aus·pice ôsps)

n. pl. aus·pi·ces (ôsp-sz, -sz)

Omen

Protection or support; patronage.

A sign of indicative of future prospects; an omen: Auspices for the venture seemed unfavorable...

Observation of and divination from the actions.

It was half past eight when she glanced at the clock again. Her hair was a mess, her eyes tired, her body drained from the emotional overload that came at the end of heavy counseling every closing day. Taking a swig another swig of coffee, she stared at her updated report on the Cherfield girl. Pursing in her moist, chapped lips she drummed her knuckles on the desk.

She was dying of curiosity.

The girl had asked her to open it at home.

Her eyes darted from the laptop screen to the floral envelope with those disgustingly cute chicks pecking and singing. A loopy, uncertain, hot pink scroll of ink was marked across the middle: Leslie Baker. Little circular, lop-sided hearts adorned the edges of her name. It was taped shut, the Cherfield girl having a phobia of licking it herself. The Cherfield girl had a lot of phobias.

Her fingers twitched as she stared at it.

'Oh, hell.' Reaching across the stacks of folders and drawings from other patients, she snatched the letter from the top of the mail stack. Propping her feet up on her desk, she snipped the envelope open with scissors. The paper, bright pink, matched the case. The same creepy baby chicks happy and baby-girl sloppy writing. It was a poem. After taking the final sip of swirling liquid caffeine, she read to herself aloud:

"I broke the vase.

Mommy doesn't care.

I failed my test.

Mommy doesn't care.

I forgot to clean my room.

Mommy doesn't care.

I made my little sister cry.

Mommy doesn't care.

I give Mommy a hug.

She doesn't care.

I cry.

Mommy doesn't care.

I love my mommy.

But she doesn't care."

Leslie stared at the page. Her eyes slowly began to take in the hearts again adorning the edges, the doodles on the side and the smiling suns that at times ran into the letter, the Cherfield girl obviously cheerfully distracted or watching television.

She barely recalled picking up the phone and dialing until the ringing stopped and there was a tired "Hello?"

Glancing at the baby stationary one last time, she said at last: "Mary Cherfield wrote me."

"And?" The voice was confused. She almost see the look in his rough, Texan baritone. "Doesn't that show signs of improvement?"

Her stomach knotted, her heart beating faster as panic took over. "She..her mother.."

There was a sigh. "Les', you have to bring in the professionals."

She nodded, even though he couldn't see her through the telephone line she nodded she nodded hard and she nodded fast.

"You have the number, right?"

Her voice came in a barely audible whisper, "Yes, yes it's on my planner. Front page."

"I'm sorry, Les'."

"It's not you're fault," she cradled the phone on her shoulder and massaged her temples. "I just thought we got somewhere. Just disappointed."

"..." Was all that came from the other line. Leslie could here voices in the background. "How are your kids?"

"Les' I have to go now."

"How are they?"

"Les', you have to call that number as soon as possible."

"I know," She thought of bright green eyes, wide smile, and brown hair in messy pigtails.

"Les', I gotta go."

Click.

She was alone again in her office. Trembling hands reached for the top drawer to her right. She couldn't stop them from shaking, or stop her racing thoughts to drift back to the Cherfield girl as she dialed once again.

"This is Professor Smith's secretary for St. Luke's Mental Facility, how may I help you?" High voice, squeaky...

Her voice cracked. /Playing with her Barney stuffed animal...just last week... "Wessie, I want Animal Crackers!' ...Playing with keychains as the worn old caretaker escorted the Cherfield girl out.../

"I'm sorry? This is Professor Smith's sec-"

"Yes I know," she took a deep breath. "Sorry, I am Leslie Baker of LexMark Psychology. I am calling on behalf of a patient that needs...more serious help than LexMark can give."

There was a sound of chomping gum, and Leslie thought back to when the Cherfield girl first came to her office. Bubbles. The Cherfield girl liked to blow bubbles.

"I'll need all the patient's information by fax tomorrow," the high voice came again, "All I need right now to start the file is the patient's name, residence, disorder, and age."

She was doing the right thing.

She was.

But why did she feel so worthless and quilty?

Deep breath: "Name is Mary Cherfield. 'Cher', like the singer, and then like a cornfield. Residence is WolfCreek Living Assistance. Disorder...brain damage, traumatized..."

The chomp came again. "Name ma'am?"

She took another breath, glancing at the pink, childishly sloppy letter one last time: "Eighteen."

Man, I haven't updated in a LONG time. :stares: Bah, it's not like anyone is reading this anyway...

I had to keep stressing the childish writing so you would think that the Cherfield girl in question was a child.

:looks out:

Bah.

Walks off pondering what to write about next.