Twisted Sisters

by Jen Lancaster

  In fact, more than seven hundred citizens—largely the elderly and the poor—tragically perished in the heat wave of 1995. The mayor was roundly criticized for his response to the crisis, so this is one of those Subjects That Are Not Discussed in the Bishop household.

  I consider it a small blessing that today’s overcast and breezy with the threat of rain, which makes for a pleasant walk. I tell Deva, “You’re likely aware there are stringent HIPAA regulations regarding confidentiality. I was worried I might inadvertently greet my patient and then she might be forced into a conversation with her companion on how she and I are acquainted. I wanted to avoid all of that. So, to circumvent the potentially awkward eye contact, I pretended to be very interested in the display in front of me and started randomly grabbing products without even looking at what I was taking. I just wanted to seem like a regular shopper.”

  Deva assures me, “There’s no shame in taking advantage of Target’s competitive pricing, Reagan Bishop. I purchase paper towels there. You’d be shocked at the splash zone created by certain types of Reiki healing.”

  I glance over at her. “Do I want the details?”

  Deva’s thoughtful for a moment. “Probably not. Please, go on.”

  I shudder as I recollect. “I’m still mortified when I remember that day. There I was, trying to do the right thing, and it completely backfired. I was so hypersensitive to my patient’s needs that I didn’t realize I was inadvertently buying Astroglide in bulk. So my patient comes up to me, says hello, introduces her friend, and then she notices all the lube in my cart and she says, ‘Big plans this weekend, Dr. B?’ I wanted to die.”

  “Would you typify the recent incidents as worse, Reagan Bishop?”

  I snort. “Not even in the same stratosphere. At least I could explain my rationale when I saw my patient the next time. How do I justify myself to the entirety of the TMZ viewership?”

  Deva waxes philosophic. “Those who matter will know your truth, Reagan Bishop. It’s hard when you’re up to your armpits in alligators to remember you came here to drain the swamp.”

  I give her a sidelong glance. “Did you just quote President Reagan to me?”

  “Are we still not doing that?”

  “We are not.”

  When we arrive at the corner of Fullerton and Lincoln Park West, I position myself behind a bench and work through my litany of running stretches. After I loosen up my soleus (inner calf muscle) and Achilles tendon, I grasp the back of the bench and execute some leg swings. Swing back, kick front, swing back, kick front, repeat twenty times on each side, really working the joints. To maintain my balance, I fix my gaze on the condo complex across the street. I notice one of the units has recently added a row of flower boxes on the deck and it’s filled with red geraniums and some greenery. Personally, I wouldn’t obstruct a lake view with cheap flowers and vines, but different strokes, eh?

  Satisfied with my range of motion, we move on. “The upside with Ashlee is at least there’s no footage of me counseling her. Yes, everyone still blames me, but at least she imploded prior to therapy.” I roll my shoulders as we walk. “But with Lance? I have no excuse for Lance.”

  “Then how will you handle tomorrow, Reagan Bishop?” Deva asks, chugging along next to me. I’ll be damned if she’s yet to break a sweat. I’ve already saturated my T-shirt.

  I feel my stomach twist itself in a knot because this is my last chance. “Magic? Miracle? Maybe I can simply astral project into Tabitha’s body and do it for her?”

  We’re filming a Very Special Episode of Push tomorrow due to Kassel’s coup of landing an actual star. Tabitha Baylee’s a true A-lister and she’s come to Push not because she needs a publicity stunt, a makeover, or a free Ford F-150, but because she has crippling acrophobia, which is a fear of heights. What’s problematic is that she’s starring as Parker Peter in the female remake of the movie Spider-Man (don’t ask) and she has to film a scene at the top of the Willis Tower.

  (FYI, Ma still refuses to call it anything other than the Sears Tower. Quelle surprise.)

  One of Kassel’s pals from his Make ’Em Eat a Bug days is the movie’s director, and he’s desperate to capture the shot where a moody Parker Peter gazes out on the city below, while coming to terms with having become a Spider-(Wo)man. Richard Holthaus, the director, is so desperate, in fact, that he called us after hypnotherapy, acupuncture, and drugs failed to assuage the starlet’s fears.

  “What can you do?” Deva asks.

  We cut across the park and head to the walking path next to the lake. Even with foreboding skies, sunbathers line the beach. The afternoon smells like Coppertone and charcoal, as the aroma from the outdoor grills at Castaways on North Avenue Beach drifts toward us. I haven’t touched anything that wasn’t born swimming since 1998, but my God, the scent of those burgers is intoxicating.

  I explain, “Thing is, I’ve done tons of exposure work before, which is how a therapist helps patients with fears. For example, I had a client who was desperately afraid of dogs, having once been attacked as a child. But her fiancé had a big Swiss Mountain dog and the creature scared her so much, she was afraid to go to visit his house, let alone live there after they were married. So we started off small. The first pup she met was a teacup terrier, and we worked our way up from there, graduating to shih tzus, then pugs, etcetera. Over a six-month period, we slowly introduced bigger and bolder dogs. By the time of her wedding, she not only was able to be around her husband’s pooch, but even had the confidence to take him out for walks.”

  Deva has been listening intently. “Cesar Millan sometimes has me perform Reiki massage on his most troubled cases. I worked on a magnificent Basenji named Anubis—opened his chi right up.” Deva adjusts her thobe, which has shifted as we’ve walked. “Anubis still lifted his leg on the drapes after that, though.”

  “What was your resolution?” I ask, trying to imagine exactly which new age treatment would have curbed a naughty dog’s behavior. Chanting? Burning herbs? A newly feng shui’d doghouse?

  “I filled a Dr Pepper can with pennies and shook it at him whenever he approached the window.”

  This stops me in my tracks.

  “What, Reagan Bishop? You don’t need mystical power to discipline your dogs. You just need to show them you’re the boss.”

  This? This is how she’s been winning me over. “You are an enigma wrapped in a turban, Deva.”

  “Namaste.” She grins and bows. “I like you, too, Reagan Bishop. I do not desire seeing you fired, so what’s your strategy?”

  As we cruise past the volleyball courts, I give the players a cursory look. Nope, no one I know. Which reminds me to check my phone. I surreptitiously slip it out of and then back into my waist pack. Nothing. How can there be nothing? I’m sure the phone works out here—I’ve tested it. And there’s a cell tower at Clark and Division, less than a mile down the road. I have three and a half bars, for crying out loud!

  “Reagan Bishop?”

  “Gosh, sorry—had to check on something.”

  Deva knits her brow. “Are you waiting for a call? Again?”

  “No, it’s fine. Sorry. You were saying—tomorrow. What am I going to do? That’s the million-dollar question. I tried to explain my therapy methodology to Kassel and he said, and I quote, ‘No one wants to watch a movie star climb a ladder.’ That’s how I’d begin to desensitize Tabitha. I said it wasn’t ethical for me to try to treat her any other way, particularly given what the filmmaker wants, and that I likely wouldn’t even capture any usable footage. And he said to try anyway because he couldn’t save me if I fail again.”

  Tomorrow, Kassel and Co. intends for me to attempt the impossible—stick a terrified girl right out on the Ledge of the Willis Tower Skydeck. The Ledge is an enclosed box on the hundred and third floor that extends 4.3 feet away from the side of the tower. People who don’t h
arbor a rabid fear of heights feel weak in the knees stepping into the laminated glass enclosure, so there’s no way I can coax Tabitha out there.

  Patently impossible.

  I’m normally not so defeatist, but I understand the parameters under which I’m toiling. I wouldn’t expect a wheelchair-bound person to walk based only on my encouragement. There would be months, if not years, of intensive rehabilitation involved first, and even then success wouldn’t be a guarantee. I mean, I’m skilled, but I definitely couldn’t just tip them out of the chair and say, Have at it.

  This business with Tabitha is almost a guaranteed failure, and I can’t stand failing. I’m not clinically diagnosable with atychiphobia, as I don’t avoid risk to prevent failure. (Ahem, person who lives in our parents’ basement, ahem.)

  Rather, I’m übermotivated by my desire to exceed and excel; that’s why I was such an exemplary student. Well, that and my desire to not be taunted by rich kids. While everyone else was dating and attending prom and playing team sports, I was locked in my room memorizing the periodic table and diagramming sentences. I attained the highest grades because I was willing to sacrifice the most to earn them. But I can’t nose-to-the-grindstone my way out of tomorrow, and the notion of bombing is giving me agita.

  And won’t everyone at the unemployment office be impressed with my credentials. Argh. Maybe I can write a book about how the disinterested clerk keeps calling me “Doctor” when she really means “bitch.”

  Oh, this can’t happen. I cannot be fired. I feel my chest constricting and I think I may vomit.

  “Humor me, Reagan Bishop; please stop and take a deep, cleansing breath.”

  I comply, inhaling so much grill smoke that I can practically taste the burgers and brats. Oh, is that fennel? Then I hate myself for being drawn to the taste of factory-farmed meat. While we’re by the snack bar, I dash in to buy us both a bottle of water to wash away any stray flavor.

  After I hand her an Aquafina, Deva circles around and stands in front of me. “Repeat, please—nam myoho renge kyo.”

  I grimace. “I’d rather not.” It’s one thing to stroll the lakefront with someone dressed like a Hari Krishna, an entirely different one to actually pass out the carnations.

  “Do you not desire to open the pathway to awaken your Buddha nature?” Deva clasps her chest with her enormous paws, clutching herself as though I’ve cast a mortal blow.

  “Not today, no.”

  Deva rights her head wrap, and I can tell she’s about to lecture me about her new age hokum. “Nichiren believed that voicing this incantation strengthens our capacity for wisdom, courage, confidence, vitality, and compassion.”

  “Listen, Deva, gaining wisdom, courage, confidence, vitality, and compassion sounds fantastic, but ultimately will this incantation lure a movie star into a glass box 1,353 feet in the air and prevent me from being fired?”

  “Not directly, but—”

  “Maybe next time, then.”

  We keep moving and I check my heart-rate monitor. I’m not quite hitting my target heart rate, yet my blood pressure is elevated due to my stress level. I wonder, will that produce the same caloric burn?

  At this point we’re back across the park and heading north toward my place. “Hey, give me your water bottle. I can pitch them here.” I grab her empty and toss them in the recycle bin behind the condo complex at North Lakeview and Fullerton. As I pass the rest of the bins, I can’t help but notice what the residents have so thoughtlessly thrown away. Distressed as I am about myself, I congratulate myself for still looking out for others.

  “Deva, come see all this waste—these bananas are barely brown. They’re still edible.” I pull them out of the can and set them off to the side. I hate our culture of waste in this country, so when I see an opportunity to salvage food products, I take it. “And look at this box of lentils,” I say. “It’s not even open!” In no time, I’ve scavenged enough ingredients to provide a day’s worth of sustenance for a family of four. I find a clean paper grocery sack in the recycle bin (why isn’t everyone using canvas totes yet?) and I bring the bagful of ingredients out front to the bench where a homeless person can spot them.

  I tell Deva, “Maybe this one little action won’t change the world, but if someone who wouldn’t have had dinner tonight now can eat, I feel better about myself.”

  “That’s very noble, Reagan Bishop.”

  “Thank you.”

  I often give myself affirmations about my own nobility.

  “May I ask you a question?”

  “Anything.” I zip open my waist pack and dig out my hand sanitizer. After I feel like I’m thoroughly disinfected, I reach for my phone, glance at it, then look back up at the geranium-covered deck.

  “Reagan Bishop, how long have you been stalking your ex?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Take Her to the Mattresses

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Stalking. Is that not what you’re doing?” Deva seems genuinely confused.

  “Of course I’m not stalking him! What would give you that idea?” I’m genuinely appalled at this accusation. Stalking! Me! A mental health professional. A doctor. Preposterous.

  “Perhaps ‘stalking’ is the wrong term.”

  “You think?” I hiss.

  “Allow me to share my observations, Reagan Bishop. You’re always texting him and calling him, yet I have never witnessed his returning the favor. I’ve heard you on the phone with his assistant dozens of times. No one takes that many meetings. Not even your namesake fortieth president at the height of the Cold War.”

  She begins to enumerate my perceived offenses on her sausage digits. “Every time we walk, you make us head south and pass by the volleyball courts, where you mentioned he plays in a league. Why have we never taken the north path, Reagan Bishop? There’s an entire beach for dogs at Belmont Harbor, right up the shoreline. Who wouldn’t want to walk to a beach entirely for dogs? Big black ones, little brown ones, fat white ones, all frolicking in the surf together. They bark as one. There’s a lesson there.”

  I’m so angry I’m practically hyperventilating. “You’re accusing me of being a stalker because I keep track of my mileage by taking the same route?”

  She places a gigantic hand on my shoulder in an attempt to calm me. “Of course not, Reagan Bishop. I’m calling you a stalker because of the stalking.”

  I can barely sputter out a defense as she keeps ticking off my supposed misdemeanors.

  “I’ve seen you pull up his Facebook profile at work a hundred times.”

  “That’s a crime now?”

  “No, but when I first noticed this pattern, you were so fixated on his page I assumed he was our next guest.”

  I can feel my fists clenching into balls. “His page is my home page—what’s so weird about that? Do I mock you for having FoxNews.com as your home page? Which, what’s up with that, by the way?”

  Deva purses her lips and cogitates my question. “I like Bill O’Reilly’s aura. I’m attracted to his dominant energy.”

  “I have no response to that.”

  She keeps pushing her stalking agenda. “Also, you’ve asked me to accompany you to the bar Cactus again and again, yet you never order a cocktail. By your own admission, your ex works in a building across the street. Stopping by his favorite watering hole once is a coincidence, twice is a pattern. A dozen times, particularly given your distaste for alcohol? Forgive me for saying it, but you’re entering Fatal Attraction territory.”

  “Your accusations are truly absurd.”

  Deva grabs my elbow. “Sebastian doesn’t happen to own a pet rabbit, does he? I ask for no particular reason.”

  I wriggle out of her grasp. “Circumstantial evidence, okay? All of it. Seb’s been really slammed at work, so the onus is on me to contact him. I miss seeing h
im regularly, so from time to time I check in on his social media profiles. If I were to run into him while we’re out and about? Then maybe he’ll realize how much he misses me, too. We’re on a semi-break now, but there have been plenty of times when I do catch him that we get together. I realize in terms of healthy relationships, this pattern isn’t optimal, but everything is fine between us and I’m satisfied with the arrangement.”

  “I feel as though I’ve angered you, Reagan Bishop, and I apologize. That was not my intention. I don’t want to add to your burdens, particularly given the Herculean task you have in front of you tomorrow. Let us never speak of this incident again.”

  “Thank you. And I’m not a stalker.”

  Deva grabs me in an awkward attempt at a hug before commenting, “I was harsh to say you’re a stalker, Reagan Bishop.” We begin to walk in the direction of my house. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical reason you were just digging through his trash.”

  • • •

  “I was in denial,” I tell Deva. I’m slumped on the wide cement steps on my stoop, suddenly too weary to even climb the stairs. The cement is cool beneath my legs and I shiver a little, although whether that’s because of the temperature or the profound insight into my own behavior, I can’t be sure.

  I’m a stalker.

  How did I not notice I was engaging in the exact same behavior as Dina at the height of her Lorenzo madness? The calls, the texts, the constant monitoring of his Facebook account, the staking out of his house? I didn’t reach the restraining-order level, but who knows how I might have proceeded if Deva hadn’t called me on my behavior? How did I let this happen? I mean, I’m the one who helps people solve their problems, not the one who causes them. I’m never one to obsess.

  Deva sits next to me, attempting to offer comfort. “You saw no signs of your own fixation?”

  “Not even a little bit.” I fiddle with a loose thread on the bottom of my running shorts and the whole hem unravels.