7. Designing Women #2
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 was very focused on acting. She hadn’t caught the singing bug yet.
” She beamed, “She acts, she sings, she dances, 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 for The 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 echoed cautiously, 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 in The Napanee Beaver brought 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 in E.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 an E.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 to live 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 called J.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 have ruined her career doing that movie. ”
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 I meant to say was, we don’t even have any songs… that are my favourite! Because they’re all my 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 and in 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 Wide Web 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 the 1999 WWJD Not Short on Talent talent 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?”