FICTION

CASS MEETS THE PSYCHIATRIST

Cynthia, N. J.

The nurse arose, adjusted the gold-rimmed glasses on her thin, almost hawk-like nose, and stood waiting behind her desk as the young blonde entered the reception room. She looked impatiently at her pendant watch and then at Cass with a grimace designed to convey her annoyance to patients who arrive late.

“Oh . . . !" The nurse's expression turned to one of mild perturbance as though she had expected someone else. "But you're not . . . may I help you?"

"Bellingham..." said Cass. "I have an appointment."

The nurse's jaw dropped momentarily. She looked down at her appointment book running her finger over a list of names. She looked up slowly, her face taking on the appearance of one in total shock: "Cas-per... Bellingham . . . ?"

it's much more . . .

"I'd rather you called me 'Cass' like... suitable. Don't you agree?" said Cass, wrinkling her nose. "I'm sorry I'm late — couldn't find a place to park."

The nurse forced a thin-lipped smile of sorts: "Well, it is difficult sometimes." She continued smiling as she edged cautiously around to the partly open consulting-room door, her pristine uniform rustling like a handful of starched tissue paper. A soft tap-tap on the oaken panelling elicited a rather gruff response from within. As the door swung wide, she turned and motioned for Cass to enter.

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