Party Girl
I love parties!
I love parties!
I love parties!
Nope, no matter where I place the emphasis, I can’t seem to psych myself up about this thing.
Under what circumstances might I be able to avoid the whole ordeal? I wish Push was already in production because I could claim to be shooting in a different city. But I opened my fat mouth and mentioned we weren’t starting until next week, so that excuse is officially off the table.
Hmm . . . I could not go because I was sick. What a relief that would be! Summer colds are the worst, right? Everyone’s at the lake or riding bikes or having drinks outdoors, except for me, who’s at home, alternately freezing and sweating beneath the down comforter that covers my couch-bed. And my coffee table becomes a mini organic pharmacy, with all the bottles of echinacea, goldenseal, honey and ginger tea. Time my illness right and I could catch up on an entire season of the more obscure Real Housewives, like DC or Miami. I never did quite hear the full story of the White House party crasher. And Sebastian could bring me sweet-and-sour cabbage borscht from the Bagel in Lakeview, even though matzo-ball would be better, except I don’t eat chicken broth.
Actually, that sounds like a fun day.
I should make a mental note to not wash my hands after riding the El.
Although . . . eeeew.
Also, I’m not sure Sebastian would bring me soup.
Okay, what if I simply pretended to be sick? That might be doable. I could start planting the seeds right now on my Facebook fan page, mentioning that I feel a touch of something coming on. I’d lay the groundwork for skipping the party by describing a new symptom every day, all, “Hey, is anyone else experiencing postnasal drip?”
Then my coming infirmity would get back to the family because Geri follows my page. I’m aware of her presence because occasionally she’ll “like” one of my comments or photos. Ugh. I wish I could block her from seeing my profile without causing a familial shitstorm, the likes of which would wipe out the entire north side of Chicago.
But nooooo, I have to endure her faux support. “So cool!” “Nice picture!” “Way to go!” Be a little more insincere, why don’t you? Her running commentary absolutely incenses me because she’s just doing it to be noticed.
Oh, I’m sorry, Geri—do you not already receive enough 24/7 attention from our parents, who love you so darned much that they believe your living in their basement is the totally normal thing for an adult child to do?
Or what about Mary Mac, who’s also so deeply enmeshed that she bought a house two doors away? This is not healthy. Most families don’t live in each other’s backyards by design. They need distance. They need separation. They need the chance to miss one another once in a while. My parents even keep Mary Mac’s husband’s woodworking magazines in their bathroom in case Mickey has to make number two while he’s there.
Go poop in your own house. It’s two doors away.
What is wrong with you people?
And yet this is my lot in life. I’m obligated to be a part of their big, obnoxious, happy-family celebration. Now I won’t have time to do the full thirteen-mile training run I’d planned on Sunday, followed by an afternoon of recovery and iced beverages at the ’Bou. And I’ll be hard-pressed to settle into my research and organization for my preproduction meetings with my new team this week. Instead, I’ll be forced to make pleasant conversation with my asshole sisters, and if I’m not polite, Ma will drag me by the ear into the laundry room to yell at me. I’m thirty-three years old and I have a doctorate degree, yet the second I walk in the front door, I’m a child all over again.
I am a party girl!
I am a party girl!
I am a party girl!
It’s official—I can’t positively affirm myself into not dreading the day.
• • •
I wake up feeling like there’s an anvil on my chest. For a second, I wonder if I didn’t accidentally manifest my dreams of bird flu into reality, but then I remember it’s Sunday and I have to attend the stupid birthday party.
At least I’ll have the confidence of having picked the perfect gift. I spent an hour at the Building Blocks Toy Store on Lincoln trying to find something awesome for little Finley-Cormack-Liam-Patrick-pick-a-name-already. The clerk and I settled on a motorized erector set. He’s already expressed interest in being a builder like his old man, so I’m confident he’ll love it.
I won’t hold my breath waiting for a thank-you note, though.
I pull up to my parents’ classic Chicago bungalow, my heart in my throat. Why do I have to do this? I’d rather be anywhere but here. Like, perhaps getting a Pap smear. Possibly from Captain Hook. I’d kill to be draped in nothing but a sheet right now, my gynecologist urging me to scoot a little bit closer to the edge of the table.
Or maybe I could be taking my SATs again.
Wait, I enjoyed taking my SATs. Poor example.
The front door’s open, so I let myself in, walking through the living room, which has barely changed a lick since I lived under this roof, save for my mother finally, finally removing the plastic slipcover from the formal floral sofa. Have you any idea what it feels like to sit on a plastic-covered couch on a sweltering July day? Your skin fuses to it and practically peels off when you finally stand up. Of course, Princess Geri requires central air for her delicate constitution, so my parents upgraded from ineffectual window units only after I left for college.
This room is a moment frozen in time. Almost every doily, every knickknack, every occasional table has been in the exact same spot for as long as I can remember. The shelves on either side of the fireplace and mantelpiece are still filled with all the old photos and trophies, too. What’s ironic is I’ve given them a dozen photos of Sebastian and me, yet they refuse to replace the antiquated shot of Boyd teaching me to surf on Zuma Beach. (I do rock the bikini, though.)
The rest of the house is more modern, and Dad’s always upgrading the size of his television, but this particular room is a living Bishop family time capsule. I peer at the shot of Mary Mac clad in her Irish dancing outfit. She looks so young! She’s always weary now, slouching around in yoga pants and a ratty ponytail, so it’s odd to remember her all fresh faced, not being surrounded by half a dozen kids and covered in oatmeal.
In this photo, her hair’s pushed back with a mini-crown, and she has hundreds and hundreds of perfectly formed copper-colored ringlets. My mother struggled with the curling iron for years before finally saying, “Screw it,” and investing in a wig. Said it was the best decision she ever made.
I remember how much I admired Mary Mac’s Irish dance solo dress, which you couldn’t just buy. Instead, the right to wear that garment had to be earned through competition and participating in exhibitions. And then it wasn’t a matter of simply picking out whatever the dancer preferred. Instead, all the candidates had to model dozens of options for the dance mistress. Dancers ranked their favorites and then the mistress matched up which girl should be with which dress. Mary Mac briefly joined a sorority in college and said the rush process wasn’t nearly as intense as the dress selection.
God, I loved her solo dress. It was the most magnificent piece of clothing I’d ever seen. The top was perfectly fitted due to the lattice of silken ribbons running down the back. The deep cobalt blue velvet fabric was embroidered with what looked like peacock feathers cascading in a multicolored waterfall down from the shoulder, forming a handkerchief hemline. The skirt was full and swingy due to layers and layers of petticoats, while the bell sleeves added a dash of worldly elegance and sophistication. The fact that no two solo dresses are the same only added to its mystique.
While I study the shot, my jaw inadvertently clenches. I remember how I couldn’t go to language camp the year Mary Mac received her dress because it was so expensive. Then, within six months, she stopped competing on the weekends in favor of hanging out with Mickey. Yet was I allowed to borrow her glorious garment for trick-or-treating? Of course not! Mary Mac was all, “Sure, you can wear it—as soon as you earn the right.”
Do I even need to mention how ten years later, Geri happily Riverdanced all over the neighborhood in the damn thing on Halloween?
I force myself to head into the party because this little trip down memory lane isn’t helping my mood. At all.
I pass through the kitchen, and even though my mother’s about to feed forty people (most of them Mary Mac’s kids), I have to admire how there’s nary a cup, plate, or fork out of place. Everyone’s out in the backyard, on the deck, in the pool, or—and I never understood exactly why—in the garage. How is this an appropriate gathering place? Dad parked the Buick on the street, so now the whole area’s filled with neighbors sitting in lawn chairs around the buffet.
“Well, lookie here, it’s President Reagan! Hey, would you like some jelly beans?”
“Heh, hello, Mr. O’Donnell. Wow, that joke never gets old,” I respond, trying my best to smile. Mr. O’Donnell bears an uncanny resemblance to former Speaker Tip O’Neill, from the dense patch of snow-white hair to the broken capillaries in his ample beak. He’s lived next door to us my entire life. He’s kind of like an uncle, in that I don’t particularly like him, and yet I can’t seem to avoid him at family gatherings.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” he asks.
That’s a damn fine question. Seb made some noises about joining me, yet he’s not returned a single text since then, hence the solo appearance.
I share the most likely scenario. “Working.”
“Is he still surfing?”
I nod, because it’s easier than explaining that the only surfing this particular boyfriend does is on the Joseph Abboud Web site.
He pinches me on the cheek and it’s all I can do to not slap his hand away. “You’re so skinny! We need to fatten you up! Have one of the sausages—your sister made them from scratch. Oh, that fennel!”
There’s quite a crowd gathered back here, made possible by my dad having the foresight to snap up the vacant property next door about twenty years ago. Now they have a rarity in Chicago—a double lot. I keep telling my folks that Bridgeport is red-hot real estate now and they should sell, but they never will. At least, they won’t until the yuppies move in. (There are two Starbucks within walking distance now—I keep telling them gentrification is imminent.)
Eyeing the crowd, I spot almost everyone immediately. My dad’s working the grill, while Mary Mac hovers watchfully by the side of the pool. I’m not sure why Mickey can’t play lifeguard, freeing Mary Mac up to enjoy herself for once. After all, the pool’s only five feet deep and he’s taking up half of the surface of the water on his inflatable boat. I admire his ingenuity in realizing that he could float a small cooler next to him. Very convenient.
Kids are running all over the yard, each one making more noise than the other. One of the ginger boys dashes up to me, demanding, “Where’s my gift, Auntie Reagan?” I hand him the festively wrapped package, which he immediately tears open. I hope he understands the time and thought I put into this present.
“What is this crap?” he asks.
I bristle. “It’s a motorized erector set. So you can build stuff, just like your dad.”
He dumps his present on the cedar picnic table, covered in checked red-and-white oilcloth. “Lame! I wanted Call of Duty.”
It’s not that I dislike children; it’s just that I dislike these particular children.
Which is why it’s not my fault that I’m compelled to lean in and whisper, “Then I guess it sucks to be you.”
His eyes widen for a minute before he careens off and cannonballs into the pool next to his father.
“Hey!” Mickey calls. “You’re getting chlorine in my beer! Mary Mac, I need a towel. And gimme one of those sausages, too. Oh, that fennel!”
My mother spots me and ambles over. She reaches up to give me a quick, dry peck on the cheek before she admonishes me. “Party started an hour ago.”
“Sorry, Ma, there was a lot of traffic.” A lie, but it feels true. I can always count on the vagaries of the Dan Ryan to buy me a late arrival. As I scan the crowd for a glimpse of my nemesis, I reply, “I’m here now, though,” with a bright, insincere smile painted on my face.
“You hungry?”
“Not really.” I make it a rule to eat before attending a family event; otherwise, I have to make a meal of garnishes. Nothing about their choices meshes with my lifestyle. Case in point? My cheese does not come in a can.
“Grab one of the sausages your sister made. They’re fantastic—oh, that fennel!”
“That’s the word on the street.”
My mother tries to detect whether or not I’m being sarcastic, but in the spirit of the day, she decides against grilling me. “Have you said hi to everyone? Of course you didn’t. Go talk to Ethel. Maybe you can shake some sense into her. Ya know, ‘therapize’ her. You’re always bragging about how you’re a doctor. Do me a favor and use your skills to make a difference for once.”
Argh.
Jack and Ethel Culver have lived across the street from us for twenty-five years. No one likes Jack, but he’s tolerated for Ethel’s sake. Over the years, the neighborhood’s been playing armchair therapists, speculating that Mr. Culver has a borderline personality disorder. Listen, I’ve studied BPD and treated afflicted patients. Trust me when I say he’s not symptomatic. More and more often, society looks to official diagnoses to explain and understand abhorrent behavior, but the truth is, sometimes folks are just jerks.
Jack happens to be one of those folks.
Everyone on the block is at a loss to explain why Ethel refuses to leave him. His verbal abuse is legendary, and I remember having to close our windows on summer nights to suppress the sound of him berating his wife over some minor offense, such as not having swept the front porch or cooking a dry meatloaf.
The verbal abuse is but the tip of the iceberg, too. Whenever Ethel visits her sister in Madison, Jack invites strange women to the house, not caring in the least that the entire neighborhood witnesses his infidelity. Over the years, we’ve easily seen fifteen different makes and models of mistresses’ cars parked in front of his place.
Given how tight my parents’ block is, and how much everyone hates Jack Culver, I’m perpetually shocked at Ethel’s reticence to listen to reason or accept help. More than one Tupperware party–cum-intervention has been staged to convince Ethel that he’s a bum.
At Ma’s insistence, I offered to work with her pro bono when I was first licensed, but she didn’t care to upset the applecart that was her life.
I have to take a deep breath before answering. “I do use my skills to make a difference, Ma. But in this case, I can’t counsel anyone who doesn’t want my input.”
My mother looks at me long and hard. We’re at a stalemate here and she knows it. Resigned, she says, “Well, the least you can do is grab some more Jungle Juice drinks for the kids.”
“Mmm, nothing says ‘pure refreshment’ like high-fructose corn syrup and artificial red dye number five,” I reply. “Are you all out of arsenic and need a less expedient way to poison the kids?”
“They add vitamin C,” Ma argues.
“Which they could get naturally from actual orange juice instead of this science experiment gone wrong.”
Ma’s nostrils flare as she exhales. “Just bring up the damn juice, Reagan. It’s in the utility room downstairs.”
“Will I have to pay the basement troll a quarter for permission to cross her bridge?” I ask.
Ma’s eyes narrow into little slits. “If you mean your sister, she’s not here, Dr. Smartypants.”
“Really? Geri lives for gatherings like this. Where is she? There’s no home game at the Cell, is there?”
“Her girlfriends gave her a Mexican cruise for her birthday! She left two days ago and comes back next week. I guess everyone at her salon pitched in and surprised her.”
“That’s amazing!” I exclaim.
Ma beams. “Right? Our Geri, everyone fights to be in her orbit.”
“No, I mean that it’s amazing that she’s found an entirely new group off of which to sponge.” Before Ma can grab my ear, I duck and skitter backward. “Okay, getting the Jungle Juice now!”
I take the back stairs into the basement. When I was in junior high school, my parents finished off a couple of rooms down here, so not only is there a bedroom and full bath, but there’s also a whole living area and a kitchenette. A lot of the houses in the neighborhood are two-family dwellings, so my parents are already zoned to rent this out as an apartment, if Geri would only leave already.
I pass the living area and approach Geri’s bedroom. I ease the door open and I’m immediately assaulted by the sickly-sweet smell of her perfume. Pfft, more like Lady Gag.
Even though she’s out of the country, her presence is practically breathing down the back of my neck. This must be how Batman feels when he happens upon the Joker’s lair.
Anyone else would assume a teenager lived down here due to all the pink furnishings and the unicorns. I’m sorry, what kind of adult still collects stuffed animals? Her bulletin board is filled with stubs from seeing football games and crappy bands, with ropes of Mardi Gras beads and placards from various hair shows.
Geri’s floor is littered with shoes and purses and clothing, much of it turned inside out. I imagine this is what the dressing room at Forever 21 looks like every night. Her bed’s unmade and her desk is piled with magazines and catalogs. I shudder to imagine what’s in the space between the mattress and the floor.
When my dad finished the basement, this was originally my room, so he turned two entire walls into built-in shelves to hold all my reading material. Books are how I escaped as a kid. Between my dad watching the ball game in his boxer shorts, my ma smoking with her sisters in the kitchen, and Geri being Geri, sometimes I’d head downstairs with a book on Friday afternoon and not come up for air until Sunday.
Naturally, there are no books in Geri’s bookcases now. Instead, they’re full of trinkets, gewgaws, some profoundly creepy big-eyed Japanese dolls, and tons and tons of snapshots. Seems like Geri’s forced every single person she’s ever met to pose for a picture with her. Typical. Toward the back of the shelf, I spy a couple of family pictures that include Boyd.
You guys; stop trying to make Boyd happen.
It’s not going to happen.
Being in here is giving me the heebies as well as the jeebies, so I start to pick my way over the detritus to take my leave. As I’m about to walk out the door, I notice a newly framed picture hanging on the wall next to her closet. I’d recognize the ocean backdrop anywhere, of course, even if my wearing a cap and gown weren’t a heavy clue as to date and location.
Geri and I are standing close together, sun shining on our faces, and the breeze ruffling her long red hair. She has her arm around my shoulders, wearing a huge grin on her face, likely because she was moments away from congratulating me on earning my Battle of the Network Stars degree.
But still, in this one moment captured on film, we actually look like friends.
Like sisters.
How have I never noticed that we have the same chin and identical bows on our top lip? Her eyes are green while mine shift from slate to blue, but we have a markedly similar dark ring around our irises and a matching arch in our left eyebrows.
I guess I’ve always concentrated so hard on what makes us different that I’ve never taken the time to appreciate what’s the same.
And for one brief second, I wonder if I’ve not misjudged Geri, and maybe misinterpreted her intentions.
Before I can process this thought, I feel a pinch in the vicinity of my earlobe and I find myself being dragged into the laundry room, face-to-face with my mother’s fury.
“Did you just tell your nephew that it ‘sucks to be him’?”
And just like that, I’m nine years old all over again.
• • •
“Thank you for joining me.”
“It’s my pleasure, Reagan Bishop.” Deva and I are sitting outside at Caribou Coffee. I called her when I returned home from the south side. I have other friends, of course, but there’s something calming and comforting about Deva, and I needed to feel anchored to someone after yet another stressful parental visit.
Sitting across from Deva, I already feel cheered.
Or maybe it’s just that it’s hard to be in a bad mood when your coffee date is dressed liked Princess Jasmine/I Dream of Jeannie (depending on your generation).
She sips her tea and appraises me. “I’m seeing a blockage around your heart chakra.” She pulls out her enormous carpetbag and begins to rifle through it. “Have you experienced feelings of loneliness and anger? I may have some ylang-ylang essential oil, which will help. You may also find that completing a series of the Ushtrasana posture will loosen your blockage, Reagan Bishop.”
“Or we could have a conversation,” I offer.
“Isn’t talking about your feelings new age nonsense?” she asks with a wry grin.
“Do people realize you’re funny?”
“I had everyone in the Lakota sweat lodge laughing last week, Reagan Bishop,” she replies. “My one-liner about tai chi and chai tea had them rolling in the aisles.” Then, more to herself than to me, “Or maybe that’s because it was a hundred forty degrees in there.”
“Your karma ran over my dogma,” I quip.
She clutches her massive hand to her chest. “Oh, Reagan Bishop, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize. We must mourn the loss immediately.”
“Um, Deva, I was kidding.”
She laughs so hard her turban shakes. “Zing!”
See? Cheered. I didn’t get my run in today, but I am sitting outdoors with an iced beverage, so it’s not a total loss.
Deva leans back in her chair and folds her legs underneath herself. “Tell me about your childhood, Reagan Bishop.”
“Are you doing another bit?” I ask.
She cocks her head to the side and peers at me. “No, I was asking about your childhood.”
That catches me by surprise. “Oh. What do you want to hear?”
“What do you want me to hear?”
I sigh. “I don’t know.”
Deva nods. “Then I don’t know, either.”
“Then I guess we’re at loggerheads.”
Deva grabs her bag again. “Okay, then, Reagan Bishop, essential oils and yoga it is. Would you prefer we do Camel Pose here or shall we take it indoors?”
I clap my hands together. “Conversation it is!” I hesitate before I begin to speak, unsure of how what I’m going to say will be received. “Let me give you the caveat that I don’t want to sound like a spoiled brat. For all intents and purposes, I had an ideal childhood. I was fed and clothed and educated. We had enough. Or, close to enough. I suspect our occasionally having to share resources is why I don’t get along with my sisters now. They always seemed to wheedle their way into just a little bit more than they deserved, and it made me crazy. But still, people built bookcases for me. I was loved.”
“I can see why you’re troubled, Reagan Bishop.”
“Sarcasm is not part of the therapeutic milieu,” I retort.
Deva is completely guileless. “I’m serious. There’s no problem like a first world problem, Reagan Bishop. There’s a tremendous amount of guilt associated with a feeling of unhappiness despite having ample resources. I see it all the time in my line of work. You have everything, yet you feel bad about not feeling good and then you feel worse. It’s a vicious cycle. Some of my clients have every luxury at their fingertips, yet they’re soul sick over the smallest slights. I work with a gentleman from Texas who has a G550. Then his nemesis bought a G650. Even though both airplanes can fly from Seoul, South Korea, to Orlando, Florida, in a single trip, my oilman’s depression was palpable.”
“How did you help him?” I ask.
Vaguely, she replies, “Sometimes my solutions are unconventional and subject for a different conversation. My point, Reagan Bishop, is that a problem feels like a problem, no matter of which world it’s a part. So this is a safe space. Please share.” Then she clasps her mighty paws into prayer position.
I swish the ice in my drink with the straw. “I’d say everything boils down to my childhood. As you know I have a couple of sisters; one of them’s just like my mom and the other’s exactly like my dad. I’m not the same as anyone else in the family. For years I was sure that I was switched at birth. The rest of them have red hair with scads of freckles, and they’re all short and, let’s be honest, a bit tubby.”
“Have you any suspicion of adultery, Reagan Bishop? Tell me about your mailman.”
I wave her off. “No, nothing like that! My parents are about the two most upstanding people on the face of the earth. Apparently I resemble my great-grandmother, who was already gone before I was born. But it’s not even about physical features. I’m so different from them. On the inside. They’re all content to live in our old blue-collar neighborhood and do the same things and see the same people. Personally, the idea of never living more than three blocks from my family home makes me feel so claustrophobic I can’t even breathe.”
Deva nods, saying nothing, so I continue.
“Mary Mac was satisfied to dance and chase boys and Geri reveled in being the life of the party. Neither one of them ever have had lofty goals, no huge aspirations. But I wanted more and I was made to feel like an outcast because of it. Plus, both my parents worked, so we didn’t have a ton of time with them. We girls were always jockeying for their attention. From a very early age, I realized that what made me special was academic performance, so I threw myself into studying, and when I wasn’t studying, I was reading.”
“How did you get along with other children?”
“No problems. Kids seemed to like me. I wasn’t bullied, nor was I a bully. I was sort of . . . removed from it all. I was too focused on grades and books to really worry about schoolyard politics. How about you?”
Deva swallows hard and replies, “About the same,” and yet I’m not sure I believe her.
“Anything you want to discuss?” I ask. She seems like she’s hiding something.
Breezily, she replies, “Perhaps another day, Reagan Bishop. But I’m curious as to why you chose the profession you did.”
“Promise not to laugh?” I ask.
“Indeed.”
“Frasier.”
She cocks her head. “As in the fir?”
“No, as in the psychiatrist from Cheers and then from Frasier. I was just hitting my teens when the spin-off show came on, and it was the one program on which the whole family could agree. Of course, my folks loved it because they thought the retired-cop dad was so great, but I identified with Kelsey Grammer’s character. He breathed life into what I felt every day—like he was a lotus who grew out of the mud.”
“I thought your parents had a pool in their yard.”
I reply, “Nice mud, solid middle-class mud, but still. Mud. Outside of Mary Mac’s feckless year at Northern, no one’s educated, no one’s white-collar. Financially, my parents have made a number of sound decisions, but try explaining that to the snotty little shits at Taylor Park. I knew I was out of my league socially when I got there, so I threw myself into academics to avoid potentially being ostracized.”
A flash of something darkens Deva’s features for a moment, but she blinks hard a couple of times and it quickly passes. “The best thing about high school is that you never have to go back,” she says lightly. “But at least you love what you do now.”
Deva’s statement almost comes across as a question, so I confidently reply, “Indeed.”
Of course I love what I do.
I mean, I feel like I love what I do.
I definitely love the benefits that come from being on Push. I love feeling like I’m changing lives in front of an audience. I love the travel and how it’s never the same show twice. Plus, I love meeting fans in the grocery store. I really loved having access to Wendy Winsberg.
Back when I was in private practice, I truly enjoyed assisting others in finding resolutions, even though sometimes I could get a bit distracted. I’m not always as patient as I should be in certain situations, either. And yes, sometimes it’s frustrating that I can’t just take the damn reins already and force my patients into the right direction. But overall, therapy is the best job I’ve ever had, and it’s only been made better by being on camera.
I think.
I did adore the work-study I held in the U of C writing lab, but that was a million years ago.
Of course, I never considered whether I’d rather hold another job, because this is what I’ve been training for my entire adult life, and I have another ten years’ worth of student loans to prove it.
I’m doing what I should be doing.
Of course, Boyd would disagree, but he no longer has a say.
My point here is I got ninety-nine problems but the job ain’t one.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.