Chapter 10

Jesus is the only true prophet, my dear!

Paula Binici opens her eyes. What the…? Did she dream those words or actually hear someone say them?

She’s thirty-six years old, although she’s told she looks much younger; possibly it’s something to do with the shape of her face (heart-shaped) or maybe it’s her damned hair, which is wispy, flyaway, flummoxes hairdressers, and makes her appear permanently windswept. There is always the fractional lift of an eyebrow when she mentions she’s a lawyer. Now she looks like a hapless stay-at-home mother, which is what she is, rather than the competent, respected, well-paid contract lawyer she previously was, and will be again, very soon, once her children start school, which people assure her will happen in the “blink of an eye.” The days are long but the years are short, her mother says. This will apparently make sense to her one day.

She must have dozed, but she’s not sure for how long. There is something going on. She has missed some kind of important development. But what?

Her baby and toddler are both still asleep, both still breathing. The seat-belt sign has not come on. No turbulence. No oxygen masks have dropped. She shifts carefully, trying not to disturb her children, who are both using her as a pillow. Their small beautiful heads are as heavy and hard as bowling balls. It goes so fast, people tell her. Hilarious. She’s been on this plane for a thousand years. Time has never gone slower.

Timmy’s cheek is sticky with drool against her chest, one dimpled hand gripping the fabric of her shirt, pulling it to one side and exposing the graying lace of her oldest nursing bra. The cold buckle of the seat-belt extender rests against Timmy’s bare skin just above his nappy, but Paula has given up fiddling with the two belts to make him more comfortable. The main thing is he’s secure. Willow’s cheek, also sticky, is pressed against Paula’s arm, her mouth wide open in a perfect oval, a rim of chocolate around her rosebud lips. Paula has bribed her with so many forbidden treats she will probably have an upset stomach soon. It will be the obvious next development in this nightmarish flight.

When they’d been waiting on the tarmac, Willow and Timmy had initially been cheerful, unaware they weren’t getting anywhere, and that time therefore didn’t count. She knew they were using up their precious reserves of good behavior, and had distracted herself by pondering the legal implications of the delay. When would a flight delay be considered a breach of contract? When time is of the essence. It is of the essence. I’m flying to Sydney for my sister’s wedding next Saturday. My daughter is going to be a flower girl and they need time to make any necessary adjustments to her dress. What is the relevant contract anyway? A contract of carriage. Wait, the consumer guarantees would apply. Section 62: In the absence of agreement, the service will be provided within a reasonable time. But what does “reasonable time” mean? That’s always up in the air. Ha ha. Nobody here is up in the air. Nobody ever knows what “reasonable” means or who the reasonable man is. Where is that elusive reasonable man? Am I married to him? Matt likes to think he’s so reasonable.

She’d been looking up a German case where passengers stuck on a plane sued for false imprisonment when Timmy began to scream. No warning. It probably terrified the hugely pregnant passenger seated close to the front of the plane who Paula had observed cradling her bump with the prideful exuberance of a first-time mother-to-be, although the woman probably thought she’d never let her child cry like that. In fact, Paula had never heard Timmy cry so hysterically. She began to worry that he was actually dying, in her arms, from a burst appendix or something. Then Willow began to weep, piteously, as if she were a child on a television commercial appealing for foster carers. Paula heard someone say, without even bothering to lower their voice, “If you can’t control your kids, don’t fly, simple as that.”

She’d never been so stressed and sweaty in her life. A vision of herself screaming in full-throated harmony with the baby appeared in her head and then got stuck, in that familiar well-worn groove, sliding endlessly back and forth like a marble in one of those office novelty toys for executives. She imagined the horrified faces, the flight attendants running to restrain her, police called, a doctor called, a mental health assessment demanded.

She reasoned with herself, one of those exhausting back-and-forth arguments in which she specialized.

You’re not going to do that, you would never do that.

But what if I do?

But you won’t.

But what if I do.

But you won’t.

And she didn’t, because a nice man from a few rows back stood up and handed Timmy his car keys, then said in a deep Chris Hemsworth voice, “Great pair of lungs, little mate,” like it was a compliment, not a complaint. The keys calmed Timmy instantly. Paula suspected it was because a big strong man had given him the keys. Timmy is a man’s man. He never looks more comfortable or smug than when he’s sitting on his daddy’s lap.

Paula is in the middle seat, with Willow in the aisle. “Don’t let her sit next to some predatory stranger,” Matt had said, so she’d dutifully put Willow in the aisle seat, but the man next to Paula is surely too distinguished and well dressed to be a predator. She’d guess he’s in his sixties, his Scottish accent so thick it’s like it’s been squeezed from a tube, and he’s wearing a beautiful blue tie, which he hasn’t loosened even a fraction. He didn’t look judgmental during the Great Crying Debacle, just winced occasionally as he steadily turned the pages of some densely written book. Meanwhile Paula has had to continually drag Willow back into her seat so she’s not swiped by someone’s carelessly swinging bag or elbow or knocked out by the drinks cart. Thanks a lot, Matt.

She thinks of her former job in a Hobart law firm. Right now, the thought of being in her quiet-as-a-library, air-conditioned, plush-carpeted city office, with a takeout coffee on the desk next to her and a tricky clause to unravel, is like remembering a glorious tropical holiday. She sees now that she didn’t just enjoy work, she loved it. She is a person whose brain requires certainty and control, rules and procedures, perhaps more than the average person, but motherhood has none of that and some days she is bored out of her freaking mind.

No, don’t think that, Paula, that’s awful.

(A thought is just a thought.)

Motherhood is fulfilling, important work, and every day she experiences a moment of pure, piercing bliss. That is true. At least most days, anyway. Yes, there’s certainty and control at work, and satisfaction, but no moments of bliss.

Willow whimpers in her sleep, and Paula thinks: sick bag.

She stretches her hand around Timmy toward the seat pocket, but she can’t reach it without waking him.

“This lady coming down the aisle appears to be causing some kind of…kerfuffle,” says her Scottish companion. He has closed his book with one finger keeping his place.

“What lady?” asks Paula after a second, because there is a slight delay while she deciphers his words through the accent. If she doesn’t panic, she can understand perfectly.

“Heading our way.” He indicates with his chin. “She seems to be talking to every passenger, insulting them, perhaps? Oh, I think a flight attendant might be attempting to detain her—no, flight attendant has been waylaid!”

He raises himself in his seat to see, brightly curious.

A voice from in front of them says, “She’s telling people when they’re going to die.”

Paula and the Scottish man exchange wide-eyed looks and raised eyebrows. Suddenly they are audience members enjoying an impromptu performance piece.

They both watch as a gray-haired lady addresses every passenger in the row ahead of them.

“I expect heart failure. Age eighty-two. I expect diabetes. Age seventy-nine. I expect snakebite. Age forty-eight.”

“This is a bit confronting,” says Paula. “Snakebite! How likely is that?”

“Perhaps a clairvoyant gone rogue, do you think?” says her seatmate. “I believe there was a new age festival in Hobart this weekend.”

“Oh, yes, I saw that advertised,” says Paula. “Are you a believer in all…that?” She’s finding this adult conversation as stimulating as a double espresso.

“I confess I enjoy all things occult,” says the Scottish man. “But I’m not a true believer.”

“What is your profession?” asks Paula, because he seems too distinguished a man to ask “What do you do?”

“I’m a professor of psychiatry in the University of Tasmania Sleep and Chronobiology Department. I’m speaking at a conference in Sydney this week. What about yourself? When you’re not busy looking after these two? I’m guessing you probably don’t get much sleep right now.”

He’s so lovely! Why didn’t they talk earlier? She’s so interested in everything he has to say!

“Contract law,” begins Paula, but now the lady is nearly upon them.

“Did you just tell me I have diabetes ?” says the passenger sitting directly in front of Paula.

“Cause of death, age of death,” says the lady tersely. “I couldn’t be clearer.”

“Great way to derail someone’s weight-loss journey!”

An older woman’s voice cuts in, “Danielle, she does not mean you have diabetes.”

“Well, I think that’s exactly what she means, Mum!”

The Scottish man snickers. “I shouldn’t laugh.”

The lady is now talking to the three broad-chested men crammed shoulder to shoulder in the row diagonally opposite. “I expect heart disease, age eighty-four. I expect dementia, age eighty-nine. I expect skiing accident, age fifty-five.”

Three heads turn in startled unison.

“Lots of heart disease,” comments the Scottish man. “Perhaps she’s sponsored by the Heart Foundation?” He chuckles generously at his own joke and Paula laughs along.

The lady steps forward.

“Ooh! Our turn!” The Scottish man rubs his hands together.

Paula thinks, Wait, I know her. Something about her mouth? She can imagine her smiling. Laughing. She’s not smiling now, that’s for sure. She looks grim.

Paula has always been excellent with faces and sometimes suspects she might be a “super-recognizer,” one of the two percent of the population with such superior facial recognition skills that they get employed by the military. However, it’s also likely she overestimates her abilities simply because she’s just so good in comparison to her sister, who is notoriously bad with faces and once stood behind Paula in a supermarket line looking blankly at her for a good few seconds before Paula said, “Lisa, you idiot, it’s me.”

Paula is clearly not a super-recognizer because if she really has seen this woman before, she can’t remember where. There goes her career with the military.

“I expect pneumonia.” The lady points at the Scottish man. “Age ninety-one.”

“Ah. Pneumonia. The old man’s friend.” The Scottish man nods with satisfaction as if that’s exactly what he’d anticipated. “Very likely. I’m sure you’re right.”

The lady points at Paula. “I expect—”

“I don’t want my fortune told,” interrupts Paula. “Thank you anyway.” She shifts the baby in her arms.

“I expect chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. Age eighty-four.”

“Really?” Paula’s not sure what chronic obstructive pulmonary disease means, but eighty-four does not seem particularly old to her. Her grandmother just turned eighty-eight and is in excellent health, still playing golf twice a week. She has far more energy than Paula.

“We actually have excellent longevity in our family.” She’s not sure if she’s trying to be witty for the benefit of the Scottish man or if she’s truly hoping to convince the lady to give her a different prediction. “So I would have thought I’d make ninety.”

It doesn’t matter because the lady is not interested. She points at Willow. “I expect—”

“ No, ” says Paula. “No, thank you. Definitely not. She’s too little. Please don’t.”

“Pneumonia. One hundred and three.”

“Oh, snap!” says the Scottish man. “Although you would have thought they’d have a cure for pneumonia by then, wouldn’t you?”

“One hundred and three,” repeats Paula. “Well, all right.” She looks at her daughter’s matted dark curls and imagines her as a wizened old lady. She’ll be so grumpy! The afflictions of old age won’t suit Willow. The kid becomes enraged when her nose is blocked.

The lady looks beyond them to the next row. She goes to step forward and then does a double take when she notices the baby in Paula’s arms.

She stops in her tracks. She points at the back of Timmy’s head and for a moment says nothing. Her breathing quickens.

“What?” asks Paula. Surely she is about to say that Timmy will also live until he’s over one hundred like his sister, but the lady says nothing. Does she look sad? Is that sadness ?

“ What? ”

“I expect,” she says.

Paula feels a sharp spike of panic. “No, stop, I don’t want—”

“Drowning,” says the lady. “Age seven.”

Paula feels it like a blow to the solar plexus. “Don’t say that. That is absolutely not true.”

“Oh, of course it’s not true.” The Scottish man holds a protective arm in front of Timmy.

He says to Paula, “These people are charlatans. I’m so sorry. I should not have encouraged her.” He addresses the lady in a louder voice, his accent thicker than before. “That’s enough now, madam, move along, please. We have no interest in your so-called expectations.”

The lady does not move. She is staring at Timmy with the most dreadful look of naked pain.

Paula shifts the baby to her side in a futile move to hide him from that awful gaze. The sudden movement causes Willow’s head to slide off her mother’s arm. She is instantly awake and upright, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles. Timmy unpeels his cheek from Paula’s chest and his whole body tenses.

“You should not say that sort of thing!” Tears spring up in Paula’s eyes. She always cries when she’s angry, which is infuriating. It sends the wrong message.

“But you see, fate won’t be fought,” whispers the lady.

“Mummy?” says Willow shakily as Timmy begins to whimper, but Paula is not done with this lady, although the lady is apparently done with her and is stepping forward to the next row.

Paula turns in her seat and calls out, “That is a terrible thing to say to a mother!”