Twisted Sisters

by Jen Lancaster

Strung on lengths of black velvet cord, at first glance the amulets looked like any other statement necklace sported by your average Lincoln Park resident. The amulets are identical old bronze coins, maybe three inches in diameter, covered in Chinese lettering on one side, and a head with two faces on the other. When I saw them, I asked, “Is this an inscription? Do these characters actually mean something?”

  Deva replied, “The loose interpretation is, ‘If there is anything that we wish to change in the child, we should first examine it and see whether it is not something that could better be changed in ourselves.’”

  “I’ve heard that quote before,” I said.

  “Probably because I just said it, Reagan Bishop.”

  “No, it’s quite familiar. Have I read it somewhere?” I pulled my phone out and noticed the shadow cast across Deva’s face.

  “I’m Googling, okay? I’m not spying on anyone’s Facebook profile. No need for panic.” Sheesh. You accidentally stalk one ex-boyfriend and suddenly the whole world thinks you’re filling a panel van full of candy to cruise the parking lot at the junior high school.

  My search results populated immediately. “I knew I recognized that quote! Carl Jung said it!”

  Deva looked at me quizzically. “Is he a friend of yours, Reagan Bishop?”

  “No! Jung founded the whole analytical psychology school of thought.”

  “Was he Chinese?”

  “Swiss.”

  Deva shrugged. “Then he must have been a fan of the Shang dynasty, Reagan Bishop, because that’s where these are from.”

  As I didn’t care to argue whether Carl Jung was a plagiarist or a psychiatrist, I instead focused on exactly what I needed to do for a seamless switch.

  Deva told me that the second Tabitha and I touched the coordinating amulets, we’d project into one another’s bodies. When the time came, I can’t be sure if Tabitha felt the same kind of change that I did when I landed in her skin. But before we started, Deva had clearly explained that any disjointed feelings were part of the process, so if Tabitha felt anything odd, she kept it to herself.

  Thank God.

  I’m sure if she’d heard my voice coming out of what she assumed were her own lips, the damage would have been irreparable.

  As soon as I finished filming, I dashed back to the dressing room. I sat down next to her and Deva removed our amulets. And just like that, we were back in our own bodies.

  No fuss, no muss.

  The only real management involved Deva making sure that Tabitha kept both her mouth and her eyes closed so she wouldn’t look down and suddenly be disappointed in her cup size. Afterward, we explained to Tabitha she’d been hypnotized, which was why she wouldn’t remember having been on the Ledge.

  Did I feel dirty when the deed was done? Yes.

  Was I wrapped around the axle in terms of moral equivocation? Indeed.

  Did I swear to myself that I’d never perpetrate such a falsehood again? Um . . .

  I meant for the swap to be a onetime thing, I truly did. But everyone was so excited about the results, especially Tabitha. She wanted to nail the scene more than anyone. When we wrapped, I referred her to a clinical psychologist in LA to continue with exposure work, so I felt like I did as much as I could given the parameters. And maybe I wasn’t the best psychologist on television, but I was an outstanding television psychologist.

  That counts, too.

  Just ask Dr. Phil.

  Cassie enthuses, “What about when the Olympic equestrian climbed back on her horse for the first time since her accident? OMG, waterworks!” She makes spirit fingers up by her chin when she says this.

  That was a powerful episode, if I do say so myself. Was I sure to toss in one quick jump over the exact same triple-barred obstacle where the rider had been thrown in the first place? You betcha. Kassel said that episode had Emmy written all over it.

  If only they awarded Emmys for giving perms, am I right, Geri?

  “How ’bout when the guy who was afraid of flying took that chopper ride around the city?” Jessica adds. I really had to rein in my excitement—I’ve always wanted to see Chicago from a helicopter. I’ve flown over it dozens of times coming in and out of O’Hare, but there’s something about the perspective from the chopper that makes the whole town come alive.

  Cassie grabs Jessica’s arm. “Or when the high school mean girl finally apologized to her victims all those years later?” For some reason, Deva seemed particularly invested in this episode. Not for nothing, but that band geek slaps really hard. You’d have thought she played the drums, not the clarinet. I felt a lot of pent-up rage in that backhand. A lot. I’m sure that guest Lissy’s face ached for a week afterward.

  “Yes, yes,” I agree. “It’s all a rich tapestry.”

  I’m sure my professors would be appalled if they had a clue about the sorcery I helped perpetrate. Or they would, if I were a psychologist on television, rather than a television psychologist.

  Yet in many ways, I’ve come to believe my ends justify my means. A lot of people are afraid to fly, or confront their enemies, or try something new and frightening. By showing regular people experiencing victories on such a national platform, I’m surely helping masses of viewers, even if my results aren’t exactly lasting for the guests themselves. But they’re all given the option of DBS-sponsored therapy afterward, so they’re in competent hands.

  As it’s best to not let anyone genuflect for too long, I must take my leave. “Ladies, I so appreciate your stopping to say hello, and I’m delighted you’re enjoying the show. Because it’s Thanksgiving week, we won’t be airing a new episode, but tune in next Thursday. Spoiler alert, have your Kleenex handy!”

  I haven’t yet heard what we’re filming next, but that’s not terribly relevant. Rest assured, I will make them cry.

  We say our good-byes and I meander over to the bulk bins, where I’m debating the merits of whole flaxseed versus ground when the pocket of my North Face jacket vibrates. I pull out my phone and glance down at the message from Tiffany, the show’s publicist.

  CHICAGO NOUVEAU MAG WANTS TO DO FEATURE ON U—U HAVE ARRIVED!

  I sigh with contentment.

  Indeed, I have arrived.

  • • •

  “Congrats on the Chicago Nouveau business, Peace Corps! Great for you, even better for Push. See? This is what I consider ‘big.’”

  “And no cats had to be flattened in the process. Everyone wins!” I quip.

  “When’s the interview?” Kassel leans back in his chair, placing his hands behind his head. Now that I’m in his good graces, I’ve come to despise him a whole lot less, and barely dread our weekly one-on-ones.

  “Next month,” I reply. “They want to include it in their January first ‘Nouveau Year, Nouveau You’ piece.”

  “Nice. Very nice.” He stretches and I find myself craning my neck to see if I can catch a glimpse of his six-pack. (I don’t hold out hope for Boyd’s V-cut, though. No one with an actual day job could have one of those.)

  You know, it’s rare for a man to wear a sweater well. Generally, sweaters add bulk and almost never fit properly, but as he reclines in his chair, I can definitely see the outline of abs beneath the cashmere. Kudos to his tailor. Or trainer. Or parents. Possibly all four.

  I modestly reply, “I’m duly flattered by their attention,” at no point mentioning my having accidentally shouted, Who’s the favorite now, Geri? in front of the display of nut butters.

  He leans forward conspiratorially. “Listen, Peace Corps, I was saving this news for the next staff meeting, but I’ll let you in on it now because you’re such a major portion of their decision: Santanos Mills is becoming a sponsor!”

  I feel frozen in my chair, but clearly he’s waiting for a reaction, so I say, “Wow, that’s . . .”

  Dist
urbing? Shocking? Outrageous?

  Not only have Santanos Mills soy products been linked to a sudden onset of testicular cancer in laboratory rats, but their factories are the worst offenders in terms of environmental damage due to pesticides and herbicides. They’re also the largest proponent of using GMOs—genetically modified organisms—in their products. And their line of Chomp-tastic prepackaged children’s meals? Revolting. The sodium alone in one perfectly circular slice of their Hamnificent Hamlike Meat Product exceeds a child’s recommended daily allowance by 153 percent!

  (Have you any comprehension of how little actual ham has to be included in a product before the FDA disallows the producer to use the word ham? Trust me, this is not knowledge you want.)

  (By the way, when I quoted these stats to Mary Mac, do you know what she said to me? “If I have to make seven individual school lunches every day, I will kill self-comma-others. Sometimes a prepacked Chomp-tastic is the only thing standing between me and Susan Smith.”)

  Kassel rears back to give me a high five, as though Santanos Mills is a victory we should celebrate. “Team Push!” he cheers. Then he notices my expression. “Hey, is everything copacetic with you, Peace Corps? You seem off.”

  I quickly try to cover up my distress. But my God, the Santanos Mills business is worrisome. I can justify my actions with the amulets due to being a television psychologist and not vice versa, but there’s little I can do to make peace with their practices.

  However, ultimately Santanos Mills will be paying my salary and I’m loath to seem ungrateful. So I quickly come up with a lie that, as soon as I say it, rings true. “I’m just dreading the holidays,” I say.

  “This is a hard time of year,” he agrees. As he speaks, he toys with the small, crude ceramic bowl he keeps on the corner of his desk. The piece is fairly incongruous with the whole turn-of-the-century robber-baron look going on in the rest of the office. He recently brought in a new equestrian oil painting that appears to be directly out of a villain-in-an-eighties-teen-movie’s house. Kassel notices me watching him and offers, “My kid made this a couple of years ago in art class. It’s an ashtray, even though I don’t smoke.”

  Huh. In all the times we’ve spoken, we’ve never once veered into personal territory. Kassel’s always such a blowhard that I normally want to remove myself from his presence as soon as possible, regardless of how nicely he fills out a cashmere sweater. But he’s giving me this opening, and, well, it’s kind of a professional obligation to draw out others.

  I ask, “What’s his name?”

  “He’s Walter, named after my dad. He’s growing up way too fast! Seems like yesterday he was in diapers, but now? He’s embarrassed to hug me.”

  “Does Walter live here?”

  “No, he’s in LA with his mom.” As an afterthought, he adds, “And with Brody. Ugh, what kind of grown-up calls himself Brody?”

  I can’t help myself. “The same kind who refers to others by personal characteristics rather than learning first names?”

  “Ha-ha.” Except his laughter doesn’t seem to reach his eyes and I seem to have inadvertently struck a nerve.

  “Will you be spending Thanksgiving with him?”

  He turns the ashtray over and runs his fingers across Walter’s large, blocky name etched into the bottom. “No, he’ll be in Aspen with his mom. And Brody. I’ll be out in LA for Christmas, but this year, I’m on my own for Turkey Day. We’re filming a segment with Dr. Karen and a shopaholic at the mall on Saturday. I have to fill in for everyone who’s on vacay, so it doesn’t make sense to fly back for a day and a half. As of now, my plans involve pizza and Party Down on DVD.”

  I blurt, “I’m so jealous!”

  For a second, Kassel seems more vulnerable and less venerable. “You enjoy the suffering of others, Peace Corps?”

  I shake my head so hard my ponytail batters the sides of my face. “No, of course not. It’s just that I have a command performance on the south side and I’m dreading the day.”

  Kassel seems rather wistful. “Is it a big family deal?”

  I snort. “More like ordeal. Ma will be up at three a.m. with the turkeys and the pies and my sister Mary Mac will show up around noon to help, whereas I have to be there at seven a.m. or the world will end. Get this—my sister lives two doors away, yet can her kids stay home with their dad while she’s busy prepping? Of course not. So we have to make dinner for twenty-five while a dozen kids careen through the kitchen every thirty seconds. Plus, I’m always stuck with the grunt work of peeling the potatoes and dotting the yams with marshmallows, which may as well be fiberglass for all their nutritional content.”

  I feel claustrophobic every time I imagine what the day will be like. Between the kids and the football blaring from every television and all the old men smoking cigars and my aunts getting blotto on cooking sherry? Not a selling point.

  By the way, does Princess Geri have to raise a finger with the rest of the womenfolk? Of course not. My uncles consider her color commentary to be the height of comedy, so while we’re slaving away in the kitchen, she’s kicked back on the sofa, offering up pithy comments like, “Jason Witten is a tight end? I’ll say his end is tight!”

  “Everyone likes mini-marshmallows on their sweet potatoes. Fact,” Kassel informs me. His humor seems to have improved, likely because he’s the kind of person who enjoys the suffering of others.

  I shudder imagining the glistening, oozy orange lumps piled high on everyone’s plates. “Au contraire. The only bright spot is that I’m moving up to the adult table this year. My great-aunt Sophia passed away so I’m slated to finally, finally get away from the kids’ table in the basement. That’s the only reason I’m maintaining my sanity right now. Well, that and not having to pretend to eat my great-aunt Sophia’s Jell-O mold ever again.”

  Now he’s grinning in earnest. “Bite your tongue, Peace Corps, Jell-O molds are classic!”

  “In what universe?”

  “In every universe!” he exclaims so loudly that it rattles his framed lithographs. “In each and every rainbow-striped, Cool Whip–topped, pineapple-specked universe.”

  I can’t tell if he’s teasing me or if he’s serious. Both eventualities are vaguely alarming. “Have you ever been served a Jell-O mold filled with canned corn, peas, and shaved carrots? Because I have. Aunt Sophia called it a salad.”

  Hold the phone—I figured out why Kassel seems so familiar. Kassel reminds me of Boyd. Maybe it’s the California connection, or possibly it’s the way we banter. How did I not see this before? Of course, I should say Kassel’s what Boyd would have been if he hadn’t decided to toss his whole future for “some tasty waves and a cool buzz.” (Side note? I was with Boyd for an entire year before I realized that this Spicoli he always quoted was a fictional character from Fast Times at Ridgemont High and not one of his beach-bum buddies.) (What? We didn’t have HBO growing up.)

  Kassel runs a palm over his hair and I catch a glimpse of his wrist. Yep, still golden. Not that I care about that sort of thing, though. “Sweet and savory—that’s a whole meal right there.”

  Teasing, then?

  “It’s my professional opinion that you, sir, are insane.”

  Was Kassel fun before? I feel like I’d have noticed if he was fun before. Boyd was big fun, ergo it stands to reason that Kassel would be fun.

  What kind of fun could we have together?

  Until this very moment, I never actually considered Kassel to be a potential romantic partner. But maybe he’s exactly what I need? He has Sebastian’s professional intensity, yet he appears to embody some of the joie de vivre that Boyd brought to the table.

  I wonder if Kassel isn’t the best of both worlds.

  There’s something a bit incestuous about a television crew, and staffers are often drawn to one another, due to both the fraternity and the long hours. Sets ar
e very insular environments. Unlike in a lot of other workplaces, not only is fraternization not taboo, but it’s practically encouraged. Wendy used to fix up staffers all the time. Pretty much the only thing Push couples have to do is fill out a tiny bit of paperwork for HR, and then? Mazel tov!

  I’m not saying I want to date my boss, though.

  I’m simply saying that in a world of possibilities, Kassel is one of them, especially since I’m over Sebastian.

  Mostly.

  There’s still a part of my ego that’s badly bruised from the whole debacle. What’s ironic is I’ve actually heard from Sebastian a couple of times, but I’ve yet to return his calls. Hope he appreciates the irony.

  I take a moment to admire how comfortable Kassel seems here in his kingdom. He’s one hundred percent at ease in his skin and at his desk, and I find his confidence attractive.

  “When I was a kid, my gammy used to make a Jell-O salad with Spam and pimento olives.”

  Look at us, enjoying each other’s company. Who’d have guessed?

  I joke, “And how does that make you feel?”

  “Actually? A little nostalgic.” Then his chin briefly puckers and his eyes seem a bit glassy.

  Okay, so this just veered horribly off track.

  Abort! Abort!

  I immediately hold my arms up as if to protect myself and as if he didn’t suddenly turn melancholy. “FYI, I’ll probably hurl all over your fancy antique desk if we continue to discuss Jell-O. So you know. Just to put it out there.”

  He gives me a wry shrug. “All I’m saying is Gammy’s cooking was the stuff memories are made of.”

  “And all I’m saying is that family holidays may not be as great as you recall. I guarantee if you happened upon a Very Bishop Thanksgiving, you’d be headed back to your place for a DVD and Domino’s so fast your head would spin.”

  Then, before common sense prevails, I add, “You don’t actually want your head to spin . . . do you?”

  To which he replies, “Tell me when and where.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN