Twisted Sisters

by Jen Lancaster

  “What?”

  “You said eff instead of dropping your usual f-bomb. I was curious as to why.”

  Geri is livid and there are spots of high color on her cheeks. Although that could be the adrenaline.

  “What is wrong with you, Reagan? Like, what is your damage? You almost frigging kill me and then you’re concerned about my word choice? So typical. You take a situation that is entirely your fault and find a way to use it to criticize me. It’s frigging ridiculous.”

  “There, you did it again with the frigging. That doesn’t discount my actions, and make no mistake, I owe you, yet I’m truly curious as to your sudden curse aversion. My God, you were like a stevedore before with all the graphic profanity.”

  Geri uses the remote control to raise the back of her bed so she’s in a sitting position. “What does this have to do with fighting bulls?”

  “I believe you’re confusing that term with matador. A stevedore is a longshoreman. A dockworker.”

  Geri fumes, “This? Right here? Is why no one likes you.”

  I nod. “I know, right? And you were the one who taught me that. I owe you a tremendous debt of gratitude. If I hadn’t stepped into your life, I’d have never discovered what was wrong with mine.”

  Geri flashes me a look of contempt. “I’m so glad I could be of service. Not. Look at you—you’re still so smug. God. You almost kill me and you act like you’ve somehow done me a favor by turning it into being about you. Again. As always. Well, guess what? I don’t need your help. I was doing fine on my own. You want to do me a favor? Then just get away from me, Reagan. Exit my life. Go live your miserable existence and leave me alone.” She turns her back to me.

  “I’m sorry, Geri. You likely don’t believe me and I don’t blame you. I haven’t been terribly kind to you in the past. You deserved two big sisters who were interested and invested in your life. Instead, I fought you constantly and I took delight in showing you up. I tried to steal your limelight at every opportunity. That’s shitty and I apologize. But in living as you, I’ve discovered how amazing you are. You’re a wonderful aunt and the best sister Mary Mac could ask for. You’re fantastic to Ma and Dad. Your clients love you and your styles are second to none. And your voice? OMG, you sing like an angel. Well, maybe an angel after a booze and smoke bender, and I mean that in the best possible sense.”

  Geri says nothing in response, so I continue. “I wasn’t a good person, but maybe if I’m allowed to be your big sister now, I could figure out how to be better going forward. I’m sorry and I love you.”

  She remains silent.

  Finally, I rise and start to take my leave. “Okay, I’m going. But don’t worry about the Kassel stuff. I’m heading to his place because I want to come clean in person. He needs to know because I imagine he’ll want to see you before he leaves for LA. So . . . I’ll see you later?”

  I’m to the door when I hear her say, “Kylie was picking up some bad language. I wanted to swear less because of her.”

  “Kylie’s a little sponge when it comes to words and information, isn’t she? And she’s absolutely lethal when it comes to playing Candy Land. Of course, Kacey Irelyn hates Candy Land but she’ll play Barbies like no one’s business. If your plotline is compelling enough—especially if there are teenaged vampires—Teagan will faux-reluctantly join in as well.”

  Geri turns back around to face me. “Hey . . . did you really help me lose six pounds?”

  “I’m sorry about that. I was wrong to try to change you. You’re perfect the way you are.”

  Geri lets out a ragged exhale. “I might possibly be okay with a few less pounds of perfection.”

  “I’d have lost more if it weren’t for Mary Mac’s spareribs.”

  “The best, right?” We smile at each other. “I’m still furious with you, though. Maybe slightly less so. You’re going to have to make amends to me, Gip. Like a penance.”

  This is progress.

  “Tell me when and where.”

  • • •

  “I’m not sure whether I should fire you or give you your own show.”

  Kassel was highly confused when I showed up at his condo and even more so when I began my convoluted explanation. But he was so delighted to hear he hadn’t blown it with Geri that he was willing to listen to everything I had to say.

  “How about I resign? My contract is up for renewal; how about I just don’t sign it? I feel like I’ve gotten so far away from the practice of mental health that I feel like the world’s biggest fraud and I can’t keep perpetrating the lies.”

  Maybe this is my penance.

  To give up this job.

  I won’t be famous and I won’t be rich.

  But maybe I’ll be happier, and that’s a fine place to start.

  “I still don’t understand why you would go to such lengths with the guests,” Kassel says.

  “Are you kidding? ‘Big, big, I need it big! I need flattened cats! I need bingeing and purging!’ I felt like I had no choice,” I explain.

  “So you’re saying it’s my fault?”

  “No, ultimately these were my decisions based on my unequivocal need to succeed at everything I do. I should have just failed and moved on.”

  Kassel considers what I’ve said. “Maybe your resignation is fortuitous, because we’re making some changes to the show.”

  “Like what?”

  Kassel opens the briefcase sitting on the coffee table and begins to rifle through a stack of papers. “Looks like test audiences are tiring of the big, emotional climaxes. They don’t want flattened cats; now they want more of a game-show element. More slime pits. They seem to connect with people being bashed with large, foam-covered reticulating arms. I’m meeting with the network while I’m out there with Walt to determine exactly what happens next. I Need a Push may end up a literal statement.”

  “You’re going to make guests eat bugs, aren’t you?”

  He gestures toward the mantel. “My six Emmys point to yes.”

  “What do you suggest I do with the guests like the equestrian and the guy who was afraid to fly? Do I contact them? Do I offer my services free of charge?”

  Kassel shrugs. “Listen, Peace Corps, they understood that what we were doing was for entertainment purposes. Haven’t you ever read the fine print in the credits? They received both personal and home makeovers, quite a bit of compensation, and in some cases, Ford F-150s. Plus, DBS is paying for follow-up therapy to anyone who wants it. I Need a Push was never about mental health; it was about putting on a show. Mission accomplished.”

  “Then why do I feel like this is such a loose thread?”

  “Maybe you feel too much, Peace Corps. Besides, I’ve been in touch with a few of the guests. Sandy the equestrian’s back in the training ring and Clark from the helicopter episode flew commercially for the first time over Thanksgiving. He wrote to thank me. Sent me a selfie holding up an airline soda and a bag of nuts. He was sweatin’ like a son of a bitch, but he was there with his seat back and tray table in the upright position. I guess thinking they’d succeeded was tantamount to actual success.”

  “You’re kidding. That’s so gratifying to hear.”

  “’Member the systems analyst? Bernie’s determined to try to hit a Blackhawks game with me. Nice guy, but I wonder if he’s gay. Kept looking at my junk at the Bears game. Not gonna lie—it was a little weird. Oh, wait—that was you. Huh. Still weird.”

  I can’t help but blush at the memory, even though any interest I might have had in Kassel has since dissipated. I really hope he and Geri get it right because I like the idea of sharing the children’s table with him at our next major family holiday.

  That is, if anyone in my family’s still talking to me.

  “If you’re done with Push, what’s next for you, Peace Corps?”
<
br />   “Therapy.”

  “Going back to private practice?”

  “No, I mean as an actual patient.”

  “Well, I understand your compulsion to succeed on the job, but wearing your sibling around like a winter coat? That’s . . .” He trails off.

  “Twisted?”

  He smiles. “Yeah. You’re one twisted sister.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Groundswell

  I’m alone in my apartment when there’s a knock at the door.

  “Yo-ho-ho!” I hear from the hallway.

  I open the door and Bryce and Trevor shuffle in wearing Santa hats and carrying presents. “Hey, boys! What are you both still doing in town? I thought you’d be on your way to Philly by now.”

  Trevor says, “Driving to Nana’s in St. Louis tomorrow and Bryce is coming with. My family’s gonna be there.”

  “You’re not heading home for Christmas?” I ask.

  Bryce shakes his head, causing his Santa hat to slide to the side. “I was already there for Hanukkah. I’m a member of the tribe, son! Festival of lights! Eight crazy nights! Shalom, playa!”

  “After St. Louis, we’re doing Aspen for New Year’s,” Trevor adds.

  “I likes my powder fresh,” Bryce confirms.

  “Nice. I thought you’d left because you guys haven’t been home, so now I have a chance to give you these.” I hand them two wrapped packages. Bryce rips open the paper to reveal premeasured, ready-to-hang curtains.

  I explain, “The rods are already up, so these will just slide on.”

  “These drapes, dog?” Bryce asks. “’Cause that is off the chain! Ready to get my privacy on, son! You wants to see my bone chones, you gots to pay a dolla!” He high-fives both Trevor and me. This was actually the more utilitarian gift of the two, so I’m delighted at their enthusiasm.

  Trevor opens his gift to find a large casserole pan. “That requires some explanation,” I tell him. “Anytime you want me to fill this with a casserole, you bring it up here, okay?”

  “You could make us something anytime we want?” Trevor asks, incredulously. “Like, dinner? Like, even once a week?”

  I nod. I wanted to do something nice for the boys, but I also have quite a bit of time on my hands right now, so I figured the best gift I could give would be that of myself.

  Trevor looks from the pan to me back to the pan, almost overwhelmed with the bounty of it all. “Will you use cream of mushroom soup and spaghettis and canned tuna?”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  There is cheering and chest bumping and a good bit of dancing. Who knew “spaghettis” could cause such a reaction?

  Bryce nudges Trevor. “Hey, playa, give her ours.”

  Proudly, Trevor hands me his gift. I gingerly open the newspaper-wrapped present, without once questioning if they actually read the paper first. I saw my new therapist for the first time today and we discussed how my constant judgment of others has been an unhealthy pattern.

  I open the box to find a sturdy mug boasting a picture of Trevor with his thumbs up and the caption “World’s Best Landlord.” Bryce hands me his, too, and I find the same thing inside, only this one has a photo of Bryce.

  I’m surprised at how touched I am by their gesture. I love that they put thought into their gifts and how they’re going to make me laugh every single time I drink a hot beverage.

  Bryce explains, “Now you gots a set for your friends and shit.”

  Although I’m not entirely sure if anyone whom I don’t pay is speaking to me right now, I assume at some point there will be people in my life again and I will have them over for coffee.

  Everyone in the family is waiting to follow Geri’s lead since she’s the injured party. My Christmas dinner plans are on hold until I can determine how I’ll be received. Of course they all heard what happened. You can’t keep masquerading as your sister/sending your little sister into anaphylactic shock a secret, at least not in the Bishop household. And Deva said she needed space but promised to revisit our friendship when she’s back from Aspen.

  “Wait, are you seeing Deva in Aspen?” I ask them.

  “Stayin’ in the guest room, playa!” Bryce exclaims.

  “She’s getting ‘World’s Best Hostess’ mugs,” Trevor admits.

  I tell him, “She’ll cherish them,” without a hint of insincerity.

  I bid the boys good-bye and return to my task at hand. My new therapist believes I need to process the events that led me here, so she’s given me an assignment. But before I can even begin, there’s a knock at the door again.

  I’m laughing as I open up. “You guys want a casserole already?” But it’s not Bryce and Trevor standing there; it’s Geri and Mary Mac.

  “We’re coming in,” Mary Mac announces. She’s carrying a grocery bag that clinks as she moves. She wanders back to my kitchen while Geri stands in front of me with her arms crossed.

  She eyes me for a full minute. “I’ve decided to forgive you,” she tells me. “But you have to do one thing for me.”

  “You’re seriously going to forgive me?” I ask, voice wavering. “This truly is a Christmas miracle! Anything! You tell me anything and I’ll do it!”

  “Let me style your damn hair already. This Wonder Woman thing you have going on? I’m over it. Get a chair and meet me in your bathroom.”

  I peel off my sweater and pull on a T-shirt; then I grab the chair from my desk and drag it into the master bath. In the time it takes me to change, Mary Mac’s put something delicious smelling in the oven, while banging around preparing appetizers.

  Geri’s already in the bathroom with her scissors, lotions, and potions, as well as two glasses of wine. She hands one to me.

  “Bitch,” she says.

  “I know,” I admit, eyes cast down.

  “No, silly, Bitch wine. I told you, I’m good. I thought about everything and I’m over it. You and I are starting again. We’re officially Kool and the Gang.” She begins to run her hands through my mane and asks, “What are you thinking? I have a few ideas in mind, but I want to hear what’d make you happy.”

  “What about long layers?” I ask.

  “Sounds good,” she replies, holding her scissors and gathering my hair into a low ponytail.

  Then, before I even realize what’s happening, she lops off one solid foot at the elastic band.

  “What are you doing?” I shriek.

  Oh, my God!

  My hair! My gorgeous hair!

  “Do you know how long I’ve been growing this? What, I mean, how, I mean what the f—”

  “Huh,” Geri says, holding up my tail for inspection. The long strands glint under the harsh light of the bathroom. “What do you know? I guess I was still mad at you.” As I’m about to shout like no one has shouted before, I catch a glimpse of her grinning in the mirror. “We’re going to be okay, you and me.”

  If losing my hair means being on solid ground with my family, then this is a small price to pay indeed. “Then . . . I guess it’s worth it,” I finally reply.

  Geri tucks my ponytail into a plastic bag and shoves it in her purse. “I’m keeping this, though.”

  “To the victor go the spoils,” I reply.

  She nods. “Besides,” Geri says, “you’re gonna look like sex on a stick when I’m done with you, and you’ll never miss all this bulk.” She then proceeds to give me Julianne Hough’s rough-cut bob and, for good measure, weaves in a few coppery-colored highlights, taking me from “stern librarian” to “total beach babe.” I can’t stop touching my hair and admiring how freely it swings. I still look like me, only a better version.

  “I’ll be damned if I’m not actually sex on a stick now,” I say.

  “Never doubt me,” Geri says.

  “Doubt yo
u?” I cry. “Damn, I’m ready to invest in you. Seriously, if you need a cash infusion for your business, you talk to me. I have decent savings and I really believe you can make something of your own salon.”

  “Let’s talk about that in the new year,” Geri says. “Now we eat.”

  We exit to the living room, where Mary Mac’s set up a buffet of all her best dishes. I begin to salivate the second I catch a whiff of her spareribs.

  “What are you doing for New Year’s Eve?” Mary Mac asks.

  “Um . . . no plans,” I reply.

  She nods. “Well, you have plans now. You’re going to stay with my children while Mickey and I spend the night at the Palmer House. Bring earplugs, you’ll need them.”

  I begin to fill my plate. “Any other surprises you two have planned?”

  They exchange a glance and then say, “No,” in unison, like there’s something they don’t want me to know.

  I sense they still don’t trust me.

  But they do love me.

  So there’s that.

  • • •

  Christmas passes without incident (unless you count Aunt Helen’s Jell-O salad as an incident), and I make it through New Year’s Eve with flying colors. However, the stress of the last six months—or my blatant refusal to get a flu shot—must have finally taken its toll, because I spent the first two weeks of the new year flat on my back, and not in the sexy way.

  Really, it was more of a couch-bed, in-and-out-of-consciousness, catch-up-on-the-Housewives way, only this time I had Mary Mac to bring me matzo-ball soup.

  (Do not even start me on what that woman does to matzo-ball soup. Bottle it, sell it, share it with the world, in the name of all that is good and holy.)

  I don’t fully have my strength up until the third week of the month, so I’m only now truly beginning to work on my project for my therapist. I need a change of scenery from my apartment, so I head to Whole Foods and grab a table overlooking the river in the upstairs dining loft. No one recognizes me now with my new cut and color, and that’s actually a welcome change. I’m done being semi-famous.