"Good morning, boss lady," Yahkie said, sounding chipper and handing me a cup of freshly brewed coffee. "Just the way you like it: black with two sugars. I left you a Chick-Fil-A chicken biscuit on your desk, too."
     I couldn't help but smile.
     "How did you know I'd be hungry?" I tried to play it off.
     "Are you kidding me? You're always hungry, but you hate to cook breakfast. You don't like to wake up early. You'd rather spend your time sleeping or getting to know your fine husband in the biblical sense. You know I know you."
     I couldn't resist laughing. Yahkie had been my assistant since I started my practice two years ago. I'll never forget the way he came into my office for his interview. It was summertime and he wore a blue-and-white seersucker suit. He looked chic. Even though he tried to tone down his flamboyant ways for the interview, I could tell he would let loose once given the opportunity. He was the most fashionable man I had ever met. His appearance is meticulous. From his neatly cut hair to his manicured fingers, he was a vision of togetherness. Even beyond the physical, he was highly organized and took the initiative. I was impressed with him the first day we met, and he had exceeded my expectations. 
     "Thanks for breakfast. I'll try to finish in time for my nine o'clock," I promised as I walked into my suite. A wooden bookcase lined with hardcover books ranging from the Greek classics to textbooks to self-help greeted me when I entered.
     I placed my mug on top of my oak desk and slid my case underneath. Then I sat down on a soft, black leather, high-back chair and ate. The breakfast sandwich hit the spot. I dabbed the corners of my mouth and checked my Omega. The time was 9:28 a.m. A couple of minutes later my intercom buzzed. It was Yahkie telling me that Monday Jackson, my new patient, had arrived. I was glad she showed up on time because late arrivals threw off my schedule. I dumped my trash in the receptacle located on the side of my desk and told him to send her in.
     I walked from behind my desk and extended my hand to her. "Monday, I'm Dr. Skyler Little. It's a pleasure to meet you."
     We gave each other a firm handshake. She flashed a smile that revealed tiny teeth that looked like Chiclets. She appeared to be at least five foot six and weighed about 250 pounds. Although she was portly, she carried herself well. She wore a yellow shirt, black slacks and black high heels. Her makeup was flawless.
     "Nice to meet you, too," she replied.
     I offered her a seat on the gray sofa as I sat next to her on a chaise decorated in a black-and-beige African design motif. The various animal prints, such as cheetah, leopard and zebra, covering several chairs around my office revealed that I have a sanguine personality.
     I told her that I preferred to record all of my sessions so that I could refer back to them if necessary. I assured her the tapes were for my personal use and wouldn't be shared with anyone without her permission or a court order. Then I explained that I begin and end every session with prayer. She informed me that she attended church regularly and was perfectly fine with us praying together. So we proceeded.
     We bowed our heads and closed our eyes as I prayed aloud.
     "Heavenly Father, thank You for this day. I pray that You be with us during this meeting. Lord, use me as a vessel for the up-building of Your Kingdom. It is my humble prayer that I decrease so that You may increase. Let the meditations of my heart be pleasing and acceptable in Your sight. Remove any obstacle that could hinder me from being an effective witness for You. Forgive us for our sins of omission and commission. In Jesus' name, we pray, Amen." Then I asked, "So, what brings you here today?"
     She pointed at a five-by-seven framed photo sitting on the corner of my desk and asked if it was a picture of me and my husband. I glanced at the photo and told her that we had taken it last year when we were in Jamaica for vacation.
     "Nice. Is that where you're from?"
     I was taken aback by her question. No one had ever asked me that before.
     "Not me--my husband," I explained.
     She nodded her head and smiled. "You make a lovely couple."
     "Thanks." I asked her again to tell me why she came to see me. I wondered why she kept avoiding the question.
     "May I call you Sky?" She shifted in her seat.
     "Sure, whatever works for you. Lots of people call me that."
     "Sky, I have a problem." She crossed her right leg over her left. It made her legs seem as long as stilts. "My boyfriend suggested I talk to someone because he can't seem to help me."
     I acknowledged by nodding my head.
     "I don't know where to begin."
     I explained to her that counseling sessions were a process and that we weren't going to resolve her issues in one meeting. I asked her to tell me about her childhood and her parents.
     "My family," she sighed, "is complicated. My mom and dad were married until I was five. After they divorced, I never saw my dad again."
     "Before we continue," I said, "would you please tell me the names of your parents so that I won't have to keep referring to them as your mother and father?"
     "Sure. Paige and Stan."
     "Thanks. Please continue."
     Monday told me that Paige and Stan's marriage began to deteriorate due to infidelity. She said they argued a lot. After Paige accused Stan of child molestation, they divorced.
     "Did Stan molest you?" I rubbed the back of my neck with my right hand, indicating this wasn't easy for me to listen to. Every time one of my patients revealed that she had been molested, I could feel tension creeping its way into my neck like a cheating husband trying to slip into his marital bed undetected after he's been with his lover. I maintained my professional composure even though, deep inside, I felt angry. Children are innocent. The thought of someone violating them infuriated me. I fought back revealing my disgust.
     Monday uncrossed her legs. "Yes. He used to fondle me and actually penetrated me when I was…five." Her eyes welled with tears. I offered her a box of Kleenex. She pulled a couple of tissues out of the box and dabbed the corners of her sparkling eyes. "My mom flipped out when she found out," she continued. "Burned him on the arm with an iron. Threw him out of the house and then reported him to child services."
     I rubbed my arm. I empathized with how painful it must've felt to be burned with an iron. I did not advocate or condone violence, but I could understand how a mother could be driven to such drastic behavior because of the love of her child. Then I asked, "Did he go to jail?"
     "Yes. A social worker conducted an investigation, and I had to see a child psychiatrist."
     "I see."
     Not long afterward, the timer went off, notifying us our session had ended. There was so much more I wanted to say, but I told her we'd resume the conversation at our next appointment. We prayed, and she left.
     I checked my inspirational desk calendar and noticed that I had a few minutes before my next appointment, so I called Donovan on his cell phone. As soon as he said "'Ello," I puckered my lips and blew a short series of kisses into the receiver. Then I hung up. We called those "drive-bys." We did a drive-by whenever one of us was thinking about the other but didn't have enough time for a drawn out conversation. It was an alternative to saying "I love you."   
     I had to purge my mind so that I could mentally prepare for my upcoming meeting with Ambrosia. She had been my patient for the past six months. Her father died when she was little, and her mother never remarried. When I met Ambrosia, she was in a relationship with a married man, and they had two children together. Her relationship had soured, and she needed someone to talk to. She came to see me because she figured I would listen without judging her.
     Yahkie came barging into my office, interrupting my thoughts like he was a policeman making a drug bust before the suspects could get away.
     "Boss lady!" He closed the door behind him, arms flailing in the air. "Ambrosia is in the lobby, and she looks a hot mess! She looks like she's been fighting with Iron Mike Tyson of old and lost! Bruises everywhere! Got on shades! I bet she got a black eye!"
     My heart raced and I dipped my head in thought. I felt nervous. "Bring her back."
     Yahkie left my office. My mind was on emotional overload. I wrung my hands and paced the floor. As a professional, I knew better than to get personally involved in the lives of my clients, but as a person, I couldn't help but care. When Ambrosia entered, I stopped pacing. Seeing her in that condition made my stomach drop, the same as riding a roller coaster ride at Six Flags and without holding your breath. The Jackie O.-type shades she wore covered half her oval-shaped face and were in direct contrast with her milky white skin. I didn’t bother to ask her to take them off, even though I could see blotchy red spots on her cheeks and that her bottom lip was swollen. The thought of what hid behind those glasses scared me. I didn't want to see because I knew I'd get more upset than I already was. I took a deep breath. She closed the door behind her. I exhaled.
     "What happened?" I asked.
     Silence.
     I walked over to Ambrosia and wrapped my arms around her. Even though I'm five foot six, athletic and have an "apple bottom," as Donovan would say, standing next to Ambrosia's shapely but petite self, I felt like an Amazon. She clung to me the way a baby black howler monkey clings to its mother's fur. She sobbed on my shoulder so hard that her body shook. I closed my eyes and told her to let it out. As she continued to cry, I silently prayed for her. I stroked her highlighted auburn hair. She didn't have to tell me what was wrong because experience had taught me it had something to do with her babies' daddy.