt begins to seep in. They’re going to be disappointed in me, just like last time I had a false alarm (a strangely vivid dream where I was riding a Godzilla-size meerkat to school). “I was at a frat party—”

“A frat party?” Dad asks, alarmed by this new information. “You said it was a girls’ night with Bianca.”

“It was. But we ended up popping in really quick.” I have to lie, lest Dad lose his mind. He’s under the impression that frat parties are nothing but loud music, alcohol, and orgies (half-true) that inevitablylead toDateline-style crimes. As a self-proclaimed dork, Dad never set foot in a party when he was young. He preferred to have his nose in comics and chemistry textbooks.

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