I couldn’t remove the couch right away. Agatha’s patients would be used to it, and I didn't want to shock them with too much change all at once. Especially now that I knew how different our methods were.
My modern, solutions-focused practice would jar her patients, who according to her notes had been seeking therapy regularly for fifty or sixty years. How would they respond to my desire to get them actively out of their own way, rather than just letting them talk through their pain ad nauseam?
I wondered again why Agatha had chosen me. Even if she’d planned for me to take over in my youth, surely her visit before her death would have changed her mind? Surely she would have chosen someone more like herself, someone who met her approval, before she passed.
Although, of course, she hadn’t had time. I was her last resort. The only one with aWalk-Ins Welcomesign and no one in the waiting room.
I winced as I plopped into the oversized chair behind her desk. My desk, now. It was hard and cold and unforgiving. I rubbed my sore tailbone, not even bothering to fight the sense of frustration welling up. Defeating thoughts raced through my mind.
You didn’t do anything to deserve this. You’re not a good therapist. The road ahead is too jagged.
And that’s where I stopped the thoughts. Closing my eyes, I went to one of my favorite techniques. Pretend magic is real, Simone. I snorted at the thought.
If you awoke one morning and a miracle happened, the core of your problem was completely erased, how would you feel? I sat up straighter in my chair, a strange itching sensation dancing across my arms.
It was the very method I’d offered Agatha. The wording haunted me with its familiarity.Let’s say a miracle happened…
The memory danced forward, then flitted away again before I could grab it. As it left me, intrusive thoughts returned. And, because I always made my patients do it, I confronted my thoughts out loud.
“Simone, a miracle has happened. You are now the benefactor of a thriving practice in a charming small town. All of your dreams are coming true. How do you feel?”
I swiveled in my chair, as if addressing myself.
“Excellent question, Simone. I feel hopeful and nervous. Thankfully, I know I can rely on my training to help me gain confidence. I’ll review who my patients are, identify their core issues, and assess how I can best help them learn to help themselves. I want to empower them, and to honor the memory of my benefactor.”
I swiveled again, taking on the therapist role, hoping no one came in and saw me having a full-on conversation with myself.
“Great answer, Simone. You’ve reviewed your patients’ files and will see your first one soon. In the meantime, what one thing can you do to propel yourself forward?”
I closed my eyes, visualizing my office and waiting room. Even if I only made it through the first thirty days, the space could use an update. Checking my watch, I had time to talk to Brianne about ordering furniture and decorations.
I pushed away from my desk and headed toward the main lobby. I never made it out of the waiting area.
It was the room I’d envisioned in my head. My plant was nestled into a new window that overlooked the backyard, bathing the room in sunlight. Comfy chairs angled toward the light. A huge white fuzzy carpet softened the space.
Currently on it was Gumbo, his bow and nails the same shade of sunset orange.
“Oh, this is soft.” His baby voice vibrated with his purrs, like a tiny toy engine being revved as he kneaded the rug. “This might be my new favorite room in the house.”
“Did I do this?” How many times would I stand under the weight of utter surreality? Would I ever get used to magical redecorations? Or was this what it meant to be a word witch? I touched the fabric of one of the angled chairs in wonder. “Can I speak anything into existence?”
“Did you describe this out loud?” Gumbo hopped onto the chair and turned in a circle, curling his tail around him.
“No, I just thought about it.” I turned in a circle to take it in. “I pictured it in my head.”
“And House took it from there,” Gumbo replied. “To some degree, it can manipulate time and space. Everything you envisioned exists in stores somewhere. They’ll have a record of it shipping.”
“Cool.” Cool was an understatement, but it was all I could manage. Looking around, I realized thiswasa magazine-perfect waiting room. I’d seen it in a magazine a few months ago, flipping through the pages on a long day with no patients. I’d allowed myself a moment to dream about the perfect office. The same office I’d envisioned moments earlier in my office.
“What does the therapy room look like?” Gumbo opened one eye to view the door, then yawned. “I’ll check it out later.”
“It won’t be different yet. I can’t see it.” But I would. “House, can you store all of the stuff that was in here before somewhere safe? So that, if this doesn’t work out, you can restore it? Whoever replaces me may have different taste.”
I didn’t know if the house could hear me, but I figured it was worth a try. There was a sense of agreement, as if the house understood. Underneath that understanding was a second presence. The fractured Agatha,no doubt, looking on from the great beyond with pursed lips and folded arms.
“Replaces you?” Gumbo tilted his cute little head. “That’s not how this works, Simone.”
He closed his eyes, shutting off any further questions. It sat like lead in my stomach. But I could be nervous about that later. My first supernatural patient was set to arrive.
