“These next few weeks will be painful,” she said as her expression softened. “For both of us.”
“Why can’t I see more details?”
“You’ve been fighting against it all your life: your skill is stunted.”
Of course I had fought. People treated me differently. But if I had the kind of control my aunt wielded, things would be different—I would be different.
“My own aunt, and her cousin before her, shared our abilities,” she continued. “Aunt Charlotte’s command was more powerful than my own. She taught both Beverly and me. From her I learned our fate with love. This is why there has never been a passing of the gift from mother to daughter: it travels along the family tree, surfacing when it finds the right recipient. Had you allowed me to teach you years ago, it wouldn’t be so difficult now.”
“Are you saying I brought this all on myself?”
Aunt Evelyn set down her teacup and smacked the tabletop. The china clinked in sympathy. “Stop acting like a victim, Vanessa. You have a gift. It’s not a curse. If you want to continue to blame it for everything wrong in your life, you don’t need to be here.”
Seventeen
Ma said I was a good girl until forced to do something I didn’t want to do. Aunt Evelyn had learned this when she had tried to coax me to drink tea as a child. I’d already had a habit of blurting predictions and knew what drinking tea would cause. She coaxed, cajoled, and then commanded. I defied her with every molecule of my being. I felt the same now.
Rebellion bubbled close to the surface like a simmering broth. This cursed “gift” both fed and fueled my defiance. With childish logic, I had held my aunt responsible. It was unfair then, and it was unfair now. She shouldn’t have borne the brunt of my frustration years ago, nor should she be its target now.
“I’ll be better with my attitude,” I said.
Aunt Evelyn transferred a chocolate éclair onto my plate. “I understand it’s hard for you. Right now, you don’t have any control. Mastering your gift will open the possibilities.”
“Did you ever see anything involving your life?” I asked.
“No. Aunt Charlotte never did either. I wish I had visions of my future. I’m like everyone else: there’re a few things I’d like to change in my personal history.”
I doubted she’d tell me if I asked. The disclosure of regrets was reserved for those who had earned it. I was beginning to think I might never.
She continued: “It’s not possible to see our own path. Imagine how easily we could interfere and abuse our gifts. You’ll learn the limitations have a specific purpose, to protect us.”
“There has to be room for negotiation. There must be,” I reasoned.
“Of course you’d resort to this tactic. After all, who else taught you better than your aunties?”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
Bargaining was an Olympic sport among the aunties and was further divided into two subcategories: hunting and negotiating. Auntie Gloria once stalked online auctions and local flea markets for a year to find a rare starship Enterprise cookie jar. The haggling left the seller in tears. Auntie Gloria didn’t have a cookie jar collection nor did she care about the sci-fi television series, but Auntie Ning did, and she, in turn, was holding a decommissioned Lladró figurine hostage. As far as I knew, no items had exchanged hands because the negotiations were still ongoing.
“Do you know when I discovered my gift?” my aunt asked.
I shook my head and nibbled on the éclair with the fluffy chocolate hazelnut buttercream filling.
“I was five. My piano teacher and I were having tea. I saw a vision of her getting married. Miss Hartnell was quite amused when I told her. Months later, when she did walk down the aisle, she thanked me. I still remember what she said: ‘The future is the hardest creature to see. It hides and deceives with its promises of blessing and disaster. When you shared your gift with me, you gave me the clarity I needed.’
“For centuries, the women in our family used our gift to see, a line of passive observers who herald fortune and cataclysm. You must internalize the core principles of fortune-telling before you can begin to control your visions.”
“And they are?” I asked.
She held up her fist and uncurled a finger with each successive tenet.
“One, all predictions are true descriptions of the future’s current course.
“Two, you cannot compel a prophecy.
“Three, a fortune-teller cannot see her own future.
“Four, creating false predictions has dire consequences.
“Five, a fortune-teller does not have a red thread.”
I could see the twisted logic behind the rules. If a seer could compel a prophecy regarding her own future, she could act to avoid it, which would violate the first rule. A prohibition against false predictions ensured allegiance to the truth. And the fifth rule was cosmic balance, as Aunt Evelyn had said.
“Where do we go from here?” I asked. “Are there essays I need to write or books I need to read?”
“This isn’t one of your college courses. It’s all practical application. Everything I know, I learned through the trials and errors of those before us. There isn’t a handbook to study. What I’m going to teach you is how to listen to your gift and maximize it.”
My aunt helped herself to another serving of mille-feuille and unloaded another slice on my plate.
I felt I was in Rembrandt’s The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulpe. Instead of muscles and bones, though, my study was prophecy. It was impossible to know how many students had passed the course, or whether I would too.
“Where do we start?” I asked.
“Practice.” She paused to pour herself more tea. “Your fortune-telling is erratic. I suspect there’s a backlog of prophecies you need to purge. The first step is to submit to the process.”
I winced, but I had promised to comply with whatever form of torture she had in mind. After all, my aunt had been transparent about how difficult this would be.
“When you start helping me in the tea shop tomorrow, you will be responsible for sampling tea with the customers.”
“The tea will compel a prophecy,” I said. “Isn’t that breaking the second rule?”
“In this case, no. We need to eradicate the stockpile. It’s not compelling when you’re running a surplus. How much of one, we’ll find out.”
Tomorrow, I’d be barraging strangers with predictions I didn’t want to dispense and for which they hadn’t asked. All the traumatic memories of my past rose to the surface: Mrs. Ferguson’s accusing and horrified glare, a broken Cynthia at her wedding, the tears in Dad’s eyes, and Marc’s face holding an expression I could only call a cocktail of shame, shock, and betrayal.