Twisted Sisters

by Jen Lancaster

  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-ni
tch 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.

  “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. Oka
y, 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.”