Chapter 84

It is Sue’s sixty-fourth birthday and her family seems to be treating it as her wake, even though she is not only alive but apparently in perfect health: Caterina has sent her for still more tests, and nobody can find anything wrong with her. Nothing more can be done. She can’t be treated for an illness she doesn’t have.

“Your psychic has got it wrong,” said Caterina. “I would bet on my life you’re not a candidate for pancreatic cancer. You’re just not. She’s wrong.”

“I agree,” says Sue, and she truly does agree. She feels in excellent health, possibly the best health of her life. When she was bringing up the boys and working full-time she hovered permanently on the edge of exhaustion or possibly a nervous breakdown, and then along came menopause, which put her through the wringer, it really did, but for the last few years she’s felt great. Not a single niggling symptom to worry her, and if she’d been asked that question in her fifties she could have listed a dozen. Honestly, she feels like she might be in better health than a lot of people at this party. Her youngest son, for example, has that run-down, glassy-eyed look he used to get after a sleepover. He’s thirty-five, so she can’t put him to bed, but gosh, she’d love to clap her hands and say, “Early night for you, buddy!”

They are at the family home in Summer Hill, the one that Sue and Max bought forty years ago for a price that everyone now considers inconceivably cheap, but did not feel that way at the time. It was a damp, dark Federation cottage and Sue secretly hated it; it was years before they had the money and the time to turn it into the light-filled “character home” it is today.

Sue looks around her living room, where she and Max sit side by side in the middle of their faux-leather IKEA couch while their family swirls about them. “No! It’s your birthday!” people keep saying when she goes to do something. Her glass is refilled. Platters of food she did not prepare are offered to her.

“You look great, Mum,” said her eldest when he kissed her hello today, with a note of surprise.

“Darling, you know I don’t actually have a terminal illness,” she reminded him.

“And she’s not getting one!” said her son’s wife. “This psychic stuff is ridiculous. I don’t believe a word of it!” Then her eyes filled with tears and she threw her arms around Sue and told her in a choked whisper that she was more of a mother to her than her own mother.

The rule in their family is no presents for adults except on milestone birthdays, but everyone has arrived with an elaborately wrapped gift accompanied by a heartfelt card. Sue is touched but annoyed by the expenditure of hard-earned money.

This is a preview of how her family would respond if she truly was struck by a serious illness, and of course everyone is behaving as themselves, just more so. The positive thinkers think positively, the worriers worry. Her husband, bless him, is the most worried but pretending the hardest not to be. Max is always frenetic with delight when the whole family is over and the house is filled with children running this way and that, while he plays music, tells dad jokes, and presides over the barbecue, but today he vibrates with so much energy it’s like he’s on speed.

The problem is that the boys and their partners have insisted that neither Sue nor Max do anything today, no barbecue, they haven’t even been allowed to bake a cake. Sue knows they are doing this out of love and worry, but it means there is nowhere for Max to put all his pent-up energy.

“You know I’m fine,” Sue keeps telling him.

“Of course you’re fine,” he says. “Why wouldn’t you be?”

Well, he knows why. Like the rest of her family, except for the littler grandchildren, he saw the video of the girl in the car and he read about the elderly doctors.

Her youngest grandchild, a curly-haired toddler, reaches a sticky hand toward Sue’s knee, and she doesn’t try to save her good pants, just lets him grab her and hoists him up onto her lap. He presses the same sticky hand against her cheek and looks romantically into her eyes. A droplet of dribble hovers on his rosebud lips. His teeth are tiny, perfectly spaced pearls.

“Hello, beautiful boy,” she says. She turns to Max so he can join her in shared wonder, but Max is looking at their two oldest sons on the other side of the room, their heads both bent over their phones, their expressions serious.

“What are you two looking at?” he says, a little roughly. “What’s going on?”

Both men look up from their phones, both of them shove their phones guiltily into their jeans pockets, the dents of their dimples still visible in their unsmiling cheeks.

“It’s nothing, Dad,” says Callum.

“It’s something,” says Max. “Is it to do with your mother? Is it another—?”

Death. He means, Is it another death?

“No,” says Callum. “Definitely not. Nobody else has died.”

“Someone has set up a page on social media,” says his brother. “That’s all. For passengers who were on that flight.”

“That’s a good idea,” says Sue. She holds out her hand. “Let me seeit.”

“It’s not that interesting.”

“So there has been another death?” says Sue.

“No,” says Callum. He grimaces. “It’s just that she’s correctly predicted someone’s diagnosis.”

“Another lucky guess, that’s all that is!” says Max.

“ Un lucky guess,” murmurs Sue as her grandson, sensing tension, slithers off her lap and toddles off to find a parent.

Sue licks her finger and wipes away the sticky patch he left on her cheek. “Let me see.”

Callum hands her his phone. Max and Sue both put on their glasses and read:

This page is for passengers, and their concerned loved ones, who traveled on the delayed flight from Hobart to Sydney on Friday, April 21, this year and may have been approached by a psychic offering to predict their “cause and age of death.”

“Well, she didn’t offer to predict,” says Sue. “She just did it.”

Max grunts in agreement.

Since the tragic deaths of Kayla Halfpenny, Dr. Barbara Bailey, and Dr. Brian Bailey were correctly predicted by the psychic, we are interested in gathering information about the experiences of other passengers. We are also interested in tracing the psychic herself. If you have any information in this regard, or if you took photos or recorded footage, please post below, or if you prefer, contact us privately.

“Let me see who set up the page,” says Sue, going to the “About Us” section. “Such a good idea.”

“Doesn’t matter,” mutters Max.

“Just curious,” says Sue. “Oh, would you look at that, it’s the bride and the young mother! They must have teamed up. That’s nice. Young women are such go-getters.”

“Thanks, Mum,” says her youngest son.

“Well, you’re a go-getter too, darling,” says Sue. (He’s really not. He skates by on his looks.)

“Sue, let me see the posts,” says Max.

They read the first one together.

My six-year-old son was an unaccompanied minor on this flight and the airline did nothing to protect him from this deranged woman. The Death Lady told him he would live until he was ninety-four. He now truly believes himself to be invincible, and is taking unacceptable risks on a daily basis. He recently brOKE HIS ARM (see photo) while doing dangerous parkour moves in the school playground. He informed me this morning he is taking up BASE JUMPING as soon as he is old enough. This is a DIRECT RESULT of the airline’s negligence.

Sue chuckles when she sees the accompanying photo of a little boy sitting on a hospital bed with a broken arm. He looks both ecstatic and wicked. She can well believe he’s a future base jumper.

“Oh, well, that’s kind of funny,” she says.

“Not really,” says Max. “Poor kid broke his arm.”

“But it’s rubbish. All children think they’re immortal! It’s got nothing to do with the lady!”

Sue looks up and sees that everyone is now looking at the page, either on their own phone or on someone else’s device.

She reads the next post and can’t help but snort.

TRYING TO FIND INFORMATION! I was told by the Death Lady I would die of alcohol poisoning, but I don’t recall her mentioning an age. I don’t know if she forgot because she was rushing or if she spoke too softly and I didn’t hear it. I understand other passengers received both an “age of death” and “cause of death.” I’d like to know my full prediction! It’s only fair! If anyone was sitting near me and remembers hearing my age of death please contact me urgently. I am an attractive brunette of slim but curvaceous build in my early forties. I was wearing a Dolce & Gabbana leopard-print jumpsuit. I don’t recall my seat number but it was an aisle seat near the front. P.S. I have recently begun exploring a “Sober Curious” lifestyle. If anyone wants to get together for a (nonalcoholic!) drink to discuss, let me know!

“She was the one who tried to get off the plane,” comments Sue. “Poor Allegra had to deal with her.”

“Who is Allegra?” asks Max.

“The beautiful flight attendant, I know you remember her.”

Max grunts. He does.

“The next post is kind of sweet,” says her daughter-in-law.

Sue scrolls to a picture of a woman holding a gardening fork, kneeling next to a rosebush, a watering can at her side, grinning at the camera, with a caption that says: I GAVE UP MY MARRIAGE AND MY CAREER THANKS TO THE DEATH LADY!

Sue recognizes her. She was the red-faced, frizzy-haired woman who suddenly called out, “Oh, can’t someone do something!” during the delay when the baby wouldn’t stop crying.

I don’t know if the Death Lady will ever see this page, but if she does, I want to thank her. I have never believed in psychics, but when she told me I only had nine years of my life left to live, it gave me the most amazing clarity about how I wanted to spend the time I had left. I have changed my whole life for the better. I asked myself, When are you going to start living, Philippa, WHEN? And that’s when I decided there was only one answer: TODAY, PHILIPPA, TODAY!! So I packed my bags, left my unhappy marriage, and left the city! Well, first I resigned from my high-stress corporate telecommunications job! Hooray! Why did I think I had to stay there forever? I don’t know! I am now working at a garden center in regional Victoria and I have a new passion for PICKLEBALL. I also have begun a new relationship with someone VERY SPECIAL. Ihave never felt happier or healthier. Thank you, Death Lady! You were the kick up the bum I needed! Whether I get more or less yearsthan you predicted, I will never regret the life changes I have made.

“Go, Philippa!” says one of the daughters-in-law, punching the air, but then she winces, “Oh, gosh, this one isn’t so…cheerful.”

Sue looks back down at her phone and reads:

Hi, everyone, my name is Geoff. My wife, Sarah, was on this flight and was told by the psychic that she would die of breast cancer at the age of thirty-seven.

She was pregnant at the time with our baby boy

“Knew it was a boy,” says Sue.

and I thought it was a disgusting thing to say to a pregnant woman, but Sarah wasn’t worried. She brushed it off. She’s very tough. That was until the news came out about the young girl who died in a car crash. My wife is only thirty-three and has no history of breast cancer in the family. She had no symptoms, so it took some convincing for a GP to send her for a mammogram. I think in the end she probably agreed just to shut Sarah up.

To everyone’s shock the mammogram did show something of a concern. Sarah had a biopsy last week and the results came in: “triple-negative breast cancer.”

It’s my understanding her cancer is treatable, but we will know more about what lies ahead when we see an oncologist tomorrow.

Okay, so here is my problem: My wife is adamant she will refuse any “invasive treatment” as she is convinced any chemo/radiation regimen will be unsuccessful and she is going to die anyway. She wants to spend the time she has left “celebrating life,” “making memories,” and ticking off stuff on some stupid “bucket list.” Sorry, but I have ZERO interest in “dancing under the stars” like I’m in a bloody Ed Sheeran song right now. She is writing letters to our son to be opened every year on his birthday. I want her to focus on being ALIVE for our son’s birthdays!!!

My wife had a friend who endured a brutal treatment regimen for many years and ultimately died anyway. She can’t stand to think of this happening to her. I understand this, but I’ve tried to tell her every case is different. I am hoping the oncologist will be able to convince her, but I am terrified she won’t budge.

I’m grateful to this psychic because if it wasn’t for her there is every chance my wife’s cancer might not have been discovered until it was too late, but at the same time I’m so pissed off. I can’t drag my wife to treatment. I’ve never been able to make her do anything she doesn’t want to do. She is as stubborn as a mule.

I am desperate for any help anyone can offer tracking down this “Death Lady.” I have tried the airline, but they can’t do anything because of privacy issues. I am hoping she would be happy to tell my wife that even if she does have psychic abilities she is NOT one hundred percent accurate.

I am also keen to hear from anyone who may have already outlived the Death Lady’s prediction, thereby proving her wrong.

Fingers crossed: Nobody is one hundred percent accurate, right?

PLEASE HELP ME SAVE MY WIFE’S LIFE.

(I loved her from the moment I saw her.)

You poor man, thinks Sue.

She thinks of her conversation with the pregnant woman in the security line, how she spoke so cheerfully about her heartburn and swollen ankles, and now she’s dealing with cancer, when she should be enjoying the wonder of her first baby. Of course there’s never a good time for a serious illness. Nobody has time for it. Everyone has other plans.

Sue wonders idly if she should try to get in touch with the young woman, try to help convince her to get treatment, but of course that’s ridiculous, you can’t meddle in a stranger’s life and she has her own family to worry about.

Right now they all look a little shell-shocked. There is no sound except for the giggles of her two granddaughters who are lying on their stomachs on the floor behind a couch playing Snap with an old pack of cards.

She says, “Well, you know, she hasn’t actually died—”

“Yet,” says her daughter-in-law. “She’s going to make the prophecy self-fulfilling.”

“Which is why it doesn’t prove anything,” says Sue. “Because—well. Just because.” This is like one of those awful “farmer crossing a river” puzzles, where you have to work out whether to take the wolf, the goat, or the cabbage first. Her head is starting to hurt.

“It means nothing,” says Max. “No need for anyone to stress.” His leg is jiggling up and down next to hers. “Why don’t we have some music?” Then he says unexpectedly, “Sometimes I wish we’d never gone on that damned trip.”

“But we had such a great time.” Sue fiddles with the apple charm on her bracelet that she bought as a souvenir of their trip to the “Apple Isle.” She’s sad at the thought of their camper van holiday memories being sullied.

“I know we did, darling, I’m sorry,” says Max. “We had—”

He stops. Sue looks at him, to check he’s not having a stroke. His dad’s last half-finished sentence was “I feel like something is not—” before he had the massive stroke that felled him.

“Jeez.” Max rubs his hand across his face as if he’s rubbing in sunscreen. “This whole situation is outrageous. Nobody should be taking it seriously. The old couple were so old!”

“Just so you all know, I would never refuse treatment,” says Sue.

Nobody speaks. Her youngest son spins his phone against the side of his chair in exactly the same way Max did on the flight. She shouldn’t have said that. Maybe that makes it seem like she now thinks a future diagnosis is inevitable.

Max stands, pulling on the legs of his jeans. “I’ll just check the…” He doesn’t bother finishing the sentence. They all know there is nothing for him to check.

“You can’t die first, Mum,” says her youngest son with forced lightness after Max has left the room. “Dad wouldn’t survive without you.”

“Well, he would, ” says Sue. “He’d be very sad, but he’d survive. That’s life!” She grabs her grandson just before he sinks his teeth into a giant wheel of Brie. She buries her nose in his sweet-smelling hair. Her big strong grown-up sons fear death, but they also think they are somehow protected—it’s so far in their futures it doesn’t really exist, it’s only for people unlucky enough to make the news, for people inwar-torn countries and natural disasters, for sick elderly grandparents, but not for their young parents, not for years and years. Her boys haven’t yet discovered the awful fragility of life. They don’t yet know that the possibility of death is always there, sitting right alongside you.

She says, “Your dad would have no choice but to carry on.”

“ Snap! ” shriek her granddaughters.