C. Omololu - Intuition

Mama shuts the trunk with an air of finality and takes one last look around the room. “Help me with this,” she says, taking one leather handle as I grab the other. She leaves not even a backward glance on the place, looking only forward as we step into the weak morning light.

I’m disoriented for a few seconds as the memory fades, and I’m left with nothing but questions. Without knowing where or when that lifetime took place, I’m sure it’s one I haven’t explored before. Who was I? Where were we going? I close my eyes for a second and try to fix what I saw in my memory. Mama had light brown skin and long black hair that was caught in a bun at the base of her neck, and was wearing a long red dress that looked like something out of Little House on the Prairie. I remember the pounding in my chest as I watched the people fleeing the village. I was searching for someone, but I have no idea who.

I look over at the man next to me. He’s tall, with jet-black hair and a distinct, but not unpleasant, nose. He’s still deep in discussion with the woman on his other side and hasn’t even noticed our connection, but he has to be the reason for such a random memory—he must have something to do with that lifetime. I’m about to tap him on the shoulder when he and the woman stand up and cross the room to get more drinks.

Giselle wanders over from another group and sits on the arm of the sofa next to me, smiling and talking to people she knows. Sonia starts another story and Giselle turns to me while the focus isn’t on us.

“Are you enjoying the party?” she asks, taking a drink of her wine.

“It’s been great,” I say. I glance at the guy. “Do you know who he is?” I ask, nodding in his direction.

Giselle squints across the room. “That’s Will Alvarez. He’s a writer—screenplays, mostly. But I don’t know the woman.” She looks down at me, a mild look of interest on her face. “Did you get something from him?”

“Yes,” I say, looking back in his direction. “But not like that. It was more personal.”

“Well, your skills are just developing. We can’t expect miracles from the beginning.” I know that Giselle is trying to talk in code, but there’s no mistaking the condescending tone of that last statement. She takes another sip, and the way she looks away from me tells me that she doesn’t think I can do this. That all of the attention I’m getting from the Sekhem is for nothing.

Everyone around us laughs as Sonia finishes another story, and I see an opportunity in the silence that follows. All of the talk tonight has been about mutual friends and other parties in other lifetimes. I see Drew walk into the kitchen and I decide it’s time to focus on some current events. “Hey,” I say quickly, before conversation can start again. “Did you hear about the woman they found dead out by the airport last week? I heard she was Akhet.”

The entire group is silent, looking at me and, I’m sure, wondering why I’d bring up something like that. At least that’s what most people would think. But anyone who’s involved would be immediately uncomfortable. I sit up, alert, watching the faces around me.

“I heard that too,” a woman volunteers. “Veronique something. Not anyone that I knew, though.”

Sonia leans into the group. “Was she Sekhem?”

“Rogue,” another woman says. I watch her carefully, but I don’t see any signs of agitation. “I heard she’d been involved in some retaliation earlier this year. Sanctioned by the Sekhem, but what are they going to do about it?” Everyone laughs softly.

A guy near me sips some coffee. “How did she die? She didn’t go anen, did she?”

“No. She was killed,” the first woman says. I don’t recognize the new Akhet word, but it must mean something like suicide. I wonder how many Akhet choose that option.

“How?” Sonia asks. “I hope not strangulation. That’s a horrible way to go.”

“Were you ever strangled?” a man asks her.

“No. But I know someone who was. Dreadful. I prefer something quick and unexpected,” Sonia replies. “Give me a car crash or a well-placed bullet any day.”

“How about a massive heart attack? Or an aneurysm?” Portia Martin asks.

Sonia waves the thought away. “Too painful.”

“But not for long,” Portia says. “I once had an aneurysm in my sleep—woke up with a headache, and in a few seconds that was it.”

I can feel the conversation picking up now that we’re off the subject of Veronique. I don’t see anyone who seems even a little bit interested.

“Has anyone gone the lingering disease route?” a blond woman asks, and many people shake their head in sympathy. “I did that last time, and I’m telling you, never again. If I get sick this time, I’m going anen before things get too bad. Hard to believe that in this day and age euthanasia is still illegal. It ought to be a sacrament.”

The conversation turns to everyone’s favorite way to die, and I know the subject is lost. Giselle leans down. “Nice try.”

I shrug. I should go circulate a little bit, maybe see if I can find out more about Will Alvarez. I start to stand up but lose my balance and bump into Giselle, spilling her red wine on her white jeans.

“Oh, God! I’m so sorry,” I say, reaching for some napkins on the coffee table. She probably thinks I did that on purpose.

She stands up quickly. “It’s okay.”

“Let me get this,” I say, pressing a wad of napkins into the stain. As I touch her, I suddenly feel detached from my body for a few seconds, and sense something dark, something deep down that Giselle doesn’t want anyone to see.

Giselle brushes my hand away and everything comes back into focus. I look up at her, trying to keep my expression neutral. It could have been anything, something about her past that she’s not proud of, something in another lifetime that she’s trying to suppress. But out of everyone here, Giselle is the only one I’ve found who seems to be hiding something big.

“I’m going to find some club soda to take this out,” Giselle says.

“Again, I’m so sorry,” I say. I don’t think she can tell what I know.

She gives me a tight smile. “My fault for drinking red wine in white pants. Don’t worry about it.”

I watch her walk into the kitchen, wondering what I’m going to say to Janine. If I’m going to say anything to Janine. I’d hate to look like an idiot if it’s nothing.

Next to me, Portia looks at her oversized diamond watch and tosses her napkin onto the coffee table. “Ooh! Look how late! I’d better get going. Early call tomorrow.”

I glance at the clock that Drew has over the mantle. Almost midnight. “Damn. I should go too. My parents are going to kill me.”

Portia smiles. “Ah, curfew. I remember it well.”

I sigh. “Now that my memories are coming back, being treated like a kid is starting to really suck.”

“We all go through it, if it’s any consolation. It doesn’t last. Soon you’ll be able to do whatever you want.” Drew walks across the room and joins a couple of people by the giant windows. Portia looks him pointedly up and down. “Speaking of doing whatever you want—I think you should definitely be doing that .”

I bump her in the shoulder and she laughs. “I’m not going out with Drew,” I say.

Portia leans in close. “Then I think you should tell him that. He’s barely taken his eyes off you all night.”

“Why aren’t you . . . you know, with Drew?” It would be perfect—the pop star and the handsome young gazillionaire.

Portia looks over at him and seems to be deep in thought, her eyes so dark brown they seem almost black. “We have our own history,” she says. “Sometimes there’s no going back.” She looks at me. “You two have a history, don’t you?”