Twisted Sisters

by Jen Lancaster

  I wish this news was a surprise; it’s not.

  Yet the truth is not that I did a terrible job with Ashlee. Quite the opposite, in fact. The network is partially pissed over Ashlee having pulled herself together without our intervention.

  Technically, we did intervene—it’s just that Gary didn’t capture a moment of footage. I suspect Ol’ Rat Nasty wouldn’t have signed a release to use tape of him even if we had any, but it might have been nice if Gary had at least tried. Then, when Ashlee had her epiphany as we drove back to the studio, I didn’t have the heart to interrupt her to say we needed to start rolling. She was so forthcoming about her problems with her “momager” and her “frenemies” that I’d have felt unethical in interrupting her flow.

  So, like a tree falling in the forest and no one hearing the sound, it’s as though her breakthrough didn’t happen. At least not on Push’s watch.

  Now that Ashlee finally has the world’s eyes on her again, she’s blossoming under all the positive attention. She was witty and engaging on Good Morning America earlier this week, and she killed it on Kimmel with all the self-deprecation. And the wigmaker worked wonders! All of which would have been fantastic, had Push received the credit. (Related note? I could live without the media having nicknamed me Dr. Wack.)

  I could have easily weathered the Ashlee storm, had she not been immediately followed by Hurricane Lance Voss.

  Lance Voss is world-famous for being the former bad-boy NBA player with three loves in this world: strippers, cocaine, and model railroads. The trains in and of themselves aren’t problematic, although I wonder if I couldn’t have gotten through to him a little more had he not spent the entirety of our three-hour filmed session struggling to correct a grade he’d built too steep.

  After the Ashlee debacle, Kassel and the network were thrilled with the visuals of our session. There Lance was, this shirtless behemoth of man, biceps bulging, covered in tattoos from the neck down, pierced nipples peeking out from under his pinstriped engineer’s overalls, matching cap, and a red bandanna, looming like a Japanese movie monster over his tiny town. Yet Lance was sweet and forthcoming on-camera, largely because he wanted us gone so he could do more rails. (The drug kind, not the model-train-enthusiast kind.)

  To me, it was clear that he was shining us on, telling us what we wanted to hear, but to the casual observer, he seemed open to change. And I suspect that given the time and the tools the old Push would have afforded me, we could have been successful in manifesting healthier behaviors.

  Fortunately, Lance is an inpatient at Promises now and receiving the intensive one-on-one treatment he desperately needed. Unfortunately, he was sent there for having tried to commandeer an Amtrak engine after running out on a nineteen-thousand-dollar bar tab at Scores.

  Let me just say this: The media has not been kind about the incident, with the lion’s share of the blame once again going to Push, and I’m just mortified. By itself, the shame is bad enough. But Geri’s been calling me all week, no doubt to rub it all in. Each time I see her number, I send the call directly to voice mail before deleting the message without listening. I’ve no desire to hear her gloat. Naturally, Sebastian pulled yet another one of his disappearing acts. Why is he perpetually busiest when I need him most?

  As I was pacing last night, I was so desperate for some reassurance that when the phone rang, I picked up. At that point, I didn’t even care if it was Geri on the line. A smug hug is still a hug.

  “Hello?”

  “What do you say, Ray?”

  I’d have known that voice anywhere. Deep and smooth, with the slightest trace of a New York accent.

  “Boyd? What . . . how did . . .” I was at a loss for words. I hadn’t spoken to him since the early days of Sebastian, almost three years ago, and certainly not since I bought my house and installed the landline.

  I could feel him smiling all the way out in California. “How’d I get your number? A little Geri told me. No, no—don’t be mad. I Facebooked her to see how you were doing and she said you were avoiding everyone. I figured you could use a friend, so here I am. Hello, friend.”

  I couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit better. “Hi, back.”

  “I assume Sebastian’s not there or he’d make you hang up.”

  I snapped, “I don’t need him here to hang up on you.”

  “Whoa, Ray, I promise I come in peace. Just figured you could use an ear. No judgment. Just love.”

  I sank down into the couch. “I also don’t need your love, Boyd.”

  He snorted. “Yeah, you made that clear when you left me standing on the beach back then.”

  I winced, remembering how I went directly to Surfrider after my adviser read me the riot act. Although I’d done exceptionally well in my classes, I’d sort of . . . misplaced the passion I should have been funneling into my dissertation. Ironic, because writing was kind of my thing.

  He said, “Let me start over. Hi, friend. I’m calling to see how you are. You okay?”

  I took a deep breath and began my tale of woe. “I’m not. I have a meeting with the show’s executive producer tomorrow and I’m afraid he’s going to fire me. What’s going to happen to me if I lose my job, Boyd? I’m already a national laughingstock. I definitely won’t be able to work in television. Good Morning America’s never calling me again.”

  “Stephanopoulos was flirting with you last time you were on.”

  “Right?” I exclaimed. “I thought so, too! And by the way, did anyone in my family even bother to watch my episode?”

  “You’re trying to make a cat bark, Ray. Your folks love you and they’re proud of you, but they’re never going to demonstrate the level of validation you want. You’re never getting a parade. That’s not who they are. They’ll show you in different ways, though. Your dad’ll upgrade your garbage disposal and gas up your car. Your mom’ll trek to the north side to bring you a casserole, cursing the whole way. That’s what they do.”

  “Well, that’s neither here nor there,” I said, trying not to feel guilty about the chicken à la king I found in a cooler on my porch earlier and immediately donated to the guys. “The bigger issue is that this scandal could be a career killer. Who’ll book me for a speaking engagement now? And I can’t imagine private patients lining up to see Dr. Wack. I’ll be ruined. I’ll never be able to show my semi-famous face in Whole Foods again.”

  “Is being recognized—and subsequently mocked—in the grocery store really a big deal?”

  “No.” Yes.

  He laughed. “You’re a terrible liar. But it’s okay, you can still be my friend.”

  “Does that title come with dental and a generous base salary?”

  “Maybe.”

  As much as I’ve tried to deny it, I miss bantering with Boyd. We used to spend hours having silly little arguments about the most ridiculous stuff, like whether I was Mrs. Robinson or a pedophile for having a crush on Catcher in the Rye’s Holden Caulfield.

  “What are you up to now, anyway?” I asked.

  “Little of this, little of that,” he replied in his usual noncommittal fashion.

  “Any chance you’ve gone back to business school?”

  “These feet were not meant to wear wing tips, Reagan. Give me flip-flops or give me death.”

  What I really wanted to know was if he was seeing someone, but I wasn’t sure what I’d do with the information once I had it.

  Some questions are better left unasked.

  “Are you happy, Boyd?”

  “Every day, every day. Can you say the same?”

  “On the eve of being fired? Probably not.” Pondering my fate, I could feel my stomach knot. “Seriously, what’ll I do with myself if I lose my job? Sit around and watch television and get fat? Become a hairdresser? As is, I’ve been so distracted that I can’t do the marathon this
year because I haven’t kept up with my training.”

  He sighed into the phone and I could picture him running his hands through his hair. “Reagan, baby—when’ll you learn to cut yourself a break? Take a breather? Would it be so bad to have an open schedule for the first time since you wrote your dissertation?”

  “You mean, when you had me so distracted being your little surf bunny that I completely procrastinated writing it?” I think back to the beach with Boyd and how his pals would tease me for wrapping myself in the terry-cloth equivalent of a burka. Sometimes I miss those days so much it’s a physical ache.

  “Guilty as charged. I’d do it again, too.”

  I curled into the corner of the couch and inadvertently wrapped myself in a throw, remembering how he’d laugh about the SPF properties of terry cloth.

  “What am I going to do, Boyd? My only skill is counseling people.”

  “Not true,” he countered. “Your writing always impressed me, Ray.”

  Even though I was heartbroken when I finally sat down to begin my dissertation, I can’t help but remember the joy I felt putting words to page. I always wanted to write a book, yet I assumed that would happen after I’d had some major accomplishments. Losing my job, even if it’s through no fault of my own?

  Hardly an accomplishment on which to base one’s literary career.

  “Thanks, but if you recall—and I’m sure you do—this is the choice I made. I mean, I dedicated the last decade and a half to getting here, and it’s so wrong that I’m being penalized for things that aren’t in my control. The stuff with Lance Voss couldn’t have been helped. I had three hours with him! That’s not enough time to bake a brisket, let alone address a decade of addiction.”

  “You back on the cow?” Although Boyd’s a carnivore, he never once teased me for my dining proclivities. In fact, he’d perpetually seek out the best vegetarian and seafood places because he knew they’d make me happy. And he’s the one who introduced me to the wide world of organics in the first place.

  Of course, Sebastian is Captain Steakhouse. But I figure it’s a trade-off, what with his career involving more than board shorts and a shot glass.

  “God, no. I just couldn’t think of anything that might take me more than three hours to do.”

  “I might be able to occupy you for that long.”

  And then I blushed, because he was right.

  “Listen,” I told him, “I have a big, awful day to prepare for tomorrow, so I’ve got to go. It’s been good to talk to you. Thank you . . . friend.”

  “Miss you, Ray. I’m here if you need me. Take my number.” He rattled it off and I parroted it back to him, pretending to write it down.

  As smooth as it may go down, I can’t eat ice cream for dinner; ergo, the past is inevitably best left in the past.

  As for my present?

  I’m about to learn my fate.

  Kassel leans across his desk. “Relax. I’m not going to fire you.”

  A wave of relief washes over me. I can feel the tears beginning to well in the corners of my eyes, but I fight them back. I loosen the death grip I’ve had on my phone, which is now slick with my own terror sweat.

  He amends his statement. “At least not yet.”

  Kassel manages to sound empathetic when he says this, gazing at me from behind his surprisingly old-fashioned antique partners’ desk. This heavy, hand-carved piece of furniture is a good six feet deep, meant to accommodate workers on either side, so I feel like I’m sitting a mile away from him. I was shocked when I saw his office for the first time. I’d have pegged him for picking a hypermodern glass-and-steel workspace, but that’s not the case at all. This room projects exactly as much warmth as it did back when Patty had draped every surface in tapestry.

  He’s lined the walls with old books—really, a reader?—and he’s covered the floor with a sumptuous vintage Persian rug in a myriad of subtle jewel tones. Deva says she recognizes the pattern from her time in Tabriz. (I haven’t a clue as to what she was doing in East Azerbaijan. She called it Persia, which is the politically correct way of saying Iran.)

  “Thank you,” I practically whisper. I hate how much my voice quavers.

  “Don’t thank me yet, Peace Corps. I’m in a world of shit because of you. The Ashlee episode was supposed to be our premiere, followed by Lance Voss. Those are both off the table now. I’ve gotta go with the third runner-up, which is Dr. Karen and the hand washer. Not big. Not at all big.” He makes an obscene gesture to punctuate his point, inadvertently drawing attention to his glorious wrists.

  As it turns out, tales of the aging soap star’s obsessive-compulsive disorder were largely a figment of her publicist’s imagination. So it’s not like it was particularly difficult for Dr. Karen to capture big changes on film. The trailer featuring Andrea DiAngelo dipping her paws in a compost pile has been running all week, leading up to the show’s premiere.

  I cast my gaze downward as he continues. “Do not cock this next one up, got it? You have one more shot. This next episode is do or die for you. Keep in mind, if you’re gone, then your whole team is outta here. Understand? You’re a package deal. Sorry to be harsh, but that’s how it’s gotta be. I fought the network to keep you, so do not make me look bad.”

  I’m awash with equal parts shame and determination. I’ll be devastated if anything happens to Ruby or Faye because of me. Ruby’s about to buy her first condo and Faye’s been talking about bringing her grandkids back to the resort where we stayed in Hawaii. They used to lobby to work with me because I’m so much more competent than Dr. Karen and her (medicine) bag o’ tricks. I can’t let them down. I can’t allow their faith in me to be shaken, at least any more than it already has been.

  And what of my family? The only thing they have to be proud of right now is Mary Mac and her ability to toast fennel seeds. It’s my birthright to be the successful one. It’s on me to make enough to buy the folks a winter place on the Florida coast . . . because that way I can determine how many guest rooms they need. (Hint—she who pays stays—the rest of you mooches can rent a hotel room if you want to visit.)

  Despite how invested I am in where I went to school, my job is what makes me special. Without it, I’m basically Geri. Only not chunky, and with my own house. But still.

  I need Push.

  I need my job.

  I need a win.

  I need a way to make the impossible possible.

  I need to check my messages.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Swimfan

  From the recesses of my bedroom closet, I hear a buzzing. I dash down the hall to press the button underneath the intercom’s speaker. “Hello?”

  “Salutations, Reagan Bishop!”

  I reply, “Hey, Deva. I’ll be out in a sec; just let me grab my keys.”

  After locating them in the crockery bowl I now use specifically to house them (excellent suggestion, Ol’ Rat Nasty), I head down the stairs to greet Deva.

  I’m ready for my run in a white Nike Dri-Fit tank and Lululemon’s speed shorts in Mint Moment Black with the little zippy pocket that rests on my tailbone in the back. However, I’m wearing a waist pack, too, because I require enough room to carry my phone.

  Deva, on the other hand, is ready not so much for a jog as she is to herd her camels across the Sinai Peninsula. She’s covered in layers of linen and ropes of tribal beads, topped with a kaffiyeh head wrap. But what really ties the whole outfit together is the matching Pumas.

  “Um . . . are you wearing a toga?” I ask.

  “Actually, Reagan Bishop, it’s a thobe.”

  Of course it is.

  “Might you be more comfortable in a pair of running shorts? I have plenty you can borrow. We seem to be about the same size.” Except for gloves, of course.

  Deva waves me off. “Not at all, Reagan Bisho
p. Linen is very breathable and I’ll be protected both from the sun and sandstorms.”

  “Have we had many sandstorms in Chicago lately?” I query.

  Deva gives me a knowing look. “It’s best to be prepared for any eventuality, Reagan Bishop. The Bedouins have been dressing this way for centuries. I believe you’ll find that my outfit stands the test of time.”

  “Then who am I to argue with the sartorial choices of the entire Ottoman Empire?”

  I’ve had a world of stress to process lately, so Deva’s been joining me on my usual five-mile loop by the lake. Except we discover she can’t really run today without becoming tangled in her cape, so we decide to take a brisk walk instead.

  “I notice a disturbance in your root chakra. How are you feeling today? What is your mood? I’m sensing . . . humiliation?” Deva peers at me, her outfit billowing behind her like a sail.

  Sometimes what Deva says is pure bunk, and sometimes she’s right on the money. “Yes, I’d say my overwhelming emotion right now is rooted in a level of mortification. Of course, I’ve been embarrassed before,” I tell Deva. “Comes with the territory.”

  “Therapy embarrasses you, Reagan Bishop?”

  While we walk, I loosen up my arms by pulling my elbows back behind my head and pushing down with the opposite hands. I’ve been carrying an almost paralyzing amount of tension between my shoulder blades and this simple stretch works wonders.

  “On occasion, yes. For example, one time when I first started my practice, I was at the Lincoln Park Target buying—what?—Kleenex? Toilet bowl cleaner? Something innocuous. Anyway, I spotted one of my patients coming down the aisle with someone else and I didn’t want to make eye contact.”

  We’re heading down North Lakeview on our way to the spot where I loosen up my hamstrings on Fullerton. The sky is a bit gray, so we’re not suffocating in the stifling Chicago summer heat. That’s something no one from out of town ever fully understands—the summer temperatures are inversely proportional to the winter cold. I had a roommate at U of C who was from Galveston, Texas. She showed up without a single short-sleeved shirt, expecting late August snow. She was sorely disappointed.