The Right Fork

I sat in the small waiting room, fulfilling its purpose. The colours were muted, dull pastels intended to maintain calm. The clock on the wall read five past the hour, or five minutes into my appointment.

“If we start late, does that mean that my appointment will be shortened?” I asked the receptionist as she clicked away at her computer.

“Not to worry, Miss Griffiths! Dr. Richard will be able to give you your full session,” she replied without a glance my way.

“Doctor,” I muttered. “It’s Dr. Griffiths.”

The receptionist continued her clacking without a response. A part of me wanted to slam my hands on her desk, forcing her to acknowledge the years of work and study that went into earning my doctorate, forcing her to acknowledge me.

I will not be dismissed.

That part of me was responsible for this situation. Instead, I focused on the ticking hands of the clock, willing the rage to subside.

A few more rotations of the smallest clock hand passed before the receptionist ushered me into the office. The occupant, Dr. Richard, I presumed, indicated that I could choose whichever seat I wanted. Her professional attire and tidy office were at odds with the dark circles under her eyes. She struggled to withhold a yawn as she introduced herself.

“Alright, Cara, tell me about yourself,” opened Dr. Richard.

I crossed my legs and sat silently. I knew what she saw, it was what everyone saw. Cold. Unapproachable. That’s who I am now, but it wasn’t always like this.

“I don’t want to be here,” I stated.

“Yes, that’s fair. But you don’t have a choice to be here. You do, however, have a choice as to how these sessions will go. You can open up to me and we can work together, or you can sit there and waste everyone’s time,” Dr. Richard watched me over the top of her glasses. She was right, I didn't have much of a choice. These sessions were court-mandated to help me manage my anger.

I slumped back in my chair, my arms crossed more like a sullen teen than a respected scientist.

“Alright, let’s try something else,” my court-appointed therapist stated. “Tell me about the incident that landed you here.”

At least this was a believable story. For the most part. After a moment, I decided to tell Dr. Richard my version of the incident in the breakroom.

It started with a gift. Someone left a coffee on my desk every morning. The coffee was perfect, with just the right amount of cream, a hint of cinnamon and none of the sweet syrup prevalent in cafe specials. I didn’t eat or drink anything with sugar, not anymore. These coffees were the highlight of my mornings.

The women in my office did not like me. I exuded an air of unwelcomeness. It had been my experience that if one of my male co-workers was leaving these coffees, they would have made their gift obvious. I assumed it was one of the women and that they were bringing coffee for everyone. It was a welcome change that someone seemed to know me well enough to get the perfect coffee.

After a few days, I approached the group and offered to bring in a round myself. I was rewarded with blank stares. To clarify, I thanked them for recognizing my preference for coffee without sugar. At this, they simply looked at each other. In somewhat of a panic, I continued explaining that I didn’t eat or drink anything sweet and it was very appreciated that they had noticed.

The truth was, they hadn’t noticed. They were not responsible for the mystery coffees and they did not know who was. In trying to reciprocate a perceived kindness, I managed to capture the full negative attention of the group. They took my dislike of sweets as a personal affront.

Before this, we had shared workplace pleasantries. Now they seemed to take every opportunity to pressure me into eating sugary things. If someone brought donuts, they would stand around my desk and constantly offer me one, usually accompanied by comments about my body. These statements morphed into how my personal tastes somehow meant that I looked down on them for eating sweets. They asked me why I felt that I was better than them and complained to HR about me.

In a last-ditch attempt to get them to stop, I confessed that I suffered a traumatic event concerning a chocolate cake. That trauma made it almost physically impossible to eat sugar. My aversions had nothing to do with them, I hoped they would not take it personally. This ‘outburst’ of mine landed me in the HR office with a warning to be more friendly and a reminder that raised voices would not be tolerated.

A few weeks went by without incident. The group left me alone. I relaxed, believing that the worst had passed. I was wrong.

Someone brought in a sheet cake, one you can get at a grocery store, with overly sugary frosting and ‘Happy Birthday’ written in gel. I stood, politely, to sing and share in the well wishes, then, also politely, declined to take a piece of the cake. This caused offence.

Three women cornered me in the break room with extra cake in hand. They were becoming more and more forceful, pressuring me into eating the cake. Anger flashed in their eyes as they intruded on my personal space.

Then, with one fluid movement, the group’s leader smashed her cake into my face. This next part I kept to myself. I told the police I didn’t remember what happened, but it was etched into my memory. I felt all warmth drain from my body as I watched these women laugh at their own antics.

Fight or flight, fight or flight, fight or flight.

Fight. Insults would not be tolerated.

The woman to my right received an elbow to the eye while I grabbed and twisted the arm of their leader, the cake-thrower. I waited until I heard a crack, then released her. As she fell to the ground, I kicked her chest and pushed her away from me. The third woman, in shock, had not moved. I turned my attention to her, landed a few punches and a swift roundhouse kick just below her ribcage. The first, reeling and clutching her eye, tried to grab my arm. I used her momentum and slammed her face into the counter.

The conflict happened so quickly, witnesses were at odds with each other as to what had actually occurred. I looked at the group of three women, who I had hoped to befriend, lying on the floor in pain. My hand raised unbidden to my face to wipe off the cake and flick the remainder onto the floor. No one in the office moved to intercept me as I returned to my desk and waited for the police to arrive.

As I finished relaying the story to Dr. Richard, I tried to gauge her reaction. The uncertainty of the witnesses, combined with the threatening behaviour of the three women was enough to derail any assault charges. Yet, the judge was concerned that my inappropriately violent response would be repeated, so ordered me here to therapy.

Dr. Richard finished her notetaking, looked up and asked, “So, did you ever find out where the coffees were coming from?”

“No,” I replied, taken aback. After my story, this is the question that she had? “I stopped drinking them and, after a few days, they stopped appearing.”

“Hmmm,” replied Dr. Richard. “Has anything else strange happened recently?”

Dr. Richard checked her notes and sat silently, waiting for my reply. I could not put my finger on it, but something had changed. I mirrored her and waited, I would not be the one to speak next.

Dr. Richard was a threat.

The seconds dragged on. Dr. Richard broke the silence and asked, “You said the coffee was a gift. Why did you put it that way?”

Why this line of questioning, the focus on the coffee? This is not what I expected.

“There have been other gifts, small things, left for me,” I started to explain. “I don’t know where they come from. Sometimes, they are seemingly coincidences. The parking meter I choose will have time left on it, or my neighbour will receive two copies of the paper and pass one on to me. Sometimes there are flowers or fruit left by my door or on the balcony.”

I hesitated, Dr. Richard motioned for me to continue. “That’s why I called the coffee a gift. I just hoped that there was a logical explanation for it. I don’t accept them, not anymore. I don’t like these mysteries.”

“Mysteries?” probed Dr. Richard.

She watched me. I suddenly felt like a mouse singled out by an owl. Except that I wasn’t a mouse, was I?

“There’s been a package. It’s small and light, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. I throw it away every time I find it, and it keeps coming back to me. There’s no addressee, the paper is blank, but it’s always the same. It didn’t start showing up until after the incident in the break room,” I spoke carefully.

“Now why would you ever throw such a gift away?” Dr. Richard smiled yet no warmth reached her eyes.

“Because accepting the others was a mistake. Drinking the coffee was a mistake." I uncrossed my legs and leaned forward out of my chair. Dr. Richard sat between me and my exit. If I needed to go through her to leave, I would.

"I will never eat the cake," I whispered, on edge.

Dr. Richard laughed as she turned and reached behind her. She pulled out the package and set it on the table between us.

My gift.

“I wondered why this was sent to me, it seems I am only a messenger," shrugged Dr. Richard. "I wasn't told who it was for, I needed to hear the right story. The gifts - the flowers, the fruit, the luck. That's the locals recognizing you, uncertain of where you fit and trying to win your favour. You’ve been to Underhill, did you think that they would just forget you?”

I made no move to pick up the package. Dr. Richard sighed, “You will not find me as soft as three women who eat too many donuts. Open it.”

I reached forward to pick it up. Dr. Richard was a threat, yes, but not as much as she believed. I felt the ice inside begin to rise up, there if I needed it. Her tone was insolent, yet had not given insult. I obliged and opened the small package.

The rough twine came off easily, and the brown paper, clean despite numerous drops in the garbage, fell to the floor. It revealed a small, wooden box, plain yet perfectly joined. I lifted the top as a small card fluttered to the floor.

Inside the box was a fork, lightly coloured and delicately carved. I recognized it from my dreams and my nightmares. I picked it up, the face carved in it was once again my own. This time, she held her head high and wore a delicate crown. This was not the fork from my left hand.

I bent down to retrieve the card. One word, written in delicate script, adorned the crisp, white paper.

Majesty.

Yes, that’s right. Not a mouse, not anymore.

I let the ice fill me. Was that my gift or had it always been there, waiting to be unleashed? Dr. Richard, a predator who realized that she was outmatched, shrunk from my gaze as I stood to exit her office. It seemed that I kept a part of Underhill. Next time, I would not be so easily trapped.

------

See Part One below! -Christina