Eleven
“What?” Daphne had barely made it through the door before Gillian blocked her path wearing an expression too serious to be processed before eight o’clock in the morning, saying something about consent Daphne didn’t quite catch.
“We need to talk,” Gillian said more slowly, or maybe Daphne’s brain merely needed a minute to catch up.
God, how could anyone be so put together at this hour, or in Gillian’s case, every hour?
From her perfect hair to her perfect composure to her perfect body …
Nope, she couldn’t let her unruly brain wander there, not with this woman looking like a shark who smelled blood in the water.
As if to prove the point, Gillian pressed forward. “Do you consent to a serious conversation?”
“Sounds delightful.” Daphne drawled as she unwrapped her scarf from her neck and tried to shake off the predawn cold.
Winter was creeping its icy tendrils into downtown Buffalo, which was to be expected, though she hadn’t quite anticipated such an icy return to Gillian’s demeanor, nor could she understand why she needed to face it at such an inhumane hour.
It was bad enough Izzy had to be at school before the sun came up.
Why did Gillian have to compound the torture, standing there, arms folded across her chest while she waited for Daphne to shed her outer layers before pouncing again?
“I still don’t understand what you do or why it’s necessary.”
She sighed and unlocked the door to her office. “Honestly, I’m questioning my life choices, too. So many of them. Can you be more specific?”
“This isn’t funny.”
“There’s a starting point we can agree on.” Daphne dropped her bag and coat onto the bed and turned to face her more fully. “Work from there.”
Gillian rolled her eyes. “You’re touching people for money.”
“Oh, back to that.” Daphne flopped down beside her stuff.
“Sure, if you want to boil it down in the most rude and crude way, which seems a little mean-spirited given the nuance your work requires, but yes, I do get paid to touch people much like a masseuse or a chiropractor.” She glanced up to see Gillian looking ready to interrupt but too well trained to do so.
“I have a longer list, but I suspect you’re actually past the opening salvo in your brain. ”
“Those people are highly trained to offer specific kinds of therapeutic touch.”
“Is it the training or the therapeutic aspect of the touch bothering you?”
That seemed to put a hitch in Gillian’s forward progress, and she cocked her head to the side, as if looking at the problem from a slightly different angle might help her decide.
Daphne bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.
She didn’t want to find anything about the woman who’d verbally accosted her endearing.
“Can the answer be both?” Gillian finally asked. “I’m pretty sure it’s both, and then some.”
“Of course it is, Overachiever.”
“Look, I’m trying to understand.” Gillian sounded so damn self-sacrificing, something in Daphne twisted.
“Are you?” she shot back.
“Yes, I’m trying. I want to understand.”
“I don’t think you are, because this isn’t my first Gillian rodeo, and understanding things is kind of your favorite hobby.
You’ve made yourself a professional-grade learner and studier, Ms. People-Are-the-Most-Complex-Variable.
You do research on children’s candy choices, you have multiple degrees and certifications and fancy letters behind your name on your business card.
Have you given the task of understanding my field of work the old valedictorian try? ”
“Ouch.” Gillian sank to the futon. “I thought you said I could talk to you when I was ready.”
“Fair,” Daphne snapped, her residual defensiveness not quite ready for the softer shift. “You can, but you didn’t talk, you launched at me at ass o’clock in the morning.”
Gillian glanced at the silver watch on her slender wrist. “I’ve been up for several hours.”
Daphne shook her head.
“And I asked for consent.”
“You pounced before I’d made it all the way through the door and hit me with the vagueness of ‘we need to talk.’ Not sure that’s informed consent.”
Gillian grimaced. “You can withdraw it at any time.”
“I don’t want to kick you out, but can you back up and tell me where this is coming from?”
“That’s usually my line.”
Daphne chuckled. “How do you like having it used on you?”
“Not much.” Gillian rolled out some of the tension in her neck. “But you’re right. I haven’t studied what you do, or the basis for the need, or any theoretical underpinnings. Mostly, I’ve been ignoring it because I can’t control it.”
“Wow.” Daphne blinked a few times as if to clear her vision. Had the woman in front of her actually admitted that? When the vision didn’t prove to be a mirage, she pushed forward. “Good bit of self-awareness on what seems like a ‘you problem.’”
“But not just me, because you’re here too. For six weeks now, getting deeper and deeper into my space, my friendships, my head, my dreams.”
Daphne’s breath caught. “Your dreams?”
Gillian’s face flamed. “I was on a roll. I didn’t mean to say ‘dreams.’”
“Didn’t mean to say it, or didn’t actually mean it?”
“The point is, initially a part of me hoped you’d go away and the problem would solve itself if I stayed patient, because how could any of this”—she waved her arm generally around the office—“be a viable business venture for the long term?”
“You were hoping I’d fail?”
“Not consciously, but it seemed a likely enough prospect.”
“I’m not even mad at the assessment,” Daphne admitted.
“I spent years wondering if I could actually make a living, but those days are long past, and if you’d asked, I would’ve told you there’s a lot of lonely people out there, a lot of shame, a lot of stigma, a lot of trauma, and not nearly enough cuddles, comfort, peace, and affirmation. ”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“Of course it does. Doesn’t it bother you?”
“Yes,” Gillian said quickly, “but you’re making money off of those problems. Doesn’t it feel like you’re taking advantage—”
“Ma’am.” Daphne cut her off. “Women who work in glass houses should be real careful about throwing stones in this direction.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Do therapists not make a living off of lonely, traumatized, shame- and stigma-filled folks?”
“That’s a gross oversimplification.”
“Still, if someone walked into your office and said, ‘I’m broken, I’m ashamed, and I’m lonely,’ would you say, ‘Sorry, it’d be wrong of me to accept your money,’ or would you say, ‘Come on in. Let me help you get what you need.’?”
Gillian pressed her lips together as if she knew the answer but didn’t like it. “I’m trained to handle those conversations.”
“I’m glad you are. And before you ask, I’m not trained to handle all of that.
But neither are you equipped to handle someone who comes in saying, ‘I’m happy with my life overall, but I’m touch-starved.
I don’t want to sacrifice my hard-fought freedom or sense of self by depending on a romantic partner or begging a friend to hug me. ’”
“How can you possibly assess what might be beneath a person’s desire—”
“I don’t,” Daphne said quickly. “I meet them in their stated need. We move forward together.”
“And if a deeper need surfaces?”
Daphne laughed. “You’re the boss. You tell me. Say someone comes to you for therapy and over the course of several sessions you realize they could benefit from antidepressants or a substance abuse program or a domestic violence shelter. Would you try to handle that on your own?”
“No. Obviously, I’d refer them, gently, to resources, while continuing to do what I could, unless I felt wholly unqualified to do so.”
“Same.”
Gillian raised her eyebrows.
“Seriously. I’ve referred clients to all sorts of other practitioners from physical therapists to medication to Robin.”
“Robin?”
“Yeah. I’ve got a young client recovering from top surgery who I thought might benefit from talking to her, so I walked him across the hall and made the introduction.
No human is capable of being any other human’s everything, but that doesn’t keep people like us from doing the jobs we’re capable of doing within our own lanes. ”
“But who gets to define your lane? I have an advanced degree and certifications. I was supervised for years in various ways, and I have continuing education. There are also boards, and credentials that must be renewed, or can be taken away.”
Daphne’s muscles tightened. “Aww, not yours. No one would ever take your credentials because you’ve never made a mistake in your life.”
Gillian’s expression flickered into something practiced. “Should we explore the—”
“No!” Daphne shook her head. “Don’t therapy face me.”
“It seems like your last response got a little personal.”
Daphne ground her teeth as she mentally worked to keep the door shut on a specific set of memories, and of course Gillian saw it.
The woman crossed one leg over the other and leaned forward slightly.
Daphne had to clench her fists to keep from throwing her out on her ass.
“This whole conversation has been a little personal. I’m being called on to defend my entire field, which no, does not have the same credentialing controls as traditional therapy.
We have professional organizations that offer training and weigh in on best practices, but we don’t have a unifying governing body. ”
Gillian nodded, no doubt satisfied to have her suspicions confirmed. “It’s not that fields lacking in oversight are somehow less valuable, but it does raise concerns about abuses both of clients and practitioners.”
“Yeah,” Daphne agreed, hating the resignation in her own voice. “Bad people do bad things in all kinds of fields. Priests have hurt a lot of kids. Olympic doctors abused high-level gymnasts. Kids shoot up schools. Hell, I imagine both therapists and clients have put each other in danger, too.”
Gillian winced and Daphne froze.
Had she struck a nerve?