1 Dewitched (6 page)

Winifred chokes. Elzmerelda pats her on her back and shakes her head in dismay at her sister.

“And what about Gimpy over there?” I ask, pointing to the troll, who reminds me of those loathsome dwarfs. He keeps staring at me and is getting on my nerves.

“Oh, it’s very sad,” says Elzmerelda, squinting in his direction. “The Good Fairies told us he’s a notorious criminal. An extortionist!

 That’s not sad. It’s just a
little
evil.

“But then some queen outsmarted him. He was so mad he stomped his foot into the ground. Waist deep! Then he tried to tear off his other leg.

That explains his limp. “How did he end up here?”

“The queen made her husband pull him out, then had him committed.”

She’s the evil one!

“He couldn’t remember a thing. Not even his name.”

 “He has a classic case of dissociative amnesia according to Dr. Grimm,” interjects Winifred.

“Who’s Dr. Grimm?” I ask.

 “An ogre with big ears who’s out to get us,” butts in Sasperilla.

 “Don’t listen to her. He leads our group therapy sessions. You’ll meet him right after lunch,” says Winifred.

Maybe, they call it group therapy because we give each other massages? Fat chance.

“We have to call that little guy ‘What’s-His-Name’ until he can remember his real name,” says Elzmerelda. “Dr. Grimm says that’ll be his first step toward recovery.” 

“Puh-lease!” Sasperilla rolls her eyes. “He’s a vertically challenged moron. I can’t believe I have to associate with people like him.” 

Personally, I can’t believe I have to associate with any of these freaks. I don’t need a magic mirror to tell me where I stand among this sorry bunch of losers.

 “So, why are
you
here, Miss Needs-to-Know-Everybody’s-Business?” asks Sasperilla.

 “I thought I was here for a makeover.” There’s no way I’m sharing my life with these nut-jobs.

“You
are
here for a makeover. Only not the kind you were expecting,” says Winifred. 

“What do you mean?”

“Trust me, you’ll see.”

***

Group is held in a small room on the main floor of the castle. Yet more of that dismal minimalist look--there are just six wooden chairs arranged in a circle. We each take a seat, leaving one for Dr. Grimm.

The chair is hard as nails. It’s digging into my back, not to mention killing my butt. Comfort is clearly not a priority around this sham-of-a-spa.

“Stop staring at me, you mindless midget,” snaps Sasperilla at What’s-His-Name.

 “He’s not staring at you,” comes her sister to his defense. “He’s staring at Jane.”

She’s right, and I wish he’d stop it already. 

Sasperilla crinkles her nose. “Why don’t you wear your spectacles? Mother paid a fortune for them. Or is it that you’re afraid they’ll make you uglier than you already are?” 

Elzmerelda shrivels. “Sassy, please don’t tell her I lost them.”

Sasperilla shoots her sister a smirk but wipes it off her face when a tall, stringy man slumps into the room. He takes the vacant seat next to her. This must be Dr. Grimm.

 “Good afternoon, group,” he says solemnly. 

 Grimm looks like his name. Gloomy and depressing. Dressed in a droopy black waistcoat, he seriously should be leading a funeral procession, not a group therapy session. His beaky nose and straggly gray hair don’t help nor does his unkempt beard--easily a nest for one of those rude birds. And Sasperilla’s right again. His ears are big. At least five inches long.

 “I’d like everyone to say hello to Jane,” he says. “Our new group member.”

Sasperilla feigns a yawn. “We’ve already met the bitch.”

“Sasperilla,” says Grimm sternly, “you know we don’t use that kind of language in group. Please apologize to Jane.” 

 “Sooory.” She twists one of her long corkscrew curls around a bony finger, clearly not.

 “So, Jane, is there something you’d like to share with us today?” asks Grimm. 

 “Yes, my back is killing me.”

Stroking his beard, Grimm gazes at me with bewilderment.

Sasperilla snorts with laughter. “He meant about your life.” 

Is she kidding? There’s
nothing
I want to share with her or any of these psychos.

Grimm leans forward. “Jane, there has to be at least one thing you’d like to share.”

Fine. “I’m a Queen.” The way they treat me around this place they must have no clue.

“Wow!” says Elzmerelda in awe. “I knew you had to be royalty!”

 “Big deal!” says Sasperilla. “Royals are a dime a dozen.” 

 “That’s not true,” says Winifred. “I read that only five percent of Lalaland’s population is a king or queen.”

What’s-His-Name’s eyes twinkle, finally showing some life.

 “Does the word ‘queen’ jog your memory?” Grimm asks him.

 Rocking his body, What’s-His-Name chants “n-nice queen” over and over. He
is
a major head case.

 “Good.” Grimm nods. “Try to remember more things about this nice queen.” 

 “Hold on. I want to know more about
this
‘Queen’,” cuts in Sasperilla. “So,
Jane,
were you born into royalty
or
did you marry into it?” 

 “I married a King.” Wait! Why am I telling this skinny bitch
anything
about my life?

 “Did your mother bring you up to marry royalty? Teach you all the tricks?” 

My mother.
My stomach turns over.

 “Leave my mother out of this!” I yell.

 “Jane, do you want to tell us something about your mother?” asks Grimm.

 “Go to hell! All of you!” 

 “Jane, I will remind you that we have a no tolerance policy for foul language. Just because you’re royalty doesn’t mean you get special treatment. We’ve had several kings and queens here before. I even recall an Emperor. The bottom line is everyone is treated as equals.” 

That’s obvious. I don’t need a lecture from some shlump of a head doctor to make that clear to me. What’s just as obvious: I don’t belong here.

“Group is over,” announces Grimm as I spring to my feet.

Finally! There’s nothing I want to do more than say farewell to these losers. With the exception of poisoning them, Grimm included.

 I’ve made up my mind. Whatever it takes, I’ve got to escape this madhouse.

***

“People, it’s time to indulge your creativity,” announces Fairweather upon meeting us in the corridor.

“What’s going on?” I ask Elzmerelda.

She explains that every day after group we attend one of three workshops: “Enchanted Arts & Crafts” with Fairweather, “Sew-La-Ti-Do” with Flossie, or “The Magic of Cooking” with Fanta.

“The Good Fairies believe creativity nourishes the soul and builds self-esteem,” she says. 

What dragon dung! There’s only one thing I want to create. An escape plan.

***

I end up in the cooking workshop with Winifred. It takes place in the castle’s kitchen, which is surprisingly well equipped and elaborate compared to the rest of this rundown dump. Fanta tells us that today’s project is to make a “delicious crusty bread.” 

“I’m going to leave you two girls on your own. I’ll come back in a little while.”  She stops short at the door. “Jane, please make sure that Winifred doesn’t eat the dough before you bake it.” And then she’s gone.

Great! A chance to escape.

“I love making bread,” says Winifred, already gathering pans, bowls, and utensils. “It’s so therapeutic. It lets you take out all your hurt and anger on the dough, but still the bread turns out delicious.” 

 She’s obviously made bread before. Good. I’ll let her do all the work. When she’s not looking, I’ll split. With a little luck, I’ll be able to sneak a piece for my journey home.

Luck is not in my cards. Winifred immediately puts me to work.

“Jane, we need water, yeast, butter, and flour,” she says with authority.

How am I supposed to know where they are? I’ve never been in this kitchen. In fact, I haven’t been in a kitchen for years. When I was Queen, I had cooks. 

“Hurry, Jane. We don’t have all day!”

Maybe it’s time to remind her that I’m still a Queen and don’t take orders from anyone.

With her hands planted on her wide hips, she taps her foot as though she’s counting down to an attack. The thought of her two hundred-pound body tackling mine motivates me. I’m not ready to die. I have a future ahead of me. A title to recapture.

 I manage to find all the ingredients. Winifred mixes them together in a large earthenware bowl.

“Now we have our dough,” she says.

She sprinkles our butcher-block worktable with some of the flour and places the mixture on the surface. “Now, comes the fun part. We get to knead it.”

We?
I want nothing to do with this big glob of goo.

“Watch.” She plunges her hands into the dough and starts to push, pull, and fold it. “Kneading is great for releasing stress. Try it.” 

Cautiously, I put my hands into the dough and copy her motions. It’s soft and warm. And you know what? It
does
feel good!

“I used to think that making bread was like making love,” says Winifred, her voice wistful.

A spark of interest kindles inside me.

 “When I first got married, I would caress the dough and stretch it gently. Over time, I started to whack and squeeze it hard.” 

Something in her relationship changed. Despite my curiosity, I let it go. 

 “Think about someone you hate and pretend he or she is the dough,” she tells me.

Shrink! Grimm! This fat chick and the rest of those pathetic loonies! I hate them all! To my surprise, I find myself tugging at the dough and bashing it. I break into a sweat as I work the dough harder and harder.

“Good job, Jane.” Winifred takes the dough from me and forms it into a round shape. Still flat as a board, it hardly resembles a loaf of bread.

“Do we bake it now?” I ask. 

“No.” She places a towel over the dough. “We have to wait a half-hour for it to rise.” 

What! Now, I have to hang out with her?

“Would you care for some chamomile tea?” she asks.

A cup of coffee would be more like it. Strong and black.

“Sure,” I tell her.

She boils some water in the cauldron and then returns with a tray holding two cups of tea and a plate full of biscuits. “Have one,” she says. “They must be left over from yesterday’s class.” 

I bite into a tasty biscuit and notice she’s not eating one. She stares at me, salivating with envy.

“You’re so lucky you’re so thin. I bet you can eat anything you want and never gain a pound.” 

I feel a tinge of pity. It must be awful to be that fat.

“My husband won’t make love to me anymore,” she says forlornly. 

I wonder why she would
ever
want to make love to the creep who sent her here.

“So, what’s your husband like?” she asks.

This is getting way too personal. I wish the damn dough would rise.

“He’s dead,” I say.

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be. He was a lot older than me.” 

“Do you miss him?” 

“Of course!” What a big fat liar I am! Why would I miss him? Our brief marriage was a joke. Old King Cold spent all his time doting on his daughter Snow White. Little Miss Perfect. I was almost happy when he died. Except I got stuck with taking care of the imp.

Winifred returns her attention to the dough. She removes the towel. I’m shocked. The dough has risen. It’s double its size!

  She gently runs her fingers across the top. “Touch it. It’s like the skin of a baby.” 

Hesitantly, I stroke the dough. It
is
like the skin of a baby. Smooth and silky. So new to the world. The memory of the infant I never got a chance to know fills my head. Trembling, I pull my hand away.

“Are you okay?” Winifred asks.

“I’m fine,” I stammer. The painful memory fades. 

“Good. One last thing before we put it into the hearth,” says Winifred. “I’m going to let you do the honors.” 

 “Now, what do I have to do?” I ask, not really wanting to know. 

“Imagine your worst enemy and punch it as hard as you can.” 

Is she serious? Okay. Here goes. I look down at the perfect white mound, and to my astonishment, it comes alive. Oh my God! It’s Snow White! Hatred shoots through my veins. 

With my right hand curled into a tight fist, I punch the dough with a force I never knew I had. But as I strike the mound, it’s no longer Snow White. The dough has morphed. It’s turned into the one person I’ve dreaded ever seeing again. Nelle Yvel.
My mother!
I shriek. The dough deflates. I shriek again.

“Perfect!” Winifred places the dough in the hearth. “Now, we have to wait until it bakes.” 

More waiting? The image of my mother has knocked me for a loop. I’m drained and shaken.

In no time, a delicious aroma wafts through the air. It gets my mind off my mother. My heartbeat returns to normal.

“What’s the point of all this hard work?” I ask. “I mean, the bread’s just going to get eaten or turn moldy.” 

 “Look on the bright side. You’ve created something that will nourish others,” replies Winifred. “When I bake delicious bread for my family, it’s my way of telling them I love them.” 

Her eyes grow watery.

 “So, in other words, you’re baking love?” I say with uncertainty.

“I never thought about it that way.” She takes a sip of tea.

“Once my children got lost in the woods and scattered pieces of my bread to help them find their way back home.” A tear spills into her tea. “I miss them.”

Our conversation comes to a dead end, and we drink our tea in silence. The tantalizing smell of the baking bread grows stronger. It’s making me hungry. Finally, Winifred removes the dough from the hearth. To my amazement, it’s a big crusty loaf of bread. Winifred must be some kind of magician.

“Have some,” she says.

I tear off a piece of the warm bread and stuff it in my mouth. My eyes light up. It’s so good! Winifred bites into a chunk and moans with pleasure. Within minutes, we devour the entire loaf.