The Fortune Teller(60)

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.”

“You should have told me.”

Helen wiped her cheeks. “We were planning to. You know your father. He thought he had all the time in the world.”

Semele could feel tears slipping down her face. “I don’t want to be mad at him anymore.” She broke down and her mother gathered her in her arms. “I’ve been so mad at him. At both of you.”

“I know, baby, I know.” Helen cried with her. “I’m so sorry. But you’re my daughter. You’ve always been my daughter.”

Semele pulled back to look at her. “But who are my real parents?” She saw the pain the question inflicted, but she had to ask. “What happened to them? I feel like there’s this big hole inside me.”

Helen didn’t say anything. She only nodded and reached for the box of Kleenex. “We can try to find the answers.”

“And the package?”

“Tomorrow, we’ll look. I promise.”

Semele nodded, though her heart didn’t feel any lighter. Her mother kissed her forehead as if she were five again and left the room. Semele waited until she heard her mother’s bedroom door shut. Then she turned on the light and opened her computer to read the last of the manuscript.





Fortune telling had become the rage all over Europe, and Russia followed suit. At Sytny Market in St. Petersburg, a fortune teller had a stall. Kezia would always beg her parents to go, but they would only laugh. Then Kezia would look over and catch her grandmother’s smile as she sat knitting in her rocking chair.

Kezia remembered all the lessons her grandmother Marina had shared with her, how symbols and patterns existed everywhere in nature—in rocks, leaves, and crystals—waiting to be seen. These mystical ideas had always fascinated her.

Her grandmother would tease that this was her gypsy blood shining through.

Kezia’s great-grandmother Aishe had been a Rom. She had run away from her band to Paris with nothing but her musical skills, which led her to a grand salon where she played the harp, and met her future husband, Andrej Cernik.