“That’s sweet, Nicky,” I say. “I didn’t know your dad, but from everything I know about him, I bet he was totally crazy for your mom.”
He doesn’t answer, already wrapped up in some HBO movie that seems upon quick glance — the actor on screen is snorting cocaine and then punches another guy dead in the nose — completely ill-suited for his age.
“No, my theory of opposites has nothing to do with you and Shawn. It’s this: what if we did exactly opposite of your dad’s advice? Like, what if, every time you listened to your instincts, you did the opposite?”
“You know I have terrible instincts.”
“I do know that. Which is why you’re the perfect person to write this with me.” She passes me the cereal box, and I scoop some into my palm. “You’re someone who has no baseline, no real gauge of your gut. For which we can firmly blame your dad. But I think….I think it’s time you stopped blaming him for everything too.”
“I don’t blame him. This is just my life.”
“God, you’re frustrating,” Vanessa states, which she’s allowed to because she’s known me since I was eighteen, and also, because I am.
“I read your dad’s book, by the way,” Nicky says. “I can’t believe how many people believe that shit.”
“Don’t say ‘shit,’ Nicky,” I say. Then: “You read his book?”
He doesn’t reply at first, the action on screen in this terribly inappropriate movie too engaging (several Asian men being shot by a drug lord as he breaks into their compound in Barbados), but after all of the characters are sprawled in pools of their own blood, he says: “Yeah. My therapist thought it might be helpful for me to understand the shit with my dad.”
Vanessa chews her cereal.
“Did it help?” I ask.
“What do you think?” he says. “Maybe I’m not dumb enough to believe that stuff though.”
“Lots of smart people believe it.”
Vanessa rolls her eyes. “Well, I think that the more moronic you are, the easier it is not to question his philosophies.”
“Come on. There’s a lot of science behind his book.” I find a mug that’s been left on the counter and fill it with water, programming the microwave to “tea.” It beeps and breathes to life.
“There is less science than you think,” Vanessa says. “Have you read it recently? Accept inertia! Follow the Master Plan Way! Sure, he ran some lab rats in a maze and followed a few sad sack families for a decade or so, but…I mean…it’s hard to argue against the fact that there aren’t any accidents, that randomness doesn’t exist.”
“Because you can’t disprove the disprovable,” Nicky says. Then grins. “See, I ain’t no moron.”
Vanessa runs to him and pinches his cheeks.
“You are my little protégé!” she teases him until he slaps her hands away and pretends to hate her affection. “But Nicky’s right, which is where my idea comes in. Your dad’s entire book is built on swimming downstream…letting life take you wherever you were meant to float.”
“Not taking a left when you’ve already taken a right,” Nicky says.
“So let’s take lefts. Let me tell you when to turn left,” Vanessa adds.
“I…don’t get it.” I really might be the moron here. I can’t admit that I never actually read the book in its entirety. There never was much of a point. I lived it. I was there. The words on the pages couldn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know.
“It’s the Theory of Opposites.” Vanessa’s voice spins up a decibel in excitement. “We’ll disprove his own theories of inertia and ‘it is what it is’ and ‘everything happens for a reason’ because we will run counter to all of these things. We’ll purposely choose to live life on the high wire, on the fine line where life actually becomes alive.”
I chew on my lower lip. I don’t like it when life actually becomes alive. I much prefer it in its safe, happy, comfortable space. I’m goddamn Switzerland, after all!
“I know that you want to say ‘no,’” Vanessa says. “Which is exactly why you need to say ‘yes.’ Start disproving him now. Let me dare you. I dare you, Willa Chandler-Golden, to try to live life on the outer edges. To fight so hard against your original instinct, to change your fate by making choices that you never otherwise would make.”
“I don’t know.” I chew on my thumbnail cuticle.
“You never know,” she exhales. “Which is why you have to trust that I do. I do know. Come on, Willa, I’m your best friend. Unexpected things are bound to happen when you remove the baseline of predictability. It’s the Theory of Opposites. And this is exactly what we’ll prove.”
“And you don’t think my dad accounted for that — this theory?”
“Actually, he didn’t. He concentrated on intentional choice, not purposely choosing the opposite of that choice.”
“Hmmm,” I say.
“That’s fucking brilliant,” Nicky chimes in.
For once, I don’t correct him.
—
Email from: Raina Chandler-Farley
To: Willa Chandler-Golden; Oliver Chandler
Subject: Our Parents
I think that we need to convene to discuss the current mental status, not to mention marital status, of our parents. I suspect that dad is finally having his psychotic break, and that he is taking Mom down with him. Oliver, a quick check of Twitter tells me that you are in New York City — I sent you a tweet, did you not see it? — and while it would have been nice to get a personal hello, I expected nothing else. However, since you are here, and we are all in the same city, perhaps we can meet at the Pain Quot on Madison on Monday for lunch — the office is closed to repair the air conditioning system. Jeremy will watch the kids. Though they would love to see their uncle, too.
Please let me know.
Raina
Raina Chandler-Farley, esq
Partner
Williams, Russell and Chance, LLP
email: [email protected]
Email from: Oliver Chandler
To: Willa Chandler-Golden; Raina Chandler-Foley
Subject: re: Our Parents
Darling sisters! Namaste! How are your glorious lives treating you these days? I hope with a little touch of beauty and a lot of touches of love. Indeed I am in town attending to some unexpected personal business, and nothing would make me happier than to break bread with the two of you this Monday. I am now a raw food vegan (I cannot wait to tell you what this has done for my physical and mental form!), but I am sure that I can get something at Pain Quot, as a quick search of my Vegan For Life! app gives them three stars and calls them a “friend to the local vegetable.” I am staying downtown at the Tribeca Grand, but I will make my way up there by 2 p.m. Save a bench in the sun for me! Namaste!
Email from: Willa Chandler-Golden
To: Raina Chandler-Foley; Oliver Chandler
Subject: re: re: Our Parents
Raina – you have Twitter? Why am I always the last to know?
11
Raina and I arrive on time. (Of course.) Oliver, however, does not. (Of course.) I expected Le Pain Quotidian to be empty at 2 p.m. on a Monday, but it seems that there are plenty of other unemployeds out in the world too. I nod at them as I weave through.
Hi, yes, I lost my job too.
Hello there, is the Ellen Show the highlight of your day as well?
“Oliver keeps to a world clock,” I say to Raina as we settle ourselves at the farmhouse table in the back corner. She rolls her eyes and goes back to typing angrily on her Blackberry. I peruse the menu and wonder if I’m someone who would enjoy quinoa or just start eating it because it’s part of the trend, and then watch Raina for a second. Her Botox has warded off her scowl, but still, her face is pressed downward, her lips tense, her chin drawn. For someone who is
one of only three female partners at her firm, she doesn’t seem to enjoy her job all that much.
“Do you like your job?”
“Huh?” she answers, still typing.
“Your job? Do you like being a lawyer?”
“What?” She looks at me vaguely. “What? Oh, I don’t know. Sure. It’s fine.”
She returns her attention to her phone.
I order a mint lemonade (it sounds like a healthy match to my quinoa) from the waitress, and Raina asks for a double espresso. Finally, she beats her Blackberry at its own game and tosses it across the table.
“You would think that we were saving lives or something here,” she exclaims.
“Speaking of saving lives!” a voice booms from behind her, and we both look up. The legendary Oliver Chandler, homeopath, vegan, super-yogi to the stars, and current resident of Mumbai, in the flesh. He is practically glowing, literally, like a glistening of sweat is encasing every inch of his skin, but somehow it adds to his handsomeness, like he intuited just the right amount of sheen for the afternoon and his body complied. His brown hair is richer than mine, his eyes darker too. Jesus, he was good at everything.
“You’re saving lives these days?” Raina asks. She stands to hug him.
“Give me an hour with you, my darling sister. Yours will never be the same.” He leans over and kisses me, then sits.
“William, no offense, but you look like shit.”
“And it’s nice to see you too, Ollie.”
“Listen, if a brother can’t tell a sister when she looks like shit, then the system is broken.”
“My husband left me.”
“All the more reason for you to look fabulous. There are other fish in the sea.”
I think: Theodore. And then I regret thinking that because I also want Shawn to throw himself on his knees in front of me and beg to set things right, set them exactly as they were before.
“Oliver,” Raina interrupts. “We haven’t seen you in over a year. I had to check your Twitter feed to discover that you were in town.”
“It was last-minute.” He grabs a menu. “I’ve heard raves about their quinoa salad. Gaga told me I had to order it when I told her we were meeting here.”
“Lady Gaga does yoga?” Raina sounds dubious.
I can’t decide which I’m more impressed with: that Oliver trains Lady Gaga or that Raina actually knows who she is.
“Lady Gaga does everything,” Oliver says, like we’re supposed to know what that means.
“How’s India?” I ask, resolving to forget both Theo and Shawn entirely.
“Hot as balls,” he answers, waving down the waitress. “But you know, if you build it, they will come.”
“I have no idea what that means,” Raina says, ordering the tuna salad, no mayo, pesto on the side, and hold the bread too. I order the tuna salad with mayo, with pesto and with bread. The quinoa seemed like a good idea only in theory. Even if endorsed by Lady Gaga.
“The ashram. Did you see that it was written up in Travel and Leisure as the number-three yoga retreat in the world?”
“We didn’t,” Raina says.
“Well, it was,” he shrugs. “So I built it. And they came.”
“So then why are you here? Shouldn’t you be saving souls in a tent filled with incense?” She sniffs. “Or pot? Because don’t think for a second that I can’t smell the pot right now.”
“Raina, sister, I don’t understand the hostility,” Oliver says in this super-annoying tone that he must reserve for the end of his classes when everyone is all “oooommm,” and “inner-peace,” and “the light that guides me is the light that guides you.” He continues: “And that’s not pot. It’s patchouli oil. It’s good for my digestion. I’ll bring some over for Jeremy sometime.”
“There’s no hostility,” she says, though it sounds very much like there’s a lot of hostility. “We just don’t see you for a year, and William and I are left to deal with things like Mom and Dad taking lovers, and it would be very much appreciated if the prodigal baby boy were around to, you know, lend a hand.”
“Not figuratively, of course. They have that taken care of.” He laughs. Raina’s nostrils flare.
“Why is everyone calling me William all of a sudden?”
Raina sighs and pinches her nose, just as her Blackberry echoes again.
“Christ!” she yelps, then grabs it and walks toward the front of the restaurant while typing.
Oliver and I both fall silent for a moment until I say, “Ollie, really, what are you doing here? It’s a little unexpected. And I know, like, I don’t follow you on Twitter or anything, but you could have given us a heads-up.”
He drops his chin to his chest.
“I know, Willa. Shit, I know.”
When he looks up at me, his sheen is gone, his beautiful cheekbones suddenly looking skinnier and less beautiful than just a moment before.
“I’m in a little trouble. Just…I mean…it’s nothing. I mean…it’s something, but…well, don’t tell Mom and Dad.”
“Tell them what?” Raina says, already done with her mini-crisis. She reaches into her purse and pulls out a prescription bottle, unscrews the cap and pops a pill down the hatch. Then she empties another out into her palm and slides it my way.
“Self-medicating?” Oliver asks.
“No,” Raina utters. “It’s good for our digestion.”
“I make no judgments.” The waitress delivers him a hot drink that smells distinctly like a perfect blend of grass and urine. Oliver takes a long sip that appears to stir some sort of nirvana within. “Oh man, Will, have you tried this? It’s exactly the cure for your skin right now.”
I consider protesting the insult but that’s just the family way, so instead I merely shake my head no. Also, it really does smell like the inside of a restroom in Central Park.
“Don’t deflect, Oliver. What sort of trouble are you in?” Raina persists. “Everyone else may buy this ridiculous Kama Sutra thing, but don’t think you’ve fooled me.”
“I’d be offended if I couldn’t just breathe through that. I try to leave each person I connect with just a little better, a little happier, Raina. Can you say the same? Does the light inside of you shine like it shines inside of me?”
“Oh Oliver, cut the crap.”
“Fine.” His head droops. “Yogi Master Dari asked me to invest in the retreat, then find some other investors, who then had to find other investors…” He flickers his hand in a little spiral, as if to indicate…and so on. Or maybe it’s to indicate that he’s crazy. I’m not totally sure.
“A pyramid scheme!” Raina cries. “You’re involved in a pyramid scheme!”
“Holy shit,” I exclaim, and then reach for the urine drink because I need a drink and my mint lemonade was never delivered.
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“Of course not,” Raina tuts. “In this family, it never is.”
—
As we’re leaving Pain, just as I am sliding into my Xanax haze, we run smack into Alan Alverson. He introduces himself to Raina and Oliver as Alain. Naturally, I therefore call him Alan.
“I wish we were on better terms, Willa,” he says. Then to Raina and Ollie: “I practically worship your dad. Willa knows. I would just love to be on better terms, to learn more about the man behind the miracle.”
“He’s not Jesus, you know,” I say.
“I wouldn’t call it a miracle,” Raina adds.
“You guys,” Ollie weighs in. “Don’t be bitches. Dad’s great.”
Undeterred, Alan presses on. “Like, I know that it sucks that you got fired and everything, but it’s like your dad says — if you hadn’t been texting in the meeting and Hannah didn’t have a coke problem, and Dependables didn’t have totally unreasonable clie
nt expectations, and if it hadn’t all imploded at the right time, I wouldn’t have gotten the promotion. It’s all part of the Master Plan Way! I mean…it’s brilliant!”
“That’s very noble of you, Alan.”
“Not noble,” he says. “Just the facts.”
“Hmmm,” Raina says.
“Cool dude, I get it,” Oliver says. “ I roll the same way.”
He slaps Alan on the back, like they’re comrades, like the little bastard didn’t slide right into my job.
“Well, good seeing you, Alan.” I step onto the sidewalk, my brain a little foggy, my limbs a little loose.
“Hey, did you hear? Hannah’s in rehab.”
“Really?” I turn around.
“Yeah, Meadow Air up in Connecticut. Evidently, she was way worse than anyone realized.”
“Who’s Hannah?” Oliver asks.
“My old boss,” I say.
“Meadow Air is a good one,” he replies, which seems totally normal coming from him.
“Anyway, you should write her. Or something.” Alan makes a face like he doesn’t care all that much.
“Have you?”
“Me? No. But we weren’t friends. But you should. Everyone makes mistakes, you know.”
“I thought no one made mistakes. Isn’t that what my dad says?” I remember that sext of her boobs that she sent me, of the false EPT test, of Shawn leaving.
Alan scrunches up his forehead and stares at the sky, contemplating. Then his gaze makes its way back to us, and he shrugs.
“Hell if I know. I just like your dad’s book.”
12
“What is one thing you hate more than anything else in the world?” Vanessa asks.
It’s Friday again, and we are power walking as if nothing has changed, even though everything has. That Shawn hasn’t disappeared into the ether, that he and I haven’t given up trying for kids, that my parents aren’t having some sort of late-in-life sexual crisis, that my brother might not be indicted as the next (not-so-masterful) white-collar mastermind, and that adult diapers didn’t ruin my life.
The Theory of Opposites Page 9
