Chapter 80

“Excuse me! Hello?”

Eve is walking up the hill from the bus stop toward the cathedral when she turns to see a businesswoman jump out of her car, keys in hand, handbag looped over one arm. She looks like someone’s capable but kind boss. She crosses the road toward Eve, all hopeful and urgent, as if Eve will be able to offer important assistance.

Eve straightens her mother’s black dress, her go-to dress for funerals. Imagine having a go-to dress for funerals. That’s what it’s like to be old. As if wrinkles were not enough.

“Hi.” The woman is now in front of Eve. She has wispy, fly-away hair escaping from a messy bun. Presumably she is in a state of terrible grief for the lovely doctors. Maybe she’s their granddaughter? Oh my God, what is Eve going to say? But probably lots of former patients will be coming to the funeral. Eve will mention the jelly beans.

“I think we were on the same flight to Sydney,” says the woman. “I’m Paula. I think…you were the bride?”

“Oh!” says Eve, relieved. “Yes, I was the bride. I’m Eve. Are you here for the funeral?”

“Yes, although I don’t—well, I never met them, I just remember them from the flight. I was the one with the screaming baby.” Paula tucks the wisps of hair behind her ears. “Did that lady—”

“Oh, yes,” says Eve. “She sure did.”

Paula breathes a little shakily and looks up at the spires of the cathedral tower. “Me too. I wondered if there was a chance she might turn up today. You know how murderers always lurk in the back of the funerals of their victims? Or they do on television, I don’t know if they really do in real life.”

“That was my exact thinking too,” says Eve.

Paula says, “I’m desperate to find her.”

“Me too,” says Eve. “I’m going to pay her to give me a different prediction. I’m hoping she will do it for a hundred dollars, do you reckon that’s enough?” It better be enough.

“But what if it’s the same prediction?”

“No, no. I’m going to bribe her to say what I want her to say. I just need to find her.”

“Oh,” says Paula. “Right. But what if she won’t?”

Doubt slithers. The story of Eve’s dad bribing the tarot card reader has always been such an established fact in her family history, she has assumed all psychics are open to bribery, but what if that assumption is incorrect, like so many of her assumptions?

“So it sounds like you think she’s definitely a fraud?” continues Paula. “Even though she’s correctly predicted three deaths now?”

“I know she is,” says Eve. “She said I was going to die of ‘intimate partner homicide.’?”

Paula shudders. “She told me my baby was going to drown when he’s seven.”

Eve is aghast. “That’s way more horrible. He’s not going to drown! Just make sure he knows how to swim, like, that’s important…sorry, I’m sure you already knew that.”

Paula smiles strangely. “It’s okay, I’m definitely teaching him how to swim.” She studies Eve. “So your husband, he’s not…” She doesn’t say the word “violent.” She doesn’t need to say it. “I assume he’s never…” She doesn’t need to say the words “hit you” either.

This is what keeps happening now. Eve sees awful questions in people’s eyes. Questions convicting Dom without a trial. People who should know better, like her own mother, who said she was so sorry, but she just had to check, just in case there was something Eve wasn’t telling her. The injustice of it makes Eve feel huge swells of rage on Dom’s behalf. It is so wrong that her sweet Dom should be accused of something he would never do, and he can’t even prove his innocence, because his guilt is supposedly in his future.

“I’m sorry.” Paula looks at her keenly. “I shouldn’t have asked that.”

“I’m not even one percent worried,” says Eve. “He would never, ever, hurt me, not in a million years.”

“I get it,” says Paula. She frowns. “So then, if you’re so sure, why not just ignore it?”

“Oh, it’s all so stupid. It’s not me who’s worried, it’s him! Dom is a sleepwalker, and he’s read these articles about ‘sleepwalking murder.’ It’s, like, really rare, but it’s real, it happens, and Dom is just…he’s just…”

She stops because the cathedral bells have begun to toll. It’s so somber and dramatic. Church bells always give her those feelings, like: Life! Big! Tragic! Mysterious!

“He wants to do all sorts of stupid things now, like sleeping in separate rooms, when we’ve only got one bedroom!” She hears the brittle, tense sound of her voice. It’s familiar. She realizes she is sounding like her mother. “He suggested he lock himself up in the bathroom! Like he’s a werewolf.”

Paula nods. Something seems to be opening up in her face.

She says, “I get how Dom feels. It’s because you can’t control it. I’ve been a bit irrational too.”

“How?” says Eve.

Paula says, “I’ve got Timmy enrolled at three different swim schools. It’s the only time I feel calm, when he’s swimming.”

It’s like she’s admitting a huge secret.

“Does he not like the swimming lessons?” Eve tries to understand.

“Oh, no, he loves swimming, he’s crazy about it,” says Paula. “It’s just…it’s weird for me to do this many swimming lessons. I mean, if anyone knew, they’d think I’d lost the plot.”

“But if he loves swimming, like, who cares what people say, whatever!”

Paula smiles as if Eve has said something amusing but also revelatory. For a minute they don’t say anything. They listen to the bells and give each other kind of appraising looks, trying to work each other out.

“The lady is probably not coming to the funeral,” says Eve.

“It’s a long shot,” agrees Paula. “She might not live in Hobart. She definitely doesn’t advertise. I’ve looked at thousands of websites.”

“She might not even live in Australia,” says Eve. “Although I reckon she does. It felt like she did.”

“Yes, you know, I actually thought I recognized her,” says Paula. “But I can’t remember from where.” She scrunches her forehead so hard it looks painful. “I’m normally good with faces.”

“Do you get a feeling when you think about her face?” asks Eve. “Once I saw a guy on TV who reminded me of someone and I got a sleepy bored feeling and I realized it was my history teacher.”

“Oh,” says Paula. She closes her eyes. “I think the feeling is a kind of sadness. But also, at the same time, maybe, joy? What could that possibly mean? I don’t know. But, look, maybe we should join forces to try to track her down.”

Eve is about to answer yes, she would like that very much, but her phone is vibrating with a message from Dom, and she glances down and reads the headline of an article he’s sent her:

“Woman Kills Beloved Parrot in Her Sleep. ”

His message says: We need to talk.

That’s very upsetting, but she’s not a parrot.

We need to talk. It’s never good when your partner needs to talk.

She looks up at Paula. “We need to find her fast.”