“Oh.” Semele wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Macy was one of her oldest friends. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to see her, but now the whole dynamic would change. Macy knew all about the drama with her mother and had been urging Semele to patch things up.
“I thought it’d make tonight more festive, a real homecoming.” Helen flitted into the dining room to light a votive candle. Semele noticed that the old wooden high chair had been brought down from the attic; apparently Macy’s toddler would be here tonight too. Forester would probably be as cranky as last time, which meant dinner would involve a lot of buttered noodles on the floor.
Semele went to open a bottle of wine.
“Not that one, honey.” Helen took the bottle away and handed her another. “I thought tonight we could open this one.”
Semele saw the label. It was her father’s favorite sauvignon blanc from a boutique winery in Napa. They’d bought a case on their last trip, and Semele knew this was the last bottle. “We don’t have to open it,” she said quickly, trying not to get emotional.
“No, I want to.” Helen uncorked the wine with nervous hands and poured them each a glass. They stood at the dining nook like strangers at a cocktail party. “How’s work?” Helen smiled.
“Busy. I’ve been dealing with a special collection from Switzerland.” She didn’t say that she’d been taken off the account or that the prize manuscript had been stolen. “I may go to Beijing next.”
“Ooh, that sounds fun.” Helen headed off to the kitchen again. “Let me check on the chicken.”
“I’m translating a manuscript from Greek,” Semele called out, not wanting to follow her.
“That’s wonderful!” Helen’s reply sounded overly cheerful.
Semele rolled her eyes, now completely regretting this visit. She didn’t know where to put her anger. Nothing had changed.
The doorbell rang. Semele barely had time to open it before Macy blew inside, juggling a diaper bag full of toys and a bottle of wine. Forester was almost two now and sat perched on her hip like a koala bear. Somehow Macy made it all look effortless.
“Oh my God! I’m so glad you’re here.” Macy managed to give her a huge hug.
Her long hair was wrapped and knotted in a scarf that matched her peasant skirt. She smelled like sandalwood oil, and a dozen more freckles had appeared on her face since the last time Semele had seen her.
Macy lowered her voice. “Sorry. Your mom wanted me to be here. I think she was really stressed out about tonight.”
Semele nodded as if she understood. It was surreal to think that her mother needed the moral support of her best friend in order to see her again.
“Is that Macy?”
Within seconds Helen had the baby blanket spread out on the living room floor and Forester playing with his toys, while Macy helped herself to a glass of wine. Semele felt a tug of jealousy. She couldn’t help wondering if Macy and Forester came over here a lot.
“How are you?” Macy asked. “How’s Bren? I haven’t talked to you in ages!”
“I know. I’ve been busy on the road.” Before Semele could say more, Helen shuttled them to the table and started bringing out the dishes.
Semele and Macy looked at each other and smiled. How many nights had they eaten at each other’s houses? Growing up, the two had been inseparable.
Helen sat down at the table with a martini in hand. She had already moved on from the wine. Semele frowned, unable to withhold her judgment. Whenever her mother was in a stressful situation, she drank more than usual. It had been that way all her life and had only gotten worse. Even Macy would probably still remember when all the mothers quietly discouraged Helen from driving the kids to French club in high school, because they were worried she would have one too many at the “cultural” dinners. Semele dropped out of the club soon after and never told her mother why.
The three ate in uncomfortable silence. Occasionally Helen called out to Forester, to see if he wanted to join them at the table. Macy assured her he had already eaten.
“So, how have you been, Mom?” Semele knew it was a clumsy attempt at a first step.
“Good! So busy!” She launched into an upbeat spiel about her social calendar, throwing words about like Band-Aids as though they could somehow mend the rift between them. Instead the chatter was just awkward as Helen went on about her bridge group, her book club, and the “marvelous” show she just saw at Yale Repertory Theatre.
When her mother started describing the upcoming Botanical Society tea party she was invited to, Semele poured more wine. She figured she might as well top herself off too at this point.
Helen finally petered out and there was a lull around the table. Semele decided to broach a new subject. “Have you given any more thought to selling the house?”
Helen gave her a sharp look. “Now why would I do that?”
Semele tried to placate her, realizing she had stepped on a hot spot. “Mom, the place is huge. The upkeep … the stairs. It’s a lot of work.”
“I’m not that old yet.”
“You don’t need to be close to the university anymore.”
“This is our home. Why are you so eager for me to sell it?” Helen didn’t try to hide the edge in her voice.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I just don’t want you to think I’ll be upset if you wanted to move. I worry about you here all by yourself.”
“Well you could’ve fooled me,” Helen snapped.
Semele rose to the challenge. “You really want to do this now?”
Macy looked from one to the other, afraid to say anything.
“Macy, as you’re well aware, things have been quite strained between me and my daughter lately,” Helen said, finishing her martini and obviously feeling fortified.
“Yes, it seems like you’ve been inviting my friends over a lot to talk about how strained things are.”
“Sem—” Macy hedged.
“Because I’m feeling set up here.”
“I just thought having Macy would be a nice way to make tonight more festive.”
“So you keep saying! And no, you didn’t. You just didn’t want to talk about why I left,” Semele challenged. “You still don’t.”
“Talk? All I’ve been trying to do is talk and you won’t return my calls!” Helen tried to defend herself. “You left without a word, skulking off in the middle of the night.…”
“Skulking! I left because I didn’t want to scream at you right after Dad died!”
“So you abandoned me!”
They were both yelling now. Forester had begun to fuss and Macy went over to distract him.
“You were so high on pills I’m surprised you even noticed.”
“Of course I was on pills! I’d just lost your father!” Helen’s voice broke and tears filled her eyes.
Semele glared at her, a savage part of her satisfied that she was making her mother hurt. “And I didn’t?” she yelled back. “Did you even hear him call out in pain? Or were you too drunk to wake up and dial 911?” Semele was screaming. A volcano had erupted inside her.
Helen broke down and started to sob.
“Sem—” Macy returned to the table, imploring her to take it easy.
Semele ignored her and stared down at her mother. “Did you hear him?” she bellowed, slamming her hands down on the table.
Forester began to wail. No one said a word.
This was the question that festered beneath the hurt of finding the adoption papers, the open wound that would not heal: the thought that her mother could have prevented her father’s death, that her weakness was the reason he didn’t survive.
“I did! I did hear him!” Helen cried. “I heard his first gasp of pain. I sat up. His body was rigid. He couldn’t answer me. I held him while he was convulsing. I reached for the phone.… I dropped it once, but I called 911 right away. I swear to God I called right away.”
Semele began to cry too.
“The doctors said there was nothing I could
have done. No one could have saved him. I tried. I swear I tried.” Helen wept.
Semele whispered, “I’m sorry,” and left the room.
She went into the kitchen and put her head on the counter. She tried to breathe through the pain. The well of anger and heartbreak had risen to the surface again.
A minute later she felt a warm hand on her back. “Hey,” Macy said gently.
Semele wiped her eyes. “Mace, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. I lost it.”
Macy had tears in her eyes too. She handed Semele a tissue box and led her to the breakfast table in the corner. They sat down.
Semele looked at the garden outside the window. “Shit.” She sighed. “Is she okay?”
“She’s playing with Forester.”
Semele shook her head. “I’m so sorry I yelled in front of him.”
Macy shrugged. “He’s one. He’ll get over it.”
Semele put her head in her hands. “God, I’m the most horrible daughter on the planet.”
“You’re angry and you have a right to be. Want to tell me why Bren isn’t here helping you get through this?” Leave it to Macy to zero in on the other hole in her life. Semele’s silence said it all. “Holy crap. I knew it.” Macy sat back.
“What? That we’d break up?” Semele looked at her, surprised.
Macy held up her hands in surrender. “He’s a great guy, don’t get me wrong. You just didn’t seem matched.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Semele asked, though she already knew the answer. She had been over the moon about Bren. Macy wouldn’t have wanted to take away her happiness, so she kept her feelings to herself.
“What happened?” Macy asked.
Semele debated telling the truth. Macy was the only person who could possibly understand. “I had a premonition.”
Semele let out a deep breath. There. I said it.
Macy’s eyes widened and she sat forward with excitement. She knew Semele had had premonitions when she was younger—and that they’d all come true. She was the only person Semele had confided in.
As a child Semele had been incredibly intuitive, always knowing things before they happened. Helen brushed it off, and her father would just laugh until Semele felt silly for even telling him. So she began to keep her foresights a secret. Only Macy knew her struggle.
The turning point had come the summer she was twelve, when she had a vision of one of her classmates drowning. She never told anyone, not even Macy, and convinced herself the dream couldn’t come true. But the girl had died, and Semele always wondered what would have happened if she had said something, warned her. Maybe she could have saved her life. Semele carried that guilt for years, and over time, trained herself not to remember her dreams. Eventually they stopped.
As she got older she continued to experience déjà vu—the kind that rained down and flooded a moment, like she was actually reliving it again. She told herself everyone had these experiences, and then she started to ignore the sensation until she no longer experienced this either.
Now her talent seemed to be resurfacing.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Macy asked gently. She knew how Semele had shunned her abilities as a child, how much she had tried to bury her visions. Macy was the complete opposite, the kind of person who embraced intuition and strived to stay in tune. She saw synchronicity in everything and “The Universe” was always talking to her, which was why Semele felt able to open up to her in the first place. Never once had Macy thought Semele was crazy. “I’m always here. You know that.”
“I know, thanks.” Semele gave her a faint smile.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Macy said. “I have a present for you.”
She ran to get her purse and came back with a heavy object that she plunked in Semele’s hand.
Semele looked down at the smooth rock and laughed. “Um, thank you?” Then she turned it over and saw the beautiful mandala painted on the front. “Oh, Macy.” She gasped. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s called a dream stone. You’re supposed to keep it on your nightstand for good dreams.” She waved a hand in the air. “I saw it in a boutique and thought of you.”
Semele smiled, touched. Macy was her oldest friend. Semele had been maid of honor at her wedding, had thrown her baby shower, and had been at the hospital for Forester’s birth. Of course Macy was here tonight, helping her get through this. Helen hadn’t asked Macy over for her sake—she had asked her for Semele’s. Her mother had known how hard this would be.
* * *
They said their good-byes outside. Helen helped buckle Forester into his car seat. Macy hugged Semele and whispered, “Talk to her. She misses you.”
Semele nodded and hugged her back. “Thanks for coming.” She stood on the curb with her mother and watched Macy and Forester drive off.
Semele was about to head inside when she glanced across the street. Her heart did a double flip.
The black BMW turned on its headlights and the car took off.
Semele could tell the driver was a man. She tried to convince herself the car was a neighbor’s. But it was him. She was sure.
She didn’t know what to do. If she told her mother what was going on, Helen would become hysterical and never let Semele go back to New York.
“Come on, Mom. Let’s go in.”
She quickly led her mother back into the house and double-checked to make sure all the doors and windows were locked.
“I’m setting the alarm,” she announced. She tried to tell herself that, if the man was planning to do anything, he would have already made a move.
* * *
Helen watched her, unsure of what to say. Unspoken apologies hung in the air as they cleared away the remaining dishes. Neither could muster the strength to push past the silence so they could meet each other in the middle.
After they were done in the kitchen Semele headed upstairs. “I think I’ll go to bed.”
“All right, darling. Good night.” Helen sounded hesitant but said nothing more.
On the way up the stairs, Semele walked past the large portrait of her mother’s family tree. Helen’s aunt had commissioned the project when Helen was a young girl and given a print to each of her children, nieces, and nephews as a wedding gift, adding their spouses’ names. Semele always loved to find her mother’s and father’s names together side by side.
The framed chart made her Semele Cavnow, and it was a stark reminder that her own family tree was missing.
Eight of Cups
Semele placed Macy’s dream stone on the nightstand and looked around her old bedroom. At some point she really did need to go through everything. Her parents had kept all her things from childhood. She stared at the family pictures, mementoes, and treasured books on the shelves. These walls held the girl she once was, all her hopes and fears. Love filled this room.
She found a pair of pajamas from high school in the dresser. The pants fit like weird capris and the top was now a mid-rise, but they would do. She turned off the light and snuggled under the comforter. As she lay in the dark she debated whether or not to read more of the manuscript. But her eyes were heavy with exhaustion.
Semele heard her mother come up the stairs.
A moment later her bedroom door whispered open and Helen appeared, a lonely silhouette in the hallway. She came into the room and sat on the edge of the bed without asking Semele if she was awake; her mother could always tell if she was asleep or not. The most important talks of Semele’s life had always seemed to happen at her bedside, in the dark, a time when facades were laid to rest.
“We didn’t want to tell you because we always considered you ours,” Helen said softly.
Semele waited for her to say more. Her anger toward her mother had begun to dissipate. She knew her mother had been suffering with the lie for years. “I need to know, Mom.”
Helen took a deep breath. “We were still in New York. Your father had just been offered the curatorship and we were about to move.”
>
Semele’s father had worked at Columbia before coming to Yale. It was where he became a central figure in the International Federation of Library Associations. But Semele knew that history. Go on, her silence prompted.
“We had been trying to have a baby for years. The doctors, the tests said we couldn’t. So we registered with an adoption agency—all very private. They said it might take a while. Then we got a call one day. A woman had requested us.…” Helen swallowed. “Your grandmother.”
Semele sat up and hugged her knees to her chest.
“She was in failing health and couldn’t care for you. She wanted you to have a good home, a loving family—”
“But why you? Why did she request you? And what about my birth mother? Where was she?” The questions tumbled out from her.
“I don’t know,” her mother said, knowing it wasn’t a satisfying answer. “But we were overjoyed.”
“Did you ever meet her? My grandmother?”
“Once.” Helen hesitated. “She was there when we … first met you.”
Semele’s voice grew smaller. “What was she like?”
“Frail … very intense. She was ill.” Helen’s eyes grew distant, trying to remember. “She had an accent, Eastern European I think … and beautiful eyes. Your eyes.” Helen brushed a strand of hair from Semele’s cheek. “She said your name was Semele and made us promise we wouldn’t change it.” Helen seemed to remember something else and frowned.
“What?” Semele asked.
“She gave us a package and asked that we give it to you when you were older. Your father took it and promised her we would.” Helen’s eyes watered and she shook her head, more to herself with shame, confessing, “I don’t even know what it was—maybe I didn’t want to know, to acknowledge you had a past that didn’t include me.” Semele was about to interject, but Helen kept on. “Please understand, we meant to tell you one day, but after we had you, it was as if our lives had started over. We couldn’t remember ever not having you. You became a part of us.” Helen choked back her tears.
Semele reached out and took her hand, letting her continue.
“As the years went by, we wondered if maybe it was better not to tell you. No one knew you were adopted except my sister. We came to New Haven with a clean slate, a new job, new house, new friends … and a newborn everyone thought I had given birth to. I wanted so much for that to be true. So it became our truth.”
The Fortune Teller Page 18
