Page 56 of Bless This Hot Mess

Rebekkah’s eyes widened in horror, “Mom… don’t tell that story!” But the damage was already being done. TheBeaverreporter was furiously jotting down notes, likely already imagining the headline:Local Talent Writes Shopping List for the Elderly.

Her mother’s face lit up with mischief, clearly enjoying herself, “Well, you did. Sit up straight. She’s so modest. Her father and I… sit up straight!” She barked the command like a drill sergeant. Rebekkah obliged, though she shot her mother a warning look. “Her father and I always joke that she’ll never become a doctor.”

Rebekkah groaned internally, knowing exactly where this was headed.

Her mother glanced at her as if on cue, grinning like a Cheshire cat, “She’ll never become a doctor because…”

Rebekkah sighed, falling into the well-rehearsed trap, “Because you could read my prescriptions.”

Her mother exploded with laughter, the kind of shrill, cackling laugh that made everyone in the room feel uncomfortable. The reporter, to his credit, remained composed, though he blinked rapidly as if trying to keep up with the whirlwind of chaos that was unfolding before him.

Rebekkah’s mother wasn’t done, “That’s another thing Rebekkah can do. Comedy! She’s very funny.” She wagged a finger at the reporter, as if letting him in on some juicy industry secret.

Rebekkah leapt at the first chance to derail the train of humiliation, “Was that the phone? We might not have heard it ringing.” She paused, listening to the non-existent sound, then forced her face into a pleasant smile as she explained to the bewildered reporter, “It doesn’t always ring, you know? It might have been WWJD calling about theTrinity Radio Hour.”

Her mom, refusing to be outdone, yelled from her chair, “Go check in my room, it might not have rung in the kitchen. And check the mail!”

Rebekkah, her smile broken and her face now a mixture of embarrassment and fury, stood frozen for a beat before darting toward the kitchen. As her daughter disappeared, Rebekkah’s mother leaned closer to the reporter, her voice filled with determination, “She’s going to be abigstar. I feel it, you know? I really feel like this is going to be her big break.”

The reporter smiled awkwardly, trying to play along, “What a big break! So, tell me about this new radio hour on WWJD for Rebekkah and her band, Trinity?”

TheBeaverreporter shifted on the plastic-covered couch,the squeak from his movement cutting through the silence like a bad punchline. He was doing his best to keep up, his pen scribbling wildly in his notepad as if the sheer force of his writing could contain the chaos unfolding before him. But it was clear, he was a little out of his depth. His beige jacket, ill-fitted and slightly frayed at the cuffs, seemed to recoil from the overwhelming presence of Rebekkah’s mother, who was now craning forward in her motorized chair with the zeal of a stage mom two seconds away from dragging her child onto the Tommy Hunter show, if it was still on the air.

The house, suffocating in its decades-old decor, was a tribute to Rebekkah’s mother’s unwavering grip on the past. Over the mantle, a large, crooked portrait of Rebekkah’s father gazed down in stern judgment, his thick glasses magnifying the disappointment in his eyes, frozen forever in the 1980s. On the wall beside it, a sequinned cross, possibly bought at a church fundraiser, glittered gaudily in the dim light. The oppressive atmosphere was cluttered by a too-large coffee table, cluttered withTV Guides, old church bulletins, and an empty ashtray despite the last cigarette being extinguished there by Rebekkah’s father over a decade ago. If it weren’t for the smell of chicken grease mingling with the faint scent of lavender air freshener proving inhabitation, you’d think time had forgotten the place.

Rebekkah’s mother wasn’t just a character, she was a force of nature. A tiny woman wrapped in a billowing caftan, which somehow managed to be both tacky and regal, she exuded a stubborn elegance, her hair teased into a gravity-defying helmet of silver curls that shimmered under the yellowed chandelier. Her face, lined with years of determined optimism, wore a permanent expression of self-satisfaction as though she’d just solved every one of Rebekkah’s problems by simply willing them away. Today was no exception.

The reporter cleared his throat, clearly sensing a story here, though what kind of tale remained to be seen. He ventured another question, doing his best to sound professional, “Ms. Mordecai, you mentioned Rebekkah had a chance at the ‘big time’, what happened?”

Rebekkah’s mom clutched the arms of her motorized chair as if revving it up for her next anecdote, her eyes sparkling with the delight of someone who’d been waiting many years for an opportunity to unleash this story, “We had her an agent when she was six, this was before I managed her career, and her father and I, God rest his soul… her father and I had specified with that agent that we didn’t want Rebekkah doing any secular work. Well, she was called in to read for this part.” She paused dramatically, shooting a glance toward the kitchen where Rebekkah was now loudly rummaging through drawers, clearly trying to drown out whatever embarrassment was headed her way. “This was when she wasveryfocused on acting. She hadn’t caught the singing bug yet.” She beamed, “She acts, she sings, shedances, what a hoofer! Like you haven’t seen since Debbie Reynolds!”

The reporter’s eyebrows shot up as he scrawled ‘hoofer?’in his notes, underlining it twice for good measure. Many of his past stories forThe Napanee Beaver included heifers as protagonists but never a hoofer and he wanted to be sure he spelled it correctly.

“Her chance at the big time?” he prompted, trying to steer the conversation back on track.

Rebekkah’s mom slapped her hand down on the arm of her chair, the gesture theatrical and impactful as a poof of dust rose and danced in the air between them, “Right! It was for a movie about a being who comes down from the sky to help people. So, we thought… Jesus!”

The reporter blinked, confused. “Jesus?” he echoedcautiously, unsure of where this was going but already bracing for impact.

“Well, did we ever have it twisted,” Rebekkah’s mom shook her head, the memory clearly still a sore spot.

“How so?” the reporter prodded. “What happened?”

“She did great! She was fantastic! She had to do this thing with her finger where she was reaching out to touch this heavenly being’s digit. Pointer to pointer, you know? Just like that picture in the Sistine Chapel with Adam and God reaching out to each other like ‘Hey human! Hey God! I see you!’”

The reporter nodded politely, though his expression betrayed his confusion, “Right… I think I’m… I’m not following.”

Her mother leaned forward conspiratorially, her voice dropping as if she were sharing classified information and perhaps it was; she couldn’t remember if there had been a non-disclosure agreement to sign before the audition and was too caught up in her story to care if this star profile for Rebekkah inThe Napanee Beaverbrought on a lawsuit. Headlines were headlines. “Well, there’s little Rebekkah. Up on tiptoe, reaching out with all she’s got. Pointing her pointer. And the director comes up to me and says, ‘Mam.’ He called me ‘mam! ‘Mam,’ he says, ‘we’d love to have your daughter play the role of Gertie inE.T., she’s got a bright future ahead of her.’”

The reporter’s eyes widened, “Oh, wow!”

Rebekkah’s mom puffed up like a peacock, pleased to finally be recognized for the discovery of her daughter’s genius, “And I say, ‘E.T.? What’s anE.T.?’” She widened her eyes dramatically, like someone recounting the betrayal of a lifetime, “And he tells me, ‘It’s the name of the movie, ‘mam. It’s all about an ALIEN who comes from OUTER SPACE tolive with a family. And Rebekkah will be the star, well, other than E.T. of course.’”

The reporter leaned in, visibly intrigued now, “This is great, just great. What happened next?”

Rebekkah’s mom leaned back in her chair, shaking her head as if she could hardly believe the audacity of what she was about to say, “I looked at that director straight in his bearded face, and his eyes were all squirrelly with excitement under the brim of his ball hat. And I said, ‘E.T.?!? An Extraterrestrial?! Mr. Spielberg, I thought this film was calledJ.C.!’”

She paused, her voice growing hushed and serious, like a preacher nearing the end of a fiery sermon, “I’m usually pretty hip and groovy, but when I found out what that film was about, I yanked Rebekkah’s ass out of that audition room so fast it made Mr. Spielberg want to phone home. I knew a stupid story about a made-up alien would never get off the ground anyway. She would haveruinedher career doing that movie.”