Twisted Sisters (14 page)

“Bryce is still not wearing pants,” Deva notes. “It’s disconcerting seeing someone
so inappropriately dressed for an activity, Reagan Bishop.”

I start to giggle because I assume she’s made a joke, but then I realize she’s serious.

“Hey, what exactly did you do for Bryce? And what was the part about
time travel
?”

Deva raises one tumescent finger. “‘Don’t ask me about my business. Don’t ever ask
me about my business.’”

I’m taken aback. “Gosh, Deva, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”

Deva bursts out laughing. “Aw, Reagan Bishop, I was quoting
The Godfather
!”

“Never saw it.”

She’s shocked. “What? You’ve never seen
The Godfather
, Reagan Bishop? It’s an American classic. That Francis Ford Coppola is a genius.
He’s an excellent vintner as well. Terrible dancer, though. Stepped all over my dashiki
the last time we attempted a Viennese waltz when we were in St. Barts.”

“Enigma in a turban,” I state again. “So, back to the topic at hand—how did you help
Bryce?”

She explains, “Bryce lacked confidence, so I provided him with an obsidian amulet
from ancient Sumer. As you’re likely aware, the word ‘Sumer’ has its genesis in the
Akkadian language—”

“Why would I have an awareness of the phonetics used by the ancient Sumerians?”

“Aren’t you a doctor?”

“Yes, but—” I lack the tenacity to argue. “Please, continue.”

“‘Sumer’ means ‘land of the civilized kings,’ so I felt he’d be best served by channeling
their spirit, at least on sales calls. But I’m glad to see his royal confidence is
impacting all areas of his life. Why, just look at how he holds court! Those women
are in thrall, Reagan Bishop! Like a Sumerian prince.” We glance down the street and
notice that the boys have indeed gotten cozy with the girls. Her eyes shine with pride.

Oh, I see what she did here.

“You gave him a trinket and made him believe it had some sort of influence over him.
You harnessed the power of suggestion.”

She angles her head as though she’s a dog who can’t quite discern whether or not its
owner said “treat.”

“No, I harnessed the power of obsidian.”

“You cannot be serious. You actually believe you have magical power?” Come on, universe!
I have one friend. One! I knew she was quirky, but I wasn’t aware she was actually
delusional.

I’m not saying I can’t accept this, but still.

While we’ve been talking, my legs have fallen asleep, so I quickly spring up and jump
around, trying to regain feeling.

Undaunted by my hopping around, Deva replies, “Of course not, Reagan Bishop! That
would be absurd. I’m neither witch nor wizard.”

“I’m glad to see you still dwell in our realm,” I reply, vigorously shaking my foot.
Pins and needles! Pins and needles!

Deva smooths out her thobe and unties her head wrap before retying it in the exact
same fashion. “The power comes from the artifacts. I simply
channel
the power. I’m the medium. Occasionally I’ll concoct potions, tonics, and tinctures,
although that’s not my favorite because sometimes I struggle to source the ingredients.
I spent a whole month a few years ago battling the rains of Mount Kilimanjaro, trying
to harvest
Impatiens kilimanjari
from the jungle floor
.
Total nightmare and I ended up with a yeast infection for the ages. For. The. Ages.
Oh, the damp, Reagan Bishop. The damp. I told my client the next time she wanted to
lose weight? She should just diet and exercise like everyone else. Cut back on simple
carbohydrates—they’ll get you every time.”

I settle back in next to her. “Deva, this seems so far-fetched. And I respect that
you believe you have powers, but your claims violate the natural order.”

“Fair enough, Reagan Bishop. But let me ask you this—do you truly believe I got rich
selling bongs to frat boys?”

That stops me cold. My mind reels and suddenly a million little details begin to fall
into place. The beach house? The ski lodge? The massive Oak Street loft? The Viennese
waltz with Francis Ford Coppola?

I point at the sunny yellow vehicle parked across the street. “If what you’re saying
is true—and I’m not saying it is, although it would neatly explain the new Lamborghini
you’ve been driving around like some kind of Saudi sheik—”

“Lambo.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Pros call it a Lambo. Appearances seem important to you, Reagan Bishop, and I wanted
to make sure you were using the proper terminology as to not be embarrassed.”

“Noted.” Sometimes talking to Deva is like living in a Salvador Dalí painting. All
kinds of stairways, and no clue as to which way is actually up. “Anyway, what I was
saying is that if you’re not somehow suffering from delusions, then your ability defies
the laws of the universe.” Then I belatedly add, “No offense, of course.”

As I just have the one friend left, it’s best if I don’t alienate her, despite not
being able to wrap my mind around what she’s telling me.

Deva clucks her tongue. “
Your
universe, Reagan Bishop. Not mine. Your universe is but a grain of sand on the beach,
surrounded by billions of others. And I’m not offended. In fact, I’m pleased you’ve
opened your mind up enough to even consider other possibilities. That brings us to
tomorrow.”

I’m loath to ask what comes next. “You can’t help me with Tabitha tomorrow . . . right?”
I can’t possibly employ her assistance, and yet the idea of failing spectacularly
and being fired is almost too much to bear, so if she were to be able . . .

With much gravitas, Deva replies, “‘We’ve known each other many years, but this is
the first time you ever came to me for counsel or for help. I can’t remember the last
time that you invited me to your house for a cup of coffee.’”

What?

“Didn’t we have decaf espresso here last Thursday? Remember? You brought your own
agave?”

Deva pokes me in the arm and I almost fall off my step. “Reagan Bishop, I beg of you
to borrow my
Godfather
boxed set. De Niro? Pacino? James Caan
and
Robert Duvall? Oh, and a young Diane Keaton! Perfection!” She cups her hand and brings
her huge fingertips to her lips before throwing a kiss. “Take a lazy Saturday and
watch them back to back. You’ll thank me. Possibly two of the finest films ever made.
Don’t waste your time on the third movie, though. Sofia—good Scrabble partner, bad
actress.”

I wrap my arms around my legs while I process what she’s been telling me. “If I were
to ask for your help—and that’s a big if—how would we proceed? Just for the sake of
conversation.”

Deva rubs her chin while she sorts through the possibilities. “Depends on your level
of squeamishness. How would you feel about injecting yourself with Tabitha’s blood,
or, better yet, her spinal fluid?”

“I’d be opposed,” I say, before adding, “vehemently.”

“Drat. Okay, scratch that. What if we were to . . . I suppose urine is out of the
question?”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Uh-huh.”

“How attached are you to your hair, say, on a scale from one to ten?”

My hand flies up to my ponytail. “Ten.”

“Yes, but in this scenario, does ten mean ‘most attached’ or ‘least attached’? Because
I could work with—”

“Most attached. Ten.” I clutch my ponytail protectively.

“Huh. I was afraid of that.” She ponders and ponders and, finally, snaps her mighty
fingers. “Well, I could . . . hmm, wait, no, there’s an awful lot of management involved.”

“Any exchange of biohazards?”

“No, but it’s complicated. I could do a form of astral projection in which you’d briefly
inhabit Tabitha’s body and you could execute the action of stepping out on the Skydeck
for her. The problem is, she’d have to inhabit your body as well. That’s an awkward
conversation to have when you meet a movie star for the first time, am I right, Reagan
Bishop? Would you be willing to ask her?”

The ice I’m on is already thin enough. “Not if I didn’t want to be fired on the spot.”

“Right, right. There’s a couple of work-arounds, but the most effective one is so
against your philosophy that I hesitate to even suggest it.”

I reflect briefly on my parents’ mantelpiece, which is never going to hold my Emmy
photo without desperate measures.

“Maybe you could it explain it anyway.”

•   •   •

“I’ve not said yes,” I remind Deva, an hour into her extensive explanation. “I’ve
simply agreed to be open to the possibility.”

Deva beams at me. “Look at you—this morning, you were a garden-variety stalker about
to lose her job. And now? You’re willing to accept that yours is not the only universe.
I’m proud of you, Reagan Bishop. You’ve taken the first step on the path to your enlightenment!”

“Then why do I feel nauseated?” I ask.

She explains, “There’s always some turbulence when traveling on the astral plane.”

“That would certainly explain— Wait, was that a
joke
?”

“Ha! Zing!” Deva exclaims.

“If I go through with it, and if I’m somehow successful, then I’ll owe you a massive
debt,” I tell her.

Deva rises and brushes off her thobe. “Good. Then, someday—and that day may never
come—I might call upon you to do a service for me.”

“
Godfather
again?”

Quizzically, Deva replies, “Well, no, Reagan Bishop—I was just stating how favors
work.”

Lights, Cameras, Action

Deva and I have moved inside to my apartment, and I’ve been vacillating for the entire
afternoon about whether or not to accept her help when the phone rings. I check the
caller ID.

“Argh, it’s my mother.” I glance over at Deva for moral support.

“Then you must honor her and pick up, Reagan Bishop.”

“Not really the moral support I’d hoped for, Deva,” I grumble. Despite my best instincts,
I grit my teeth, pick up, and put her on speaker. “Hello, Ma.” I try to not sound
resigned.

Breathlessly, she replies, “Reagan, you’re never going to believe it!”

“What, Geri was selected for
The Biggest Loser
?” Deva raises an eyebrow, and I bell my arms out around me, puff my cheeks, and wobble
back and forth. I thought Deva would laugh at my impression, but instead she seems
perplexed and a bit disappointed.

“Your sister is a beautiful girl and doesn’t deserve your crap.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Fine, maybe she’s not that tubby, but let’s just say
no one would be surprised if her gym placed her photo on a milk carton.”

After a chilly silence, Ma responds, “Do you want to hear the news or not?”

“Sure, whatever, but can you make it quick? I have a friend over and I don’t want
to be rude.”

Ma immediately shifts gears from surly to incredulous. “What? Did I hear that right?
You have a
friend
over? Hold on.” I can hear her placing her palm over the receiver before she calls
to my dad. “Tommy, hey, Tommy—Reagan has a friend over!” Dad mumbles something indecipherable.

When she returns to the line, Ma’s decidedly tense again. “Reagan, what friend is
this? It’s not Sebastian, right?”

I distinctly hear my dad asking, “She didn’t slip him one of those roofers, did she?
The guys at the lodge were just talking about the roofers people put in your drinks
that make you black out before they take advantage of you.”

From across the room, Deva points to me and mouths,
Stalker.

“Damn it, no, Ma! I didn’t slip Sebastian a
Rohypnol
! The date rape drug? Please. I can’t believe your mind would go there, particularly
since I’ve moved on.”

Granted, I decided to move on only today, but this is not information she requires.

She presses, “Are you sure? You’re not spending your days buying coffee at his Starbucks
and walking your nonexistent dog past his house?”

This is mortifying.

Apparently my activities surrounding my relationship with Seb did not go unnoticed.
I bet Geri’s been having a field day at my expense.

“Is there a reason for your call, Ma?”

“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot—the Culvers are getting divorced!”

This tidbit is surprising for a number of reasons, but primarily because my mother
isn’t one to share gossip. At all. In any way, shape, or form. She was privy to every
bit of this city’s dirty laundry over the years, yet she’s never shared a single detail,
no matter how salacious the story. The Hired Truck Program? The Sorich conviction?
Daley’s son Pat’s involvement in Cardinal Growth? Our family learned of these scandals
only from the
Sun-Times
, just like everyone else in Chicago. To this day, she won’t give us any of the inside
scoop on the Blagojevich conviction, which is a shame because that family is someone’s
doctoral thesis based on the hairstyles alone.

“I can’t believe it. Wait, did something happen? Is Ethel okay?” Jack’s abuse never
branched into physicality, although with his anger, I wouldn’t have been surprised
if he finally lost his tiny modicum of control.

Ma tells me, “She’s more than okay. Thing is, Ethel decided to cover her grays. She
saw a television program with Marilu Henner—she’s from Logan Square, did you know
that? She went to Madonna High School with Dad’s cousin Terry. Nice girl. Very talented.
She was on
Taxi
with Judd Hirsch years ago, but you were just a baby when that show ended and wouldn’t
remember.”

Dad chimes in, “Danny DeVito was her costar. Who’d have predicted he’d become the
biggest celebrity from that whole ensemble? I’d have laid money on Jeff Conaway, God
rest his soul. He was one good-lookin’ fella.”

Ma continues, “Saw on
Good Morning America
that Marilu has one of those autobiographical memories—she can recite the details
from every day of her life.”

“Wait,” I can’t help but interject, “you watched Marilu Henner on
GMA
but you forget to tune in when I’m on?”

From the background Dad says, “She was on
Celebrity Apprentice
twice! Why don’t you go on
Celebrity Apprentice
, Reagan?”

“Marilu’s a U of C alum, too, ya know,” Ma adds.

This?

Right here?

Is why I wanted to let the call go to voice mail.

Tersely, I reply, “As are Kurt Vonnegut, Roger Ebert, Saul Bellow, and Tucker Max,
but how does any of this relate to the Culvers’ divorce?”

“Oh, yeah. Anyways, Ethel was watching the show with Marilu—”

“Probably
Celebrity Apprentice
,” my dad adds. “‘You’re fired! You’re fired!’ That Donald Trump is hilarious. Hate
that he tore down the
Sun-Times
building, but he’s still hysterical. He keeps trading in his wives for newer models,
too. Kind of like I do, only with Buicks.”

“Ma?” I beg. “Point? Please?”

“So Ethel’s watching and she says to herself, ‘My hair used to be that color.’
Then she runs into Geri right after she sees the show and they get to talking.”

I already don’t like where this is headed.

Ma can barely tamp down her excitement. “Geri convinces her to come in for a free
cut and color, telling Ethel that everyone deserves a lift once in a while, right?
So Geri styles her up, and you know what she says to her when they were finished?
She looks her right in the eye and goes, ‘Ethel, you’re far too hot with your new
hair to put up with Jack’s shit. Drop him like a bad habit.’ And she did! Threw the
bum right out! You should have seen ol’ Jackie boy sitting on the curb yesterday in
his ratty old La-Z-Boy, with all of his bowling trophies in boxes, waiting for one
of his girlfriends to pick him up. That sorry son of a bitch won’t be missed, I’ll
tell you that. Thirty years of bullshit! She put up with his foolishness for thirty
years and all it took for Ethel to come to her senses was an hour in the chair with
Geri. That girl—”

I jump in. “Well, I’m thrilled for Ethel, but I really have to go, Ma.”

Ma sighs. “Fine. All I’m saying is you have to stop discounting Geri. She was able
to work her magic in a way that, come to think of it, you couldn’t. You don’t give
her enough credit sometimes.”

Brightly, I respond, “Okay! Love to Dad! Bye!”

I notice that Deva is watching me intently as I stab the disconnect button again and
again. “Might I assume, Reagan Bishop, that you’ve made a decision about tomorrow?”

Without hesitation, I respond, “Oh,
hell
yes.”

•   •   •

I can’t believe we’re doing this.

Further, I can’t believe it’s working.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the ad hoc dressing room’s mirror, before I part the
curtains to cross the Skydeck. Like every other day, I expect to see my solemn blue-gray
eyes gazing back at me, dark hair neatly confined, skin the color of parchment (save
for a bit of hyperpigmentation I haven’t been able to exfoliate away since Hawaii),
and whatever neutral-colored garments were on sale at Talbots skimming my trim figure.

Today?

I am buff.

I am a fitness goddess.

I am Linda Hamilton in the second
Terminator
, minus the weapons and the silly sunglasses.

I could feel how powerful Tabitha’s body was the second we made the swap. Climbing
into her skin feels like shimmying into a wet suit, or a full-body pair of Spanx.
Everything is so firm and tight and ripped! I always see tabloid photos of her running
the stairs in Santa Monica with a trainer—apparently those weren’t just staged for
PR purposes. She was actually putting in the effort and now she, and by extension
I, is as strong as an ox right now. I’d read that Tabitha spent an entire year in
the gym for this role and I can feel the extent of her dedication.

I slip the leather jacket from my shoulders and spin around to admire my temporary,
gorgeous deltoids and trapezius underneath this skimpy tank top. I am
so
adding heavier/higher weight reps to my workout. I’ve always been light and lithe,
but I had no idea how it might feel to be a badass. I flex my/her/our? legs and am
simply delighted at how solid the adductor magnus muscles are.

Tabitha’s skin is absolutely flawless, too. I’ve always appreciated my own creamy
visage, but I have to admit that her café-au-lait coloring is beyond beautiful. I
read that she’s some kind of Nordic-Cuban-Japanese blend of ethnicities. Someone at
the UN should set up class trips for young residents of these countries to meet because,
damn.

I peek down inside the tank top.

Whoa!

Can I just take a minute to congratulate Tabitha’s plastic surgeon? Her rack is magnificent.
I give them a quick squeeze—these are the ideal size, shape, and consistency, and
I am not kidding.

Or . . . are these possibly real? Surely no one is this perfect without professional
assistance.

Before I can admire myself/herself/ourselves anymore, I’m pelted by a dream catcher,
hurled from where Deva’s chanting and standing over me . . . or technically is that
considered Tabitha?

This is so bizarre.

For the most part, I was willing to accept Deva’s blathering about channeling metaphysical
powers because I felt like I had no other choice. When your only option is a miracle,
then you tend to put all your eggs in the miracle’s basket. I needed to trust Deva
for my own sake, but for that faith to actually have been rewarded? When does that
ever happen?

What’s most astounding is that she’s proved to be exactly who she says she is. When
is anyone ever truly who they claim to be? Everyone fibs about something; according
to evolutionary psychologists, it’s coded in our DNA. We’re genetically programmed
to protect ourselves and propagate our species, and often the most expedient way to
do so is to lie. This is exactly why so many people stretch the truth in their online
dating profiles. You’re six-two? Sure you are, pal—standing on a chair.

I guess I deal with so much deception every day—largely with people deceiving themselves—that
it never occurred to me someone could be entirely genuine.

That in and of itself is borderline miraculous.

Last night, before Deva’s abilities morphed from theoretic to actual, we discussed
a number of different scenarios on the hows of today. She walked me through a couple
of different ways we could pull off the swap. Since I need to inhabit Tabitha for
only a quarter of an hour—max—Deva decided we should go the least invasive route.

I mean, as uninvasive as briefly wearing someone else’s skin can be.

Because our plans seemed so speculative and abstract, I didn’t consider what the swap
would feel like. Which is why I can’t stop studying my new self in the mirror; the
experience is too surreal, too existential. I’m looking at my reflection and I’m not
looking at myself.

Can I actually still be considered me right now?

Theologians argue that the body is just a vessel—a mere collection of flesh and bone—and
it’s our souls that make us who we are. But I believe part of my physicality makes
me who I am as well, be that good, bad, or indifferent. I mean, as strong and stunning
as Tabitha is, I bet she doesn’t have my level of endurance, and there’s no way she
could complete the Chicago marathon.

Also, my mortal form is what it is because of every single choice I’ve made. I’m the
one who’s eschewed alcohol. I’m the one who assiduously avoids GMOs and refined sugar
and wouldn’t touch a chili dog on a dare. The freckles on my shoulders are a direct
result of my drinking on the beach without sunscreen. My eyes scanned those thousands
of pages of textbooks in school. My hands are the ones that gather my hair into a
ponytail every day. My body is the one that fit so perfectly in Boyd’s arms.

In regard to my actual, corporeal being, I’m curious if my skills have been transferred
to her and vice versa. Like, say I were a piano aficionado in my regular self—would
I be able to play while inhabiting Tabitha? Or is there an inherent amount of muscle
memory proprietary to the body? Certainly when I agreed to attempt the swap, I was
concerned with ethical issues, but at no point did I give consideration to the philosophical
ramifications.

As I ponder, I’m pelted with a votive candle. With one mighty paw still on her/my/our
back, Deva uses her other hand to gesticulate toward the clock on the wall and mouths,
Go! Now!
Remembering my task, I scoot out the curtains and speed walk over to where the crew’s
set up by the Ledge.

Richard Holthaus,
Spider-Man, Part Femme
’s director, swans up and places his arm around my (seriously, admirably strong) shoulders.
“Tabby, are you up to this?”

I open my mouth as if to speak but hesitate before answering him, not because I’m
not up to this, but because I’m not sure if I’ll be answering him in my voice or Tabitha’s.

“Five minutes, that’s all I ask,” Richard pleads. “Please, do what it takes to give
me five minutes. Then I’ll never make you participate in anything like this again.
Promise. Everything else will be handled by your double or superimposed on the green
screen. I just need those gorgeous peepers of yours to look out over the city for
a solid thirty seconds.”

These eyes are stunning, aren’t they? They’re almond shaped and topaz colored, framed
with the thickest, darkest lashes I’ve ever witnessed. I was sure they were fake,
but when I gave them a surreptitious tug, I realized they were one hundred percent
real.