Twisted Sisters (13 page)

“Do you not desire to open the pathway to awaken your Buddha nature?” Deva clasps
her chest with her enormous paws, clutching herself as though I’ve cast a mortal blow.

“Not today, no.”

Deva rights her head wrap, and I can tell she’s about to lecture me about her new
age hokum. “Nichiren believed that voicing this incantation strengthens our capacity
for wisdom, courage, confidence, vitality, and compassion.”

“Listen, Deva, gaining wisdom, courage, confidence, vitality, and compassion sounds
fantastic, but ultimately will this incantation lure a movie star into a glass box
1,353 feet in the air and prevent me from being fired?”

“Not directly, but—”

“Maybe next time, then.”

We keep moving and I check my heart-rate monitor. I’m not quite hitting my target
heart rate, yet my blood pressure is elevated due to my stress level. I wonder, will
that produce the same caloric burn?

At this point we’re back across the park and heading north toward my place. “Hey,
give me your water bottle. I can pitch them here.” I grab her empty and toss them
in the recycle bin behind the condo complex at North Lakeview and Fullerton. As I
pass the rest of the bins, I can’t help but notice what the residents have so thoughtlessly
thrown away. Distressed as I am about myself, I congratulate myself for still looking
out for others.

“Deva, come see all this waste—these bananas are barely brown. They’re still edible.”
I pull them out of the can and set them off to the side. I hate our culture of waste
in this country, so when I see an opportunity to salvage food products, I take it.
“And look at this box of lentils,” I say. “It’s not even open!” In no time, I’ve scavenged
enough ingredients to provide a day’s worth of sustenance for a family of four. I
find a clean paper grocery sack in the recycle bin (why isn’t everyone using canvas
totes yet?) and I bring the bagful of ingredients out front to the bench where a homeless
person can spot them.

I tell Deva, “Maybe this one little action won’t change the world, but if someone
who wouldn’t have had dinner tonight now can eat, I feel better about myself.”

“That’s very noble, Reagan Bishop.”

“Thank you.”

I often give myself affirmations about my own nobility.

“May I ask you a question?”

“Anything.” I zip open my waist pack and dig out my hand sanitizer. After I feel like
I’m thoroughly disinfected, I reach for my phone, glance at it, then look back up
at the geranium-covered deck.

“Reagan Bishop, how long have you been stalking your ex?”

Take Her to the Mattresses

“I
beg
your pardon?”

“Stalking. Is that not what you’re doing?” Deva seems genuinely confused.

“Of course I’m not stalking him! What would give you that idea?” I’m genuinely appalled
at this accusation. Stalking! Me! A mental health professional. A
doctor
. Preposterous.

“Perhaps ‘stalking’ is the wrong term.”

“You think?” I hiss.

“Allow me to share my observations, Reagan Bishop. You’re always texting him and calling
him, yet I have never witnessed his returning the favor. I’ve heard you on the phone
with his assistant dozens of times. No one takes that many meetings. Not even your
namesake fortieth president at the height of the Cold War.”

She begins to enumerate my perceived offenses on her sausage digits. “Every time we
walk, you make us head south and pass by the volleyball courts, where you mentioned
he plays in a league. Why have we never taken the north path, Reagan Bishop? There’s
an entire beach for dogs at Belmont Harbor, right up the shoreline. Who wouldn’t want
to walk to a beach entirely for dogs? Big black ones, little brown ones, fat white
ones, all frolicking in the surf together. They bark as one. There’s a lesson there.”

I’m so angry I’m practically hyperventilating. “You’re accusing me of being a stalker
because I keep track of my mileage by taking the same route?”

She places a gigantic hand on my shoulder in an attempt to calm me. “Of course not,
Reagan Bishop. I’m calling you a stalker because of the stalking.”

I can barely sputter out a defense as she keeps ticking off my supposed misdemeanors.

“I’ve seen you pull up his Facebook profile at work a hundred times.”

“That’s a crime now?”

“No, but when I first noticed this pattern, you were so fixated on his page I assumed
he was our next guest.”

I can feel my fists clenching into balls. “His page is my home page—what’s so weird
about that? Do I mock
you
for having FoxNews.com as your home page? Which, what’s up with that, by the way?”

Deva purses her lips and cogitates my question. “I like Bill O’Reilly’s aura. I’m
attracted to his dominant energy.”

“I have no response to that.”

She keeps pushing her stalking agenda. “Also, you’ve asked me to accompany you to
the bar Cactus again and again, yet you never order a cocktail. By your own admission,
your ex works in a building across the street. Stopping by his favorite watering hole
once is a coincidence, twice is a pattern. A dozen times, particularly given your
distaste for alcohol? Forgive me for saying it, but you’re entering
Fatal Attraction
territory.”

“Your accusations are truly absurd.”

Deva grabs my elbow. “Sebastian doesn’t happen to own a pet rabbit, does he? I ask
for no particular reason.”

I wriggle out of her grasp. “Circumstantial evidence, okay? All of it. Seb’s been
really slammed at work, so the onus is on me to contact him. I miss seeing him regularly,
so from time to time I check in on his social media profiles. If I were to run into
him while we’re out and about? Then maybe he’ll realize how much he misses me, too.
We’re on a semi-break now, but there have been plenty of times when I do catch him
that we get together. I realize in terms of healthy relationships, this pattern isn’t
optimal, but everything is fine between us and I’m satisfied with the arrangement.”

“I feel as though I’ve angered you, Reagan Bishop, and I apologize. That was not my
intention. I don’t want to add to your burdens, particularly given the Herculean task
you have in front of you tomorrow. Let us never speak of this incident again.”

“Thank you. And I’m not a stalker.”

Deva grabs me in an awkward attempt at a hug before commenting, “I was harsh to say
you’re a stalker, Reagan Bishop.” We begin to walk in the direction of my house. “I’m
sure there’s a perfectly logical reason you were just digging through his trash.”

•   •   •

“I was in denial,” I tell Deva. I’m slumped on the wide cement steps on my stoop,
suddenly too weary to even climb the stairs. The cement is cool beneath my legs and
I shiver a little, although whether that’s because of the temperature or the profound
insight into my own behavior, I can’t be sure.

I’m a stalker.

How did I not notice I was engaging in the exact same behavior as Dina at the height
of her Lorenzo madness? The calls, the texts, the constant monitoring of his Facebook
account, the staking out of his house? I didn’t reach the restraining-order level,
but who knows how I might have proceeded if Deva hadn’t called me on my behavior?
How did I let this happen? I mean, I’m the one who helps people solve their problems,
not the one who causes them. I’m never one to obsess.

Deva sits next to me, attempting to offer comfort. “You saw no signs of your own fixation?”

“Not even a little bit.” I fiddle with a loose thread on the bottom of my running
shorts and the whole hem unravels.

Great, first I’m getting fired, then I’m a stalker, and now I need new shorts.

I snap off the thread, balling it up and stuffing it in my fanny pack. Just because
I’m a loser doesn’t mean I’m a litterer. “Thing is, Deva, ultimately I’m responsible
for my own behavior. I made the choices I’ve made, yet I can’t help but place a portion
of the blame on him. If Sebastian truly wanted to break up, he’d have completely ended
it. Why take
some
of my calls? Why respond to
a few
of my messages? Why not just be a freaking man and say,
This isn’t working anymore.
Give me closure and I can move on.”

Deva sagely nods. “Men are the greatest unsolved mysteries of the universe.”

“What’s so shaming is this isn’t the behavior of a professional, of a grown-up, of
a doctor. This is some junior high bullshit, and I’m so mad at myself.”

“How did your other breakups go, Reagan Bishop?”

Sheepishly, I admit, “I’ve only had one other boyfriend and he was a saint in a lot
of ways. When we broke up, that was it. End.
Fini.
We kept in contact, but it was clear the romantic portion of our lives together was
over. He understood and respected my reasons, even though they were counter to his
own wishes. There were no instances of
We’re not really together anymore but I’m still showing up at your place at two a.m.
”

“Like a house call, Reagan Bishop. Only for booty.”

“That’s why it’s called a booty call, Deva.”

Deva nods, as though soaking in this information. “Then I have learned something today.
What do your friends say, Reagan Bishop? Do any of them counsel you about your compulsive
behaviors?” Little bits of sun are starting to peek out from the clouds, prompting
the Caribou Coffee customers to quickly fill the primo outdoor seating area. (If I
weren’t so distressed, I’d insist that Deva join me there. Sit at the corner of West
Arlington and Clark for long enough, and eventually you’ll see the entire city go
by.)

I try to remember how my network of friends reacted when Seb and I decided to take
our break. I don’t have a ton of girlfriends because I’ve been so career focused ever
since graduation, which is fine. Unlike Geri, I don’t
need
to be surrounded by my scores of minions who spirit me away to Mexico. But I’m close
with a couple of women from my marathon-training group and from the Chicago chapter
of the Association for Behavioral and Cognitive Therapists.

Or I
was
close with them.

I admit, “I kind of haven’t seen any of my friends for a while. Is it possible I wore
them out with my postmortem over Sebastian? Have I become one of those women who struggle
to find acceptance and move on?”

“Did you invite any of your friends to come to Hawaii with you?”

I think back to the day that I placed one call after another. “I invited all of them.
Each one said they were too busy with work.”

Deva nods enthusiastically. “Then, yes, absolutely. A free trip to Maui?” Her words
are like a punch to the gut. “Face time with Wendy Winsberg? No one turns that down
without a solid reason, Reagan Bishop. You chased them away like St. Patrick did the
snakes of Ireland.” She suddenly seems delighted with herself. “Did I properly incorporate
your heritage in that simile?”

“You did.” I slump down lower. “I feel like such a fool.”

“Happens to the best of us. When Shaman Bob broke up with me, I was so upset I traveled
back in time to—” But Deva can’t complete the sentence because she’s suddenly coughing
so hard.

I jump up. “Shall I grab some water?”

She quickly recovers and clears her throat. “Um, no. What I was saying is that when
Shaman Bob dumped me, I traveled back
to a time
in my mind
that I was happy. Then it was all fine.”

That doesn’t make a lot of sense, but come on, this is Deva. Like, how she’s dressed
for a nomadic trek, and not a walk by the water? Not everything that comes out of
her mouth is twenty-four karat.

“Let me ask you something, Reagan Bishop. Was your family more forthcoming than your
peer group? Did they attempt to help?”

Pfft, hardly.

Geri the Judas is not only still one of Seb’s Facebook buddies, but she had the nerve
to sign me up for some Catholic dating service. And Mary Mac suggested I was putting
the “psycho” in “psychotherapist.” And Ma? Ma said I should “stop being an asshole
and call Boyd, for Christ’s sake.” Thanks for your overwhelming support, ladies.

I reply, “Not really, no.”

“Then that is a shame, Reagan Bishop, and I am sorry.”

The front door bangs open and Trevor comes bounding down the steps in cargo shorts
and an old fraternity barn-dance T-shirt. This is the first time I’ve seen him clad
in something other than his underpants in quite some time. “What’s shakin’, Dr. B?
Going to the ’Bou to get my turtle mocha on!”

“You do realize that drink contains over six hundred calories?” I ask. Sure, he’s
in fine shape now, but he won’t always have his twentysomething metabolism.

He simply grins in response. “YOLO, ya know?” He plops down next to us. “Hey, who’s
your friend? No, wait—whoa! No way!
No way!
” He bounces back up and runs to the top of the stairs. “Yo, Bryce, get out here!
You’ll never believe who’s on our steps!”

Moments later Bryce staggers out, his pasty belly exposed under a dingy gray hoodie
with a goofy plaid neck scarf completing the top half of his ensemble and nothing
but his plain white boxer shorts on the bottom.

Excellent. I was so hoping to witness at least one of my tenants in a state of undress
today.

“
Devalicious!
What up, girl?” Bryce practically launches himself into Deva’s lap. “I owe you, like,
a debt, playa.” He turns to look at me. “Do you know who this is? This is the Deva-
diggety
and she has, like, powers and shit.” Then he and Trevor give each other a complicated
series of handshakes and backslaps.

Now,
this
is an interesting turn of events. As depressed as I feel about my own terrible choices,
I can’t help but be curious.

“Deva, why are my tenants prostrating themselves in front of you?”

“Hey, my prostrate is cool, Dr. B,” Trevor informs us. “No worries. But my old man
needs twenty minutes to take a leak.”

“I may be able to assist,” Deva says. “Would he be willing to soak in a tincture added
to the bath, Tenant Trevor?” Her suggestion does nothing to dissipate my level of
confusion.

“His prostrate has his jimmies totes rustled, so I’ll check,” Trevor confirms.

I’d try to explain the difference between
prostrate
and
prostate
, but I lack the anatomically correct dolls to point to. Instead, I say, “I’m sorry—I
don’t follow how you’re acquainted.”

Bryce explains, “Dr. B, I got a cousin who knows this dude who has a slampiece who
worked in PR or some shit and she said that Deva, like, merked the time/space continuum.
I was like, ‘I would get down with that.’ So me and some of my bros roll to her store,
all, ‘Whassup?’ and Deva goes, ‘I’mma help you,’ because one of my coworkers is a
bullshit swagger jacker and my pops is all, ‘Son, I’m disappoint.’”

Sometimes I wonder if English is Bryce’s second language, despite his having been
born in Pennsylvania. (Don’t worry, Philadelphia—I blame MTV.) Fortunately, I worked
with enough teens to have a cursory understanding that Bryce was struggling with his
job and he somehow sought Deva’s assistance.

“Yo, I thought you went to buy a bong first?” Trevor asks.

Bryce cracks his knuckles while he explains and I inadvertently wince because it sounds
so painful, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Naw. Well, yeah, but naw. So Deva gives
me the fresh hookup and now I’m Scrilla Gorilla. I be rollin’ and they be hatin’.”

I attempt to piece together his message. “What you’re saying is you’ve since found
professional success that is, in fact, lucrative?”

Bryce grins and nods. “Fa sho. Thanks to this biz-nitch up in here.” Then he gives
Deva a squeeze, about which she looks distinctly pleased.

Affirmative, then?

It’s none of my business, but I can’t help asking, “Does that mean you’ll start paying
your rent yourself?”

“Why’d I wanna go and do that?” Bryce asks.

Trevor volunteers, “He’s buying a boat that is
off the chain
! I’mma get my wakeboard on! Diversey Harbor represent, son! Yo, baller, come buy
me a turtle mocha to celebrate!”

“Lemme grab a Benjamin.” Bryce trots back up to the apartment and returns a minute
later, wallet in hand, having added flip-flops and large red plastic sunglasses to
his ensemble.

“Is this what guys are like now?” I ask, more to myself than to Deva. “Is this what
I have to look forward to, climbing back into the dating pool?”

The boys amble down to the coffee shop and finagle outdoor table space by joining
a couple of cute girls. The boys raise their cups in salute to us.