Twisted Sisters (7 page)

Ruby tells him, “We employ a collaborative approach. As a group, we choose who we’re
going to help and we make assignments accordingly. Once we decide on the lead producer,
we assign according to everyone’s interest and level of commitment.”

Kassel nods. “So that’s ridiculous. Antiquated. You looking to form a trust circle
or are you trying to make powerful television? Well, we’re done with the old ways
and we’re changing everything from the ground up. Radiohead, what do you have to say
about that?”

Mindy glances up from her iPhone. “I’m hungry?”

Kassel high-fives Mindy. “Yes! That’s right! You’re hungry. We’re
all
hungry—hungry for change. And the time for change has come. First up, enough with
the management by committee. You’ll work in small groups and you’ll like it. We’re
going to specialize. There’s no need for everyone to have their hands on every aspect.
We’ll divide and conquer! This is going to be great, I promise.”

Then why doesn’t it feel great?

I’m beginning to fear Patty was right—maybe you really can’t trust a promise from
a network guy.

Party Girl

I love
parties
!

I
love
parties!

I
love parties!

Nope, no matter where I place the emphasis, I can’t seem to psych myself up about
this thing.

Under what circumstances might I be able to avoid the whole ordeal? I wish
Push
was already in production because I could claim to be shooting in a different city.
But I opened my fat mouth and mentioned we weren’t starting until next week, so that
excuse is officially off the table.

Hmm . . . I could not go because I was sick. What a relief that would be! Summer colds
are the worst, right? Everyone’s at the lake or riding bikes or having drinks outdoors,
except for me, who’s at home, alternately freezing and sweating beneath the down comforter
that covers my couch-bed. And my coffee table becomes a mini organic pharmacy, with
all the bottles of echinacea, goldenseal, honey and ginger tea. Time my illness right
and I could catch up on an entire season of the more obscure
Real Housewives
, like DC or Miami. I never did quite hear the full story of the White House party
crasher. And Sebastian could bring me sweet-and-sour cabbage borscht from the Bagel
in Lakeview, even though matzo-ball would be better, except I don’t eat chicken broth.

Actually, that sounds like a fun day.

I should make a mental note to not wash my hands after riding the El.

Although . . .
eeeew.

Also, I’m not sure Sebastian would bring me soup.

Okay, what if I simply
pretended
to be sick? That might be doable. I could start planting the seeds right now on my
Facebook fan page, mentioning that I feel a touch of something coming on. I’d lay
the groundwork for skipping the party by describing a new symptom every day, all,
“Hey, is anyone else experiencing postnasal drip?”

Then my coming infirmity would get back to the family because Geri follows my page.
I’m aware of her presence because occasionally she’ll “like” one of my comments or
photos. Ugh. I wish I could block her from seeing my profile without causing a familial
shitstorm, the likes of which would wipe out the entire north side of Chicago.

But nooooo, I have to endure her faux support. “So cool!” “Nice picture!” “Way to
go!” Be a little more insincere, why don’t you? Her running commentary absolutely
incenses me because she’s just doing it to be noticed.

Oh, I’m sorry, Geri—do you not already receive enough 24/7 attention from our parents,
who love you so darned much that they believe your living in their basement is the
totally normal thing for an adult child to do?

Or what about Mary Mac, who’s also so deeply enmeshed that she bought a house two
doors away? This is
not healthy
. Most families don’t live in each other’s backyards by design. They need distance.
They need separation. They need the chance to miss one another once in a while. My
parents even keep Mary Mac’s husband’s woodworking magazines in their bathroom in
case Mickey has to make number two while he’s there.

Go poop in your own house. It’s two doors away.

What is
wrong
with you people?

And yet this is my lot in life. I’m obligated to be a part of their big, obnoxious,
happy-family celebration. Now I won’t have time to do the full thirteen-mile training
run I’d planned on Sunday, followed by an afternoon of recovery and iced beverages
at the ’Bou. And I’ll be hard-pressed to settle into my research and organization
for my preproduction meetings with my new team this week. Instead, I’ll be forced
to make pleasant conversation with my asshole sisters, and if I’m not polite, Ma will
drag me by the ear into the laundry room to yell at me. I’m thirty-three years old
and I have a doctorate degree, yet the second I walk in the front door, I’m a child
all over again.

I am a
party girl
!

I
am
a party girl!

I
am a
party girl
!

It’s official—I can’t positively affirm myself into not dreading the day.

•   •   •

I wake up feeling like there’s an anvil on my chest. For a second, I wonder if I didn’t
accidentally manifest my dreams of bird flu into reality, but then I remember it’s
Sunday and I have to attend the stupid birthday party.

At least I’ll have the confidence of having picked the perfect gift. I spent an hour
at the Building Blocks Toy Store on Lincoln trying to find something awesome for little
Finley-Cormack-Liam-Patrick-pick-a-name-already. The clerk and I settled on a motorized
erector set. He’s already expressed interest in being a builder like his old man,
so I’m confident he’ll love it.

I won’t hold my breath waiting for a thank-you note, though.

I pull up to my parents’ classic Chicago bungalow, my heart in my throat. Why do I
have to do this? I’d rather be anywhere but here. Like, perhaps getting a Pap smear.
Possibly from Captain Hook. I’d kill to be draped in nothing but a sheet right now,
my gynecologist urging me to scoot a little bit closer to the edge of the table.

Or maybe I could be taking my SATs again.

Wait, I
enjoyed
taking my SATs. Poor example.

The front door’s open, so I let myself in, walking through the living room, which
has barely changed a lick since I lived under this roof, save for my mother finally,
finally
removing the plastic slipcover from the formal floral sofa. Have you any idea what
it feels like to sit on a plastic-covered couch on a sweltering July day? Your skin
fuses to it and practically peels off when you finally stand up. Of course, Princess
Geri requires central air for her delicate constitution, so my parents upgraded from
ineffectual window units only after I left for college.

This room is a moment frozen in time. Almost every doily, every knickknack, every
occasional table has been in the exact same spot for as long as I can remember. The
shelves on either side of the fireplace and mantelpiece are still filled with all
the old photos and trophies, too. What’s ironic is I’ve given them a dozen photos
of Sebastian and me, yet they refuse to replace the antiquated shot of Boyd teaching
me to surf on Zuma Beach. (I do rock the bikini, though.)

The rest of the house is more modern, and Dad’s always upgrading the size of his television,
but this particular room is a living Bishop family time capsule. I peer at the shot
of Mary Mac clad in her Irish dancing outfit. She looks so young! She’s always weary
now, slouching around in yoga pants and a ratty ponytail, so it’s odd to remember
her all fresh faced, not being surrounded by half a dozen kids and covered in oatmeal.

In this photo, her hair’s pushed back with a mini-crown, and she has hundreds and
hundreds of perfectly formed copper-colored ringlets. My mother struggled with the
curling iron for years before finally saying, “Screw it,” and investing in a wig.
Said it was the best decision she ever made.

I remember how much I admired Mary Mac’s Irish dance solo dress, which you couldn’t
just buy. Instead, the right to wear that garment had to be earned through competition
and participating in exhibitions. And then it wasn’t a matter of simply picking out
whatever the dancer preferred. Instead, all the candidates had to model dozens of
options for the dance mistress. Dancers ranked their favorites and then the mistress
matched up which girl should be with which dress. Mary Mac briefly joined a sorority
in college and said the rush process wasn’t nearly as intense as the dress selection.

God, I loved her solo dress. It was the most magnificent piece of clothing I’d ever
seen. The top was perfectly fitted due to the lattice of silken ribbons running down
the back. The deep cobalt blue velvet fabric was embroidered with what looked like
peacock feathers cascading in a multicolored waterfall down from the shoulder, forming
a handkerchief hemline. The skirt was full and swingy due to layers and layers of
petticoats, while the bell sleeves added a dash of worldly elegance and sophistication.
The fact that no two solo dresses are the same only added to its mystique.

While I study the shot, my jaw inadvertently clenches. I remember how I couldn’t go
to language camp the year Mary Mac received her dress because it was so expensive.
Then, within six months, she stopped competing on the weekends in favor of hanging
out with Mickey. Yet was I allowed to borrow her glorious garment for trick-or-treating?
Of course not! Mary Mac was all, “Sure, you can wear it—as soon as you earn the right.”

Do I even need to mention how ten years later, Geri happily Riverdanced all over the
neighborhood in the damn thing on Halloween?

I force myself to head into the party because this little trip down memory lane isn’t
helping my mood. At all.

I pass through the kitchen, and even though my mother’s about to feed forty people
(most of them Mary Mac’s kids), I have to admire how there’s nary a cup, plate, or
fork out of place. Everyone’s out in the backyard, on the deck, in the pool, or—and
I never understood exactly why—in the garage. How is this an appropriate gathering
place? Dad parked the Buick on the street, so now the whole area’s filled with neighbors
sitting in lawn chairs around the buffet.

“Well, lookie here, it’s President Reagan! Hey, would you like some jelly beans?”

“Heh, hello, Mr. O’Donnell. Wow, that joke never gets old,” I respond, trying my best
to smile. Mr. O’Donnell bears an uncanny resemblance to former Speaker Tip O’Neill,
from the dense patch of snow-white hair to the broken capillaries in his ample beak.
He’s lived next door to us my entire life. He’s kind of like an uncle, in that I don’t
particularly like him, and yet I can’t seem to avoid him at family gatherings.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” he asks.

That’s a damn fine question. Seb made some noises about joining me, yet he’s not returned
a single text since then, hence the solo appearance.

I share the most likely scenario. “Working.”

“Is he still surfing?”

I nod, because it’s easier than explaining that the only surfing this particular boyfriend
does is on the Joseph Abboud Web site.

He pinches me on the cheek and it’s all I can do to not slap his hand away. “You’re
so skinny! We need to fatten you up! Have one of the sausages—your sister made them
from scratch. Oh, that fennel!”

There’s quite a crowd gathered back here, made possible by my dad having the foresight
to snap up the vacant property next door about twenty years ago. Now they have a rarity
in Chicago—a double lot. I keep telling my folks that Bridgeport is red-hot real estate
now and they should sell, but they never will. At least, they won’t until the yuppies
move in. (There are two Starbucks within walking distance now—I keep telling them
gentrification is imminent.)

Eyeing the crowd, I spot almost everyone immediately. My dad’s working the grill,
while Mary Mac hovers watchfully by the side of the pool. I’m not sure why Mickey
can’t play lifeguard, freeing Mary Mac up to enjoy herself for once. After all, the
pool’s only five feet deep and he’s taking up half of the surface of the water on
his inflatable boat. I admire his ingenuity in realizing that he could float a small
cooler next to him. Very convenient.

Kids are running all over the yard, each one making more noise than the other. One
of the ginger boys dashes up to me, demanding, “Where’s my gift, Auntie Reagan?” I
hand him the festively wrapped package, which he immediately tears open. I hope he
understands the time and thought I put into this present.

“What is this crap?” he asks.

I bristle. “It’s a motorized erector set. So you can build stuff, just like your dad.”

He dumps his present on the cedar picnic table, covered in checked red-and-white oilcloth.
“Lame! I wanted Call of Duty.”

It’s not that I dislike children; it’s just that I dislike these particular children.

Which is why it’s not my fault that I’m compelled to lean in and whisper, “Then I
guess it sucks to be you.”

His eyes widen for a minute before he careens off and cannonballs into the pool next
to his father.

“Hey!” Mickey calls. “You’re getting chlorine in my beer! Mary Mac, I need a towel.
And gimme one of those sausages, too. Oh, that fennel!”

My mother spots me and ambles over. She reaches up to give me a quick, dry peck on
the cheek before she admonishes me. “Party started an hour ago.”

“Sorry, Ma, there was a lot of traffic.” A lie, but it feels true. I can always count
on the vagaries of the Dan Ryan to buy me a late arrival. As I scan the crowd for
a glimpse of my nemesis, I reply, “I’m here now, though,” with a bright, insincere
smile painted on my face.

“You hungry?”

“Not really.” I make it a rule to eat before attending a family event; otherwise,
I have to make a meal of garnishes. Nothing about their choices meshes with my lifestyle.
Case in point? My cheese does not come in a can.

“Grab one of the sausages your sister made. They’re fantastic—oh, that fennel!”

“That’s the word on the street.”

My mother tries to detect whether or not I’m being sarcastic, but in the spirit of
the day, she decides against grilling me. “Have you said hi to everyone? Of course
you didn’t. Go talk to Ethel. Maybe you can shake some sense into her. Ya know, ‘therapize’
her. You’re always bragging about how you’re a doctor. Do me a favor and use your
skills to make a difference for once.”

Argh.

Jack and Ethel Culver have lived across the street from us for twenty-five years.
No one likes Jack, but he’s tolerated for Ethel’s sake. Over the years, the neighborhood’s
been playing armchair therapists, speculating that Mr. Culver has a borderline personality
disorder. Listen, I’ve studied BPD and treated afflicted patients. Trust me when I
say he’s not symptomatic. More and more often, society looks to official diagnoses
to explain and understand abhorrent behavior, but the truth is, sometimes folks are
just jerks.