Good to Me by LaTonya Mason Page A

Psalms until the unexpected sound of the phone’s intercom made her jump.
    “Charity, your ten o’clock is here.”
    “Thank you, Iesha. Let him know I’ll be right out.”
    “Take your time, he’s filling out his paperwork.”
    She went to the restroom to refresh her makeup and to make sure she was showing no signs of distress.
God forbid a therapist has problems of her own
, she kidded. She continued to praise God for lifting her spirit through His Word and presence. As she walked to the waiting
     area she reminded herself that she could do all things through Christ, Who strengthens her.
    She extended her right hand to initiate a handshake to a well-dressed brown-skinned gentleman who was flipping through the
     pages of a
Black Enterprise
magazine from the coffee table. “Mr. Wright? Good morning. I’m Charity Phillips.”
    He stood to meet her. “Good morning.” He looked at her left hand for a wedding ring. “
Ms
. Phillips. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
    She half smiled and pointed in the direction she led. “Follow me. My office is this way.” She felt uncomfortable walking in
     front of him. Her whole backside burned, like someone with x-ray vision was watching her. “Did you have any trouble finding
     us?” she said, making small talk to diminish the discomfort she felt.
    “No problem at all,” he said, sounding like he was smiling and talking about a totally different subject.
    “Come on in,” she said, stopping at her office door to allow Mr. Wright to walk in before her. She motioned to a chair in
     front of her desk. She didn’t like conducting sessions from beind her desk, but at this moment she knew that was where she
     felt more comfortable.
    She laid her daily planner on top of her Bible.
    He leaned back in the chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “A Bible reader,” he acknowledged. “My sign that I’m in
     the right place.”
    Charity smiled to be polite. She flipped through the chart that Iesha compiled with the paperwork he completed, and the case
     summary and recommendations from the court. “Mr. Wright, what brings you here today?” she asked without looking up at him.
    “Ms. Phillips, I’d prefer you talk to me as opposed to that file.”
    “Forgive me, sir. I usually get a chance to review charts before I see clients. I apologize for not being able to do that
     today. Give me a few minutes, will you?” She read the five pages of information in less than three minutes and looked up at
     him. “Thank you.”
    “That’s better,” he shifted his weight to the front of the chair. “Now, I’ll admit that I’ve had some problems in the past,
     but I’m not as bad as those papers make me out to be. And as far as those run-ins with the law,” he crossed his legs. “I was
     at the wrong place at the wrong time, and with the wrong people. But I’m going to follow the court’s recommendations, which
     is why I’m here. They sent me for a psychiatric evaluation. Waste of my time. I could’ve told him that he wasn’t going to
     find anything. But he recommended outpatient counseling and the judge ordered it. Et cetera upon et cetera.”
    The one thing practicing therapy helped her do was not to let her feelings show and to emotionally detach from situations.
If I’d applied that principle to Emmitt two years ago, I’d be over him by now
. She remembered her graduate school adviser telling her that if she lets a client get under her skin, “that’s a warning that
     you have some unresolved issues with someone they are reminding you of. They may be reminding you of yourself or someone else.
     People are just a reflection of yourself.” As she recalled that statement, she realized that this man was Emmitt with a different
     face. Just as charming and manipulative as he wanted to be. The psychiatrist may not have diagnosed him with anything, but
     she could think of a diagnosis. Sociopath.
    She fixed a smile on her face. “Compliance. That’s my sign that