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“Oh, bless your heart, dear. You’re so pure and innocent and beautiful. These things happen, I’m telling you, and I’m not…I’m not crazy. My family can’t stand me. They say it’s all cooked up in my head, but it’s really not.”

Slowly, I nodded. “Right. Uh-huh.” Then, I lowered my eyes to take more notes on my iPad. “Sure, these things happen.”

An internal battle waged inside me. The thinnest thread that held me back from breaking out in a full ear-to-ear grin was the respect of my profession. One slip-up and an emotionally hurt client would ensure I received more queries than recommendation letters. I had worked too hard to let that happen. Plus, he had thirty minutes left on the clock—which wasn’t a lot of time—so I gave myself a mental scolding and regained my composure.

Client (Mr. Harold Plumley) reports feeling anxious and fearful, stating, “My cat is conspiring against me.” His voice was raised, and he exhibited agitated body language. He believes that his cat watches him closely and plots to harm him. Further exploration of these thoughts and feelings is needed.

Crossing one leg over the other, I looked up, replacing my enthused smile with a warm and genuine one. “And you’re not crazy, Harold. We’ve been through this already.”

That was always the first step after commencing the session: Reign in their sanity while you still can.

The old man shook his head worriedly, the doubt clear on his face when he said, “But deep down, I know you don’t believe me, Ms. Sinclair.”

But it was hard, was it not?

Who would instantly believe that a cat’s conspiring to kill its owner?

However, behind the backdrop of the bizarre, the sadness in Harold’s eyes when he spoke, his restless and fidgety fingers constantly picking at the buttons on his old charcoal black coat, and the subtle hint of resignation laced in his tone fully expressed the depth of emotional turmoil he was going through.

There was a deep fear and anxiety rooted in the very core of this man, and that fear drove him here, to me. Like his family, he felt I didn’t believe him. He thought he was going crazy but still fiercely esteemed his cat as his enemy.

And above all, this man was still seated on that dull velvet green settee for one thing: help.

In the midst of the absurdity, Mr. Harold Plumley wanted help, and he’d paid my professional fees because he thought I could do something about it, even if that meant suggesting an option of exorcising the kitty.

I massaged my temple and heaved a sigh. Now, I was no miracle worker, but….

“Let’s start again, shall we, Harold?” And again, for the hundredth time in less than an hour, I offered a smile. “Tell me everything. I want to know what cards your cat has got up its sleeves.”

Harold visibly brightened, like a child who’d been gifted a lollipop. Life flowed through his eyes, and he narrated his story with more vibrancy than I’d seen in a sixty-year-old man.

While he dramatically fired off tales featuring his famous cat knocking over his coffee or mysteriously leaving scratch marks on the furniture, I couldn’t help the lurking thought that probed at the back of my mind.

“Uh-huh.” I nodded, maintaining the plastic smile. For the next twenty minutes, it wasn’t allowed to falter.

Harold was sweet and all, and I absolutely treasured each and every opportunity I had to converse with people like him. But I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep up with the quirky clients and goofy stories. If it wasn’t a conspiring cat tale, then the monkeys in some continents were going extinct. Or if it wasn’t either of those, then I found myself listening to unending stories of karma and curses and the lady with the hood and magic ball who was after a client’s destiny.

How much was I being paid to sit through all of that?

Not enough, that’s for sure.

As a certified therapist, with more than enough degrees to prove my qualification, I was much more deserving of r eal cases to tackle. A greater life called my name. More hard-nut cases-slash-clients were just waiting for me beyond the four walls of my current reality.

The timer on my iPad went off, jolting me back, and coincidentally, Harold concluded his narration.

I kept the iPad aside with one leg crossed over the other. “Okay, Harold, I hear you. However, we’re going to try a little something different.”

“Different?”

“Oh, yes. Just a tweak on your expectations. It’ll be somewhat of a test. So, I’m not going to recommend your cat to go see a priest, but I will recommend….”

I started with a list of things Harold could do, highlighting the ultimate trick: cat care.

By the time I was done, he looked skeptical, but I was positive that it would cure whatever problems the poor kitty had encountered due to his current living conditions with a frightened owner.

“Honestly, your cat might be suffering from the effects of neglect and is doing all it can to get your attention. Let’s try feeding it more often and playing, amongst the other things I mentioned, and we’ll see how that works out during our next session.”

“I’m not sure, but…whatever you say, Ms. Sinclair. Whatever you say.”

***

The moment Mr. Harold Plumley was up and out of my office, the smile slipped off my face, and I marched down to the program director’s office, fueled by the determination to spill my guts. Otherwise, I was going to burst, either in tears or frustration. Or maybe both.

Through the partially transparent glass walls gleaming in the light, I found her seated, her face almost buried in the screen of her computer and her fingers rapidly clicking away on the keyboard.

Three rapid knocks on the door disconnected her attention, and she raised her head. When our eyes met, a small smile settled on her red-painted lips, and she gave a curt nod, granting me permission to enter.

“Dr. Greystone. Good day, ma’am.” I shut the door behind me and momentarily got distracted by the ambiance of her office.

It got to me every single time I stepped foot through her door—all of it. This included the lights and their immediate calming effect intentionally installed for the sake of the clients, the cool air from the air-conditioning, the stunning view of the city from the tall windows, her small touches of life with abstract landscape paintings, and a healthy green potted plant. But most of all, how it perfectly suited her. The beautiful, kind, warm, and yet no-nonsense woman who controlled the activities that went on in this building. She was a huge inspiration for me to dream of becoming a powerful and successful career woman who was well-respected by everyone.

I clasped my fingers together, composing myself and the words that would flow from my mouth while ignoring the stings of my fingernails biting into my skin.

She leaned backward on her chair with folded arms across her bosom and a tease in her grin. “We’ve talked about the formalities, Hazel.”

If I could have a look in the mirror, I knew for a fact that my cheeks and neck had the glow of a ripened cherry.

In addition to her competence and charisma, she was stunning—front-page-magazine-worthy. That sort of beauty. She had everything other women struggled to get: the perfect slender hourglass figure, blue ethereal eyes, hair that spilled over her shoulders for days, and an incredible bone structure.

At thirty-four, she didn’t look a day older than twenty-five, and I dared to rate her a solid fifteen over ten.

If she decided to ditch this profession and quit helping people, she’d land a good deal overnight in the entertainment or fashion industry. And with that commanding aura, she was sure to boss her way to the front lines.

“I’m sorry.” I cleared my throat. “Amelia.”

Chuckling, she gestured to the chair across her desk. “Have a seat and tell me how it went today with Mr. Plumley.”

Back to earth and to the real reason I came here. The weight on my chest suddenly felt heavier than it was seconds ago.

I clutched the edge of the desk, reeling my chair closer. Then, I swallowed. “Amelia, I love my job.”

“I’ll take that as an ‘it didn’t go well.’” The brightness in her eyes dimmed considerably, and she shook her head. “I knew he was going to be a handful, but I thought you’d be able to handle—”

“No, no, please. It did go well. It did.” I nearly bit my tongue. How do I tell her? “It’s just…how do I put this?”

“Put it exactly the way it is. I’m listening.”

And that was the problem: Amelia Greystone was listening. Every fiber of her being was paying rapt attention, especially with those intense eyes that bore deep into your soul, just waiting for one wrong slip-up before she could claim it.

Beads of sweat dotted the edges of my hairline, and I began to find it a bit difficult to breathe.

“I…gosh, I—I can’t continue like this.”

Phew!

There! I said it, didn’t I?

It wasn’t so hard, was it?

Oh, it was. And technically, I didn’t say anything.

Amelia looked even more confused, and the haze clouding her features was more intimidating. “I don’t understand you. You say you love your job, but you can’t continue? Are you…? Is this an oral resignation?”

“God, no!” My hands flew to my chest to calm my racing heart, and I let out a nervous chuckle. “I am not quitting this job. I’m just saying I’m tired of feeling stuck on this level. Don’t get me wrong; I enjoy working with the elderly and helping them overcome their traumas and…stuff. That’s practically my job, right? To help them. But—”

“But?”

“Amelia, I need a challenge. It feels like I’m repeating kindergarten with each one of them that walks in through my doors with the same or similar story.”

Now, I’d said it.

And Amelia heard the desperation and plea in my voice. She straightened up and ran her fingers through her hair.

“A challenge?”

“Yes, a challenge. Something more…more groundbreaking, if I must say. I need a hard nut to crack. I desire to have a real breakthrough with a person that society looks at as impossible to fix.”

“And Mr. Harold Plumley isn’t challenging enough?”

Puh-lease.

“Challenging enough?” I almost scoffed in her face. “His cat’s conspiring to harm him? His cat. Some extra playtime and fish biscuits will rekindle their relationship just like that. And a few weeks ago, I had to console a client who was too scared to bring our sessions to a final close. She was scared to leave me.”

Amelia’s perfectly lasered eyebrows perked up, and I realized she was waiting for me to continue.

I sighed. “That was the problem: getting overly attached to things and people she likes. Now, imagine the extent of what I had to deal with when she started therapy. The point is, I can’t. I cannot keep up with that. Trust me, I’m ready for the next level.”

She smiled at me, and the warmth in it reminded me of my session with Harold. I shuddered. I didn’t need fake pity.

“Hazel, look. You’re fantastic. You’re great, actually. The first time I saw you, I liked you. The clients share similar thoughts….”

She was stalling; that much was clear. The real message had not been delivered yet, and that was what I patiently waited to hear.

“It’s just—”

“It’s just what?”

Amelia held my gaze, like a doctor preparing herself to deliver bad news. “You’re young.”

“Great! Never knew being twenty-four would one day be a death sentence.”

She didn’t believe I was ready.

“No, hear me out. I’m not only referring to your age. I’ve been where you are before. I know what it feels like to believe you’re ready for something bigger. But you have to understand that these goofy lighter cases are all part of the process for you to become stronger in this field. No doubt, you’re gifted. You’ve got the instincts and the art. Sometimes, I find myself wanting to learn your methods.”

“There’s a but , isn’t there?”

Amelia exhaled through her smile. “You need more experience.”

“I have qualifications, Amelia.”

“ Experience, Hazel,” she reemphasized. “You might have the documents testifying that you’re overripe for recommendations, promotions, and whatnots, but experience speaks louder volumes. It makes your authenticity infallible. Serious cases require trust, and trust takes time.”

“And you trusted me from the first time you met me, didn’t you? You believed I could handle Meryl Peters, the woman who believed the government was watching her every move. If you didn’t, you’d have never given me that job. Or the one after that. Or the other thirty-nine jobs after that, and now, Mr. Harold Plumley.”

Dropping my pride, I scrambled closer, letting her see how much I needed this breakout. It didn’t matter that I was almost groveling on my knees; I wanted her to know that she could—

“—trust me, Amelia. You can trust me. I promise nothing and no one will be too difficult for me to handle. I’ve got this.”

To say she looked unbelieving would have been the understatement of the year, but when I watched a bit of her resolve chip off and a fierce glint of hope settle in her gaze, I remembered another thing I liked about her.

Amelia Greystone was a risk-taker.

“Fine. I won’t make any promises, but I’ll see what I can do. If you say you’re ready, I’ll take your word for it. And if you mess up, Hazel.” She shrugged. “You’re out.”

A wave of happiness hit me like a tsunami. It didn’t matter that my stubbornness and determination could cost me a job I’d worked so hard to get. Knowing she would consider my request was more than enough for me.