Twisted Sisters (2 page)

Jersey Girl

“Are you still in love with Lorenzo?” I ask.

Dina’s kohl-lined eyes are rimmed with tears as she contemplates her answer. With
dozens of sessions under our belts over the past month, we’ve come so far. She’s finally
let down her guard and lately her insights have been coming rapid-fire. I’m so proud
of her progress and I’m confident Wendy Winsberg will be thrilled with this episode.
This is the exact kind of positive change we want
I Need a Push
to manifest.

And if highlighting positive change wins us a Daytime Emmy?

All the better.

Dina unfastens the white plastic claw-clip holding back torrents of black hair and
rakes inch-long French-manicured tips through her mane. Somewhere, underneath the
spandex leggings, the bronzer, and all the bravado, lives a wounded little girl . . .
with a serious penchant for leopard print.

But my job is not to judge.

Although as I’m an expert in human behavior, I’d be particularly adept at doing so.

Take Dina, for example. Here she is, a bright, attractive—albeit somewhat flashy—girl
with her entire future ahead of her. Maybe she won’t become secretary of state with
her liberal arts degree from Rutgers, but still. Her life is rife with possibility.
(Again, save for cabinet-level work.) But surely there are accounts she can manage,
minor projects she can spearhead, cell phones she can market, or memos she can draft
to other entry-level managers. I fail to understand why she’s willing to jeopardize
her potential for some oily Pauly D wannabe club DJ/bouncer.
Push
intervened at the insistence of both her parents and the family court judge. If she
can’t curb her behavior and ends up saddled with a restraining order, she may as well
buy some clear heels and prepare for her debut on the main stage.

I take in her artfully shredded racer-back tank and visible bra and realize it’s possible
she already owns stripper shoes.

“I am, but I’m trying so hard not to be. Oh, Dr. Reagan, it’s like, whenever I think
about him I feel so frigging . . .” She scans the horizon, where a few brave boaters
are navigating the sun-dappled water, taking their first sail of the season.

In therapy, deliberate silences are as important as actual conversation. I nod encouragingly
as she chooses her words. Sometimes when they take too long to find the words, I use
the opportunity to jot down my shopping list.

What? It’s called “time management” and that’s why I’m a pro.

Dina and I are discussing her abandonment issues while we stroll the path by Lake
Michigan. With blue skies and balmy breezes, summer’s come particularly early to Chicago,
so Craig, our nebbishy director, wanted to provide a more visually stimulating backdrop
than the studio. Mind you, the presence of two cameramen, a couple of sound and lighting
guys, Craig, a hair and makeup stylist, and one hapless production assistant who keeps
spilling my tea isn’t exactly conducive to unfettered communication at first, but
after a while, even the most self-conscious forget we’re rolling.

Earlier, I noticed a couple of college girls wearing bikini tops paired with their
shorty-shorts as our broadcast team made our way past Oak Street Beach. Our secondary
cameraman noticed the coeds, too. After enough time passed that his filming the nubile
sorority girls morphed from “collecting B-roll” to “peeping Tom,” I had to remind
him that
I Need a Push
is not about titillation, okay?

Again, unless titillation wins us an Emmy; I can’t stress that enough.

Although, technically, I imagine Wendy would be the one who kept the Emmy, but surely
I’d have a chance to pose for photographs with it, as I would have done the lion’s
share of earning it. Without me, and to a lesser extent Dr. Karen, there is no show.
What separates us from makeover programs like
What Not to Wear
is the psychotherapeutic element. At least once an episode, I will bring viewers
to tears with my innate understanding and ability to facilitate change. Bank on that.

Regardless, after filming for three hours today, we may end up with two minutes of
usable footage, so I don’t come down too hard on the second cameraman for his lasciviousness.
Everything’s digital, so he’s not exactly wasting tape.

Currently, we’re heading down the path to where the volleyball nets have been set
up on North Avenue Beach. I’ve spent a lot of time in this spot over the years, so
I’m familiar with many of the league players here. The idea was mine to come this
way; I figured if it’s imperative we have eye candy on-screen, we may as well include
some cute guys in the shots as well. Worked in the movie
Top Gun
, yes?

(Related note: What exactly happened to Val Kilmer? He used to be Channing Tatum levels
of attractive. From Batman to fat man he went. Mark my words: He’s an emotional eater.)

Of course, my focus ought to be on Dina, so I circle around and stand in front of
her. I maintain intense face-to-face contact so she understands that I’m really hearing
her.

Also, my left side is more photogenic. Ask anyone.

“Dina, I understand you want to be strong, yet I’m hearing there’s more. What aren’t
you telling me? When you say ‘I’m so frigging . . .’ and then trail off, I’m sensing
something unsaid.”

Spill it, Jersey. I need my aha moment.

She bows her head in shame. “I . . . Dr. Reagan, I went to his frigging Facebook page.”

Damn it, I thought we were past this behavior. I can’t let her witness my aggravation,
because this is not about me. Instead I calmly ask, “Dina, what did I tell you about
Facebook?”

(Seriously? Sometimes I’m overwhelmed at my level of competency.)

She sighs and bats her false eyelashes as she repeats my sage advice. “Facebook is
the devil’s playground.”

“And what do I mean by that?”

“You mean that I’m never going to get over him if I keep spying on his activities.”

“Consider this: A scab can’t heal if one keeps picking at it and reinjuring the wound.”
I place a hand on my hip and cheat my face toward the camera, as there’s nothing inherently
unethical about capturing my best angle while doling out life-altering advice. “I
have to be firm here, starting with the advice I’ve given you. Are those the exact
words I chose? To ‘not spy on his activities’?”

She shrugs her delicate shoulders. “Basically.”

“Dina, tell me what I say.”

Sotto voce she says, “Don’t stalk your ex.”

Boom. There we go. That’s the moment we’ll use in the show’s promo. The whole crew
smiles and the secondary cameraman tries to hide his smirk, but I ignore them, this
being a therapeutic milieu and all.

“Thank you. Sounds like a brief refresher course is in order, so let’s discuss Dr.
Reagan’s Rules again.” At some point I’d like to write a book, possibly called
Dr. Reagan’s Rules
, so it doesn’t hurt to start branding early and often.

Dina stops walking and slouches onto one of the hard wooden benches across from the
volleyball nets. Craig motions for her to face me so she catches the light and then
he films us from the back side in order to frame the players in the distance. She
fiddles with a neon zebra-stripe bra strap (oh, honey) and stares down at her lap.

“Dr. Reagan’s Rules, please, Dina.”

With much hesitation, she finally begins to recount my rules. “Um . . . don’t check
in on Lorenzo’s Facebook. Ignore his Twitter feed. Stop texting him at all hours.
No more following his Instagram account. Don’t drive by his house. Don’t drive by
his brother’s house. Don’t drive by his mother’s house. Don’t steal the trash from
the frigging cans outside his house. Don’t go to the club on the nights he works there.
Stop asking his friends about him. Throw away stuff that reminds me of him.” She sighs
wearily. “Did I name ’em all, Dr. Reagan? Or was there one more?”

I hold my hand to my ear, middle fingers cupped with my thumb and pinkie extended.
Sometimes I use gestures to emphasize my point, and also to remind the camera that
I’m still here.

“Oh, yeah, don’t call his cell phone no more just to listen to his outgoing message.
But I haven’t done that in a long time, I swear to God.”

We’re both aware that “a long time” means “a week” but it’s a far sight better than
the thirty times a day she’d been doing it. Why Lorenzo didn’t just change his phone
number after the first hundred hang-ups, I don’t know, but he’s not my patient/not
my problem. I strongly suspect some narcissistic tendencies on his part, though. Who
tattoos
his own name
on himself? Also, I had no idea Chevrolet was still making Camaros. I figured they
disappeared around the time that
Saved by the Bell
’s Zack Morris finally had his testicles drop.

I smile encouragingly at Dina. “Excellent.”

She nods and attempts to put on a happy face, but it’s clear there’s more troubling
her.

“It’s just on Facebook—,” she begins.

I’m resolute here. “Devil’s playground.”

She exhales so hard that she appears completely deflated. “Believe me, I get it. I’ve
seen frigging Lucifer on the jungle gym and I wish I hadn’t, you know? But I noticed
he has a new girlfriend and she’s not even cute.”

I start to say,
They never are,
but I catch myself. I’m careful not to insert any personal commentary into our sessions
because it’s not appropriate.

Besides, this is not
my
time to complain.

But believe me, I could complain about plenty.

Plenty.

Just this morning I had a voice mail from my mother telling me how Geri placed third
in some White Sox bar’s karaoke contest. Which . . . whatever. Perhaps once she dusts
all the stray hairs off herself at the end of the day, she needs an alternative creative
outlet.

However, today’s about Dina, not me.

“. . . and the more I flipped through his photos . . .”

Ultimately, though, I don’t care how Geri occupies her free time. Although I’m surprised
she has any, what with her busy sponging-off-my-parents schedule.

And I need to be present here because Dina’s so close to another breakthrough.

“. . . like I’m standing all by myself on a desert island, without makeup or nothing
and . . .”

Yet all I’m saying is maybe it would have been nice for my mother to express this
kind of maternal pride when I was on
Good Morning America
last week. Of course, she didn’t even watch the episode—she said she’d forgotten
to program her DVR. Way to demonstrate familial pride, Ma, especially since on this
particular visit? George Stephanopoulos was flirting with me.

Well, I can’t say he was flirting for sure, but what heterosexual male wouldn’t with
my co-commitments to diet, exercise, and clean living?

I heard from all the interns afterward about how fantastic I looked. “Oh, Dr. Reagan,
you should always wear emerald green! What was that, a Diane von Furstenberg wrap
dress? Amazeballs!”

And yet when Geri does the most innocuous thing, like sing in a karaoke contest, my
parents reach Amber-alert levels of word spreading. One time in fourth grade, Geri
earned an A for some stupid poem she’d written about a bird who flew through the air
like he just didn’t care. You’d have thought Ma and Dad were going to contact the
Globe Theatre, as clearly she was Shakespeare reincarnate.

Do I even need to mention that I skipped the fourth grade entirely? Their response?
“Nice job, but that doesn’t get you out of doing the dishes.”

“. . . the same thing happened with my dad . . .”

Focus, self. Focus. Dina needs you. The
show
needs you.

Was the bar even crowded the night Geri won her Major Award? Or were there only, say,
three people performing? What, she came in third? What if third means last? The people
who graduated last in my program at Pepperdine are still technically doctors of psychology.
Terrible doctors, no doubt, but doctors nonetheless. And are any of them on television?
I think not.

“. . . what if this is it for me? What if I never find happiness? How will I . . .”

Sure, sure, you’re a national hero, singing “Total Eclipse of the Heart” like you
meant it, Geri. You’re a champion. Someone should pin a damn medal on your chest.
And then maybe our parents could put your medal on the mantel, right next to the photo
of me with my Emmy. You know, the one that I
actually will have earned someday very soon
.

That’s when I notice that Dina and the entire crew are staring at me, waiting for
me to comment. Crap, I must have really drifted off there. But let’s tell the truth
here: Sometimes therapy can be boring. It’s all “me, me, me.” Well, what about
my
thoughts and dreams for once?

I have all kinds of issues and dilemmas right now, largely due to Sebastian. We’re
technically on a break, but then he’ll still come over. Yet afterward, he’s hesitant
to call me his girlfriend (not that I need labels) and he doesn’t invite me to his
work gatherings. It’s confusing and distracting. My romantic life was decidedly easier
when I was with Boyd back in California, but what was I going to do? Follow Geri’s
advice to drop out of my doctoral program and marry an amateur surfer? Not in this
lifetime.

So while everyone awaits my input, I pull out the ultimate old chestnut, the one that
every mental health professional relies on when she’s grown bored/distracted or plain
old fell asleep. (Listen, it happens.)

“How does that make you feel?”

Actually, this is a phrase that’s much more in line with Freudian psychoanalysis,
where a patient’s drives are largely unconscious and rooted in childhood. Seriously,
Sigmund? Give me a break. If my psyche were truly formed in my childhood, then I’d
be a hypercontrolling, tightly wound, empathy-lacking basket case from everyone ganging
up on me and being jealous all the time. I’d say I turned out pretty damn well, if
for no reason other than I don’t have to shake strangers’ hair out of my underpants
every night,
Geri
.