It wasn’t Jessie and her kid who arrived at a national park after weeks of driving to discover passes sold out a year in advance. It wasn’t Jessie’s daughter who emerged from a campsite bathroom excitedly waving a used hypodermic needle as if it were buried treasure.
But Jessie hated that we had something of our own, and what she hated most was that my dad had loved my mother enough to be destroyed by her. So she revised the story until it became another tale entirely, one that putherat its center.
By the time Carolyn’s montage gets to a photo of a cap-and-gown-clad Bronwyn holding her Cornell degree with Jessie and my dad by her side—a photo I’m not in because Jessie asked me to take it, and later used as their holiday card—I’m just fucking over this.
I’m over a lot of things, things I should have been over a decade ago or more.
The lights in the studio go up again and Carolyn angles herself toward us. “Let me begin by offering you both congratulations. I understand you’re newlyweds?”
We nod. It’s funny…the part I dreaded—the fake part—is easier than the truth about my family.
I’m pretty sure it will require less acting.
“We’re going to get to that,” Carolyn continues, “but I’d like to start at the beginning if I could? Rebecca, Jessie began raising you when you were six, yes?”
Theo squeezes my hand, a warning, which is when I realize I was squeezing his first. “Seven,” I reply. “I was six when they met and seven when she and my dad got married.”
“What was that like for you, having a new mother and sister?” Carolyn’s leaning forward, hands clasped as if she’s about to pray. “It must have changed everything.”
This is my cue to gush about how nice it was. There are a thousand stupid things I could say: how it made our family complete, about how much easier life got. I just can’t seem to say them. “Yes, it changed everything. It was an adjustment.”
Carolyn blinks, the only visible sign of disappointment. “After so many years, I imagine Jessie felt more like a mother to you than your own did.”
My hand tightens into a fist beneath Theo’s. I really thought I could do the interview, and that I could not only do it, but do it far better than Theo. I was ready to hear Jessie turned into a saint, rushing in to care for a motherless child with hugs and warm cookies and bedtime stories.
But I refuse to let this bitch put Jessie ahead of my mom simply because one of them died first.
“To be honest,” I say, “Jessie never felt like a mother to me at all.”
The rush of air from Theo’s chest is audible.
“Can we take a minute?” he asks, and without waiting for an answer, he leads me off the stage.
He’s seen a fair amount of rude Bex and TMI Bex, but hehasn’t personally witnessed the version of me who loses her shit—and if he says one critical fucking word, he’s goingto.
He drops my hand and rounds on me the second we’re out of view. “What the fuck, Rebecca? She was spoon-feeding you and you decide to rip on a woman who just died tragically?”
“Sorry,” I say, my arms folding over my chest, “but there’s a limit to the number of lies I’m willing to tell and the degree to which I’ll let people exploit the situation to ensure a good return on your investment.”
“Ourinvestment—you stand to gain just as much from this as me.” He is infuriatingly calm. And correct. “You knew at the outset that this was what’s required. You’re also not the only one doing it. You know how many bloody times I’ve had to discuss my brother’s death over the years? You’ve done it before, so why is it a fucking problem now?”
“Because it’s bullshit,” I hiss.
He blinks. “Whatis bullshit?”
“All of it,” I reply, heading for the green room. “The whole story is bullshit and I’m really sick of telling it.”
He doesn’t try to follow. Apparently, I needed more media training with Samia than we realized, or maybe, just maybe, there could be one part of this story that isn’t a lie.
Jessie wasn’t Mother Teresa. She wasn’t some saint who swept in to care for an abandoned little girl. She was a single mom who was barely getting by, saw a very simple fix to the whole thing in my father, and didn’t care who she hurt in the process.
I’m not saying she didn’t do good things. I’m not saying shewas a terrible person. I’m just saying that there are people in the world you could ask to sing her praises, but I’m not fucking one of them.
Theo
We never get back onstage.Samia does damage control, claiming Rebecca is still “emotional” after her loss, and the irritated reporter agrees to postpone.
I ask Lars to call her a car. I’m supposed to be staying at her house for the next few days, but I’m too pissed off to be reasonable with her at present. I flew back to the States for this, and it was entirely for nothing.
