Twisted Sisters

by Jen Lancaster

  “I’m a pescatarian!”

  Mary Mac slaps the table and the contents of everyone’s glasses ripple. “No, you’re a pain-in-the-ass-atarian! It’s frigging Thanksgiving, the one day of the year that even the most rigid among us indulge. And what does this one bring for dessert? Brownies. But not regular, normal-people brownies, all fudgy and delicious, full of caramel. Hers are made with almond flour, applesauce, and squash. Squash! In a brownie!”

  “They sound really interesting,” Geri replies sweetly, trying to catch Kassel’s eye.

  “Then why don’t you taste one?” Mary Mac challenges.

  “I would but, you know, allergies,” Geri says, acting as though she’s contrite. And here I almost forgot about the Nut Lie that Geri’s been telling for years.

  Mary Mac presses on. “Our ancestors who starved during the Great Potato Famine would be all, No, thanks, I’m stuffed, if someone offered them a squash brownie.”

  I’ve had enough of this. “Is that your professional opinion? Because I’m curious, Mary Mac—where did you get your doctorate? I’m not familiar—does Northern have a one-year accreditation?”

  “Gip, Mac, c’mon, knock it off. We have a guest.” Geri slides closer to Kassel.

  “Please, don’t stop on my account, Peace Corps,” Kassel says. He folds his napkin and places it next to his plate. “I live for fights—they make the best TV! I’m popping some corn and waiting for the hair pulling and wrestling.”

  “Wait, what’d you call her?” Mary Mac asks.

  He smiles and his eyes crinkle. Again, he is not my boyfriend, but I definitely find the act of crinkling one’s eyes attractive in a potential partner. “Giving nicknames is kind of my thing. Adds to my charm. When we first met, Reagan was so passionate about all her charity work that I called her Peace Corps.”

  Mary Mac chokes on her wine. “I’m sorry, her what?” she sputters.

  “You know, the volunteering she does with the hungry and the homeless,” Kassel replies.

  “Did you start volunteering, Gip? That’s awesome!” Geri exclaims, slapping me on the back. “And here everyone always says you never consider anyone but yourself!” Then she flashes a thousand-watt smile at Kassel and he grins back at her.

  Do you see?

  Do you see what she does to me?

  Her passive-aggression is like those whistles only dogs can hear. Just because most humans can’t detect the sound doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.

  Mary Mac slams down her glass and rises from her seat. She begins to bus the plates off the table, bringing them over to the dishwasher in the corner of the basement’s kitchen. “Charity, my ass.”

  Pointedly, I tell Mary Mac, “I’m highly involved with a number of charities. I’m very philanthropic.”

  Mary Mac rolls her eyes as she separates the good silver from the everyday pieces the kids were using. “Armchair philanthropic, maybe. Have you actually done anything other than attend the fancy events we’re always seeing in Chicago Nouveau?”

  “I . . . I . . . have been very busy with the show lately,” I stammer. “But I refuse to be put on the spot for my good works. Maybe I haven’t done anything outside of attend black-tie charity events in a while, but I live to help others.”

  Mary Mac begins tossing items into the dishwasher. “I’m at St. Catherine’s every Tuesday and Thursday night serving dinner in the soup kitchen. That’s what helping others looks like, not hobnobbing with Mayor Tiny Dancer. If you care so much about the hungry, Reagan, why don’t you stop being such a massive hypocrite and cart your happy ass down here and actually do something productive, like make sandwiches? Or are you afraid to touch white bread?”

  Kassel gestures toward Mary Mac and me and asks Geri, “Were they always like this?”

  At some point, my mother materialized in the basement, and now she joins us at the table. She pours herself a healthy belt of red wine. “You betcha. These girls are why their father and I drink. They fought all the damn time. ‘That’s my dress! That’s my doll! That’s my ham sandwich!’ It was constant. They never once came to a consensus. Shoulda seen ’em on family vacations. The only reason Mary Mac and Reagan didn’t strangle each other is because they couldn’t reach over Geri’s car seat.”

  “At least Geri got a car seat,” I note. “You used to let me flail around the cargo area in the back of the station wagon like I was a golden retriever.”

  Mary Mac whips a dish towel at me, but because it’s so light, it barely travels past the counter. “Reagan, you’re such a frigging martyr. Don’t act like they somehow neglected you. You had a helmet for your bike! And knee pads! They drove you to school! I had to take the CTA by myself when I was nine. Do you know what manner of perverts ride the city bus, ready to prey on little girls in Catholic school uniforms? My God, Ma was still smoking while she was pregnant with me!”

  Ma denies nothing, instead calmly sipping her wine. “It was the seventies; we didn’t know.”

  “And you have the nerve to say I couldn’t raise a dog, cat, or goldfish,” I add.

  “Didn’t say you couldn’t, just said you’re too self-centered to bother to try,” Mary Mac counters.

  I think I despise Mary Mac less than Geri because at least she’s upfront with her scorn and derision. Geri wraps it up in hugs and affirmations that sound supportive but are truly anything but.

  Ma stares down both of us. “If you two don’t stop it, I’ll ask Charlie to come down and tell you about the miracle that is Viagra. We already heard all about it while we ate. All about it. He’s apparently a thorough storyteller and a tender lover, that one. Big fan of the uniboob, too.”

  That stops both of us in our tracks, and for a moment, we grimace in solidarity.

  “Hey, what’s up next for Push?” Geri asks. Of course this whole time Geri has managed to deflect any of the conflict off herself, because that’s how she operates. And now look at her, changing the subject because she’s so desperate for attention.

  Kassel replies, “Good stuff! This weekend Dr. Karen’s counseling a compulsive shopper. We’re filming at Woodfield Mall. After that, Regan’s working with an agoraphobic. The guest is a lifelong Bears fan, but he’s always been too afraid of crowds to attend a game. So, with Reagan’s help, we’ll be taking him to Soldier Field for the first time. Best part? We’re doing a live episode! It’ll be huge!”

  My stomach instantly knots and I’m pretty sure it’s not because of the kumquats. “Beg your pardon?”

  Kassel brushes the crumbs off of his crisply starched pinpoint oxford shirt. I bet he smells like cotton and spice. “Didn’t Faye already brief you? DBS is broadcasting the game, so we’re running the taped portion before the kickoff and then we’ll cut to footage of him during timeouts and halftime!”

  Slowly, I inquire, “How long is a typical game?”

  “About three hours,” Geri offers. “Sometimes longer if they head into OT.”

  To date, the longest Deva and I have been able to keep a guest confined during our swap is about twenty minutes. There’s no way I can make anyone “meditate” for that long. Plus, with the added burden of live television, watched by millions of households? There’s so much potential for this to go horribly, devastatingly wrong.

  What am I going to do?

  If I fail on this level, I may as well enroll in beauty school because I’ll never work in mental health again.

  Shit, shit, shit!

  “Can you all excuse me for a moment?” Without waiting for a response, I dash upstairs and grab my phone. I rush outside past the cache of smoking, gossiping aunts and huddle next to the garage. I furiously pound out a panicked text to Deva, and thankfully, she responds instantly. . . .

  Is not mayday, Robber Baron—is Thanksgibbing! Goggle, goggle!

  I quickly reply, We have a problem—need to
swap for at least three hours next week. What are we going to do?

  Don’t worming, we can hand job

  I opt to interpret this as her comforting me and not an oddly salacious suggestion.

  But how? I type.

  Thanwell

  Than we’ll what?

  I wait, but no further information arrives. I stand there for another ten minutes, but I receive no additional responses. I shiver in my thin silk dress until I can’t take it anymore and I return inside.

  Back in the basement, the table’s deserted, but I hear voices and laughter coming from Geri’s room.

  Oh, hell, no.

  This is my potential boyfriend, Geri, not yours. How dare you lure him into your lair!

  I swing the door open with a bit more force than intended and I see Kassel on Geri’s computer talking to a little kid. Who is that? Is he one of my nephews?

  Geri’s on the bed with a magazine. She gestures for me to join her. Reluctantly, I walk over to her, but I refuse to sit. “Hey, Gip, we were talking and he really seemed to be missing Walt, so I suggested they Skype,” Geri whispers. “He’s almost done.”

  “Wow, that’s really”—manipulative? devious? underhanded?—“kind of you,” I reply.

  “Love you, buddy! See you soon!” Kassel’s voice is falsely bright as he bids his son good-bye.

  “He asked me to stay while he was online. I think he was trying not to cry. I bet he could use some comforting,” Geri confides in me.

  I bet you think he does.

  Kassel ambles over, his gait less confident than normal. “That was rough, but I needed it. Thanks, Ger.”

  Ger? Ger? What is this “Ger” business? Then they sort of gaze at each other for a second, which, I’m sorry, but how is that even possible? Why on earth would he have an interest in that fatty meatball when he could have something exotic, delicious, and good for him, like . . . a quinoa, beet, and blood orange salad?

  Seriously, aren’t men seeking competent, professional career women, especially those who are national celebrities with brilliant educations and own their own homes? How can anyone find a basement-dwelling hairdresser a more attractive choice?

  Geri swoops in for the kill. “That was so hard for you, wasn’t it? Come here.” She stands up across from me and opens her arms, and Kassel walks directly into them. I watch in impotent fury as she tenderly cradles him in her arms. Clearly he needs a friend right now, and if I were to call out Geri, I’d look like the jerk.

  Geri seems so sincere in offering him solace that I almost don’t notice how she’s extending her middle finger at me behind his back. Our eyes lock and she mouths, Eff you, at me.

  Except this time she uses the whole word.

  I’m about to yell, Ma! Geri’s flipping me off! when Aunt Helen comes to the door.

  “Hey, kids, I know we’re all missing Aunt Sophia this year. The good news is I’ve re-created her Jell-O salad!”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  We’re Number One!

  “Touchdown by number fifteen, Brandon Marshall!”

  I confirm that all the Bears fans are cheering before I raise my giant foam finger in victory. I suffered a small misstep earlier when Patrick Peterson of the Arizona Cardinals intercepted a pass and I clapped. I quickly recovered, pretending that I was simply trying to warm my hands. (Fortunately, the Push cameras weren’t on me when this happened.)

  Let me ask you this—which genius city father decided that Chicago should build an undomed stadium right next to the frigid lakefront? Do you have any idea how cold it is when the wind whips off Lake Michigan? Thanks to the Push wardrobe department, I’m clad in what’s essentially a Bears-logo sleeping bag over my thermal parka with long underwear and warmers in my boots, yet for all my layers, I’m as chilled as if I were naked.

  How is this fun? Why is anyone enjoying hanging out here? At this point, I don’t blame Bernie for being agoraphobic if spending time on this icy tundra is the alternative. I used to tell Boyd I’d never live in California permanently, but on days like today, I question my lifelong devotion to this city.

  And if I may, a couple of points to make about this football game itself—first, I had no idea the Arizona Cardinals were an actual team. I thought they were fictional, made up exclusively for the movie Jerry Maguire. (Side note: Cuba Gooding Jr., what happened? You could have been the next Will Smith. What are you doing now? Cell phone commercials?)

  Second point? I almost asked the guy next to me whether he was sure the Cardinals weren’t supposed to be a baseball team, but I caught myself. After all, I’m supposed to be considered an expert.

  Also, why doesn’t everyone on the field just try to run faster? Seems like we could have this whole thing concluded a lot quicker if the men would show some hustle, like . . . well, like Cuba Gooding Jr.’s character in Jerry Maguire.

  Except I suspect he’s selling cell phones now.

  Why is there no showboating in this game? The players are moving toward the goals in three- and four-yard increments. Boring! I can’t say I’m a fan of how the youth of America are being brainwashed about their own mediocrity by everyone winning a trophy at youth soccer games, but my God, at least they scurry! You have an entire field, men—why not use it?

  Note to self: Task Ruby and Faye, and to a lesser extent Mindy, with finding an NFL player who needs Push’s help. I would happily pilot one of those behemoth bods down the field at double time, with a bonus end-zone dance. Come on, gentlemen—football is entertainment. Entertain me already.

  As there’s zip happening on the field, I take a sip of my beer, which is at least thirty degrees warmer than the air. Then I sneeze when the foam becomes trapped in Bernie’s mustache. And BTW, Soldier Field vendors? Would it kill you to sell some green tea? People are freezing out here, and everyone could up their intake of antioxidants! At the very least, why aren’t you hawking Eel River certified organic IPA? Not only do they use all natural ingredients, but the brewery is powered by lumber-mill leftovers, so it’s clean and green. Instead, I’m stuck with Budweiser, which is essentially, what? Bilgewater? However, since these aren’t my own taste buds, I find the Bud’s actually going down smoothly. Weird.

  So, yes, Deva and I were able to perpetrate another swap. Same deal as before with the amulets, but this time we had to take an additional precaution, one that’s diametrically opposed to my beliefs. I hate myself for perpetrating this kind of deception, and yet, I’m already down this rabbit hole, with no choice but to go deeper if I’m to come out the other side. (I presume that’s how rabbit holes work.)

  To prepare for the swap, I had to do the unthinkable: suck up to Dr. Karen.

  “How’s it going, Dr. Karen?” I asked, sidling into her dressing room. I fought the urge to whip out a measuring tape, even though I’m almost sure her space is larger than mine. But clearly she deserves it, for all the groundbreaking work she’s done with the phobic who aren’t actually phobic.

  I’d have definitely said something about the disparity in the size of our respective rooms, but I needed to win her over to my side. Plus, after Thanksgiving, I was tired of fighting.

  “What brings you to my corner of the world, Reagan?” she asked.

  Naturally she refused to call me “Doctor.” With her, it’s all MD or nothing at all.

  “Oh, I was passing by and thought I’d tell you what a wonderful job you’ve done so far this season.” The lies felt like ash in my mouth.

  She preened and nodded, encouraging me to continue. “What have you been learning from me?”

  She patted her couch (she has a couch in her dressing room?) with her bony, spotty claw. The hands are always the ultimate giveaway. I don’t care how much poison anyone shoots into their faces to look young, their hands are always their personal portraits of Dorian Gray.

  She watched me
imploringly, waiting for my answer. Let’s see . . . what have I learned from Dr. Karen? Well, now I know how to coach a soap star into acting like she has an actual disorder for the PR bump, how to drug a teen with anger-management problems into oblivion without ever once inquiring as to the root of what was making her mad in the first place, how to exploit former patients for financial gain, and also how to apply lipstick far, far outside my lip line. “So much!” I brightly confirmed.

  “I’ve been meaning to discuss Tabitha Baylee with you,” she said. “I felt your approach with her lacked finesse, and frankly when she was on that ledge, she seemed coached. The whole ordeal seemed a bit . . . showy.”

  I had to ask myself if this was even worth it. But, with my end goal in mind, I proceeded anyway.

  “You don’t say,” I responded mildly.

  “Yes, and the equestrian? Did you instruct her to leap over that bar after she mounted her horse? A little pedestrian, don’t you think?”

  Oh, really? I’d like to see you do better, bi— Ahem. “How might you have approached the interaction differently?”

  “Reagan, my dear, I wish I had the time to share the secrets of all my years of experience.”

  It was all I could do not to issue a smug-storm warning, cautioning local residents to stock up on driveway salt and eggs, milk, and bread.

  “So . . . how’s your book going?”

  “Brilliantly, of course.”

  Of course. “I look forward to reading it.”

  “Our entire nation looks forward to reading it.”

  Oh, no! The Homeland Smug-curity level has been raised to red! Take cover!

  I had no choice but to proceed. “You’ve been such a tireless advocate for Thanwell that I’ve completely rearranged my way of thinking. Obviously, I’m under a lot of stress with the show and I’m struggling with insomnia, so I’m wondering if this drug might help me.”

  Words cannot even describe the smug-alanche that followed. I was afraid I’d be buried underneath it for days until the ski patrol dug me out.