I agreed to go, and we chatted about normal things while we finished our drinks. But the feeling that I was handling all this wrong stayed with me. I knew I’d be up all night, questioning every turn of phrase I’d used.
It was like I couldn’t relax into a single moment, even a benign one, without my inner voice nagging at me. What was wrong with having a friendly coffee with someone I liked and respected? And why did I feel like, if I didn’t do and say everything completely perfectly, I was failing at life?
If I were one of my patients, I’d issue a diagnosis and begin treatment. I’ve never been particularly good at treating myself. Even when, logically, I could see where my thoughts differed from reality, the ability to gain control of myself seemed to elude me.
“I want to turn it all around so badly.” The words were a blurt I hadn’t expected, interrupting Brianne’s idle chatter about a bed andbreakfast on Bridge Island, whatever that was. “Sorry,” I said when she once more tilted her head to inspect me. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You can, you know. Turn it all around, not interrupt me. You just have to find your voice.” Brianne stood to leave, and I rose with her, taking our cups to the nearby cleanup counter and waving goodbye to Ana. “Good thing you don’t have to do it alone.”
“I’m sorry I’m so awkward.” I walked Brianne to the edge of Illusion Square and hugged her goodbye.
“Sweet Simone, you’re so hard on yourself. Stop all that negative self-talk!” She squeezed me tight, then released me, holding onto both of my hands. “Ana is right, you need an anchor. Guess it’s gonna be me.”
Crap, there were the tears again. I’d been so starved for support and friendship. Now it was being offered to me in abundance, and I was struggling to accept it.
“You want some advice?” Brianne dropped my hands and fished for a tissue from her purse.
“Sure,” I answered. “Hit me with it.”
“I know you’re struggling to believe this, but Agatha chose you because she knew you were capable. So dig deep, friend, and find a place to start chipping away at that massive wall of self-doubt you’ve built.”
After another quick hug, Brianne strolled off, and I turned to take another look at the Mighty Oak. It was a beautiful tree, but it was no ordinary tree. I was positive there was magic in it, all the way down to its roots. Maybe beyond.
I didn’t know my roots, not really. My father was never around, and my mother never talked about him. She’d been isolated from her family. Still, we’d been a close-knit duo, and with Agatha’s support, we’d had a happy life.
I’d been happy here once. I had a second chance to be happy here again. The question was, how did I start? The tree shook its tallest branch, making me feel smaller than ever. But it didn’t feel like it was judging me. I trotted over to the base. The older woman from earlier had gone, and I was able to see the concrete pool that surrounded its roots. A compass rose was etched into the center. The water rippled, and a shadow off one of the branches pointed behind me, in the direction of the Magnolia.
“I get it,” I said to the tree. Now I was the crazy one talking to trees. “It all starts there.”
As I headed back to the Magnolia, I wondered what I would find there to help me. Gumbo was asleep in the window when I opened the door. He opened one annoyed eye then resumed his nap.
I headed into the living room, contemplating my own nap on that pretty, red couch. But several boxes of files rested on the table in front of it. I skimmed the first one, and a spark of hope cut through my tiny critical voice.
Once upon a time, I’d been a really good therapist. Before my practice had died, before I’d given up and gone on autopilot, before my husband’s sudden and terrifying illness. I reminded myself of that as I reviewed the files Agatha left me.
This was where I’d find the confidence I lacked. One client at a time. Propping my feet up, I leaned back and dove in.
CHAPTER 11
First thing Monday morning, I headed downstairs to see my first clients at Magnolia Therapy. Brianne guided me to one of the large wooden doors in the main entryway, opening it to a massive office on the other side. There was a stale, musty odor to the room, like it sat unused for years.
Given that the house seemed to prefer order and cleanliness, that struck me as a bit odd. I’d assumed no one had been in this room since Agatha’s death, but it felt like no one had stepped foot in here for years.
Unlike the upstairs, it wasn’t redecorated to my tastes. But it didn’t feel like Agatha, either. The waiting area was clinical and dated, with floor-to-ceiling dark wooden bookshelves and straight-backed chairs with no cushions. No one would be comfortable sitting here waiting for their session.
The floors were the same shade as the bookshelves. There were no windows to let in sunlight. No rugs or vases of flowers to create warmth or soothe a nervous soul. From my review of the notes, I knew already that Agatha and I had very different clinical methods. But this room was unforgivably depressing.
In my mind, I pictured an ideal waiting room. No need for a reception desk, since Brianne was outside. Two thick, cozy chairs that allowed a couple to sit near each other without having to snuggle close. I’d want them in bright, soft shades of green and pink, sort of like sitting in a garden. And a fuzzy white carpet to offset the dark of the wood.
No patient was going to read the clinical reference guides that currently overflowed from the bookcase. But I wouldn't want them to have fiction either, as most patients tended to hide from their issues. There were books I recommended to patients all the time. Nonfiction parenting guides or marriage tips. And some personal items to make it feel less cold and more homey.
On a whim, I’d purchased a plant in Illusion Square over the weekend. With no natural sunlight, there was little chance of it surviving. But I could bring it down with me in the mornings, perhaps let it sunbathe over the weekends. My thumb was as brown as they came, but surely even I could handle one evergreen.
The therapy room itself was worse. More bookshelves. More stodgy books. A long brown leather couch sparked a memory of Agatha’s faux-visit to me. She’d taken one look around my office, lifted her eyebrows in disapproval, and inquired where my couch was. Even after I’d explained I preferred modern methods of therapy to the traditional couch-based practice, her lips had thinned with judgment. Of course, now that made sense.
At the far end of the tiny room was the biggest, heaviest looking desk I’d ever seen. It was polished to a shine, with chunky legs and brass drawer fittings. It was so deep that someone sitting on the other end would feel a thousand miles away from me. The chair was the same shade of brown as the couch. Nothing about it invited me to sit there for hours listening to others.
Yuck.
