Seven
“Mom,” Izzy whined. “You’re running late again.”
Daphne grabbed her bag from the floor in the foyer and paused to check the list she’d taped to the front door. She couldn’t argue with her daughter’s comment, but neither could she let herself take on her frantic energy.
“You’re always late, and when you get to your session late, you’ll have to end it late, and then we’ll be late to my practice.”
Izzy swung open the door and headed out, her own bag slung over her shoulder, but she was more than capable of walking and talking at the same time. “You’ve never gotten out of a session on time in my whole life.”
“Your whole life?” Daphne locked the door and headed for her car. “Not once?”
“Not that I can remember.” Izzy pouted as she tossed her stuff in the trunk and slammed it.
“Maybe because you only remember the times you’re with me. Maybe the common denominator in those situations is you.”
Izzy scoffed. “I don’t see how I could possibly slow you down.”
Daphne opened her door and gave her daughter a pointed glance. “You’re standing in the driveway arguing instead of getting in the car so I can arrive early and have myself centered before my client arrives.”
Izzy rolled her eyes, but the logic must’ve landed because she hopped in and fastened her seat belt.
Daphne checked the clock on the dash as they pulled out of the driveway.
3:40. It took her exactly ten minutes to get from her house to her office if she hit every light correctly.
Once there, she’d need a few minutes to get Izzy settled and to calm herself so her heart wasn’t racing before she pulled another person close enough to feel her frantic energy.
If the client was on time, she could conceivably be present with them for forty-five minutes, and say a polite goodbye, then have exactly ten minutes to get to the Old First Ward, where Izzy’s fencing lessons took place.
Her daughter’s concerns were not unfounded, but Daphne didn’t think admitting as much would help either of them.
Instead, she said, “Let’s bring a can-do attitude here, kiddo. ”
“I can’t do anything about when you schedule appointments. Didn’t Papa tell you I had fencing tonight?”
Daphne sighed as she hit her first stoplight right as it turned red. “Of course he did. And it was on the family schedule.”
“Then why didn’t you see it?”
“I did.” Or at least she was sure she’d seen it at some point.
Maybe she had forgotten it when her first new client had called.
Perhaps she’d been too excited, or maybe overwhelmed, by all the moving parts associated with her first single-parenting week in a new city.
Or maybe the work of launching a new business took precedence over a quick chauffeur run to fencing lessons.
Still, she didn’t say any of that to her displeased daughter as they started rolling again.
She didn’t want to defend herself against slights or shortcomings, real or perceived.
She had to move forward, and while she couldn’t force Izzy to do the same, she could at least model the behavior she wanted to see.
“Here’s the plan. We’ll get you set up in the waiting room while I get my work bed arranged. ”
“Can you stop calling it your ‘work bed’ and say ‘office’? Everyone thinks you’re a sex worker.”
Daphne’s mind flashed back to Gillian turning multiple shades of red as she made that exact link. And she must’ve smiled because Izzy said, “It’s not funny. I know what you do is important, but can’t you be a normal mom for once?”
“Normal’s boring.” Daphne turned down Main Street. “Besides, if Papa and I got hung up on conventionality or what other people think, you wouldn’t be alive, so be careful what you wish for.”
Izzy rolled her eyes but allowed Daphne to continue. “You can do homework while I’m with my client, and then at exactly 4:48 be ready to walk out the door. I won’t change or make small talk. We’ll bolt, and the GPS says it’s a nine-minute drive.”
“That won’t even give me 5 minutes to change into my gear.”
“Then you’ll have to jump in with both feet. Consider it your warm-up, and I’ll make sure the coach knows it’s my fault. I’m sure she’ll understand that sometimes people have to make tough choices.”
“I don’t know.” Izzy stared out the window. “She’s married to an Olympic gold medalist. I think she’s made some good choices.”
Daphne ignored the little dig. No doubt Izzy felt this coach had made better choices than her hapless mother, and maybe she had, but Olympic medals seemed an unreasonable bar to judge someone against. “The easier you make this transition on me, the more likely it is to go smoothly.”
“Fine.” Izzy sighed. “What can I do?”
“Promise you’ll behave in the waiting room.”
“Oh, because I’m such a wild kid? Do you think I’ll blast music or have a party?”
Daphne smiled. “No. I only meant that I share the space with some therapists, and it’s of the utmost importance to honor privacy and decorum. Don’t try to make small talk or wander around or look in anyone’s desk.”
“Ew, who does that?”
“Curious kids. I’m not stigmatizing youthful behavior. I only meant respecting privacy is serious business.”
“Duh, I’ve known about consent and confidentiality since I was, like, three. You’re the one who gets weird about it. Maybe all those therapists can teach you something.”
“Maybe we could trade services.”
Izzy wrinkled her nose as if she found the idea distasteful. “Pretty sure therapists aren’t supposed to cuddle their clients.”
“Maybe not, but I bet some of their clients might need to cuddle someone after a particularly vulnerable session.” Daphne picked up steam as she mercifully found a parking space near the front of the building.
Izzy pursed her lips as if mulling over the idea, then shrugged. Daphne felt a spark of pride. Maybe the idea was a good one if even a sullen preteen couldn’t blow holes in it. Still, she didn’t have time to bask in her triumph as Izzy jumped out.
Daphne rushed to catch up, automatically taking Izzy’s arm and guiding her across the busy street.
“Mom. I’m old enough to look both ways on my own.”
She released her and reached for the front door. “It’s a habit, kiddo. Give me some grace every now and then, Izz.”
As they entered the main hallway, she pointed to her own closed door. “That’s me. You can knock any time if you feel nervous or uncomfortable or—”
“Mom,” Izzy drew out the name so it had four syllables.
“Okay, okay.” Daphne held up her hands in surrender before pointing across the hall. “There’s the waiting room.”
Izzy headed for a small table against one wall. Dropping her backpack on it, she quickly began to pull out books, then glanced up at her. “I’m going to do math. I promise I won’t talk to strangers or leave the building or buy drugs or dye my hair or get tattoos.”
“If you want to dye your hair, I’m open to—”
“Go!” Izzy ordered.
Daphne laughed. “All right. I trust you. If anyone asks what you’re doing there or has questions, I’m right across the hall.”
“I’m pretty sure most people in a therapist’s office won’t harass a kid doing homework, but sure.”
Daphne nodded. The only people likely to speak to Izzy at all were the actual therapists, and she felt confident none of them would cause any problems. Even Gillian could appreciate someone studying quietly.
She turned to go with a little smile at the thought. Gillian would probably think better of Izzy for working diligently, seeing as how she’d spent so many years and every opportunity doing the same.
No, if anything, Gillian’s judgment would undoubtedly be reserved for the mom who hadn’t planned well enough to sufficiently separate her duty to her clients from her responsibility to be present as a parent.
The thought made her frown. Would Gillian think less of her for leaving her child unattended at her place of work?
Did she even care what Gillian thought about her parenting skills?
Daphne had long ago resolved to stop accepting criticism from people she wouldn’t turn to for advice, but the tightening sensation in her chest told her she hadn’t quite perfected the skill.
It did bother her to realize Gillian might think of her as a bad mother, and if she had more time to dwell in that emotion, she may’ve examined why Gillian’s opinion mattered enough to shake her confidence twice in less than two weeks, but as Izzy had adamantly pointed out, she didn’t have time to worry about anyone else’s impossible standard for motherhood, as she was too busy actually trying to parent.
Gillian saw her client to the door and silently congratulated herself on a full day of solid sessions.
Not a single train wreck on the now-complete docket, and while she normally strove for a higher standard than “not completely off the rails,” after the last few weeks, or rather years, she’d come to appreciate that sometimes no newsworthy incidents made for a good day.
All she needed to do was tidy up a few client notes, pay a couple of bills, and she’d be home free in her comfy clothes with an audiobook and a glass of red wine before the increasingly early night shrouded the city.
With that happy thought, she glanced around the corner almost as an afterthought, only to stop short as her eyes landed on a small frame hunched over a notebook.
It took a few extra seconds to register she wasn’t looking at a small woman, but rather a child with dark curls and sloping shoulders under an oversized hoodie. Even in profile her face was the picture of pure focus, and Gillian appreciated her concentration immediately.
As if sensing her gaze, the girl glanced up, her eyes so big and dark Gillian now felt herself shifting under the same kind of inspection she’d just given.
“Hi,” the girl finally said.
“Hello,” Gillian said casually enough. “Do you need anything?”
The girl’s forehead wrinkled as if she found the question odd. “No. Do you?”
Gillian shook her head. “Are your parents in an appointment?”