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S. Brook Counseling & Therapy Clinic

September 10th X288

Dr. Ronaldo clicked his pen shut.

“Florian called. She said she had something vital she needed to tell me. It sounded urgent,” Dr. Ronaldo said.

“Eep! Dr. Ronaldo, did you see the news? I’m so worried about Florian; she might be in danger,” Miss Garcia Fumblehouse said, clutching her plush turtle in front of her face. “Oh, I was so worried. Florian was on TV, covered head to toe in soot and pancakes. The mayor said Florian rescued his daughter. I couldn’t believe it.”

Miss Garcia Fumblehouse, now twenty-eight years old, was a regular at the clinic, and even after seven years, she remained the same.

Unbeknownst to her, she was a local celebrity with her long fluffy dress, her iconic parasol wherever she went, and her curly braided hair. She was always carrying one of her homemade plush turtles, now Sir Polyester Press Cotton the Seventh. The urban legend was if you saw the short lady with the turtle and parasol in the wild, you would have good luck for the rest of the day.

“A-and Sergeant Honest was involved too. H-have you heard anything from him?” Miss Fumblehouse said, twiddling her thumbs.

She also had a massive crush on the sergeant ever since she first met him all those years ago.

“Everything is getting straightened out as we speak, don’t worry. Please leave it to me. Later today, I plan to go down to the station to clear things up,” Dr. Ronaldo said.

Dr. Ronaldo was now twenty-five years old. He had not changed much on the outside. His confidently styled black hair had more strands of gray. He wore complementary glasses, a blue plaid button shirt with a green vest, and brown khaki pants.

“Oh, thank goodness. I know I can always rely on you, Dr. Ronaldo. Like when I needed time off from my new part-time coworker.”

“Yeah, she ended up resigning a week into your vacation leave.”

“It was the best birthday present I could’ve asked for; the torment she put me through for every little thing was ridiculous. Working with the library for over ten years and the single year I worked with that troublemaker was the most traumatizing thing I’ve ever experienced. I lost sleep, worrying about what she was going to report me for next.” She hid under her plush turtle.

“I’m so happy you prevailed, as your doctor and your friend.”

With strangers, Miss Fumblehouse was usually shy and had a reserved attitude that complemented how polite she was. Here she felt at home.

“When did you become so dependable? I remember when you were just a toddler running around Dr. Steinsbrook and Honest Nowell. I babysat you so many times, and now you are counseling me through my life troubles. Oh, the sweet memories.”

“It’s not a problem, Miss Fumblehouse. I owe you and Dr. Steinsbrook a lot. Without you, I wouldn’t have been able to take care of myself during my studies.”

She says babysat but she’s more like an older sister. She made sure I ate as I chipped away at my studies. We may be only three years apart, but she was the one who kept my shoes tied.

“Dr. Steinsbrook was a real slave driver when it came to your studies. I felt so bad for you.”

“He wasn’t that bad.”

“Really?”

“Okay, maybe a little.”

“Reminiscing is calming, but my heart still feels like it will burst out from my chest. Mayor Banquet is terrifying! I don’t see what others see in him.”

“Why do you say that? He’s done so much for Tarot Tori City.”

“It’s the way he looked at Florian. Here. Look.” Fumblehouse handed Ronaldo the current newspaper.

The front page had a blown-up photo of Florian’s encounter with the mayor.

“See it?”

“It seems normal to me. Florian looks a little goofy, covered in soot, while the mayor is spotlessly clean beside her. Her face looks funny. We should frame this,” Ronaldo said.

“Exactly, Florian’s face. She’s terrified, and the mayor is smiling like nothing’s wrong. It just doesn’t sit right with me.” Fumblehouse shivered in her seat.

“I guess you have a point. I will ask Florian if anything is wrong. Don’t worry; if she feels comfortable sharing the reason, I’m sure she’ll let you know to ease your concern.”

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“Okay. Can we try hypnotherapy again? Even if it doesn’t work, just one more time. Please.”

“It’s not hypnotherapy. You are talking about the white noise therapy, right?”

“Yeah, that.”

The easiest way to describe noise therapy would be relaxing techniques. For example, it could help people sleep using sounds that subconsciously relaxed them, such as ocean sounds or other ambient noises. Nearly every person had a mindset that allowed them to relax after specific criteria were met, like their room’s clock ticking or crickets chirping when falling asleep. It could be anything, but sound usually was the easiest to identify.

Dr. Ronaldo recommended Miss Fumblehouse search for her relaxing sounds. However, with Garcia Fumblehouse, it was another story.

“I don’t know which one to choose. There are so many that help me relax, but none are perfect. I can’t stop thinking my sound is out there somewhere. I tried so hard already. Please, pick one for me.” She frowned.

“It has to be something you find on your own. It is supposed to be special, secret, and exclusively your own,” Ronaldo said.

Otherwise, it wouldn’t work. Well, there was no guarantee it would work in the first place. Miss Fumblehouse was the type to stress out about finding stress relief activities. She attended the clinic to help with her anxiety of being worried about every little thing.

“Please, it might work this time. I want the reassurance that we tried,” Miss Fumblehouse said.

“Of course, as many times as you need. I’m sure we will find it this time.” Dr. Ronaldo smiled peacefully.

🙠🙢

With a tap of his phone, Dr. Ronaldo synched a speaker with a relaxing sound playlist. He dimmed the lights slightly and set up conditions for the best results for mild sensory deprivation.

Miss Fumblehouse moved to the recliner, and her forehead folded together like an accordion as her face twitched.

“You don’t have to force your eyes closed. Relax. Remember, you can keep your eyes open.”

“Okay,” Fumblehouse said.

Her face didn’t change much. Dr. Ronaldo tried his hardest to contain his laughter.

“All right, here’s the sound of crickets, with water flowing down a stream.”

The room echoed with the breath of soft chirps as the sound of the gentle stream trickled through their memories. It was the sound of the creek before Tarot Tori City modified them into aqueducts.

“A river bank.”

A few frog croaks and cicada chimes accompanied the mix. They were wistfully orchestrating the peaceful night. A hoot from a nearby owl completed the moment.

“Follow it to the shore, the beach, then the ocean.”

Seagulls, wave crashes, long soft whiffs of sudsy shores fizzed through Fumblehouse’s consciousness.

“What time is it?”

Nighttime. . .

“Just relax . . . and don’t blink. . .”

Dr. Ronaldo made his way to the door.

“And now . . . dream. . .”

He exited the room.

🙠🙢

“I think it worked. I feel so much better.” Miss Fumblehouse jumped out of her seat.

It didn’t work. Dr. Ronaldo was upset with himself, wondering what he had done wrong.

Miss Fumblehouse was supposed to be relaxed or sleepy, not jumping out of her seat the way she did.

“That’s fantastic. You found your soothing sounds. Since they all helped you relax, then you can listen to any of them for a good night’s sleep.”

“Thank you so much.” She nodded with a brimming smile.

“But what do you think I should do to find the specific relaxing ambient noise that is unique to me?” she asked innocently as Dr. Ronaldo facepalmed himself.

🙠🙢

The clinic door chimed.

Miss Fumblehouse ran out of the office and hugged Florian.

“I was so worried after I saw what happened on TV.” She started to cry. “How’s Hope? Please tell me she’s all right.”

“I’m fine; we are all fine. Don’t worry,” Florian said.

“A-a-and Sergeant Nowell? I-is he okay too?” Miss Fumblehouse asked, holding her plush over her face. Her turtle spirit poked its head out from its shell.

“He said he just got a few scratches. Last I saw him; he had a fork and some glass stuck in his back. He was calm as always and bragged that he had gotten worse,” Florian said.

“Wha!? Forks, glass, and knives stuck in his back! Does that mean he fought with someone? He might be on his deathbed. I feel faint.” Miss Fumblehouse pressed her head against her plush turtle spirit.

Ronaldo’s eyes went wide, and he shook his head and waved his hands. Florian gasped, realizing what she had done.

“He’s still in the hospital; you can see him if you want,” Florian said, winking to Dr. Ronaldo.

“N-n-no, he wouldn’t want me to see him. I-I mean, he needs to recover; I’ll get in the way of the nurses a-a-and—” Miss Fumblehouse tripped over her words.

“You can also call him. I’m sure he won’t mind a phone call at least,” Dr. Ronaldo said.

“L-look at the time. I have something to do. I’m so glad you and Hope are safe and sound. If you need to talk, I’m just a phone call away. B-bye.” She left bright red and with her spirit withdrawn in its shell.

“Well, I tried,” Florian said.

“You are as observant as ever,” Ronaldo said.

“Oh. . . I. . . That’s part of why I’m here.” She had a look Ronaldo had not seen in a very long time. Like the day they first met.

“Is it that serious? I know part of what happened over the news. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“You said I could tell you anything, right, and it will never leave this room?”

“Of course, I stake my life on every patient.”