Embedded Files
One of the short stories in My Soul Evolved:
WHICH OR WITCH
George pressed the call button and said, “Mrs. Whitfield, you have a visitor.”
Amanda breathed out a huff. “Why can’t he just call me doctor or at least Ms.,” she muttered. Before tapping the icon to reply, she glanced at her calendar, saw the date’s square crossed with a diagonal line through it, frowned and asked, “Do you mean I have a patient waiting?”
“No, it’s your husband.” George paused before adding, “And . . . a woman . . . visitor.”
“Send them in.”
The moments before she heard the light tap on her closed door, the only space in her lab that wasn’t half glassed in cubicles, she thought, I’d get rid of George if he weren’t such a wizard at getting the insurance companies to pay for my patient’s billings. She chuckled.
He even manages to get money when technically the treatments aren’t covered.
Still smiling at her thought, she called, “Come in.”
She regarded her husband and it occurred to her, this time, George called her Mrs. as a courtesy—or ego thing—to please Ralph. Then glancing at the woman, she realized why George stuttered.
“I’d like you to meet Beatrice Proctor,” Ralph said as he guided the elderly woman to a chair on the other side of Amanda’s desk.
“Of course,” flowed out from Dr. Whitfield’s mouth. Words that allowed her to remain noncommittal.
No one said more, so Amanda fished around a bit. Gazing from the woman to her husband, she asked, “Have you known each other long?”
Neither Ralph nor Beatrice answered the question, but Beatrice began, “You’re a plastic surgeon. I’m not here for a face lift or to get a boob job.”
“That’s good since I only do those for the rich and famous to support my research to discover the connection between DNA and diseases.
Ralph cleared his throat. “I’ll come back in a while and let you two get to know each other.”
Her attempt to remain professional took a tiny dip as she blinked twice. But before the seething questions could be organized enough to form a rational protest, her husband slipped through her office door.
Beatrice passed her age spotted hand over her mahogany hair streaked with wide stripes of white. “Now that it’s just us girls, let’s get down to why I’m here.”
“Yes, let’s.”
“I’m the crone in my family. My granddaughter has decided to get pregnant, which means she’ll no longer be the maiden, but will become the mother. My time is short before my daughter takes my place as the crone.”
Dr. Whitfield sat back in her chair. “Are you seeking a referral to a good psychiatrist?”
“You aren’t listening.” Beatrice stood, bent over the desk so her face was closer. “I’m a witch and I’ve got a DNA sample here in my bag. I need to find out if the man my granddaughter is going to have impregnate her is a warlock or just a smooth talker.”
Rearing back from the old woman’s countenance that was too close, Amanda wondered if she should shout for help. Instead, she took a deep breath, and said, “I’m not sure if I’m your best resource. Tell me more. You can begin with how you know my husband.”
Beatrice sat back down. “His great grandmother and my mother were sisters. Makes him my grand nephew. I think.”
That revelation began a new surge of questions formed in Amanda’s brain. This time they were about Ralph. She blinked three times in rapid succession.
“He never told you he’s a warlock, did he?” queried Beatrice with a wicked grin.
“No. But that explains a lot about him,” replied Amanda.
The grin became a smirk when Beatrice said, “Didn’t know George is a warlock either, did you?”
Both men and Beatrice jumped when Amanda slammed her palm on the desk’s top. “Answer me!”
“Amanda, my love, I do come from a magical family, but I’ve never done anything to put a spell on you—promise.”
“You told this woman, I could look for magical blood in DNA?”
“No, I’m sure he didn’t,” replied George. “I might have mentioned the possibility though.”
“Does anyone else know about this witch business? Here in my lab?”
George shrugged, “Mostly.”
“Which, or should I say, which are witch?”
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