Twisted Sisters (18 page)

I try not to seem impressed, even though I’d be challenged to come up with half their
names, let alone a single interest.

“Kacey Irelyn and Kiley are both seven. Kiley has a tiny freckle under her right eye
and Kacey Irelyn is just about the best swimmer I’ve ever seen for her age. Because
she spends so much time in chlorine, her hair is shiner. Connor’s the baby, so of
course I have a special bond with him. We babies stick together.”

I’m literally choking back the bile as she continues, “He’s two and a half and is
currently going through a stage where he truly believes he’s a turtle.”

Oh. I guess that explains why he was crawling. I’d just assumed he was a gimp.

Mary Mac flops into Kiley Irelyn’s abandoned seat. “Amazing what you can pick up when
you’re invested in someone’s life other than your own.” She snorts. “Or the guy you’re
stalking.”

I can feel myself redden, partially from embarrassment, partially from rage.

Naturally, Geri jumps in to offer her faux sympathy. “You can’t blame Gip for being
busy. Look how much she’s accomplished! Compared to us, she’s a rock star. I mean,
she has a PsyD. Heck, I went to beauty school.”

I’m sorry,
heck
? Am I the only one who’s witnessing this?

“You’re a hairdresser?” Kassel asks.

“Only the best!” Geri fluffs her own ginger mane and giggles. “Or, at least I hope
I’m pretty good. But I love doing hair so much—every day I fly out of bed, so excited
to get to work. I adore my clients, and my salon rocks! Maybe I’ll never be rich,
but you can’t put a price on having a vocation that makes you so happy.”

Really? Is this why you’ve switched salons
cough *
fired
* cough
four times in the past five years?

So. Full. Of. Shit.

Mary Mac takes a bite of Kiley Irelyn’s turkey and chews angrily. She swallows and
says, “Why’d you become a psychologist in the first place, Reagan? You don’t even
like
people, let alone want to help them. I bet you just wanted an opportunity to judge
them on a professional basis.”

“Try to be a little more bitter, why don’t you?” I reply.

Kassel’s head swivels back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match.

“Mac, that’s not true,” Geri reasons. “Gip’s amazing at what she does. Remember the
episode with the anorexic ballerina? How she connected with the girl? That was genuine.
It’s almost like Gip knew what it was like to have an eating disorder.”

“Of
course
she connected with the dancer,” Mary Mac scoffs. “She’s orthorexic herself.”

“What’s orthorexic?” Kiley Irelyn asks from her corner of the table. I try to determine
if she has a freckle or shinier hair, but I’ll be damned if I can discern between
them. Different outfits! God! Is that so hard?

Mary Mac replies, “Well, according to the segment I saw on
20/20
, that means your auntie Reagan is so neurotic about the purity of her food that she
ends up restricting her intake.”

This is preposterous. I’m not even a little bit orthorexic. Orthorexia is an actual
eating disorder, despite not yet being recognized by the DSM-IV. Besides, I watch
fat and sugar because it’s common sense. I don’t restrict animal or dairy products—I
eat plenty of dairy, as long as it’s certified organic, and preferably raw. And fish
is absolutely an animal product. I’m simply cautious as to the process in which the
fish are caught. Granted, I wouldn’t eat a McDonald’s Filet-O-Fish, but that’s not
just because of how it’s farmed, but also because of the gloppy tartar sauce, the
refined flour in the bun, the unnaturally orange cheese, and the deep-frying.

“Oh, please,” I reply. “There’s something wrong with me because I hold myself to a
higher standard when it comes to healthy eating? Damn me and my ethics! Forgive me
for not climbing on the Chomp-tastic bandwagon.”

“No,” Mary Mac argues, “there’s something wrong with you because you’re so insane
about additives, preservatives, and genetic modification that you’re a massive pill
in social situations. Which is ironic, given your stance on prescription meds. Look
at your plate right now—there’s not a single item on it that you didn’t prepare and
bring from home.”

“I’m a pescatarian!”

Mary Mac slaps the table and the contents of everyone’s glasses ripple. “No, you’re
a pain-in-the-ass-atarian! It’s frigging Thanksgiving, the one day of the year that
even the most rigid among us indulge. And what does this one bring for dessert? Brownies.
But not regular, normal-people brownies, all fudgy and delicious, full of caramel.
Hers are made with almond flour, applesauce, and squash. Squash! In a brownie!”

“They sound really interesting,” Geri replies sweetly, trying to catch Kassel’s eye.

“Then why don’t you taste one?” Mary Mac challenges.

“I would but, you know, allergies,” Geri says, acting as though she’s contrite. And
here I almost forgot about the Nut Lie that Geri’s been telling for years.

Mary Mac presses on. “Our ancestors who
starved
during the Great Potato Famine would be all,
No, thanks, I’m stuffed,
if someone offered them a squash brownie.”

I’ve had enough of this. “Is that your professional opinion? Because I’m curious,
Mary Mac—where did you get
your
doctorate? I’m not familiar—does Northern have a one-year accreditation?”

“Gip, Mac, c’mon, knock it off. We have a guest.” Geri slides closer to Kassel.

“Please, don’t stop on my account, Peace Corps,” Kassel says. He folds his napkin
and places it next to his plate. “I live for fights—they make the best TV! I’m popping
some corn and waiting for the hair pulling and wrestling.”

“Wait, what’d you call her?” Mary Mac asks.

He smiles and his eyes crinkle. Again, he is not my boyfriend, but I definitely find
the act of crinkling one’s eyes attractive in a potential partner. “Giving nicknames
is kind of my thing. Adds to my charm. When we first met, Reagan was so passionate
about all her charity work that I called her Peace Corps.”

Mary Mac chokes on her wine. “I’m sorry, her
what
?” she sputters.

“You know, the volunteering she does with the hungry and the homeless,” Kassel replies.

“Did you start volunteering, Gip? That’s awesome!” Geri exclaims, slapping me on the
back. “And here everyone always says you never consider anyone but yourself!” Then
she flashes a thousand-watt smile at Kassel and he grins back at her.

Do you see?

Do you see what she does to me?

Her passive-aggression is like those whistles only dogs can hear. Just because most
humans can’t detect the sound doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.

Mary Mac slams down her glass and rises from her seat. She begins to bus the plates
off the table, bringing them over to the dishwasher in the corner of the basement’s
kitchen. “Charity, my ass.”

Pointedly, I tell Mary Mac, “I’m highly involved with a number of charities. I’m very
philanthropic.”

Mary Mac rolls her eyes as she separates the good silver from the everyday pieces
the kids were using. “
Armchair
philanthropic, maybe. Have you actually done anything other than attend the fancy
events we’re always seeing in
Chicago Nouveau
?”

“I . . . I . . . have been very busy with the show lately,” I stammer. “But I refuse
to be put on the spot for my good works. Maybe I haven’t done anything outside of
attend black-tie charity events in a while, but I live to help others.”

Mary Mac begins tossing items into the dishwasher. “I’m at St. Catherine’s every Tuesday
and Thursday night serving dinner in the soup kitchen.
That’s
what helping others looks like, not hobnobbing with Mayor Tiny Dancer. If you care
so much about the hungry, Reagan, why don’t you stop being such a massive hypocrite
and cart your happy ass down here and actually do something productive, like make
sandwiches? Or are you afraid to touch white bread?”

Kassel gestures toward Mary Mac and me and asks Geri, “Were they always like this?”

At some point, my mother materialized in the basement, and now she joins us at the
table. She pours herself a healthy belt of red wine. “You betcha. These girls are
why their father and I drink. They fought all the damn time. ‘That’s
my
dress! That’s
my
doll! That’s
my
ham sandwich!’ It was constant. They never once came to a consensus. Shoulda seen
’em on family vacations. The only reason Mary Mac and Reagan didn’t strangle each
other is because they couldn’t reach over Geri’s car seat.”

“At least Geri got a car seat,” I note. “You used to let me flail around the cargo
area in the back of the station wagon like I was a golden retriever.”

Mary Mac whips a dish towel at me, but because it’s so light, it barely travels past
the counter. “Reagan, you’re such a frigging martyr. Don’t act like they somehow neglected
you. You had a helmet for your bike! And knee pads! They
drove
you to school! I had to take the CTA by myself when I was
nine
. Do you know what manner of perverts ride the city bus, ready to prey on little girls
in Catholic school uniforms? My God, Ma was still
smoking
while she was pregnant with me!”

Ma denies nothing, instead calmly sipping her wine. “It was the seventies; we didn’t
know.”

“And you have the nerve to say
I
couldn’t raise a dog, cat, or goldfish,” I add.

“Didn’t say you couldn’t, just said you’re too self-centered to bother to try,” Mary
Mac counters.

I think I despise Mary Mac less than Geri because at least she’s upfront with her
scorn and derision. Geri wraps it up in hugs and affirmations that sound supportive
but are truly anything but.

Ma stares down both of us. “If you two don’t stop it, I’ll ask Charlie to come down
and tell you about the miracle that is Viagra. We already heard all about it while
we ate.
All
about it. He’s apparently a thorough storyteller
and
a tender lover, that one. Big fan of the uniboob, too.”

That stops both of us in our tracks, and for a moment, we grimace in solidarity.

“Hey, what’s up next for
Push
?” Geri asks. Of course this whole time Geri has managed to deflect any of the conflict
off herself, because that’s how she operates. And now look at her, changing the subject
because she’s so desperate for attention.

Kassel replies, “Good stuff! This weekend Dr. Karen’s counseling a compulsive shopper.
We’re filming at Woodfield Mall. After that, Regan’s working with an agoraphobic.
The guest is a lifelong Bears fan, but he’s always been too afraid of crowds to attend
a game. So, with Reagan’s help, we’ll be taking him to Soldier Field for the first
time. Best part? We’re doing a live episode! It’ll be huge!”

My stomach instantly knots and I’m pretty sure it’s not because of the kumquats. “Beg
your pardon?”

Kassel brushes the crumbs off of his crisply starched pinpoint oxford shirt. I bet
he smells like cotton and spice. “Didn’t Faye already brief you? DBS is broadcasting
the game, so we’re running the taped portion before the kickoff and then we’ll cut
to footage of him during timeouts and halftime!”

Slowly, I inquire, “How long is a typical game?”

“About three hours,” Geri offers. “Sometimes longer if they head into OT.”

To date, the longest Deva and I have been able to keep a guest confined during our
swap is about twenty minutes. There’s no way I can make anyone “meditate” for that
long. Plus, with the added burden of live television, watched by millions of households?
There’s so much potential for this to go horribly, devastatingly wrong.

What am I going to do?

If I fail on this level, I may as well enroll in beauty school because I’ll never
work in mental health again.

Shit, shit, shit!

“Can you all excuse me for a moment?” Without waiting for a response, I dash upstairs
and grab my phone. I rush outside past the cache of smoking, gossiping aunts and huddle
next to the garage. I furiously pound out a panicked text to Deva, and thankfully,
she responds instantly.  . . .

Is not mayday, Robber Baron—is Thanksgibbing! Goggle, goggle!

I quickly reply,
We have a problem—need to swap for at least three hours next week. What are we going
to do?

Don’t worming, we can hand job

I opt to interpret this as her comforting me and not an oddly salacious suggestion.

But how?
I type.

Thanwell

Than we’ll what?

I wait, but no further information arrives. I stand there for another ten minutes,
but I receive no additional responses. I shiver in my thin silk dress until I can’t
take it anymore and I return inside.

Back in the basement, the table’s deserted, but I hear voices and laughter coming
from Geri’s room.

Oh, hell, no.

This is
my
potential boyfriend, Geri, not yours. How dare you lure him into your lair!

I swing the door open with a bit more force than intended and I see Kassel on Geri’s
computer talking to a little kid. Who is that? Is he one of my nephews?

Geri’s on the bed with a magazine. She gestures for me to join her. Reluctantly, I
walk over to her, but I refuse to sit. “Hey, Gip, we were talking and he really seemed
to be missing Walt, so I suggested they Skype,” Geri whispers. “He’s almost done.”

“Wow, that’s really”—manipulative? devious? underhanded?—“kind of you,” I reply.

“Love you, buddy! See you soon!” Kassel’s voice is falsely bright as he bids his son
good-bye.

“He asked me to stay while he was online. I think he was trying not to cry. I bet
he could use some comforting,” Geri confides in me.

I bet you think he does.

Kassel ambles over, his gait less confident than normal. “That was rough, but I needed
it. Thanks, Ger.”

Ger?
Ger?
What is this “Ger” business? Then they sort of gaze at each other for a second, which,
I’m sorry, but how is that even possible? Why on earth would he have an interest in
that fatty meatball when he could have something exotic, delicious,
and
good for him, like . . . a quinoa, beet, and blood orange salad?