Twisted Sisters Read online

(So much cliché.)

  “This trip is my way of saying thank you for all your efforts, especially those of you who’ve been here from the beginning. Like you, Patty. You’re more than my executive producer—you’re my soul mate and my sister. Where would I be without you? Wait, don’t answer that,” she laughs. “Without you, I’d be back in Providence, covering city council meetings.”

  The crowd continues to go wild, save for Patty. Seems like Patty should be basking in Wendy’s reflected light most of all, as they’ve been best friends ever since they met as cub reporters for the Providence Journal thirty years ago. Yet the look on Patty’s face is decidedly unreadable.

  She’s probably just overwhelmed. Wendy has that effect on people. I’m glad she uses her power for good; otherwise she could be a Bond-level supervillain.

  “And we’re doing fine work, necessary work, all of us, from assistants to producers. Every one of you is an equally vital member of the Wendy Winsberg family.”

  I shift a bit when she says this. Is Mindy really as vital as I am? Look at her sitting there with her mouth all agape, lapping up every word Wendy says like it’s the gospel. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a huge fan, and Wendy’s helped orchestrate an awful lot of positive change. But she’s not the Second Coming.

  As for Mindy’s worth being equal to mine, at least in an employment situation? She spills drinks; I change lives. On the continuum of what makes a difference, I suspect Mindy and I are on opposite ends of the bell curve. Sure, she serves a purpose and I’m grateful for all the coffee-shop runs, but let’s be real here.

  “In fact, we’re all doing God’s work.”

  Except probably Mindy.

  Come on, it’s an almond milk latte and not the Miracle of Lourdes.

  Perfect example of what I’m talking about with this one? A couple of weeks ago, I was finishing up with our last pushee. We were outlining a list of coping strategies she could employ when her mother started to overstep her boundaries. Craft services had just put out lunch and the studio crew was about to descend on the buffet like locusts. We’d worked through breakfast and I knew my pushee was hungry, so I asked Mindy to bring her a plate. What does she do? She literally brings an empty plate!

  I just can’t with this one. I really just can’t.

  Wendy then recaps our show’s success stories, with the aid of a massive video screen behind her, playing a montage of everyone from the bulimic teen ballerina to the families in crisis to the hoarding grandmother. She points proudly to the screen behind her. “This is what happens when we push.”

  As she speaks, all the guests we’ve helped file out onstage, healthy, happy, and whole, and we all take to our feet. This is such a surprise! We didn’t expect to see these pushees again. Almost every face in the crowd is wet with tears, and I realize I’ve inadvertently reached for Deva’s hand.

  What can I say? I’m not immune to having a moment.

  Wendy’s voice is powerful and her words fill the room. “I sought the Lord’s guidance on how we can continue our important business. After much prayer, He showed me the solution.”

  The audience begins to raise their arms in the air, as though to testify.

  “He speaks through me!”

  Okay, I was having a moment, but suddenly this is getting a little too cult-y for my liking. I feel like any minute now the waitstaff will roll in carts of Kool-Aid and tracksuits. Deva and I unclasp hands.

  “I Need a Push has enriched my life, more so than all those years of hosting my own program. So I want you to hear this directly from me.”

  Everyone continues to hoot, holler, and carry on, save for Patty, Deva and me. Deva and I catch each other’s eye. She mouths, What’s happening here, Reagan Bishop? and I raise my shoulders. Deva may be on an entirely different astral plane sometimes, but she’s astute enough to understand that joyous news is almost never uttered after the phrase “I want you to hear this directly from me.”

  Consider: It’s rare that anyone will tell you, I want you to hear this directly from me. I love you and insist on making you my wife. Or I want you to hear this directly from me. Here’s a check for a gorillian dollars and you can retire!

  The “hear it from me” is generally employed when trying to make the unpalatable more appetizing. It’s meant to cushion a blow, and said blow is generally delivered by whoever is instructing you to hear it from them in the first place. “Hear it from me” is far more likely to be followed by Your mother and I are separating, or My test came back positive.

  Mind you, this isn’t always the case, but it is often enough that I’m a bit wary.

  “I Need a Push is too important for a nascent cable network.”

  This?

  I can agree with this.

  The crowd goes batshit crazy.

  Wendy milks the following words for all they’ve got. “So . . . Weeee . . . Arrrrre . . . Headeeeeed . . . Toooooo . . . Networrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrk!”

  Oh, Wendy—you got me! I really didn’t expect you to deliver this kind of news! This is simply fantastic. Instead of languishing on some cable network no one’s even heard of, we’re headed to the major leagues! In your face, Geri!

  The crowd is in such a frenzy that no one even notices when Patty stalks out of the room, except for Deva.

  Deva leans in to say, “We should follow her, Reagan Bishop.”

  So we do.

  • • •

  We’re able to track Patty because she’s left a bread-crumb trail for us. And by “bread crumb” I mean “a string of profanity so vivid and profound that the words hang in the air behind her.” Also, there’s a swath of tipped-over lounge chairs and side tables. We catch up with her out on the beach.

  “I sense you’re troubled, Patty,” Deva begins.

  “No shit, Sherlock,” she replies.

  “Help me understand the source of your irritation,” I add.

  “At the moment? You.” Patty stabs her pointer finger at me and then at Deva.

  I tell Deva, “Classic transference.” Then I say to Patty, “Clearly you’re redirecting your negative feelings at us, instead of the source of your frustration. We’re here to facilitate. Please, allow us to do our jobs.”

  Patty spits, “I thought her job was selling bongs.”

  Burn! I can’t stop myself from snickering.

  But Deva’s unfazed. “It’s true; I carry water pipes hand hewn by Nepalese craftsmen. In their culture, ganja has been used for centuries in religious festivals. Actually, one can find cannabis prevalent in almost all ancient cultures. The Chinese have been using it in their medicine for almost two millennia. In Africa, the Bashilenge used to greet one another by saying ‘Moio!’ which loosely interprets to mean ‘hemp.’”

  “What you’re telling me is that your bong customers are all ancient Bashilenge and not, say, garden-variety frat boys,” Patty hisses.

  “Should the men of Theta Chi be denied the pleasure of finding Nirvana simply due to having been born of privilege?” Deva counters.

  I try another tack. “Patty, please, we’ve never seen you like this and we’re concerned.”

  Also? Superinterested.

  “Well, that’s ironic,” she says. “You should be worried about you.”

  “I don’t follow,” I admit. Why would anyone worry about me? I’m outstanding, which is one of the affirmations I give myself every day.

  Patty flops down on the sand, having run out of steam after toppling all the pool furniture Godzilla-style. Deva and I settle in on either side of her. She stares out at the horizon before finally saying, “We had a good thing going on Push. The best, really. We had the ability to be nimble—we could take the time we needed. We were accountable only to ourselves. Everything will change with the network in charge. Everything.”

  I completely disagree. “B
y ‘everything’ don’t you mean we’ll finally be paid a competitive wage? Rumor has it I’ll be adding a zero to my paycheck! And we’ll have access to resources we’ve never had. Plus, we’ll reach an entirely new audience. What’s the downside?”

  I mentally tally the upside—with more money, I could turn my building into a single-family and I wouldn’t have to lease the other apartments out to unenlightened frat boys. I could travel more. I could fork out enough cash to get a natural-looking/feeling boob job, and not just one of the quickie discount ones that are like two grapefruit halves under the epidermis. (Yes, Posh Spice, I mean you.)

  Sure, I was worried for a minute when Wendy started with the hear-it-from-me business, but this is a huge opportunity. This change will absolutely raise my individual profile. Maybe I’ll finally write a book. Wouldn’t Geri love that? And if we’re headed to network TV, I presume this means we’ll be on at night instead of our current weekly midafternoon time slot, ergo we’d be eligible for a Primetime Emmy, which is far more impressive than sitting around at a banquet full of aging soap stars. Oh, the spackle on those women (and men!).

  “Granted, there will be perks in terms of budgetary concerns, like, you and Deva will finally have a wardrobe allowance,” Patty admits.

  Ha! Screw you, Ann Taylor Loft! Neiman Marcus, here I come! I start to give Deva a high five, but then think better of it. Decorum and all.

  She continues, “But at what price come these benefits? Wendy and I debated this deal for months. I thought I’d finally convinced her not to sell, but the network execs got to her. Sure, she exacted promises to uphold the spirit of the show, but she also signed away all the rights.” She pulls up a palmful of sand, allowing the grains to slip between her fingers. “Dust in the wind, that’s what a network promise is. And deep down, I fear that Wendy knows it.”

  “But you two are like sisters,” I argue. “I mean, she’s built her entire career on the concept of sisterhood. She’d never let you down.”

  A shadow of something unrecognizable flashed across Patty’s face. “Wouldn’t she?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Running Away

  I close my e-mail and slam shut my laptop because this news calls for a run.

  I attach my iPod to the device that tracks my pace and pulse and weave my hair into a fat braid. My hair’s probably the one frivolous thing about me—to appear my most professional, I should sport a neat, swingy, shoulder-length bob. Instead, I have the thick, dark tresses of a country music star, or possibly Wonder Woman. Actually, I heard the comparison a lot as a kid since I also have light blue eyes rimmed in gray and pale skin, much like Lynda Carter in those old reruns. (Minus the leotard, golden lasso, and ridiculous jugs, mind you.)

  Geri’s always saying my long hair dates me, and then Mary Mac will chime in about that being impossible, as no one wants to date me.

  Yes, ha-ha-ha!

  P.S. That’s why you’re not in my will.

  Those two have always been envious of my looks. Whereas I’m a contrast in darks and lights, with long, toned limbs, they’re short, red, and rotund and appear predisposed for guarding pots of gold or bitching about “me lucky charms.”

  My point is, I feel my style suits me, and besides, my hair’s always restrained in some respect, be it pony/bun/chignon, so is it truly anyone’s business? And Sebastian’s always said my hair’s my best feature.

  Personally, I’d say my willingness to be naked in front of him would be my best feature should he finally return my call, but let’s not split (lovely) hairs.

  I slip my keys into a slim nylon waist pouch—fine, fanny pack—and lace up my lemon yellow/dark shadow–colored Mizuno Wave Rider 15s, which are the optimum choice for those with high arches. Right before I head out the door, I douse myself in a second layer of sunscreen and grab a baseball cap and sunglasses. After Hawaii, bits of my face and arms were peeling off for two solid weeks, so now I’m exercising extra caution.

  I head down the stairs and lock my door behind me. When I step into the vestibule, I notice that my idiot neighbors have left their mail scattered everywhere. Of course they have. That’s the downside of living in the Lincoln Park area of Chicago; you can’t escape the influx of all the recent Big Ten grads.

  However, I shouldn’t complain, as the rent I collect from the Hawkeyes, Boilermakers, Hoosiers, Spartans, Wildcats, Badgers, et cetera in the garden and first-floor apartments covers the entire mortgage on my classic Chicago graystone. That’s how I was able to afford it in the first place. Plus, my tenants’ parents write the checks, so they always clear. Were these twentysomethings in my care, we’d have a long chat about codependency, but in this case, helicopter parenting works out for all of us.

  My goal is to one day have the resources to make this a single-family home, yet when I shared that news with Mary Mac, she was all, “Why? You hate families.” No wonder she’s always exhausted—that kind of negativity has to be draining.

  I skip down my front steps and bask in the brief coolness of the morning. Later today, the city sidewalks will be hot enough to fry eggs, but right now the temperature is still bearable.

  I’ve always been fit, but I’ve been a dedicated runner since my time at Pepperdine. Between the stress of my program and the year-round spectacular weather, it made sense to take advantage of the outdoors. Actually, that’s how I met Boyd in the first place. I was running on the Malibu Lagoon State Beach, which is one of the premier surfing spots because of a wicked right break. I was halfway through my five miles when this massive bandanna-wearing dog came out of nowhere and plowed into me. The mutt somehow hit me in the solar plexus and completely knocked the wind out of me, and I couldn’t even catch my breath to shout for its feckless owner.

  As I spat out sand, this—for lack of a better description—bronze surf god materialized to see if I was okay. The first thing I saw was his abs.

  Holy guacamole.

  Not only did he sport an insanely chiseled six-pack, but he had that V-cut musculature that you see only in underwear ads or old Marky Mark videos. FYI, the men at University of Chicago? Did not look like this. His dark hair had turned tawny in the sun and the surf, and his skin was perpetually golden, offset by eyes the color of a Tiffany box.

  Turns out Boyd was as beautiful inside as he was on the outside. And he was smart, too. Originally from Long Island, he’d attended NYU and spent his summers surfing Ditch Plains in Montauk. He’d come to Pepperdine for his MBA, but after a semester, the lure of the waves was too much and he went from Future Master of the Universe to Part-Time Bartender.

  We fell for each other hard and were inseparable . . . until his presence in my life jeopardized all my goals.

  Like I said, you can’t sustain yourself with ice cream for dinner. And that was a long time ago. Point is, even though Chicago isn’t Malibu, my love for an outdoor run is everlasting.

  Today my plan is to take a left down the densely tree-lined street, even though I’d much prefer to head right. I live a couple of doors away from the Caribou Coffee on the corner of Clark and West Arlington, and normally, nothing would make me happier than an iced green tea. But I have some frustration to process and the endorphin rush of a quick five-miler will serve me well.

  I’ve run this route so many times, I could do it with my eyes closed. Today, like always, I stretch out on the stairs before starting a leisurely jog heading east down Arlington. Then I take Lakeview south, which borders the park, down to Fullerton and turn right on North Lincoln Park West. Sometimes I have to stop here and catch my breath. Today my gastrocnemius (the outer calf muscle) is tight, so I pause for a quick round of toe lifts, bracing myself on a bench at the intersection of North Lincoln Park West and Fullerton.

  By the time I reach the Shakespeare statue a few blocks down, I’m all warmed up and I loop back up to Stockton until I can cut over to Cannon Drive by the Lincoln Park
Zoo entrance. Depending on the weather and time of day, sometimes I can hear the sea lions. I have no desire to see them, however. If I want to see a bunch of surly creatures flailing around in water, I’ll watch Mary Mac’s kids swim in my parents’ pool.

  After I cut over in front of the zoo, I run the length of the lagoon. No matter what time of year it is, I can count on seeing old men fishing in that spot. Never seen them catch anything, but I admire their commitment.

  By this time, my heart’s really pumping and I’ve entered the zone. Although with all the adrenaline already coursing through my system, I’m not surprised. I mean, I’m not angry at losing my summer off—this is the price we pay for prime-time exposure. And trust me, we’re about to be well compensated for this sacrifice. But to cut Patty loose after everything she’s given to Push? This show was as much her baby as Wendy’s. I can’t even fathom what the network brass at DBS was thinking in replacing her. How are we going to function without our spiritual center?

  And will the new executive producer allow me to keep my prime parking spot?

  Patty must have sensed this was coming, hence her being so upset on the beach that night.

  Driven by my fury, I keep moving.

  At North Ave., I cross over to the Lakefront Trail and keep going until I turn around in front of the Drake Hotel, which is my halfway point. On my way back north, I turn up the heat and do a tempo run all the way up the lakefront. Even though it’s early, the beach is already busy, with cooler-toting families having staked out the prime spots. Sun dappled though the lake may be, I’d never actually dive into Lake Michigan, having seen the number of saggy-swim-diapered toddlers on any given Sunday. Cryptosporidiosis, anyone? Thanks, but no thanks.

  Despite this being a lake two thousand miles from where Boyd lives, I find myself inadvertently scanning the horizon for him anyway. Old habits, eh? I admit it; I miss him. After I decided we couldn’t be a couple, we remained friends until I met Sebastian. Seb was so gung ho about being the only man in my life that I slowly stopped responding to Boyd’s e-mails. It’s better this way, though, or would be if Sebastian weren’t sending such mixed messages at the moment.