Three Faces In The Mirror by Mixon Veronica

Author:Mixon, Veronica
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sapelo Publishing
Published: 2020-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

27

IVY

Jace Pratt arranged a two o'clock appointment with Marissa Connors, Willa's health advocate. I still wasn't clear on why visiting Willa in jail required permission from a therapist.

Dr. Connors' practice was housed on the first floor of a brick building on Drayton Street. The reception area was decorated like a family room and designed for comfort. Four overstuffed, mismatched chairs held pillows cross-stitched with bolstering messages—Be the change you want to see, The future belongs to those who believe in their dreams. The space had a lived-in, just-out-of-med-school vibe.

An IN SESSION sign hung on a closed-door with Marissa Connors, Ph.D., LMFT spelled in gold letters.

I sat my purse in one of the over-stuffed chairs, then noticed a client sign-in placard propped beside an iPad on a wooden stand. I typed my information on the digital form and picked up a Savannah Now magazine. I recognized the featured home on the cover as the riverfront home of a local writer.

The door opened, and a dark brunette in her early thirties hurried out. “Hi. I'm Marissa Connors.” She shook my hand. “Come in.”

Dr. Connors wore distressed jeans, a white blouse, and a pair of brown plaid sneakers. Her long chestnut hair was pulled into a loose ponytail. My outfit, lavender silk slacks, matching blouse, and peep-toed taupe pumps, meant to impress, now seemed overkill.

The doctor’s inner office bore a similar design to the reception area: earth-tone furniture, green plants, the casual ambiance of home.

“Please, have a seat.” She motioned at a brown leather chair and sat on the matching loveseat across from me.

“I appreciate meeting me on such short notice,” I said. “I want to see Willa, and her attorney, Jace Pratt, indicated you'd have to authorize my visit.”

“Mr. Pratt called and filled me in.” She smiled. Then paused as if waiting for me to say more.

Something about her expectant expression sent an itch between my shoulder blades. I searched for something relevant to add—a solid reason I needed to see Willa that didn't appear self-serving. I blanked.

After what seemed an interminable amount of time, she finally said, “My understanding from Willa is that you two have never met.”

I wanted to correct her, but my answer got stuck in my memories. Have I met Willa? Unless you count the two minutes the doula laid her warm, slimy, perfect little body on my chest and snipped the umbilical cord. Unless you count the heart-stopping moment her eyes met mine and ripped a hole in my heart that has never healed. Unless those few milliseconds between mother and child count, Willa and I have never met.

“That's correct,” I said. “We’ve never met.”

“Willa's in a vulnerable place. I'm not sure meeting you is in her best interest.”

The itch between my shoulder deepened. I'd never considered Dr. Connors might refuse my request. “I don't understand.”

“How much do you know of Willa's life?” The question was justifiable, and of itself, understandable, but the guilt of truth singed my stomach. “I know very little. I was young, only fifteen.

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