Twisted Sisters (5 page)

I just can’t with this one. I really just can’t.

Wendy then recaps our show’s success stories, with the aid of a massive video screen
behind her, playing a montage of everyone from the bulimic teen ballerina to the families
in crisis to the hoarding grandmother. She points proudly to the screen behind her.
“This is what happens when we push.”

As she speaks, all the guests we’ve helped file out onstage, healthy, happy, and whole,
and we all take to our feet. This is such a surprise! We didn’t expect to see these
pushees again. Almost every face in the crowd is wet with tears, and I realize I’ve
inadvertently reached for Deva’s hand.

What can I say? I’m not immune to having a moment.

Wendy’s voice is powerful and her words fill the room. “I sought the Lord’s guidance
on how we can continue our important business. After much prayer, He showed me the
solution.”

The audience begins to raise their arms in the air, as though to testify.

“He speaks through me!”

Okay, I
was
having a moment, but suddenly this is getting a little too cult-y for my liking.
I feel like any minute now the waitstaff will roll in carts of Kool-Aid and tracksuits.
Deva and I unclasp hands.

“
I Need a Push
has enriched my life, more so than all those years of hosting my own program. So I
want you to hear this directly from me.”

Everyone continues to hoot, holler, and carry on, save for Patty, Deva and me. Deva
and I catch each other’s eye. She mouths,
What’s happening here, Reagan Bishop?
and I raise my shoulders. Deva may be on an entirely different astral plane sometimes,
but she’s astute enough to understand that joyous news is almost never uttered after
the phrase “I want you to hear this directly from me.”

Consider: It’s rare that anyone will tell you,
I want you to hear this directly from me. I love you and insist on making you my wife.
Or
I want you to hear this directly from me. Here’s a check for a gorillian dollars and
you can retire!

The “hear it from me” is generally employed when trying to make the unpalatable more
appetizing. It’s meant to cushion a blow, and said blow is generally delivered by
whoever is instructing you to hear it from them in the first place. “Hear it from
me” is far more likely to be followed by
Your mother and I are separating,
or
My test came back positive.

Mind you, this isn’t always the case, but it is often enough that I’m a bit wary.

“
I Need a Push
is too important for a nascent cable network.”

This?

I can agree with this.

The crowd goes batshit crazy.

Wendy milks the following words for all they’ve got. “So . . . Weeee . . . Arrrrre . . .
Headeeeeed . . . Toooooo . . .
Networrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrk!
”

Oh, Wendy—you got me! I really didn’t expect you to deliver this kind of news! This
is simply fantastic. Instead of languishing on some cable network no one’s even heard
of, we’re headed to the major leagues!
In your face, Geri!

The crowd is in such a frenzy that no one even notices when Patty stalks out of the
room, except for Deva.

Deva leans in to say, “We should follow her, Reagan Bishop.”

So we do.

•   •   •

We’re able to track Patty because she’s left a bread-crumb trail for us. And by “bread
crumb” I mean “a string of profanity so vivid and profound that the words hang in
the air behind her.” Also, there’s a swath of tipped-over lounge chairs and side tables.
We catch up with her out on the beach.

“I sense you’re troubled, Patty,” Deva begins.

“No shit, Sherlock,” she replies.

“Help me understand the source of your irritation,” I add.

“At the moment?
You.
” Patty stabs her pointer finger at me and then at Deva.

I tell Deva, “Classic transference.” Then I say to Patty, “Clearly you’re redirecting
your negative feelings at us, instead of the source of your frustration. We’re here
to facilitate. Please, allow us to do our jobs.”

Patty spits, “I thought her job was selling bongs.”

Burn! I can’t stop myself from snickering.

But Deva’s unfazed. “It’s true; I carry water pipes hand hewn by Nepalese craftsmen.
In their culture, ganja has been used for centuries in religious festivals. Actually,
one can find cannabis prevalent in almost all ancient cultures. The Chinese have been
using it in their medicine for almost two millennia. In Africa, the Bashilenge used
to greet one another by saying
‘Moio!’
which loosely interprets to mean ‘hemp.’”

“What you’re telling me is that your bong customers are all ancient Bashilenge and
not, say, garden-variety frat boys,” Patty hisses.

“Should the men of Theta Chi be denied the pleasure of finding Nirvana simply due
to having been born of privilege?” Deva counters.

I try another tack. “Patty, please, we’ve never seen you like this and we’re concerned.”

Also? Superinterested.

“Well, that’s ironic,” she says. “You should be worried about
you
.”

“I don’t follow,” I admit. Why would anyone worry about me? I’m outstanding, which
is one of the affirmations I give myself every day.

Patty flops down on the sand, having run out of steam after toppling all the pool
furniture Godzilla-style. Deva and I settle in on either side of her. She stares out
at the horizon before finally saying, “We had a good thing going on
Push
. The best, really. We had the ability to be nimble—we could take the time we needed.
We were accountable only to ourselves. Everything will change with the network in
charge.
Everything.
”

I completely disagree. “By ‘everything’ don’t you mean we’ll finally be paid a competitive
wage? Rumor has it I’ll be adding a zero to my paycheck! And we’ll have access to
resources we’ve never had. Plus, we’ll reach an entirely new audience. What’s the
downside?”

I mentally tally the upside—with more money, I could turn my building into a single-family
and I wouldn’t have to lease the other apartments out to unenlightened frat boys.
I could travel more. I could fork out enough cash to get a natural-looking/feeling
boob job, and not just one of the quickie discount ones that are like two grapefruit
halves under the epidermis. (Yes, Posh Spice, I mean you.)

Sure, I was worried for a minute when Wendy started with the hear-it-from-me business,
but this is a huge opportunity. This change will absolutely raise my individual profile.
Maybe
I’ll
finally write a book. Wouldn’t Geri love that? And if we’re headed to network TV,
I presume this means we’ll be on at night instead of our current weekly midafternoon
time slot, ergo we’d be eligible for a
Primetime
Emmy, which is far more impressive than sitting around at a banquet full of aging
soap stars. Oh, the spackle on those women (
and
men!).

“Granted, there will be perks in terms of budgetary concerns, like, you and Deva will
finally have a wardrobe allowance,” Patty admits.

Ha! Screw you, Ann Taylor Loft! Neiman Marcus, here I come! I start to give Deva a
high five, but then think better of it. Decorum and all.

She continues, “But at what price come these benefits? Wendy and I debated this deal
for months. I thought I’d finally convinced her not to sell, but the network execs
got to her. Sure, she exacted promises to uphold the spirit of the show, but she also
signed away all the rights.” She pulls up a palmful of sand, allowing the grains to
slip between her fingers. “Dust in the wind, that’s what a network promise is. And
deep down, I fear that Wendy knows it.”

“But you two are like sisters,” I argue. “I mean, she’s built her entire career on
the concept of sisterhood. She’d never let you down.”

A shadow of something unrecognizable flashed across Patty’s face. “Wouldn’t she?”

Running Away

I close my e-mail and slam shut my laptop because this news calls for a run.

I attach my iPod to the device that tracks my pace and pulse and weave my hair into
a fat braid. My hair’s probably the one frivolous thing about me—to appear my most
professional, I should sport a neat, swingy, shoulder-length bob. Instead, I have
the thick, dark tresses of a country music star, or possibly Wonder Woman. Actually,
I heard the comparison a lot as a kid since I also have light blue eyes rimmed in
gray and pale skin, much like Lynda Carter in those old reruns. (Minus the leotard,
golden lasso, and ridiculous jugs, mind you.)

Geri’s always saying my long hair dates me, and then Mary Mac will chime in about
that being impossible, as no one wants to date me.

Yes, ha-ha-ha!

P.S. That’s why you’re not in my will.

Those two have always been envious of my looks. Whereas I’m a contrast in darks and
lights, with long, toned limbs, they’re short, red, and rotund and appear predisposed
for guarding pots of gold or bitching about “me lucky charms.”

My point is, I feel my style suits me, and besides, my hair’s always restrained in
some respect, be it pony/bun/chignon, so is it truly anyone’s business? And Sebastian’s
always said my hair’s my best feature.

Personally, I’d say my willingness to be naked in front of him would be my best feature
should he finally return my call, but let’s not split (lovely) hairs.

I slip my keys into a slim nylon waist pouch—fine, fanny pack—and lace up my lemon
yellow/dark shadow–colored Mizuno Wave Rider 15s, which are the optimum choice for
those with high arches. Right before I head out the door, I douse myself in a second
layer of sunscreen and grab a baseball cap and sunglasses. After Hawaii, bits of my
face and arms were peeling off for two solid weeks, so now I’m exercising extra caution.

I head down the stairs and lock my door behind me. When I step into the vestibule,
I notice that my idiot neighbors have left their mail scattered everywhere. Of course
they have. That’s the downside of living in the Lincoln Park area of Chicago; you
can’t escape the influx of all the recent Big Ten grads.

However, I shouldn’t complain, as the rent I collect from the Hawkeyes, Boilermakers,
Hoosiers, Spartans, Wildcats, Badgers, et cetera in the garden and first-floor apartments
covers the entire mortgage on my classic Chicago graystone. That’s how I was able
to afford it in the first place. Plus, my tenants’ parents write the checks, so they
always clear. Were these twentysomethings in my care, we’d have a long chat about
codependency, but in this case, helicopter parenting works out for all of us.

My goal is to one day have the resources to make this a single-family home, yet when
I shared that news with Mary Mac, she was all, “Why? You hate families.” No wonder
she’s always exhausted—that kind of negativity has to be draining.

I skip down my front steps and bask in the brief coolness of the morning. Later today,
the city sidewalks will be hot enough to fry eggs, but right now the temperature is
still bearable.

I’ve always been fit, but I’ve been a dedicated runner since my time at Pepperdine.
Between the stress of my program and the year-round spectacular weather, it made sense
to take advantage of the outdoors. Actually, that’s how I met Boyd in the first place.
I was running on the Malibu Lagoon State Beach, which is one of the premier surfing
spots because of a wicked right break. I was halfway through my five miles when this
massive bandanna-wearing dog came out of nowhere and plowed into me. The mutt somehow
hit me in the solar plexus and completely knocked the wind out of me, and I couldn’t
even catch my breath to shout for its feckless owner.

As I spat out sand, this—for lack of a better description—bronze surf god materialized
to see if I was okay. The first thing I saw was his abs.

Holy guacamole.

Not only did he sport an insanely chiseled six-pack, but he had that V-cut musculature
that you see only in underwear ads or old Marky Mark videos. FYI, the men at University
of Chicago? Did not look like this. His dark hair had turned tawny in the sun and
the surf, and his skin was perpetually golden, offset by eyes the color of a Tiffany
box.

Turns out Boyd was as beautiful inside as he was on the outside. And he was smart,
too. Originally from Long Island, he’d attended NYU and spent his summers surfing
Ditch Plains in Montauk. He’d come to Pepperdine for his MBA, but after a semester,
the lure of the waves was too much and he went from Future Master of the Universe
to Part-Time Bartender.

We fell for each other hard and were inseparable . . . until his presence in my life
jeopardized all my goals.

Like I said, you can’t sustain yourself with ice cream for dinner. And that was a
long time ago. Point is, even though Chicago isn’t Malibu, my love for an outdoor
run is everlasting.

Today my plan is to take a left down the densely tree-lined street, even though I’d
much prefer to head right. I live a couple of doors away from the Caribou Coffee on
the corner of Clark and West Arlington, and normally, nothing would make me happier
than an iced green tea. But I have some frustration to process and the endorphin rush
of a quick five-miler will serve me well.

I’ve run this route so many times, I could do it with my eyes closed. Today, like
always, I stretch out on the stairs before starting a leisurely jog heading east down
Arlington. Then I take Lakeview south, which borders the park, down to Fullerton and
turn right on North Lincoln Park West. Sometimes I have to stop here and catch my
breath. Today my
gastrocnemius
(the outer calf muscle) is tight, so I pause for a quick round of toe lifts, bracing
myself on a bench at the intersection of North Lincoln Park West and Fullerton.

By the time I reach the Shakespeare statue a few blocks down, I’m all warmed up and
I loop back up to Stockton until I can cut over to Cannon Drive by the Lincoln Park
Zoo entrance. Depending on the weather and time of day, sometimes I can hear the sea
lions. I have no desire to see them, however. If I want to see a bunch of surly creatures
flailing around in water, I’ll watch Mary Mac’s kids swim in my parents’ pool.

After I cut over in front of the zoo, I run the length of the lagoon. No matter what
time of year it is, I can count on seeing old men fishing in that spot. Never seen
them catch anything, but I admire their commitment.

By this time, my heart’s really pumping and I’ve entered the zone. Although with all
the adrenaline already coursing through my system, I’m not surprised. I mean, I’m
not angry at losing my summer off—this is the price we pay for prime-time exposure.
And trust me, we’re about to be well compensated for this sacrifice. But to cut Patty
loose after everything she’s given to
Push
? This show was as much her baby as Wendy’s. I can’t even fathom what the network
brass at DBS was thinking in replacing her. How are we going to function without our
spiritual center?

And will the new executive producer allow me to keep my prime parking spot?

Patty must have sensed this was coming, hence her being so upset on the beach that
night.

Driven by my fury, I keep moving.

At North Ave., I cross over to the Lakefront Trail and keep going until I turn around
in front of the Drake Hotel, which is my halfway point. On my way back north, I turn
up the heat and do a tempo run all the way up the lakefront. Even though it’s early,
the beach is already busy, with cooler-toting families having staked out the prime
spots. Sun dappled though the lake may be, I’d never actually dive into Lake Michigan,
having seen the number of saggy-swim-diapered toddlers on any given Sunday.
Cryptosporidiosis
, anyone? Thanks, but no thanks.

Despite this being a lake two thousand miles from where Boyd lives, I find myself
inadvertently scanning the horizon for him anyway. Old habits, eh? I admit it; I miss
him. After I decided we couldn’t be a couple, we remained friends until I met Sebastian.
Seb was so gung ho about being the only man in my life that I slowly stopped responding
to Boyd’s e-mails. It’s better this way, though, or would be if Sebastian weren’t
sending such mixed messages at the moment.

This stretch is where I challenge myself, and my goal is maximum roadkill. (Passing
slower runners. Of which there are many.) I keep up the velocity until I hit the volleyball
courts on North Ave. I slow down a bit to see if I can spot any friends. Then I realize
it’s a weekday and anyone I’d recognize is at work, so I accelerate again. I maintain
that pace until I hit Fullerton. From there until I reach Arlington, I do my recovery
run.

I find it almost impossible to be upset after hitting the pavement. The runner’s high
is a real and powerful phenomenon.

So maybe I overreacted to hearing Patty’s news. To be fair, Wendy was equally upset
and she whisked Patty away for some quality time at Canyon Ranch. Seems like Wendy
could have added the proviso that Patty run the show when she sold it to DBS, but
her business is none of mine. Yet I’m confident those two will make it over this blip
in their relationship . . . after all, they’re like sisters. (Technically not a selling
point in
my
world, but still.) And I hate to broach the possibility, but what if
Push
could benefit from fresh blood? Perhaps DBS is bringing in an executive producer
who’ll shepherd us to the next level. I guess I’ll find out at the staff meeting this
afternoon.

As I reframe events, I can feel my spirits lifting. Everything will work out as it
should, and the universe has a plan.

Then I laugh at myself. I swear, Deva’s starting to rub off on me. I wouldn’t say
we’ve become bosom companions since Hawaii, and I don’t buy into her ridiculous beliefs
like astral projection, but she’s not without charm and I recognize that now. Just
last week, we had dinner at the Green Zebra, a vegetarian, farm-to-table concept restaurant.
Apparently she’s friends with the owner, who wouldn’t let us pay for a single bite.
I’m a big fan of free.

As I slow my pace to a walk up my street, I blot the sweat from my brow and check
the numbers. Twenty-nine minutes—bravo! I’m delighted with today’s stats and make
a note to run angry more often. I shaved a minute off my usual thirty. It’s iced-tea
time!

Except my good humor vanishes as soon as I see what appears to be an angry leprechaun
perched on the wide cement railing by the front door, holding a foil-wrapped dish.

“A
Cubs
hat? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, where did we go wrong with you?”

I lean down to kiss her cheek. “Hello, Ma.”

“What, it’s bad enough you have to live up here with all the quiche eaters, but you’ve
gotta support their team, too? Your grandfather Murphy is rolling in his grave right
now.” My mother then stands to her full height of five-two—in heels—yet she carries
herself like a giant. Her once flaming red hair is now shot with white patches, and
her freckles are beginning to fight for real estate with her wrinkles. She refuses
to try any of the fine antiaging products I’ve gifted her, saying she won’t “put on
airs.” I hardly think moisturizing is “putting on airs,” but it’s simply too exhausting
to argue.

Her still-vibrant green eyes are boring a hole in my stupid hat, as I’ve inadvertently
reminded her of the crosstown rivalry that’s been raging for a century. “Okay, okay,
I’m taking it off,” I tell her. My hair’s damp with sweat, and I do my best to smooth
it down.

“What I don’t understand is why you’d put it on in the first place.” Do I even need
to mention that the rest of the family bleeds Sox black and white?

I try to remain patient. “Because I wanted to keep the sun off my face and it’s the
first thing I grabbed. Besides, it’s not even mine—I think it belongs to Sebastian.”
Note to self: Have his assistant schedule us some time together over the weekend.

“Him,” she snorts. Of course my family worshipped Boyd and they’ve never forgiven
me for ending things. Geri was all, “But I love ice cream for dinner!”

Of course you do, sweetie.

Ma clucks her tongue, and she’s still glowering as I toss my damp hat into the vestibule.
“You know, your sister’s already been to a dozen games at the Cell so far this year.”

“I’m sure she’s maintaining her girlish figure with a constant influx of ballpark
hot dogs and giant beers.”

Naturally, my mother defends her precious baby Geri. “You wouldn’t know because you
haven’t seen her.” Pfft. By design. “Besides, Geri’s been busy working out. I hardly
ever run into her anymore.”

“Ah, so she’s finally moved out of your basement?”

Geri is five years younger than me, but in that time period, everything changed in
regard to how parents related to their children. I’ve no concrete evidence—yet—but
I suspect the transition to helicopter parenting has something to do with those damn
yellow Baby on Board decals that became so prevalent in the mideighties. I wasn’t
even made to wear my seat belt when I was little, but suddenly, Geri comes along and
she’s so valued she merits a sign? I remember my early summers when Ma would be all,
“Go play in the vacant lot. The drifters and stray dogs won’t bother you if you don’t
bother them.” By the time Geri was five, my folks had fenced in the yard, constructed
a massive swing set, and installed a swimming pool so she wouldn’t ever want to roam
from our yard.

Ma shoots me yet another disapproving look. “Nobody likes a smartass, Reagan.”

I find myself clenching my fists. “Better than a fat ass,
cough
*Geri*
cough
.”

“Is that what they taught you in your fancy mental health college? To mock your sister’s
underactive thyroid problem?”

“Oh, so it’s her underactive thyroid that makes her eat all those nachos? Noted.”
Then I stop myself. I hate when I get like this, but there’s something about my little
sister that brings out the worst in me. “You know what, Ma? That was inappropriate
and I apologize. Please send Geri my best.”