Twisted Sisters (17 page)

Huh. In all the times we’ve spoken, we’ve never once veered into personal territory.
Kassel’s always such a blowhard that I normally want to remove myself from his presence
as soon as possible, regardless of how nicely he fills out a cashmere sweater. But
he’s giving me this opening, and, well, it’s kind of a professional obligation to
draw out others.

I ask, “What’s his name?”

“He’s Walter, named after my dad. He’s growing up way too fast! Seems like yesterday
he was in diapers, but now? He’s embarrassed to hug me.”

“Does Walter live here?”

“No, he’s in LA with his mom.” As an afterthought, he adds, “And with
Brody
. Ugh, what kind of grown-up calls himself Brody?”

I can’t help myself. “The same kind who refers to others by personal characteristics
rather than learning first names?”

“Ha-ha.” Except his laughter doesn’t seem to reach his eyes and I seem to have inadvertently
struck a nerve.

“Will you be spending Thanksgiving with him?”

He turns the ashtray over and runs his fingers across Walter’s large, blocky name
etched into the bottom. “No, he’ll be in Aspen with his mom. And Brody. I’ll be out
in LA for Christmas, but this year, I’m on my own for Turkey Day. We’re filming a
segment with Dr. Karen and a shopaholic at the mall on Saturday. I have to fill in
for everyone who’s on vacay, so it doesn’t make sense to fly back for a day and a
half. As of now, my plans involve pizza and
Party Down
on DVD.”

I blurt, “I’m so jealous!”

For a second, Kassel seems more vulnerable and less venerable. “You enjoy the suffering
of others, Peace Corps?”

I shake my head so hard my ponytail batters the sides of my face. “No, of course not.
It’s just that I have a command performance on the south side and I’m dreading the
day.”

Kassel seems rather wistful. “Is it a big family deal?”

I snort. “More like
ordeal
. Ma will be up at three a.m. with the turkeys and the pies and my sister Mary Mac
will show up around noon to help, whereas I have to be there at seven a.m. or the
world will end. Get this—my sister lives two doors away, yet can her kids stay home
with their dad while she’s busy prepping? Of course not. So we have to make dinner
for twenty-five while a dozen kids careen through the kitchen every thirty seconds.
Plus, I’m always stuck with the grunt work of peeling the potatoes and dotting the
yams with marshmallows, which may as well be fiberglass for all their nutritional
content.”

I feel claustrophobic every time I imagine what the day will be like. Between the
kids and the football blaring from every television and all the old men smoking cigars
and my aunts getting blotto on cooking sherry? Not a selling point.

By the way, does Princess Geri have to raise a finger with the rest of the womenfolk?
Of course not.
My uncles consider her color commentary to be the height of comedy, so while we’re
slaving away in the kitchen, she’s kicked back on the sofa, offering up pithy comments
like, “Jason Witten is a tight end? I’ll say his end is tight!”

“Everyone likes mini-marshmallows on their sweet potatoes. Fact,” Kassel informs me.
His humor seems to have improved, likely because
he’s
the kind of person who enjoys the suffering of others.

I shudder imagining the glistening, oozy orange lumps piled high on everyone’s plates.
“Au contraire. The only bright spot is that I’m moving up to the adult table this
year. My great-aunt Sophia passed away so I’m slated to finally, finally get away
from the kids’ table in the basement. That’s the only reason I’m maintaining my sanity
right now. Well, that and not having to pretend to eat my great-aunt Sophia’s Jell-O
mold ever again.”

Now he’s grinning in earnest. “Bite your tongue, Peace Corps, Jell-O molds are classic!”

“In what universe?”

“In every universe!” he exclaims so loudly that it rattles his framed lithographs.
“In each and every rainbow-striped, Cool Whip–topped, pineapple-specked universe.”

I can’t tell if he’s teasing me or if he’s serious. Both eventualities are vaguely
alarming. “Have you ever been served a Jell-O mold filled with canned corn, peas,
and shaved carrots? Because I have. Aunt Sophia called it a
salad
.”

Hold the phone—I figured out why Kassel seems so familiar. Kassel reminds me of
Boyd
. Maybe it’s the California connection, or possibly it’s the way we banter. How did
I not see this before? Of course, I should say Kassel’s what Boyd would have been
if he hadn’t decided to toss his whole future for “some tasty waves and a cool buzz.”
(Side note? I was with Boyd for an entire year before I realized that this Spicoli
he always quoted was a fictional character from
Fast Times at Ridgemont High
and not one of his beach-bum buddies.) (What? We didn’t have HBO growing up.)

Kassel runs a palm over his hair and I catch a glimpse of his wrist. Yep, still golden.
Not that I care about that sort of thing, though. “Sweet
and
savory—that’s a whole meal right there.”

Teasing, then?

“It’s my professional opinion that you, sir, are insane.”

Was Kassel fun before? I feel like I’d have noticed if he was fun before. Boyd was
big fun, ergo it stands to reason that Kassel would be fun.

What kind of fun could we have together?

Until this very moment, I never actually considered Kassel to be a potential romantic
partner. But maybe he’s exactly what I need? He has Sebastian’s professional intensity,
yet he appears to embody some of the joie de vivre that Boyd brought to the table.

I wonder if Kassel isn’t the best of both worlds.

There’s something a bit incestuous about a television crew, and staffers are often
drawn to one another, due to both the fraternity and the long hours. Sets are very
insular environments. Unlike in a lot of other workplaces, not only is fraternization
not taboo, but it’s practically encouraged. Wendy used to fix up staffers all the
time. Pretty much the only thing
Push
couples have to do is fill out a tiny bit of paperwork for HR, and then? Mazel tov!

I’m not saying I want to date my boss, though.

I’m simply saying that in a world of possibilities, Kassel is one of them, especially
since I’m over Sebastian.

Mostly.

There’s still a part of my ego that’s badly bruised from the whole debacle. What’s
ironic is I’ve actually heard from Sebastian a couple of times, but I’ve yet to return
his calls. Hope he appreciates the irony.

I take a moment to admire how comfortable Kassel seems here in his kingdom. He’s one
hundred percent at ease in his skin and at his desk, and I find his confidence attractive.

“When I was a kid, my gammy used to make a Jell-O salad with Spam and pimento olives.”

Look at us, enjoying each other’s company. Who’d have guessed?

I joke, “And how does
that
make you feel?”

“Actually? A little nostalgic.” Then his chin briefly puckers and his eyes seem a
bit glassy.

Okay, so this just veered horribly off track.

Abort! Abort!

I immediately hold my arms up as if to protect myself and as if he didn’t suddenly
turn melancholy. “FYI, I’ll probably hurl all over your fancy antique desk if we continue
to discuss Jell-O. So you know. Just to put it out there.”

He gives me a wry shrug. “All I’m saying is Gammy’s cooking was the stuff memories
are made of.”

“And all I’m saying is that family holidays may not be as great as you recall. I guarantee
if you happened upon a Very Bishop Thanksgiving, you’d be headed back to your place
for a DVD and Domino’s so fast your head would spin.”

Then, before common sense prevails, I add, “You don’t actually want your head to spin . . .
do you?”

To which he replies, “Tell me when and where.”

Sister Act

“Yucky! It’s touching my sweet potatoes!”
One of Mary Mac’s twins—no idea which—is in the throes of a fit, having been served
a tiny portion of the beautiful salad I made especially for this meal. From the way
she’s carrying on, you’d imagine I was trying to poison her, and not just add a little
non-factory-farmed, chicken-finger-based protein to her diet. To punctuate her point,
she adds, “I hate this!”

I try to reason with Kiley Irelyn, but my patience is already shot due to having been
stuck downstairs at the children’s table a-freaking-
gain
. Yes, this is the year I was to finally make the leap upstairs to the grown-ups’
table, lest Aunt Sophia’s death—and the loss of Jell-O molds—be in vain.

But no.

Instead, my great-aunt Helen and Charlie, her new octogenarian suitor, are taking
the spots earmarked for Kassel and me. Aunt Helen thought it would be a big kick to
surprise us on their way down from Milwaukee to Florida for the winter, because who
cares about RSVPs? Yes! Let’s just throw the seating arrangement out the window! Reagan
won’t mind being downgraded to the basement! Proper holiday protocol be damned!

And while we’re at it, let’s park the massive RV we’re driving on the street in front
of the Bishops’ house where it can take up three spaces, causing everyone else to
have to hike two blocks carrying the only platters of healthy food anyone will see
in this damn place all year!

I paste a facsimile of a smile on my face. “Just try one bite,” I suggest. “After
all, there are starving children all over the world who’d kill for the opportunity
to eat something like this.”

Even though I warned Kassel about the potential for this being a dysfunctional family
meal, my hope is to keep a lid on as much abhorrent behavior as possible. Or to at
least compensate for earlier when Charlie mentioned how comfortable and freeing it
is to pilot his RV sans pants. (Although I imagine it
is
more comfortable, what with his current waistband hitting him right below the armpit.)

“No.” Kiley Irelyn clamps her lips together. She and her sister could not be more
identical today in their matching velvet dresses with smocked tops and lace collars.
They’re even sporting corresponding hair bands in their shoulder-length, burnt orange
curls. Why would anyone do that? What’s the point of putting the girls in the exact
same thing and styling them in a way that doesn’t suggest two individuals, so much
as one and a spare?

And yet when I offer Mary Mac this suggestion—coming from a place of love and concern,
mind you—she replies that until I successfully raise a dog/cat/goldfish, I’m to keep
my parenting suggestions to myself.

Perhaps the child will respond to reason. I say, “How can you be sure you don’t like
what I’ve made if you won’t even taste it?”

“Because it looks like barf,” she replies, all matter-of-fact.

Across the table, Geri covers her mouth with a napkin to hide her laughter. I point
at her. “Not helpful!”

As I’m not about to be bested by a five-year-old (nine-year-old? who can tell?), I
say, “I suspect you
believe
you hate this salad because you don’t recognize some of the ingredients in it. Allow
me to elaborate. The round parts are quinoa, and quinoa is a superfood—it’s full of
protein and magnesium and lysine!”

She shoves her plate away. “Ewww! You want me to eat
Visine
?”

I’m trying to not raise my voice, but how is she not responding to reason? “No, not
eyedrops. Lysine is an amino acid,” I explain.

“Kids love amino acids,” Kassel quips. “Every time I see Walt, he’s all, ‘Dad, Dad,
can we go out for amino acids?’” Geri begins to laugh in earnest until she spots me
shooting daggers at her.

“Quinoa is kind of like rice, sweetie. You love the fried rice from Hunan Garden,”
Geri offers. I’m not buying this sudden look-how-amazing-I-am-with-children act. She
knows Kassel has a kid and she’s trying to make me seem like an asshole.

Kiley Irelyn softens because she’s only six (eight?) and doesn’t realize she’s being
played. “Oh, okay. But what’s the other junk mixed in?”

I have to force myself from sighing in resignation. I’d hardly classify what’s on
her dish as junk. In fact, it’s the opposite of junk. While perusing CookingLight.com,
I ran across this salad recipe and thought it would provide the perfect contrast to
all things covered in marshmallows and drowned in butter on this day. The organic
beets give the dish an earthy crunch and the kumquats offer the sweet tanginess of
a bottled dressing, only without all the MSG, sulfur dioxide, and sodium benzoate,
which I’ve read can lead to hyperactivity disorder in children. (Trust me, these kids
are already hyper enough.)

“You like oranges, right?” Geri asks. “Remember that time we ate all those clementines
while watching
Finding Nemo
?”

Kiley Irelyn nods and snuggles closer to her aunt.

Show-off.

Geri tells her, “Well, there are two kinds of oranges in here. Kumquats are like little-bitty
oranges, only you can eat the skin, too. Isn’t that crazy? Look at me, I’m going to
put the whoooole thing in my mouth! The mama orange cries,
Please don’t eat my baby!
but I will anyway!” She takes a bite and makes exaggerated chewing noises before
opening her mouth for a split second to show Kiley Irelyn her tongue coated in orange
paste.

Charming.

Yet for some reason Kiley Irelyn responds to Geri’s antics and she starts to titter.

I guarantee Geri’s only being helpful to impress Kassel. Her eyes practically popped
out of her head when she saw him come in with me. I explained that we were work colleagues,
and when she asked if it was something more, I responded ambiguously.

My relationships? Are none of her business.

Also, I can handle this kid on my own.

I explain, “The other kind of orange is Italian. See the crimson flesh? It’s called
a blood orange. And who doesn’t love the blood orange? They’re sweeter than your average
citrus fruit and their juice—”

“Ma, Auntie Reagan’s trying to make me eat blood!”

I predicted today would go sideways. Damn kids always ruining my credibility. So,
in my most calming, professional voice, I say, “Kiley Irelyn, it is never appropriate
to yell at the dinner table.”

“I’m not Kylie!”
She runs up the stairs to the table where I
should
be right now.

Geri shrugs. “Sorry, Gip, I tried.”

“Gip?” Kassel looks up from his mountain of mashed potatoes. “Why are you calling
her Gip?”

“Like the Gipper? As in ‘win one for the,’” Geri replies, batting her eyes.

Okay, please stop flirting with him right now. You’re just embarrassing yourself.
Side-by-side comparison between us? There is no comparison. Perhaps Geri’s shaken
off a pound or two of extra tonnage recently, but she’ll never have my lean muscle
mass or Black Irish coloring. And so what if she’s straightened her wild curls today?
The second she encounters humidity, boom! The full Bozo.

Also?

Freckles?

No.

Geri explains, “Reagan’s namesake is President Ronald, so I’ve been calling her that
ever since I saw the movie.”

Intrigued, Kassel leans forward in his seat. “You a fan of
Knute Rockne
?”

Geri reaches into her shirt and brandishes the gold cross she’s worn ever since her
first communion. “Um, hello? Catholic upbringing? Eff, yeah!”

I’m sorry, but what the eff is it with the
eff
business? Geri drops f-bombs like hippies drop acid and rappers drop microphones.
Why is she being such an effing phony right now? “
Knute Rockne
’s only the best football film ever made until—”

Kassel and Geri shout at the same time,
“Rudy!”

Kassel lowers his voice and says, “‘My son’s going to Notre Dame!’”

To which Geri replies, “‘You’re a Ruettiger. There’s nothing in the world wrong with
being a Ruettiger!’”

“‘You ain’t here to be no nanny in no kindergarten!’”

“Onward to vic-to-ry!” Geri sings.

They both grin like lunatics and then clink wineglasses across the table. “To the
fighting Irish!” Kassel cries.

What’s happening here?

Do . . . do I see a spark between them? Because,
no
. Whatever
this
is needs to cease and desist immediately. She’s always been like that with every
boyfriend I brought home. Or I guess just Sebastian and Boyd, as I never really brought
anyone else here. And why would I, seeing how whatever man walks in the door will
get the full-court press from Geri?

Although Kassel’s far from being my boyfriend, Geri isn’t privy to our status. For
all she knows, I could have shagged him rotten prior to his arrival.

Perhaps I haven’t officially staked my claim, but she should respect the notion that
since I brought him, he’s off-limits.

My God, it’s like the Cabbage Patch doll all over again.

When Mary Mac was packing to leave for college, she began to divest herself of all
the childhood crap she didn’t want anymore. She had this Cabbage Patch doll named
Lillian Lizabeth in mint condition because apparently she wasn’t ever that into babies.

(The irony! It burns, it burns!)

I’d coveted Lillian Lizabeth for years, largely because Mary Mac never let me touch
her. I always thought she was destined to be mine, as she had my light skin and blue
eyes, complete with fat, dark braids.

While Geri was more into stuffed animals, I was a true doll aficionado. Such was my
devotion to my doll collection, I hand washed their garments weekly and I kept each
member of my dolly family neatly packed away in an old trunk for safekeeping. For
fairness’s sake, I’d play with each of them an equal amount of time.

I’d created entire journals with their elaborate backstories, too. For example, the
blond boy doll with the bowl cut and sailor suit was Hans Maarten van der Maarten
and he enjoyed picking tulips when he wasn’t busy helping out in his family’s wooden
shoe factory. He lived right by a dike and he was always sure to plug any developing
cracks with wads of chewing gum. He owned a dog named Otto, who was always chasing
geese.

Even though Lilly-Lizzie (that’s what her close friends called her) wasn’t yet mine,
that didn’t stop me from creating her biography. I believed her to be noble and true,
with a scholarly bent. And even though she’d been kidnapped by gypsies as a baby,
there was no mistaking her royal bearing. She knew that someday her proper family
would find her again, as blood always called to blood. Lady Lilly-Lizzie would indeed
ride again.

Anyway, Ma asked if either one of us wanted Mary Mac’s doll, which, sweet Jesus, dreams
really do come true! As I was standing there trying to decide exactly which doll would
be taken out of rotation in order to best accommodate Lilly-Lizzie, and whether or
not we should consult an attorney regarding legally transferring the Cabbage Patch
adoption paperwork, Geri grabbed her and ran off. I was stunned, yet Ma’s response
was about how he who hesitates is lost.

What was so infuriating is there was no way I wasn’t destined to own that doll, and
everyone was aware of that fact. But because of my methodical approach, Geri was able
to weasel her way in and run off with my great prize.

Then, within a day, she’d promptly hacked off Lilly-Lizzie’s glorious braids, covered
her face in Sharpie-based freckles, and then left her floating facedown in the pool
like the saddest little corpse in the universe for the rest of the summer.

To this day what makes me mad is she didn’t even want the damn doll.

She just wanted
me
to not have it.

Before I can position myself between Kassel and Geri, Mary Mac comes barreling down
the stairs like an angry mama bear.

“Why do you insist on tormenting my kids?” Mary Mac demands. Bits of spittle fly from
the corners of her mouth.

“Because they’re acting like children,” I reply, blotting my cheek with a napkin.
I mean, isn’t it obvious?

“They
are
children. And why can’t you just call them by their proper names?” She’s standing
there vibrating with fury in her awful way-too-soon-for-Christmas holiday sweater,
bedecked with bells and three-dimensional felt antlers extending from the top of the
embossed reindeer’s head.

It’s so unfair to be put on the spot like this. “You should have them wear name tags,
as no one could possibly remember which is which and how old each one is.” When they
were all gathered around this table briefly before going upstairs to play Wii bowling,
I’d point at whomever I wanted to ask a question. How was this problematic? I asked
the one in glasses about school because I assumed she’s smart and the zitty one if
he had a girlfriend. (Negative.) (And no surprise there.)

Mary Mac hisses, “Geri doesn’t have any trouble, do you, Geri? Tell Reagan about your
nieces and nephews.”

Geri puts on this big act, looking at me, then Mary Mac, like she’s all sheepish and
truly can’t decide whom to support. She hesitates for a long time before replying,
“Mickey Junior is turning eighteen right before Christmas, and he’s planning on joining
his dad’s business when he graduates, provided he passes English. That’s touch and
go for now.
Beowulf
’s a bitch. Sophia’s sixteen and has talked about being a nun, or at least she did
until she fell in love with Niall from One Direction. He
is
the cutest member, though. Teagan’s thirteen and adores YA vampire books and she’s
even better at Irish dance than Mary Mac was—she’s already earned a solo dress.”

I try to ignore the rapt expression on Kassel’s face as Geri continues. “Brady’s just
turned ten and plays drums. He’s not only best friends but also mortal enemies with
Finley Patrick, who’s nine. Depends on the day of the week. Today they’re BFF. I chalk
this up to their being Irish twins. Finley Patrick wants to be a garbage collector
and he’s always bringing home junk he finds in the alley.”