LizBeth “Lizzie” Bryant stepped over the threshold into the small private office of Maggie Moran, MFT. She brushed at the fine droplets of perspiration collecting around her hairline, smoothing them into her thick auburn hair which was clasped in a large clip on the back of her head. She felt disheveled and clammy, suspected her pallor was pasty, but decided to avoid the beautifully gilded-framed mirror on the opposite terra cotta wall. To confirm her suspicion would require allowing the mirror to reflect the discoloration that still lingered on the left side of her face from the bitchslap she’d sustained a few weeks back.
Lizzie sat heavily on the loveseat that was crammed into an inset section of the wall, knowing that the warm tones and floral print were supposed to put her at ease.
They didn’t.
Nor did the leafy green plants and brilliant watercolor paintings adorning the space. This was somewhat of a surprise, actually, because this woman who would be Lizzie’s therapist had very similar interior design inclinations to Lizzie’s. And, Maggie Moran’s practice was obviously one that focused on women. This was a definite plus for the moment, although again Lizzie felt little comfort. She glanced around the room, wondering idly what a male client would think on his first arrival to this office for therapy. Would he stay? She wondered. Will I? She checked her watch. One twenty-eight. She had two minutes to collect herself.
The inner door opened gently and a tall willowy woman stepped out. Lizzie felt a brief lift in her spirits. Maggie Moran was in her early sixties, carried herself with the grace of a dancer and dressed with an understated elegance in a long ivory dress that flowed with her movements. She greeted Lizzie with a warm, welcoming smile.
“LizBeth Bryant?” she asked.
“Lizzie,” Lizzie corrected in a tight voice that sounded bitchy to her own ears. She stood and took the older woman’s hand. “Nice to meet you in person,” she said in a smaller, softer tone.
“Call me Maggie.”
Lizzie was led into the inner chamber, which was furnished in much the same manner as the waiting room. The walls in here were a buttery yellow and the crisp white trim around the windows lent a sense of calm to the atmosphere. With a deep breath intended to calm her pounding heart, Lizzie sat on the couch and faced Maggie.
***
Maggie May Moran smiled openly at LizBeth Bryant. Though she knew her new client to be older, she looked to be in her mid-thirties, was of medium height and build, and beautiful in an unconventional way. She suspected immediately that Lizzie was incredibly attractive when she was happy and animated. At the moment, the younger woman carried herself like the lone survivor of a harrowing disaster, and the remnants of a nasty bruise on her face gave testimony to a recent and violent experience.
Maggie had her own style of therapy. She believed in positive thinking, having full faith that the powers-that-be never give us more than we can handle, and that all adversity had an incredible silver lining. The joy in recovery was discovering that lining. Her clients tended to be women over forty, who had faced their childhood demons and addressed their horrible traumas from the past. They knew their strengths and were more interested in recognizing and discontinuing lifelong coping mechanisms that they no longer needed to employ. They wanted to stop withholding from life, to stop letting opportunities pass them by, and to broaden their own experiences.
Lizzie Bryant would fit in just fine, Maggie decided, as she watched the other woman first fuss with her long skirt and then clasp and unclasp her hands in her lap before finally raising a disgruntled gaze to meet Maggie’s. Again Maggie smiled. She leaned forward and peered into the pained green eyes of her newest client and said,
“You’ve been through some kind of recent hell, and you want to put it behind you.”
***
Lizzie was flustered by the direct and accurate statement. But there was something about Maggie’s smile that was already growing on her. She lifted her chin. “Yes, that’s mostly it, Maggie,” she returned in a strong voice. “I’ve got a doosey of a tale for you, and I’m going to need all the help I can get to move on. Especially since…” she stopped speaking because she’d come to the part where she knew she’d break down if she went any further.
Maggie clasped her knees, as she continued to lean forward, her full attention on Lizzie. “Tell me what you’re ready to tell me. The rest will come out in time.”
Lizzie’s mouth curved in a half smile. She took another deep breath, blew out most of it, inhaled again in sudden panic and burst out, “Some kind of fucking CIA or DOJ-sanctioned, privatized special ops organization thought I was some kind of fucking international arms-dealing terrorist and kidnapped me when I was on my way to see a concert in San Francisco!”
“I see,” Maggie said. She grinned in delight, her eyes sparkling. “Oh, tell me everything, Lizzie. Everything.”
(All content on this site is copyright protected. It is meant to inspire my readers to both read my work and to indulge in their own. Conversations With A Specialist is trademarked by Debbie S. Kirchen. If you would like to find out more about the Particpants of the Project, click here. Lizzie Bryant's tale begins in Book Two of the INCE Trilogy - Launching the Project)
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