Back in the 70's four siblings go to a fortune teller who tells them the day they will die. Their lives go down hill from there. There are four parts of the story, each focused on each kid, starting with the youngest. Each kid is screwed up in his/her own way, and I think the author is trying to propose that if we know the day we die, does that truly determine our actions to make it so? Since I'm of the group that believes that God determines the number of my days, I'm going to say, I don't think I care.
The book itself was interesting. The first sibling of focus was too graphic in his blossoming into the typical San Francisco stereotype, and I nearly quit there. I finished, but more because of my weird need to finish every book I start. It got a little better. Each person had personal issues that eventually wove together, even including some strands of other characters. In the end, I'm glad I read it, but not so much that I will read it again. Ever.