Chagrin Confessions

Chapter Twelve: The Olive Branch.

Another awesome song.

Snuffling into a tissue, I close my eyes and lock my laptop. My mind is swirling with thoughts on how to deal with the paradox of replying to these letters and emails. Do I publish a reply telling them to seek a professional help? Do I reply to them and offer my inexpert words of advice? That would be wrong though, right?

Urgh, why haven’t they seeked professional help?

Picking up my office phone, I dial the extension for Julie’s office, and Laura answers immediately.

“Cassie? I tell you not to poke her in the ass and what do you do? You shove a stick all the way up! I’ve been trying to calm her down the past hour, what could you possibly want with her now?”

Sniffing, I breathe in before I reply, trying to still my leaking emotions.

“Laura, it’s urgent. I’m sorry about poking the bear. I’ll explain why it was needed later. But please put me through to her office now.”

Sensing my ruffled emotions, she tones down her voice softly, “Are you okay, dear? I’ll transfer your call through now, but we'll speak later.”

A few seconds later, the Ice Bitch answers.

“Cassie, you must have a death wish to be calling me now. What do you want?” She answers frostily.

“Julie. The letters… they’re all desparate cries for help. I can’t answer them, they need professional help. I-, I-” Sniffing, I try to control my emotions, but they slip and my voice starts to break unevenly, “I can’t help them.” It barely comes out as a whisper.

Silence.

“Come to my office.”

The line dies, with the irritating beeping signal indicating so.

I pack up my notebook into my handbag, and switch off my laptop. I need to go home after this, and get a strong drink to calm my agitated nerves down a notch. Or ten.

Knocking on her door, I enter. She seems as though she’s carefully studying my face, which I’m sure is now red and swollen with unwept waterworks.

“Sit down, drink some water and explain.” She coolly says, motioning to the unopened water bottle placed on the desk.

I sit on the cold leather chair, and open the bottle of water drowning half of it down my throat. I breathe deeply again, and face her serenely composed face.

“The emails and letters I’ve been receiving the past two days are all about women seeking help from abuse, bullying, assault, harassment and other forms ill-treatment. Reading them broke me down, Julie. They all need professional help from law enforcement, psychiatrists or specialised counsellors and therapists. I’m not qualified to answer them unbiasedly, nor professionally.”

She sighs deeply, lines of aging visible on her face as she unwinds her poker face. She leans back in her chair and sympathetically looks at my distressed face.

“I understand your concern and your care for these women. I can tell you that you’re not obliged to answer them and relieve you from your worries. But it wouldn’t help you sleep at night, Cassie."
I open my mouth to speak, but before the next syllable leaves my lips, she holds her hand up to stop me, as she sighs once again and continues talking.

"As the editor-in-charge, I can publish an official letter on our website and in the next month’s issue, stating that any email or letter seeking this type of advice would best be referred to professional help, which we can list. But they wrote to you for a reason, dear. They may not have the courage to face other forms of help, so they seek it out anonymously through you. You, out of all people, understand all about the need to protect one's privacy, as you so eloquently put in our early meeting.”