Chapter 15
Agood therapist knows how to compartmentalize. Even when they are suffering under the weight of personal struggles, they stuff their own needs into a tiny box in their hearts, lock stray thoughts in a cabinet in their brains, and focus on their patients.
Sure, they might mention feeling out of sorts, but only in a way that conveys humanity.
They are meant to have feelings, but not express them.
It’s important that therapists have personal boundaries.
That they keep their biases in check and provide a safe and judgment-free space for whoever sat on their proverbial couch.
Funny how, only yesterday morning, I’d believed I’d ever been a good therapist.
One day later, sitting across from a fire nymph with post-traumatic stress, I had doubts about, well, pretty much everything. When she’d introduced herself, I’d been unable to hide the sheer exhaustion that had clawed so deep into me no amount of rest would release it.
I’d gone to bed resolved to embrace the magic in the world around me. But by morning, my resolve had faded. I was more out of sorts than ever, and the events of the day before still held me in place.
When my first client sauntered in, with glowing skin and hair that resembled being engulfed in flames, the shock hit me afresh.
Aside from the Twins, who I hadn’t seen since the board meeting, every other supernatural encounter had an aura of normality to it.
Sure, someone can say they were a troll or dragon.
But when they look human, it’s easier to believe that's part of the delusion.
I could rationalize Gumbo talking to me as part of my imagination. And the wolf from last night? That …
Nope. That one stayed in its mental box for now.
But there was no way I could pretend the female sitting across from me, who claimed to be a fire nymph by the name of Cindrette, was human. Despite my efforts to compartmentalize, flashes of the night before invaded my every thought.
The silver of her skin reflected the strange color I’d turned Jeff’s tongue.
She spoke in short bursts, afraid to let her words come out. Not unlike me.
And she wore no shoes, though her feet were blessedly free of vomit. In fact, they were clean and manicured, tucked underneath her legs. She’d chosen the chair, and that small win was enough to dissolve me into tears. I recovered. Eventually. And apologized. Profusely.
But it wasn’t the best first impression. And here I was, thirty minutes later, still dwelling on it rather than listening to her talk.
Oh, yeah. I’m nailing this therapy thing.
“I jolt awake in the middle of the night, terrified I’m still under her thrall. I’ve even awoken a few times half altered.” She dropped her voice, eyes darting from side to side as if someone might hear her and pounce. “I set one of the rooms in Bridge House on fire. In my sleep!”
“That must have been very stressful for you. How was that resolved?”
“Oh, you know Bridge House.” Cindrette shook her head. An actual tinder flitted from her hair, crackling as it popped out of existence. “Misty took care of it. It’s not the room that scared me. It’s that I hadn’t been aware I’d changed.”
I made a note in my notepad. I didn’t know about Bridge House. Or Misty. But my tour of the town had referenced the tiny island connected to Illusion Square by a bridge and the B&B run by a mermaid.
And it had the same air of familiarity to it I was growing used to. An annoying, but near-constant, sense of deja vu. I’ve seen this before. I’ve been across the bridge and onto the island. And something happened there.
Something I needed to pry out of its mental box. I pinched the space between my thumb and forefinger again, reminding myself I was trying to be a good therapist.
“Let’s talk about the moments you feel safe, Cindrette. Can you recall any of them for me right now?”
“Safe?” Her dark orange brows furrowed low over eyes that glowed like embers.
“Yeah, you know, the moments you aren’t looking over your shoulder.”
She tilted her head, as if examining the strange woman asking questions in the hopes of understanding her. Good luck with that one, Cindy old gal, I barely understand myself.
“Is there something about my suggestion that is making you feel unsafe, Cindrette?”
“What? Oh, no!” Bless it, I could feel the wave of anxiety cascading through her. The people pleaser in me understood it completely. “It’s not that at all. I just thought …”
She waggled her fingers in the air. Try as I might, it was not a gesture I could interpret.
“I’m sorry, Cindrette. Can you communicate your concern to me?” I faked a smile. “I promise I won’t be upset, no matter what you say.”
Yuck. My stomach churned. I’d said something I didn’t mean, and my body didn’t like it. I kept the smile plastered on while Cindrette fidgeted in her chair. Finally, she cast her glance out the window.
“Don’t you want to hear about The Battle? Agatha always wanted me to talk about The Battle.”
I bit back an exhausted sigh. Several years ago, there’d been some sort of fight for Illusion Square. Several of my patients referenced it, giving their versions of how they’d participated. I understood the need for them to share the tragedy.
All of us who grew up in the area had a hurricane story. We used them when we met to gauge one another. Who’s your momma and can you make a roux, as the natives would say. Where were you for the big storm?
The Battle was Treater’s Way’s version of Katrina. I was in the Square when the fire started. I’d just left Explore Art before the shooting started. I worked with so-and-so and they …
It went on and on. The Battle mattered to the town, and I had to respect that. And those who’d fought in it had trauma galore. I was here to help them.
For a town with so much potential, too many of its residents dwelled on the past.
“Do you feel like you want to talk about The Battle again?”
She gnawed on her ruby red lips, entwining her fingers like she was tying a knot.
Countless sessions with Agatha, she’d done just that.
Relived the horror of being trapped in a dragon form.
Forced to use her power to destroy the very things she loved and revered.
Her own will shut down as someone else manipulated her for their benefit.
What she’d gone through was clearly traumatic. She was struggling to move forward, even years later. She couldn’t sleep or relax. She didn’t have a permanent place to call home.
And every week, that fact was reiterated without the benefit of hope or action. She reminded herself of her trauma. Lived in it, day after day.
It was another example of Agatha’s talk methods being ineffective.
Cindrette’s lips trembled. The muscles in her long, silver neck tensed. I wasn’t sure if she knew she was holding live fire in her hand, but I didn’t want to ask. Its heat waved the space between us. I braced myself, in case she spontaneously combusted or turned into a dragon.
As quickly as it had flamed, the fire was gone. She squared herself to face me, planting her feet on the ground.
“No. No, I do not want to talk about the past anymore. I want to figure out how to live in the now. I want a future!” Her tiny voice faltered, but her eyes held firm.
A spark of hope lit within. A desperately needed sign of progress.
“Good.” My next smile was neither fake nor forced. “So, let’s start by finding the moments you feel safe and start from there.”
Thirty minutes later, Cindrette clutched the new journal I’d given her tight to her chest and rose to leave. “This was so helpful, thank you! I can’t wait to get started. Right after my next appointment.”
“Next appointment?” I walked her out, scanning the lobby for Brianne but finding it empty.
“With Lydia.” A deep purple blush rose in Cindrette’s cheeks. “I have a standing treatment right next door.”
She scurried to the Med Spa door and swung it open. I caught a glimpse of pristine white walls and light chatter before the door closed again. My phone pinged. A message from Brianne that she’d left to run an errand and that my next two patients had already canceled.
Word was already spreading. And not the way I wanted it to.
Perhaps it was time I made my presence known in the other divisions. Time to get a feel for the business side of this crazy inheritance.
I had two hours with no work and the contact high of a productive session.
Eyeing the Med Spa sign, I stalked to the door and yanked on the handle.
Maybe the positive energy of Cindrette greeting me would help fuel the kind of gossip I did want.
If nothing else, Lydia would see that I knew how to do my damn job.
Even if I wasn’t totally convinced.