“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.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
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 par
chment (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.
(Which makes me wonder about the boobs.)
I lower my chin and blink up at him through the thick fringe, and Richard practically melts. This is amazing! My God, if I had the ability to turn a grown man into a puddle simply by blinking, I’d never have spent that much time in the library! It’s a shame I’m only squiring Tabitha around for the next five minutes or so. What I wouldn’t give to drop by Sebastian’s office and show him what he’s missing!
Except that wouldn’t really make sense, as he’s never met Tabitha, and also, I own the fact that I may have been a bit stalkeresque in the past. Plus, I pledged to Deva that I was going to break the cycle of insanity and I’m no longer going to try to contact him. So approaching him again, even if it’s in someone else’s (amazing) body?
Kind of counterproductive.
“I’m ready.” The voice that comes out isn’t my own shrill (according to Mary Mac) tone, but instead is a husky, velvety, melodic, Kathleen-Turner-back-in-the-day sound. (Note to self: If possible, record outgoing voice mail message before returning Tabitha’s bod to its rightful owner.)
“Do you need your doctor with you on set?”
“No!” I bark, before I quickly clarify. “I mean, Dr. Reagan said I’d do my best if I, I mean, she weren’t watching.”
Also, Tabitha . . . kind of hasn’t been informed of what we’re doing right now, so she’s in no position to fake being me. She’s in the dressing room with Deva, wearing an ancient amulet, eyes clamped shut to ensure she
doesn’t look down and realize she’s not in her own skin. We told her that this was a creative visualization exercise, but at the end of it, she’d have completed her task with no real memory of actually having experienced what terrified her.
I know, I know.
If the APA ever caught wind of my shenanigans, I’d never . . . well, I can’t even consider the repercussions right now.
Richard calls, “Places, everyone!” and his team scrambles. They’ve all been warned that they only have moments to capture the shot, and woe be to them if they’re not ready. From the corner of the room, I spot the Push team as well, and I have to catch myself before waving to our crew. Pfft, like Kassel needs the ego boost of having been acknowledged by a movie star, especially one as undeniably hot as I am.
Granted, I’ve never had a desire to . . . dine at the Pink Taco before, but my God, look at me! This face! This skin! These tits! I’m a total game changer.
“And we’re rolling . . .”
Okay, Tabitha’s body, let’s do this.
My only task is to sit here in the corner of this clear box, one hundred and three stories above the rest of Chicago, using nothing but my face to communicate the whirlwind of emotions my character is feeling. Not only has Parker Peter recently discovered her new superpowers stemming from a radioactive spider bite, but she’s also just learned she’s tasked with saving the city from her new arch-nemesis, Venom, played by a catsuited Charlize Theron.
While the cameras are on me, my goal is to project equal parts fear, resolve, and hope.
Easy-peasy.
I fear being found out, while I resolve to keep my job and license to practice, and I hope to wheedle the name of Tabitha’s surgeon out of her.
I emote the hell out of the scene, somewhat inadvertently.
As excited as I am that this is actually working, a part of me is racked with guilt. Although technically psychologists don’t take a Hippocratic oath, we govern our practices by it. The first-do-no-harm business is no joke. I’ve been wrestling with myself over this deception, as I’m not doing harm so much as I’m helping Tabitha keep a hundred-million-dollar movie on track.
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