And the Blue Hoard.
Musty piles of scarves. A dozen tea cozies. Pot holders. There used to be a blanket, but it was apparently in the living room now.
I’d mentioned them to Doug during our session, using them as a tool to create a connection with him. Looking at them now, I let the grief of the memories they carried wash over me.
I wished I’d mentioned that part to him. I wished I’d let him see they weren’t a tool. Rather than using it as a connection to the present, I should have let him see my grief over the past.
That, even after thirty years, it fades away yet remains. Like a scar. The sharp sting of the gash was far more painful, but the memory of it can bring the pain to light. Each time you see the scar, you remember the pain anew. Distantly. It doesn’t have the ability to open wounds.
It stays with you, as it should. And, once healed, it becomes part of you. A new skin you carry forever while you march forward.
To create new scars.
I’d held myself back from sharing that with Doug. Over the years, I’d wanted to offer up personal anecdotes to my patients. I’d wanted to go beyond the tools and create true connection. Traditional therapy felt hollow to me. Even modern methods created a distance I didn’t understand.
They didn’t need my problems. I didn’t need to blur boundaries. But they needed to know I understood them. Really understood them. Because I had been through my own wars.
Instead, I’d stifled my voice to do what I thought was expected. I’d tried too hard tolooklike I was creating a connection that I’d actually severed any hopes of one.
I’d become ineffective because I’d ignored my voice.
My voice. Which was apparently where my power came from.Wouldn’t using it help me transform into the therapist I truly longed to be? Maybe trusting what my soul longed to say out loud was the key to turning things around.
If only I knew how.
I rushed back to the living room where Brianne scratched behind Gumbo’s ear.
“Gumbo, can you show me how to use my power?”
Gumbo opened one eye. A hint of a smile lifted his cute little mug. He stretched his paws and went back to sleep.
“My power is my voice, right? I need to understand it better.”
Gumbo sighed and stood, turned in a circle, then curled closer to Brianne, who watched our exchange in amused silence.
Exasperation swelled in my chest, clogging my throat until I could not swallow. Had I just thought Gumbo would be helpful? Why was he ignoring me?
“Gumbo? Will you please help me?”
Gumbo’s tail twitched, but it was the only sign he’d heard me. As adorable as he was, I wanted to yank his sparkly gold bow right off his neck and stomp on it. I looked to Brianne, lifting my hands to the sky in a WTF gesture.
“Maybe he wants you to use your words more carefully, Simone.” She held the hint of a smile as well, making me even angrier.
I was about to tell them to forget it, that I would do it myself. Then the rocker creaked again. As I turned to it, the blanket still on the floor lifted and draped over an invisible lap.
“Oh, good.” I chewed on the inside of my cheek. “Agatha is watching me, too.”
A breeze sharper than ice crystals slapped me in the face. It didn’t hurt—I don’t think it was intended to—but it was certainly a wakeup call. I heard a distinctive voice in my head screamuse your words.
Oh.
I needed to be careful with my words. That made sense. What can I say? Sometimes, I’m a little slow. Especially when emotions are involved.
I closed my eyes, channeling all my breath into my throat to soothe and release the pressure. I waited for the right words to float to the top. Then, I simply released them into the air.
“Gumbo, Mystical Protector of Magnolia, you will help theEphemeral Supreme Simone, not Agatha, to understand her powers and use them with purpose.”
Brianne clapped so hard I took an amused bow. What a joy it was to have a friend in my corner.
