Twisted Sisters (12 page)

Despite how invested I am in where I went to school, my job is what makes me special.
Without it, I’m basically Geri. Only not chunky, and with my own house. But still.

I need
Push
.

I need my job.

I need a win.

I need a way to make the impossible possible.

I need to check my messages.

Swimfan

From the recesses of my bedroom closet, I hear a buzzing. I dash down the hall to
press the button underneath the intercom’s speaker. “Hello?”

“Salutations, Reagan Bishop!”

I reply, “Hey, Deva. I’ll be out in a sec; just let me grab my keys.”

After locating them in the crockery bowl I now use specifically to house them (excellent
suggestion, Ol’ Rat Nasty), I head down the stairs to greet Deva.

I’m ready for my run in a white Nike Dri-Fit tank and Lululemon’s speed shorts in
Mint Moment Black with the little zippy pocket that rests on my tailbone in the back.
However, I’m wearing a waist pack, too, because I require enough room to carry my
phone.

Deva, on the other hand, is ready not so much for a jog as she is to herd her camels
across the Sinai Peninsula. She’s covered in layers of linen and ropes of tribal beads,
topped with a kaffiyeh head wrap. But what really ties the whole outfit together is
the matching Pumas.

“Um . . . are you wearing a toga?” I ask.

“Actually, Reagan Bishop, it’s a thobe.”

Of course it is.

“Might you be more comfortable in a pair of running shorts? I have plenty you can
borrow. We seem to be about the same size.” Except for gloves, of course.

Deva waves me off. “Not at all, Reagan Bishop. Linen is very breathable and I’ll be
protected both from the sun
and
sandstorms.”

“Have we had many sandstorms in Chicago lately?” I query.

Deva gives me a knowing look. “It’s best to be prepared for any eventuality, Reagan
Bishop. The Bedouins have been dressing this way for centuries. I believe you’ll find
that my outfit stands the test of time.”

“Then who am I to argue with the sartorial choices of the entire Ottoman Empire?”

I’ve had a world of stress to process lately, so Deva’s been joining me on my usual
five-mile loop by the lake. Except we discover she can’t really run today without
becoming tangled in her cape, so we decide to take a brisk walk instead.

“I notice a disturbance in your root chakra. How are you feeling today? What is your
mood? I’m sensing . . . humiliation?” Deva peers at me, her outfit billowing behind
her like a sail.

Sometimes what Deva says is pure bunk, and sometimes she’s right on the money. “Yes,
I’d say my overwhelming emotion right now is rooted in a level of mortification. Of
course, I’ve been embarrassed before,” I tell Deva. “Comes with the territory.”

“Therapy embarrasses you, Reagan Bishop?”

While we walk, I loosen up my arms by pulling my elbows back behind my head and pushing
down with the opposite hands. I’ve been carrying an almost paralyzing amount of tension
between my shoulder blades and this simple stretch works wonders.

“On occasion, yes. For example, one time when I first started my practice, I was at
the Lincoln Park Target buying—what?—Kleenex? Toilet bowl cleaner? Something innocuous.
Anyway, I spotted one of my patients coming down the aisle with someone else and I
didn’t want to make eye contact.”

We’re heading down North Lakeview on our way to the spot where I loosen up my hamstrings
on Fullerton. The sky is a bit gray, so we’re not suffocating in the stifling Chicago
summer heat. That’s something no one from out of town ever fully understands—the summer
temperatures are inversely proportional to the winter cold. I had a roommate at U
of C who was from Galveston, Texas. She showed up without a single short-sleeved shirt,
expecting late August snow. She was sorely disappointed.

In fact, more than seven hundred citizens—largely the elderly and the poor—tragically
perished in the heat wave of 1995. The mayor was roundly criticized for his response
to the crisis, so this is one of those Subjects That Are Not Discussed in the Bishop
household.

I consider it a small blessing that today’s overcast and breezy with the threat of
rain, which makes for a pleasant walk. I tell Deva, “You’re likely aware there are
stringent HIPAA regulations regarding confidentiality. I was worried I might inadvertently
greet my patient and then she might be forced into a conversation with her companion
on how she and I are acquainted. I wanted to avoid all of that. So, to circumvent
the potentially awkward eye contact, I pretended to be very interested in the display
in front of me and started randomly grabbing products without even looking at what
I was taking. I just wanted to seem like a regular shopper.”

Deva assures me, “There’s no shame in taking advantage of Target’s competitive pricing,
Reagan Bishop. I purchase paper towels there. You’d be shocked at the splash zone
created by certain types of Reiki healing.”

I glance over at her. “Do I want the details?”

Deva’s thoughtful for a moment. “Probably not. Please, go on.”

I shudder as I recollect. “I’m still mortified when I remember that day. There I was,
trying to do the right thing, and it completely backfired. I was so hypersensitive
to my patient’s needs that I didn’t realize I was inadvertently buying Astroglide
in bulk. So my patient comes up to me, says hello, introduces her friend, and then
she notices all the lube in my cart and she says, ‘Big plans this weekend, Dr. B?’
I wanted to die.”

“Would you typify the recent incidents as worse, Reagan Bishop?”

I snort. “Not even in the same stratosphere. At least I could explain my rationale
when I saw my patient the next time. How do I justify myself to the entirety of the
TMZ viewership?”

Deva waxes philosophic. “Those who matter will know your truth, Reagan Bishop. It’s
hard when you’re up to your armpits in alligators to remember you came here to drain
the swamp.”

I give her a sidelong glance. “Did you just quote President Reagan to me?”

“Are we still not doing that?”

“We are not.”

When we arrive at the corner of Fullerton and Lincoln Park West, I position myself
behind a bench and work through my litany of running stretches. After I loosen up
my
soleus
(inner calf muscle) and Achilles tendon, I grasp the back of the bench and execute
some leg swings. Swing back, kick front, swing back, kick front, repeat twenty times
on each side, really working the joints. To maintain my balance, I fix my gaze on
the condo complex across the street. I notice one of the units has recently added
a row of flower boxes on the deck and it’s filled with red geraniums and some greenery.
Personally, I wouldn’t obstruct a lake view with cheap flowers and vines, but different
strokes, eh?

Satisfied with my range of motion, we move on. “The upside with Ashlee is at least
there’s no footage of me counseling her. Yes, everyone still blames me, but at least
she imploded prior to therapy.” I roll my shoulders as we walk. “But with Lance? I
have no excuse for Lance.”

“Then how will you handle tomorrow, Reagan Bishop?” Deva asks, chugging along next
to me. I’ll be damned if she’s yet to break a sweat. I’ve already saturated my T-shirt.

I feel my stomach twist itself in a knot because this is my last chance. “Magic? Miracle?
Maybe I can simply astral project into Tabitha’s body and do it for her?”

We’re filming a Very Special Episode of
Push
tomorrow due to Kassel’s coup of landing an actual star. Tabitha Baylee’s a true
A-lister and she’s come to
Push
not because she needs a publicity stunt, a makeover, or a free Ford F-150, but because
she has crippling acrophobia, which is a fear of heights. What’s problematic is that
she’s starring as Parker Peter in the female remake of the movie
Spider-Man
(don’t ask) and she has to film a scene at the top of the Willis Tower.

(FYI, Ma still refuses to call it anything other than the Sears Tower.
Quelle surprise.
)

One of Kassel’s pals from his
Make ’Em Eat a Bug
days is the movie’s director, and he’s desperate to capture the shot where a moody
Parker Peter gazes out on the city below, while coming to terms with having become
a Spider-(Wo)man. Richard Holthaus, the director, is so desperate, in fact, that he
called us after hypnotherapy, acupuncture, and drugs failed to assuage the starlet’s
fears.

“What can you do?” Deva asks.

We cut across the park and head to the walking path next to the lake. Even with foreboding
skies, sunbathers line the beach. The afternoon smells like Coppertone and charcoal,
as the aroma from the outdoor grills at Castaways on North Avenue Beach drifts toward
us. I haven’t touched anything that wasn’t born swimming since 1998, but my God, the
scent of those burgers is intoxicating.

I explain, “Thing is, I’ve done tons of exposure work before, which is how a therapist
helps patients with fears. For example, I had a client who was desperately afraid
of dogs, having once been attacked as a child. But her fiancé had a big Swiss Mountain
dog and the creature scared her so much, she was afraid to go to visit his house,
let alone live there after they were married. So we started off small. The first pup
she met was a teacup terrier, and we worked our way up from there, graduating to shih
tzus, then pugs, etcetera. Over a six-month period, we slowly introduced bigger and
bolder dogs. By the time of her wedding, she not only was able to be around her husband’s
pooch, but even had the confidence to take him out for walks.”

Deva has been listening intently. “Cesar Millan sometimes has me perform Reiki massage
on his most troubled cases. I worked on a magnificent Basenji named Anubis—opened
his chi right up.” Deva adjusts her thobe, which has shifted as we’ve walked. “Anubis
still lifted his leg on the drapes after that, though.”

“What was your resolution?” I ask, trying to imagine exactly which new age treatment
would have curbed a naughty dog’s behavior. Chanting? Burning herbs? A newly feng
shui’d doghouse?

“I filled a Dr Pepper can with pennies and shook it at him whenever he approached
the window.”

This stops me in my tracks.

“What, Reagan Bishop? You don’t need mystical power to discipline your dogs. You just
need to show them you’re the boss.”

This? This is how she’s been winning me over. “You are an enigma wrapped in a turban,
Deva.”

“Namaste.” She grins and bows. “I like you, too, Reagan Bishop. I do not desire seeing
you fired, so what’s your strategy?”

As we cruise past the volleyball courts, I give the players a cursory look. Nope,
no one I know. Which reminds me to check my phone. I surreptitiously slip it out of
and then back into my waist pack. Nothing. How can there be nothing? I’m sure the
phone works out here—I’ve tested it. And there’s a cell tower at Clark and Division,
less than a mile down the road. I have three and a half bars, for crying out loud!

“Reagan Bishop?”

“Gosh, sorry—had to check on something.”

Deva knits her brow. “Are you waiting for a call? Again?”

“No, it’s fine. Sorry. You were saying—tomorrow. What am I going to do? That’s the
million-dollar question. I tried to explain my therapy methodology to Kassel and he
said, and I quote, ‘No one wants to watch a movie star climb a ladder.’ That’s how
I’d begin to desensitize Tabitha. I said it wasn’t ethical for me to try to treat
her any other way, particularly given what the filmmaker wants, and that I likely
wouldn’t even capture any usable footage. And he said to try anyway because he couldn’t
save me if I fail again.”

Tomorrow, Kassel and Co. intends for me to attempt the impossible—stick a terrified
girl right out on the Ledge of the Willis Tower Skydeck. The Ledge is an enclosed
box on the hundred and third floor that extends 4.3 feet away from the side of the
tower. People who
don’t
harbor a rabid fear of heights feel weak in the knees stepping into the laminated
glass enclosure, so there’s no way I can coax Tabitha out there.

Patently impossible.

I’m normally not so defeatist, but I understand the parameters under which I’m toiling.
I wouldn’t expect a wheelchair-bound person to walk based only on my encouragement.
There would be months, if not years, of intensive rehabilitation involved first, and
even then success wouldn’t be a guarantee. I mean, I’m skilled, but I definitely couldn’t
just tip them out of the chair and say,
Have at it.

This business with Tabitha is almost a guaranteed failure, and I can’t stand failing.
I’m not clinically diagnosable with atychiphobia, as I don’t
avoid
risk to prevent failure. (Ahem,
person who lives in our parents’ basement
, ahem.)

Rather, I’m übermotivated by my desire to exceed and excel; that’s why I was such
an exemplary student. Well, that and my desire to not be taunted by rich kids. While
everyone else was dating and attending prom and playing team sports, I was locked
in my room memorizing the periodic table and diagramming sentences. I attained the
highest grades because I was willing to sacrifice the most to earn them. But I can’t
nose-to-the-grindstone my way out of tomorrow, and the notion of bombing is giving
me agita.

And won’t everyone at the unemployment office be impressed with my credentials. Argh.
Maybe I can write a book about how the disinterested clerk keeps calling me “Doctor”
when she really means “bitch.”

Oh, this can’t happen. I cannot be fired. I feel my chest constricting and I think
I may vomit.

“Humor me, Reagan Bishop; please stop and take a deep, cleansing breath.”

I comply, inhaling so much grill smoke that I can practically taste the burgers and
brats. Oh, is that fennel? Then I hate myself for being drawn to the taste of factory-farmed
meat. While we’re by the snack bar, I dash in to buy us both a bottle of water to
wash away any stray flavor.

After I hand her an Aquafina, Deva circles around and stands in front of me. “Repeat,
please—
nam myoho renge kyo
.”

I grimace. “I’d rather not.” It’s one thing to stroll the lakefront with someone dressed
like a Hari Krishna, an entirely different one to actually pass out the carnations.