A story that will resonate with anyone who has faced cultural and immigration hardships, The Fortune Teller’s Prophecy is a nail-biting journey across continents, through hardships, and into ultimate triumph.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Lally Pia’s The Fortune Teller’s Prophecy, which is out
When a military coup in Ghana leads to the abrupt closure of Lally Pia’s medical school, she is left stranded there, thousands of miles away from her family in California, with no educational prospects or money. Adding to her turmoil is her discovery that her American Green Card has been botched, which means she has no country to call home. But a Sri Lankan priest told Lally that she would one day become a “Doctor of Doctors” —and she is intent on proving him right.
This sizzling multicultural roller coaster illustrates the power of self-determination as Lally, a young immigrant with a drive to succeed, takes on obstacle after obstacle—an abusive relationship, the welfare state, and a gruesome job where she has to dismember human bodies—in order to fulfill her dreams.
1
Prologue
The Prophecy
The first time I removed a woman’s head, it took just under two minutes. The scalpel cleared the soft tissue in seconds, but separating the intervertebral disks with a chisel and hammer was more of a challenge. My brand-new job, euphemistically labeled director of the Donated Body Program at the University of California at Davis, had sounded cool at the outset, but somehow they’d failed to put in the job description that the only humans I’d be “directing” were deceased.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered as I gently lifted the back of her head to tuck in sparse gray-brown locks of hair. Averting my gaze, I whipped off the blue paper towels I’d laid on her face and double-bagged her in a large labeled Ziplock bag on the cart beside me. Her eyes were shut, but I couldn’t shake my over whelming guilt at this dastardly deed.
When I was a baby, a dumb fortune teller had sworn to my dad that I’d become a “real” doctor one day––a “doctor of doctors,” no less, not a mortician and embalmer. Maybe the fortune
teller knew all along what I’d end up doing. He was probably cackling right now at my plight.
Doctor of doctors indeed . . . more like Doctor Death.
Muttering a string of obscenities under my breath, I carried the bagged head to my upright morgue freezer and pulled open the vertical silver door latch. Through the misty haze, four neat
shelf labels mocked me. Yesterday I’d snickered as I crafted the labels. Wouldn’t it be hilarious to begin a morgue tour by yanking open the freezer door to chant, “Head and shoulders, knees
and toes, knees and toes . . . ?”
At the moment I couldn’t even summon the vestige of asmile.
I hoisted the head up on the top shelf, swiveling it to face the back of the freezer, so I no longer had to face her accusatory countenance. I slammed the door shut and blew out a long, uneven breath before discarding the soiled, disposable lab coat and blue shoe covers. I then stripped off bloodstained gloves and headed back to my office.
One down, eleven to go. . . .
Like Charon, ferryman of Hades, I had to ship a dozen heads to UC Irvine in a few weeks. I imagined a car accident on the way to the Davis post office, with a bunch of human heads rolling out of my trunk. Sure wouldn’t be fun explaining to the cops that I was no Jeffrey Dahmer.
A week into the job, I absolutely felt like a psychopath, holed up in a closet-sized, windowless office in the basement with death all around me. The back door to my office led to a series of three rooms that housed all my morgue comrades––dismembered humans on gurneys in the anatomy room, embalmed bodies on shelves in the cavernous, brooding cadaver storage room beyond, and the recently deceased in one of my two morgue coolers, like the woman I’d just decapitated.
Body part removal bothered me the most. That, plus having to make the decision whether to embalm or dismember bodies for research. Doing the work solo had already given me sweaty nightmares of dead customers sitting upright to tell me off mid-procedure. Thankfully, they never actually talked back when I worked with them, but given my enforced solitude, there
were times when I almost wished they would.
Back in my office, I slumped into my chair wondering how much longer I could handle this job. Twenty-four hundred bucks a month was a veritable fortune compared to my previous job as lab assistant, where I fashioned rat chow menus. I really wanted to quit but wasn’t sure I could throw away the extra three hundred dollars a month this gig promised. The evidence was incontrovertible: I had landed myself in a true dead-end job.
At age thirty-three, I was destitute, on welfare and food stamps––a single mother of two toddler girls focused on survival. How was it already 1994? I’d been living in the States for ten years and never imagined it would come to this. Many moons back, I’d held on to a much rosier future. Leaning back in the chair, I stared at the speckles on the ugly gray ceiling, closed my eyes, and exhaled.
It had all started with that darn prophecy the year I was born.
It was May 1961. A lone crow cawed, perched on the highest branch of a flamboyant tree, as Vel hurried to his taxi. He glanced back to wave goodbye to Ranee, whose lustrous ebony braids fell well past her shoulders. The pendant of her twenty-four-karat gold necklace glinted as she clutched me, her sleeping three-month-old. Vel choked up at the sight of the precious
bundle, his first-born daughter.
I picture him examining the white holy ash marks on his forehead in the passenger side mirror and yet again running his hand over the sealed envelope in his inside pocket. Exhorting the driver to speed up along the country lane, he became airborne over large potholes, each landing rattling his bones.
Disembarking at the temple gates in Vaddukoddai, Sri Lanka, his heart galloped. Dozens of worshippers formed a slow-moving column that jammed the entrance. Some wore only colorful ankle-length sarongs, with white markings on their bare chests. Others were decked out in ivory embroidered silk tops with matching vertis falling loosely to their ankles. Dense green foliage draped the white temple walls, mixing with clusters of scarlet bougainvillea and white jasmine. Through wide-open ornately carved doors, the cool interior beckoned, a respite from the harsh sun, already showing its might. Dozens of neatly arranged dusty sandals lay to the side of the main entryway, and Vel shook his off.
Inside were two engraved silver cups on a brass tray, one holding white holy ash, the other a fragrant yellow sandalwood paste. Vel’s fingers trembled as he dipped them, sequentially, into the containers, adding white and yellow markings to his forehead. The attendant accepted his envelope and stowed it in a tall bronze urn brimming with more of the same.
In the main temple, Vel sat cross-legged on the floor behind several rows of worshippers and bowed his head in prayer. Muffled whispers, murmured prayers, and the sound of shuffling feet were the only sounds. The cloying scent of jasmine hung heavy in the air. When he looked up, an effigy of Lord Shiva stared down at him from his perch in a raised alcove. Vel dropped his eyes hurriedly.
After an interminable ten minutes, the attendant closed thedoors, and a gong sounded. Floor space had run out. The last worshippers were propped against the rear wall. A hush of expectation fell over the crowd as even whispered conversations ceased.
The priest was on his annual visit from Northern India. A fortune teller of great repute, a reincarnation of Lord Shiva, creator of the universe, he had once made a prediction that a Jaffna
couple’s only son would die of drowning. The panicked parents sold their house by the sea and moved inland. As legend has it, one year later the little boy’s ball fell into a tall rain barrel, and he tried to retrieve it. His stricken parents discovered him face down in the barrel, drowned. Reports of the fortune teller’s prowess spread like lightning.
All stood when the holy man emerged from the back of the temple and glided up the central aisle as if on a conveyor belt. Vel snuck a sideways glance. His long graying hair was fastened into a bun, and his naked chest was adorned with white markings and a thin gold chain. His ribs were prominent. A knee-length, saffron-colored silk verti completed his outfit. He stepped onto the dusty wooden platform.
The congregation repeated the priest’s softly uttered chants. After ten minutes of prayer, he gestured for them to be seated, summoning his attendant to fetch the urn containing envelopes. Placing both hands on the brim, he blessed the container. Beads of sweat clung to his forehead.
“Fellow believers, thank you for inviting me to your Jaffna Ayanur temple. Today I will pick ten envelopes and give you my predictions for your children. I will do this daily for the next seven days, so if your name is not called today, please try again. I pray for Lord Shiva to hold my hand during this process. Time is of the essence. Let us begin.” He put his hand into the urn and pulled out the first envelope.
“Velayuthampillai Mahadevan, come forward,” he announced. Vel stared, dumbfounded, with a roaring in his head. The holy priest was calling his name? First? What an honor! Disbelief rooted him in place.
“Velayuthampillai! Are you present?” The priest spoke louder now. He held up the card that Vel knew listed his daughter Lally’s name, her date of birth, and his and Ranee’s names. He raised a shaky right hand, then rose stiffly, hoping no one could tell that his knees were knocking together under his verti. The priest gestured for him to approach. Vel’s heart pounded like the thundering of a hundred stampeding elephants as he stood, head bowed, in front of the priest.
“Welcome, Velayuthampillai, welcome,” the priest offered in a soft, hissing voice, inclining his head.
Vel’s eyes met those of the priest. A warm glow enveloped his body as the temple and audience melted away. He was floating in the clouds now, his soul laid bare to a compassionate, piercing black stare. In recollecting this tale in exquisite detail for dozens of years to come, Vel would say that the roaring in his ears obscured any memories of what transpired after the priest’s words––words that became sealed into his heart.
“Take good care of her. Your daughter will become a doctor of doctors.”
