Twisted Sisters

by Jen Lancaster

Which is not entirely untrue.

  Okay, here goes.

  From Catelyn: where u at gurl?

  In a state of suspended animation.

  Chillin, I reply.

  From Allison: S’up, s’up, s’up?

  Nada, nada, nada.

  From Miranda: How was ur brunch w the hotty?

  Awkward. Infuriating. Enlightening.

  Swag.

  From Mindy: The bitch makin u mental?

  Delete. Rest up over Christmas break, kid. For that remark, I plan on running you all over the city for green tea when we return to set in January.

  From Mary Mac: cme ovr 4 supper, 7:30. bring wine.

  Oh, Geri will be there, all right.

  Count on that.

  • • •

  “Auntie Geri, yay!” Kiley dances around me as I throw my coat on Mary Mac’s couch. Reagan would have been thoughtful and hung up her jacket, but we’re in Geritown now, where all we do is whatever is the quickest/easiest.

  Instead of instructing Kiley to please not touch me until she washes the frosting off her fingers, I give her a squeeze. I’m sure the cheetah stripe of Geri’s hideous shirt will hide any stains.

  I figured if I were coming over here, I’d better bone up on which kid was which or else Mary Mac would instantly be alerted that something was amiss. I made flashcards with all their faces and included their activities, so now I’m completely up to speed.

  “Yo, Mickey Junior, Beowulf still kicking your ass?”

  He glances up from the Xbox and gives me a massive grin. “Nope. Passed the test with a high D!”

  I stop myself from saying congratulations on the bare minimum, instead replying, “Badass,” which earns me not only a mock salute but also an invitation to play Halo 4 later.

  “’S’up, Finley Patrick? Any good garbage pickin’ lately?”

  “I found a tennis racket without any strings!”

  “Awesome, buddy!”

  He runs over and hugs me before heading down to watch the big TV in the basement.

  So what Geri’s already taught me is that if you let children get away with everything and prop up their self-esteem based on a minimum of achievement, they like you. Duly noted.

  “Open the wine, please, like right now,” Mary Mac says by way of greeting. She slides a corkscrew over to me, even though I don’t need it because the bottle is a screw top. I’m not sure how I feel about that. There’s an inherent amount of sophistication that comes with drinking wine, largely because of the effort it takes to release it from the bottle. But just unscrewing like it’s a soda? Seems like cheating to me.

  At the wine store, I wasn’t sure what Geri normally drinks, so I perused all the labels and picked the bottle that inspired me the most.

  “Hey,” Mary Mac says, “Bitch wine, our favorite!”

  Nailed it!

  I pull up a seat at the kitchen island, scraping aside a mountain of kids’ homework, mail, and cotton-ball-and-Popsicle-stick-based artwork. Mickey built this whole kitchen addition, so its bones and the craftsmanship are superb, but it’s so full of the detritus that I can barely see an inch of the granite. I also note the custom millwork is covered in frosting handprints. Reagan would have inquired as to where each item would live and then she’d help stow everything before wiping down the cabinets, but Geri has no problem slopping wine in her glass and setting it precariously on one of the stacks.

  Okay, not for nothing? This is fairly liberating. Every other time I’ve stepped into Mary Mac’s place, I’ve grown tense because of the chaos and disorganization and my need to set it all straight. But in living via Geri’s dictates, I can simply overlook everything, even Kacey Irelyn walking in and placing her dirty juice glass next to the dishwasher instead of inside it because why take that one minuscule extra step? Whee! It’s a party! We can throw our empties anywhere!

  “Made your favorite tonight,” Mary Mac tells me, pulling a casserole pan full of something orange and gelatinous out of the oven.

  Funny, that doesn’t look like ginger-soy-glazed salmon with a side of steamed kale and a ramp salad tossed with chia seeds and aged balsamic.

  “Mary Mac ’n’ Cheese!” she announces proudly.

  Oh, Jesus Christ.

  “Plus, there’s meatloaf basted in extra barbecue sauce!”

  Not for nothing, Geri, but this is why you’re chunky. I bet your arteries look like the Dan Ryan Expressway at 8:05 a.m.

  Given such a repast, Reagan would run screaming into the night, but as this is what floats Geri’s boat (and dimples her butt), then I can’t quibble.

  “Shall I set the table?” I offer, before I catch myself going all Reagan again.

  Mary Mac laughs and pours herself a glass of wine in a jelly jar. “Everything else is dirty,” she says. Which brings me back to my point of the kids loading their own dishes. Why does she insist on making it harder on herself? “Hey, Mickey Junior, piss off! It’s Bachelor time!”

  Apparently Mary Mac and Geri gather for a sisters’ dinner every Monday night to watch The Bachelor. I would complain that I’m never invited, but I can’t imagine I’d ever willingly attend, so, really, it’s a wash.

  We sit side by side on the couch with our plates balanced on our knees. Mary Mac cues up the DVR. “Are you ready for an amaaaaaaaazing journey?” she asks.

  “As long as you’re here for the right reasons and you don’t pull a Bentley,” I reply.

  What? I work in reality TV; it’s my job to be familiar with the competition and it seemed like a Geri thing to say.

  Mary Mac tucks in to her meal while I assess the situation. I have no choice but to eat some of this, lest I blow my cover. Okay, here goes . . . I take a tiny forkful of the Mary Mac ’n’ Cheese and swallow without chewing while only breathing through my mouth. I don’t notice any cloying processed cheese aftertaste, so I have another nibble. This is . . . not awful. In fact, it’s palatable. The sauce is hot and bubbly and the pasta is the perfect state of al dente.

  I can do this.

  The meatloaf is another story, though. The last time I tasted beef, Clinton was in the White House. Plus, this barbecue sauce is loaded with artificial ingredients. But I’ll give Mary Mac credit—at least she didn’t cook it into a petrified meat-log like Ma used to do. Heck, her cooking’s the main reason that I didn’t miss meat when I stopped eating it. I break off a small bit with my fork and take a small taste.

  The only word that comes to mind is . . . transcendent.

  Divine.

  Heavenly.

  I’d like to say this is Geri’s body’s response to a familiar stimulus, but that’s not giving Mary Mac her proper due. This meatloaf is freaking spectacular and worthy of being served at any of Chicago’s finest dining establishments.

  I take a bigger bite this time, and before I finish chewing it, I stuff in another. Oh, that fennel! Although I’m sure Geri couldn’t give a fig about table manners anyway, I’m not even thinking about her right now. I’m just trying to calculate exactly how much cubic space there is inside my mouth, as I would like to cram it as full of this magical meat as humanly possible.

  “Mary Mac,” I say between frantic bites, “this is the best meatloaf I’ve ever eaten.” Utterly true.

  She nods, eyes not leaving the screen, where Bachelor Brendon is tonguing the bejesus out of a bikini-clad Bachelorette under a Tahitian waterfall. “Thanks, G. I added powdered onion soup mix this time.”

  “Always,” I insist, laying my hand on her arm. “Always add it from now on.”

  When a commercial comes on, Mary Mac allows it to play and she begins to chat. “I can’t believe you’re staying at Reagan’s. What’d she do to lure you into her lair?”

  I don’t have a lair! Geri has a lair! I have an open, airy, tasteful
ly appointed graystone full of lovely couches and dupioni silk curtains!

  I shrug my shoulders noncommittally. “It’s a Push thing, totally for convenience. But I’ve barely seen her since I’ve been there, so it’s all good in the hood.”

  Mary Mac takes a leisurely bite and nods. “She called you fat yet? At Thanksgiving, she referred to your weight no less than twenty-three separate times. I counted. That’s a new record. The winner of the Passive-Aggressive Olympics is . . . Dr. Reagan Bishop!”

  In character, I snort, “I was all, ‘Whatevs, bitch.’ She’s jealous she doesn’t have my curves.”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying for years.”

  In my defense, sometimes people are in denial, so it’s helpful when an impartial adviser points out your shortcomings. If you aren’t aware of a problem, you can’t fix it . . . right?

  Although if I were counseling someone and they told me their sister was always calling them fat, I’d probably consider the sister out of line.

  I wonder if that’s why Geri flipped me off?

  “It’s not like this is anything new with her. Remember the time you failed your math test and she spent the next two weeks reciting times tables at dinner? Or how about how she used to lord her mile-high peanut butter pie over you? She bites at your heels whenever she’s given the opportunity.”

  I nod, saying nothing. This really is news to me.

  She raises her jar at me. “You notice how her buddy at Thanksgiving couldn’t take his eyes off of you?”

  That’s just mortifying, and now I’m glad I inadvertently mentioned Geri’s weight multiple times.

  Through gritted teeth, I reply, “I know, right?”

  “Do me a favor while you’re there, G. Just watch yourself, okay? Reagan always has an end game and you can’t trust her for a second. You never know what she’ll pull and then find a way to justify. Be careful and don’t let her take advantage of you.”

  “I will protect and guard my heart,” I promise, quoting Vienna’s squeaky-voiced Bachelor Pad paramour.

  “That’s why you’re my favorite sister, G.” And then she momentarily rests her head on my shoulder before fast-forwarding over the rest of the commercials. She smells like Bitch wine and baby aspirin and barbecue, which actually pair nicely together.

  Overwhelming pangs of guilt take hold of me, not only for possibly being part of the problem in my relationship with Geri, but also because this is about the first nice moment I’ve ever had with Mary Mac.

  Not sure of what else to do, I inhale another bite of meatloaf.

  For once, I’m delighted to have the opportunity to eat my feelings.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  (Literally) in Her Shoes

  “What are you doing here, Geri?” Stylist and manager Miranda glances down at her bling-covered watch.

  “Don’t I work today?” I assume I have Geri’s current schedule. What if I pulled the wrong one? “Thought I was supposed to be here at noon.”

  Both Miranda and her client eye me. “But it’s eleven forty-five. Your appointment isn’t even here yet.”

  “Don’t I need time to set up?” Although I can’t imagine I have to do much other than locate some scissors, right?

  Miranda, who’s dressed more for a rave than a day combing clients’ hair, steps away from her station and speaks to me in a whisper. “I’ve never seen you early before. Never once. I’m really glad you took our talk to heart. I hate having to write you up, but the owner’s been up my ass about your perpetual tardiness. Thank you for not putting me in this position.”

  “Of course,” I reply. “What are friends for?”

  I can barely hear myself think in here with all the thumping techno music. If I really worked here, I’m sure I’d file a complaint with HR saying this was a hostile work environment. There’s an actual DJ in here spinning tunes. A DJ! In a hair salon! Way to take yourselves superseriously, ladies.

  I quickly figure out that Geri’s station is the only unmanned chair, so I head over there and begin to open and close drawers. A young woman with a ton of sparkly eye shadow hands me a sheet of paper. “Your list, my lady.”

  I glance at her name tag. Allison.

  Taking into account Geri’s tendency for doing things the easy way, even when it comes to saying someone’s name, I reply, “Thanks, Ali.”

  “No probs, G-spot.”

  I scan the appointment list and notice that I’m supposed to color someone’s hair at four p.m. The cut I can handle because of body memory, but the color will take a working knowledge of times and formulas. It’s best to not draw attention to what I can’t do, so I say, “My eczema’s being a beyotch today. Can I do swapsies with someone else? I need to not, like, touch chemicals.”

  “Sure, G! I’ll give her to Catelyn and you can handle any walk-in cuts.”

  Crisis avoided!

  “Sweet.”

  As I scan the salon, I notice that all the girls without clients are fooling with their own hair. I’d simply drawn Geri’s into a ponytail this morning, which was all I could handle after the trauma of having to wash her generous ass.

  Huh.

  I really do mention Geri’s weight a lot, don’t I?

  That’s not cool.

  But now, the frizzy red pony seems out of place in the club-like salon, so I use a round brush to unkink the curls and smooth the whole thing into Rita Hayworth–style waves. I admire my work in the mirror. Not bad!

  I mean, not bad considering what I had to work with.

  Allison agrees. “Superglammy, G!”

  “Thanks!”

  My first client arrives and I’m delighted that she’s new to the salon, so we don’t have a previous relationship. I pieced together what I could from Geri’s social media footprint, but clearly there will be portions I’ve missed.

  I do my best to channel Geri. “So what are we doing today?” I ask, running my hands through the client’s long, dark, straight hair, which is pretty similar to my own. “I have my own ideas, but let’s hear what you’re thinking.”

  Lydia, the client, replies, “I’m sooo bored with this all-one-length bullshit. I want something new and fun.”

  “Like . . . layers?” I probably should have studied up on actual hairdressing terms, but at least my hands know what to do. I’ll whack off some of the stuff around her face, like Geri’s always claiming I should do.

  I keep running my hands through her hair and holding up little bits, and apparently this seems enough like what a real stylist would do that Lydia doesn’t question me.

  A staffer named Margarita leads Lydia over to the shampoo bowls, which is oddly disappointing. I thought doing the shampoo would be fun, kind of like washing a dog.

  When Lydia returns, I comb out her hair. She sits there quietly, but expectantly. Oh, I’m supposed to initiate conversation. On it.

  “What do you want to talk about today?”

  Lydia glances up at me under her veil of wet hair. “I’m sorry?”

  Shit, therapist mode. Try it again. WWGD—What Would Geri Discuss?

  “You see The Bachelor last night?”

  Lydia sadly shakes her head. “Had to TiVo it—my boyfriend was being a pain. He was at my apartment and he insisted we watch the game. I was all, ‘But I was looking forward to The Bachelor,’ and he didn’t care. I had this whole night planned for myself with wine and snacks, and Kirk came over uninvited and totally bogarted my plans.”

  I’m about to inquire about her feelings on the issue when I realize that I’m not encumbered by APA rules. Not only can I ask whatever I want, but I can also offer my unvarnished opinion.

  “What an asshole!”

  That felt fantastic. I’ve never been allowed to actually tell a patient in no uncertain terms what I really thought. Maybe
if I didn’t have to mince words so much, they’d be able to change their behavior more quickly?

  “Right? Then he had the nerve to try to send me out for beer because he didn’t like the wine I bought!”

  I’m a little in awe as Geri’s hands deftly move through Lydia’s locks, almost as though they have a mind of their own. A ton of long strands fall to the floor, which starts to make me feel panicky. But I have to keep my composure, lest Lydia panic as well.

  I smooth and comb and snip. “Is this in character? I mean, does Kirk always pull stunts like this?” I ask over the sound of clicking scissors.

  “At first I thought he was really into me, being a gentleman and making all the decisions.”

  “Such a red flag,” I say.

  Whoops, was that out loud?

  Wait, I’m allowed to say this stuff out loud! Yes! I remember when I was treating this woman who had a borderline abusive fiancé and all I wanted to do was say, “Honey? Run.”

  She replies, “I hear ya, but I didn’t see it. I just thought, ‘Wow, he’s so into me.’”

  “But then it eventually occurred to you that he wasn’t being a nice guy so much as he was being controlling?”

  Lydia eyes me in the mirror. “Bingo.”

  “What’s your game plan? Are you at the point where you can talk about this, or is it better to end it?”

  She bites her lip. “I’m not sure, honestly.”

  “Has he ever been aggressive toward you?”

  “Nothing like that, no, never!” Lydia quickly exclaims. Then, rather sheepishly she adds, “Well, except that he pushed me over the weekend.”

  I stop cutting. “He pushed you? Like out of the way of an oncoming car?”

  “No . . . he’d had a lot to drink and he wanted to drive and I tried to take his keys and we had a little scuffle.”

  Alarm bells are dinging so loudly in my head that I’m surprised the rest of the salon can’t hear them. “So what happened?”

  “I ended up letting him drive and I got into the passenger seat,” she softly admits.

  I spin her around to look at me. “What you’re saying is that you not only allowed him to manhandle you, but then you risked your own life in riding with him?”