Twisted Sisters (3 page)

Anyway, I practice cognitive-behavior-based therapy, which is more about how patients’
actions influence the way they see themselves, rather than how they feel. Regardless,
my red-herring question puts us back on track.

Dina surreptitiously adjusts her silicone parts while she ponders her reply. I’m on
the fence in terms of surgical enhancement. On the one hand, I’d look fantastic if
I went up a cup size (especially according to Sebastian). On the other, gravity’s
been kind and I can’t say I’m a fan of elective surgery and the resulting onslaught
of pharmaceuticals.

I tune back in when Dina says, “I feel like . . . I need to understand what he sees
in her. I wanna hear what he says to her. Like, how is it different with her than
it was with me? So I didn’t only visit his page—I went to hers, too.”

I grimace. “Devil’s. Playground.”

I wonder if Geri actually received, what? A certificate of merit? Did the audience
clap? Did she have all her south side cohorts there to lull her into a false sense
of security? I’m sure Céline Dion need not watch her back.

Then I feel a flash of guilt for not giving Dina my undivided attention.

All right, I’m listening now.

“This is dumb, but I wish . . .” Dina tends to trail off a lot. When I’m quiet (and
actually paying attention), I draw more out of her. People are generally far too reticent
to allow prolonged gaps of stillness, rushing to fill the awkward silences with nervous,
self-revelatory chatter.

But if Geri did receive a tangible artifact of some sort, I guarantee my parents will
put the damn thing on display with all her old soccer participation trophies on the
shelves next to the fireplace.

This? Right here?

Is why
Push
needs to win that Emmy.

I slap my thighs a couple of times to refocus. I’m not letting the world’s lamest
little sister throw me off my game. Dina interprets this gesture as a demand that
she start getting real.

“. . . I wish that I could, like, insert myself into her body.” Suddenly, the whole
crew snaps to attention, particularly the second cameraman. He’s fresh off a stint
filming MTV’s
The Real World: Logan Square
and he’s desperately disappointed that no one’s having threesomes in hot tubs on
this show. Of course, he won’t catch hepatitis C on this particular job, so I guess
that’s the trade-off.

Whoa, I just had a brainstorm! Seven strangers and one shrink (read: PsyD) picked
to live in a loft and have their lives taped to find out what happens when people
stop being polite . . . and start getting therapy! I make a mental note to run this
idea past Wendy later.

I would kill it in my own spin-off.

Kill. It.

I notice Dina blinking at me again and it’s on me to pick up the conversational thread.
“So I understand what you’re communicating. Do you mean you want to insert yourself
biblically
?” I query. Funny, but on the spectrum between heterosexuality and homosexuality,
I’d have placed her firmly on the Team Nope, Not Once, Not Even at Camp That Summer
end of the continuum.

Dina’s immediately flustered. “God, no, I’m not attracted to her, nothing like that.
Alls I’m saying is I wish I could trade places with her for a day. You know, ride
around in her head or something. Or swap bodies to see how Lorenzo reacts to me as
her. Like in the movie
Freaky Friday
.”

Unfortunately—or not—I spent most of Lindsay Lohan’s career in Drescher Library and
I’m largely unfamiliar with her oeuvre. Although, frankly, I’d welcome the opportunity
to sit that child down with the DSM-IV. So troubled. Her neuroses are buying someone
a beach house—I guarantee that. And if I could get my hands on Charlie Sheen? Hello,
early retirement!

“Are you referring to astral projection?” I ask. Dina blinks three times in rapid
succession and the entire crew seems confused, so I’m obligated to explain the concept.
“Astral projection is a kind of out-of-body experience. Your mind separates from your
physical body and your consciousness is able to travel outside of your corporeal self.”

“Yes! Like, body swapping and stuff! That! I want to do that.”

I give Dina a wry smile. “I’m afraid that’s a little outside of my area of expertise.”

Also?

The concept of astral projection is utter and complete horseshit, but I dare not say
this out loud at work. Wendy Winsberg has a huge mystical/spiritual bent, so much
so that last season she hired a ridiculous new age healer named Deva for the show.
I avoid her whenever possible. I guarantee whatever ails my patients can’t be cured
with some gewgaw or artifact from Deva’s oddball little boutique, even if it is across
the street from Prada.

But, if it were possible to astral project, particularly if I were to be able to swap
bodies and not just rattle around a different dimension, I know exactly where I’d
go. I’d head straight for Geri’s meatball-shaped vessel because I’m desperate to understand
why everyone falls all over her. She’s not particularly smart or terribly driven or
even that cute, yet you’d think she hung the moon. There’s a reason she has a Svengali-like
hold on the rest of the world, and I’d make it my job to discover what it is.

I’d also prove she’s not allergic to nuts. (That was
my
ham sandwich, damn it!)

I stand and gesture toward the walking path, largely because it’s the golden hour,
which is the most flattering lighting of the day. I make sure I’m on the left side
for maximum sunset benefit.

“Dina, why don’t we address the issues within our locus of control before branching
into metaphysics?” She quickly falls into step next to me, the crew clattering along
in front of us. When we’re on the move, they have to walk backward in order to film
our faces.

Here we go, money shot! Clear a space on the mantel, Ma!

“Dina, take out your phone.”

She blanches beneath all her bronzer and blush. “No, Dr. R, please. Not that.”

“It’s time,” I say in my most authoritative voice. The primary cameraman circles behind
us and pans in over Dina’s shoulder. “Strong, Dina. You can do it.” With a hand trembling
so profoundly that her bracelets clatter, Dina extends a shaky finger and pulls up
her Facebook account. I instruct her, “On the count of five, Dina. This is what we’ve
been working toward. Let’s go. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one.”

Everyone gathers around to watch Dina finally, blessedly, delete her (frigging) Facebook
account. The crew can’t help but let out a rousing cheer.

“You did it, Dina!”

I’m so overcome with pride that I hug her to me. Wow. Those are like a couple of kettlebells
in there. So not a surgical selling point. Is that what happens when you cheap out
on the augmentation? They get hard? Wouldn’t they hurt? Like, all the time? Would
I even be able to sleep on my stomach? And how would I run any kind of distance with
them? I’d need three bras! Plus, for all of Sebastian’s enthusiasm, I can’t imagine
he’d appreciate a handful of concrete. Besides, what I have going on is far better
than Geri and her ridiculous rack. She claims they’re homegrown, but she was flat
when I left for my doctorate and stacked when I came home. And everyone else in the
family is small to mid-busted, save for Great-Aunt Helen and her uniboob. I mean,
Geri’s already proved herself a liar with the nut business and—ahem, Dina.

Focus, self, focus.

I ask, “Tell me what feeling you have now that you’re rid of that temptation.”

Dina lifts her head, and it’s almost like she’s taking in the scenery for the first
time. The sun, the lake, the after-work crowd, released from long days in the office
and confining business garb, filtering onto the walking path. Then she shows me the
brightest smile in all of New Jersey.

“I feel . . . free. I feel like I can breathe again for the first time in a very long
while.”

Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta.

A few more days like this and I’ll have the confidence to turn her over to the makeover
team. I find once I figure out our pushee’s insides, working on the outside is pure
gravy.

Before Dina can further express her joy, a Lycra-clad biker whizzes perilously close
to us, causing the production assistant to drop my beverage, which splashes all over
Dina’s leggings.

“Yo!
Yo!
Yeah, I’m talking to you, you frigging Lance Armstrong wannabe.
This
is the walking path.” She gestures with talon-tipped fingers. “
That
is the bike path. Follow me here—walkers go on walking path, bikers go on bike path.
But maybe they need to post a big, frigging sign that says ‘Bikes
and
Douche Bags,’ so you understand that this means you ride there. Oh, you’re riding
away from me? Really? Big man! Get your narrow ass back here, ya frigging pussy!”

Two points to make here:

This is likely not the episode to earn me a spot on my parents’ mantel.

Also, I may need to touch upon anger-management skills before sending Dina back to
Perth Amboy.

Boat Drinks

“Is this seat taken, Reagan Bishop?”

A figure hovers over me. I can’t see her face because the sun’s to her back, but I
can easily discern her voice, especially because of her bizarre penchant for saying
my first and last name together all the time. Who does that?

I crane my head around, as though to indicate the plethora of empty chairs on this
side of the pool that she may not have noticed. Since we’re here in Hawaii, the majority
of people at the resort prefer to catch rays rather than huddle on the side of the
pool in shadows. But I pride myself on never once having had a sunburn, which is why
my skin’s still the color of freshly poured cream. (Or, if Geri’s to be believed—which
she is not—Elmer’s Glue.) Even when I was at the beach all the time with Boyd years
ago, I was careful. With my umbrella and sun hats and towel fortresses, Boyd would
laugh about how no one would ever guess I lived in Malibu.

I glance uneasily at the chair next to me. Ugh, why does she have to sit with me?
It’s aggravating enough that I’m compelled to deal with her antics at work. Like the
time she insisted we swish our tongues into a cup of water and scrub our eyes with
the backwash because it was supposed to cure us of our allergies? Hello,
conjunctivitis
! Or how about the time she made us lie down and covered us with stones for a purpose
I’ve yet to understand? Utter nonsense. I’m willing to put up with that foolishness
at work, but here? On our fantastic thanks-for-a-second-great-season trip to Maui
from our benevolent benefactor, Wendy Winsberg? Patently unfair.

Plus, I’m very busy waiting for a text. Sebastian’s been doing that I’ll-come-see-you-but-then-I’ll-ignore-you
business again that’s been going on ever since he insisted we take our break last
month.

He told me to text when I got here, and I did, and he’s yet to respond. So frustrating,
and yet I figure if I provide him with ample time and space, he’ll realize I’m exactly
what he needs, largely because he’s exactly what I need.

I love that Sebastian’s as focused on his career as I am. He won me over when he shared
his ten-year plan. Sure, Boyd was fun back in the day, but he had no tangible goals
(save for competing in the Billabong Pro) and his ten-year plan was basically to not
be eaten by a shark. Boyd was like ice cream for dinner: delicious in the moment,
but ultimately a poor lifestyle choice.

Without benefit of an official invitation, Deva settles in next to me. I pretend to
be immersed in the awful book I grabbed in the airport bookstore. How do I inevitably
wind up with memoirs penned by hacks? I hate when writers try to pass off their clear
and present neuroses as humor. The author claims to be “bitter,” but anyone with credentials
would assess her as “borderline.”

Camille said you stole a bag from a homeless guy.

Insufferable.

I could write circles around this moron.

I snap shut the book because even a conversation with Deva would be less painful than
this dreck. I quickly calculate how long I might have to chat with her before I can
feign sleepiness. Given the angle of the sun, fullness from brunch, and how late the
luau ran last night, I estimate fifteen minutes.

Deva makes short work of slathering herself in sunscreen, due to the fact that her
hands are the size of catchers’ mitts. I offer a tight smile and she grins back. Perhaps
this won’t be so bad.

“Tell me everything about you, Reagan Bishop.”

Ugh.

“A lifetime is a lot of ground to traverse,” I reply lightly, glancing down at my
phone. Why am I not hearing back from him? The trading desks have been closed for
hours. What’s he busy doing?

She shakes a massive finger at me. “Ah, Reagan Bishop, as Creighton Abrams says, when
eating an elephant, take one bite at a time.”

I try not to grit my teeth. “Yes, but the problem there is that I’m a pescatarian.”
True story. I haven’t touched any live protein source other than fish in years, unlike
Geri, who I’d wager hits the Golden Arches every single day. My body’s a temple and
I’m not about to worship with a Big Mac. I believe you are what you eat, which makes
Geri a basket of cheese curds and a mountain of buffalo wings. I’m a proponent of
clean, organic eating, which means I have to be constantly vigilant. You should have
seen me last week when a new barista at the indie coffee shop by the office tried
to slip nonorganic white milk into my latte instead of almond. I had to ask her, “I’m
sorry, are you trying to kill me?”

Deva laughs. “That was a metaphor, Reagan Bishop. No one’s asking you to dine on pachyderm.
Although once while traveling in Mongolia with descendants of Kerait tribesmen, I
ate boodog. Let me assure you, marmot does
not
taste like chicken. I’d say it’s more of a—”

In order to stop her from whatever comes next, I rattle off my bio. “Let’s see, born
and raised in Chicago, attended Taylor Park Academy, then U of C, then Pepperdine,
and I did my clinical internship at Northwestern Hospital. Had my own practice for
a while, but now I work for
Push
.” Then I give her another polite smile and start to reach for my sunscreen, which
is underneath my phone.

I’m tempted to ask her where one receives a new age education but suspect it’s from
the University of I Don’t Care.

Deva stops me from grabbing my bottle of 100 SPF Neutrogena by laying a massive mitt
on my arm. “You’ve told me what you do, Reagan Bishop. Now tell me who you are.”

Damn it, why couldn’t anyone in my social circle join me on this stupid vacation so
I wouldn’t be subjected to this nonsense? Wendy sprang for two plane tickets per employee,
plus meals, lodging, and spa treatments, but no one could make it. I tell you what,
if someone were to offer
me
an all-expenses-paid trip to Maui, you can be very sure I’d rearrange my schedule
accordingly. But no. I heard an endless chorus of,
Aw, Reagan, it’s my busy season,
from Rhonda, Bethany, and Caroline.

As for Sebastian, he said he didn’t want to give me the wrong idea about us if he
came with me, which might have been easier to swallow were he not in my bed at the
time.

Like I said, the business with Sebastian is confusing.

So now I’m forced to make banal chitchat with someone who sells dream catchers for
a living. Yes,
this
is why I earned a doctorate.

I reply, “I feel like I just told you everything about me.”

Deva folds her legs underneath her and assumes a Buddha pose, her billowy caftan belying
her slight figure. “Not even remotely.”

I stall for time by grabbing the foo-foo cocktail served in the pineapple rind sitting
next to me. Wendy’s arranged for a different tropical libation to be sent out to each
of us every hour on the hour. I finally took one so the perky pool waitress would
stop incessantly bothering me.

I normally eschew alcohol as I don’t enjoy losing track of my faculties (unlike
some
people), but clearly these are extraordinary circumstances. I take the smallest of
sips and the flavor is not wholly unpleasant.

But before I put any more of this concoction into my body, I’ll need the 411. I flag
the server.

The college-aged girl in a powder blue polo and a white tennis skort trots over. According
to her tag, she’s named Hope.

“Hi, I’m Hope. How may I be of service?”

“What’s in this?”

She peers at my pineapple. “Let’s see . . . there’s an orchid, cherry, and pineapple
garnish—got it! This is our pool bartender’s take on a Hurricane. They’re only available
when Troy’s on shift. Delicious, right?”

“That depends on what’s in it.”

“Sure, totally understand. Okay, first Troy uses 10 Cane Rum, which is an artisanal,
gold-medal-winning varietal from Trinidad. The name’s derived from their harvesting
cane in bundles of ten. What’s unique is this rum boasts notes of pear and vanilla,
so it doesn’t have the heft and the mouthfeel of lesser rums. Because this 10 Cane
is crafted from sugarcane and not molasses, it’s most similar to Brazil’s famous cachaça
liquor. You may notice some commonality to that of a caipirinha?”

I shake my head.

“No? Alrighty. Then we blend in fresh lime juice, passion fruit juice, pineapple juice,
a hand-macerated papaya puree, and house-made simple syrup.”

“Which means no high-fructose corn syrup?”

“Never!”

“All ingredients locally sourced and organic, I hope?”

“Of course!”

“Even the papaya?”

Hope smiles politely. “I assure you, ma’am, not only is the papaya local, but it came
from certified, nematode-free rootstock. We pride ourselves on serving our guests
nothing but the finest! In fact, even the cane sugar was grown right here on Maui.”

“And would you happen to know the farm’s policy on pesticide use?”

I appear to have stumped her.

“Do you mind if I check on that and get back to you?”

I hesitate, finally saying, “No . . . I’m sure it will do. Thank you, Hope.” As she
skulks away, I quietly note how much I hate when the servers can’t answer a simple
question about the items they serve. This is probably why she carries trays for a
living.

I’m in the middle of a second, grudging sip when Deva asks, “Have you a lover, Reagan
Bishop?” which propels an inadvertent spray of slushy rum and local juice out my nose.

I’m loath to answer her for a variety of reasons, ranging from this being a gross
violation of the social norm to my being genuinely puzzled about my own status. See:
Beeswax, None of Your
. How do I explain the break we’re on, when I’m not sure I understand it myself? And
why did he request the break in the first place? I respond, “At the moment, no.”

She tents her hands and rests her chin on her fingertips. “I could sense that your
aura regarding love was out of balance.”

Drink.

“Have you read Pamala Oslie’s seminal work on auras? Specifically
Life Colors
and
Love Colors
?”

I take another sip. “I’m waiting for the movie.”

Deva’s face lights up and she claps together her great paws. “Oh, sweet Goddess, there’s
a film? I’m so— Ah. Ha-ha! You
got
me, Reagan Bishop. Under that dour exterior, you’re actually quite funny.”

I immediately bristle; I’m not dour.

Am I dour?

No, I am
not
dour.

Maybe I’m not as lighthearted as, say, Geri, but few people are without the use of
drugs, and everyone knows my stance on Big Pharma. I mean, anyone can pop a Dr. Feelgood,
but true change is manifested only through an active commitment to cognitive therapy.

Was I dour when Boyd and I drove the entire length of the Pacific Coast Highway naked
that night? I think not. Then again, fooling around with him when I should have been
focused on my dissertation almost cost me my doctoral program.

I remember how my academic adviser screamed at me in her office about how I was throwing
away what would be a brilliant career. So, much to my entire family’s chagrin, I broke
up with Boyd because it was for the best. He didn’t understand why we couldn’t find
a balance, maybe meet halfway. But what’s halfway between a doctor and a surfer/bartender?

Yet my point remains that I’m not dour.

To punctuate this point, I drink.

And then I drink some more. Because I’m not dour.

I decide to change my tactics and I start asking Deva some questions. “Is this your
first time visiting Hawaii?”

“Goddess, no. I’m here whenever I can get away. I own a beach home up the coast.”

Huh. Even shacks in Maui start at a cool million. I’m suddenly intrigued. Perhaps
I should revise my view on her. Here I thought she was just the weirdo who insisted
on smudging the studio with burning sage before our broadcasts.

“You’re kidding,” I reply. “I was under the impression you sold kachinas and hand-carved
bongs for a living. No offense, of course.” There’s no way she could afford a beach
house on her salary. Despite the ample perks Wendy provides, we’re still on a cable
network, so I actually earn
less
than when I was in private practice. But if we ever make it to network, that will
all change. That’s what I’m banking on, anyway.

“I take no offense. I sell many things, Reagan Bishop. My business interests are varied,”
Deva explains with some vagueness. “Also, in terms of P and L, you’d be surprised
at the markup on tribal art. I carry artifacts from a Maori chief who’s such a savvy
entrepreneur he could run Morgan Stanley.” She stops to reflect on her statement.
“I mean, if he ever put on pants.”

“Noted.” I believe my requisite fifteen minutes are up. Ultimately, a weirdo with
a beach house is still a weirdo. I begin to close my eyes and lean back in my lounger.

“Why are you out of harmony with your family?”

I sit straight up. “Excuse me?”

“I’m noticing discord in your second chakra.”

Of course you are.

Deva continues, “The Sanskrit translation for the second chakra is ‘the dwelling place
for the self.’ The second chakra is most closely linked with sexuality and creativity.
However, because this chakra also has six petals, that portion relates to the numerology
of six, which pertains to nurturing and links back to family and community.”

“Like you do,” I quip.

She blithely continues, “My concern, Reagan Bishop, is I’m seeing signs your second
chakra is weak, which can manifest itself in any number of problems, most likely in
your sense of self-worth.”

Drink.

“I assure you my self-worth is
not
an issue,” I state. I mean, Taylor Park and U of C and Pepperdine? Accelerated career
path? Lead psychologist on
Push
? Years of self-validation? “I’m fine, thank you. More than fine. I’m borderline magnificent.”
And I will be fully so once Sebastian and I figure out how to navigate this minor
blip in our relationship. Hello! Text me back now, please.