Page 57 of Bless This Hot Mess

Rebekkah, finished searching for her sanity in the drawers of the kitchen and coming up empty and exasperated, stormed into the room just in time to catch the tail end of the story, “Mom!!E.T.was a HUGE hit!”

Her mother didn’t skip a beat, “A hit with the devil!”

“Was that the phone?” Rebekkah asked, her voice filled with false urgency, desperate to steer the conversation away from the ongoing hurricane of horrors of her mother’s story sharing.

The reporter, looking mildly shell-shocked, blinked at Rebekkah, “I… uh, didn’t hear anything.” He scratched at the back of his neck, clearly eager to wrap things up. “Well, I think I have enough for our Christian Corner profile on you, Rebekkah. It’s a very exciting new opportunity you have over at WWJD. And the name of your band again?”

Rebekkah cleared her throat, trying to salvage some dignity from the wreckage that was her life, “Trinity.”

Her mom, ever ready to pipe more frosting on the cake, piped up, “Rebekkah’s the lead singer.”

Rebekkah shot her a glare, “We don’t have a lead singer, Mom. We don’t even have any songs…”

“Yet!” Her mom interrupted, a huge grin plastered on her face, “But they’re going to be smashes! Big hits!”

The reporter glanced at Rebekkah, and made another note, trying to process what was happening, “No music… that’s an interesting kind of band.”

Rebekkah flushed red, mortified beyond measure, “Maybe you can leave that part out of the article? What Imeantto say was, we don’t even have any songs… that are my favourite! Because they’reallmy favourite.” She was rambling now, trying to backtrack her way out of the truth. “It’s pretty cool.”

The reporter gave a tight smile, the kind you give when you’re not entirely sure if what you’ve just witnessed is real or some kind of fever dream, “That is… pretty cool.” He stood up, adjusting his glasses, eager to make his exit, “Welp! I’ve got to get down to the curling rink to cover the bonspiel.” He shuffled toward the door, notebook in hand, “This has been… Thank you both so much for inviting me over. Ms. Mordecai. Rebekkah.”

“Will this be online at www.napaneebeaver.caandin the newspaper?” Rebekkah’s mom called after him, her chair buzzing as she slowly maneuvered it toward the door. “We have a scrapbook of all of Rebekkah’s press so I just want to be sure I get a clipping!”

The reporter gave a weak nod, “Yup, both! World WideWeb and in black and white on everybody’s front porch on Sunday.”

Rebekkah’s mom clasped her hands together, her face alight with excitement, “Oh! The Sunday paper, that’s the big one! Everybody will see it as they get home from church. Goodbye, and God bless you!”

The door squeaked closed, the reporter’s footsteps quickly fading down the driveway. Rebekkah turned on her mother the second they were alone, “Mom! Why did you have to tell the E.T. story? And the arthritis joke?”

Her mother raised an eyebrow, utterly nonplussed, “The punch line is the doctor’s handwriting, not the arthritis, Rebekkah. There’s nothing funny about other people’s misfortunes.” She shrugged, “It’s a good story! You’d be a star right now if it weren’t for that alien!”

Rebekkah shook her head, feeling all her energy drain away. This was her life, a never-ending circus of cringe-worthy moments and half-baked dreams that were more her mother’s than her own. She turned, making her way back to the couch, her mom’s motorized chair buzzing behind her.

As Rebekkah sank down into the plastic-covered cushions, she let out a long, resigned sigh. Maybe, if she was lucky,The Napanee Beaver’s printing press would explode before Sunday. The air in the room was thick with tension as Rebekkah glared at her mother. She was already worn out from the interview, and the thought of unpacking everything that had just happened was almost too much to bear.

Rebekkah groaned, slumping back into the couch, the plastic complaining under her weight. She rubbed her temples, feeling the familiar tug of exhaustion that came from trying to reason with her mother, “Mom. We really don’t have any songs. And they want us to make our debut, on the air, in two days. Three if we’re lucky.”

Her mother straightened in her chair, her eyes twinkling with that unshakeable optimism Rebekkah had grown both to admire and resent, “So, you’ll write them. You’ve gotten this far, Rebekkah. You’re the winner of the1999 WWJD Not Short on Talenttalent show! And all the listeners of WWJD are going to expect you to have something to say and to sing about.”

Rebekkah sighed, the weight of her mother’s expectations settling heavily on her shoulders, “I just…,” she stopped, doubt swelling like a balloon inside her.

Her mother leaned in, her tone softening slightly, “What is it?”

Rebekkah bit her lip, unsure how to even begin articulating the swirling insecurities that had plagued her for years, “You know how when we go to mass and we’re watching the priest and the altar boys, and they’re the ones up on the altar, doing all the important stuff like ringing the bells, and swinging the incense, and genuflecting and crossing themselves just a millisecond before the rest of us? Like they’re the ones we’re all supposed to be watching and listening to? And the rest of us are just these bah-bah sheep following along?”

Her mother nodded slowly, “Yes…”

Rebekkah swallowed hard, feeling the knot of frustration tighten in her chest. It took courage to lay it all out like this, and it felt precarious to do it, like she was becoming untethered and there was a risk that her mom might not understand and might scold–or worse, reject her. But the unravelling had begun and she felt she had to continue; she had to get these thoughts out of her head, “The priest is aman, and the altar boys areboysand like,allthe good stories in the Bible are aboutmen, and the only people that people listen to aremen, and I’m just an ingénue. Who’s going to want to listen to what I have to say? If I speak up, will it even matter?”

Her mother’s eyes widened, and she let out a chuckle, shaking her head in disbelief, “Rebekkah, I love you, but you arenotan ingénue.” She paused for effect, “Your resume shows that you are…”

“Nineteen!” Rebekkah blurted out, cutting her off.

“But you are twenty-nine,” her mother’s tone was firm; a reality check delivered with a kind smile. “You are a grown woman. And no priest or altar boy or anybody is more worthy than you. A penis is not a magic wand. It is not a crown, and it is not a microphone.”

“Mom!” Rebekkah gasped, eyes wide, shocked and mortified.

Her mother waved her off, clearly unfazed, “All I’m saying is, I was watching Dixie Carter’s mindfulness meditation video the other day. I wasn’t meditating, but I was watching Dixie do it, and it got me thinking about history and how much of our lives and stories, what we think and what we wear, how we do our hair; it’s all a reaction to men and what we think they’re thinking. Now, I don’t know Dixie or if she planted this idea in my head somehow from that DVD, but what if we stopped worrying so much about history and started sharing a little more HER story?” She leaned forward, eyes twinkling, “You could be a part of that. You’ve got your very own radio show now.”