Page 30 of Professor and the Seer
Before they entered the house, he had to ask, “You told me once that the woman I brought home would be my wife. Is Frieda that woman?”
“She is more than a woman.”
The reply almost had him stumbling. “Meaning what? She’s not the future wife you saw for me?”
“I’ve already told you too much. For things to progress, you need to let them happen.”
“I thought you said my future was set.”
“It is.”
“Then what does it matter what you tell me?”
“Because there is a chance that another could undo what I’ve done,” was her snippy reply.
“Meaning Frieda’s vision of my death could still come to pass.”
“Not if you stick to the path I chose for you,” grumbled Grams.
He patted her hand. “I want to, believe me. I like your prediction much more.”
“Then stop questioning it.” Grams stomped to the door and said one last thing before heading inside. “When she stops to smell the roses is when you should kiss her.”
“What?”
No reply as Grams entered, taking her cryptic advice with her, leaving him wondering: did roses even bloom this time of year?
10
Growing up, I didn’t have a warm and fuzzy relationship with my mother. None of us did. That wasn’t to say she didn’t love me and my sisters. Mom did, but she had an odd way of showing it. Like when I scraped my knee, Mom would huff, “It’s just a little blood. Wait until you get your first period.” Or when I’d be scared because a thunderstorm shook the house with its might, she’d roll her eyes. “It’s just the gods having a party.”
Mom’s idea of cooking involved conscripting her three daughters into grinding, mixing, and testing the lotions she made for her shop. That fiasco included much criticism, heavy sighs when we did it wrong, and nothing good to eat at the end.
With John’s mom—who insisted I call her Bev—cooking came with a bright commentary. “I grew these tomatoes in my greenhouse. Won’t get much more, though, with the season ending soon. Good thing I’ve got plenty of canned stuff. Do you have a garden?”
“A little one,” I admitted. “I keep herbs in some pots by my living room window, and I have a bit of veggies on the rooftop.”
“How innovative,” Bev exclaimed. “You’ve obviously got experience in the kitchen. Your knife work is impeccable.”
If she thought my chopping was good, she should see my throwing. One thing seeing the future helped with was ensuring a perfect aim. “Do you cook like this every day?” I asked because it seemed elaborate, seeing as how it was usually just Bev and the mysterious grandma. Another fact I just knew somehow, even though I hadn’t asked John if he had siblings or if his mother had any companions staying with her.
“Most days I stick to simpler fare, but Grams mentioned we’d be having guests.”
“Is she always right?” I tried to ask innocently, still bemused by the whole John would be bringing home his future wife thing. Surely not me. I’d seen what happened if we stuck together.
“Not always, but enough that people pay attention.”
“Has she ever told you your future?” A question I regretted when her lips turned down.
“Yes. Just before I got engaged to Harry, John’s father. She told me that if we married, he would make me happy and give me a child. But she also warned me that our time together would be short.”
“She knew her grandson would die?”
Bev nodded. “Brain aneurism. A horrible thing because nothing could stop it.”
“Knowing that, you still married him?”
“Oh yes.” Bev’s smile returned. “Don’t get me wrong. I had to think about it long and hard. However, what decided me was knowing that I would know great joy, even if brief, and that the love we shared would result in a child that would carry a part of Harry.”