Twisted Sisters Read online

  I force myself to head into the party because this little trip down memory lane isn’t helping my mood. At all.

  I pass through the kitchen, and even though my mother’s about to feed forty people (most of them Mary Mac’s kids), I have to admire how there’s nary a cup, plate, or fork out of place. Everyone’s out in the backyard, on the deck, in the pool, or—and I never understood exactly why—in the garage. How is this an appropriate gathering place? Dad parked the Buick on the street, so now the whole area’s filled with neighbors sitting in lawn chairs around the buffet.

  “Well, lookie here, it’s President Reagan! Hey, would you like some jelly beans?”

  “Heh, hello, Mr. O’Donnell. Wow, that joke never gets old,” I respond, trying my best to smile. Mr. O’Donnell bears an uncanny resemblance to former Speaker Tip O’Neill, from the dense patch of snow-white hair to the broken capillaries in his ample beak. He’s lived next door to us my entire life. He’s kind of like an uncle, in that I don’t particularly like him, and yet I can’t seem to avoid him at family gatherings.

  “Where’s your boyfriend?” he asks.

  That’s a damn fine question. Seb made some noises about joining me, yet he’s not returned a single text since then, hence the solo appearance.

  I share the most likely scenario. “Working.”

  “Is he still surfing?”

  I nod, because it’s easier than explaining that the only surfing this particular boyfriend does is on the Joseph Abboud Web site.

  He pinches me on the cheek and it’s all I can do to not slap his hand away. “You’re so skinny! We need to fatten you up! Have one of the sausages—your sister made them from scratch. Oh, that fennel!”

  There’s quite a crowd gathered back here, made possible by my dad having the foresight to snap up the vacant property next door about twenty years ago. Now they have a rarity in Chicago—a double lot. I keep telling my folks that Bridgeport is red-hot real estate now and they should sell, but they never will. At least, they won’t until the yuppies move in. (There are two Starbucks within walking distance now—I keep telling them gentrification is imminent.)

  Eyeing the crowd, I spot almost everyone immediately. My dad’s working the grill, while Mary Mac hovers watchfully by the side of the pool. I’m not sure why Mickey can’t play lifeguard, freeing Mary Mac up to enjoy herself for once. After all, the pool’s only five feet deep and he’s taking up half of the surface of the water on his inflatable boat. I admire his ingenuity in realizing that he could float a small cooler next to him. Very convenient.

  Kids are running all over the yard, each one making more noise than the other. One of the ginger boys dashes up to me, demanding, “Where’s my gift, Auntie Reagan?” I hand him the festively wrapped package, which he immediately tears open. I hope he understands the time and thought I put into this present.

  “What is this crap?” he asks.

  I bristle. “It’s a motorized erector set. So you can build stuff, just like your dad.”

  He dumps his present on the cedar picnic table, covered in checked red-and-white oilcloth. “Lame! I wanted Call of Duty.”

  It’s not that I dislike children; it’s just that I dislike these particular children.

  Which is why it’s not my fault that I’m compelled to lean in and whisper, “Then I guess it sucks to be you.”

  His eyes widen for a minute before he careens off and cannonballs into the pool next to his father.

  “Hey!” Mickey calls. “You’re getting chlorine in my beer! Mary Mac, I need a towel. And gimme one of those sausages, too. Oh, that fennel!”

  My mother spots me and ambles over. She reaches up to give me a quick, dry peck on the cheek before she admonishes me. “Party started an hour ago.”

  “Sorry, Ma, there was a lot of traffic.” A lie, but it feels true. I can always count on the vagaries of the Dan Ryan to buy me a late arrival. As I scan the crowd for a glimpse of my nemesis, I reply, “I’m here now, though,” with a bright, insincere smile painted on my face.

  “You hungry?”

  “Not really.” I make it a rule to eat before attending a family event; otherwise, I have to make a meal of garnishes. Nothing about their choices meshes with my lifestyle. Case in point? My cheese does not come in a can.

  “Grab one of the sausages your sister made. They’re fantastic—oh, that fennel!”

  “That’s the word on the street.”

  My mother tries to detect whether or not I’m being sarcastic, but in the spirit of the day, she decides against grilling me. “Have you said hi to everyone? Of course you didn’t. Go talk to Ethel. Maybe you can shake some sense into her. Ya know, ‘therapize’ her. You’re always bragging about how you’re a doctor. Do me a favor and use your skills to make a difference for once.”

  Argh.

  Jack and Ethel Culver have lived across the street from us for twenty-five years. No one likes Jack, but he’s tolerated for Ethel’s sake. Over the years, the neighborhood’s been playing armchair therapists, speculating that Mr. Culver has a borderline personality disorder. Listen, I’ve studied BPD and treated afflicted patients. Trust me when I say he’s not symptomatic. More and more often, society looks to official diagnoses to explain and understand abhorrent behavior, but the truth is, sometimes folks are just jerks.

  Jack happens to be one of those folks.

  Everyone on the block is at a loss to explain why Ethel refuses to leave him. His verbal abuse is legendary, and I remember having to close our windows on summer nights to suppress the sound of him berating his wife over some minor offense, such as not having swept the front porch or cooking a dry meatloaf.

  The verbal abuse is but the tip of the iceberg, too. Whenever Ethel visits her sister in Madison, Jack invites strange women to the house, not caring in the least that the entire neighborhood witnesses his infidelity. Over the years, we’ve easily seen fifteen different makes and models of mistresses’ cars parked in front of his place.

  Given how tight my parents’ block is, and how much everyone hates Jack Culver, I’m perpetually shocked at Ethel’s reticence to listen to reason or accept help. More than one Tupperware party–cum-intervention has been staged to convince Ethel that he’s a bum.

  At Ma’s insistence, I offered to work with her pro bono when I was first licensed, but she didn’t care to upset the applecart that was her life.

  I have to take a deep breath before answering. “I do use my skills to make a difference, Ma. But in this case, I can’t counsel anyone who doesn’t want my input.”

  My mother looks at me long and hard. We’re at a stalemate here and she knows it. Resigned, she says, “Well, the least you can do is grab some more Jungle Juice drinks for the kids.”

  “Mmm, nothing says ‘pure refreshment’ like high-fructose corn syrup and artificial red dye number five,” I reply. “Are you all out of arsenic and need a less expedient way to poison the kids?”

  “They add vitamin C,” Ma argues.

  “Which they could get naturally from actual orange juice instead of this science experiment gone wrong.”

  Ma’s nostrils flare as she exhales. “Just bring up the damn juice, Reagan. It’s in the utility room downstairs.”

  “Will I have to pay the basement troll a quarter for permission to cross her bridge?” I ask.

  Ma’s eyes narrow into little slits. “If you mean your sister, she’s not here, Dr. Smartypants.”

  “Really? Geri lives for gatherings like this. Where is she? There’s no home game at the Cell, is there?”

  “Her girlfriends gave her a Mexican cruise for her birthday! She left two days ago and comes back next week. I guess everyone at her salon pitched in and surprised her.”

  “That’s amazing!” I exclaim.

  Ma beams. “Right? Our Geri, everyone fights to be in her o
rbit.”

  “No, I mean that it’s amazing that she’s found an entirely new group off of which to sponge.” Before Ma can grab my ear, I duck and skitter backward. “Okay, getting the Jungle Juice now!”

  I take the back stairs into the basement. When I was in junior high school, my parents finished off a couple of rooms down here, so not only is there a bedroom and full bath, but there’s also a whole living area and a kitchenette. A lot of the houses in the neighborhood are two-family dwellings, so my parents are already zoned to rent this out as an apartment, if Geri would only leave already.

  I pass the living area and approach Geri’s bedroom. I ease the door open and I’m immediately assaulted by the sickly-sweet smell of her perfume. Pfft, more like Lady Gag.

  Even though she’s out of the country, her presence is practically breathing down the back of my neck. This must be how Batman feels when he happens upon the Joker’s lair.

  Anyone else would assume a teenager lived down here due to all the pink furnishings and the unicorns. I’m sorry, what kind of adult still collects stuffed animals? Her bulletin board is filled with stubs from seeing football games and crappy bands, with ropes of Mardi Gras beads and placards from various hair shows.

  Geri’s floor is littered with shoes and purses and clothing, much of it turned inside out. I imagine this is what the dressing room at Forever 21 looks like every night. Her bed’s unmade and her desk is piled with magazines and catalogs. I shudder to imagine what’s in the space between the mattress and the floor.

  When my dad finished the basement, this was originally my room, so he turned two entire walls into built-in shelves to hold all my reading material. Books are how I escaped as a kid. Between my dad watching the ball game in his boxer shorts, my ma smoking with her sisters in the kitchen, and Geri being Geri, sometimes I’d head downstairs with a book on Friday afternoon and not come up for air until Sunday.

  Naturally, there are no books in Geri’s bookcases now. Instead, they’re full of trinkets, gewgaws, some profoundly creepy big-eyed Japanese dolls, and tons and tons of snapshots. Seems like Geri’s forced every single person she’s ever met to pose for a picture with her. Typical. Toward the back of the shelf, I spy a couple of family pictures that include Boyd.

  You guys; stop trying to make Boyd happen.

  It’s not going to happen.

  Being in here is giving me the heebies as well as the jeebies, so I start to pick my way over the detritus to take my leave. As I’m about to walk out the door, I notice a newly framed picture hanging on the wall next to her closet. I’d recognize the ocean backdrop anywhere, of course, even if my wearing a cap and gown weren’t a heavy clue as to date and location.

  Geri and I are standing close together, sun shining on our faces, and the breeze ruffling her long red hair. She has her arm around my shoulders, wearing a huge grin on her face, likely because she was moments away from congratulating me on earning my Battle of the Network Stars degree.

  But still, in this one moment captured on film, we actually look like friends.

  Like sisters.

  How have I never noticed that we have the same chin and identical bows on our top lip? Her eyes are green while mine shift from slate to blue, but we have a markedly similar dark ring around our irises and a matching arch in our left eyebrows.

  I guess I’ve always concentrated so hard on what makes us different that I’ve never taken the time to appreciate what’s the same.

  And for one brief second, I wonder if I’ve not misjudged Geri, and maybe misinterpreted her intentions.

  Before I can process this thought, I feel a pinch in the vicinity of my earlobe and I find myself being dragged into the laundry room, face-to-face with my mother’s fury.

  “Did you just tell your nephew that it ‘sucks to be him’?”

  And just like that, I’m nine years old all over again.

  • • •

  “Thank you for joining me.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Reagan Bishop.” Deva and I are sitting outside at Caribou Coffee. I called her when I returned home from the south side. I have other friends, of course, but there’s something calming and comforting about Deva, and I needed to feel anchored to someone after yet another stressful parental visit.

  Sitting across from Deva, I already feel cheered.

  Or maybe it’s just that it’s hard to be in a bad mood when your coffee date is dressed liked Princess Jasmine/I Dream of Jeannie (depending on your generation).

  She sips her tea and appraises me. “I’m seeing a blockage around your heart chakra.” She pulls out her enormous carpetbag and begins to rifle through it. “Have you experienced feelings of loneliness and anger? I may have some ylang-ylang essential oil, which will help. You may also find that completing a series of the Ushtrasana posture will loosen your blockage, Reagan Bishop.”

  “Or we could have a conversation,” I offer.

  “Isn’t talking about your feelings new age nonsense?” she asks with a wry grin.

  “Do people realize you’re funny?”

  “I had everyone in the Lakota sweat lodge laughing last week, Reagan Bishop,” she replies. “My one-liner about tai chi and chai tea had them rolling in the aisles.” Then, more to herself than to me, “Or maybe that’s because it was a hundred forty degrees in there.”

  “Your karma ran over my dogma,” I quip.

  She clutches her massive hand to her chest. “Oh, Reagan Bishop, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize. We must mourn the loss immediately.”

  “Um, Deva, I was kidding.”

  She laughs so hard her turban shakes. “Zing!”

  See? Cheered. I didn’t get my run in today, but I am sitting outdoors with an iced beverage, so it’s not a total loss.

  Deva leans back in her chair and folds her legs underneath herself. “Tell me about your childhood, Reagan Bishop.”

  “Are you doing another bit?” I ask.

  She cocks her head to the side and peers at me. “No, I was asking about your childhood.”

  That catches me by surprise. “Oh. What do you want to hear?”

  “What do you want me to hear?”

  I sigh. “I don’t know.”

  Deva nods. “Then I don’t know, either.”

  “Then I guess we’re at loggerheads.”

  Deva grabs her bag again. “Okay, then, Reagan Bishop, essential oils and yoga it is. Would you prefer we do Camel Pose here or shall we take it indoors?”

  I clap my hands together. “Conversation it is!” I hesitate before I begin to speak, unsure of how what I’m going to say will be received. “Let me give you the caveat that I don’t want to sound like a spoiled brat. For all intents and purposes, I had an ideal childhood. I was fed and clothed and educated. We had enough. Or, close to enough. I suspect our occasionally having to share resources is why I don’t get along with my sisters now. They always seemed to wheedle their way into just a little bit more than they deserved, and it made me crazy. But still, people built bookcases for me. I was loved.”

  “I can see why you’re troubled, Reagan Bishop.”

  “Sarcasm is not part of the therapeutic milieu,” I retort.

  Deva is completely guileless. “I’m serious. There’s no problem like a first world problem, Reagan Bishop. There’s a tremendous amount of guilt associated with a feeling of unhappiness despite having ample resources. I see it all the time in my line of work. You have everything, yet you feel bad about not feeling good and then you feel worse. It’s a vicious cycle. Some of my clients have every luxury at their fingertips, yet they’re soul sick over the smallest slights. I work with a gentleman from Texas who has a G550. Then his nemesis bought a G650. Even though both airplanes can fly from Seoul, South Korea, to Orlando, Florida, in a single trip, my oilman’s depression was palpable.”

&n
bsp; “How did you help him?” I ask.

  Vaguely, she replies, “Sometimes my solutions are unconventional and subject for a different conversation. My point, Reagan Bishop, is that a problem feels like a problem, no matter of which world it’s a part. So this is a safe space. Please share.” Then she clasps her mighty paws into prayer position.

  I swish the ice in my drink with the straw. “I’d say everything boils down to my childhood. As you know I have a couple of sisters; one of them’s just like my mom and the other’s exactly like my dad. I’m not the same as anyone else in the family. For years I was sure that I was switched at birth. The rest of them have red hair with scads of freckles, and they’re all short and, let’s be honest, a bit tubby.”

  “Have you any suspicion of adultery, Reagan Bishop? Tell me about your mailman.”

  I wave her off. “No, nothing like that! My parents are about the two most upstanding people on the face of the earth. Apparently I resemble my great-grandmother, who was already gone before I was born. But it’s not even about physical features. I’m so different from them. On the inside. They’re all content to live in our old blue-collar neighborhood and do the same things and see the same people. Personally, the idea of never living more than three blocks from my family home makes me feel so claustrophobic I can’t even breathe.”

  Deva nods, saying nothing, so I continue.

  “Mary Mac was satisfied to dance and chase boys and Geri reveled in being the life of the party. Neither one of them ever have had lofty goals, no huge aspirations. But I wanted more and I was made to feel like an outcast because of it. Plus, both my parents worked, so we didn’t have a ton of time with them. We girls were always jockeying for their attention. From a very early age, I realized that what made me special was academic performance, so I threw myself into studying, and when I wasn’t studying, I was reading.”

  “How did you get along with other children?”

  “No problems. Kids seemed to like me. I wasn’t bullied, nor was I a bully. I was sort of . . . removed from it all. I was too focused on grades and books to really worry about schoolyard politics. How about you?”