Twisted Sisters

by Jen Lancaster

  As I wend my way around the lushly landscaped pool and back to my room, flashes of our conversation come back to me and I’m mortified all over again. Perhaps I should be grateful that I’m already the color of a candy apple, thus no one can see me blush.

  “I’m curious about your name, Reagan Bishop,” Deva prodded somewhere around third-pineapple o’clock. “Were your parents fans of the Gipper and his Star Wars defense system?”

  I recall laughing into my cocktail, which, in retrospect, was less of a “frosty drink” and more of a “tasty truth serum.”

  This? Right here?

  Is why I never drink, at least since my days with Boyd. And look where that almost got me.

  Yet something deep inside of me must have felt the need to unload, so I shared. “Not at all. My parents are lifelong Dems. Hard-core. In fact, my mother started working for the Daley administration when he was elected. They grew up on the same block, so he trusted her. She started off in the secretarial pool, but eventually she became Richard M. Daley’s personal assistant. She was his right hand. For a solid decade, my mother was unofficially the second most powerful person in the city of Chicago. You wanted to talk to ‘da mare’? You had to get through Maggie Bishop first. She retired when the new guy was elected, though, because she despises him almost as much as the Olympic selection committee. Profound loathing. Refuses to use Rahm’s real name and will only refer to him as Tiny Dancer.”

  It’s common knowledge in Chicago that Mayor Emanuel is both short of stature and a classically trained danseur, hence Ma’s moniker. He’s also close friends with Wendy Winsberg, so I’ve met him a few times at her parties. He smells like pine trees and power.

  Of course, since the family despises him, I automatically add him to the buddy list.

  I continued, “I thought my mother was going to excommunicate me last week after our photo appeared in Chicago Nouveau magazine when we chatted briefly at a fund-raiser for the Joffrey Ballet. I’m guessing this is why you believe my chakras or colors or whatever are askew.”

  Of course, it was Geri who ratted me out, as my mother would never touch that magazine because she believes it fosters the whole idea of a “new” Chicago. In her purview, the Chicago she loves ends at the border of the Bridgeport neighborhood where her family’s lived for three generations. We butt heads because they’re patently old-fashioned; Chicago’s no longer a Carl Sandburg poem. I’m sorry, Ma, but the new Chicago is more than just hog butcher for the world or stacker of wheat. (And who eats wheat anymore? Read Wheat Belly—it’ll transform your way of looking at grain.) Point? We’ve progressed past our roots as a sheltered midwestern burg where we all know one another—we’re now a metropolitan destination with world-class dining, lodging, and entertainment.

  This is why we clash, my family and me.

  Whereas I’m urbane and cosmopolitan, they’ll lose their minds if someone dare serve ketchup with their hot dogs.

  Anyway, one of Geri’s clients must have been thumbing through the issue while under the dryer or something and she pointed out the photo to Geri, who couldn’t even wait for her shift to end to squeal on me.

  It’s called a life, Geri. Perhaps you should get you one.

  “Meaning there are indeed issues in the family, Reagan Bishop.”

  “Wait, did I say the stuff about Geri out loud?”

  Deva nodded.

  Damn you, vile, delicious, vile pineapple!

  That’s when I began to drink in earnest, and I’m not sure what flew out of my mouth next. Hopefully with a couple of gallons of Fiji water and a rigorous barefoot beach run in the morning, I can exercise/exorcise today’s mental and physical transgressions.

  I make my way through the lobby, my besmirched skin glowing like a halogen bulb. I can actually feel waves of heat radiating off me. When I pass a family standing at the registration desk, I distinctly hear a mother tell her child, “I’m so glad we packed your sun shirt.” Argh.

  I enter the elevator and press the button for the club floor. Although I’m not a producer or director, my room is up here with all the show’s brass. I have no issue with receiving most favored treatment. Consider this—participants can’t change without my expert guidance. A sassy haircut won’t fill a hole in the soul. Really? I’m the axis on which the whole operation spins, hence the ocean view.

  As I retrieve my key card, I notice Patty, the show’s executive producer, leaving her suite next door. I adore Patty—in so many ways, she’s the parent I wish I had. Whereas Ma can be rigid and brusque, Patty’s a true earth mother, relaxed and accepting and brimming with understanding. She’s caring and compassionate and open, and no matter what stress the show brings, the whole Push crew is encouraged to seek solace and comfort in Patty’s tapestry-covered, pillow-strewn, candlelit office.

  “Good afternoon, Patty.”

  She’s so distracted that I have to greet her again before I catch her attention. Maybe I wasn’t the only one lured onto the rocks by the siren song of Troy’s pineapple drinks today.

  She digs in her satchel while she speaks. “Reagan, my dear, how are you?”

  I glance down at my lobster-red limbs and quote that old commercial. “I got a sunburn and I feel like a French fry.”

  Patty glances up and then shoots me a withering look. “I don’t understand why you girls today aren’t more careful. Haven’t you learned the dangers of excessive tanning by now? Melanoma is the silent killer! How many more of your sisters must die from entirely preventable deaths?”

  Whoa, what? But I don’t . . . I never . . .

  Before I can even begin to verbalize a protest, Patty says, “I have to go—I’ll see you at the dinner tonight.”

  I wince as I shift my bag, the straps digging into my inflamed skin. “No, I’ll probably just order room service and—”

  “Wendy has an announcement and you will be there to hear it.”

  And with that, she flounces off, her long skirt and Stevie Nicks sleeves flapping in the breeze behind her.

  What was that about?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Trading Up

  “What’s everyone doing during hiatus?” chirps Mindy, the sprightly, albeit butterfingered production assistant who’s perpetually fumbling my hot beverages. I barely recognized her outside of her usual cargo shorts and U of A sweatshirt. Somehow in the past three days, she’s turned as brown as a native in the Hawaiian sun, with nary an extra freckle, whereas I’m practically fluorescent except for the large white circles around my eyes from my sunglasses. Shameful.

  As for our upcoming hiatus, we wrapped the second season late last week and we’re not due to start shooting again until after Labor Day. As previously mentioned, I might not earn quite what I did in private practice, but I didn’t have summers off, either. During the break, I plan to accommodate a few of my favorite private patients while I allocate the bulk of my time to training for the October marathon and snapping up continuing education credits. I’m agog with anticipation over my upcoming course on Exposure and Response Prevention in Practice!

  Everyone even tangentially related to I Need a Push (and their guests) is sitting in the Anuenue Room at the Ritz, waiting for Wendy Winsberg to arrive and deliver the keynote speech. Actually, our jobs entail a whole lot of waiting for Wendy to announce something or other, so this is pretty much business as usual. If she had a million bucks for every speech she gave us, then . . . well, you do the math. That’s why I find it so curious that Patty was acting oddly about this particular invocation.

  I specifically opted to sit at a table close to the bar, as I want ready access to ice to soothe my ravaged skin. Unfortunately, the younger staffers chose this table for its drinks-adjacency, so they’ve been swilling free liquor and yammering away for what feels like an eternity.

  I just lost twenty minutes of my life to an in-depth reh
ash of every time Taylor Swift’s been dumped in the past five years. I figured I could listen, or I could poke out my eardrums with a shrimp fork. As I eye my utensils, I’m not confident I made the right choice.

  Anyway, apparently the girls are still Team Jacob, despite their never, ever, ever getting back together. But after listening to my tablemates deconstruct failure after perpetual failure, I’m half tempted to get ahold of her manager and suggest we work one on one. With her pattern of consecutive, terrible breakups, it sounds like she may be the author of her own misfortune. I can help her.

  (A giver, that’s what I am.)

  Two seats over, Dr. Karen draws a breath, as clearly she’s ready to pontificate. Are the tsunami-warning bells chiming? Because we’re about to be swept out to sea on a tidal wave of bullshit! Quick! Run for higher ground! Grab a palm tree!

  I’m hesitant to say I have a nemesis, because I’m a mental health professional who’s adept at processing and compartmentalizing negative feelings.

  But if I did have a nemesis, it would be Dr. Karen.

  She’s the polar opposite of me in everything from philosophy to looks. I’m in my early(ish) thirties, whereas she clearly crawled out of the primordial ooze. I’m selfless and humble; she’s practically tattooed her CV on her forehead. Like anyone cares she went to Harvard. Look at her all ropy and gnarled in her vintage pastel suit—and why is she wearing a hat? What is she, the Queen Mum?

  “Well, I’m writing a book,” Dr. Karen declares. “I have the top literary agent and he’s desperate for me to finish my manuscript. He’s already calling my work the Next Big Thing.”

  Ugh. I wonder if she had to buy an extra seat on the airplane to accommodate all of her carry-on smug-gage? Even though Deva advocates junk science like astrology and numerology, I have more respect for her than I do for Dr. Karen. And why is her book already being called the Next Big Thing? I’m sure I could write a book if I had even a moment of free time. Mine would absolutely be better than hers.

  Dr. Karen’s the show’s other mental health professional, only she’s a licensed psychiatrist, meaning she can prescribe meds. And prescribe she does! Are you momentarily sad? Here’s an antidepressant! Are you the slightest bit unhappy with the numbers on the scale? Well, a shot of HCG is exactly the jump start you need! Have you ever so briefly lost your ability to focus? Amphetamines to the rescue! She pays no attention to behavior cues and heads straight for a chemical solution; it’s so counterintuitive to all that I practice.

  “Ooh, exciting!” Mindy shrieks. Mindy shrieks a lot. You’ve never seen anyone so enthusiastic about minutiae. She’s only now finally shut up about the bagged nuts, dried fruit, and bottled water waiting for each of us in our hotel rooms. I can’t even fathom her reaction to the gratis minibottles of shampoo and mouthwash, but I suspect her Facebook followers have been briefed ad nauseam. “What’s your book about?”

  Oh, sweetie—let’s not pretend you read.

  Dr. Karen glances conspiratorially around the table. “It’s a collection of stories from my patients who’ve experienced side effects when taking a certain benzodiazepine.”

  No one seems to understand what this means, so I offer, “It’s a sedative/hypnotic, like you’d find in your garden-variety sleeping pill.”

  Which I would never advocate, even if I were able to write scripts. When my patients can’t sleep, I help them resolve the issues keeping them up at night. The last thing I’d do would be to substitute a little tablet for talk therapy.

  Mind you, I’m well aware that prescription drugs have their place and serve important purposes. Certain pharmaceuticals are mission critical and no one’s going to cognitively process away their cancer or diabetes. But personally, I take umbrage at handing out psychotropic drugs like Halloween candy, especially in lieu of exploring other avenues of behavior modification.

  “Yes, exactly, Reagan,” Dr. Karen says, surprised that I’m actually familiar with what she’s saying.

  This is exasperating, as Pepperdine isn’t exactly clown college. (And it’s not like they hosted Circus of the Stars there, either.) “Naturally I’m familiar, what with being a doctor and all,” I reply curtly.

  Then Dr. Karen literally pats my hand in an infuriatingly condescending manner. The way she reaches for me instantly reminds me of a praying mantis grabbing at a leaf. Why did it take me until now to make the comparison? Put that bug in vintage Dior, apply too much rouge, and I swear I couldn’t tell the difference between them.

  “Of course you are, my dear,” she says. “Anyway, the book’s called The Thanwell Diaries and it recounts the bizarre behavior I’ve documented from patients taking that drug.”

  “What’s Thanwell? Like Ambien?” Mindy’s equally bronzed buddy asks. What’s her name? Crystal? Jewel? Amber? Something gemstone inspired and vaguely white trash—that much I remember.

  “Thanwell is like Ambien on crack,” I interject. “The drug is absorbed ten times more quickly and is prone to cause delusions and hallucinations. I’m at a loss to understand why the FDA hasn’t pulled this dreadful product. Those who take it report a high frequency of episodes where they engage in all kinds of risky behavior, like sleep driving, sleep eating, sleep shopping, etcetera. I worked with one gentleman who after ingesting Thanwell—which he took against my counsel—serenaded his entire condo complex. This incident was troubling for a number of reasons, namely because he can’t sing, it was four a.m. on a Tuesday, and he was completely nude, save for a pair of cowboy boots. He was so humiliated afterward that he put his place on the market, sold it at a loss, and moved out of town. He was almost ruined financially.”

  Dr. Karen snorts in a most unbecoming fashion and slaps the table. “That’s hilarious! Give me his e-mail address! I’d love to include his story in my book. Oh, wait until you hear what this one lady did . . .”

  Before Dr. Karen can launch into her story, I slip away from the table. Technically, she’s not violating patient confidentiality, yet I’ve no desire to encourage her spilling salacious details.

  Besides, that story’s for my book someday.

  Of course, if I’d listened to Boyd, I’d have dropped out to write and follow him on the thus-far-unpaid surfing circuit. He said with the way I devoured books and observed human behavior, he was sure I’d produce something amazing. Let’s see . . . a doctorate and guaranteed professional success, or one enormous crapshoot of which I’d never hear the end if I were to fail? No contest there.

  I step out onto the lanai for a quick breath of air before the evening’s programming begins.

  From behind me I hear, “Reagan Bishop, tear down this wall!”

  I whip around to see Deva, grinning like the Cheshire cat. Instead of her usual dashiki or ikat caftan, today she’s all wrapped up in the traditional garb of boldly printed Hawaiian kapa cloth. Does she even own a pair of jeans? And what does laundry day look like at her house? I have to wonder. She’s also opted for a haku lei floral headpiece woven with orchids and banana leaves. She’s quite the contrast to me in my white J.Crew sundress with a dove gray cardigan and hair pulled up in a high bun.

  Deva explains, “You said when growing up, people would always quote Ronald Reagan because of your first name. I thought ‘tear down this wall’ could be our thing.”

  “Deva, this is not going to be our thing. Do you not recall the part earlier where I told you how much I hated that?”

  Undaunted, Deva reaches up to scratch under the back of her headpiece. “Well, you were slurring pretty badly by that point, Reagan Bishop. My apologies for misunderstanding.”

  To this day, I’m aggravated that my parents saddled me with this unfortunate moniker. For God’s sake, Geri was named after my mother’s idol, Geraldine Ferraro, the first woman to run for vice president. “Reagan” is a true anomaly, particularly given my parents’ political bent. Granted, I was born on the day
Reagan took office in 1981, and while he was being sworn in, the Iranian hostages were released after 444 grueling days of captivity. The only explanation offered is that Ma was so overcome with hormones and morphine—mostly morphine—that naming me Reagan was a fait accompli. By the time she came to her senses, the birth certificate was a matter of public record.

  I suspect this is the exact moment when I adopted my Just Say No view on prescription drugs.

  Before I can elaborate, we notice Wendy entering the ballroom. Rather, we’re alerted to her entrance when the entire ballroom lets out a collective gasp. Twenty-five years in the business and she still has that impact on people. Deva and I quickly slip in at the back of the room and plant ourselves in the first open seats we can find.

  I’ll admit it—I sometimes experience cutis anserina (goose bumps) when Wendy speaks, such is her charisma. As she steps onto the dais, the crowd switches from reverent silence to a cacophony of cheers that take three whole minutes to quell. Her presence is legendary, although not necessarily because Wendy’s considered beautiful. I’m not being snarky here—as she herself says, she’s a little too short, a little too lumpy, and a little too ethnic (read: Jewish) to be a cover girl, which is so ironic considering all the magazines she’s graced in the past three decades.

  Wendy leans up to the microphone. “Hello, gorgeous people! How are you enjoying Mauiiiiiiiii?” She draws out the word “Maui” for a good five beats.

  The crowd bursts into prolonged applause, which dies down once only everyone’s hands begin to ache.

  “I want to thank you all for joining me on this journey.”

  More applause.

  “Not just to Maui, but in this journey we call life.”

  Would it be ungrateful to point out that sometimes Wendy speaks in phrases most commonly found cross-stitched on pillows?

  “And life is a journey, not a destination.”

  So much applause.