3
W hen you think of psychics, you probably envision a Cher lookalike with a faux-silk headwrap. Maybe she’s draped in an eclectic array of mismatched fabrics, waving long fingernails over a misty crystal ball, excessive jewelry clinking with each wheezy breath.
That’s not Aunt Mei. She looks straight off the runway in a stark-white power suit and a pair of four-inch fuchsia pumps (she won’t be caught dead in flats), dark, silky hair in a chic, blunt bob. She’s a fancy Bay Street stockbroker by day and a psychic by weekends, which means she doesn’t sleep or know the pleasure of comfortable clothing. I like to joke that she uses her psychic abilities to predict the stock market. She’s never disputed the theory.
“Why is Mei here?” Dad asks, tilting his head toward the window as she struts up the walkway.
It’s a fair question. It’s 7:15 on Saturday morning—a peculiar time for an aunt drop-in. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised. When I got my first period, she drove to our house in the middle of the night with a bag of pads, jumbo tampons, Tylenol Extra Strength, a heating pad, and a crap-ton of personal anecdotes I’d have preferred not to know.
Before I can explain her presence, Mei waltzes in without knocking, as she always does. “Tell me everything,” she instructs, no formal greeting. Part of me feels guilty that she’s come all the way here for probably nothing.
“I like your shoes,” I tell her, winking at Dad, who chokes down a laugh, fully expecting Mei to launch into a story about where she got them and for how much. And she delivers.
“Twenty dollars at T.J.Maxx. Can you believe it?” She stretches her shoes out, admiring them, face alight at the mention of a bargain. She might be fancy, but she’s a Zhao through and through—which means she’s obsessed with shopping on the cheap, and even more obsessed with bragging about said deals. “Anyway, make with the details.”
I sit on the edge of the coffee table across from Mei, who’s perched on the arm of the couch, crossing and uncrossing her legs, unable to stay still. She’s always had a frantic energy, always doing five things at once.
“Honestly, it was probably nothing. Just some weird hearts and—”
Mei clasps her chest and lets out a muffled sound reminiscent of an injured pigeon. Before she can get a word out, her phone vibrates in her alligator-skin bag (75 percent off at a Black Friday sale at Nordstrom). “Oh, it’s Ellen,” she declares, putting her on FaceTime.
Ellen is in bed, satin face mask pulled over her forehead. A bedazzled pink maternity sleepshirt that reads Momma Needs a Night In in Curlz font stretches over her seven-months-pregnant belly. “What’s going on!?”
Mei, Dad, and I simultaneously wince at the shrillness of her voice. As an elementary school teacher and toddler mom, screaming is her default.
I hide my cringe and lean in. “I was hanging out with Mark B. when—”
“Mark B.? Who is Mark B.?” Ellen sits up, back straight against the headboard, and squints into the camera to get a better view.
“Yes, who is Mark B. ?” Dad asks with an expression of abject terror. He’s usually one to sit back and quietly observe, with the exception of these subjects: science, dad jokes, true crime, Marvel, or my safety.
“No one!” I assure. “Just a guy. I don’t like him that way—”
“Anyway, Lo had the vision,” Mei informs them prematurely.
Weary, he stretches his slender six-foot frame on the couch, pale skin turning a shade of ketchup. I have half a mind to bring him a cool cloth to drape over his forehead.
Ellen sucks in a breath, dark eyes glittering, like she’s watching a juicy scene from one of those K-dramas she’s obsessed with. “ The vision?”
Mei nods.
Ellen clutches her chest. “Oh, thank gosh. I was scared she’d end up like Cousin Lin—”
Before she can continue, Mei shoots her a stern look through the camera, instantly shutting her up. “Shhh. We don’t talk about her!”
Ellen makes a zipper motion over her lips, like she always does when she’s said too much, which is more often than not. It’s a running joke in the family that she can’t be trusted with secrets.
“What about Cousin Lin?” I demand. I don’t remember much about her, aside from her being vaguely mentioned as one of my grandmother’s cousins. She died the year after Mom.
“It’s nothing for you to worry about. Just some silly lore,” she explains, waving it off, but not before arrowing another Why did you bring that up? scowl at Ellen.
“Anyway, make with the details! I need to go feed the monster,” Ellen says, referring to Maisey, her two-year-old daughter.
I’m tempted to keep pressing, but once Mei has made a decision, she doesn’t budge. Besides, I know I can get Ellen to spill the tea at a future date. “Well,” I start again as the guilt begins to seep in. They’re going to be disappointed in me, just like last time I had a false alarm (a strangely vivid dream where I was riding a Godzilla-size meerkat to school). “I was at a frat party—”
“A frat party?” Dad asks, alarmed by this new information. “You said it was a girls’ night with Bianca.”
“It was. But we ended up popping in really quick.” I have to lie, lest Dad lose his mind. He’s under the impression that frat parties are nothing but loud music, alcohol, and orgies (half-true) that inevitably lead to Dateline -style crimes. As a self-proclaimed dork, Dad never set foot in a party when he was young. He preferred to have his nose in comics and chemistry textbooks.
I can imagine that having a talkative daughter who parties is like parenting an alien. I’ve always tried to rectify our personality differences by pretending to share the same interests, like watching gritty true-crime documentaries with him and studying forensic science in college. After disappointing my aunts, I felt an obligation to at least follow in Mom and Dad’s footsteps academically. That’s why I can’t bring myself to admit that I’m hating my program and would rather swallow glass than stick it out another three years.
As expected, Dad looks skeptical, like I was snorting hard drugs off the bathroom sink or something.
I describe the city skyline for my aunts. I detail the hearts, the scent of espresso, and the hot sensation I felt on my neck and back. And how it happened a second time, moments later.
“It’s probably nothing,” I say, covering my eyes in shame. While my aunts have taught me the logic of Bazi, palmistry, and face reading, I’m unable to read people intuitively. I’ve tried all the exercises Mei and Ellen taught me, like practicing tarot, meditating, visualizing, focusing on the senses—none of which made a difference. In other words, I’m a complete disappointment to my entire family.
“No. It’s definitely not nothing,” Mei tells me, drumming her fingers over her chin in thought. “Give me your hand.”
I extend it toward her lap and she examines it, the line between her brows deepening before sliding her eyes to meet mine. “Hmm, your fate line is still broken.” Go figure.
“Does it mean I’m going to wind up destitute and on the street?” I ask, panicked that she knows .
I expect her to confront me about how close I am to dropping out, right in front of Dad. But she just tilts her head. “No ... just that you may have some instability, which checks out with your sun line. There are quite a few little creases, which means you have too many interests and lack focus.”
All true. Nothing I don’t already know.
“Anyways, let’s check your love line.” She runs her hand across my palm. “It’s still the same too. You’re very passionate, stubborn, and willing to sacrifice. But your marriage lines—” She pauses to examine closer. “These are new.”
I zero in on the little lines right below my pinkie. Frankly, I have no idea whether I’ve always had those or not. But I trust Mei. “What do they mean?”
“See how both lines are equal in length?”
I nod.
She drops my hand and starts pacing between the kitchen and living room. “It could mean a few things. That you’re prone to love triangles or generally indecisive when it comes to settling down.”
She abruptly turns to Dad. “Did Kim ever tell you her vision?”
My gut tightens at the mention of Mom.
Mei’s determined eyes meet mine. “Your mom saw recurring visions of a pair of thick glasses like your dad’s. Smelled the heavy scent of Dove soap. And a bunch of hearts exactly like the ones you’re describing.”
I clutch my stomach, breath hitching.
“Really? What did it mean?”
“She had these visions before meeting your dad.”
Now I understand why Ellen and Mei kept saying the vision.
I dig my nails into my thighs. With each year that passes, I’m terrified I’ll forget Mom. As it is, I don’t have many memories of her. Most of what I “remember” comes from stories my aunts have told me. Like of her and Dad dipping plain potato chips in ketchup and vinegar instead of buying flavored chips, or staring at the world map in our house, talking about all the places she wanted to travel to. Sometimes, I’m overcome with the suffocating sense that I’m forgetting her entirely.
Whenever I feel like that, I look at the only nondigital photo I have of her. It’s a candid shot of her and Dad just sitting on the couch in sweatpants. She has no makeup on, hair in a messy bun, legs in his lap. It’s not filtered or posed. There’s no overt show of affection like their wedding photos, but there’s something about it that just makes my heart thrum. Their love for each other radiates through. Maybe it’s the warmth of Mom’s sideways grin. This happy, giddy version of Dad I can barely remember. The way Dad’s palm rests, snug over Mom’s knee. You can just see it in their eyes. Pure love. The kind of love I want one day.
Their connection is so palpable, the pads of my fingers tingle whenever I touch the photo. Dad gave it to me when I was twelve after catching me sneak it out of his wallet one too many times. I keep it tucked safely in my purse as he instructed, to ensure I never lose it.
Keeping her memory alive is all the more difficult given that Dad doesn’t like to talk about her. And who could blame him? Losing the literal love of your life is devastating and unbearable enough to destroy the strongest of people. To be fair, he’s open to talking to me about literally anything else, like puberty or the grisly details of his current murder cases (against my will). But when it comes to Mom, he withdraws entirely and becomes an iron fortress, which is why I never bring her up.
Case in point: Dad has gone quiet, seemingly fascinated with a thread on his pants. I feel bad that this conversation has clearly upset him. But at the same time, just knowing I’ve had a vision similar to Mom’s sparks something inside me. It’s like an invisible magic string that holds us together. A new connection that tethers me to her memory in a way I’ve never been able to grasp.
“Your mom saw the same vision a couple times. She described it like a riddle she could never unlock, like a cruel game of Pictionary. And then when she met your dad, a forensic scientist, it all made sense,” Ellen explains.
I massage my temples, trying to wrap my mind around what this means. “So you’re saying I’m ...”
Mei’s eyes light up like jewels under the glow of the living room lamp. “You’re going to meet The One.”
“But when?”
She presses her lips together and ponders. “I think, if the imagery is literal, on your Italy trip.”
“Oh god.” Dad audibly groans. He has a hard enough time keeping tabs on me at home, let alone halfway across the world for an entire month.
“Dad, I’m an adult. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” I remind him.
Before Dad can rattle off my long list of indiscretions, Ellen pipes in. “Isn’t Venice known as the City of Love?” Venice is the first stop. From there, Bianca and I are planning to visit Rome, Florence, and the Amalfi Coast.
My ears start ringing and my face flushes with heat, as if I’ve just chugged a bottle of hard liquor. The City of Love.
“Isn’t Paris the City of Love?” Dad clarifies.
“I thought it was Verona. You know, Romeo and Juliet—” Mei starts.
“There are multiple romantic cities in Europe. Venice is one of them,” Ellen informs her. “The City of Love!”
My mind flashes back to the image of the city and the hearts. It all makes sense. I’m going to fall in love in Venice. The most romantic city in the world.
This is going to be the trip of a lifetime.