Rise of the Wadjet Witch - By Juliet C. Obodo Page 0,12
Not only did she now need to use the bathroom, but she wanted to go back to sleep. She was completely exhausted. The first customer in line purchased a pack of cigarettes and left quickly. The woman in front of her pulled out several slips of lottery forms. Oh, no. Memphis knew that she would take forever to choose her numbers.
“Excuse me, do you mind if I just pay for this water?”
Memphis no longer wanted the cigarettes. All she wanted was another nap. Man, what was with her? She’d been sleeping like a…like a pregnant woman. Oh, no way. She was not pregnant with Jonathan’s baby. There was no way. The universe didn’t hate her that much. She gave a homeless person a dollar whenever she could; that had to be good for something. She felt sudden pressure in her temples and a wave of panic washed over her. Then, as quickly as it came, it went away. She knew that she was not pregnant. She also knew that the winning numbers of tonight’s lottery drawing were two, seven, forty-five, thirty-two, nineteen, and eight.
“Ma’am?”
The woman ignored her.
“Ma’am,” she repeated at a higher volume. She placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder.
“Hey!” the woman exclaimed. She turned to look at Memphis, ready for a fight. She was about to yell at her, but she must have seen something in Memphis’s eyes that stopped her. She was younger than Memphis thought. She looked tired and sad.
“Miss,” she corrected herself. “I know tonight’s winning numbers. Let me just purchase these bottles of water and I will give them to you.”
The woman continued to stare at her, but she nodded her head.
Memphis reached past her and paid the cashier. She waved her hand when he silently offered her a bag, and then she turned her gaze back to the woman. She repeated the winning numbers to her, wished her luck, and floated out of the store.
It was ten o’clock when Memphis awoke from her second nap of the day. Gemma was knocking on her door.
Are you all right, love?” she inquired. She must have thought Memphis slept the whole day. “Are you sick? I saw you drank the coffee and cleaned up. Thanks for that. Would you like a cup of tea?”
The great thing about having a British roomy was that she made an excellent cup of tea.
“Sure,” Memphis responded sleepily.
She followed Gemma into the kitchen. Thankfully, the living room lamp was the only source of light in the apartment. She didn’t think she could take the harsh, bright fluorescent lighting in their post-war kitchenette.
“So, how was your day?” That must have been British for, “Surely you didn’t sleep the entire day. You had to be so busy running errands that you must have tuckered yourself out and decided to have a nap.” Gemma placed a small cup in front of her and deftly filled it will hot, brown liquid.
“Interesting,” Memphis replied. “I went to see a therapist.”
“Yes, of course you did—to treat your depression. Your breakup with Jonathan has left you feeling a greater sense of loss than you thought. This may also be tied to the fact that you don’t know who your real parents are and you were never legally adopted.”
Gemma took the same freshman psychology class and decided to make a career of it. She was pursuing her masters in cognitive therapy. She constantly treated Memphis as her in-house patient. So far, she’d been labeled as a narcissistic, co-dependent alcoholic with trust issues, and diagnosed with adult attention deficit disorder. Now she was also suffering from depression. There must be truth serum in the tea, because ordinarily Memphis would have not shared the fact that she went to any type of therapy—even physical—with Gemma.
“Um, well, sort of. I went to a hypnotherapist. Jill suggested it, to help me quit smoking. It was quite an experience. I don’t remember much, but I haven’t had a craving for a cigarette all day.” Of course she’d been sleeping most of the day, but Gemma didn’t need to know that.
“That’s brilliant! I and the upholstery are grateful! So you don’t remember anything from the session?” She bit into a digestive biscuit.
“No, I don’t. I just remember meeting Dr. Thompson and lying down blindfolded. Then I was suddenly outside of the office building. I think I might have said good-bye to the receptionist, but the doctor wasn’t there when I came out from under her trance.”
“You wore a blindfold? Now that’s strange. Hypnotherapy doesn’t usually